by Trace Conger
“What the fuck? Why don’t you turn that over to the police,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help them.”
“They’re not looking for anybody. It’s long cold now. You want something done right, you do it yourself. I’m keeping everything they send me because someday whoever is sending me this shit is going to slip up. Say the wrong thing or give me too much information. Give something away that’ll help me figure out who it is. Then I’m going to find them. What I did to Banks back there will be a fucking warm-up for these guys. It’ll make the national news when I get through with them. You’ll see it on TV and you’ll know I got them.
“Last year they sent me one of my daughter’s ballet slippers. It’s still got the scuff marks on it, from where they dragged her from the car.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s fucked up, that someone would do that.” I wanted to bury the gas pedal, drive to Brooke’s house, hug my daughter and not let go.
I glanced at the back seat. “But I still don’t get the duffle,” I said.
“When someone takes a part of you like that, all you see is red. All you want to do is fucking explode on the person who did it. You’ve got all this anger to get out, but you can’t because you don’t know what to do with it. So it builds up inside you, like a kettle on the stove. But there’s no spout, no whistle, so the pressure just builds and builds. That duffle and what’s inside it is my release. Every time I go after someone. Every time I look into someone’s eyes and start cutting or breaking or hitting, every time I slice that blade across someone’s skin and separate a piece of them, every time I get a little piece of my wife and daughter back. That duffle keeps me going, and it’ll keep me going until I find the people I need to find.”
I shifted in my seat, looked over my shoulder and caught the duffle again. I knew Little Freddie wasn’t right in the head, but I wished I hadn’t learned the backstory. Just knowing Little Freddie liked to torture people was sick enough, but knowing that he had a legitimate reason for doing it was something else.
TWO HOURS LATER I DROPPED off Little Freddie at his home on Orchard Avenue and took the long way home back to the marina. I pulled to a stop across from Brooke’s house. It was past one in the morning and the house was dark except for a dim glow from Becca’s room. Her moon-shaped nightlight. Becca was asleep in her bed, probably with the covers pulled up tight, cuddling her stuffed horse. I watched her window for a few minutes and then pulled away toward the marina and my own bed.
FOR YEARS I WORKED SKIP traces, insurance fraud, surveillance and infidelity cases. Even did a high-profile case for some local attorney who had an eight-hundred number and a stupid nickname. The Shark or something. It paid the bills, barely, and it was safe. It was also boring as hell. Then, I started taking on higher risk jobs that paid better. I liked the risk, but I liked the money more. I had to compete with those doctors Brooke brushed up against every day. The guys in white coats who waited for a chance to pounce on her. More risk, more reward.
My life changed the day I got a call from the Masterson Medical Group. Masterson Medical’s previous CEO went down in flames because the company failed to recall a batch of tainted painkillers. A dozen or more people dropped dead as a result, and once the FDA found evidence that the company deliberately held back the recall, they hit hard. Masterson’s board booted the CEO in the aftermath and promoted an interim CEO while they conducted a search for a formal replacement.
That’s when Glenn Cobb, the head of Masterson Medical’s board, called me and offered me five figures to dig up intel on the CEO candidate they were eyeing to run the company. Five figures, one job.
“What type of information are you looking for exactly?” I said.
“What type of information can you get?” said Cobb.
“Since you’re not hiring a line cook, I assume you’re looking for more than a routine background check.”
“I’m looking for skeletons,” said Cobb.
“I can look into his relatives and see if he’s got anyone close to him who might come back to bite Masterson Medical in the ass. A brother who’s a felon or something like that. I could dig into his education and confirm he’s got all the degrees he says he has. I’ll see if he’s ever used an alias and run a criminal background on those names to find any connections. Find out if he’s got any women on the side. I can make sure you really know the guy you’re hiring.”
Cobb paused. Hesitated. “That’s all good, but there’s one piece of information the board is particularly interested in.”
Here it comes. “What’s that?” I said.
“It’s no secret that our candidate, Robert Harris, had a short battle with cancer about four years ago. It’s one of the reasons he had to step down from his previous position. It was big news in pharma circles when it happened. It’s also no secret that he underwent aggressive therapy and is now in remission. That’s all public record. But, the board is interested in finding out the probability of recurrence. If we give Mr. Harris the keys to one of the largest pharma companies in the country, we need to ensure his health isn’t going to be an issue. We need to know he’s fit for the role.”
The American Cancer Society publishes average recurrence rates for certain types of cancers. It’s all available to the public, but this wasn’t what Cobb wanted.
“Are you asking me to secure Harris’ medical records?” I said.
Cobb hesitated again. “Yes, I am.”
I knew where Cobb was going. The board couldn’t legally ask Harris for his medical information, and medical records are protected by law, so there’s no legal means to get them. But the company was taking a huge financial risk on this guy. There’s probably a New York Yankees-sized signing bonus in the contract, and if their new CEO drops dead from cancer twelve months into his gig, the company takes a huge hit. Plus, Masterson Medical produced several cancer drugs, and if their new leader died from the same disease their products fight, even if he had a different form of cancer, it would be a PR nightmare.
