by Julie Hyzy
I flipped my hand toward the recorder. “That’s desperation talking.” I said. As researcher for Midwest Focus, one of Chicago’s two television newsmagazines, I was often assigned tough-to-investigate features. But this time I didn’t even understand where Bass was going. Jimmy Slattery’s death had been a footnote last week in the feature our competitor, Up Close Issues, had aired. In their broadcast, they’d discussed the rising cost of malpractice insurance, focusing on Dr. Bipin Patel, an oncologist being sued by Jimmy Slattery’s family. I shook my head and pointed at the recorder. “That was probably one of Jimmy Slattery’s sisters.”
“Could be,” Bass said. “But she says Patel has secrets.”
I bit my lip. “Listen, you know how it is with victims’ families. They don’t want the story to die because then it’s like losing their loved one all over again. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, I thought Up Close did a pretty comprehensive job.”
When Bass spoke, there was an edge to his voice, as though addressing a simpleton. “We’re not doing another malpractice feature. We’re going to investigate Dr. Patel himself.”
“Oh yeah, now there’s a ratings-grabber,” I said under my breath.
Jimmy Slattery, age twenty-two, had been stricken with pancreatic cancer. Being otherwise fit and strong, he’d sailed through six months’ worth of chemotherapy with remarkable aplomb, neither losing his hair nor suffering any sort of physical distress after each treatment. Until the last one. Minutes after Dr. Bipin Patel had set up the I.V. drip, Jimmy Slattery had suffered an immediate and fatal heart attack.
After the medical examiner had declined interest, his family had requested an independent autopsy—the results were still pending—but in the meantime, they’d initiated a civil suit against Dr. Patel.
I had to ask. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Bass?”
Like all of us on the investigative team at Midwest Focus, Bass kept a television in his office. Now, he tugged the remote from a pile on his desk and punched “play” so hard the button squeaked.
The tape had been cued to Dr. Patel’s on-camera interview. A soft-spoken man, late forties, he was small and trim, with jet black hair. A shade of gray at his temples, and a dark mustache gave him a doctorly, distinguished look.
Bass fixed me with a glare. “Now watch. Listen.”
Answering a question as to how malpractice suits affect him, as in Jimmy Slattery’s case, the doctor paused a moment to stare at his folded hands, then blinked and addressed the camera.
“It is unfortunate that the family would choose this path,” he said in a lilting, mellifluous voice. He licked his lips. “But it is understandable. They are beset by grief.” He shook his head, his dark eyes conveying a sense of profound sadness. “We take only the most hopeless cases at our clinic, so it is to be expected that we will not always be successful.”
Bass hit “pause.” “See? That Doctor Patel came off like some sort of saint. What idiot in his right mind is going to make it sound like he’s encouraging a malpractice suit? I knew there was something wrong with the guy the minute I watched this piece of crap.
“And now we get this tip on our Hotline.” He splayed his hands in front of him, then turned them into gun-pointers. “I won that Davis Award in ninety-seven because I followed up on a story that nobody else figured was worth our time. I got a sense about this one. I want to make Up Close Issues look like a bunch of morons for putting Patel on screen like he’s the victim. I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that guy.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the TV and Dr. Patel frozen, open-mouthed, mid-sentence. “And you are the lucky one who gets to find out what it is.”
I pulled into the side street adjacent to Dr. Patel’s “Family Hope” clinic a little after eight the following morning. Located in the city’s southwest suburbs, the squat yellow-brick building was one of many in this quasi-industrial area. Identical square buildings sat in evenly paced rows surrounded by asphalt, each sporting a perimeter of small, dirty snow piles. The area had a sparse, dreary feel. Not where I’d want to come for treatment if my life was at stake.
Patel’s building faced east. I drove around to scope out the area. Behind it, an alleyway separated the back parking lots of the east-facing buildings from the west-facing ones. Two cars were parked there. An old-model red Camaro and a silver Lexus.
