by Todd Cohen
Chapter 46
Now I had Alex’s brainpower, Amy Winter (oh God, I’m glad I had her!), and Gale Schwartz’s legal team. All examining the evidence! Gale and Amy went upstairs and spent the next hour reviewing the facts of the case. The two emerged and we met at my dining room table.
“This is an A-1 Felony murder as well as a robbery in the first or second degree with over fifty thousand dollars stollen. Ms. Winters will research whether this is a B or C Felony, but from your standpoint it is irrelevant. My strategy is the exclamation mark on Ms. Winters’ assessment. Dr. Dawson is NOT a fucking murderer and he is not a fucking thief! He is an outstanding member of society. A renowned heart doctor. Our defense is the TRUTH. The truth is a fucking awesome weapon. It will explain your DNA at the scene. We will examine the timeline, and learn that it is NOT iron clad. The only evidence against our client is soft stuff. There is NO HARD EVIDENCE. And most importantly, Dr. Dawson, had NO MOTIVE.
“As for the evidence, we will research and determine whether there is any relationship between the specific implantable defibrillator, cardiac stent, and the pair of Cole Haan shoes that Dr. Dawson was able to secure as evidence.” Amy’s specialty was research. “We will need to determine if those artifacts fit anyone’s profile.”
“But it must,” I said. “Let’s research major art thieves or forgers, query the Medtronic defibrillator database, and crossmatch it with that of the Cypher stent’s manufacturer, Cordis/Johnson and Johnson. Let’s see how many Protecta and Cypher combinations we can find?”
“You’re forgetting about a little thing called the Health Information Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPAA,” said Schwartz. “It used to be much easier to access this information, but, now, with HIPAA, it is very hard for us to gain access to that kind of medical information, even if it is legally justifiable.”
I knew his dilemma all too well.
“We’ll have to get a search warrant to gain access, but this will likely take some fucking time,” Schwartz said.
“What are you talking about,” I vehemently protested. “We don’t have time. Every day that goes by is one more day for the art thief and murderer to disappear. Time is of the essence!”
“What makes you think there is only one art thief and murderer? And do you really think they are one and the same? Certainly that is a possibility, but there could be multiple people involved. Isn’t that so, Gale?” said Alex.
“Yes, that is a possibility, but unlikely based on Dawson’s assessment of the shoe prints found at the Weisberg estate. If there were many people, I would expect a variety of prints recovered by the good doctor. Any luck with the shoe analysis, Amy?” asked Mr. Schwartz.
“Yes, the shoes,” she retorted. “My friends over at Tanger identified the shoe as a size thirteen Cole Haan, of the general Nike Air type. Can we crossmatch that with the medical information?”
“This will all take some fucking time,” Schwartz reiterated.
“I think I can get my friends from Medtronic and Johnson and Johnson to do this right away on the QT,” I said.
For many years I had implanted the Medtronic AVE stent as well as the Cordis/JNJ Cypher stent. I called on my buddy Jason McCann, a local legend in stent sales. Yearly trips to Hawaii to celebrate his President’s Club award and to meet the company’s founder, Earl Bakken. He always came back with a Dole pineapple just to thank me. As I thought about the pineapple, I went over to my powerless fridge. I opened the door and pulled out his latest pineapple gift and grabbed a large serrated knife and proceeded to cut up the fruit in pieces and serve it to my team. Alex was on one side of my dining table with Amy, and Gale and myself were on the other side, enjoying the Hawaiian delicacy.
As we finished off the pineapple, I made an offer.
“Guys, we have a lot of work to do, and the roads are not great. Why don’t you all hang out over here?”
“It would be my absolute pleasure,” said Alex. He never did turn down a good offer.
“You could take the upstairs guestroom,” I said.
Schwartz and Amy declined. “Let’s meet back here in two days. I’ll run the reports. MD, you get me the medical data any way you can. Amy, see if you can nail down the shoe information, and let’s all reconvene here in two days to see if the shoe fits,” said the New York lawyer as he exited through the front door.
“Sounds good,” said Amy to the team as she headed out as well. “I’ll be in Hampton Bays if you need me. That’s only a hop, skip, and a jump away. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me.”
“I won’t,” I said. My head was still spinning from the Amy twist to my life! I regretted watching her leave, but I was too worried to think straight!
Chapter 47
Two days. Two full days of Steven Seagal. We talked about Sandy. We talked about politics. Oh, how he loved politics. France versus the US. US versus Russia. France’s Sarkozy versus Obama. Obama versus Putin. Even though Sarkozy was no longer in office, Shaw was a socialist at heart. To Alex it was always socialism versus democracy, and communism was somewhere in the middle. He knew everything, and it wasn’t arrogance. It was fact.
Then we talked about medicine. Changing trends in medicine. The US was becoming France with the Affordable Care Act and the goal of universal health care. This was the end of private practice, and the beginning of socialized medicine. Our health care would eventually transition to a governmental health care plan for all, much like that of our French friends. At least, that was our conclusion. Then we talked about Shari. What a fuckhead. I wouldn’t have so much as looked at another woman, even with her alcohol troubles. The thought never even entered into my mind. Well, maybe a little fantasy now and then. But I would never have ever thought about cheating on her. I had endured years of no semblance of a physical or romantic relationship. No real connection, but still tried to stick it out. And then, “wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” Screwing in our own bed. And I am certain that was not the first time.
