Dead Line

by JJ Gould

  Stan nodded. The sister of a woman named Janet Brecht had called the station, worried enough to make it a story, not just a police report. Janet been gone one week, and there was no sign of her.

  “Guess they were part of the same surgical team. You wanna guess who the surgery was for?”

  Stan waited.

  “Remember that doc out of the Cities and his aunt with the hip? One and the same.”

  Stan blew out his breath slowly, thinking. “Malpractice cover-up. You’ll need more than one circumstance. Like I said, accidents happen.”

  It was then that Stan learned that young Matt Bradley would be an excellent poker player. Sighing, Matt adjusted his eyeglasses, revealing a spark of triumph underneath the gloom. “Yeah, but the gas passer swears that the surgery wasn’t done by the surgeon. It was done by the sales rep.”

  Stan leaned back and whistled long and low. Royal flush.

  Chapter 61 -Doris Tschetter

  At Doris's new job at the radio station, she worked eight to five, weekdays, and had the weekends off, the polar opposite of how she’d spent the prior twenty years. As a bar waitress and stripper, her work hours had been every weekend, through the nights, with her driving home as the sun came up. She liked her new job and for the first time in her life could see a future that didn’t end in shame and disgrace. But old habits were hard to break, and many weekends, she would get in her car and drive. At first, it was just aimless interstate driving, with cruise control set and the mile markers clicking by. Then one night, on impulse, she took the exit west of Oacoma, where a billboard said, Good Times at Goodies! The girl on the sign smiled seductively. She wore a sequined halter top positioned strategically behind the two Os in Goodies. Doris did not know the girl but felt a kinship. Dollars to donuts, she had a similar backstory to Doris and was facing the same grind—long nights, little sleep, grimy dollar bills, and pawing hands.

  The paved road turned north and ended. A neon sign pointed a quarter of a mile north to more neon on a large ramshackle shed just outside of city limits and building codes. She followed the sign and pulled into the back parking lot then sat in her car, doors locked and nerves strung tight.

  Not sure why she was there, she was about to put the car in reverse and back out when she saw the back door open and a woman walk out to the dumpster with a plastic bag. Without a look left or right, the woman lifted the lid and tossed the bag in. The steel lid clanged shut. The back door opened again, revealing a quick flash of neon and bar noise, then closed.

  The familiarity of the scene startled Doris as she remembered the date. First of the month. She checked the clock on the dash. One o’clock in the morning. We used to do the same thing in Beresford.

  She drummed the steering wheel thoughtfully, thinking about all the Goodies up and down the interstate. Charlie.

  “Charlie.” This time she said it out loud. The longer she was away from Charlie, the meaner and more pathetic she realized he was. And predictable. When she thought about it, she realized it was no surprise that he would handle his business the same way at all of his locations. And when she thought about it more, she knew it would be no surprise if he was not done with her. His meanness had a staying quality, and Doris would not be surprised at all if he was hatching some scheme against Stan Martin too. Stan was everything Charlie was not, and Charlie hated him for it. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, thinking.

  Then she opened the car door and walked quickly to the dumpster. She reached inside, fished out the plastic bag, and walked briskly back to her car. Once inside, she opened the bag to confirm its contents. She checked the time—1:20. There was another Goodies up by Forestburg, on the way to Huron, about an hour and a half away.

  What the heck, it’s only sleep.

  Chapter 62 - Barbara Hanson

  Barbara Hanson was officially the head of hospital records at Hall-Hauptmann Hospital, but her nickname was Stonewall, and she was proud of it. For twenty-one years, she’d been the person that complaints, pending litigation, bill clarification, insurance claims, and more went through. She was less than five feet tall and a hundred pounds, but on the phone, she was a thousand-pound grizzly.

  She was at her desk, looking at the blinking light. The person calling was a reporter from that new radio station, KCAH. Game on.

  “Hello, medical records, this is Barbara. How may I help you?” There was no irony in her voice.

  The reporter started in on his questions, and one by one, she answered them.

