Loose Change: The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator

by Sean Huxter

  that you wished to donate a kidney. Can you tell me some information

  about yourself? Age, blood type?”

  No names, I see.

  I told him my age truthfully, but I lied about my blood type. “AB

  Negative,” I said, knowing a rare blood type would attract attention. “AB Negative? That's not very common. And, unfortunately, there

  are a number of patients throughout the United States currently

  awaiting kidneys who are AB Negative. Their chances were slim until

  we found you,” he said, trying to sound kind-hearted and charitable. I

  could tell, however, he was not. He was a salesman.

  “So let me see... yes, we can do a kidney donation for, say, twelve

  thousand.”

  “Fifteen, your ad says,” I insisted.

  “Well, fifteen is the top limit,” he began.

  “For a rare blood type? My guess is I can ask higher than fifteen

  and still get it.”

  “Ah. Well... we offer only a maximum of fifteen, and that's

  provided the donor is a non-smoker, is not a drug or alcohol abuser, and

  lives a clean life.”

  “That's me. No drugs, no alcohol, don't even smoke. Not for

  almost 8 years.”

  “Ah, that's fine then. I imagine we'll have no problem going the

  full fifteen, provided your physical tests prove your information is

  accurate.”

  “So what now?” I asked.

  “We'll have to have you come in for blood typing and testing,

  show you're in good health and are mentally capable of making a

  donation.”

  Either this wasn't our quarry, or he was lying his ass off. Probably

  the latter. He was smooth.

  “So what now?” I repeated.

  “You show up at our facility and we do the tests.” He gave me an

  address in Cambridge. I recognized it. Mt. Auburn Street has a lot of

  medical facilities in and around. Dammit, it started sounding legit. I agreed to the meeting and hung up.

  So now what?

  Chapter 10 I told Fernie all about the call, expressing my doubts that I was on the right track. I gave him the phone number as well as the address, scrawled on the back of one of the two sheets of poster paper I handed him for safekeeping. I guess it was like an insurance policy in case I was right.

  “What's all this?” he said, concerned.

  “Nothing to worry about, just wanted you to hold this stuff for me until I get back. I can't have it on me. I'm just getting a blood test.”

  “Ok, but damn, man. Be careful. Look what happened to T-Bill and Joanie.”

  I patted Fernie on the back and walked down to Downtown Crossing to catch a Red Line train over the bridge to Cambridge.

  I got off at Harvard Square and walked south a block, then east a couple and found the address. It was a five storey building with rounded turrets on either side, almost like some architect was inspired by medieval castles... almost.

  I was looking at the directory on the door and I saw no sign of “Caritas, Veritas” on the list. I walked into the foyer to get a closer look and, sure enough, there was no “Caritas, Veritas” on the larger directory board. Nor was there a “Caring and Giving Donations LLC.”

  Resigned, I left, turning back towards Harvard Square when a man standing next to a large cube van approached. The white truck had a sign on the side reading “Caritas, Veritas”, but nothing else. No details, no phone number. A reassuring pale blue sign on an immaculately clean white delivery-type freezer van.

  “Sir,” he asked as he approached. He was dressed in hospital scrubs and white sneakers. He had a stethoscope around his neck and a clip-board in his hand.

  He asked if I was his appointment and I confirmed that I thought I was. “Excellent. Please step up. This is a mobile testing van. Like the Red Cross, to operate quickly we are highly mobile. Organ recipients are often lying in a hospital bed with only hours to live. We like to act fast, save lives.”

  I recognized the voice from the phone.

  “Sure,” I said, looking both ways, looking for a graceful way out. I saw none, so I climbed aboard up a small step in a side door towards the cab. After all, it's just a blood test. I'm not squeamish. I'd given blood plenty of times.

  I sat in a small compartment with chairs, and a door leading rearward. A lovely young lady wearing a white nurse's uniform sat with me while the man went aft through the doorway, closing it behind him.

