Chapter 7… The Wake
One by one the visitors stepped to the casket. Some of them said a prayer and made a quick sign of the cross. For others it was a quick touch on Hutch’s sleeve and then on to the receiving line where Suzanne and the kids bravely held it together along with Hutch’s mom and two brothers, either of whom could have been his twin. The place was packed to overflowing, a sea of black and grey with pops of white pearl or diamond glitter, the scents of expensive perfumes blending into an amorphous nasal fog hanging in the listless air of the funeral home. Funeral directors who didn’t look pleased that they were working on a Sunday tried their best to keep pathways clear, their obvious gold name badges hanging heavily on well-worn suitcoats. Their long countenances only reflected the somberness of the moment.
For the friends and social acquaintances, the wide-eyed look of shock accompanied concerned utterances of requisite offerings to help in any way to Suzanne and the family. For the businesspeople in the room, the same wide-eyed look of shock was the foundation of yet another expression, which was more like panic than not. Clearly no one at the bank was prepared to take on Hutch’s role there, and the huddled bodies and concerned undertones of conversation about who was going to take his place was a main topic of hushed but obviously important discussion.
Having done their duty and offered the obligatory condolences, the Zeta Chi brothers gathered in their own tight circle in the back of the seating area, knowing that the best thing they could do at the moment was to offer spiritual support for Suzanne and the family simply by being there. That being said, for this group that only contributed to their common, unexplainable feeling of being totally fucking pissed off. The wives knew better than to stand with their spouses and they decided to move off, gathering in their own circle a few feet away, except for Monica, who was taking it head-on.
“I’ve already told you guys, I’ve tried until I was blue in the face to get an investigation going on this, but there is no evidence to warrant one. As an assistant district attorney, I still need to have the DA’s blessing to devote resources to an investigation, and based on what I just told you, well, I got nothing.” Monica looked sympathetic, and she seemed sincere, but with this group that didn’t do much to console them.
Fighting Al was the first to speak out, not aiming his comment directly at Monica, but when he said, “That’s bullshit,” he got more than an eyeful from Ducky.
“C’mon Al, don’t be a dick, huh?”
Suddenly realizing he was indeed being just that, Al said, “Oh, sorry Ducky... and Monica, that wasn’t directed at you. But I deal with presentation of evidence in my practice all the time, and I know that sometimes it’s just a matter of finding someone to listen who has enough juice to grant a pretrial conference.”
That didn’t do much to cool Monica’s jets, who said to Ducky in full voice, “Who is this guy?”
“We call him Fighting Al for a reason,” Ducky replied. He then aimed his chin straight at him and said, “Ain’t changed much over the years, have you Al?”
All juiced up now, Monica fired back, “This isn’t a civil case, Al, and there is no evidence to present. If there was, we’d have to hand it to a grand jury to see if it was enough to bring criminal charges. If you’re a lawyer, you should know that.”
Al just said, “Oops.”
Harry recalled his conversation with Fighting Al from the previous Tuesday when he’d called him right after speaking with Doc. “Hey Al, you’re licensed in Massachusetts, aren’t you?” Harry had asked.
“That’s right, my office is in Springfield.”
“So what kind of law do you practice?”
“I do a little ‘a this, and little ‘a that, some personal injury or malpractice sometimes, maybe a little contract negotiation here and there. I have some steady clients with various needs. You know how that goes, right Harry?”
Al’s non-answer was answer enough and Harry was starting to get the picture. “Sure Al, I know all about those kinds of contracts. How’s your business?”
“My last name is Fiorello, Harry. It finds me, you know what I mean?”
The picture was getting clearer. “So let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Given the fact that Hutch died of a severe myocardial infarction and he just had a physical shortly before that, could there be a case against the examining physician?”
Al was sharp. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Harry, except that if there was something wrong with Hutch and it was missed, there could be a basis for a malpractice suit for the benefit of the family, but you’d have to prove such. If indeed there wasn’t anything significantly wrong, however, and the examining physician did his job properly, then there’s no basis for a malpractice suit and poor old Hutch just bought the farm of his own accord.”
