Karen blushed. She crossed her legs and straightened her posture. A nurse entered the room to take the patient’s temperature and blood pressure and to place a white sleeping pill on his tray with a cup of water. Karen sat silently until the nurse left the room.
She slid her chair closer to his bed. “At some point Larry told you he was going public with his investigation, didn’t he?”
Weber looked at the television screen. Martha Stewart was dressed like Mrs. Santa Claus, standing in front of a cardboard sleigh while cornstarch fell gently from above.
“He mentioned it,” said Dr. Weber, pressing the “volume up” button on the remote control. “Pah-rum-pah-pum-pum” blared from the tinny TV speaker. “I hate that crappy Drummer Boy song,” said Dr. Weber.
Karen walked to the television set and pushed the power button. The picture went black. She sat back down in the guest chair and leaned toward Dr. Weber.
“That’s why you killed him. So he wouldn’t end your blackmail operation by exposing the clinic. Once he did that, you’d have nothing to threaten Dr. Herwitz with anymore.”
Weber clenched his teeth, lifted his head, and glared at Karen. For a moment, his eyes showed energy. “That’s not true! You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
Karen leaned further forward and put her hand on the side rail of the patient bed.
“Help me, doctor,” she said softly. “Help me understand.”
Carson Weber looked away and settled his head back on the pillow. His breathing was labored and noisy.
“Larry’s death was an accident. A defective catheter. One of the techs made a mistake and resterilized it, probably.”
“That’s what it looked like,” Karen acknowledged. “But it wasn’t resterilized. It was deliberately heated to a point where it would fall apart during the procedure. Tests performed by an engineering consultant showed that. And it wasn’t random. Someone removed all of the other catheters from the cath lab cart and left the sabotaged one there so Bernard would be sure to use it on the first procedure scheduled that day. Which was Larry.”
Dr. Weber craned his head up and coughed. The bluish cast to his skin seemed to darken. Karen pushed the button on his bed to raise the upper part of the mattress. He settled back, panting. “Thank you,” he said. “I would imagine any number of people could have planted that catheter on the cart, if that’s in fact what happened.”
“No, Dr. Weber,” said Karen. “The cart was fully stocked Saturday afternoon. Then the lab was locked until Monday morning. The security camera tapes showed that no one entered the cath lab from the time the head nurse left on Saturday until Bernard arrived Monday. The bad catheter was brought in after the cart was stocked on Saturday. It was added to the total number of catheters in the hospital, brought in from the outside.”
Dr. Weber stared straight ahead. “Wouldn’t that point to Dr. Bernard? He was first in the cath lab Monday. You said yourself the security tapes show that. He could have brought in the bum catheter himself. He had a motive, too, if, as you say, he knew about Larry’s investigation.”
“No,” said Karen. “The good catheters were removed from the cath lab and ended up in a supply cupboard in your department. With the nurses arriving right after him, Dr. Bernard would have had to dump the good catheters in the waste container. He couldn’t have packed them up and toted them away. When I realized that, I was frustrated, because it eliminated all the suspects. Unless, that is, someone got into the cath lab without being recorded by the security camera.” Karen explained that the security tapes from Monday morning showed eight minutes missing, and how they had been restored.
Dr. Weber closed his eyes. His chest heaved. “So that just throws it wide open. Anyone could have done that.”
“Not quite,” said Karen. “It had to be someone with access to the system that controlled the cameras. That’s Max Schumacher, Joe Grimes, Larry himself, or someone very close to one of the three of them. What narrows the field is that someone used the exact same technique to slip past the security camera on the main entrance to the hospital at around 10:30 P.M. on Thanksgiving. That’s how you got back into the building to assault Dietrich Heiden after the camera in the garage recorded you leaving. After Steven Linder reported you, it was obvious Dietrich Heiden was telling the truth. It kept bothering me that, according to the security cameras, it wasn’t possible for you to have been in the hospital when Heiden was assaulted. I had the exact same frustration when it looked like someone got into the cath lab when they couldn’t have. When I realized the common link was my reliance on the security cameras, I knew it was you. Your mistake was using the same trick again to go after Dietrich Heiden.”
