Seeing my discomfort, Hurley jumps in. “This case is more than professional for both of us,” he says. “The victims in our homicide were people we knew and worked with, including one of the other investigators in the medical examiner’s office. And it’s my understanding that Cedric Novak is suspected of killing a cop named Roy Gilligan a few years ago. Roy happened to be an ex-partner of mine.”
Washington nods knowingly and looks back at me. “I’m aware of that. Have you considered your office might be the target?”
“Let me clarify,” Hurley says. “Only one of our three victims worked with the ME’s office. One of the other two appears to be incidental—a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We found some evidence on the third one that suggests it might be connected, but we haven’t figured out how yet. We’re looking for someone else who may be a suspect, but we haven’t had any luck finding him so far. Our most solid lead outside of that person seems to be Mr. Novak.”
“I see,” Washington says. “If it helps, I know for a fact Mr. Novak didn’t kill Roy Gilligan.”
I have no idea if it will help our case, but hearing him say this floods me with such a sense of relief that I literally sag in my seat, sighing loudly. Washington looks at me, amused. “Right,” he says, his sarcasm thick. “You’re objective.”
“How can you be sure?” Hurley asks.
“Because when Roy Gilligan was killed, Mr. Novak was in our office talking with a colleague of mine. Novak had opted out of the Witness Protection Program the year before and moved back here to Chicago.” He gives me a pointed look. “He said he wanted to reestablish contact with his family and try to pick up some of the pieces from his old life. We tried to discourage him because the threat that led to him entering our program in the first place still existed. But he was adamant.” Washington pauses and his face forms a half-grimace. “He wasn’t reckless about it; he did keep up with his new identity. But he took a job at a mailbox store that turned out to be a front for a drug and money-laundering operation. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”
“What makes you think he didn’t know about the illegalities?” I ask. “He grew up committing crimes, and he was still committing them when he met my mother. I’m sure his criminal contacts were extensive. It would have been easy for him to get back into it again.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” Washington says. “At least, not most of it. It’s true that your father came from a criminal background, but it was more of a family and cultural thing than any hard-core criminal instincts he had. He was raised by folks of Eastern European descent, a tribe that made their livings as thieves and con artists. They traveled in groups called ‘families,’ settling in areas long enough to work their cons, and then moving on when things started getting too hot for them. Your father’s earlier crimes were of that nature. In fact, that’s how he got into trouble. He conned the wrong person and got a hold of some sensitive information others were willing to kill for. I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“Anyway, with regard to the mailbox store, we believed him because the new identity we gave him when he entered our protection program involved a job working at a shipping-company hub, so finding a job at a mailbox store made sense. It was what he knew. Plus, as soon as he realized what was going on behind the scenes, he came to us. He thought about going to the local police initially, but because of his history—or lack thereof—he was afraid the cops either wouldn’t believe him or would think he was involved somehow. And there was his ongoing need to keep a low profile.”
“What name was he using at the time?” I ask.
“The name we gave him when we created his new identity. It was one he requested, Walter Scott.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Did you guys investigate this mailbox store?”
Washington shakes his head. “Not our jurisdiction or job. We dropped some hints to the local cops and to the FBI about the place and let them handle it.”
“Given that Roy was already working undercover there by the time Novak came to you, I think it’s safe to assume the local guys were already onto it,” Hurley surmises.
Washington nods, but he looks distracted and lost in thought for a moment. And troubled.
“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask him.
His eyes dart between Hurley and me, and I suspect he’s vacillating about saying anything because of my presence. When his gaze settles on mine, I’m convinced he’s about to lie to my face without so much as a flinch and deny there is anything more to tell. Turns out I’m wrong.
“Some things about that case bothered me. To start with, I’m not sure who killed Roy Gilligan, or why. And I don’t know if anyone else ever learned the answers to those questions, either. Was Gilligan’s real identity exposed? Did he piss off the wrong person? Or was it accidental? Of course, once Mr. Scott disappeared into thin air, everyone was more than eager to pin the killing on him. But one of the cops on the case, a guy I knew from high school, dropped a comment to me about how there seemed to be some worrisome leaks in the case. When I asked him what he meant, all he said was people knew things they shouldn’t.”
“Meaning what?” Hurley asks. “A dirty cop?” Both his tone and his expression make it clear the idea is repugnant to him.
“Maybe,” Washington says with a grudging, sideways nod. Judging from his expression, he finds the idea equally distasteful, though not dismissible. “Somebody, somewhere, said something they shouldn’t have. I know an internal investigation was started, but as far as I know, nothing ever came of it.”
“Who received the lowdown on the mailbox store from you guys?” Hurley asks.
“Couldn’t tell you. Our information was delivered anonymously in a computer-generated and printed letter Mr. Scott, or Novak, wrote and mailed. We helped him with it to make sure it couldn’t be traced back to him in any way—in fact, that’s what he and we were doing when Roy Gilligan was killed—and then we offered to take him back into the program if he would testify against the culprits, assuming they were busted. He refused, saying he didn’t want to go back to the lonely, constricting lifestyle he had to lead in the program, or complicate his life any more than it already was. He felt he could do just as well on his own and have more flexibility with fewer restrictions.” Washington pauses and gives us a grudging smile. “I have to admit he’s done okay so far. He’s quite good at staying hidden.”
