by Mark Gilleo
“That’s correct.”
“And do you contact the organization who nominated the deceased?”
“We contact whoever is listed as the contact. Sometimes it’s the nominating organization, but it can also be the guardian or attorney of the child of the deceased. It could also be another relative. Anyone who can provide the necessary information on the child in order for our attorneys to establish the trust.”
“Not necessarily the person who nominated the deceased?”
“Sometimes the nominee does not want to be further involved. Anonymity is the backbone of much nonprofit funding.”
I bet it is, Dan thought.
“If I gave you a list of names, would it be possible for you to tell me how they came to your attention?”
“You mean who nominated them?”
“Yes.”
Dan reached into the folder and removed a sheet of paper with the names listed. He placed the paper on the table and Jeanie Simpson’s eyes dipped downward. Dan watched as she considered the question and squirmed in her chair slightly.
“It’s important,” Dan said. “A matter of life and death.”
Jeanie Simpson gasped quietly. “Life and death?”
“Yes. And as I’m sure you know from all those television shows you watch, the information I’m interested in could probably be subpoenaed, if necessary.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Lord? I have never been threatened before.”
“Not at all. But I’m looking for someone doing some bad things and I’ll do whatever it takes to find them.”
Jeanie Simpson’s fingers shook slightly as she reached for the paper on the table and read the names. “Can you give me a minute and let me make a few phone calls?”
“Take your time,” Dan replied.
Jeanie Simpson nodded, stood, and exited the room. Ten minutes later she returned to the office. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I have spoken to our lead counsel and he is willing to grant your request.”
“Thank you,” Dan said.
Jeanie Simpson smiled. “Now, let’s play detective with those names.”
Chapter 43
Dan sat in his second waiting room of the day, this time at the Capital Community Hospice off Upton Street in the District. He was waiting for Pepper Hines, the director of the facility, who was currently sitting in traffic on the twelve-lane span of the American Legion Bridge. Dan was also waiting for the arrival of Wallace and Fields, who had U-turned on their way to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.
Between the tardy parties, Dan donated thirty minutes of his life to boredom. The only consolation to losing thirty minutes of one’s life in a hospice waiting room was realizing the lost time was far better than being a patient of the facility. Count your blessings where you find them.
During his wait, Dan had learned two things. First, the Capital Community Hospice was eerily quiet. Voices were kept to a whisper. Visitors to the facility moved silently and efficiently to the registration desk before being escorted down the main hall to one of the thirty rooms that stretched to the back of the property.
The second thing Dan learned was that the Capital Community Hospice waiting room was dreadfully bereft of reading material. No Time magazine. No Reader’s Digest. Not a single copy of every waiting room’s mainstay—People.
Dan sought mental stimulation in a rack of brochures in the corner of the room. Between one titled Dying with Dignity another titled Beating Cancer, Wallace’s voice boomed across the silent room.
“This better be good.”
Dan slowly turned. “Shhhhh. They like it quiet in here.”
The woman behind the registration desk stood and gave Detective Wallace her best librarian stare down. “Sorry,” Wallace mouthed without vocalization.
“Did you learn anything at my client’s oncologist?” Dan asked.
“We learned that Dr. Smithson takes his HIPAA seriously and we were educated on how medical records work. We were on our way to Johns Hopkins when you called.”
“Then you should be happy I saved you the drive.”
“I’ll be happy if you tell me what we’re doing here.”
“This is ground zero. This wonderfully quiet establishment is where our potential killers were identified. All five of the deceased soccer moms and soccer coaches from the pictures.”
“All five?”
“All five. They were all patients here at the hospice. Or at least they were nominated through this hospice.”
Wallace whistled and the elderly woman at the registration desk gave him another dirty look. “How did you figure that out?”
“The Carry On Foundation. The woman at the nonprofit confirmed the five people I identified in my obituary and death notices analysis had trusts established for them by lawyers and accountants of the foundation. Nothing fishy really. That’s what the organization does. They have pro bono lawyers and accountants who set up trusts for the deceased, and those trusts are financed through public or corporate donations. She then explained how their clients are nominated through various channels including church, work, and the medical community. In our case, all of the people we identified were nominated via this hospice.”
“This place?” Emily asked. “It looks like a converted elementary school from the outside.”
“It was a school. They swapped the name FDR Elementary for Capital Community Hospice. The hospice has thirty rooms on-site, but also provides home hospice care throughout DC, Maryland, and Virginia,” Dan added.
“You sound like a tour guide.”
“I had some time to read up on the facility while I waited.”
“Did you ask Nurse Ratchet at the registration desk to confirm what the woman from the Carry On Foundation said?”
“I did. She told me to wait for the director. And here we are.”
“Where is the director now?”
“Stuck in traffic.”
“But of course,” Wallace said, looking around the room. He nodded in the direction of chairs against the far wall and Dan took a seat next to him. Emily lowered herself into the seat on the other side of Dan.