“If you’re so concerned about his health, why not just go with another candidate?” I said.
“We’re confident he’s our guy. Not only is Mr. Harris uniquely qualified to run the company, but he also has certain political connections Masterson needs to further its research and development efforts.”
“I want to be certain we’re on the same page here. You’re asking me to acquire Harris’ medical records and turn them over to you?”
“We’re only interested in his recent medical records, scripts and treatments. Not looking for his entire history. I know this is in the gray; that’s why we’re prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars for your expertise.”
The cash wasn’t only for the work. It was to stay the fuck quiet. The gig walked a fine line, which is why he wanted to hire an out-of-state investigator. He wanted some distance between the investigator and the mark, and there were a lot of miles between Cincinnati and Manhattan. While it was technically illegal, it was minor illegal. It’s not like they paid me to kick someone around or kidnap a child. At the end of the day, they wanted protected information. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I decided to take the offer and told Cobb I’d get the medical records within the week.
MOST MEDICAL RECORDS ARE STORED digitally, usually at the treating healthcare facility. There’s also an organization called the Medical Information Bureau, established by insurance companies to share medical information. It’s the healthcare equivalent of the credit reporting bureaus. The Medical Information Bureau stores all sorts of medical info on consumers, and insurance companies use this information to determine whom they accept or reject for insurance. The database has a legitimate use, but it’s also a potential entry point for hackers. I could pay a hacker to get into the Medical Information Bureau’s system, but there was no guarantee that the bureau has any information on Harris, so it was a shot in the dark. Depending on the security involved, a hacker might be able to crack into Harris’ hospital records, but since I
was going to be on the wrong side of the law, I didn’t need anyone else on board who could roll on me.
I decided on a simple approach. Cobb mentioned that the pharma trade press covered Harris’ cancer fight. It didn’t take long to find the archived coverage online. It was four years ago and, according to the press, he was in remission. The article mentioned the hospital in New York City, where Harris received treatment. I assumed if he’d received follow-up treatment, he got it there.
For as private as they’re supposed to be, it took only a single legal form to get Harris’ medical records. A healthcare power of attorney form. People trust their attorneys to do all sorts of shit. That shit includes medical decisions. Using a healthcare power of attorney form, someone can empower their attorney to make medical decisions on their behalf. Or access their medical records.
Cobb got me a digital copy of Harris’ signature from some paperwork he’d filed with Masterson Medical. I transferred the signature onto a New York healthcare power of attorney form and completed the form, using an alias, Roger Mathers, as the healthcare agent. Then, I forged signatures for two witnesses. No notary is required in New York.
I sent the form to the hospital, where Robert Harris received treatment. In legit cases, a patient’s physician would need to know about the power of attorney, but I wasn’t getting involved in treatment, just the records. A few days later, I drove to New York and visited the hospital with a suit, a fake driver’s license with Roger Mathers’ name on it and a copy of the power of attorney form. Fifteen minutes after walking in, I walked out with my suit jacket under one arm and copies of Harris’ medical records under the other. I met Cobb at a café near Union Square. I gave him the records and he gave me my cash.
IT TURNED OUT THAT HARRIS took certain medications that made the Masterson Medical board nervous, and they went with another candidate. Harris was pissed and filed a complaint with the state, accusing Masterson Medical of discrimination as a result of his treatment. Turns out he thought he was the best guy for the job and assumed, correctly, that Masterson made their decision based on his medical history. It was a huge case in pharma circles and during the investigation, Cobb admitted hiring me to pull the records. The state investigated me for fraud, but I covered my tracks. My name wasn’t on the power of attorney form and no one could tie me to Roger Mathers, the name on the form. The woman I spoke with in the records department the day I picked up the file couldn’t provide my description. No airline tickets or credit card purchase placed me in New York, and the cash that Cobb gave me was untraceable. No large cash deposits on my end. I was in the clear.
As far as criminal cases go, they had shit. But the Ohio Department of Public Safety didn’t need the same amount of evidence as law enforcement. Just like physicians and attorneys, private investigators are licensed by the state. Fuck up enough and the state pulls your license.
The Ohio Department of Public Safety convened a disciplinary panel and interviewed me. While they interviewed me at their office, one of the panel members excused himself and called Brooke at our home. He asked her where I was over the dates in question. Unaware I was being investigated for anything, she told them I was in New York. That, combined with Cobb’s admission that he hired me to conduct an illegal activity, was all they needed to yank my private investigator license and run me out of business. Violation of ethics. Knowingly accepting employment, which includes obtaining information intended for illegal purposes. It’s right there in the Ohio Revised Code 4749. Thanks to my decision to help the Masterson Medical Group, I’d fucked up enough. The State of Ohio pulled my license, stamped a big “Fuck You” on my forehead, and ensured I’d never make a dime as a private investigator again.
Not legally anyway.
I ARRIVED AT THE SPRING Lodge at 9 a.m. to find my father sitting on a bench next to the front door, two suitcases on the ground.