A truck beeped at me from behind, making me jump.
Since I was early for my interview with Dr. Patel, I drove around a second time, taking up a position in another building’s parking lot to wait.
The truck that had startled me pulled into the back parking lot of Patel’s building, the driver jumping out to ring a bell at the back door. He was young, maybe twenty-something. Lanky, wearing blue jeans and a gray jacket that didn’t look warm enough for this weather. His white panel truck had the words “Calypso Drugs” lettered in aquamarine.
I couldn’t see who’d opened the door. But a moment later, the young driver headed back toward the truck, unlocking and lifting its overhead door before leaping in. I got a better look at the kid. Wavy brown hair, dull look on his face. Forrest Gump—delivery boy.
He unhooked a dolly that had been attached to the wall inside, and headed back to Patel’s building, disappearing inside for several minutes. When the door swung out again this time, a woman held it open.
She was in her early thirties, perhaps. Wearing powder blue pants and a coordinating print top, she shivered in the cold as the delivery boy headed back toward his truck with a dolly-full of white boxes.
He made another two trips in and out, and then started the Calypso Drug truck with a rumble and pulled away.
I stepped into Dr. Patel’s waiting room just before eight-thirty. Small, utilitarian, there were seven chairs along two bare blue walls, a table piled with magazines at the corner. To my right an unmanned receptionist’s window gave me a glimpse of the inner office, and a door in the far corner presumably led to the examination rooms.
The utter quiet surprised me. Outside, even this early in the morning, sounds of movement, cars passing, people walking, delivery trucks making the rounds gave a feeling of life. But once the front door shut behind me with a thunk, I was engulfed in silence.
“Hello?” I leaned through the open receptionist’s window. Clean desk. Orderly files. Looked like this guy ran a tight ship. “Dr. Patel?”
He came around the corner with an expression of puzzlement until I introduced myself. He reached for my hand, causing me to lean forward through the window to shake. When we did, he pumped my hand, smiling so hard that I took a step back. Most people look better when they smile. Dr. Patel did not.
“I am pleased to have you visit us here, Ms. St. James,” he said.
Pulling my hand away, I said, “Call me Alex.”
“Certainly, and you may call me Bipin.” He grinned even more broadly, causing his skin to fold into deep crevices on either side of his mouth as he opened the door, gesturing me in. Much more spacious inside than I’d imagined, the left side of the corridor had three examination rooms, with clear plastic file-holders attached to each mahogany door.
Patel led me toward a doorway on the right, into a combination laboratory and kitchen. The woman who’d held open the back door was there, her hands wrapped around a steaming paper cup. Dr. Patel called her over.
“Cindy, this is Alex St. James,” he said. She put her cup down and moved forward, blinking in surprise when I offered her my hand.
Her eyes shot to Patel as though asking for explanation. She looked a little older up close. Late thirties. She wore her wavy brown hair short, emphasizing her angular and bony face. Her eyebrows were overdue for a wax job. A little shorter than my five foot six, she outweighed me by at least forty pounds.
“This is my assistant, Cynthia Schultheiss,” Patel said. A tag, hung on a braided cord around her neck had the word “nurse” beneath her name. She’d decorated it with stickers of flowers and animals. “Cindy has be
en with my practice for many years. Maybe her insights would be helpful as well?” He nodded and smiled again.
Patel’s moved us toward a round white-topped table, where I pulled out my miniature tape recorder, turned it on and set it in the center. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” I asked. They both answered that it would be fine.
Cindy spoke for the first time. “I don’t understand.” Her smile flashed, unsure. “What kind of interview is this?”
Even as he answered Cindy, Patel’s movements were smooth. His hands were ballet dancers, graceful, with a flourish. He touched the back of a chair, indicating for me to sit. “Ms. St. James is from the television program, Midwest Focus.”
Cindy’s eyebrows came together almost close enough to touch one another. She opened her mouth, but took several seconds before speaking. In that time, Patel had guided her to a seat as well. “I thought that other station ran your story,” she said.
