“Do you remember Tripp Van Dorn, Chief?”
“Did he play for the Bears?”
“No.”
“The Cubs?”
I shook my head.
“Then I don’t know him.”
“He was in a car accident.”
“You mentioned that before.”
“Back when you were chief.”
“In Chicago.” Big Al nodded.
The Untouchables had come back on. I still claimed his attention but needed to make every moment count.
“It was a rainy night. Slick roads. The accident happened around the intersection of Beach and Ocean. His car flipped several times and Tripp suffered a broken neck that paralyzed him from the neck down. Maybe you remember his mother.”
“Whose mother?”
“Tripp Van Dorn’s. Her name was Mimi.”
“What kind of name is that? What’s yours, by the way?”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica what?”
“Jessica Fletcher.”
“Never heard of her. We done now? My show will be coming back on, Miss Ness,” Big Al said, apparently not registering it was already back on.
“You don’t remember anything about the accident?”
“What accident?”
“The one from ten years ago when you were chief of police.”
He waved me off. “Oh, that.” Big Al pressed a finger against his lips and made a shhhhhhhhhhhh sound, his tone suddenly so hushed I could barely hear his voice. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, I can.”
He looked back at the television without continuing.
“Chief?”
He turned back toward me.
“You were going to tell me a secret.”
“Then it wouldn’t be secret anymore, would it?”
“What were you going to tell me?”
“That it wasn’t him.”
“Wasn’t who?”
“Him, that’s who. You know.”
“I really don’t.”
“Ness, Eliot Ness! It wasn’t him. He never even lived in Marblehead!”
Big Al was starting to get agitated, explaining why one of the nurses had made a point to mention that the other residents here didn’t enjoy watching television with him. An orderly standing off to the side started to advance until I signaled him to stop.
“Can I tell you a secret, Big Al?”
He grinned from ear to ear. “I love secrets!”
Then he placed a finger over his mouth and made the shhh sound again.
“Is it about the Van Dorns?” he asked me, perhaps indicating a rare moment of lucidity.
“Yes.”
“Mimi’s kid was a pain, a troublemaker. Spoiled rotten.”
“We were talking about the car accident.”
“Were we?”
“You were going to tell me what you remember from that night.”
Alvin McCandless continued staring at the television screen but was no longer following Eliot Ness or any of the other action, somewhere else entirely, his expression utterly blank.
“It was raining,” he said finally.
“What else?”
“Bad accident. Very bad. Not much left of the car. Hard to believe anyone could’ve survived, thought he’d be dead for sure when we pulled him out.”
I shuddered, trying to picture what Tripp Van Dorn must’ve looked like when the paramedics finally extracted him from the crushed vehicle.
“Didn’t even recognize him,” Big Al elaborated.
“Perfectly understandable, Chief.”
He seemed to like being called that, at least for the moment. Then he started to rise, having forgotten all about The Untouchables.
“I should get over to the station.”
I gently grasped his wrist. “You were telling me about Tripp Van Dorn’s accident.”
He sank back into his chair. “Bad mistake on my part. Didn’t see the harm at the time.”
“Harm in what?”
“That Mimi,” he reflected, “she was something. You’re not going to tell people in town about us, are you?”
“I told you, Chief, all this is our secret.”
“Because my wife . . . You know.”
“I do.”
“I’d do it differently if I had it to do again. You make mistakes. People get hurt. But people had already been hurt. Didn’t see the harm. Was it a bad thing I did?”
I lowered my voice and patted his arm. “It’s our secret, Chief.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Not a soul.”
“Because it’s too late now. Damage has already been done. Two lives ruined. Can’t ruin them twice.”
And in that instant Alvin McCandless’s attention returned to The Untouchables, as if I’d never been there at all.
“What I miss?” he asked me.
* * *
• • •
“Looks like you finally met your match, my dear girl,” Harry said, as we headed down the hall of Briarcliff Gardens back toward the lobby. “Just remember I charge for the hours that are a waste of time, too.”
“That wasn’t a waste of time at all, Harry.”
“What, did I miss something?”
“You weren’t listening to everything Big Al said.”
“Because it was gibberish.”
“Most, but not all.”
“Care to enlighten me on what you’re talking about?”
We reached the front of the building and passed outside from the air-conditioning into the stifling August heat.
“Not yet, Harry. We’ve got one more stop to make first.”
“Where?”
“Mass General.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I tried George Sutherland five more times on the ride from Rhode Island to Massachusetts General Hospital, the stately assemblage of different styles of buildings perched on the banks of the Charles River in Boston. Each time my call went straight to voice mail, and I kept my phone clutched in my hand to make sure I’d feel the vibration when he finally called back.
