“So I’m a medical doctor now?”
“Yeah,” Galveston answered, “you’ve been promoted.”
“Let me see yours.” Galveston handed back his I.D. and it read, “Dr. David Hammerstein, Epidemiologist, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, Georgia”. I studied it over and noticed something different about the picture. I held it up to Galveston’s face and saw that he had a new chin and nose.
“I see you went with a musical theme,” I said, tapping his name on the card.
“Very observant,” he replied. It was an ode to the great musical producing team of Rogers and Hammerstein.
Galveston handed me a coat and instructed me to put it on. It was itchy, and in ninety degree heat, uncomfortable.
“Manuel, you’re just our translator, that’s it, okay?” Galveston told him.
“Jes sir,” he answered.
“Roger?”
“Yes,” I answered, trying to get my arms in the sleeves of the white jacket.
“Memorize your new name. I’ll do most of the talking, but I want you to talk to the Colonel. We need to know what information he has, where he went, and what he was doing there. I don’t care how much you have to lie, or ‘fib’, if that makes you feel better. I’m going to try to keep the doctors and nurses occupied, if I can.”
“I don’t know, it sounds awfully risky.”
“Nah, it will be fine. Just get him to talk.”
“And how do I do that?” I asked nervously.
“I don’t know. Just do the best you can, but stay in character. Don’t lose sight of that.” Manuel now looked nervous. I pictured him wishing he would have asked for more money. “Okay, we’re all clear, right?”
Galveston slid his coat on and handed me a folder with a few papers inside and had another for himself. We got out of the car and straightened our coats.
Manuel followed behind as we made our way to the hospital doors and went inside. There was a crowd of people in the main lobby, some sitting in wheelchairs and others talking loudly in Spanish. My heart raced as we approached the receptionist, who was busy looking at a Mexican newspaper.
“Manuel, ask where we can find Colonel Espinosa and his doctor.”
Manuel moved to the front of the desk and spoke in quick, succinct Spanish. The receptionist continued to look at the paper in front of her, stopping just long enough to peruse a patient list. She non-chalantly answered him and pointed to a bank of elevators behind her.
“He in medical ward two, third floor, intensive care unit,” Manuel told us.
We moved toward the elevators before she stopped us, handing out three visitor tags. I was already beginning to sweat in my white coat, the air as stifling inside as out. We took the elevator to the third floor.
“Okay, its showtime,” Galveston said as he smoothed out his coat and checked his glasses, as if he were entering the stage for a performance.
The doors opened and we stepped into the second world’s answer to medical care. I was shocked and surprised that it resembled the hospitals in the States. This particular hospital was one of the best in Mexico.
There was a large room with beds laid out in succession to the right. Nurses milled about while family members crouched near the beds, talking with patients. Manuel pointed to the left and we followed him through a pair of double doors that led to a nurse’s station and a bank of private rooms along the wall. A nurse sitting at the station looked up as we approached and did a double take. It probably wasn’t often they had two gringo doctors here.
“Manuel, tell her we are from the U.S. We’re doctors from the Centers for Disease Control, and we would like to speak to Colonel Espinosa’s doctor.” Manuel followed the command and conversed with the nurse who got up and went to a nearby phone, made a call, and spoke to Manuel again, in Spanish of course.
“He’s on his way up,” I told Galveston.
“How do you know that?” He inquired.
“I speak a little Spanish,” I said meekly. Actually, I used to speak fluent Spanish, but right now I was a rusty and out of practice. I had minored in it in college, and used it during my years dealing with South American and Mexican investors. I didn’t mean to let it slip though; I didn’t want to have the burden of all the communication on me.
“You were holding out on me,” Galveston smiled deviously, reveling in the new information. Manuel continued to talk to the attractive nurse. “What’s he saying to her now?”
“I think he’s trying to pick her up.”
Manuel turned to us and said, “the doctor, he coming,” and returned to the nurse, smiling as he talked.
We both surveyed the area as Manuel continued his pursuit. The intensive care unit was laid out in an “L” shape with windows allowing a view of each room. The equipment was slightly antiquated, but the staff was attentive, moving silently in and out of the rooms, tending to their patients. I admired the work of the nurses who didn’t seem concerned about their environment. I had expected much worse, and was surprised that the hospital, overall, was clean and in good working order.
“Can I help you gentlemen,” a voice from behind us said in excellent English with only a slight Mexican accent.
“Yes sir, hello,” Galveston said after turning toward him.
He was a slightly overweight man in his forties, his white coat open in front and a polo shirt underneath. He had the sleeves of the coat rolled up and it was too small for his large frame.
“My name is Dr. Hammerstein and this is Dr. Rogers. We’re sorry to come unannounced, but it was important that we be here personally. We’ve come from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.” Galveston handed over his I.D., and I nervously fumbled mine from my pocket and handed it to him. I wiped the sweat from my palms as he examined them both.
“The CDC? I’m Dr. Garcia. I haven’t heard about a visit. What brings you to Monterrey?” Galveston stayed calm and cool.