“That’s true,” I answered. Patel sat to my right, Cindy to my left. I would have preferred to have them sit together. This way, I was forced to address my comments take-turn fashion, moving my head like a spectator at Wimbledon. “Midwest is hoping to take a different approach.” I launched into my cover story that our program was hoping to best the Up Close’s feature with one of our own.
“Malpractice suits, even those unwarranted by circumstances, cause my patients to lose faith,” Patel said. “I do not care for that. If I cooperate with you, might I expect to be portrayed in a favorable light, perhaps?”
I chose my words carefully. “Stories are more compelling when we have all the facts.”
He didn’t seem entirely mollified, but he nodded. The solemn expression was back.
Cindy shrugged. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I can take you on a tour, if you like. Explain everything.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said, “I confess I know nothing about what you do here, and I’m curious.”
“Chemotherapy is a dangerous business,” she said with a nod toward Patel. “You have to be very careful.”
I talked to them for about an hour. Cindy answered several phone calls in the interim, but no patients arrived. I questioned Patel about that. He waved his fluid fingers in the air as if the matter was of no concern. “I cleared the morning for your visit, of course.”
When Patel began to reiterate one of his beyond-belief success stories, I clapped my hands together. “What about that tour?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, looking startled.
Cindy stood up quickly. “I’d be glad to.”
She led the way around a cloth-covered partition into a larger room. From the high windows that I decided faced the alley, to the overhead lights, the place was bright. White floor, white counter, white cabinetry, the only color in the room were the four vinyl chaise-lounge style chairs. A muted aqua color, they each had an I.V. hanger above, and a separate silver pole next to them. Striped curtains, hung from the ceiling, could be pulled in a curve around each chair for privacy.
“We try to make our patients comfortable. The seats can be adjusted.” She demonstrated. “They also have controls attached to them that offer massage and heat. Many of our patients get very cold when they’re here, what with all the fluids we’re pushing, so we have blankets on hand, too.”
She unlocked a far door. I’d expected a closet, but instead, it opened a storeroom. The size of this building certainly was deceiving. Cindy gestured to the shelves of neatly folded blankets, and then pointed low to where they kept stacks of popular magazines, and even a few novels.
The patient amenities took a very small portion of the storage space. The remainder of the room sported shelves covered with all sorts of medical equipment, and drugs. I walked toward the far corner. “Gemzar,” I said aloud, reading it from a label on the shelf. “I’ve heard of this one.”
“It’s a good one,” she said. “Especially effective in the treatment of lung and pancreatic cancers.”
Jimmy Slattery, I thought. White boxes on the shelf below were labeled with the drug’s name on the receiving ticket and with Calypso Drugs printed on the side. “They’re open.” I said.
“Excuse me?”
I pointed to the white boxes of Gemzar. “All the boxes are opened. And your loose stock…” I pointed back to the original shelf, “…is full. Why would you open boxes ahead of time? I mean, what if you don’t need them?” I was thinking about the pickup the delivery boy had made this morning. “Then you won’t be able to send them back.”
Cindy seemed taken aback by the question. “Oh,” she said her hands flipping in front of her. “That’s never a problem. We’re our distributor’s best customer.”
Back in my office, I flopped into my chair and stared at my mini-tape machine. I had no desire to revisit that interview again. Listening to Patel’s lilting accent as he described the wonders he’d been able to affect on behalf of his patients had nearly put me to sleep while he was talking. I could only imagine the effect it would have on me now, warm in my office, with a stomach full of fast-fried-food.
I grabbed a pencil and tapped it against my forehead, keeping time with an old song playing in my head. My picture window faced north, overlooking the Chicago river, but from my current slouched position and angle I could only see the very top of the Tribune Tower as it pierced the overcast sky.
I reached to my far right and picked up the phone. My good friend, Tommy Fayne, a detective with the Chicago Police Department, was always kind enough to let me pick his brain. I asked why the medical examiner had shown no interest.
