Continental Attack: Murder and Mayhem in Detroit's Auto Industry

by Mike Cunningham

  "Thank you for your time, Mrs Sweichek," replied Ken, "You say she went down to Madison Avenue late?"

  "Yes, I heard her arranging a parking spot before she left, so she didn't have to leave her car out in the open."

  The two cops were silent as they rolled south once more, heading for the office block which contained the headquarters of Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno. Rising up swiftly in the elevator, Ken and Brad stepped out on to a thick carpet and a hushed atmosphere, all carefully generated to let visitors know that important decisions were taken every minute, at one of the top agencies on the Avenue. The receptionist, unused to seeing uniformed policemen in her area, straightened , and asked, "Can we help, Officers?"

  "Yes, Miss, we would like to see the person who is now running the Continental Account, after Mrs. Klein's unfortunate accident."

  "Ahh, well Bob, Bob Webster, he has been given that account, but unfortunately he is not available. He's called in sick today. Sorry! Will his second team man do?"

  "And who might that be, Miss?"

  "Tynan, John Tynan. He worked very closely with Allison on the Continental account before she, er, well,.."

  "That's okay, Miss; if we could maybe have a word with this Mr. Tynan?"

  Waiting in the reception area while John Tynan was unearthed, the two policemen finally were hailed by an Australian accent, "G'dday, Officers; how can I help you? "

  "We were wondering if you could shed some light on a small problem which we have, up in the 95th Precinct, sir. Would you be able to dig out, from your files, the results of the survey completed by Dawson, French and Peabody, on the Continental account. There seems to be a small discrepancy, and we need this information to close our investigation."

  "May I ask what connection there can possibly be between a poll for an auto company, and a criminal investigation?"

  "You may definitely ask, Mr. Tynan, but we don't release that sort of information to the public. Will you produce this information, or do we have to get a court order?"

  "Hell, Officer, er, Melchek, no need to wheel out the artillery, I only wonder if I can find the item in question. With Allison gone, things are a little chaotic around here, and Bob Webster is not known for being the tidiest of guys, but we shall try. Come with me, gentlemen!" The statistician moved through the busy office, followed by the two uniformed officers, ending up in a corner office, where the gilded paint still announced, 'Allison Klein' to all. He walked in, and started flipping through the stack of computer discs which were piled around the desk computer. He finally sorted two out, then a third, switched the machine on and checked out the discs, one by one, for the directory and file names. He nodded, and said, these are the ones, officers. Would you like to see what they say?" At the two nods, he racked in a database set-up, loaded in the three discs, one by one, then accessed them into the main database, then started to explain the graphs and charts that were displayed, as he played with the keys.

  As he ran through the information on the display, Ken finally asked, "You are saying that, according to your computer, the levels of acceptance, is that the right term, for the Continental range are a bit lower than you would expect, but well within normal tolerances. You base this on your own knowledge of how people react to your adverts?"

  "Exactly right, Officer Melchek. We have a copybook set of answers, which is what we have sent to Continental Autos; er, yes, thats noted here, on Bob's diary, with a small drift down from what I would normally expect. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

  "Something like that, Mr. Tynan. May we have copies of the discs? Strictly in confidence?"

  "How do you mean, Officer? asked the ad worker.

  "Well, it's like this, Mr. Tynan. What we are asking is, can you get us a set of copies, and not say anything to anybody; in other words, keep our request entirely confidential?"

  Shrugging, John Tynan came out of the database, kicked in the DOS manipulation pack, and produced three disc copies for the two policemen in five minutes, told them what package they would need to access the information, and escorted them to the door. As the two patrolmen moved their cruiser away, and after Brad had logged back on to patrol duty, Ken said, "I gotta persuade Claudia that we should talk!", then instantly regretted it as his partner broke into a broad grin. "Leave me be, Brad, it's not that at all. Did you hear what that Tynan guy said, 'A copy book set of answers. That definitely ain't what Claudia said to her Momma about Allison Klein before she did her disappearing act. She said, if I remember Mrs. Crickell's exact words, 'the poor woman just did not believe the survey results.' Now Allison Klein was supposed to be one of the best in her game, and if she didn't believe the survey, and John Tynan says everything is great, we got ourselves a little anomaly!"

  Still grinning, Brad asked, "This anomaly, do we stuff it, mount it or wear it?"

  "Asshole!" grunted Ken, his mind whirring, "You gotta admit, Brad, when one expert looks at a survey, which has cost two hundred grand, and says 'great', and another looks at the same data, and starts seeing big problems, there is somepun real fishy around the pond!"