Wallace spoke again, this time in a whisper. “I assume you heard that your bank robber client is back home.”
“I heard. Safe and sound at home with an ankle monitor.”
“She got the deal of the century. She gets to spend her remaining time at home with her daughter. Provided she doesn’t live too long.”
“When you put it like that, it doesn’t feel like the deal of the century.”
“Better than jail.”
“True. For what it is worth, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. My captain pushed for it and the DA was sympathetic to a terminally ill single mother. But my captain is expecting this to help solve a couple of murders. Don’t make him look stupid.”
“That’s not my concern,” Dan said.
“No, it’s not. It’s mine. And if this client of yours makes the captain look stupid on this, I’ll be the one who has to pay.”
“Then let’s hope I’m right.”
“I hope that hope isn’t all we have.”
*
Pepper Hines, director of Capital Community Hospice, arrived fifteen minutes later. Introductions ensued and Dan, Wallace, and Emily followed him into a small office with a desk and a circular table.
Pepper Hines spoke as he took off his jacket. His graying hair was slightly combed over. His glasses gave the impression of intelligence. His voice was buttery smooth. Calming. Wallace, Emily, and Dan filled the chairs around the small table.
“What can I help you with?” Pepper asked, finding a seat.
Dan nodded at Detective Wallace. “We’re trying to identify someone at this hospice who may have accessed patient medical information without authorization.”
“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. Have you ever heard of the Carry On Foundation?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever con
tacted them?”
“Personally, no. But my staff has dealt with them in the past.”
Dan removed a nomination form from his folder and showed it to Pepper Hines. “Have you seen one of these before?” Dan asked.
“I have not. What is it?” Pepper asked, his eyes moving left to right as he started reading the document.
“It’s a nomination form for the Carry On Foundation. Based on these forms, the Carry On Foundation vets candidates for their nonprofit. If the nominee clears the vetting process, they will set up a trust for the child of the deceased. They will also solicit donations for these trusts.”
Pepper Hines’ eyes scanned the document. “Like I said, I’ve never seen this document before.”
Dan moved his finger to a line near the bottom of the page. “Is that your signature at the bottom of the printout?” he asked.
Pepper Hines leaned forward and stared at the signature. “It certainly looks like mine.”
“But you didn’t sign it?”
“No. Not that I recall. What exactly did someone gain by using my signature?” Pepper asked.
Dan stared hard into Pepper’s eyes, searching for deceit. Then he answered.
“We don’t know. We assume there was some advantage to using the hospice and your name for the nominees’ submissions to the Carry On Foundation. And we think the same person who forged your signature also accessed medical records from this location to facilitate criminal activity.”
“What kind of criminal activity?”
“The worst type imaginable,” Wallace interjected.
Pepper Hines tugged at his tie slightly.
“Who has access to medical records at this location?” Dan asked.
“We have records online and additional records in a filing room down the hall. Only employees can access the online records. We limit that to medical staff, primarily.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“We have a full-time office staff of ten, and a full-time medical and nursing staff of thirty. We have an additional staff of twenty that only handles home hospice care.”
“And do all of them have computer access?”
“Yes.”
“What about the filing room down the hall?” Wallace asked.
Pepper Hines shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a filing room. The door has a lock, but anyone with a key can access the room. You can usually locate one of the keys floating around the office.”
“Sounds like loose security,” Wallace stated.
“Maybe. If what you say is true. But all of the hospice employees have signed nondisclosure agreements. We have never had an issue in the past.”
“Not that you knew of,” Wallace said. “Do you keep records on all of your full-time employees?”
“We do.”
“And that number is currently around sixty people. Ten in the office, thirty on the medical staff here, and another twenty that perform home hospice care,” Dan confirmed.
“That’s about right. Beyond that, we have hundreds of volunteers.”
“Hundreds of volunteers?” Emily asked incredulously.
“I’m not sure of the exact current number on any given day, but we do keep a list. Generally speaking, we have a high turnover rate with our volunteers. A typical volunteer offers their time in response to an ailing loved one who is a patient at the hospice. They come to our facilities, see the dignity we try to provide to those nearing the end, and they feel compelled to volunteer. The length of time they spend here usually coincides with how long they are in mourning. Once volunteers have picked up the pieces of their lives and have sufficiently healed, they gradually reduce their volunteer hours.”
“Human nature,” Emily said.
“Indeed. And we don’t pressure anyone to stay. Of course, we have volunteers who have been here forever as well.”
“What do the volunteers do?”
“A variety of tasks. Many help in the office. Some help with assisted care. Some just keep people company. Read books to the dying. Hold their hands. We also have an eleventh hour volunteer program to help those with the final transition. To be a volunteer in that program one must meet training and certification requirements. We also have patient support groups and family support groups. Both are run by licensed medical professionals with the assistance of volunteers.”
