Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  He looked at the photo. “I could fax this for you. I don’t know for sure, but we probably have an automatic distribution system. I’ll check with Nate Bumgardner in Information Technology. We deal with pharmacies and nursing homes daily, and patients are being transferred between hospitals all the time.”

  His proposal would save me hours of legwork. “Terrific.” I set the composite of Lincoln beside Crystal’s photo. “I need this one to go as well.”

  Greene studied the composite. “Did he apply for work?”

  “No, but he might have been in a position to recommend the girl.”

  I could tell something was troubling Greene. “I’m not sure how to handle the request,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. I can draft the cover letter, or if you prefer, print me a list of the fax numbers and I’ll handle all of it from the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “No. We’ve got everything batched on speed dial. But the cover letter’s a good idea.” He reached for a steno pad sitting neatly on the corner of his desk. “You can dictate it if you like.”

  I thought about the way the inquiry should be phrased. “I need to use our official stationery. I’m sure I can have a template sent as an email attachment. I’ll write the letter in the sheriff’s hospital room and forward it for you to print.”

  Greene handed me his card. “My email address is on the bottom. I’ll scan these pictures and when your letter’s ready, you can send it to me and I’ll handle the faxes electronically. We’ll give the recipients the option of emailing their responses straight to you.”

  From behind him, the door marked Private opened and Pamela Whittier stepped out. She looked annoyed. “Joel. What’s taking so long?”

  Greene’s hands flew across his keyboard punching in data. “I’ll have those figures for you in just a minute.”

  “My fault,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ve kept him from his work.”

  Pamela forced a smile. “I’ve made it clear to Joel that assisting the police is his work. Has he been helpful?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Then carry on.” Pamela backed into her office and gently closed the door.

  Greene relaxed. “Thank you.”

  “She runs a tight ship.”

  “She has to.” Greene glanced back at the closed door. “I feel lucky to work for her. I’ve got a master’s in hospital administration, but no degree prepares you for the day-to-day pressures of running a place like this.”

  “Sorry I’m adding to it.”

  “Actually, you’re not. Having law enforcement in the hospital is something I’d like more of.” Greene lowered his voice. “Frankly, we could use the expertise. Theft and fraud are rife throughout the health care industry. We try to stay on top of it, but short of frisking everyone, including doctors and administrators, there’s no foolproof way to catch it all. If you think you’ve got the problem under control, then you’re kidding yourself. You just haven’t discovered the new scam yet.”

  Greene’s fears only reinforced my suspicions of Lincoln’s activities. I pointed to the pictures of Crystal and Lincoln. “You’re sure this won’t be any trouble?”

  “No problem.” He grinned. “You heard the boss. It’s my job.”

  When I got back to the room, Tommy Lee had fallen asleep. I sat at the computer and composed the cover letter while waiting for the department to email a stationery template. After my request for information about Crystal Hodges and Artie Lincoln was complete, I phoned Joel Greene and told him to check his email inbox and distribute the photos. It was eleven o’clock. With a little luck, we could have a lead before the end of the afternoon.

  I called the funeral home to see how things were going with the preparations for Mildred Cosgrove. The family visitation was scheduled for the next evening. The memorial service would be held at Crab Apple Valley Baptist Church at ten on Thursday followed by the graveside interment.

  My mother answered the phone. “Wayne’s not here. He had Freddy come in to help Fletcher.”

  “Where’s Uncle Wayne?”

  “He told Freddy he had something important to do.”

  Important things for my uncle to do amounted to getting a haircut every two weeks and changing the oil in his car.

  “Didn’t he have a haircut last week?”

  “Yes. So maybe it was his car.” Mom knew her brother better than anyone.

  “Let me speak to Freddy and make sure he’s got enough help.”

  “He ran out to the hardware store. Something about repairing the lock on the back screen door.”

  I started to ask for Fletcher, but then remembered what had prompted Freddy’s handyman work. “Has Dad been downstairs?” Last week Mom had found him in the backyard in his pajamas after he wandered from the breakfast table.

  “No. He was weak on his feet this morning. Not as bad as yesterday, but a little disoriented.”

  Describing an Alzheimer’s patient as a little disoriented was an understatement. Dad was always disoriented, but I knew Mom sensed something was different. “Shouldn’t Dr. Milliken see him?”

  Mom sighed. “I’ll call for an appointment. Maybe they can work us in tomorrow.”

  “Tell Fletcher I’ll be by later this afternoon.” I hung up, feeling uneasy that I wasn’t at the funeral home to supervise my intern or to help with Dad.

  I could have gone straight over there, but with the pictures of Crystal and Lincoln blanketing the health care industry and creating the possibility of new leads, I wanted to stay focused on the case. In Florida, Lieutenant Spring and I had learned the Kowalskis were linked to Gainesboro through shuffleboard. I had yet to tap into that connection.

  A beautiful June day meant the parking lot at the Laurel County Senior Center looked like a Buick dealership. The predominant bumper sticker read “Ask Me About My Grandchildren.” I found an open space at the far end and maneuvered my jeep between a new LaCrosse and an older Century.

