“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” I knew that Gutierrez wasn’t an association member so he couldn’t be under their group policy. I called Diversified Risk.
“Diversified Risk Insurance Company. How may I help you?”
“I’m interested in taking out a liability insurance policy. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Hold on. That’s Mr. Drummond’s contract.” She put me through to him.
I went through my spiel one more time. Drummond asked how I’d found out about the policy they were offering.
“A friend of mine, Rolando Gutierrez, told me about it.” There was a silence on the line.
“That’s funny, we’ve just begun to sell that policy in this area and I handle all the contracts. I don’t recognize the name. Anyway, what kind of coverage were you looking for?”
I droned on about what I wanted but I wasn’t listening to Drummond. After he told me he’d send me an application, I thanked him and hung up. Gutierrez wasn’t concerned about prior malpractice claims. He was going bareback. Taking his chances on nothing going wrong. That would put him in even greater risk. He’d have to pay any judgment against him out of his own pocket. Maybe that was enough incentive to sit down at his typewriter before he left to see Donnelly. Maybe they knew each other in Argentina and Gutierrez offered to do Donnelly a favor. But Donnelly said he’d found an expert who could say that Marta was unfit. Gutierrez’s specialties did not include forensic work. That didn’t sound too ethical but maybe it was just Donnelly’s adrenaline talking or mania as Whitney thought. My loose ends were fraying rapidly.
I sat and doodled for a while. When I had started to run my business out of my house I’d had to make changes in my homeowner’s insurance coverage. I’d needed special premises liability coverage for the client who slipped on the icy driveway and so on. I couldn’t get that without a zoning change on my residential use permit. They’d come in and inspected the structural changes I’d made, like the safe installed in the floor slab. I’d been pretty keen about getting this done by the book. Otherwise, my homeowner’s policy would have been void and I’d have been liable for the replacement cost of the house. For the hell of it I called the zoning office.
“Zoning. Harcourt Bryce speaking.”
“Yeah. Well, this is Tony Petrillo, Petrillo Plumbing. I’m over here at Dr. Gutierrez’s place. We’re ready to make those changes for that office in his house and the building permits ain’t here. Nothin’ is. This is costing me money sitting around here. The doc says he filed everything with you people. You think you could let us know when the paperwork will be done so we can get to work here?”
“What was that address?”
I gave Bryce the address and waited while he punched it into his computer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Petrillo. But we have no applications for building permits or a change in zoning for that address. When did Dr. Gutierrez say he filed those forms?”
“I don’t know. Must have been a few weeks ago. He ain’t here right now. I’m gonna have him call you back. First, I’m gonna yank my crew offa this and see if we can earn some money today.” I hung up.
I made a list of the facts I’d learned this morning and tried to assemble them into a pattern that made sense. No matter how I arranged them, two seemingly contradictory conclusions remained. When I tried to marry them off, I had to explain why Dr. Rolando Gutierrez had elected to expose himself to so much risk if anything went wrong in his practice just to avoid leaving a paper trail.
I was just about out of frayed ends to play with. The chances of tracking Gutierrez through Argentine records were infinitesimal. I could swing by his place, take a couple of photos of him, run them by the hotel staff and see if I could get a positive I.D. That would help Whitney the most.
The first thing I needed to know was Gutierrez’s work schedule. I called the mental health center and found out that he worked only ten hours a week at the center and always at night. That meant he’d be home days, trying to pay off that mortgage. A Georgetown address doesn’t come cheaply.
There was one more thing I could do before this case fizzled out like a wet firecracker. I called an old lacrosse buddy of mine who was now chief surgeon at a shock trauma unit in Baltimore.
“Traumatology. Dr. Marks’s office.”
“Elliot Marks please.”
“Senior or junior?”
“Junior.”
“Hold on.”
“Elliot Marks, Jr.”
“How’s it going, Elliot.”
“Leo, how are you? Long time no see.”