  She was kind, gentle, talked me through the forms. I started getting nervous now, but tried not to show it. She had me remove my coat and my shirt so she could get a needle in to test my blood. There was testing equipment on a table nearby.

  I reached for my shirt... “I think I'm not so sure about this,” I said.

  “But sir, it's just a blood test, there's no obligation until we confirm your health, and you sign a mental health document claiming you are of stable mind and are giving willingly.”

  I sat again, but when I saw the needle, I stood up.

  “Sir!” she said, a little louder. She'd probably seen this kind of hesitation before.

  “I have to go,” I said, gathering up my shirt and coat. “Dennis!” she called.

  Dennis re-entered through the same door, leaving it open. I saw an amazingly cramped but fully-equipped operating table in there, with lots of blue cloths and silver instruments. Dennis pushed me down into the chair. He held my arm as the nurse shoved a needle into it. It wasn't a blood testing needle. Too fine a tip. And she wasn't removing blood, she was injecting something clear. I began feeling woozy almost at once, as a cold current washed through my arm and into my torso. I could feel it spreading. My eyes unfocused and went their own separate ways. Dennis slammed his palm against the wall next to the cab and shouted: “Drive!” and I felt the strength leave my knees.

  The van began to move, or at least that's what I felt. How could I tell when the whole room was spinning? As the van rolled forward I felt I was on a roller coaster entering a corkscrew turn. I wasn't sure I was up or down.

  I hugged my jacket close and as the nurse was trying to close the side door I pushed my way past her and out onto the street.

  I wasn't in very good control of my feet, or my mind. But I hugged my coat and ran, topless, eastward along Mt. Auburn Street. I was just running blind. I heard the truck behind me do a three-point turn so it could follow me. Behind me I heard Dennis jump out of the truck and give chase.

  I ran past several tall brick buildings with the same dull facade, and kept running until I saw a Bank of America ATM sign. I reached into my coat and pulled out a partial bank card, one I'd found on the street years ago. It was just enough of the card to retain the magnetic strip, which I sometimes use as a key to get into ATM kiosks to ward off bitter cold weather in winter. It's come in handy more than once and it might just come in handy again.

  Struggling with brain fuzz, I slipped the sliver of a card into the reader. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. Tried a third time, a bit slower. Dennis had almost caught up when the door clicked and I pushed it open. There was no one else in the small room and I leaned on the door, keeping it closed. Dennis pushed against it, but my weight was now just about dead-weight, and he had a hard time keeping it open. The door mechanism clicked and I gave one last shove, closing the door. Dennis was locked out.

  Dennis checked his pockets for a wallet. But in his hospital scrubs he realized his wallet wasn't available. He slammed the glass of the door yelling “Open the door!”

  I just lay there, breathing as best as I could, thankful he was on the other side of a secure door... at least until some ATM customer came along and opened my protective cage.

  No one was about, it was a slow time on Mt. Auburn Street, which I knew when Dennis disappeared only to return with a large piece of cinderblock which he proceeded to smash into the door.

 
The glass cracked, but only barely. This stuff was bulletproof. But it wouldn't stand up forever.

  “You should have just said yes!” Dennis cried through the glass. “But no, you decided to play it coy! Now we get the kidneys, and you get squat!”

  Slam! Smash! He was making some headway. If he got through, I was done. The van was parked across the street, idling.

  Then, just as I was losing consciousness to the sedative, I heard sirens. The sweet, sweet songs of the sirens, speeding their way here from Sirenum Scopuli.

  Chapter 11 I came to to pain. Turley was slapping my face. “Wake up!” he yelled. He was looking askance at an EMT who was now kneeling over my body, his blue-gloved hands probing me.

  “Drugged,” he said. He looked towards his partner who was handling the stretcher.

  Turley looked me in the eyes, one, then the other. “Looks awake!” he said loudly.

  “Yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine,” said the EMT, though his voice sounded less sure. Faces were lighting up red and blue in the dusk, and to me it was all a wonderful party. A party for me. And everyone showed up.