  A slight breeze cooled the effects of the noon sun. Double doors to the main building were wide open and I could see rows of card tables set up inside the multi-purpose room. I guessed either a contract bridge or canasta tournament was in progress. From around the side of the building, I heard the sharp smack of colliding shuffleboard disks. The games were being played outside behind the activity center in a space surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain fence.

  I entered the shuffleboard area through an open gate and followed a covered walkway that dissected an array of thirty or forty courts. The long concrete boards were clean and the lines and numerals of their scoring pyramids freshly painted. Nearly half the courts were engaged in fierce competitions—most with four players, two at each end, some with two players in singles’ matches, and a few with three players in some kind of rotation. Red and black disks slid along the smooth surfaces as competitors tried to place them in the scoring zones or knock their opponent’s disks clear or, better yet, into the ten-off penalty space.

  As scores were posted on a board at the head of each court, laughter and good-natured teasing rose from the players. The scene reflected the shiniest moments of the golden years and was a far cry from the nursing homes and geriatric wards that awaited so many senior citizens. I could understand why Lucy Kowalski would have tried anything to reclaim her active life.

  The walkway ended at a small patio and concession stand. During tournaments, spectators could follow the fortunes of their friends and families while enjoying a sandwich or cold drink. Many of the retirees brought their own lunches, but prominent signs informed them that food not purchased on-site must be consumed at the many picnic tables outside the court area.

  I decided to start my questioning with the people on the patio. Several tables hosted lively conversations and I moved toward a particularly animated group of four women and one man. The old gentleman had his back to me, and as the ladies noticed my approach, I got the strange sensation that I’d crossed into the Twilight Zone. The man’s curly white hair was as distinctive as a finge
rprint. He turned to see what had attracted the attention of his harem, and I don’t know who was more surprised—me or Uncle Wayne.

  I froze. Wayne’s finger shot up to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. The command was unnecessary. I was speechless. The lifelong bachelor was wearing Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. His bony white legs terminated in scuffed bowling shoes. The green shorts still had a size label stapled to a belt loop, and the shirt must have dated back to when Hawaii was a territory.

  A slender, elderly lady on Wayne’s left smiled at me. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Bathroom,” I managed to mumble.

  Wayne cleared his throat as if auditioning for the Royal Shakespeare Company. “I’ll show the lad the way.”

  As he got out of his chair, a plump woman to his right snagged his arm. “We’re saving your seat so don’t be too long.”

  The other women nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want any of you sending me to the kitchen.”

  Although I had no idea what my uncle meant, the women giggled like he was Jay Leno.

  “Follow me, sir.” As he passed, he whispered, “We don’t know each other.”

  The men’s room was inside the activity building. We walked in silence until we entered the restroom and checked the double stalls to make sure we were alone. Then I just stared at him.

  “What’s the matter?” He looked in the mirror over the sinks as if I’d discovered lettuce between his teeth.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m undercover. You sent Fletcher to Asheville because you were too old to fit in with them hippies. Well, you’re too young to fit in here.”

  I threw up my hands. “But I was going to talk to these people straight up. They aren’t criminals.”

  “How do you know that? Old people like money.”

  There’s nothing worse than being halfway into an argument with Uncle Wayne and realizing he’s right. “Are you trying to sell pills to them?”

  Wayne noticed the tag on his shorts and ripped it free. “Your mom and dad gave me these for Christmas.”

  “Last Christmas?”

  “No. Must have been ’74, maybe ’75. When I was thinking about going to Myrtle Beach. I still might.”

  I wasn’t going to be sidetracked by a three-decade-delayed vacation. “What are you telling those women?”

  “That it was a shame about Mitch Kowalski. That’s all I had to say. Then Ethel, she’s the stocky one, she said she’d seen Mitch last Friday. He was upset and he was looking for Artie Lincoln. Then Ruth, she’s the one with liver spots all over her hands, she said Lincoln had been here the day before. Then she told the other women her arthritis was feeling better.”

  “Arthritis?”

  Wayne nodded. “Yes. Lincoln came by one day and Ruth’s arthritis felt better the next. Jumped from one subject to the next without rhyme or reason. These women sure like to talk about their ailments.”

  I realized Wayne had probably found another one of Lincoln’s customers. “Did you ask any questions about Lincoln?”

  “I didn’t get the chance. You came up.”

  I looked at his ridiculous outfit and smiled. “Sorry. You should have told me.”

  “And you would’ve talked me out of it. What do I do now?”

  In a building full of men with prostate conditions, an empty restroom was a rare occurrence. Before someone interrupted us, I needed to think fast and let my uncle make the most of his charade. “Give them your phone number.”

  “At the funeral home?”

  “Your home number. Tell them it’s a delicate situation, but Artie Lincoln owes you some money. You’d appreciate them letting you know if they see him so you can have the chance to talk with him. But that he might try to avoid you if he knew you were coming.”

  Uncle Wayne frowned. “You think they’ll believe that?”

  “Sure. They like you. They laugh at your jokes. Now let’s get out of here before they start wondering why two guys are hanging out in the bathroom so long.” As we headed back to Wayne’s groupies, I had to ask. “What does being sent to the kitchen mean anyway?”