“But would the filing of a malpractice civil suit be the catalyst that could start an investigation into this whole thing?” Harry asked. “I mean, that’s all we’re after, right, an investigation?”
“Quite the sly little devil, aren’t you Harry. It could be. I’d have to check it out.”
“And would you be willing to help with that, pro bono?”
“For old Hutch or his family? Count me in.”
That’s the way it had gone the preceding Tuesday night and into the next day before the wake when Harry had called the brothers to inform them of the wake and the funeral date. He knew what each of them did for a living, and to a man each of them had indicated their willingness to do what they could, if asked, to find out what really killed Hutch. If the fucking authorities weren’t going to investigate Hutch’s death, the brothers would.
* * * * *
Fish ordered a couple of beers and stabbed a piece of rumaki with a toothpick on his way past the buffet. He handed one of the beers to Harry who said, “I thought Jews didn’t eat bacon.”
“I’m not,” said Fish. “I’m doing the chicken liver.”
“Oh,” said Harry, his grin widening. “What did you find out?”
Fish huddled up close as if the KGB was listening in. “I found out there are two ATMs located on Newberry Street in Wallingham near Slick’s. Slick’s is in the middle of the block, and one ATM is at a bank located on the corner just up the street. The other is a standalone location either on the street or inside the entrance of a building, I think. I couldn’t tell when I zoomed in on the Google Maps thing on the computer.”
Harry just shook his head. “So?”
“So,” said Fish, “I figured banks and ATM locations probably have security cameras rolling twenty-four-seven, don’t you think?”
Harry clinked Fish’s beer and said, “I knew all those rumors about you being slow on the uptake weren’t true.”
Fish smiled back. “I was the one who started those rumors. That’s how I cleaned up on you guys at the poker table.”
“Right,” said Harry, knowing Fish was anything but dumb. “How’d you come up with the security camera idea?”
“Hell,” said Fish, “I figured in this day and age someone or something is recording everything. That, and I picked up on it when I was watching a cop show on TV.”
“Whatever works,” said Harry, and he made a visual sweep of the restaurant room the family had booked, knowing there would be a lot of out of town friends attending the wake and that they’d need a place to eat afterwards. Like the wake itself, the room was packed and Harry knew he should be getting back to Denise. “What’s your next step?”
“Well, Wallingham is only half an hour off the Mass Pike. On the way home to Hartford after the funeral tomorrow, I figured I could take a little detour and hit Newberry Street in person and check out if there could be other security cameras in the area that might have caught Hutch’s car in their sights. Who knows what we might find?”
Fish was being hopeful now. “And how do you suppose we’d get hold of those surveillance recordings if we want
ed them?” Harry asked.
“Beats me,” said Fish. “Do I have to do everything?”
And so it went. Harry did a mental duty roster of the brothers present. Besides himself, Harry could now count four other brothers who so far had agreed to “check things out” or “do what they could” to prove—mostly to themselves, at this point—that something was very wrong with the way Hutch had died. Doc was checking with his doctor friends. Fish was on the security camera hunt. Fighting Al was looking into what it would take to file a malpractice suit against the doctor who performed Hutch’s physical. Ducky was going to continue to work on Monica to get her to try and convince her boss to open an investigation. The momentum was building. Of the remaining seven brothers, two of them didn’t understand why he, Harry, was so gung-ho on this matter, while the other five were wary, to say the least.
Harry’s next thought was that he was being kind to himself. A bunch of fifty-two-year-old civilians investigating a murder? No, wait; it wasn’t even classified as a murder yet. The other brothers probably weren’t wary; they probably thought he was a whack job. Was he? Did his wife think that? He looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the service bar and suddenly felt as if everyone was watching him for signs of premature senility. Besides Hutch, he’d always been close to Fish and he offered to buy him a drink at the main bar which was in another part of the restaurant.
“Do you guys all think I’m nuts?” Harry asked, coming right out with it.
“You mean this investigation thing?” Fish responded. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure I’m nuts, or you’re not sure what the others think?”
“What does it matter what the others think?”
Surprised by the question, Harry bought himself a moment by ordering two Johnnie Walker Blacks, neat. “I think maybe some of the other brothers think I’m being overly dramatic and meddling into something that’s none of my business.”