“Not good enough,” I say. “He was sighted on at least two separate occasions lurking around the homes of our victims on the day they were killed. And the state troopers know his real identity. When they were investigating me on a matter a couple of years ago, it came out that I was Cedric Novak’s daughter. That caused some concern because Cedric Novak—not Walter Scott—was thought to have been the hit man who killed the cop during this mailbox store fiasco.”
Washington frowns at this and gives a brief but frantic shake of his head. “That information shouldn’t have been out there. That’s what I mean about worrisome leaks. How did anyone connect Walter Scott with Cedric Novak?”
“Maybe my father leaked something himself without realizing it,” I suggest. “Or maybe someone recognized him.”
Washington shrugs noncommittally. “Do you have any solid evidence that suggests Novak killed someone?” he asks. “Because I have to tell you, I don’t think the guy’s a killer. A thief, liar, con man, incorrigible flirt . . . yes. Would I trust him with my wife or daughter? Hell no. Would I trust him with my money? Again, no. And I don’t know if he’d risk his own life to save someone else’s, but I don’t think he’s the killing kind.”
“Anyone can be the killing kind under the right circumstances,” Hurley says.
I look over at him and inwardly flinch, wondering if he is thinking about me when he says this. While it’s true I’ve killed someone, it was accidental on my part and, in my defense, the other guy started it. Did I feel bad about it? Yeah, for a little while. But perhaps not for as long or as fervently as I should
have. Maybe I had more of my father in me than I realized.
“What can you tell me about the case that led to Novak entering witness protection thirty years ago?” Hurley asks. I give him a look of gratitude. He has no real need to know these details so I suspect he’s asking for my benefit.
Washington leans forward and removes the topmost folder from the pile on the table. He slides it over to Hurley, who opens it. “Novak pulled a con on a guy who worked for the Martin-Weiss pharmaceutical company.”
Something in the back of my mind starts to niggle.
“Never heard of them,” Hurley says.
“No, you wouldn’t have. They were a startup at the time and they went out of business a short while later because of what Cedric Novak accidentally stole. Novak and another member of his ‘family’ ”—Washington makes finger quotes with the word “family”—“a cousin named Petra Constantine pulled a con on a guy involving switched briefcases. It was a con they pulled a lot. Apparently, they scored money, wallets, car keys, credit cards, and such often enough to make it worth their while. This time, however, they came up empty, or so they thought at first. The only thing inside the stolen briefcase were documents. But among those papers were copies of some internal memos from Martin-Weiss detailing a kickback scheme that provided payments to physicians in exchange for the promotion of M-W’s drugs to patients.”
“That’s nothing new,” I say. “That sort of stuff has been going on for years. It still happens, except these days they typically disguise the kickbacks as speaker fees, or some other professional service fee that is actually a kickback in disguise. It’s so rampant and so questionable in a lot of cases that a federal law was passed not long ago requiring physicians who receive more than ten dollars’ worth of money or gifts from any pharmacy company, for any reason, to be listed on the Internet.”
“Apparently, this went beyond your basic kickback scheme,” Washington explains. “Martin-Weiss had a weight-loss drug that caused catastrophic cardiac and liver problems leading to deaths in a number of the trial patients, but they convinced the physicians caring for those patients to alter the medical records so it would appear as if some other condition caused the deaths. And in exchange, those physicians received handsome speaking engagements in exotic, expensive places or, in some cases, simple cash payments under the table.”
“Yikes,” I say. “Sounds like it was a good thing they went out of business.”
“Except they didn’t. Martin-Weiss was a subsidiary of a larger company, and that was a subsidiary of a larger one yet, and there were several more layers on top of that. The owners, stockholders, and investors at the top were people with a lot of power, money, and strings. They simply divested themselves of the Martin-Weiss company, took their patents, their drugs, and their underhanded ways, and then divvied them up among some of their other holdings. Eventually they started new pharmaceutical companies, some of which were fly-by-night, and some of which are still around today.”
“Did they arrest any of these people?”
Washington sighs and shakes his head. “These guys know how to armor themselves in Teflon, and make sure they’re six million degrees of separation away from anything shady. They hide what they’re doing well enough that no charges ever seem to stick. And while the companies might get the occasional slap on the hand in the form of a fine that is often in the millions, they have and make enough money to pay it and simply continue on as before.”
“Big Pharma,” I say, nodding knowingly.
“Unfortunately, your father and his cousin thought they could make up for the briefcase having nothing of obvious value by using those memos to blackmail the head honchos at Martin-Weiss. They spent a week or so negotiating, and during that time, unbeknownst to your father and Constantine, Martin-Weiss was rapidly being disassembled. The executives and supervisors—at least those who didn’t simply disappear—were reassigned to positions in other firms overseas. Documents and files were destroyed. The participating physicians were warned and told to play dumb. And when it came time for your father and his cousin to swap the memos for the agreed-upon payment, things didn’t go as planned.”
