“Exactly. If the employee tells him someone’s going to make a serious takeover bid on such and such a date, that’s illegal. But if that same employee tells him the company’s in a financial position that makes it ripe for takeover, that’s valid data. It’s a thin line—see what I mean? Chuck Jones does his homework, that’s all. He’s a bulldog.”
“What’s his background?”
“I don’t think he even went to college. We’re talking rags to riches. I think he shod horses or something when he was a kid. Doesn’t that appeal to your sensibilities? The guy came out of Black Monday a hero because he dumped his stocks months before the crash and shifted to T-bills and metals. Even though his stocks were shooting up. If anyone had known, they would have thought he was going senile. But when the market crashed, he was able to bottom-fish, bought in again and made another fortune.”
“Why didn’t anyone know?”
“He’s got a thing for privacy—his kind of strategy depends upon it. He buys and sells constantly, avoids big block trades, stays away from computerized trading. It wasn’t until months later that I found out, myself.”
“How’d you find out?”
“The scuttlebutt—twenty-twenty hindsight, while the rest of us licked our wounds.”
“How was he able to predict the crash?”
“Prescience. The best players have it. It’s a combination of a great data base and a kind of ESP you get from being in the game a long time. I used to think I had it, but I got chastened—no big deal. Life was getting boring, and rebuilding’s more fun than just treading water. But Chuck Jones does have it. I’m not saying he never loses. Everyone does. But he wins a lot more than he loses.”
“What’s he into now?”
“I don’t know—like I said, close-to-the-cuff’s his style. Invests only for himself, so he’s got no shareholders to deal with. I doubt, though, that he’s high on real estate.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because real estate’s a turkey. I don’t mean for someone like you who bought in years ago and is just looking for some stable income. But for traders out for a quick profit, the party’s over, at least for now. I divested myself a while ago, moved back into stocks. Jones is smarter than me, so odds to evens he got there before I did.”
“His son owns a big block of land out in the Valley.”
“Who said wisdom is genetic?”
“His son’s a college professor. I don’t think he was able to buy fifty parcels for himself.”
“Probably his trust fund—I don’t know. You’ll still have to convince me Chuck’s getting into r.e. in a big way. The land the hospital’s on is Hollywood, right?”
“Several acres,” I said. “Purchased a long time ago—the hospital’s seventy years old—so it’s probably all paid for. Even in a slump, a sale would be pure profit.”
“Sure it would, Alex. But to the hospital itself. What’s Jones’s incentive?”
“Commission on the deal.”
“How many acres are we talking about and where exactly are they?”
“Five or so.” I told him Western Peds’s address.
“Okay, so that’s ten, fifteen million—let’s even say twenty because of contiguous lots. Which is liberal, because that big of a chunk would be hard to unload, so you might have to subdivide into smaller parcels. That could take time—there’d be zoning hassles, hearings, permits, environmental shenanigans. The biggest cut Chuck could take for himself without attracting a commotion would be twenty-five percent—ten’s more likely. Meaning two to five mil in his pocket … No, I can’t see Chuck messing around for that kind of money.”
“What if there’s more to it?” I said. “What if he not only plans to close down one hospital but is also figuring to open up a new one on his son’s land?”
“All of a sudden he’s in the hospital business? I doubt it, Alex. No offense, but health care’s a turkey too. Hospitals have been going belly-up almost as fast as savings and loans.”
“I know, but maybe Jones figures he can do a good job anyway, bucking the trend. You just said he doesn’t pay attention to what everyone else is doing.”
“Anything’s possible, Alex, but once again you’d have to prove it to me. Where’d you come up with all this theorizing, anyway?”
I told him about Plumb’s comments in the paper.
“Ah, the other name on your list. Him, I’d never heard of him, so I looked him up in every directory I’ve got. What emerges is your basic corporate drone: M.B.A., doctorate, a series of management jobs, climbing the ladder. His first job was at a national accounting firm named Smothers and Crimp. Then he moved into the head office at another place.”
“Where?”
“Hold on—I wrote it down somewhere … Here we go. Plumb, George Haversford. Born, ’34; married Mary Ann Champlin, ’58; two kids, blah blah blah … out of grad school in ’60 with a D.B.A.; Smothers and Crimp, 1960 through ’63, left as a partner. Controller, Hardfast Steel in Pittsburgh, ’63 till ’65; Controller and chief operating officer, Readilite Manufacturing, Reading, Pennsylvania, ’65 through ’68; a step up to CEO at an outfit called Baxter Consulting, stayed there till ’71; ’71 through ’74 at Advent Management Specialists; went out on his own with the Plumb Group, ’74 till ’77; then back into the corporate world in ’78 at a place called Vantage Health Planning, CEO till ’81—”
“The guy hops around a lot.”