  “I’m sorry, sir, that type of question would need to be answered by the surgeon who handled the surgery…

  “I’m sorry, sir, that type of information is privileged between patient and doctor…

  “I’m sorry, sir, all records pertaining to the patient you mentioned would be filed in our records office and unavailable even to me…

  “No, I’m sorry, the list of surgeries handled by doctors is also privileged information…

  “Yes, sir. I believe all surgeries have attending nurses and other health professionals, but I am not a doctor, and I can’t confirm the nature of what those teams look like and what personnel are required for each procedure…

  “No, sir, I do not know that information. No, sir, I cannot tell you who would have that information…

  “Salespeople? No, sir. There are experts representing some of our suppliers, but no salespeople are allowed in surgery…

  “I have no way of knowing what suppliers have representatives. No, sir, I don’t know who would know that…

  “I’m sorry, sir. We would have no records of people who are not directly employed by the hospital…

  “Yes, sir. A complete directory of all doctors is available in our annual staff directory. I’m sorry, sir. I do not have a copy for distribution…

  “I am the manager, sir. You could try any of our other staff members, but they would transfer you to me, I’m sure…

  “Barbara Hanson. No, I am terribly sorry, but I have no comment at this time for any of your questions. No, I’m sorry. I cannot not share that information with you either…

  “Well, I’m sorry about that—I really am. Thank you for calling, sir, and if you have any other questions that I can answer, please feel free to call. Have a nice day.”

  Barbara disconnected the line and smiled. Whatever that reporter was looking for he’d have to get some other way.

  Chapter 63 -Sophie Holmberg

  Sophie Holmberg answered the phone from her den. “Hello, Holmberg and Associates.”

  When things were flush, Holmberg and Associates had actually had associates, an office downtown, and even a receptionist, but that was when she’d had a chain of hospitals needing cardiologists, oncologists, pediatric doctors, and more. Then they decided to handle things in-house, and they tossed her to the curb.

  Oh well. Quickly, Holmberg had pivoted into a side business, handling medical equipment sales and hunting reps looking for bigger commissions and better territories, and she’d cut her own staff to tide her over. Now she was solo, with ads in every Yellow Pages in the Midwest, like a fisherman with a hundred lines in the water, waiting for a nibble. This call was one of those nibbles, a question about Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

  “Sioux Falls? Nice town!” Sophie had driven through Sioux Falls once on the way to Denver and used that as her guide. “You looking to move there?” She pulled a pad of paper and started jotting things down.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Divorce, huh? Yeah, too bad. Kids moved there? Yeah, well you gotta be there for ’em, that’s for sure.” The guy sounded kind of glum. The divorce might explain that.

  She wrote down the word sales and underlined it twice.

  “So, how much experience, do you have? Fifteen years? Good. Have you got a résumé, stats of sales, growth, etcetera?”

  She nodded furiously, reaching for the Sioux Falls file out of the file cabinet.

  “Yeah, you betcha. It’s a growing market, that’s for sure. Hall-Hauptmann is the biggest medica
l provider between Mayo and Denver. What’s your line?”

  She started jotting down names—Hillenbrand, Stryker, Olympus, Zeiss. Quite a list. It looked like the guy had job-hopped his way up to Chicago before the wife dumped him. Oh well.

  “Yeah, well, hang on a sec. There’s a couple three possibilities might be good for you. There’s a guy retired outta optical equipment. He had a big territory, lots of potential. Some guy went AWOL out of Panco, left a really nice list behind, and a hotshot ortho who was the team doc for the Niners has some new patented stuff. It’s a start-up, but I got a feeling…”

  The caller asked a question.

  “Panco… that’s right! And poof! He disappeared. Panco’s got a full line—ankles to skull plates and everything in between. You get a guy who wipes out on his motorcycle on the way to Sturgis, and you can take a month off!”

  They both laughed appreciatively.