  Chapter 13

  The Sunshine Home for Seniors, a retirement complex on the edge of St. Petersburg, in Florida, had its' own medical area, part of the package which encouraged retiring couples to invest their savings and pensions in, as the brochure claimed, 'the best-equipped, safest and friendliest home in the Retirement capital of America'. The planners had indeed spared no expense, as there was a resident medical teamon call, as well as daytime nursing care and regular medical check-ups for all of the people who could afford the fees which helped the complex run, and paid the dividends of the investors. A middle-aged blonde nurse, on her scheduled evening check in the clinic section, paused and briefly checked if there was anyone awake around her, then opened up her purse and lifted out an glass ampoule, labelled>SleepEze=, a well-known proprietary sedative compound. After loading a syringe with the contents of the ampoule, she approached the bedside of the only occupant of the clinic that night, ensuring that she did not disturb the sleeping occupant, and gently inserted the syringe needle into a feed point directly below the nearly empty drip sac, which was held above the arm of the sleeping patient. A slow pressure deposited all the contents into the drip line, and from there, by simple gravity feed, into the arterial system of James Leary, a man who had only joined the Sunshine Home a matter of weeks ago. His pension was paid, into his checking account, every month on the dot from Grand Rapids, but of course would cease on his death. He would be missed, mainly because he was a real nice guy. The nurse, who had previously ensured that Leary would be in the clinic by slipping a selected stimulant into his afternoon coffee, and therefore giving him the classic early symptoms of a heart attack, placed the empty ampoule and the syringe back into her shoulder purse, patted the man gently on the shoulder, and faded back towards the medical rest room.

  ------------- '---------------

  Quintana Cruce was a fourth year student at the Detroit Memorial medical school, where she was hoping to specialise in cardiovascular problems. She, and two others, were supposed to be checking the chemistry of a blood specimen, taken from a corpse, so that they would learn how to check for abnormalities in the systems of future patients, on the basis of check a normal specimen first, then determine which contaminant had been introduced by their fiendishly clever instructor. The only trouble was that Quintana was doing the work alone, as the other two had decided that a session of horizontal callisthenics was more inviting than working in a boring laboratory. She therefore had no-one to consult with when the read -out stated the presence of two chemicals which should not be present in an ordinary human body. One seemed to be a form of co-agulant, which would mask the presence of the second from the blood in which it was carried. The second chemical was the one which defied most of the detection and analysis software in the computerised system she was using, and was the one which would have given the symptoms of a heart attack, but she just did not have the knowledge to isola
te and identify the compound.

  Her mentor, Professor Jardine H. Simms, had been awarded the title 'Asshole of the Year' very shortly after he had taken tenure as senior Cardiovascular Professor at Memorial, and it was widely rumoured that he had fought off severe competition to keep his title for the next four years running. The young student, who was indeed very lovely, approached his desk with some trepidation, and knocked cautiously on the cabinet near the entrance to his lair. Jardine Simms, who in reality was the nearest thing in the whole University to a raging closet sex maniac, glanced up at her figure and face, mentally howled at the sky, and snarled, "What the hell you want?" He was surrounded all day long by gorgeous women, some of whom were so ripe he could almost smell them, had of course taken the only view possible, as a man with a very alert wife, of keeping 'never screw around at work' as his bible the day he started at Memorial, and was therefore the most obnoxious when around any of the fairer sex, which was usually all the time.

  Quintana moved back a full pace, then gathered her courage, and simply stated that she could not identify the compound which the Professor had introduced into the blood sample. "What the hell are you squawking about?" snarled the professor, as his thoughts raced around her breasts and body, "I haven't given you the contaminant samples yet. Your blood sample is clean. Goddam students; can't even work a machine that is foolproof! Give me strength!" He rose, and strode out, determined to get rid of this ultra disturbing young female, and stopped at the computerised blood analysis apparatus, asking, "where are the others?"

  Blushing, Quintana replied that the two team members had not come back from lunch, so she had decided to start without them. The Professor glared at her, realising that the other two were probably screwing each other at that very moment, which made things worse for himself. He took the remains of the sample, marked 'José Martinez' and started up the process, determined to get rid of this malign influence on his day as quickly as possible, but came up against the same stumbling block as Quintana. Knowing a great deal more about the workings of the analyzer, he kicked in the add-on software pack, which he had been persuaded to buy by a bright salesman, and fed in the contaminant, then waited for a result. When the answer was displayed on the screen, he stared at the name for maybe twenty seconds without moving, slowly turned to Quintana, and for the first time in his sojourn at the University, smiled into her startled eyes. "Miss Cruce, please accept my apologies, you are right, there is a contaminant in the blood, in fact there are two; but you knew that. The first is a polymer, a derivative of glucose, and this was introduced to mask and delay the effects of the second item, identified by the package as 'fugu' poison. It is distilled from the Japanese Blowfish, and is uniformly deadly to the human nervous system. If anyone gets a whack of this, the symptoms are remarkably similar to a massive heart attack, but unless the paralysis, which is part of the problem, is treated, the patient shall die. His heart is perfectly normal, his brain just gets the wrong signals. This man was murdered! Where did we get the corpse from?"

  -------------'---------------

  Detective Moses O'Rourke sat waiting for his partner to finish her coffee before heading out on a routine call, when his phone rang, " Detective O'Rourke here" he stated, and was duly surprised to find himself speaking to the Professor of CardioVascular Medicine at the Memorial University Medical school. "Yes sir, what can I do for you?"

  The professor was blunt, "Detective, when we receive a corpse for dissection, we do not expect to find that the cause of death was murder, murder by poison to be specific!"

  "Corpse, Professor, whose corpse was that, if I might ask?"