“How long has Shari been cheating on me?” I asked Alex.
“Definitely, it was going on for a while. You just happened to catch her by surprise. How often do you just pop in during the middle of the week? Like never! MD, you are a workaholic. If you finished up early with your patients, you would stay late and work on your research. And if you were finished with your research, you would be helping the museum. And if you were not working with the museum, you were over at my place, working on our next startup company. MD, I know this might be painful for you to hear, but you were part of the problem. A bit of a disconnect with Shari’s needs.”
“Shari’s needs, my ass. She never would call and say, ‘MD, could you just come home early, or MD, could we have a romantic night out, or even MD, let’s get away for the weekend,’” I snapped.
“She shouldn’t have to. Love is a two-way street. And it takes two to tango,” he said.
“And then the drinking started. I had no way to help this. Rehab did little good for her. It was no way to live,” I said with somber frustration.
“I know, MD, but she is your wife. You have to face the music that you were part of the reason she started drinking.”
“I’m not perfect, I guess, but I just trusted her too much. I thought that if she needed something, or wanted something, or wasn’t getting something, she would have told me.”
“MD, this is not like that asshole of a financial guy that you trusted with your money. This is your wife. What do you expect if you go days and days and days without giving her the attention that a spouse needs?”
“Alex, if you can’t trust your wife, whom can you trust?”
“MD, you just don’t get it. Shari is not a bad person. But she does have a problem. And I know that she fucked that cocksucker, but she is also a human being. If you had invested the same amount of time that you had invested in your medical practice and your inventions this might not have happened.”
“But, Alex, there were no signs!” At that moment Alex just cut me
off.
“MD, there are always signs. And it is your job to always have your pulse on the situation. No pun intended. Take your bigwig investor guy whose year after year performance is just too good, too perfect. Always getting double-digit returns no matter what. If it is too good to be true, it probably is. And Shari, she gave the signs. I never saw her exhibit warmth, the way we do in France, but I never saw you do it either. When was the last time you made wild passionate love?” he pressed.
At that moment Alex pulled out a folded piece of newspaper from his pocket, just like the one I had been keeping in mine. He had always made a habit of carrying a piece of the New York Times. Always the latest crossword puzzle. “Where do you think I got my habit from?” I muttered to myself. Alex was an expert with the puzzle. Monday took him literally less than five minutes to complete. As we went further into the week, the puzzle itself would get progressively harder, but not for Alex. He was legendary with the Sunday crossword. By the time I figured out a half dozen clues, he would have the entire puzzle completed.
But as he unfolded the newspaper, I realized it was not a crossword puzzle at all. My face just dropped, and my stomach sank as I looked at the paper.
“I didn’t want to show you this, but I have to show you it, because you’re going to find out sooner or later.”
Chapter 48
It was the front page of the New York Times; it read: pollock painting stolen, heiress murdered, doctor accused.
Since Sandy, I have been out of touch with the news. I had not been able to watch any TV or even get a newspaper. But Alex had the latest Times, which I read in pure horror:
Dr. Matthew Dawson of Port Washington, Long Island, has been accused of stealing a priceless Jackson Pollock painting and murdering the wife of Mr. Charles Weisberg of Goldman Sachs. Dr. Dawson was recently fired from his position at the Mount Sinai Medical Center. He was arraigned at the Riverhead Courthouse and released on one million dollars bail. The Times has been unable to contact Dr. Dawson for a response at this time.
“Oh shit,” I thought. “Now everybody knows all of my business: My wife, my kids, my former employer. Everybody. How embarrassing! How could they publish this?”
And then I thought about it. If the New York Times would publish a story about a psychiatrist accused of having an affair with their patient, why wouldn’t they publish a story about a cardiologist accused of murder and stealing a painting? Especially, the murder of a wealthy socialite and a priceless Pollock painting, no less. Of course, they would. “I just happened to be the victim of circumstances,” I kept telling myself.
I still felt shaky and uneasy. Depressed, no less. I just wanted to crawl into a shell and never come out. Maybe even leave the country, if I could.
“Alex, I’m in trouble, aren’t I? How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?”
Chapter 49
“MD, you are not alone. I am here for you, and your legal team is all over this.” On a dime, Alex changed gear. “And how about your kids? How are they doing? Just because they are teenagers or young adults, does that mean you are not their dad? You will always be their dad.”
“Right, Alex. I guess I have been a little removed, distant perhaps, preoccupied. I only texted Jason once. That’s it. I haven’t even tried to call any of them. Just give me a few minutes, please, and let me give them a call.”
I assumed Shari was taking care of our kids through the storm. Jason had returned to Port before the storm and never went back to school, and Bridgette was home as well. All without power. I was just so angry. But I knew if there was a real problem that at least Jason would text me or give a call. The fact that I had not received either led me to believe that for now, neither one of my kids read or heard my NEWS STORY. “Thank the lord,” I said to myself.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
“Hello, who is this?” said Jason.