“Again I apologize for the intrusion, but we’re tracking a couple of cases that have originated from visits to the U.S., particularly in the Phoenix, Arizona area. We have some information that,” Galveston looked at the papers on his clipboard, “an Alfonso Espinosa visited a clinic there about four month ago. We’ve had some other cases that we managed to hunt down similar to his at that time. We are concerned it may be a mutated strain of tuberculosis.” Galveston had obviously done some homework before our visit, because after he mentioned tuberculosis, the doctor’s eyes leapt and his eyebrows rose.
“Tuberculosis? Mr. Espinosa doesn’t present with the symptoms of tuberculosis.”
“Neither did our other cases. That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to isolate the strain, but unfortunately our other cases have expired. May we have a look at his medical record? We would like to call our office within the hour.”
The doctor was caught off guard from the information. Tuberculosis was highly infective and the Colonel wasn’t in isolation. I looked over at Manuel, still working on the nurse, oblivious to our meeting.
Galveston continued with his fictional discussion. “If you and I could look over the records while Dr. Rogers interviews the patient, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Yes, I think that can be arranged, of course. Please, follow me.” I stood rigid while Galveston followed the doctor to the medical charts.
“Uh, Dr. Rogers, you can begin the interview.” Galveston motioned for me to head in the other direction.
“Uh, yes. Where is Mr. Espinosa’s room?” I asked.
“Room three,” Dr. Garcia answered, not looking up from the chart, “and the gown, gloves, and mask are in that cart.” He pointed to a wheeled cart next to a wall.
I walked over and opened each drawer, revealing a multitude of medical devices, of which I had no clue of their uses.
I found the gown, gloves, and masks in the bottom drawer, pulled out a disposable gown first, and attempted to put it on, at first backward, before realizing my gaff. The gloves went on no better as I
attempted to thrust my fingers in the latex. I put the mask on and secured it to my face. I thought I would pass out from the garb, but took a deep breath and headed into the room. A fan blew air about the room that was attached to the wall, and Colonel Espinosa lay in the bed, his head slightly elevated. He was connected to a multitude of lines and tubes. He had oxygen pumping in his nose through a nasal cannula, and a pair of IV’s pumped a clear liquid into his veins. He laid staring up at the ceiling, his breathing labored and heavy. I moved to the side of his bed as the monitors around him beeped incessantly.
“Colonel Espinosa?” I questioned.
He turned his eyes toward me slightly, but didn’t move his head. The mask was tight on my face and stifling, muffling my words. There would be no way to speak my version of Spanish with such a thing on, so I peeled it from my face and put it under my chin. “Hola Colonel Espinosa,” I spoke in my most clear and succinct Spanish. “Me llamo,” oh, God, I had forgotten my fake name and reached for my I.D. and then stopped, thinking that may be a little obvious. A musical duo, Hall and Oats, Sonny and Cher? And then it finally occurred to me. “Me llamo Dr. Rogers,” I said proudly. “Vivo en America. Veng aqui con otra Doctor, porque tenemos preguntas sobre tu salud. Necessito habler con su esta bien?” I told him I was with another doctor to find out why he was sick, and I needed to ask him some questions.
Espinosa blinked and stared at me blankly before clearing his throat and answered softly, his lips dry and cracked.
“Yes, that okay,” he responded in almost perfect English.
“Thank God,” I thought, “he speaks some English.”
“Good Colonel.” I took a deep breath and staged the question in my head.
“These might be personal and in no way will I repeat them to anyone. Did you receive something in the last few weeks on a dirt airfield in northern Mexico?”
His eyes grew wide and it appeared he was trying to move, but couldn’t. He blinked a few more times, his breathing quickened.
“It’s very important for me to know Colonel. Your life may depend on it.” He stared at me intently.
“Yes,” he answered softly.
“What did you receive Colonel, money?”
“No,” he replied and I realized I needed to ask more open ended questions or we would be here all day.
“What did you receive Colonel?” I asked again. He again hesitated and shifted his eyes away, but then decided to answer.
“A case,” he said slowly.
“Do you know what was in the case?” I pressed.
“No. I only transported it.” He seemed to garner more strength, but didn’t take his statement any further. I decided to play a little more hardball.
“Colonel, we have information that these men you worked for are trying to kill you. They’ve said it in a message. Now it’s time to be straight and honest with me. If you don’t, you could die. Now where did you take the case?”
He looked at me horrified, the words, I could tell, were now beginning to sink in. He sighed heavily and his breathing quickened.
“I flew from the field in northern Mexico here to Monterrey to change planes to a jet. I transported the case onto the plane.” He drew a large breath from the nasal cannula. “The plane flew to Sao Carlos, Brazil where I handed it off to a group waiting at the airport. I then flew from there to Rio and then on to Mexico City. I drove back to Monterrey.”
“So you weren’t sick that entire time?” I asked, checking my watch for time.
“No, not until I got home, here in Monterrey.”
“What did you get for doing this Colonel?” He again thought before he answered.
“Money, and…” He stopped short of telling me more, obviously afraid of my response to the rest of the answer.