I wince, sensing the ending to this story won’t be a happy one.
“The people in charge at Martin-Weiss realized there was no way to guarantee copies of the memos hadn’t been made, nor could they be sure the blackmailers wouldn’t blab at some point, or try to blackmail them again. So they covered themselves by eliminating all the incriminating evidence—including the man your father conned . . . he showed up floating facedown in Lake Michigan—and then trying to eliminate the threat. The exchange was a setup designed to kill your father and Mr. Constantine. I’m sure the plan was simply for them to disappear, and I have no doubt these people had the resources to make that happen. But your father’s gut told him something about the whole setup was wrong and he tried to convince Constantine to walk away from it. Constantine refused. This was more money than anyone in any family had made in a long time—maybe ever—and he had dollar signs in his eyes.
“In the end, Constantine went into the meeting alone, letting your father hang back with the memos as collateral in case things did go bad. Your father was close enough to hear what went on. When the thugs found out Constantine didn’t have the memos, they killed him. Your father ran and went into hiding.”
“And that’s how you guys got involved?” I ask.
“Sort of. Your father went to the district attorney’s office—he said he didn’t trust the police because he was pretty sure one of the thugs who killed Constantine was a police officer—and told them what he knew. He told them about the memos, but he refused to hand them over until they could guarantee his safety.
“Shortly after the investigation was started, one of Novak’s family encampments was visited by three men who kept asking for the whereabouts of ‘Rick Novaceski,’ which happens to be the name Cedric Novak used during his scams. It was also the name he gave to the district attorney’s office. The family knew how to lie—they did it often enough—and even when they were threatened with guns by the visiting trio, they stuck to their story that no one had seen Rick for the past two weeks. The next day, there was no sign of the family. They had packed up and moved on, but not before your father had stopped by an hour after the visiting trio left and heard they were looking for him.
“Novak was understandably edgy about this visit to the family encampment, since his name hadn’t been used in any of the negotiations with Martin-Weiss, and he had heard everything that went on with Constantine and the thugs. He knew his name hadn’t come up then, either. It implied someone involved in the investigation had leaked the info about him, and that’s when he came to us for help.”
Washington pauses and looks at me. “Novak thought about going with the family, but he didn’t want to leave you and your mother. He’d kept his marriage a secret because it was a big no-no to marry outside of the family. Good thing he did. That’s what gave your mother the option of going into the program or staying put. Mr. Novak felt he needed to disappear, both for his own safety and that of you and your mother. But your mother didn’t want any part of the program.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “She has some . . . issues, agoraphobia being one of them. She’s also germophobic. I’m sure the idea of having to move and start over with a whole new identity was simply too overwhelming.”
“Could be,” Washington says. “According to Dan Kellerman’s notes—Dan was the agent originally assigned to your father’s case—your mother was angry and fed up with your father because he kept disappearing for long periods of time. When she learned about the double life he was leading, and the things he did to earn money, she’d had enough. So your father went into hiding and your mother stayed put. We altered the official marriage records and certificate in case anyone figured out your father’s real name and traced it back to you and your mother. Your mother kept a copy of the original marriage certificate with the understanding it had to
be kept absolutely secret. If the killers didn’t know your father’s real name, it was reasonable to think they wouldn’t be able to find her or you.”
“Did they catch any of the men who killed Constantine?” Hurley asks.
Washington shakes his head, looking troubled. “The investigation continued, but the culprits were never caught. There was enough hard and circumstantial evidence to corroborate Novak’s story and convince the investigators. Unfortunately, being convinced and being convicted are two different animals. Martin-Weiss covered their tracks well.”
“Did my father ever testify?”
Washington pushes out his lower lip and shakes his head. “The case never went to court, at least not the killing part of it. Your father did hand over copies of the memos, but the names had been removed. Your father said he destroyed the originals, but Dan Kellerman always thought he kept them as insurance against the future. There was a federal investigation, but by then the top layer of whoever owned Martin-Weiss had cleaned house. Nothing came of it.”
“Any idea why or how Novak might be involved in our current case?” Hurley asks.
“None,” Washington says with a diffident look.
Hurley frowns, and another of those awkward silences fills the room.
Washington looks at me and says, “There’s something else you may or may not want to know about your father. It’s in the notes Dan Kellerman had on file from his talks with your mother.”
“My mother? She said she had no idea who this Dan person my father mentioned was, and that she never met or talked to him.”
“That’s not true,” Washington says. “They did meet and talk once.” He slides a folder across the table to me. “His notes are in there, if you decide you want to read them. I’ll leave it up to you. But I should tell you, there is some very personal information in there you might find disturbing.”
I finger the folder, looking from it to Hurley, and back to the folder. “Should I?” I ask Hurley. He shrugs and I push the folder over to him. “You look and tell me if I should read it.”
Dead in the Water Page 27