“Because Slattery’s regular physician—Patel—signed the death certificate,” he said. “As long as you have a doctor stating the cause of death, it’s not an ME case unless there are suspicious circumstances.”
Thinking about the hotline phone call that started it all, I asked, “What good would an investigation on our part do them?”
“Maybe nothing,” he said. “These insurance companies usually talk both parties into settling anyway. Cheaper than going before a jury where you could lose millions.”
Tapping my pencil’s eraser against my teeth, I asked, “But Patel hasn’t been charged with anything, has he?”
“Can’t. There’s no criminal intent in a situation like this. Doctors take that oath to do no harm. And unless he’s got some sort of Kevorkian complex, we’ve got nothing to nail him with.”
I thanked Tommy for his time and hung up the phone by balancing the receiver on my index finger, till it reached the handset.
Bass showed up at my doorway. “That the tape?” he asked, using a pencil to point.
I nodded.
He came in, rewound and hit “play.”
“We’re just sitting down now,” I said, to explain the noises as the chairs scraped against the floor. “That’s me,” I said, unnecessarily when my voice was heard. Then, “That’s Cindy, the nurse.”
Bass held up the pencil. “Rewind that,” he said.
I did. I heard Cindy’s voice, addressing Patel, “I thought that other station ran your story.”
Bass stopped the tape. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
“What?”
He played it again.
This time I heard it.
“She sounds a lot like the woman on the tape from the hotline.”
That evening, I positioned myself in an adjacent parking lot behind Patel’s building. I wanted to catch Cindy alone, to talk with her. The voice was not only the same, but she’d used the phrase, “that other station,” to refer to Up Close, in both instances.
I didn’t expect that she’d been keen to know her cover had been blown, so rather than chance her hanging up on a phone call, I decided a personal visit was in order.
During the lengthy and dull conversation with Dr. Patel earlier, I had gleaned a few key pieces of information. Patel left around six o’clock each evening. And Cindy stayed about an hour longer to cl
ean up before heading home. I’d pulled my Escort into an adjacent lot, screened from view by a couple of tall evergreens. I inched forward till I could see clearly between the fronds, and shut the car off at 6:30, pleased to note that Cindy’s red Camaro was still there.
Winter in Chicago meant that it was nearly as dark now as it would get. A pink sodium vapor light kept the area adequately lit and I had a clear view of his back door. I figured that if I jumped out of my car when I saw her, I’d be able to make it to her car before she did.
Despite the fact that I had thick shrubbery to my left and a brick building to my back, the wind whipped through every possible inlet of my car. In less than five minutes, the heat had dissipated enough that I felt deep chill. I fitted my key into the ignition, about to turn, when a gold SUV pulled in from the other end of the alleyway and parked perpendicular to the Camaro.
The driver reached up to turn on his interior lights, and pulled out a cell phone, holding it a distance away from his face, like old people do when they’re reading prescription bottles. He punched in a few numbers, spoke briefly, and then appeared to shut it off.
Moments later, the door to Patel’s office opened and Cindy came out. Shivering from my cold wait, I was furious that my plan had gone awry. I couldn’t figure out how I’d manage to get her alone now.
From her body language as she approached the SUV, I could tell she’d been expecting this guy.
She wore a light-colored down jacket and gloves, but I saw her shiver as the man got out of his vehicle, leaving it running. He slammed the door and leaned against it. Dark, like Patel, he was a lot bigger. Over six feet tall, he wore a leather jacket, open, over an open-collared dress shirt. Where Patel had a trim look to him, this guy, with similar coloring, managed to look swarthy. He faced Cindy, giving me a chance to watch them in profile.
I rolled my window down about halfway. The wind I’d cursed for its icy cold now allowed me to listen in on their conversation.
“So?” the swarthy guy said. He clicked a metal lighter and held it close to his face, as he lit up a cigarette. “Bipin informs me that you have a problem.”