“What else Colonel,” I again pressed the questions. He hesitated again before answering.
“A statue, they delivered me a statue that was waiting for me at my home.”
“A statue? Of what?”
“The Aztec god Tonatiuh. A small statue bought from an archeologist on the black market.”
“Then when did you get sick?” I asked, confused at his answer.
“When I touched the statue. I immediately felt sick when I touched the statue. It is a cursed statue.” The response was unexpected, and at the time made no sense. He was this sick from touching a statue?
“You asked for this statue?”
“Yes, for my collection.”
“And who were these men?” He was beginning to grow weary from the questioning and I knew I didn’t have much time.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” he said, and began to close his eyes. I knew I might only be able to get a few more answers to my questions out of him.
“Where is the statue now?”
“At my home,” his eyes now fully closed.
“Who got you to do this Colonel?” I lightly shook his hand. He waited and I was unsure if he even heard my question. “Colonel, who got you involved in this?” I asked again. One eye opened slowly.
“Patelo, Ernesto Patelo, my friend.” His eyes closed fully again, and I tried to arouse him with a few shakes of his hand. He didn’t respond, but luckily was still breathing. I knew I had pushed him hard, but they were questions we needed answered. My time was up, I knew, and I began to walk to the door, taking off the gown and gloves. I then heard a whisper from behind me.
“My desk, in my desk,” and the Colonel’s voice went silent. I’ve killed him, I thought, but noticed that the heart rate monitors still showed active beating of his heart. I scribbled down all that he had told me quickly on the papers Galveston had given me, paying close attention to circle the name of Ernesto Patelo.
-Chapter 36-
I stood at the door of the hospital room, trying to process what happened. All of a sudden a nurse rushed in and blew past me, yanked the nasal cannula off his face, and replaced it with a mask. I stepped back as Dr. Garcia and Galveston came rushing in.
“He’s in shock,” Dr. Garcia yelled, looking at the monitors, and immediately gave the nurse orders for his care. They stabilized his erratic heartbeat quickly, and the Colonel’s breathing normalized after a few minutes.
“What are we working with?” the doctor asked us. Galveston and I looked at each other, dumbfounded for a response. I thought for a second and it occurred to me what was happening to the man in the bed.
“He doesn’t have a strain of tuberculosis,” I said while Galveston’s face turned white, thinking I was going to blow our cover. “He has been poisoned.” The doctor looked shocked.
“Poisoned? What kind, and how do you know that is the cause?”
“Something at his home poisoned him. We need to go there and find it.” I figured this would be a good line for our escape, plus we needed to find out what was in that desk. The Colonel had probably not been truthful with them about when he got sick, most likely to cover his impropriety. Galveston was confused, but went with the story I had started.
“Yes that’s a good idea. Where can we get his address? This might be our only chance to save his life.”
“Get it from the nurse. Hurry, I don’t know how long he will hang on.” The doctor went back to looking at the monitors. Galveston and I quickly turned and left the room before any more questions could be asked.
We paused at the nurses’ station to retrieve our translator.
“Come on lover boy,” Galveston said grabbing Manuel by the shirt collar, pulling him away from his conversation.
“I call you,” I heard Manuel say as we dragged him backwards. “Oh, I was so close.”
“You didn’t have a chance,” Galveston retorted.
We went back through the double doors toward the elevators, but detoured down the stairs next to them.
“What’s the hurry?” Manuel yelped.
“Ask him,” Galveston said pointing toward me.
“You need to drive us Manuel, I hope you know Monterrey,” I said to our new colleagu
e, but realized we had forgotten something. “Ah crap Dan, we forgot to get the address,”
“I’ll be back,” Galveston shouted, already leaping back up the stairs, skipping one at a time as he went. He left Manuel and me standing in the stairwell.
“So, do you know the Monterrey streets?” I asked him.
“Pretty good. I had a senorita here. She had a brother, he don’t like me. I got to know some of the streets well while he chase me.”
“I hope so. We need to get to this guy’s house quick. I tell you what. Go get the car and meet us in front. We’ll be down in a second.”
Manuel nodded his head and raced down the stairs, disappearing beyond the adjacent stairwell. Just then I looked up and Galveston was already returning, a piece of paper in his hand.
“I got it, let’s go.” He waved the piece of paper, and raced past me down the stairs.
By the time I caught up, he was already out in front of the building and making his way to our VW chariot. Galveston handed the sheet of paper to Manuel as I was relegated to the cramped back seat again. Manuel revved the engine and tore off from the hospital and down the twisting street.
It was obvious after twenty minutes of aimless driving that Manuel had no idea where he was going because we wound up back in front of the hospital. Consequently, we forced him to stop at a service station and purchase an actual map instead of relying on the distorted map in his head. We drove for another half an hour, winding and curving our way through the narrow streets of the city dodging pedestrians and other cars until we finally wound up on the outskirts of the city and a neighborhood of expansive, gated homes.
Daniel Ganninger - Icarus Investigations 01 - Flapjack Page 16