“Not really, Alex. Moving around every couple of years in order to up your ante is your basic corporate drone pattern. It’s one of the main reasons I dropped out of it early. Hell on the family—lots of booze-hound wives who smile a lot and kids who turn delinquency into an art form.… Where was I? Vantage Health till ’81; then it looks as if he began specializing in medical stuff. Arthur-McClennan Diagnostics for three years, Neo-Dyne Biologicals for another three, then MGS Healthcare Consultants—the Pittsburgh place you asked me to look up.”
“What’d you find out about it?”
“Small-to-medium hospital outfit specializing in acute-care facilities in small-to-medium cities in the northern states. Established in ’82 by a group of doctors, went public in ’85, OTC issue, poor stock performance, got reprivatized the next year—bought out by a syndicate and shut down.”
“Why would a syndicate buy it, then shut it down?”
“Could be any number of reasons. Maybe they discovered buying it was a mistake and tried to cut their losses fast. Or they wanted the company’s resources, rather than the company itself.”
“What kinds of resources?”
“Hardware, investments, the pension fund. The other group you asked about—BIO-DAT—was originally a subsidiary of MGS. The data analysis arm. Before the buy-out it got sold to another concern—Northern Holdings, in Missoula, Montana—and was maintained.”
“Is it a public company?”
“Private.”
“What about the other companies Plumb worked for? Are you familiar with any of them?”
“Not a one.”
“Are any of them public?”
“One second and I’ll tell you.… Got the old PC cooking. Let me make a scan list. You want to go all the way back to the accountants—Smothers and whatever?”
“If you’ve got the time.”
“Got more time than I’m used to. Hold on just one second.”
I waited, listening to keyboard clicks.
“All right,” he said, “now let’s scroll up the exchanges and run a search … here we go.”
Beep. “Nothing on the New York.”
Beep. “No Amex listings on any of them, either. Let’s see about the Nasdaq …”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“No listings, Alex. Let me check the list of private holdings.”
Beep.
“Doesn’t look like it, Alex.” A slight edge in his voice.
“Meaning none of them are in business?”
“Looks like it.”
“Do you find tha
t unusual?”
“Well,” he said, “businesses do fail or close down at a pretty high rate, but this Plumb guy does seem to be the kiss of death.”
“Chuck Jones hired him to run the hospital, Lou. Care to revise your thinking about his intentions?”
“Think he’s a spoiler, huh?”
“What happened to the other companies Plumb was associated with?”
“That would be hard to find out—they were all small, and if they were privately held, there’d be no stock ramifications, little or no coverage in the business press.”
“What about the local press?”
“If it was a company town with lots of people being thrown out of work, maybe. But good luck tracking that down.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Is this really important, Alex?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would be a hell of a lot easier for me to track,” he said, “knowing the ropes. Let me play Tarzan and climb a few.”
After he hung up, I called Virginia Information and got the number of the Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research. A pleasant female voice answered, “Ferris Dixon, good afternoon, how may I help you?”
“This is Dr. Schweitzer from Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles. I’m an associate of Dr. Laurence Ashmore.”
“Just one second, please.”
Long pause. Music. The Hollywood Strings doing The Police’s Every Breath You Take.
The voice returned: “Yes, Dr. Schweitzer, how may I help you?”
“Your institute funds Dr. Ashmore’s research.”
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering if you knew he was deceased.”
“Oh, how horrible,” she said, but she didn’t sound surprised. “But I’m afraid the person who can help you with that isn’t in.”
I hadn’t asked for help, but I let that pass. “Who might that be?”
“I’m not exactly sure, Doctor. I’d have to check that.”
“Could you, please?”
“Certainly, but it may take a while, Doctor. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll be moving around. How about if I get back to you?”
“Certainly, Doctor. Have a nice—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “As long as we’re talking, could you give me some information on the institute? For purposes of my own research?”
“What would you like to know, Dr. Schweitzer?”
“What kinds of projects do you prefer to fund?”
“That would be a technical question, sir,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, either.”
“Is there some kind of brochure you could send me? A list of previous studies you’ve funded?”
“I’m afraid not—we’re a fairly young agency.”
“Really? How young?”
“One moment, please.”
Another long break. More Muzak, then she was back.
“Sorry for taking so long, Doctor, and I’m afraid I can’t stay with you—I’ve got several other incoming calls. Why don’t you get back to us with all your questions. I’m sure the right person will be able to help you.”
“The right person,” I said.
“Exactly,” she said with sudden cheer. “Have a nice day, Doctor.”
Click.
I called back. The line was busy. I asked the operator to put through an emergency interruption, and waited until she came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, sir, that number’s out of order.”
I sat there, still hearing the pleasant voice.
Smooth … well rehearsed.
One word she’d used jumped out at me.
“We’re a fairly young agency.”
Odd way to describe a private foundation.
Virginia … anything down there always spells government to me.
I tried the number again. Still off the hook. Checked my notes for the other study the institute had funded.
Zimberg, Walter William. University of Maryland, Baltimore.
Something to do with statistics in scientific research.
