by Tom Fowler
“They might not have heard you in D.C.,” I said.
“Whatever,” Rich said. “Maybe after you’ve solved some cases and paid your dues, I’ll let you see our files.”
“Let me get this straight. Seeing your files would help me solve this case, and presumably others I get. But you won’t let me see the files until I solve cases without benefit of those files.”
“Exactly,” Rich said.
“What is this, hazing? What happened to ‘to serve and protect’?”
Rich narrowed his eyes. “You don’t get to question me on my oath. You wouldn’t know anything about it. You’re just in it for the money.”
“You’ve known me my whole life, Rich. OK, maybe I’m vain and—”
“Maybe?”
“So I am. Whatever, you know I finish what I start. Say what you want about me, but I’m not a quitter. When I start something, I follow through.”
Rich looked at me for a few seconds and nodded. “I’ll give you that much.”
“Great. Can you also give me a file or two?”
He chuckled “Not a chance. Hey, I’m getting some coffee. You want any?”
“No, thanks.”
Rich got up and walked into the next room. I looked around. People who had taken an interest in our conversation a minute ago now ignored me in favor of their work. I scooted my chair closer to Rich’s desk and leaned across it. I minimized his email and opened a DOS prompt. I entered the command to get his IP and MAC addresses, jotted the info on a Post-It note Rich had on his desk, closed the DOS box, and restored Outlook. By the time Rich emerged from the other room with a cup of coffee in his hand, I had put the note in my pocket and moved my chair back to its original position.
“You’re still here?” Rich said.
“Just hoping you’d change your mind,” I said.
“Not going to happen.”
“All right,” I said, getting up.
“Wait, you’re done?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re just giving up? What happened to that tenacity you were telling me about?”
“Right now, I have more productive things to do than get stonewalled,” I said. I walked away before Rich could say anything else. I already had what I needed. With Rich’s IP and MAC addresses, I could get any file I wanted, and he wouldn’t even know about it.
It ended up being a productive trip after all.
In the hacking days of yore, folks like me used to engage in a practice called war dialing. The hacker would use a program to dial a bunch of numbers, eventually discovering which numbers belonged to the modem banks. This was easier when businesses used blocks of consecutive phone numbers. I did something similar in fingerprinting the BPD’s network, discovering what services ran on which IP address. Rich’s IP address gave me the starting point. I didn’t need puny desktop computers used by jealous and embittered sergeants, though: I needed servers. It took me a while, but I found them.
From there, I made the BPD’s network believe one of my virtual machines was one of its own computers. The MAC address helped here. It’s a physical address, but virtual machines need them for networks to deliver data. The setup took me about two minutes. It probably should have taken one, but I double and triple-checked to make sure I didn’t leave any e-footprints. With my computer accepted as part of the BPD’s network, I now had access to all of their resources, including the files Rich didn’t want me to see.
I searched for police files on both Alice and Paul Fisher. My computer crunched through records from throughout the state and returned a hit on Paul Fisher after about two minutes. He had a DUI arrest from six years ago. It led to his license being suspended for six months, but he remained on the good side of the law since then. Alice Fisher had never been arrested. I remembered her shifty eyes from our meeting earlier. Something had to cause her suspicious behavior.
I wasn’t going to find any more answers in Paul Fisher’s thin police report. Alice said he worked for Digital Sales. Maybe I could discover something on their site. Digital Sales had been in business for over 15 years and sold all manners of copiers, fax machines, printers, scanners, and other office technology. I saw a listing for Paul under Account Managers. The site didn’t explain what an account manager did, leaving the duties as an exercise for the reader to deduce.
I considered hacking into Digital Sales’ web server to see what else it may have said but decided against it. They were a big enough company to pay someone else to do their web work for them. Whoever designed and maintained it probably only knew Paul Fisher by his picture and title. If I wanted to know anything else, I would have to take a trip down there.
The first floor of Digital Sales was a mass of hallways and cubicles. The receptionist smiled at me as I approached her desk. She was pretty in the hot librarian way, with her brown hair pulled back and half-moon glasses framing her pleasing face. Closer, I noticed she favored the Jessica Webber method of blouse buttoning. Maybe I had gotten used to the more conservative way women in Hong Kong dressed. Welcome (back) to America, C.T.; be sure to stop and admire the scenery. I returned her smile as I stopped at her large desk.
“I need to speak to someone with an impressive title,” I said.
“Well,” she said with a smile, “my title is executive assistant. Is that impressive enough?”
“It is, but I need someone with a different impressive title.”
“Do you have an impressive title?”
I showed her my newly-minted PI license. “You tell me.”
“That could be interesting.” She sighed and swept the room with her eyes. “It’s probably more exciting than anything else around here, you know?”
“I’m sure it is. I’d like to talk to whomever would supervise Paul Fisher.”
“What’s wrong with Paul?”
“Nothing, I hope.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I’d appreciate you not mentioning anything about this little visit to Paul.”