  "The tags and history here reads the man was named José Martinez, died four days ago, diagnosis heart attack. But this guy died from an Oriental poison, delayed by chemical means. What the sonsabitches did, officer, was to give this guy an injection, or something, which would only act about four hours after he was first hit. His brain then seized up, everyone thought he had a massive heart attack, he died and his remains came to us. We shall send over the report, and all the details. Sorry to tell you this, Detective, but someone nearly committed the perfect murder!"

  After the medical man had finished giving him all the details over the phone, the big black man sat at his desk, tapping the file which he had pulled from the cabinet, then dialled out the number for the firm of Attorneys listed on the page. When the standard announcement came through the line," LaCroix, Unity and Sender, Attorneys. How can I help?"

  "I'd like to speak with one of your attorneys, a Ms. Alicia Devon. I am with the Detroit police, and she was representing a suspect here at the Central division."

  "I'm sorry, Detective; are you sure you have the right firm of attorneys? We have no Alicia Devon working here, as an attorney, or anything else for that matter. Are you positive she said LaCroix, Unity and Sender?"

  "Thank you for your help, miss, it seems as though there has been a mistake!" said the big detective, waiting for his partner, before going in to confess to the Precinct Commander that there had been a murder committed right in the middle of the division building, and no-one had caught on until a young student started doing a routine test on the dead man's blood.

  ------------- '---------------

  As it was Friday, Joe had a backlog of work to plough through before he could get away to start his weekend at the little cabin where his father used to tell tales about fishing. He was engrossed in his piles of paper when he glanced at the next memo on the list, and stopped short. The memo concerned computer and data protection, and was a request that all senior staff personally change their access codes, in conjunction with the senior systems analyst, as the date for change was due. The whole company had been in a turmoil about four years back, with unauthorised access to confidential files being commonplace. There had been an upheaval, mainly because some information had in fact been sold to a competitor; and all staff had regular code changes, with double checks on the more confidential files. Joseph reached for his phone, keyed out, and was speaking to the systems specialist in seconds. "Buddy, its Joe, Joe Kozcinski here, can I make an appointment to change my passwords early next week?"

  "Sure," came the reply, "wish everyone was like you, and called up early. They wouldn't find themselves locked out of the network. Monday morning suit you, Joe?"

  "That's fine by me, Buddy; see you then!"

  He moved on, determined to clear the pile in front of his eyes, but he also knew that Alex was leaving her work early, so only completed a small lump before shovelling the remainder of the paper pile into a tray. Lifting the portable computer which normally rested on his back table, Joe closed his case, called farewell to his secretary, and walked away from his desk, and down to his car. As he had not allowed the jockey to take his car for service and cleaning, it was slightly grubby from normal road grime, but he was reasonably certain that no-one had any opportunity to place any devices on his car, as he had not been convinced by the negative search of his auto by the Detroit police. The Marketing V.P. wheeled his Stiletto out from the carpark, and within five minutes had joined the early Friday traffic outward bound from the city. He wheeled in to his drive thirty minutes later, and was met by Alex, laden with two grips full of weekend supplies. He kissed his wife, stacked the luggage in the car, went in to the house to quickly dress in casual clothing, then, after checking the house was all locked and closing the garage door on Alex' car, dropped into his big car where Alex was already waiting, and slowly drove away, keeping a wary eye on possible trailing traffic.

  Three hours later, the headlights of the big Stiletto illuminated the gateway leading up to the cabin, and Joe carefully manoeuvred the big car up the narrow track, along the last mile before they reached their goal. Alex, who had fallen asleep for the last hour of the drive, sat knuckling her eyes as Joe parked the car beside the cabin wall, and switched off the engine. Forty minutes later, the two had a fire blazing in the hearth, a stew going on the oven top, and were relaxing with a beer apiece. " W
e just don't do this often enough, Joseph Kozcinski, and I wish we did!" murmured Alex over the top of her glass, "I keep dashing out to hopefully sell a house to some family, and you seem to have an umbilical to the plant and the office. Hell, Joe, is it all worth it?"

  Legs stretched out towards the fire, leaning back against the big sofa base, Joe reached out his hand to his wife, and gently squeezed her fingers, "Sweet, we sort of fell into this way of life, more than having planned it. When I met you, I was halfway up the ladder at Continental, and with the promotion I guess we just went with the flow. Your daddy was with us, and the plant always has exerted a fascination for me. You got the notion of starting up the real estate agency, and it took off. You want to change, my love?"

  "Not really change, but more time for us, if we can manage it. I'd hate to be like Jessica and Norm, because that would be the pits as far as I am concerned!" As the two who Alex had named were the worst workaholics that Detroit had spawned in thirty years, Joe felt reassured that his wife didn't feel he had reached those depths as yet.

  Silence reigned for a minute, then Alex spoke again, but softer this time, "there is one thing that I would like to add to our lives, Joseph Kozcinski; I think I would like you to give me a baby!" Joe's eyes swung around towards his wife, who gently smiled at him. "I think that the proud family line of Kozcinski ought to be preserved, and indeed added to; what say you, my darling Joe?"