My meeting with Jeffrey Archibald, CEO of LGX Pharmaceuticals, had further convinced me that Charles Clifton was up to no good with either his clinic outside Cabot Cove or all the others Clifton Care Partners was on the verge of building. I had no idea how deep either Archibald’s or LGX’s complicity went, but the connection was clear, and the money involved in getting desperate patients to pony up for their spots in these so-called clinical trials was utterly staggering. If nothing else, the fate of Mimi Van Dorn had revealed how they dealt with patients who might otherwise do them harm.
Mimi Van Dorn . . .
I’d had no idea what I was going to learn about her, and particularly Tripp’s accident that rainy night a decade earlier, from former Marblehead police chief Big Al McCandless. What I believed he’d told me, though, was beyond anything I’d expected.
He’d spoken in a totally nonsensical manner in keeping with his deteriorating mental state. But hints about that night ten years ago made perfect sense—that is, if I’d heard his words right.
That Mimi, she was something. You’re not going to tell people in town about us, are you?
Suggesting they were having an affair, not an especially pertinent fact in this case, except that it revealed the great lengths Big Al would have gone to for Mimi, particularly where her son was concerned.
I’d do it differently if I had it to do again. You make mistakes. People get hurt. But people had already been hurt. Didn’t see the harm. Was it a bad thing I did?
If my suspicions were correct, McCandless had indeed gone well beyond the call of duty in following the instructions of a woman with whom he was having an affair. I though
t back to what Marblehead’s current police chief, Tom Grimes, had told me about driving Mimi Van Dorn to Mass General that night, how she’d talked on her cell phone in a hushed tone virtually the whole way. Might she have been talking to Big Al, plotting this “bad thing,” which had already been set into motion?
Because it’s too late now. Damage has already been done. Two lives ruined. Can’t ruin them twice.
I knew what Harry McGraw had heard from the doorway, but I didn’t believe it was what Alvin McCandless had said at all. His words held an entirely different meaning to someone listening for their content amid the jumble of his mind. Not unlike learning a different language. And the one spoken by Big Al suggested that somehow the murders of Mimi and Tripp Van Dorn went all the way back to the night of the accident.
I watched Harry check the rearview mirror for the fifth time in the past minute.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“Nothing. Maybe I’m just a careful driver.”
“You think we’re being followed.”
“When you owe your ex-wives as many back alimony payments as I do, you always feel like you’re being followed.”
“I had the same feeling.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Harry said, checking the mirror yet again.
“Because you’d tell me I was crazy.”
“Then I guess we’re both crazy, because there’s no tail I’ve been able to spot.”
His statement failed to assuage my fears, and I angled my frame so I could somewhat follow the traffic behind us in the side-view mirror.
I thought I felt my phone start to vibrate, about to ring. I jerked it to my ear, ready to say hello, but the screen remained dark, no incoming call from George Sutherland at all. So I brought up FAVORITES and called Seth Hazlitt.
* * *
• • •
“Sorry to be bothering you in the middle of the day, Seth,” I greeted.
“You must have me confused for a doctor who has patients to see.”
“You still have plenty of patients.”
“Not as many as I used to. And how would you know anyway? Been talking to Clara?”
Clara was Seth’s longtime receptionist. “If I was, what would she have told me?”
“That she’s getting her résumé together.”
“She’s seventy-five, Seth.”
“It’s a long résumé, ayuh.”
“Can you check on George?” I asked him, without further small talk. “I’ve been trying to reach him all day without success.”
“Want me to pick you up and we can head over to the Clifton Clinic together?”
“I’m in Rhode Island.”
“What are you doing there, Jess?”
“Heading to Mass General at the moment.”
“Tell Harry I said hi.”
“How’d you know he was with me?”
“Because I’m not and Mort isn’t, which leaves Harry. Must be his lucky day.”
“I’ll tell him to play the lottery.”
“I’ll check on George straightaway. You have new reason to suspect he may be in danger?”
“I might. It’s a long story.”
“Is it ever a short one?”
“I need you to help me make sense of it, Seth.”
“How?”
“Can you pull Mimi Van Dorn’s autopsy report?”
“What am I looking for?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I get back home.”
I ended the call and looked across the seat of the rental car toward Harry.
“How good are you at getting hospitals to release medical reports?”
“I’ve had my moments.”
“You’re going to need another when we get to Mass General.”
* * *
• • •
According to its Web site, Mass General’s primary Boston-based location boasts more than 1,000 beds and admits about 50,000 patients each year. The surgical staff performs more than 34,000 operations yearly, and the obstetrics department delivers more than 3,800 babies. The trauma center where Tripp Van Dorn had been brought by helicopter after his crippling accident was the oldest and largest American College of Surgeons–verified Level One center in New England, evaluating and treating more than 2,600 trauma patients per year.
