“A pickle jar, I bet you.”
“No, Rick, I don’t think so. So Emma tells the girl to go get her supervisor, and then when the girl leaves, Emma puts everything in a bag and runs out of the clinic with it.”
“Lena, that’s—that’s—”
“Horrible. I know. Can you imagine?”
Rick stared past me to the wall, though there was nothing there to look at. “It’s wonderful.”
“Rick? Wonderful?”
“It’s just the dramatic possibilities. It would make a hell of a play, although God, nobody would ever believe something like that could happen—”
“Rick—”
“A play, Lena. I need to write a play. And then direct it.”
“And star in it too?”
“Lena, I’m serious.”
“I know you are, and so am I.”
“We need to get a line on this doctor.”
He turned to his computer, and I stared up at the ceiling and waited for him to spout information.
“I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee,” I said, but I don’t think he heard me. His fingers were moving across the keyboard, though every little while he stopped to make a note. I wasn’t sure about the ethics of him writing a play about all of this, but I figured that I could worry about that later.
“I need to see this basement,” Rick said.
One thing we agreed on.
While the coffeepot sputtered and steamed, I went into what Rick liked to call my office, a bare room with a large desk, a rug, and a laptop computer that was used by the staff when they overflowed their own desks. I wondered if, like everybody else in the world these days, Dr. Theodore Tundridge had a Web page. He didn’t, but his clinic did. I looked at the staff pictures and their bios. There was a family photo, of Tundridge and his wife and kids. Four kids, which surprised me for some reason. The kids looked happy.
They actually had the clinic consent form online, buried in their brochure.
It opened with the statement that patient privacy was a “priority.” A preening statement made it clear that the clinic followed federal guidelines (found in the Code of Federal Regulations at 45 CFR §§ 164.500 et seq.). I had no idea what et seq. meant. It then pointed out, quite reasonably, that health care information would be used for the normal business known as health care operations. I wondered who wrote this stuff.
Health care operations included treatment, duh, payment, no doubt, and then a repeat of that catch-all phrase, “health care operations.” The most interesting part, as far as I was concerned, came under “information we share without your signed consent.” There seemed to be quite a few of these instances. I counted twelve. None of them involved treatment or payment. The good of public health was cited, so that diseases and medical devices could be tracked. Then came the protection of victims of abuse or neglect.
The next category was federal and state health oversight activities such as fraud investigations. I puzzled over that one a minute, then moved on to judicial and administrative proceedings, and then to “if required by law or for law enforcement.” Next came the coroners, medical examiners, and funeral directors, and after that organ donation. I wondered if that meant voluntary or involuntary.
Another possible use was to avert serious threats to public health or safety. Evidently, the writer of this list had seen some of the disaster movies on Ebola.
The next entry was creepy. “For specialized government functions such as military, national security, intelligence, and protective service.” Did they put this in before or after the government created the Department of Homeland Security?
They’d also fork over the info to Workers’ Compensation, if you were injured on the job, and they’d rat you out to your correctional institution if you were an inmate.
It was the last entry that got my attention: “For research, following strict internal review to ensure protection of information.”
Under their responsibilities I found the following outrageous statement: “We reserve the right to change privacy practices, and make the new practices effective for all the information we maintain.” Under patient rights, I did find that one could request that the clinic restrict how they used or disclosed one’s medical information, but that was followed with “We may not be able to comply with all requests.”
And even though you were entitled to an accounting of how your medical information was disclosed, excluded from this accounting were disclosures for treatment, payment, health care operations (again), and some required disclosures.
You could, however, receive a paper copy of the privacy notice even if you’d already received it electronically.
Generous.
I printed copies of the brochure along with staff pictures and bios and picked up the phone. Rick had several lines coming into the office, and I inadvertently interrupted two phone calls before I got Emma Marsden.
“It’s Lena, Emma.”
“Have you seen the papers?” Her voice was thick. She’d been crying.
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s nasty.”
“They ran it on the local news at noon. I probably shouldn’t have watched.”
“How could you not? Besides, you need to know what you’re up against. I question how much use the tape is, anyway. It doesn’t mean anything. It really has no relation to the case at all.”
“They’re using it as proof that I’m a bad mother.”
“We’ll fight it. The first thing the police have to do is establish that it really was you. But what interests me is that it was taken at all. I don’t guess you saw—”
“Do you really think I’d have carried on like that if I thought it was being taped?”
“No. But what about Clayton? Is he the type to—”
“No. He never did anything like that while we were together. And he had no reason to expect anything like that would happen. Who would?”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Emma. People have sex with their exes all the time. You had a nice dinner together, you remembered the good things and the time together with your son. It’s not so strange.”
“It was like that. Like you say.”
“The worst thing you can do is apologize. I say admit it was you and brazen it out.”
“Like Scarlett O’Hara and the red dress?”