“Fine, Elliot. I’ve got a question for you. You started out in psychiatry, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but that can’t be the question.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve got a guy with a less than therapeutic dose of Meprobamotrin in him, and some alcohol—”
“You’ve got a dead guy.”
“I know. I’ve been told that the interaction effect is lethal and you need very little of the drug to trigger it.”
“That’s correct.”
“But there’s one more thing. I don’t think he wanted to kill himself. I think he wanted to get off the medication. Why would he do something as dangerous as drink on that medication?”
“Was he warned about the consequences?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was.”
“Let me think about this for a minute.” The minute dragged on.
“There’s one way it could happen. Do you know what a rebound effect is?”
“No.”
“If your guy were to stop taking the medication abruptly, not taper off, there would be a rebound effect.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever his original symptoms were would flare up again to an exacerbated degree. He’d probably experience a rush of anxiety, muscle twitches, tremors, possibly vomiting and ataxia, even delirium and hallucinations.”
“So if he was feeling that bad he might start drinking to calm himself down, or he might be so confused he wouldn’t remember not to drink?”
“Sure. He’d wind up permanently calm though.”
“How long does this reaction last?”
“The onset can be anywhere from twelve to forty-eight hours after terminating the medication, and it passes in about the same amount of time.”
“What if someone told this guy to take a drink to calm down?”
“They might just as well have given him a death sentence.”
“Thanks, Elliot. What do you say we catch the Hopkins-Maryland game in the spring?”
“Love to. Don’t be such a stranger.”
“I won’t. And thanks.”
If you were the executioner, Dr. Gutierrez, what was Malcolm Donnelly’s crime?
Chapter 27
I looked over my notes. Did Gutierrez and Donnelly know each other in Argentina? Gutierrez’s practice: very low profile and very high risk. He had to be pretty sure than nothing could go wrong or that there was no way to report it. I was very curious about the good doctor’s practice and time was of the essence. Nate would move quickly to get access to Donnelly’s records and start litigation. That would drive everyone to ground. This might well be my one chance to catch Gutierrez off guard. I had the feeling that forewarned he’d be invincible.
In the bedroom, I threw my surveillance gear into a small duffel bag. On the way out to the car, I remembered that I had to stop at Dr. Skrepinski’s office to get my stitches taken out. He was not glad to see me when I walked into his office, but he brightened when it was clear that I wasn’t appearing in Odorama. When he was done, I looked at my face and had to give the man credit. The suture line was damn near invisible. Unshaven, I could see that it would appear in relief if I tried to grow a beard.
After a short stop to pick up lunch, I pulled past Gutierrez’s house and parked in an alleyway that gave me a good vantage point. I took my binoculars, camera, windbreaker, hat, sunglasses and books out of my bag and spread them on the seat next to me.
&
nbsp; As I was finishing off an essay by Allen Wheelis, Gutierrez came into view. He was accompanied by a sandy-haired boy. The boy was slight, and wore baggy olive drab pants and a black shirt. He preceded Gutierrez down the stairs to the street and stood with his head down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His hair was cut short and butch-waxed to stand straight up.
A car came around the corner and pulled up in front of the house. The driver looked strangely familiar to me. I couldn’t place the face exactly but I knew I had seen it before. Gutierrez and the boy climbed into the car and it pulled away. I jotted down the tag numbers on my notepad and followed them. They were diplomatic plates.
Twenty minutes later the car parked and Gutierrez and the boy got out. They walked across Constitution Avenue to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. In the car I slipped on my jacket, hat and sunglasses, hung the binoculars and camera around my neck and got out to follow them. Ahead of me, Gutierrez and the boy walked at a leisurely pace. The boy spoke animatedly to Gutierrez. At times he seemed quite agitated as if he were pleading with him, perhaps. Gutierrez smiled often at the boy and made palms-down motions for him to calm down or slow down.