“We were brothers, Harry. We are brothers. Don’t ever forget that.”
“It was just a fraternity house, Fish. You know, living arrangements at college over thirty years ago. It’s not like we were real brothers.”
The scotch came and Fish downed it in one gulp. He ordered two more with water back. “Is that so?” he asked. “And what about the time in our junior year when Stokes’ dad lost his job and Stokes said he was going to drop out.”
“I remember that,” said Harry. “We elected him to be a kitchen steward so he wouldn’t have to pay room and board and could stay in school.”
“And what about when Bapple went to Mardi Gras one year and got robbed? Remember that? He was stuck in New Orleans with not a dime in his pocket.”
“I do remember that,” said Harry. “No one had credit cards back then, so three guys hopped in a car and went down and got him.”
“And how many times after graduation have we helped each other with job leads, or connections of some sort, all things that helped us and our families?”
“Lots, I’d guess.” Harry was getting the point.
“We’re more than acquaintances, Harry. That’s why we sign our signatures with Y.I.T.B.—Yours In The Bonds, remember? These guys may be a bit skeptical, but they’ll come around.” The second round of drinks came and Fish continued, “You and Hutch were close, man. If we come up with something that even resembles proof that he died suspiciously, these guys will be on it.”
“Thanks, Fish. I thought maybe I was going off the deep end.” Harry picked up his glass and clinked it against Fish’s, then spotted something at the other end of the bar.
“What?” said Fish, turning to see what had caught Harry’s curiosity.
“Do you see those two guys by the server station? If I’m not mistaken, they’re from the bank.”
“As in Hutch’s bank?”
“Right on, Tarzan.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them talking with some other bank dudes at the funeral home. Just look at them: banker suits, banker glasses—they’re from the bank, all right. Why don’t we mosey on over and see what we can find out.”
“Find out about what?” Fish asked, but Harry was already past him. Pulling up beside them, Harry flashed his widest smile and shook their hands as if he was about to sell a used car.
“I’m Harry Curlander,” he said to the taller one whose grey-speckled hair was set off by his dark-toned complexion. “This is Don Fischer.” He gave Fish a chance to shake hands, but the strangers were eyeing them guardedly. “We were close friends with Hutch... both of us,” he added clumsily. “We went back a long way with him, over thirty years to be exact.”
“Is that right?” the younger one said. He looked to be in his mid to late forties, typical WASP-looking kind of guy, scrawny sort. The taller one was older and had darker skin. He looked away for a second before taking a sip of his drink, but his eyes came back to Harry and Fish, darting quickly from one face to another. He didn’t say a word.
“E...e... yeah,” Harry said dramatically. “Old fraternity brothers with old Hutch. Couldn’t be closer to him, you know. Always stayed in touch.”
“You don’t say,” the scrawny one responded, obviously trying to be polite.
“Right... right, right,” said Harry. “Couldn’t be closer. Same with the rest of the brothers,” he added, tossing a thumb over his shoulder and indicating the private dining room. “We all stayed close, you know, stayed friends for all these years.”
The dark-skinned one finally spoke and said, “What can we do for you, Mister Curlander?” His eyes were dark and deep, like torpedo tubes on submarine.
“Please, call me Harry,” Harry insisted. Did he just detect a slight accent in the guy’s speech?
“And you can call me Fish,” Fish added, figuring he might as well pile on to whatever the hell Harry was doing.
“You guys are from the bank where Hutch worked, aren’t you? I didn’t catch your names.” Harry thought: take the hint boys.
The dark-skinned one didn’t respond. The scrawny one drilled him with a glare and said, “I’m Jerry Brennan, CFO at the bank.”
“CFO?” said Harry, shaking his hand again. “You must have known Hutch pretty well then, right?”
“I knew him since I started with the bank.”
“Well then, I guess you knew a lot about him. Too bad about Hutch. He went just like that,” said Harry, snapping his fingers. Behind him, Fish gave him a poke.
“What is it you gentlemen want to know?” the darker one asked directly, as in bang, right between the eyes.
Harry smiled, knowing he’d already run out of runway with this guy. Looking him straight in the eye, he said, “And you are...?”