  “The kitchen’s the ten-off area on the court.” Wayne puffed himself up proudly. “I went to the library and got a book on shuffleboard so I could throw some terms around. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “No, you weren’t. But I don’t think the kitchen is the room in the house those women are interested in.”

  He stared at me.

  I winked. “Be careful or you’ll really be undercover.”

  Wayne’s face turned as red as a mountain apple.

  Chapter Twelve

  With assurances from Uncle Wayne that he wouldn’t embellish our plan, I returned to the hospital in hopes that someone in the network of health care providers had recognized Crystal or Lincoln.

  Tommy Lee sat in a bedside chair, attached to an IV pole and monitor. He flipped through a pamphlet with one hand and held a can of apple juice in the other.

  “Does your nurse know you’re out of bed?”

  “Your girlfriend told me my vacation’s over. Susan says I’m ready to start walking a few steps.” He looked up at his IV. “Of course, I have to drag my pal everywhere, including the bathroom. Thank God the catheter’s out.”

  I glanced at the pamphlet. “What are you reading?”

  “Information on pulmonary recovery. How to breathe when your lung’s turned to hash. If I’m a good boy, I might be out of here a few days early.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This weekend. I guess my body’s been shot up enough it knows what to do.” He set the pamphlet on the bed. “So how are you doing?”

  “We sent the photos to every doctor’s office, drugstore, hospital, and nursing home in the area. I hope I’ve had some emails come in. And I’ve learned Mitch Kowalski was looking for Lincoln last Friday at the shuffleboard courts. Lincoln had been there the day before and I’ve got good reason to believe he’s supplying up here as well.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’ve had unwanted help.” I gave Tommy Lee a detailed description of secret agent double-O-seventy-five.

  “Stop. I’m not supposed to laugh.” Tears streaked his face. He hadn’t shed a drop when he’d been shot, but the vision of Wayne and the bevy of beauties was too much for him. “Your uncle doesn’t know what he’s unleashed. For some of those women he’s the perfect catch—a man with a pulse. And you had him give them his home phone number?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Maybe this woman Ruth knows how to get a hold of Lincoln. She might talk to Wayne later if she can get him alone.”

  “I’ll tell him she’s the gal to court, although he described her as the one with the liver spots. Not the slickest pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

  Tommy Lee laughed again, and then coughed with pain. “You’re killing me. Shut up and get on the computer.”

  I logged in and checked my email. Replies had come from two hospitals, five nursing homes, and eight drugstores. “Fifteen negatives. None of them recognized Crystal or Lincoln.”

  “I’d be shocked if we struck gold with the first responses. How many inquiries did you make?”

  “Over sixty.”

  “Then there’s still a good possibility something will turn up.” Tommy Lee patted the arm of his chair like a judge tapping a gavel. “Give them a day. Some might want to call rather than send information over the internet.”

  My cell phone vibrated and I pulled it from my belt.

  “See,” Tommy Lee said.

  I checked the caller ID and recognized a Florida area code. “Must be Roy Spring.”

  The police lieutenant dispensed with any chitchat. “I’ve got a web page for you. Ready to write.”

  I grabbed a pen and flipped my pad to a clean sheet. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s www.dea.gov/pubs and then click on press releases.”

&nb
sp; “The U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency?”

  “Yep. There was a nice little press conference this morning down at our courthouse. My chief got his picture taken with the DEA Special Agent in Charge of Southeast Florida. They busted a ring of public school employees forging prescriptions for OxyContin. A federal grand jury returned a seventy-three count indictment.”

  “Public schools?”

  “Ten bus drivers, seven custodial staff, and a school cashier among others. A little nest a doctor had formed that passed phony prescriptions and filed fraudulent insurance claims for reimbursement. We’re talking about a conspiracy that got thousands of tablets from pharmacies. Then the defendants would sell the OxyContin to a co-defendant who moved them on the street for forty bucks a pill.”

  I winked at Tommy Lee. “Let me guess. That co-defendant was Artie Lincoln.”

  “No. Artie Lincoln’s name never showed up.”

  My expression must have clued Tommy Lee that I’d jumped the gun. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “They couldn’t indict him?”

  I waved him to be quiet because I had my own questions for Spring. “Then why’d they tell you to stay clear of Lincoln?”

  “Because I told my chief Lincoln was involved in OxyContin. He and the feds didn’t want me crashing a party just as the band struck up the final number. But now they’re real interested, especially since you’ve got a lead they don’t.”

  I wrote DEA on my pad, underlined it and held it up for Tommy Lee to see. “What do they want?” I asked Spring.

  “Right now, just an update on developments.”

  I repeated the request for Tommy Lee’s benefit.

  He frowned. “Hell, we don’t have time to check in with the feds every half hour. Let them build their own damn case.”

  Spring heard Tommy Lee’s growl. “I agree with your sheriff, but if you could give me something to take back to my chief, while his picture’s in the news and everybody’s buddy buddy, I’d appreciate it. Even an email summary’s fine.”

  While Spring spoke, I jotted we owe him on my pad and flashed Tommy Lee the note.

  “Whatever,” he whispered.