by Wally Duff
“It does if a heart attack is in my future.”
“Did you hear about Dr. Robert Denning?”
“The doctor who committed suicide by leaping out of his condo window?”
“Allegedly leaped out of the window.”
He sat up. “Do you think otherwise?”
“I do.”
“My reporters missed this. Tell me what you have.”
I told him what I knew about Denning, but I left out my breaking into Fertig’s or Warren’s offices. And I didn’t mention the man who accosted me when I was at Costco. There’s not much I keep from him, but I didn’t want Carter to know this story might be dangerous and that I carried a gun. I would figure out how to tell him all of this some other time. For now, I needed to come up with a plan of attack.
“This new possibility that Fertig might be implicated in the death of Warren, and now Denning, casts a whole new light on the story,” he said.
“I would like to keep working on this,” I said.
“I agree and you are perfect for it, but...”
“But what?”
“I worry about your safety.”
“Why?”
“If these are murders, there’s at least one killer involved, and this throws an element of danger into the mix.”
I thought about the Costco man.
“Danger to me? Not a chance.”
Okay, it was a tiny fib, but I wasn’t giving up on this story, at least not yet.
And I didn’t want to admit to Carter a fact I’d learned about myself over the past few weeks. This wasn’t only about researching and writing a story to redeem myself in the eyes of other investigative journalists.
It was more than that. It was the adrenaline rush I got from doing it.
71
Friday afternoon, Kerry and I were at Hamlin Park. The sun was out, but a cool wind blew in off Lake Michigan. Shanda was there with her kids. She helped her two climb on the gym set. I pushed Kerry on a swing.
“I need your help,” I said. “What do you know about Peter Warren’s committee?”
“What committee?”
“The one to investigate Fertig’s breast cancer results.”
“I haven’t heard anything about it. Alexis has a new hormone drug for women in the pipeline, and she’s been working Fertig hard. If anyone would know about a committee like that, she would.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her. Is there anything else about Fertig I need to know other than what you already told me?”
“I’ve heard other surgeons talk about his cure rates, but they’re competitors, and you know how that is.”
I remembered what Eddie told me about how competitive doctors and their wives were with each other. This was a chance to see how a person on the outside felt about it. Sometimes a fib was the only way to push a story forward.
“No, I don’t,” I lied. How is that?”
“Doctors are the most competitive people I’ve ever met.”
“You mean about curing patients?”
“Oh, no, not patients. It’s always about money.”
“Money?”
Exactly what Eddie told me.
“I’m calling on them, doing my drug talk spiel, and instead of listening to it, they want to know how many patients their competitors are seeing and how many operations they are doing.”
“Hard to believe.”
“But true. The more operations the competitors do, the more money they make.”
“It’s not about helping sick people.”
“No way. They even have their staff call and see how long the wait is for the rival doctors to see a new patient.”
“Do any of them want to know about other doctor’s cure rates?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard, but that’s not what bugs the doctors about Fertig.”
“What does?”
“His charges for his exam, mammograms, MRIs, and minimally invasive surgery are only part of his, according to other surgeons, exorbitant charges. He demands that all of his patients take supplements which he sells through his office.”
“I already know about that. Janet and I went to his office and his nurse gave us a brochure pitching his supplements. And trust me, they’re super expensive.”
“The average patient can’t afford them, but he doesn’t care. All he wants is their money.”
“But they have cancer.”
“They do, and if I woke up each day and knew that I had a cancer growing in my breast, I would mortgage everything I have to buy his treatment. It’s the way I’m wired.”
“I guess I am too.”
“Which he knows about women.” She paused. “You also don’t see any welfare patients on his surgery schedule.”
“Those patients are out of luck.”
“Unless they pay cash, they are — at least with him. Same with Medicare patients. He won’t take that insurance, or any other for that matter.”
“This would make a great story.”
“Why don’t you write it?” she asked.
“Because Fertig might be doing something else that would be even worse than the amount of money he’s making,” I said.
“You better talk to Alexis. She’s the only one I know who can help you.”
72
An hour later, I pushed Kerry in her stroller toward our home. Shanda had given me her take on doctors and money, but she didn’t know anything about Warren’s committee. I needed help with that.
On the way, I called Alexis. Before I could ask her if she knew the names of the members of Warren’s committee, she had a question for me.