“This is Brendan Phillips,” said Jerry. “He’s the CEO at the bank and was Todd’s boss.”
The use of the name Todd threw Harry for a second until he remembered that Hutch used Todd as his first name in formal situations. As such, he knew instantly that while Hutch may have known these two yahoos for years possibly, the relationship was strictly business. Harry could see that the dark-skinned one—Brendan, now—was waiting for an answer to his question. Suddenly, Harry reached back and extracted his wallet, bumping Fish in the arm as Fish was almost glued to him. He pulled a couple of business cards and handed one to each of the bank guys.
“While I’m an old friend of Hutch and his family, I’m also the managing partner at Curlander and Curlander and we’ll be handling Hutch’s affairs, you know, probate, execution of the will... and any related matters.”
Brendan zeroed in immediately. “Related matters,” he repeated. “Related matters such as what?”
The guy was no dummy, Harry determined. “Well, you’re obviously aware that Hutch passed away quite unexpectedly, but you may not be aware of the possibility that he died under suspicious circumstances.” He left the comment dangle to see Brendan’s reaction. There was none, except for
a narrowing and deepening of his torpedo eyes. “We know that Hutch went through a physical recently as a requirement of his position at the bank, and we’re looking into the possibility of bringing a malpractice suit against the doctor who performed that physical, as well as what possible liability might exist with the bank itself.”
It had the desired effect on Jerry, whose facial features froze. Brendan, however, sipped his drink as if he’d just stepped off the eighteenth green. He actually smiled. “Whatever you’re trying to do, Harry—you said I could call you Harry, right?”
“Of course.” You prick.
“The bank is under no liability here.”
“Then how would you explain Hutch dying from a massive myocardial infarction when shortly before that he’d had a thorough physical as a requirement of his employment at the bank, and nothing was found to predict him passing away like that? Don’t you think there’s a basis for some sort of malpractice there?”
“I don’t know,” Brendan replied. “I’m not a doctor.”
Brendan’s eyes stayed steely, and Harry wondered if it was his way of saying go fuck yourself. “Well something had to have caused that myocardial infarction. Do you think it’s also possible that whatever Hutch was working on at the bank caused him to have so much stress that it brought on what I just described?”
“Again, Harry, I’m not a doctor. I imagine that every job has its stressful moments, but I’ve never thought being a banker was a particularly stressful profession.”
That was definitely a go-fuck-yourself. “Can you tell me what he was working on?” Harry noticed how the younger Jerry’s eyes swung over and met Brendan’s. Jerry knew when to shut up, however, and he sipped his drink in silence.
Brendan said, “Sorry, I’m afraid that’s not something we can talk about. I’m sure we’ll be discussing this further once you file your suit.”
“What was Hutch’s involvement with the Treasury Department?” Harry asked directly.
“It’s been good talking to you,” Brendan said. This time he extended his hand and added, “I see from your card that you’re headquartered in New Jersey. I assume you’re licensed to practice in Massachusetts. Feel free to contact me directly once you get things squared away and you’re more certain of where you’re going with this matter.” Without even checking, Brendan turned to Jerry and said, “Jerry, I’m afraid I’m out of business cards. Would you mind giving Harry and his friend....”
“Fish,” said Fish.
“Fish... one of yours in case they need to get back to us?”
Good, loyal Jerry did just that, a clear signal to Harry and Fish that their chance of getting hold of Brendan again would happen when pigs grew wings. Clearly dismissed, they turned to leave when Brendan called after them, “Oh, and Harry, you wouldn’t mind if I checked with Suzanne to make sure she’s engaged your services, would you? Just good business practice, you know: cover all your bases.”
Harry finished the drink he’d been holding and plunked his glass on the bar. “Not at all,” he said. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d give her a few days before you did that. She’s quite distressed and we don’t plan on moving forward until she’s had a chance to recover from this terrible ordeal.” Brendan’s mouth curled at the edges and Harry knew he’d just been caught in a bear trap.
“Of course,” Brendan said pretentiously.
Harry turned away, feeling Fish come up next to him and whisper in his ear, “Tell me, Harry, what the fuck was all that?”
The Brothers Page 8