Dr. Weber’s eyes were squeezed shut. His mouth was drawn down in a scowl of agony. His body shook.
“I can’t believe I did that. I’ve never done anything like it before. I never did it again, either. Steve Linder came on to me. Thanksgiving, I was upset about Larry’s death.” Tears ran from his eyes. “Oh God, I miss him.” He began to sob, then convulsed with a spasm of coughing. His breathing became quick and shallow. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I can’t let myself cry. My respiratory system is compromised. A couple more days of IV antibiotics, then I can cry. It’s like the song says, counselor, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. I never thought Larry’s absence would hurt so much.”
“If you had, would you have given up your second income from the clinic rather than get rid of Larry?”
Dr. Weber sat up and turned toward Karen. “That was not why I did it. I said you couldn’t understand!” He flopped back and covered his eyes with his hand. “I can’t cry, I told you. My lungs will fill up with fluid. Lachrymation is contraindicated.” He pointed to the cup of water and Karen handed it to him. He took a sip and held the cool cup to his sweaty forehead. “I must say I’m impressed you figured out the security cameras. How did you connect me with Larry in the first place?”
Karen folded her hands in her lap and looked off to the side. “I knew Larry was having an affair. Someone, most likely Larry’s lover, was hanging out in Larry’s apartment after his death. Larry had coffee mugs in his apartment with prescription drug logos on them, the kind of thing pharmaceutical companies give away to physicians to promote sales, so I figured Larry’s paramour was probably a doctor. I knew about your illness. When I found out Larry was HIV positive, I tried out what could have been a fallacious surmise.” She looked at Weber, lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side. “But when I did, everything fell into place, including your access to a computer tied into the hospital’s security system, a two-minute walk from the hospital’s front door. If your motive wasn’t to preserve your blackmail opportunities, what was it? Larry’s life insurance?”
Dr. Weber rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. His wheezing got louder, and he moaned. “No, no, no, don’t you see? I didn’t kill Larry that Monday morning. I killed him a long time ago. When we first met I wasn’t sick yet, but I knew I was HIV positive. I didn’t tell him, do you understand? I didn’t tell him. I never told him. I was scared, and Larry was just the most… comforting person to be with. Nothing to write home about in the looks department, I know, but just the sweetest, most loving, most trusting man. This isn’t about greed. It’s about guilt.”
Weber’s chest jerked twice and he coughed violently for several seconds. He rested for a moment, then he rolled his head to face Karen. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about this disease, Mrs. Hayes, but whatever you’ve heard doesn’t do it justice. When I started to get sick, Larry took care of me, in more ways than one. He enjoyed it. But you see, by the time he got sick, I would’ve been gone. He would have faced it alone,” Dr. Weber smiled sadly. “It’s funny, I could imagine myself without Larry, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of Larry, facing AIDS, without me. That thing with the catheter, Mrs. Hayes. That wasn’t murder, it was euthanasia. You’re supposed to be the progressive thinker on th
e Ethics Committee.”
To Karen, Dr. Weber’s thinking did not seem to be progressive. It seemed deranged, but she could see little reason to debate the point. Carson Weber was clearly distraught. He may even have convinced himself that his motivation was unselfish.
“But what about all the progress that’s been made in AIDS treatment?” said Karen.
“Treatment, yes; cure, no,” said Weber. “I’m doomed and so was Larry. It was euthanasia.”
“If you’re so despondent about your prognosis, doctor, why wouldn’t you have encouraged Larry to blow the whistle on the clinic? Do a little service to the public while you’re still able?”
“Screw the public,” he said. “I didn’t really object to what they were doing. They just found some creative ways to make more money off Uncle Sugar, and when I found out about it, then I had a new way to make some money myself. What do you think Medicare is for?”