  “Yeah, an ill wind, huh?” She checked the name on the Panco file. “Nope. It wasn’t Harris. The guy’s name is Devon LaCroix. He musta just freaked out. Some guys’ll do that. Don’t know a good thing when they have it. Look,” Sophie said, closing the deal. “I’ve been doing this for eighteen years. You can try another rep, maybe even try Panco. But I know the territory, and I know what they’ll pay, so let me rep for you, and I’ll get you a fee you deserve at a place near your kids.”

  She wrote the guy’s name down—Matt Bradley—and tossed it in the thirty-day file. Follow-ups were key.

  Chapter 64 - Stan Martin

  There were four of them in the back booth of the Coachlite. Stan Martin was doing most of the talking, Matt Bradley was doing most of the listening, and the other two were doing most of the drinking.

  “My name is Stan Martin. I am the general manager of KCAH radio, a station whose format is news based with an interest in investigative journalism. What my associate has uncovered is shocking.” He nodded to Matt. “We have proof of a surgeon who needs to leave the profession, circumstantial evidence of an unauthorized person performing surgery, a hospital that aided in a cover-up, and the suspicious disappearance of two people who were in the same operating room you were in.” Stan continued, “We do not need to mention your names. You will continue to be sources protected by qualified privilege for confidential information under state law. I personally believe that this story needs to be aired for the good of the community but also to protect you. The fact that two people are missing seems suspicious to me.”

  The two across the table said nothing, but they reached for their drinks simultaneously and drained them dry. Sean, a handsome guy with bags under his eyes and a two-day stubble, took a shuddering breath. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. He nodded at the equally haggard woman to his left.

  “So, Ann and Janet and I were in the OR, waiting for a hip surgery with Dr. Hall, the one they call Five…”

  “Wait a sec.” Stan pushed the record button on the tape deck. “Okay, start again.”

  The two leaned over the table and, in hushed tones, told their story.

  Chapter 65 - Everett Meyer

  Everett Meyer, senior council for Hall Media and senior partner at Lammi, Luehmann, Meyer, and Otto, was a man of luxurious habits. Rising early, he would take a porcelain cup of black coffee, a fresh scone from Brenda’s Bakery, and the morning issue of the Plains Beacon. Dressed in a freshly pressed shirt and suit with braces, he would sit at the breakfast nook next to the patio and survey the news of the day. In the winter, the French doors to the patio were closed. In the summer and fall, he would open the French doors and enjoy his breakfast in the garden.

  In the last six months, he’d made two distinct changes to this ritual, one a pleasure, the other a pain. The first had to do with the paper. He’d heard from a colleague that ironing a newspaper set the ink into the paper and prevented ink smudges. He’d had the morning maid start ironing the paper ever since. It was a tactile pleasure to hold the crisp, warm paper in his hands as he worked his way through its contents. This morning the maid—he thought her name was Paulina—was fussing with the paper. How hard can it be to iron it? She had two of the pages in the wrong order. Exasperated, Meyer sorted the paper himself. Oh well.

  The pain had to do with what the paper didn’t have—news. Oh, maybe it was harsh to say, but the buzz around town usually had nothing to do with the paper but, instead, what was heard on the new radio station, KCAH. This was irritating for a number of reasons. The first was that the owner, Charlie Hofer, an odious, loathsome creature who owned a number of strip clubs in the state and who hired a fleet of attorneys for healthy fees, always in conflict with the needs and desires of Hall Media Group. For that reason, Meyer was never privy to those fat legal fees. The second irritating reason was that Hall Media would never lower itself to repeating the news reported by KCAH on their more robust signals, so he was forced to search out its staticky signal.

  Other friends and colleagues simply took the email version of the news and had it sent to their home or office, an option that seemed disloyal to Meyer, especially if he was caught. So now, each morning, Meyer had a deadline. He had to finish breakfast and the paper, get dressed for the office, and be out of the garage and down the road by six thirty to catch the station on his car radio. The station's actual signal was so weak he couldn't hear it from his dining room, but the Mercedes sound system was excellent, and he could motor through town and listen to the first morning-news broadcast in surround-sound clarity.