She nodded. “No problem,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t even like him.”
“Very good. Now, whom can I talk to?”
“I’ll see if Mr. O’Neill is in.”
“Thank you.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers. For the first time, I noticed the nameplate on her desk. In my defense, the phone did a good job of hiding it. Still, now that I worked as an alleged professional sleuth, I would need to sharpen my powers of observation. They had to be used for more than just looking at the cleavage of women like Sally Willis (not a bad use, of course). Sally talked to someone for a few seconds, then hung up. “Mr. O’Neill is in, and he’ll see you,” she said.
“Great. How do I get to his office?”
“I’ll have one of our security guys take you up.” She spoke into her handset once more, then replaced it. “He’ll be right over.” Sally smiled at me again.
“Great, thank you.” I took a business card out of my case and put it on the near edge of her desk. “I’ll leave this. Call me if you think of anything important about the person you don’t like.”
She smiled. “I will.”
The security guy who took me up didn’t say anything other than a semi-polite “hi” when we first met. I didn’t really see the need for him to accompany me at all. Was I going to slip a copier inside my coat and dash for the door? I hadn’t come here for technology, and I had no interest in office machines, anyway. We made the elevator ride in silence. Then the security fellow—who didn’t wear a name tag—escorted me to David O’Neill’s office.
I knocked on the door. O’Neill was on the phone but waved me in. I walked in and waited for his conversation to end. His office looked to be about the size of mine at home, though O’Neill had a larger desk. It probably made him feel important. Two diplomas hung on the wall, along with a couple of cheesy motivational posters and a very nice shot of a sunset at the beach. I couldn’t see much of the desk because of the massive clutter. The litter of dead trees was
broken by every office machine O’Neill could possibly need and a couple I’m sure he didn’t. So much for the paperless office.
O’Neill hung up the phone and turned his chair toward me. “Hello,” he said and stood. “David O’Neill, Vice President of Commercial Sales.” He extended his hand, and I shook it.
“C.T. Ferguson. I’m a private investigator.” This marked the first time I introduced myself with a title. I didn’t care for the sound of it.
“What is it you’re looking into?” O’Neill gestured to a task chair on the outside of his desk. I looked at it and frowned but sat anyway.
“First, I have to say this conversation needs to be kept in confidence.”
“An insurance company sent you?” O’Neill narrowed his eyes.
“No, I’m here—“
“Was it a supplier? They could just tour the damn place if they wanted.”
“No, I was—“
“Insurance,” he said. “Gotta be insurance. Can’t imagine why, though.”
“Do they send VPs for training in cutting people off?” I said.
O’Neill frowned. “Guess I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Guess so. Now, like I said, what we discuss today needs to be kept in confidence. My client is an individual, not a business.”
O’Neill looked at me for a few seconds. I couldn’t read his expression. Then he nodded. “OK, sure.”
“I want to talk to you about Paul Fisher. Have—“
“Paul? What did he do?”
I glared at O’Neill. “What did I just say about cutting me off?”
“Oh, right.” He frowned. His backbone got more malleable when he saw he couldn’t push someone around with his fancy title. Typical. “Sorry.”
“Anyway, Paul Fisher. Does he socialize a lot at the office?”
“I don’t think so. No more than anyone else, really.”
“I hear he’s been working late recently.”
O’Neill nodded. “A couple months now.”
“What does he do after hours?” I said.
“The same thing he does during hours, I suppose.”
“What’s that? What does an account manager do?”
“He’s responsible for several of our corporate clients. He follows up with them, schedules service, maintains their contracts, and recruits new clients.”
“So he’s a glorified salesman?” I said.
“I don’t like that term,” O’Neill said, frowning again.
I ignored his objection. “Is there anyone here Paul is really friendly with? Especially a woman?”
“Do you think he’s having an affair?”
I just looked at O’Neill. He met my gaze for a few seconds, then looked away and took a deep breath. “I don’t think Paul’s the cheating type.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said, “but it’s not what I asked.”
“Oh. Um . . . he talks to several of the girls here. We’re all pretty friendly.”
“I have it on good authority Paul isn’t reachable at his desk after hours.”
“So?”
“So I asked you what he did after hours, and you said the same thing he did normally. If he did, wouldn’t he be at his desk?”
“Well . . . I suppose it would, yes.”
“Do you know what he does after hours?” I said.
O’Neill fidgeted. I guessed he didn’t like being on this end of a conversation. “Not really, no.”
“But he’s here,” I said.
“Far as I know,” he said.
“Is his office on this floor?”
“Yes, it’s right down the hall, just past the elevator.”
“All right. I have what I need for now. Thanks for your time.” I stood and started toward the door.
“Oh, of course,” O’Neill said as I was on my way out of his office. I walked along the hall and past the elevator. Paul Fisher’s office was the second on the left. He had a window offering a spectacular view of the company parking lot and the industrial complex across the street. At least he had a window. I made a mental note of the landmarks outside so I could find Paul’s window when his shift ended. I didn’t know where he went or what he did—neither did O’Neill—but I wanted to be sure he left his office.