“They made you wait outside?” I said. “They must really hate you.”
“Fuck ‘em. I’m sick of this place.”
“You know, you could’ve just called me. We could’ve found another place. Did you have to get thrown out?”
Albert stood up. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I helped him into the passenger side. “Really? You grabbed her ass?”
He buckled his seat belt. “Funny, I thought you’d bring up the punch first,” he said. “Thought that was the bigger offense.”
“Actually, it doesn’t surprise me that you’d punch someone, but I didn’t take you for a pervert.”
“I’m no pervert. It just slipped is all. You’d have grabbed her ass too, if you saw it. It was spectacular. Did I mention she was Asian?”
I tossed my father’s suitcases in the back of the SUV. “Does it really matter, Dad?”
“Hey, speaking of fine asses, how’s your ex? You two get back together yet?”
I closed the lift gate. “I’m not ready to talk about her. Besides, I don’t think it’s in the books.” I peered through the front door of the Spring Lodge. “Do I need to go in and see Diane? To sign you out or something?”
“Let’s just go. Nothing left to do here.”
“What about the rest of your stuff?”
“Room’s furnished. The bags are all I have. Don’t you remember? You moved me in.”
I did move him in and I knew the room was furnished. I just didn’t want to admit to myself that all of my father’s belongings fit in two medium-sized suitcases.
I looked into the lobby again. “I feel like I should apologize or something. Kinda feel bad that you felt up a nurse and punched an orderly.”
Albert stuck his head out the passenger door. “He wasn’t an orderly,” he said. “Just some asshole who works here. He had it coming anyway. Heard he stole a gold watch from 16-B. Just a matter of time before he stole something from me. Now he won’t get the chance.”
I climbed back into the driver’s seat. We pulled out of the parking lot and left the Spring Lodge behind us for the last time.
“Where are you living now? You still in that crappy apartment?”
“Nope,” I said. “Got a nice place on the water.”
ALBERT AND I WALKED DOWN to Dock F. He grabbed my shoulder to steady his legs as its planks swayed under us.
“I’m not liking this,” he said.
“Should have thought about that before getting kicked out of the lodge.”
His grip on my shoulder tightened. “Had I known you lived on a boat, I might have rethunk it. When the hell did you buy this thing?”
“I’m renting. It’s temporary.”
I tossed the suitcases into the back of the boat, climbed in and reached out to help my father. He started to step in, looked at the water below and eased back onto the dock.
“I can’t stay here,” he said.
“Why not? It’s no Graceland, but it’ll do until we find you something else.”
“I don’t like boats. You know I can’t swim.”
I moved the suitcases into the salon. “What do you mean you can’t swim? What about Grandpa’s place in Maine?”
In the sixties, my grandfather bought a one-acre island on Meddybemps Lake, near the eastern coast of Maine. About a half hour’s ride from Eastport. It had a cabin with three bedrooms and a boathouse. There was a small shack on the south side of the island that used to be an icehouse. My grandfather converted that into a small bedroom, so he didn’t have to be in the main cabin with the rest of the family.
The entire property was nothing to write home about, but we always got a kick out of saying we owned an island in Maine. We’d spend a few weeks every summer, hiking, canoeing and fishing. And we were always in the water, my father included.
He looked down at the river. “Maine was different,” he said. “Water was waist deep. And I could always see the bottom. I can’t see the bottom here.”
“It’s the Ohio River, Dad. You couldn’t see the bottom if you were sitting on it.” I extended my hand again. “Now, come on.�
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“Don’t matter. Don’t like boats and I don’t like the water. What if a wave knocks me overboard? I’ll drown. Or maybe you’re gone and the boat floats away. What am I supposed to do then?”
“Dad, we’re not in the ocean. No waves. And we’re tethered to the dock. You won’t be floating anywhere.”
My father’s fear of the water aside, he wasn’t the only one concerned about our living accommodations. The boat was fine for me and for the occasional sleepover with Becca, but it was no floating palace. Not fit for two grown men. But for now it had to do. I grabbed my father’s hand and pulled him onto the back of the boat.
“Welcome aboard, mate,” I said tossing him a sun-bleached orange life preserver from the rear storage compartment. “You do realize this is God’s way of punishing you for grabbing an Asian woman’s ass, right?”
“You’re an asshole.”
FAT SAM WAS PICKING UP breakfast, when Bishop’s office door swung open and almost tore from its hinges. Rollo Watkins walked into the room, flanked by two men in suits that looked painted on. Bishop sprang up from his desk chair.
Rollo held up his hand. “Don’t get up, Bishop,” he said. “This won’t take long.” Bishop sat back down and Rollo took a chair across from the desk. His two men stood by the door, their right thumbs tucked into their belts, providing quick access to anything under their jackets.
Bishop crossed his legs. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have ordered breakfast,” he said. “You want a drink or something?”
“Nah, we’re good.”
“So what brings you by?” Bishop motioned to the brown leather duffle bag near his office safe. “Sam was going to deliver your money this afternoon, like usual.”