“Not interested in anything like that,” Harry said, cutting me off in the midst of my showing off my knowledge of all things Mass General. “And how do you know so much about this place, anyway?”
“Guess.”
“You used it in a book?”
“Researched it for a book, but never used it.”
“Waste of time, then.” He nodded.
“Apparently not.”
“Okay, smarty-pants, where’s billing located? Because that’s where we need to go.”
I was going to enjoy this, in spite of everything. “Fourth floor of the Jean Yawkey building under the auspices of something called Partners HealthCare.”
“Tell you what, why don’t you try your luck getting what you want out of them while I wait in the car?”
“And how would you feel if I came back with Tripp Van Dorn’s medical file?”
Harry shot a quick glance my way from behind the wheel. “Tell you what, you can tag along just so you at least feel useful.”
* * *
• • •
There was no lobby security station to check in at inside the sleek, modern Jean Yawkey building, so Harry and I simply rode the elevator to the offices of Partners HealthCare on the fourth floor.
“Why billing, Harry?” I asked him as we stepped into the cab, alone once the door slid closed.
“Watch and learn, smarty-pants.”
“I’d rather listen first.”
He smirked instead of scowled. “You’ll see. How’s it feel to be following my lead for a change?”
I saw him fish a badge and ID from the ever-present Go Kit he brought with him wherever he went.
“Just in case,” Harry said. “And with you ‘just in case’ seems to happen all the time.”
Harry hung a lanyard holding the cased badge around his neck, just as the cab door slid back open on the fourth floor. I said nothing as he approached a long reception counter.
“May I help you?” a smiling young woman in standard, as opposed to medical, dress asked, approaching us.
Harry stuck his badge out toward her, then flashed an ID. “Yes, I’m Cale Yarborough from the Department of Health and Human Services, and this is my assistant, Agnes Beasley. Unfortunately, I’m afraid your department has hit the lottery today.”
“I’m afraid I don’t under—”
“Let me explain, Ms. . . .”
“Chase, Vicky Chase.”
“Let me explain, Vicky. As I’m sure you’re aware, HHS regularly conducts random audits of different health-care providers going back ten years, and would you believe our system flagged one of yours from ten years ago. Could you direct me to whoever can access the records in question?”
“Well, Partners HealthCare didn’t even exist back then.”
“But once you did, you’d be legally required to maintain all records for ten years and transfer all archives to digital form. This particular flag came in just under the deadline. Your lucky day again, I suppose.”
Vicky Chase’s expression flashed the concern of an underling afraid she was about to get blamed for something. “Medical-billing archives are located down this hall, last door on the right. Should I tell them you’re coming?”
Harry actually smiled. “Good idea, Ms. Chase. Just don’t mention I can order a forensic audit of this entire department if need be. Don’t want to worry them, now, do we?”
* * *
• • •
A woman named France
s Drummond was waiting expectantly behind a waist-high counter when we entered the offices of the Billing Archives Department. In the old days, such records reservoirs would have rows and rows of color-coded patient file folders stored alphabetically in shelving that stretched from floor to ceiling, so high a ladder would be required to access them all. Today, not a single paper record or file was in evidence. Just Frances and two more workers facing the adjacent walls, clacking away at their keyboards and showing Harry and me, Cale Yarborough and Agnes Beasley, no interest at all.
“Mr. Yarborough,” Drummond greeted, as routinely as she could manage, “how can Billing Archives be of service to HHS?”
Harry flashed his badge again, more to show off for me, I think. “It’s the darndest thing, Frances, but we’ve encountered what we believe must be a glitch in the system. See, a routine audit of this hospital’s records by our computers turned up what appears to be a rather large billing discrepancy.”
“Do you have a case file for me?” she said, sidestepping closer to the computer resting atop the counter.
“No, Frances—that’s why we feel it may be a glitch, and they dispatched Mrs. Beasley and me to investigate further in person. I’m truly sorry for the intrusion and for the government wasting two perfectly good tickets on Amtrak to send us up here. It’s just policy. Nothing personal, you understand, given the stellar record Partners HealthCare maintains with HHS.”
“How about a name and date of admission?”
Harry tapped the counter dramatically. “Now, that I do have,” he said, smiling.
I think he’d smiled more in the past five minutes than I’d seen him do in the past five years.
“The name is Tripp Van Dorn.”
Harry pretended to consult a memo pad, which was almost the same as Mort’s, except for the fact that the pages were all blank save for a single date, before he responded with the date I’d provided him. I watched Frances Drummond enter a few commands, wait, and then enter a few more. From where I was standing, I could see her monitor springing to life, filled from edge to edge with something.
Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Page 17