I had no intention of waiting around for Paul to leave his office. After I left Digital Sales, I lunched at a Japanese restaurant, then went back home. What could Alice be hiding? She lied to me. A thought came to me: if she had a habit of lying, maybe she was the one sleeping around or with something similar to hide. Why she would then hire a detective to look into her husband confounded me. People were confounding creatures on both sides of the ocean.
Looking into Alice Fisher might get me closer to the answer. I ran a background check and discovered Alice Fisher (nee Chester) was born in Garrett County to Dean and Donna, went to college at Towson, and moved to the Baltimore area after graduation. She married Paul two years later. Alice had no criminal record, a few old speeding tickets, and worsening credit. Her three credit cards were all maxed out. Being underwater wasn’t the problem; the Fishers—or at least Alice—were getting killed in interest charges.
Alice worked as a patient coordinator, whatever that was, at Upper Chesapeake Hospital in Bel Air. I drove up there to talk to her boss. Finding where to go in the hospital directory felt like navigating a maze. Eventually I found I needed to visit the fourth floor, so I got a pass from a security guard who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but Upper Chesapeake Hospital and took the elevator to level four.
Once off the elevator, I wandered around the labyrinth of glass and steel until I came to some administrative offices. I didn’t see a receptionist—nor did I see Alice Fisher, which would have been awkward—so I knocked on the half-open door of Erica Sousa. When given a choice of doors to rap on, always choose the one belonging to the pretty girl. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m trying to find someone.”
Erica Sousa looked up from whatever she was working on and flashed a brief smile. “Aren’t we all? Who are you looking for?”
“I don’t know his or her name, unfortunately. Whoever is in charge of the patient coordinators.”
“Do you have a problem?”
“No, just some questions. Can you direct me?”
She looked at me and thought about it, then said, “Sure. You’re looking for Corey Dunn. If he’s in, he’s down the hall to the left.”
“Thanks.” I walked the hall again and looked for Corey Dunn’s office. I also kept an eye out for Alice but didn’t see her. She must have been off coordinating some patients, or maybe helping them with their coordination. I found Dunn’s office. The door was open, and I saw someone sitting at the desk inside. I knocked.
“Come in,” he said without looking to see whom he just beckoned.
I walked in and sat in a guest chair on the other side of his desk. It had a few papers and a keyboard atop it but was otherwise bare. No family pictures. No degrees on the wall. Just Dunn, who looked to be about fifty and in desperate need of directions to a jogging track. He finally looked up and did a double take. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is C.T. Ferguson,” I said, showing him my ID. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Did some insurance company send you?”
“Why does everyone think that? I work for an individual.”
Dunn nodded. “All right. What do you need?”
“First, to tell you this conversation has to remain confidential. Privacy laws and such. Not the real reason—I just didn’t want him blabbing to Alice Fisher. Because the healthcare industry is awash in privacy laws, I figured he would buy it as a legitimate excuse.
“Sure, sure.”
“What can you tell me about Alice Fisher?”
“Alice?” He frowned. “Good worker. Comes in and works hard. The patients like her, and so does everyone here, as far as I know.”
“Anyone like her a little more than they should?” I said.
“You
mean is she having an affair?” said Dunn.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“She ever talk about money?”
Dunn shook his head. “Why do you need to know all of this about Alice? Who hired you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Confidentiality laws. You understand.”
“I understand I don’t want to deal with anymore of your questions.”
“Too bad, because I’m going to sit here and keep asking them.”
“We’ll see about that.” Dunn picked up the phone. “Can you send security to my office?” he said into the receiver. “Thanks.” He hung up and gave me a smug smile. “You should leave now.”
“I think I’ll stay,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to miss any of the scene you’re causing.”
“I’m not causing a scene!”
“Sure you are. Two people have turned to look at what’s going on in here.” I inclined my head toward the hallway, and he looked to be sure.
After I spoke, a burly man in a pale blue shirt and dark pants strode into the office. He wore a baseball cap, black athletic shoes, and a nightstick on his belt. His cheap-looking badge read “Security,” and he had a name tag on a lanyard around his neck.
“Problem, Mr. Dunn?” he said.
“Yes,” Dunn said. “This man is harassing me and won’t leave.”
“Sir, you’ll need to come with me,” the guard said.
“No, I won’t.” I showed him my ID. “I’m merely asking your boss some questions.”
“You’ll need to come with me.”
“There’s no harassment going on.”
The guard sighed and stepped into the room. He looked to be about six-four and close to 300 pounds, giving him two inches and over 100 pounds on me. His tattooed arms showed muscles but also a decent amount of fat. I knew he could shame me on the bench press, but I also knew guys like him were used to fights lasting one punch. He wasn’t fast enough to do much in a longer fight, if it came down to it. He glared at me. “Last warning.”