“Just like that. Chin up and all that. So you had sex in a car. Most people have. What I really want to know is who filmed you. Was this before or after Tundridge made his allegation?”
“You’re thinking it was him?”
“He could have hired somebody.”
“It happened before that business down in the clinic basement, over Ned’s … parts. It was weeks before he made his accusation. I honestly think he accused me of the Munchausen’s thing just to get me off his back over him having retained my son’s organs for the chamber of horrors he likes to call research.”
“I agree. But there’s got to be some reason somebody made that tape. Do you think somebody has been … I don’t know, watching you? Stalking you for some reason?”
“No, no. No calls, no weirdos hanging out at the shopping centers just when I happen to go there. Really, I’d notice something like that. I have a very pretty teenage daughter, I’m always on guard.”
“And you and Clayton. You weren’t in any kind of legal tangle, where he might like to have something to discredit you with?”
“Not at all. Clayton isn’t nearly as bad as you seem to think he is.”
“Few people are as bad as I think they are. Many are worse.” Time to move on. “Look, I’ve got the Web page up, on the clinic. I need to know who you talked to there. And what you know about anybody on the staff. Do you have time tomorrow afternoon to go over this with me?”
“Sure. Maybe I can get hold of Amaryllis Burton. She’s on the staff, she might have something for us. She called me already today over the newspaper story. She’s sympathetic to the cause. Even to the point of losing her job, if she’s not careful.”
I
looked back at the Web page, scrolling. “Amaryllis?”
“Amaryllis Burton. She’s some kind of nursing assistant. She and I are kind of friends. She lost a son too, liver disease, just like Ned. Tundridge treated her child like he did mine, and she wound up volunteering in the subsidized part of the clinic, you know, just to get out of herself and heal from her loss. She counseled a lot of us who lost children. She’s been working there for—I guess it must be seven or eight years now.”
“She’s not on the Web page.”
“She’s worked there for years.”
“You think she’d talk to us?”
“I know she would.”
“Set it up, then, and let me know when she’s coming.”
“Done. And thanks, Lena.”
“Sure.” One of the biggest parts of my job is professional side-taking. Equalizer for hire.
I was checking the balance on my bank account when I heard Rick call my name. Depressing, really. As soon as the check to the vet cleared, there would be enough in there to pay the banking fees, barely. It was no way to live.
“Lena Bina?”
I never come when I’m called. Eventually Rick remembered this, and stuck his head around the doorframe.
“Interesting things coming up, if you’d care to join me.”
“Sure. I made coffee.”
“Always an event, when you’re domestic.”
The printer in Rick’s office was clattering away when I followed him inside. We both had fresh cups of coffee, mine with cream, his black, and he had that kind of arching-up way of walking he gets when he feels like he’s done something clever. I hoped he had.
He turned—actually, he twirled—and looked at me right after he got behind his desk.
“It’s all about research with this guy, isn’t it? Keeping the body parts and all that?”
I wanted to make a remark about the twirl, but it would interrupt the flow of information, so I resisted.
“Lena, are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am. All about the flow of information.”
“What?”
“Research, I mean. All about research.”
“I found an abstract published by Dr. Theodore Tundridge in the New England Journal of Medicine.”
“The New England Journal of Medicine? That’s so legit.”
“This guy is legit. But listen, Lena. And maybe you better sit down.”
I sat down, clutching my cup of coffee. It was too hot to drink, so I blew on the top.
“The name of the paper is ‘Unusual and Valuable Viral Antibodies.’ It describes the blood of patient X, a young male, aged twenty-nine months, who died of liver failure. In analyzing the child’s blood to determine the cause of his illness and eventual death, Dr. Theodore Tundridge discovered these extraordinary antibodies. His assumption is that the antibodies were formed to deal with some type of toxin the child was being exposed to, and though the child is deceased from liver failure, he is continuing to run tests on stored tissues.”
“Oh, lord, Rick. You think it’s Ned Marsden? You think Emma’s child is patient X?”
Rick folded his arms and rocked from side to side in his chair. “I went through death notices from the time of the publication, which was eight months ago, and two years before, and then to the present. No other child of that exact age died in Lexington except Ned Marsden. So unless he was treating a child from another state, which is possible, I guess, Ned Marsden is patient X.”
“How strange.”
“It gets better, Lena. He’s patented the genetic material from the blood of patient X.”
“Patented it? Can he do that?”
Rick nodded. “He sure can. And if he hasn’t sold it to some pharmaceutical company for millions of bucks, he will, believe me.”
“But why all this crap with Emma? Why accuse her … you think because he doesn’t want a lawsuit and a legal investigation when he’s in the process of making a deal?”
“Yeah, maybe. Also, consider he might want access to the sibling. Emma Marsden has another child, right? A daughter?”