“Can you walk us through how patients find their way to the hospice?” Wallace asked. Emily nodded her head in seeming agreement to the question.
Pepper Hines answered. “As you would think. A patient typically seeks medical treatment for an ailment, undergoes a series of diagnostic tests, and ultimately is given a rather grim prognosis for recovery.”
“A death sentence,” Wallace mumbled.
Pepper nodded. “At that point, the doctor would consult with the patient and ask if they would like information on hospice care. If the patient agrees hospice care is an option they would like to discuss, the doctor will send the patient’s medical information to us.”
“And do you meet with all the patients for whom you receive information?”
“Most, but not all. Hospice care is voluntary. Some patients never follow up with us. Some patients change their minds. Some patients meet us once and decide they’re not interested. Other patients can’t bring themselves through the door. It is just too real for them.”
Dan listened to Pepper answer the question and then opened his folder and started placing photographs on the round table. The top row included Amy, Carla’s pusher, and the man in the cap and sunglasses. The second row was the three women and two men identified through the obituary and death records analysis. “Do you recognize any of these people as patients?”
Pepper Hines’ head dipped towards the photos as if he were a chicken about to peck at the top of the table.
“Take a good look,” Wallace said encouragingly.
After a full minute of concentration, Pepper Hines rearranged the photos on the table. He turned three photos towards the detectives and said, “I recognize these three.”
Dan, Wallace, and Emily all looked down at the photos of Beth Fluto, Carol T. Sutton, and Amy the bank robber.
“You’ve seen these three before?”
“I have,” Pepper answered. He picked up the photo of Carol T. Sutton from the group. “This woman was a patient here at this facility last year. Her name was Carol. She was a wonderful woman. Found God near the end of her stay and prayed through her last days on earth.”
You bet your ass she did, Dan thought.
Dan looked at Pepper Hines’ face and could see tears welling in the man’s eyes.
Pepper returned Carol’s photo to the table and picked up the photo of Beth. “This is Beth Fluto. She received home hospice care on a part-time basis. She was registered to move to this location when her condition worsened. She perished in an automobile accident.”
Voice cracking, Pepper Hines picked up the photograph of Amy the bank robber. “This woman refused hospice care for financial reasons. I met with her and told her there were funds available, if she was willing to fill out the paperwork. She said she would consider it. I never heard from her again. I only remember her because it wasn’t very long ago.”
Dan, Wallace, and Emily exchanged furtive glances.
Dan waved his hand over all the photos on the table. “Would you mind asking your staff if they recognize any of these other individuals? You can keep these copies of the photos and pass them around to all of the employees and volunteers. See if anyone recognizes them.”
“I can do that. Sure. I can do that today.”
“That would be helpful,” Emily added.
Dan returned to the previous line of questioning. “What kind of information do the doctors send you on terminally ill patients?” Dan asked.
“Basic medical information. Vital statistics. Medical diagnosis and prognosis.”
“And how is this information transmitted?”
“Email, usually. Fax is still pop
ular in the terminal diagnosis business. If we get a copy via email or fax, the doctor will follow up with an electronic record or physical copy. We archive the electronic records and keep a physical copy on record for a year after the patient has passed.”
“And you keep these records in the filing room?”
“That’s correct.”
“We are going to need information on all of your full-time employees and the list of volunteers for the past seven years,” Wallace said sternly.
“I can have that for you in a few minutes. Let me get my staff working on it,” Pepper Hines replied, his voice shaky with emotion.
*
Dan walked with the detectives across the hospice parking lot to the unmarked squad car.
“What do you think?” Wallace asked.
“Just a couple hundred names to go through,” Dan replied. “Let’s do the research and see if we can find the mystery man in the cap and sunglasses. We probably need to imagine what he would look like without a disguise. We know dressing up is his M.O. We take the list of employees and volunteers, find a photo for each person, and we go face by face.”
“You planning on helping with this exercise?” Emily asked.
“Maybe later. Right now, I have a meeting with the police.”
“We are the police.”
“Someone from the other side of the river.”
Chapter 44
Pho 75 paid homage to the Vietnamese staple through simplicity. They served pho and pho, with the main variation determined by meat selection and the size of the bowl. Beverage options were limited to water from a cooler on the counter and Vietnamese coffee, hot or cold. Long tables, pushed together end-to-end, gave the restaurant a cafeteria-like atmosphere. During the lunchtime and evening rush, strangers were forced to break chopsticks with each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, chair-to-chair.
Dan walked through the glass doors at the front of the shop between the lunch and dinner rush. He pointed towards a quiet corner and the lone elderly waiter with a pad of paper and pen in hand, nodded in response to Dan’s suggested seating location.
Detective Singleton of the Arlington Police Department arrived five minutes later.
“Danno.”
“Slim Jim.”