The med school? Mathematics? Public health?
I got the university’s number and called it. No Zimbergs on the medical school faculty. Same at the math department.
At Public Health a male voice answered.
“Professor Zimberg, please.”
“Zimberg? No such person here.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I must have gotten the wrong information. Do you have a faculty roster handy?”
“One moment … I’ve got a Professor Walter Zimberg but he’s in the Department of Economics.”
“Could you please connect me to his office?”
Click. Female voice: “Economics.”
“Professor Zimberg, please.”
“Hold, please.”
Click. Another female voice: “Professor Zimberg’s office.”
“Professor Zimberg, please.”
“I’m afraid he’s out of town, sir.”
I threw out a guess: “Is he over in Washington?”
“Um … Who is this, please?”
“Professor Schweitzer, an old colleague. Is Wal—Professor Zimberg at the convention?”
“What convention is that, sir?”
“National Association of Biostatisticians—over at the Capital Hilton? I heard he was going to present some new data on non-parametrics. The study the Ferris Dixon Institute’s funding.”
“I’m—The professor should be calling in soon, sir. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have him get back to you.”
“Appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’m about to hop on a plane myself. That’s why I didn’t make the convention. Did the professor write up an abstract on his paper before he left? Something I could read when I get back?”
“You’d have to talk to the professor about that.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Actually,” she said, “the professor’s on sabbatical.”
“No kidding? I didn’t hear that.… Well, he’s due, isn’t he? Where’s he off to?”
“Various places, Professor …”
“Schweitzer.”
“Various places, Professor Schweitzer. However, as I said, he does call in frequently. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have him get back to you.”
Repeating, almost word for word, what she’d just said a minute ago.
Word for word what another friendly female voice had said, five minutes ago, speaking from the hallowed offices of the Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research.
25
To hell with Alexander Graham Bell.
I drove back to some hallowed halls I could see and touch.
There was one parking meter free near the university administration building. I went to the registrar’s office and asked an Indian clerk in a peach-colored sari to look up Dawn Kent Herbert.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t give out personal information.”
I flashed my clinical faculty card from the med school across town. “I don’t want anything personal—just need to know in which department she’s enrolled. It has to do with a job. Verification of education.”
The clerk read the card, had me repeat Herbert’s name, and walked away.
A moment later she returned. “I show her as a graduate student in the School of Public Health, sir. But her enrollment’s been terminated.”
I knew Public Health was in the Health Sciences building, but I’d never actually been there. Shoving more money in the meter, I headed toward south campus, passing the Psych building, where I’d learned to train rats and listen with the third ear, crossing the Science quad, and entering the Center at the west end, near the Dental School.
The long hall that led to Public Health was a quick jog from the library, where I’d just studied Ashmore’s academic history. Walls on both sides were lined with group photos of every class the medical school had
graduated. Brand-new doctors looking like kids. The white-coats milling in the halls seemed just as young. By the time I reached the School of Public Health, the corridor had quieted. A woman was leaving the main office. I caught the door for her and stepped in.
Another counter, another clerk working in cramped space. This one was very young, black, with straightened hennaed hair and a smile that seemed real. She wore a fuzzy lime-green sweater with a yellow-and-pink parrot embroidered on it. The bird was smiling too.
“I’m Dr. Delaware from Western Pediatric Hospital. One of your graduate students worked at our hospital and I’d like to know who her faculty adviser is.”
“Oh, sure. Her name, please.”
“Dawn Herbert.”
No reaction. “What department is she in?”
“Public Health.”
The smile broadened. “This is the School of Public Health, Doctor. We have several departments, each with its own faculty.” She lifted a brochure from a stack near my elbow, opened it and pointed to the table of contents.
DEPARTMENTS OF THE SCHOOL
BIOSTATISTICS
COMMUNITY HEALTH SCIENCES
ENVIRONMENTAL HEALTH SCIENCES
ENVIRONMENTAL SCIENCE AND ENGINEERING
EPIDEMIOLOGY
HEALTH SERVICES
Thinking of the kind of work Ashmore had done, I said, “Either Biostatistics or Epidemiology.”
She went to the files and pulled down a blue fabric loose-leaf folder. The spine was lettered BIOSTAT.
“Yes, here we go. She’s in the Ph.D. program in Biostat and her adviser’s Dr. Yanosh.”
“Where can I find Dr. Yanosh?”
“One floor down—office B-three-forty-five. Would you like me to call and see if she’s in?”
“Please.”
She picked up a phone and punched an extension. “Dr. Yanosh? Hi. Merilee here. There’s a doctor from some hospital wanting to talk to you about one of your students … Dawn Herbert … Oh … Sure.” Frowning. “What was your name again, sir?”
“Delaware. From Western Pediatric Medical Center.”
She repeated that into the receiver. “Yes, of course, Dr. Yanosh … Could I see some identification, please, Dr. Delaware?”
Out came the faculty card again.
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