  On that particular Monday morning, Meyer turned north off of Fifty-Seventh Street onto Minnesota Avenue just as the news sounder played. Traffic was light, and he coasted down the hill toward the river and into town. Meyer adjusted the volume. He felt a little schadenfreude as he listened to the news of what others had been caught doing, giving a silent chuckle at the confirmation of a rumor or genuine surprise about a scandal.

  Gretchen Wallace was the morning announcer. Meyer had to admit, he loved her delivery. She had a well-modulated voice—never hurried, with hints of humor, irony, or warmth depending on the nature of the story she was reading. Meyer knew for a fact that KCAH had only four working reporters besides her, not including Stan Martin, but they must have been hardworking because the amount and variety of dirt they were able to uncover was impressive.

  “Good morning. This is Gretchen Wallace reporting from the C, M, and G Railroad studios, with the morning report. Our headline this morning covers accusations by trusted sources of a botched surgery at Hall-Hauptmann Hospital. Our investigation reveals that an unlicensed nonmedical contractor performed a routine procedure that resulted in irreversible damage and a subsequent cover-up that reaches to the highest levels of the hospital. Investigative reporter Matt Bradley will file his report, following this message from Arthur’s Shoes.”

  Meyer’s heart stopped. Shit. Too soon, the commercial was over, and the deadpan delivery of Matt Bradley laid out the details of Harrison Benjamin Hall's operating debacle with alarming accuracy. Meyer’s morning commute was no longer quiet or relaxing. He had a lot of work to do that day, and many heads were going to roll. And it was very important that one of those heads was not his.

  Chapter 66 - Lester LaFave

  Lester LaFave had seen The Godfather at least four times. His favorite scene was the horse head. He’d often wondered how they did that part—if they killed a real horse just for the movie or got one from a horse that was going to die anyway or if it was a fake. Anyway, he remembered enough about it to learn the importance of intimidation—getting to a guy when he was off guard and vulnerable. At work, they were ready for trouble. At home, they were relaxed, safe. That was the place and time to mess with their heads or maybe mess with more than their heads.

  Stan Martin was making waves, creating little messes that needed to be cleaned up. LaFave saw himself as a cleaner—a simple, passionless cleaner who got rid of messes. Except maybe for that asshole Indian. He’d like to play a little catchup with that fucker. Tune him up a little. Make him bl
eed. Try out some of his toys.

  LaFave had asked for and gotten all of the stuff he thought he might need based on all the crime shows he’d seen—anonymous coveralls, pantyhose for his face, a cattle prod, and some guns. He had no idea what kind of gun he might need, so he’d asked for a shotgun—he sawed off the barrel himself, just like Charles Bronson did—a 22 with a silencer, and a Colt 1911. He was going to ask for a Walther PK, like James Bond used, but decided to stick with American made.

  The plan was simple: take a Hall Cable TV truck for cover, walk in, and blast a kneecap off of the first man, woman, or child he saw. Then write “Vulnerable” in lipstick on a wall somewhere. Red lipstick, impossible to trace. Nothing fancy. Then he’d dump the gun and the shoes—sometimes they could use shoe imprints to find people—in the Big Sioux River, park the truck in the back of the cable station, and strip off the coveralls. He had a pair of navy slacks and gray cashmere sweater underneath, loafers in the van. He’d switch back over to his car, looking like Robert Mitchum in The Big Sleep, only meaner. Philip Marlowe on the outside, Don Corleone on the inside.

  LaFave smiled. Show time.

  Chapter 67 - Everett Meyer

  Law was more than just rules on paper. Ultimately, law was the sense of right versus wrong, and that was a nuanced thing. Shaping and manipulating that nuance was what Meyer did very well. The first point went to him. He had the meeting at his office on the second floor, giving him home-field advantage with his leather chairs, mahogany panels, and professional staff of disdainful legals and paralegals who had to be walked through like a gauntlet.