“Do you want me to bring anything tomorrow night?” Alexis asked.
“How about a tossed salad?” I asked.
“For how many?”
“The Irregulars and their husbands and one guest.”
“A guest?”
“Yep, my friend Dr. Eddie Wallace from Omaha.”
“Is he single?”
“He is now.”
“Divorced?”
“Twice, but he’s a good man.”
“Are you trying to fix me up with him?”
“Sort of. He doesn’t have any kids, and except for paying alimony, he makes a lot of money. If you two hooked up, you could quit being a drug rep.”
“I tried that before, and it didn’t work out.”
“Give it a chance. He’s a good guy.”
“They all are at first.”
“Please be nice to him, but that’s not why I called. I need your help.”
“What do you need?”
“Have you heard anything at the hospital or in any of the doctor’s offices about a committee chaired by the late Dr. Warren to investigate Fertig’s breast cancer results?”
Alexis paused. “Why, what have you heard?”
“The Illinois Department of Public Health is concerned about Fertig’s amazing breast cancer cure rates and told the staff at MidAmerica Hospital to either investigate his results themselves or they would do it.”
She paused again. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“I was standing outside the OR working on my iPad and overheard a couple of surgeons talking about a secret hospital committee, but they stopped when they realized I might be listening.”
Yes!
“Did you pursue it?”
“No reason to.”
“What about Denning?”
“Denning?”
“I need to know if Denning was on the committee with Warren.”
“Why?”
“Fertig hated Warren because he chaired the committee. Fertig had to have put a big dent in Denning’s breast cancer surgery practice, costing him oodles of money. Maybe Fertig killed both of them because he was afraid they would be biased in evaluating his cure rates.”
“And Fertig made both deaths look like suicide. Clever. I never would have thought of that.” She paused. “I don’t know if Denning was on the committee, but I’ll see wh
at I can find out.”
“I need everything you can give me, because I’m actively working on this story.”
“Does this mean you want me to help you?”
“I do, if you have time.”
“I’ve always wanted to work on a story with you and your friends.”
“Then do this as fast as you can. If Fertig murdered Warren and Denning, he might not be done killing doctors he thinks are his enemies.”
73
Saturday night, Kerry was upstairs playing with Alicia’s daughter Liv, who was babysitting her for the evening. Dr. Eddie Wallace, the Hamlin Park Irregulars, and our husbands were in our family room when Alexis came in our front door.
She wore narrow jeans tucked into knee-high black leather boots and a blue sweater set. Her hair was in a ponytail, and the only makeup she had on was coral lipstick. The one similarity to the drug rep I’d seen at the hospital and Denning’s condo building and the woman who walked in was the pair of sunglasses perched on her head.
“’Lex, welcome,” I said.
She had a full, large, covered glass salad bowl in her hands. I put it in the kitchen, and then we walked into the family room. I introduced her to Eddie, who had flown in from Omaha that morning. He is a little under six feet tall, physically fit, with short, graying brown hair and a slightly crooked nose.
They shook hands. He smiled. Alexis did too.
Houston, we might have blast off.
They wandered out to the back patio deck for some alone time. Carter joined me as Linda came into the family room from the kitchen with a large platter of appetizers, her contribution to the potluck meal.
“Here you go,” she said, as she served Carter and me first.
My hubby and I sampled everything.
“This is wonderful, especially the cheese selection,” Carter exclaimed. “Did you put this together?”
Linda smiled. “Of course not. My parents have a private chef. He did it, but I’ll make sure I tell him you liked it.”
Carter went into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on his Instant Pot pulled pork.
Cas tried the food from Linda’s tray. “I heard what Carter said. He’s right, it’s good.”
Alexis came over to us. Eddie joined Greg, Molly’s husband, Cas’s husband, Joe, and Howard, Linda’s husband, in a conversation about the Cubs chances in the baseball playoff series.
“He seems nice,” Alexis said. “Hard to believe he’s been divorced twice.”
Cas pointed at Alexis. “Back at you, girl.”
“Guess you’re right, but I married losers. Sounds like his wives were great.”
“They were,” I said. “Eddie needs to keep his zipper up. ‘Lex, why don’t you put your salad bowl on the dining room table and then we can start eating?”