We walked by the cordoned-off areas around the blasted wall. Repair crews were removing the ruined panels so that they could be replaced. The one where Arnie had picked up little James Tucker Calhoun and held him out to touch his namesake was already gone. Gutierrez stopped with the boy and pointed at the wall and at the spot on the knoll where the bomb had gone off. After a heated discussion the two of them walked back and got into the car. I barely made it to my car in time to follow them up Constitution Avenue.
Fortunately, they weren’t going very far. When they stopped, Gutierrez sent the boy across the street to wait for him. While he stood and spoke to the driver I was able to get three good shots of him. I took one of the driver for good measure. Maybe it would help me recall where I had seen him before. Gutierrez crossed over to join the boy and they entered a large, impressive marble building.
Following them in, I looked up and saw that it was the headquarters of the InterAmerican Federation. Inside, I saw Gutierrez standing across a courtyard from me. He was in a great hall, continuing his show-and-tell session with the boy. I turned away from them and looked at the security officer at the front desk. His badge indicated he was from one of the larger private security firms in town. I looked around and counted three security officers, all unarmed. Behind the desk were three television monitors. The seated guard was watching them. One of the other guards greeted people as they entered the building and the third one did slow laps around the floor.
Gutierrez was coming back towards me. As he approached, I reached down and picked up a pamphlet on the federation’s history and function. I was reading that the building and all its grounds were international property ceded by the United States to all the countries of the region when Gutierrez passed by and went into the bathroom with the boy. I flipped through the pamphlet to the map of the building and its, grounds in the back and watched for Gutierrez to emerge.
I was curious about what was so interesting to Gutierrez about the great hall so I walked back to it and checked it out. All the time I was careful to keep an eye on the bathroom door.
It was a magnificent room. The floor was herringbone parquet. One wall had floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows depicting the tortuous path of progress in the region. To look at it, Jesus had had more fun at the stations of the cross. The other two walls were mirrored. Enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling. When lit, the effect with those mirrored walls would be dazzling. The vaulted ceilings had to be thirty feet high, and there was more ornate scrollwork on the walls than on an heiress’s wedding cake.
The strolling guard approached me. “Excuse me, what do they use this room for?” I asked.
“Formal state functions, receptions for visiting heads of state, treaty signing, that sort of thing.”
“Oh. Who’s in charge of security when the building is in use?”
“The security forces of whatever nation is hosting the function take charge of the building. We’re here to assist and observe the public when the building is not in use. It’s open at no charge to anyone who wants to visit.”
“I see. Thank you.” I didn’t have any more time for chitchat. Gutierrez and the boy were leaving. I hurried out after them.
The car that brought them there was waiting when they emerged. At the curb Gutierrez spoke to the boy. First he waved an admonishing finger at the boy, who averted his eyes. Finally he patted the boy’s cheek and he brightened up. I would have to pass right by them to get to my car. I decided to stop the tail rather than blow my cover. Gutierrez climbed into the car and the driver gunned the motor. The BMW sped across the intersection against the light.
I stood there wondering what I had been watching. An unorthodox treatment program, maybe? Current events as psychotherapy for the ambulatory schizophrenic? What I was watching was the boy himself, now striding away up the street. I rolled the pamphlet up, stuck it in my back pocket, and followed the boy past “The Place Where Ronnie Dwells.” At Farragut West we caught the Metro.
I stood on the platform watching the boy whistling a tune to himself. In a couple of minutes, the lights set into the floor began to flash, announcing the train’s arrival. We climbed aboard the same car and rode the metal earthworm into the darkness. The orange line took us over to Foggy Bottom where we rode the elevator up to the street level. The boy walked briskly up Twenty-third Street towards M Street. An invigorating fifteen minutes later we were back in Georgetown.