“It’s Dad. How are you? Are you okay? I asked.
“Dad, Mom showed us the paper. It says that you killed someone and stole a painting. Is that true? I know that can’t be true. Right, Dad?”
“Jason, something bad has happened, but it is not my fault, and I didn’t do any of those things. It will all work out. How is it there?” I tried to console, and then knew the best strategy was to change gears.
“We are all worried about you, and you want to know how it is here? It is terrible here. No power at all. We are huddled in front of the gas fireplace in our living room. Barely keeping warm. Mom put sheets up with thumbtacks all around the living-room vestibules to hold in the warmth. Bridgette is here too. Do you want to talk to her?”
“Sure. Love you,” I said.
“Love you too,” he replied.
Within seconds I heard her voice. “Hi, Dad,” exclaimed Bridgette.
Bridgette was going through her senior year of high school madness. She had applied early decision to my Alma Mater and felt an intense pressure coming on—uncertain as to whether she would be accepted, and if not, she would have to rapidly file all of her college applications and apply within a few days just to get everything submitted in time. December 15 was the date that she would find out whether she was accepted. Would she be a Blue Jay and go to Hopkins? I asked myself. It was out of our control, I replied inside my weary brain.
“Bridgette, how is it there at home?” I asked.
“Dad, we all saw the paper? Did you kill Mrs. Weisberg?”
“Of course not, Bridge!”
“But, Dad, the paper says that you stole the neighbor’s priceless painting and then killed Mrs. Weisberg. Mom told us that you were fired from Mount Sinai. Did you just lose it and go off the deep end?”
“No, Bridge. That’s not what happened. It was just a fluke that I was even out east when that all happened. I was just trying to help out our neighbor, and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. This will all work its way out. Please don’t worry.”
“When are we going to see you again, Dad?”
“I don’t know, Bridge, it could be days.” If not longer, I thought to myself. “Is everybody there? When do you think you’ll get power back?”
“Yes, Dad. Mom, Jason, and I are all here. The house is okay, and there is still no power. We are eating leftover bagels that we’re frying on our gas stovetop. And the water is fine. We are very fortunate we have hot water. Our school has been turned into a shelter for those in the flood zone. There’s been no school the entire week and I don’t even know whether there will be any next week.”
“Like a snow day,” I said. “I miss you. Just stay warm. I love you.”
“Dad, I’m worried about you. Please come home soon? Love you Dad!” she said.
I loved my kids with all my heart. And then I heard the voice, and it was not pleasant. It was abrupt and screaming.
Chapter 50
It sounded like the phone was pulled right away from Bridgette. And then I heard silence for about thirty seconds, and then . . .
“MD, did you kill Mrs. Weisberg? What happened to you? What the hell happened to you? Were you having an affair?”
“Me? You were the one doing ‘Leave it to Beaver.’ How long has that been going on?” I asked.
“Let me walk somewhere in private. Wait a second.” A five-second pause ensued while Shari wandered out of the living room to a quiet corner of the house. “MD, you haven’t been exactly the perfect husband. You missed our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and we haven’t had any spark for the most of that.”
“Thanks for telling me that now,” I said sarcastically. “I guess the tide has turned since I saw you last.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. I’ve been lonely and have felt very empty. There was nothing else for me to do. I had to do something,” whined Shari.
I didn’t buy that for a second. She could have tried talking. Okay, I guess I wasn’t the great talker either. I was just doing my thing. But come on, she was screwing the local kid next door. At least, that’s
what it looked like. The whole thing was totally ridiculous. And the drinking, what was that about? Was Alex right that my own self-absorbed life drove her to drink and provoked the entire thing? Who knows? Not me.
“You could have tried talking,” I snapped.
“I did. At least, I thought I did. Remember last Valentine’s Day? I wanted to go out to dinner and made a special reservation at La Piccolla Liguria. And you just had to finish your presentation. You never would make time for me. Never! And now this? A murder and the stolen painting? I guess I just don’t know who you really are!” She began to weep—then the phone call abruptly ended. A deafening silence.
I had no chance to respond. No chance to clear the air. But in reality, there was no chance in hell for any salvage of our relationship. A relationship that I thought was originally built on trust.
“Alex, Shari grabbed the phone from Bridgette and gave me an earful. She seemed to feel it was my fault. Then she hung up on me! But at least Jason and Bridgette are safe. Still no power in Port.”
“MD, what did you think? Did you think she was going to take all the responsibility for your marital woes? Are you crazy? Of course, she was going to blame you. Just like you are blaming her! And yes, my wife confirmed that there is still no power. One of the LIPA workers told her it could be until Thanksgiving by the time we get our power back.”
Alex then proceeded to make some phone calls. I did too, and eventually we got our answers. At least to the questions we were asking now. We were trying to hit the “trifecta” and find the individual with a particular brand of stent, defibrillator, and pair of shoes. Like pieces to the puzzle. We were starting to find the pieces and put them all together.