Karen cleared her throat. “I thought it was to take care of the elderly.”
The doctor looked at her through hooded eyes and said, “You’re naive”
Karen reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out another folded sheet of paper. It was a printout of the e-mail she had extracted from Joe Grimes’s computer terminal. She opened it. “Exactly when,” she inquired, “did Joe Grimes turn the tables on you? Some party with the initials ‘EMS’ is going to make a big contribution to the hospital next spring. I figure that’s you, Emergency Medical Services.”
Dr. Weber laughed, wincing from the pain the laughter caused him. “Grimes is savvy, but he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. He thought he had me. That the patient assaults could ruin my career. Knew about the blackmail, too. Probably suspected I had something to do with Larry’s death as well, but he didn’t have any proof.” Dr. Weber grinned sardonically. “I strung him along. By March, if I was at death’s door and didn’t need the money anymore, fine. I have no family, he can have the money. But if I had some time left, he would have come by to pick up the check and I’d have been in Key West with a new name, sipping a piña colada.” Dr. Weber coughed raucously and swallowed. He seemed drained, and his eyes started to close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now, and I don’t much care. I guess it’s up to you. I’m no threat to anybody, counselor. You gonna turn me in?”
Karen stared straight ahead. “I don’t know,” she said.
“You gonna turn the clinic in?”
Karen blinked. She looked at her watch. It was after 10:00 P.M. She stood abruptly. When she reached the door, Dr. Weber called after her.
“Mrs. Hayes!”
“Yes?”
Weber took a deep, wheezing breath. “I really did love Larry, you know,” he said.
Karen’s eyes filled suddenly with tears. “So did I, doctor,” she said. “So did I.”
Karen walked out of the room. In the hall, she pulled her dictaphone from the belt of her yoga suit. The reels were still turning. She clicked it off and trotted down the hall.
As the sound of Karen’s footsteps faded, Carson Weber pushed the red button on his bed stand to signal the floor nurse. She appeared in the doorway promptly.
“Yes, Dr. Weber. What can I do for you?”
“Could you get me Dr. Edward Bernard’s home telephone number, please?”
CHAPTER
31
Too late to finish the letter to the Inspector General, thought Karen, as she walked into her office, which glowed with blue light from the computer monitor. She tossed her jacket onto a guest chair and sat down at her desk. No reason to put it off any longer, either.
Karen put her Rolodex up on the computer monitor and scrolled to the telephone number of Charles Packard, Deputy Attorney, Office of the Inspector General, Washington D.C. She picked up her telephone receiver and dialed the number. A recorded voice invited her to enter the extension if she knew it, which she did. She heard a recorded male voice say, “Charles Packard,” and then a recorded female voice said, “is not available at this time. If you wish to leave a message, please press 1.” Karen pressed 1 and clicked on her speakerphone, leaving her hands free to handle documents while she spoke.
“Mr. Packard, my name is Karen Hayes. I am General Counsel for Shoreview Memorial Hospital in Jefferson, Illinois. I am calling to inform you that I am in possession of documentary evidence of massive Medicare billing fraud that has been perpetrated over several years by certain physicians at the Jefferson Clinic. At least five physicians are directly involved. The fraudulently obtained Medicare payments are substantially in excess of $30 million.” She went on to specify the nature of the fraud: billing for services not rendered, rendering services not medically indicated, determining the level of treatment based on reimbursement. She described the methods by which Larry Conkel had uncovered the fraud, and his careful and extensive documentation of the facts. And she named names. Caswell, Whitman, Bernard. She extemporized on the contents of Larry’s file for over fifteen minutes, then concluded by leaving her home telephone number and address.
“In the event that for some reason you are unable to reach me, Mr. Packard, the facts regarding the Jefferson Clinic Medicare fraud are also known by Shoreview Memorial Hospital’s Risk Manager, Ms. Anne Delaney, D-E-L-A-N-E-Y.”