I settled into a comfortable walk behind the boy. He trudged on, his hands jammed deep into his baggy pants, his shoulders hunched against an imaginary wind. We wandered through the commercial center of Georgetown. The sidewalks became more crowded. I slalomed along behind the boy. He walked with his head down, forcing everyone to walk around him to avoid a collision. As we approached the Wisconsin Avenue intersection, I saw a very attractive woman walking towards us. Her tight jeans were tucked into soft leather boots. A ribbed turtleneck of forest green and a designer knapsack purse slung over her right shoulder completed the look. Just in from Middleburg to pick up her jodhpurs, then out again. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The boy walked on, blind to her charms. As she passed, his head swivelled and he leered at her. The exorcist couldn’t be far behind.
At Wisconsin Avenue, he stopped for a moment, watched the traffic and stepped off the curb. Good luck, kid. A ghost would have trouble crossing here against the light. I stood next to him and stared resolutely ahead. He never looked at me. We crossed the intersection and I let him stretch out a reasonable lead on me. Abruptly, he turned into a store entrance. I hurried to catch up with him.
As I entered the store, I looked up and read the sign: The Eye of the Storm: Interdimensional Portal & Bookstore. I whistled the Twilight Zone theme as I entered parts unknown. The left wall of the front room was floor to ceiling books. In the center was a long table covered with boxes into which were stuffed plastic wrapped comic books at astronomical prices. The first issue of anything was worth hundreds of dollars. Two rotating wire racks of more current artifacts anchored this table to the time-space continuum. A group of kids were poring over them like archeologists. “Wow, look at this,” I heard. “Deathblast number one, incredible, I gotta have this.” I’d bet that the Shroud of Turin didn’t get such a welcome.
Huge color portraits of superheroes were everywhere. They were all engaged in battle with some misshapen villain. It was clear that evil was not good for your complexion. Most of these heroes fired some sort of powerblast from their hands, eyes or any other handy limb or orifice. Perhaps this was rooted in an adolescent fear of new and strange body products. The female superheroes all looked like they were out of Playboy by Guns and Ammo. Next we’ll have Bimbo of Fortune magazine.
I looked around for the boy. He was leaning against the wall, reading a comic. I picked one up and skimmed it
. Apparently the fate of the universe was in the hands of a guy who couldn’t get a date on Friday night. Of course, under stress, his mutated hormones kicked in and with life as we know it hanging in the balance, this guy could move planets, warp time and kick a few butts. If only I’d known that, I’d have scanned the skies more often on Friday nights. When asked “Watcha doin’ tonight? Wanna go to a party?” “Naw, I’ve got a universe to save. I’ll take a raincheck” could have been my reply.
The behemoth behind the counter bellowed at a browser, “Five-minute reading limit. If you ain’t gonna buy it, put it back.” I looked over at crater face. If the aesthetics of this place held true then he was evil. He was big and sloppy with an enormous beer gut hanging over his belt. The T-shirt he wore read, ‘If you see this body being operated in an unsafe manner, mind your own f-ing business.’ His beard was long and unkempt, as was his ponytail. He sat leaning back against the wall, looking like he’d been thrown against it and was sliding to the floor. Only the chair beneath him halted his progress. His body had the tensile strength of ice cream in August.
The boy picked up a few comics and moved on. I scanned the wall of science fiction novels and looked fondly at the jackets of some of my favorites: Blish, Budrys, Haldeman, Robinson, Sturgeon. A book entitled Neuromancer had apparently won every award imaginable. I picked up a copy and followed the boy to an alcove in the back of the store. This area was devoted to role-playing games. The boy fingered books of spells and die-cast images of power. Assembly line voodoo.
At the counter the boy set down the comics he wanted. I was next to him in line. An alabaster-skinned girl with a wild mane of Day-Glo yellow hair and stone-encrusted crucifix earrings rang up the sale. I blanched. The comics must have been ten bucks each. The boy reached into his pants and came out with some scrunched-up bills. After smoothing them out, he was still three bucks short.
A Tax in Blood Page 16