“Done,” she said.
I clapped my hands to the rest of the group. “Let’s eat.”
74
I sat at the head of the dining room table. With the exception of Eddie, who sat to my left, it was all women who sat at my end of the table. Carter faced me from the other end. Next to him were the other husbands. They ignored us and continued to discuss sports.
We passed the salad bowl around the table.
“Eddie, we have lots to talk about,” I said, after I filled my plate. I thought of Denning. “Suicide is a good jumping off point.”
Literally.
Eddie played with his fork. “Doctors commit suicide more frequently than you would think. In male physicians it’s about four times higher than the average population.”
“Why is that?” Linda asked.
“Depression is number one.”
“What about illness?” Cas asked.
“Was the eye doctor sick?”
“His personal physician told him he had a lethal form of AIDS before he drove into a bridge,” I said.
“Wait. What?!” Alexis exclaimed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Officially he didn’t have it when he died,” I said.
“I’m confused,” Alexis said.
“So am I,” Eddie said. “Was he a switch hitter?”
“He was not!” Cas said a little too loudly.
“Whoa, sorry.” Eddie turned to me. “Is this why you wanted to talk about doctors and female drug reps? If it is, don’t forget nurses.”
Nurse Cas hung her head and didn’t say anything.
“You got that right, Eddie,” Alexis agreed as she glanced at Cas.
“Okay, assuming it was heterosexual sex, did he fool around with a lot of women?” he asked.
“He wasn’t having sex with anyone,” Molly said.
Eddie’s eyebrows shot up.
“Don’t ask,” I said. “It’s a long story, but how else could he have gotten it?”
“From a patient he operated on, but it’s rare.”
He picked up his fork, put his head down, and gobbled down Alexis’s salad. He followed that with a sip of the Rudd Chardonnay Carter had poured to accent the salad.
“Let’s get back to Warren,” Alexis said. “Did he or didn’t he have AIDS?”
“He did, but you won’t hear about it, because his society wife and his family covered it up,” I said. “As far as the world knows, Peter was healthy when he died in what has been officially recorded as an accident due to faulty brakes.”
75
Eddie’s salad plate was now clean. I saw him peeking over at what was left on my plate.
“I can’t blame his family for covering up his AIDS, because having it would be a huge crisis for a surgeon,” Eddie said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Think about it. A surgeon has a communicable and potentially lethal disease which can be spread via contaminated blood. What if he stuck himself with a suture needle, or was sliced by a scalpel, and splashed his blood into a patient’s open surgical wound?”
“It would be a catastrophe, but does that happen very often?” I asked.
He speared a plum tomato off my plate with his fork and popped it into his mouth. “The scrub nurse moves to hand me the scalpel. She moves one way. I move the other. She accidently cuts me. The blade is extremely sharp, and I don’t even know I’ve been nicked until I see blood welling up into my glove and then dripping into the wound.”
“What about the needle stuff?” Molly asked.
“Surgeons work fast. We prick our fingers with suture needles all the time, but we rarely admit it because we don’t want the nurses to think we have bad hands.”
“Bad hands?” Molly asked.
“Fumble fingers, or the shakes,” he said. “Especially with older doctors.”
“What would Warren do when he discovered he had AIDS?” Linda asked.
“Notify the Illinois Department of Public Health and then contact all his patients, especially the ones he recently operated on, and they could be tested for the virus.”
“Sounds like a mess,” I said.
“Especially if you have a big ego. I can’t imagine how humiliating it would be. And his career would be over.”
“No wonder his wife covered it up,” Alexis said.
Eddie stabbed a small red pepper strip and piece of pancetta on my plate. “Guess she didn’t think his patients needed to know they’d been exposed to AIDS,” he said, as he shoveled the food into his mouth.
“We’ve met her,” I said, as I moved my salad plate closer to him. “That would be the furthest thing from her mind.”
76
We filed into the kitchen and loaded our plates with Carter’s pulled pork sandwiches, my baked beans and potato salad, and chicken enchiladas and fish tacos made by Cas. Molly brought dessert, a chocolate chip cookie cake to be served with vanilla ice cream.
We returned to the dining room table and sat down.
“Eddie, I told you about Warren killing himself, and now another doctor has committed suicide,” I said.