  Chapter 12

  I woke up again to much brighter light. Circular lights over my head, and I was covered shoulders to toes in a white blanket. Nurses and doctors were standing over me, I couldn't tell which was what, but they were all conversing in clear, loud tones. “Breathing seems normal. Blood pressure high but falling. Get me a CBC stat! Tox screen stat!”

  Turley was standing outside the open doorway, his patrolman's cap in both hands. He was rocking back and forth on both legs, craning his neck to get a glimpse of me. I lifted a hand and waved. He waved back and seemed to relax a bit. He stopped swaying at least.

  And I blacked out again.

  Chapter 13 Turley was sitting by my bed when I came to. My mouth felt like cotton balls and I felt scraped out inside. My lungs felt like they had been filed down with a metal rasp. But I was ok, I think.

  Standing beside Turley were two detectives I recognized. I'd seen them around at various crime scenes. I could never get their names straight, and who really cared anyway?

  Turley spoke. “We lost them,” he said.

  Quickly, though, one of the detectives spoke up. “But we've got an APB out for the van, and the State Police are on full alert. They're not going to get far. We're just waiting on word now.”

  “We'll want you to come downtown for a full statement as soon as you're released,” said the senior detective. Both stood there for a moment or so. I nodded assent, and, seemingly satisfied, they left. Turley remained.

  “Man, what were you thinking?” he said, sternly.

  “What?”

  “You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days!” he hissed. “I

  know you like going around playing detective, but dammit, man, this is serious! You're dealing with people who would kill you for the loose change in your pocket. Hell, they'd probably kill you for a copy of Loose Change you're carrying around!”

  I tried responding.

  “It's lucky Fernie found me when he did,” he said, softer now. “I was able to put out an alert city-wide and when the ATM's alarms went off some Cambridge patrolmen responded and saw the van speeding off towards the Longfellow Bridge. I was on my way to the address Fernie gave me anyway, and coordinated with the Cambridge side cops and called in the detectives.”

  “I can describe the van,” I said, feebly. “And at least two of the occupants.”

  “Yeah, witnesses provided descriptions too. There weren't many people around, but a couple walking their Corgis took some shots of the van with their phones as it sped away.

  “Finch and Davis were right,” he said. Must be the two detectives “The van won't get far. Not something that clumsy and obvious. The Staties'll have 'em any minute now is my guess.”

  “Glad I could be of help,” I tried.

  “Stop helping! Seriously!” Turley scolded. “You'll only get yourself killed.”

  “Ok, Officer,” I said, saluting him groggily.

  “I'll talk to you when you get out,” he said. He rose and left.

  Chapter 14 I was signing my full statement in an interview room at Boston PD HQ when Turley walked in. “State Police picked the van up south on 95 down by North Attleboro,” he said. “Headed for Rhode Island and probably Connecticut or New York.”

  “Well that's good, right?”

  “Yeah, we got 'em dead to rights. The van's clean as a whistle. It's set up as a full operating theater. Man, they had everything in there. The freezer unit helped keep temperatures down, there were sterilization systems, clean-air filters, the lot. They weren't taking any chances on contaminating the organs. There was a stack of thermal organ carriers. The whole shebang. Dead to rights.”

  “And Dennis? And that nurse?”

  “Dennis is one Dennis Fromer, one-time surgeon sued out of the business by malpractice. The nurse is no one big. We got the driver and two assistants. No records on-board, but we'll be able to track them down and tie the money to the organs. My guess is we may not be able to get 'em for Ms. Jones's murder, but T-Bill at least was able to describe the perps...ah...”

  “Ah, what?” I said.

  “T-Bill. We have his statement, but I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

  Shit.

  “William Burdeck, aka T-Bill, died just an hour ago from a massive coronary, complications of serious infection. But he was able to identify the suspects in a photo lineup and swore out his affidavit before he died. It'll hold up in court.

  “And of course I can rely on your testimony?”