“Oh, of course. Emma Marsden agrees to take parenting classes for Child Protective Services, and to let Dr. Tundridge do regular exams on Blaine, which will no doubt include tissue and blood samples … and maybe she’ll have the same genetic materials as her half-brother.” I leaned back in my chair. “God, Rick, that’s wonderful.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because Emma Marsden can sue his sorry ass, that’s why. He can’t just patent her child’s genetic material; it doesn’t belong to him. He didn’t have permission.”
“Lena, she could sue all she’d want, and she’d lose. There’s precedent, believe me. Who do you think has Karen Silkwood’s bones? You remember her? The antinuclear protester?”
“Somebody has her bones?”
“The Los Alamos lab she was challenging.”
“I just read the clinic consent form. It pretty much gives them permission to do anything they damn well please.”
“Well, they take the high road. At least they get permission.”
I put my head in my hands, thinking. “It’s still good, Rick. We can show that Tundridge is not some concerned doctor looking after an abused patient. We can prove he’s got ulterior motives.”
Rick leaned forward. “I suppose you could go through channels, Lena. I’m sure in two or three years, maybe even several months with any luck, and with the help of a good attorney, Emma Marsden can get Child Protective Services, and the cops and Dr. Tundridge, off her back.”
“I don’t go through channels, Rick. That’s why people hire me. Simple solutions for complicated times.”
CHAPTER TEN
I listened for a minute to the engine of the BMW. I loved the way it sounded. I remembered the Mazda 626 I used to have, and the oil leak that no mechanic had been able to repair, and how I had to put a quart of oil in every three weeks, and be careful not to park in the driveways of my friends, so as not to leave large oil stains for them to remember me by.
I told myself that driving a BMW might well be a temporary phase of my life.
I took Man of War to Tundridge Road and found the clinic close to Jesse Clark Junior High, on the opposite side of the street. It was a red brick building, one story, very new, the parking lot freshly paved. The lot was full, with a large section reserved for staff. There were three spaces for doctors, and one of them was marked “Tundridge.” A navy Volvo was parked in his spot. So he was there.
I noticed a small gas station and food market next to the parking lot, so I drove over and bought a small disposable camera. I wasn’t sure if I would use it, but I wanted to have it just in case.
The reception area was thinly carpeted, and very clean, and the girl behind the front desk wore a stiff white lab coat with her name, Janet, embroidered on the pocket in pink cursive.
She smiled at me from behind a sliding glass window and pointed to a white pad that listed names. One of those tie-down pens rested near the pad of paper, and a glass cylinder held lollipops of various flavors. I hesitated between cherry and grape and finally went with the cherry.
I glanced over my shoulder. The waiting room was crowded. Mothers, and some fathers, and a heaving mass of small children. Some of them sat in laps, some of them played with a set of blocks, some looked at books. One was rolling on the floor, and another was climbing to the top of a couch. The noise level was impressive.
“My name is Lena Padget, and I’d like to see Dr. Tundridge, if possible.”
The smile left Janet’s face, and she glanced at the list of names.
I raised my voice. I wanted to make sure Janet could hear me, and if the parents in the waiting room overheard, I didn’t mind.
“I’m not a patient—Janet, is it? I don’t have an appointment. I’m here representing Emma Marsden. I’m a private detective, and she’s my client. You do know who Emma Marsden is? Her child, Ned, two and a half, was Dr. Tundridge’s patient. I’m
sure you remember Ned. He died of liver failure.” I was aware of heads turning behind me, and I heard one woman hushing her child so she could hear. “If you’ll recall, Dr. Tundridge accused Ms. Marsden of Munchausen by proxy—that’s where a mother makes her own child ill—when Ms. Marsden objected to Dr. Tundridge keeping Ned’s internal organs in the pathology lab you guys have down in the basement.”
Janet was on her feet, face very pink. “Would you please have a seat, Ms. Padget? I’ll have someone out to help you in just one moment. Just sit down, and I’ll be right back.”
I smiled. My pleasure.
I sat in the middle of a row of chairs, making myself available to talk.
The mother whose little girl was rolling under the chairs scooped her daughter up and sat down beside me.
“Excuse me for butting in, but I couldn’t help but overhear what you said up there. Are you saying that Dr. Tundridge keeps children’s organs in a lab down in the basement?”
I had the attention of every adult in the room.
“That’s right. You can imagine how my client was very upset when she got a call from the clinic asking her to either come get them or pay a storage fee. She had no idea at all that the organs had been removed from her child’s body. You can understand how she felt.”
A man and a woman scooped up their toddler and headed to the reception desk. The man crossed a name out on the list, and the three of them left the office.
Janet appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Padget, could you come with me?”
I stood up and followed her down the hall.
I went slowly, looking at the line of examining rooms, studying the faces of the staff as they walked by.
“This is Mr. French,” Janet said, and left me at the door of a small office where a large pear-shaped man sat behind a walnut desk. He stood up when he saw me. He wore a white lab coat, and like Janet, his name, Mr. French, was etched in pink thread.
When Secrets Die Page 10