Karen was reciting Anne’s telephone number when the odor of stale cigar smoke reached her nostrils. She rotated her chair. Standing in the doorway in a camel’s hair coat and gray fedora was Edward Bernard.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“My job,” said Karen flatly. Dr. Bernard stepped toward her. Karen’s hand dropped to the keypad of the telephone console and her index finger pressed 2. “And now it’s done.”
But she was wrong. The government office telephone answering system was the type that accommodated those with second thoughts.
“If you wish to send the message, press star,” said the female voice on the speakerphone. “If you wish to leave a different message, press number symbol,”
Dr. Bernard took another step toward Karen. His sweaty upper lip twitched. He clenched his jaw. “Press number symbol, Hayes. Press it, or you will regret it, I promise you.” He took two more steps toward her. His six-foot frame towered over her.
“Stop,” Karen directed, pressing her small body back into her leather chair. “Stay away from me.” Karen remembered with regret that she had arranged with Max to have the security guards spend the evening on the third floor of the new wing, well out of earshot of a scream. She moved her left hand over the keypad of the telephone console. Her index finger rested on the number symbol button. Her ring finger rested on the star button.
“If you wish to send the message, press star,” repeated the recording. “If you wish to leave a different message, press number symbol,”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Hayes,” advised Dr. Bernard. The phrase triggered a memory for Karen. It was the same phrase the threatening telephone caller had used. Dr. Bernard’s bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the heavy cut-crystal paperweight on Karen’s credenza. He took a small step to his right, reached over and placed his hand on the large, faceted globe. His fingers closed around it. He picked up the paperweight.
Karen’s heart pounded. She tried to conceal her fear, but her voice quavered. “P-put that down, Dr. Bernard.”
Bernard’s face reddened. Veins stood out on his forehead. “Get your hand off that phone.” He raised the paperweight to shoulder height and drew it back. The blue light from the computer monitor glinted in the facets of the crystal orb. “In two seconds, I’m going to give you an impromptu lobotomy. Get away from that phone!”
He took a step toward Karen. She saw him shift his weight backward, to get more momentum behind the blow. The voice from the speakerphone said, “If you wish to send the message, press star,”
Karen pressed the star button.
“Damn you!” screamed Dr. Bernard. He brought the paperweight down with all his force on th
e keypad of the telephone console, splintering its plastic shell. Karen jerked her hand away. She felt a numbness at the tip of the middle finger of her left hand. A small red line appeared under the end of her fingernail. She squeezed the tip of her finger with her right hand.
“The message is sent, Dr. Bernard. Smashing the phone won’t stop it.”
Dr. Bernard stood in front of her, his shoulders drooping. “Are you out of your mind? What makes you think I’m going to let you walk out of here?”
Karen’s sudden calmness surprised her. She looked up at Bernard. “You have no alternative, Dr. Bernard. If I hadn’t sent the message, there’s no telling what you might have done. But now, the Inspector General has a report from me on your crimes, recorded with the date and time, concluding with a nice clear recording of your voice asking me what in God’s name I think I’m doing. If something happens to me now, where do you think they’ll start looking? The security camera tapes will show you entering the premises at the time in question. Dr. Bernard, I know this much about you. You always act in your own self-interest. This is the safest I’ve been since I found those files.”
Bernard looked forlorn and deflated. Karen was right. He walked around to the front of her desk and looked out the window at the clear night sky.
“Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve taken away everything I’ve worked my entire life to build. I’ll lose my license, my reputation. I’ll never be able to practice medicine again.”
To Karen’s astonishment, she actually felt sorry for him. It was an involuntary reflex, this instant pity she felt for anyone who was hurting, even if he deserved it. She stood and closed her briefcase. “There are other things to do than practice medicine,” she said.
Bernard snapped his head around. “Not for me. I can’t accept it. After twenty years as a doctor, I can’t adjust to being just another …” he curled his lip, “head of cattle.”
Karen felt her pity evaporate. “If that’s how you feel, well… you never really were a doctor.”
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