  I didn't have to say anything. Turley sat with me as I handed my statement over to the detectives. He drove me back to Boston Common. 3344 days sober

  Chapter 1 It was a rough, cold day. There was no more denying that November had struck. Wrapped in my warm, new-to-me neoprene parka I was reluctantly heading back to Public Alley 437, one of the long alleys that run parallel to Boston's Newbury Street along the Back Bay. That's where my dumpster is. That is, that's the dumpster I keep my tarp and warm blanket under. They keep me warm and dry at night. I managed to snag an old roll-up mattress that I can hide in an out-ofthe-way place back there, lest someone come by and chuck it for junk. That would make sleeping somewhat less comfortable.

  I unrolled the bedroll, unfolded the blanket, tucked away in under it and covered myself up with the blue plastic tarp in case of rain. I reached under the dumpster again to find the gnarled up paperback copy of Raymond Chandler's “The Simple Art of Murder” that I keep there. I could read by the lights left on in some of the shop back rooms, and a few street lights.

  I was reading what has to be the silliest of Chandler's works, “Pearls Are A Nuisance”, in which a pair of drunken sots search for a lady's missing pearls, when I heard what might have been a stray cat yowling further down the alley. I turned the page. More alcohol. It seems the two characters couldn't function without several bottles of alcohol inside of them. I was about to give up on it and move on to the next story when I heard that cat again.

  I tossed a piece of brick I found on the street, hoping it would inform the cat I wanted it to piss off to some other alley for its yowling session.

  Reading usually never fails to put me to sleep, and more than once the book fell from my tired hands, jerking me awake. I'd resume my place, read a senseless paragraph, and it would fall again. After repeating several times I knew it was pointless and put the book away. The irony is that without a book, it's always harder to sleep.

  I was nodding off, finally, when I heard that damned cat again. I couldn't help think it sounded like a baby crying. As I finally nodded off I jumped awake, nearly to my feet. That was no cat. I knew that sound. I got up and crept carefully down the alley, ears alert. The intermittent crying faded a bit, but I could still hear tiny peeps of it.

  Hair standing on end, now, I approached a dumpster parked outside the back of a prominent art gallery on Newbury. I rounded one of the corners to the o
pposite side of the dumpster and there, on a cardboard box on the ground, wrapped in pages of newspaper, its grimy hands feebly grasping the air, a baby!

  I was nearly knocked to my ass from surprise. I looked around desperately hoping to find someone – anyone – who might explain the presence of this baby. There was no one. Not even a yowling cat to claim parenthood. My blood ran cold. It's times like this I wished I had a cell phone.

  Chapter 2 The ambulance arrived minutes after I was able to flag down a passing late-night taxi cab on Berkeley Street, and beseech the driver to call 911. Harder than it should have been, what with my appearance, but I managed to persuade a kindly taxi driver by shoving my body onto his hood as he tried to drive past me.

  I was questioned, but it seemed obvious to the uniformed officers that I had nothing to do with the baby.

  “When did you first enter the alley?” one asked.

  “About midnight, I guess. I found the baby about 1:00, maybe? I don't wear a watch, so I'm not a hundred percent sure.”

  “And you saw no suspicious activity in that time?”

  “Nope. It was dead quiet down here. Not a creature was stirring, so to speak, not even a mouse. The baby had to have been dumped here before midnight, and some time before, if whoever did it were to get away without my noticing, well, not unless they went out the Berkeley side of the alley.”

  “Ok, thanks. Listen, if we need more information, where can we find you?”

  I pointed towards the Arlington Street entrance of the alley. “Up there a ways. That brown dumpster. Or you can find me on the Common selling

  Loose Change during most days. I also hang out near the ticket kiosk on Copley Plaza.”

  “Ok, I got it.”

  “Or you could just contact Officer Turley. I usually see him just about every day he's on duty.”

  “Turley, ok. I know him. Thanks.” The cop turned to his colleagues and compared notes.