by J W Becton
“So am I gonna live?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
She did not offer a polite laugh or even respond to my joke appropriately. Instead, she began reciting a list of symptoms.
“I discovered signs of trauma to your head and neck, and, of course, the elevated blood pressure and sleep disturbances, so I would like to recommend a course of therapeutic massage treatments to address the physical and mental issues we discovered today.”
“Therapeutic massage?” I asked, not bothering to conceal my skepticism. “What does that involve, and how much will it cost?”
“We would send you over to our holistic therapist, who would perform a therapeutic massage, and it would all be covered by your insurance.”
Well, wasn’t that convenient? A free massage.
I wondered if the masseuse were a recent addition to the practice—post fraud ring—or if Dr. Keller had been bilking the system a bit longer than he had admitted to Ted.
“In fact,” Mary continued, “if the therapist is available now, we can hold your first treatment today.”
“I don’t know,” I said as I studied her, trying to decide whether this situation warranted further investigation. I already knew that she had exaggerated the extent of my injuries, and I suspected that when I saw the resulting insurance claim, it would be inflated as well. I hadn’t planned on receiving actual treatment, but this cozy little arrangement was tempting.
I checked my watch.
Appearing to sense my hesitancy, Mary turned, threw open the exam room door, and said over her shoulder, “I’ll go check to see if the therapist is available now, and then you can decide.”
I rolled my eyes at her rapidly vanishing back.
I’d already been at the clinic for hours, and the visit had served its purpose: I could now verify that they were exaggerating injuries and performing unnecessary procedures in the office, and that Mary Fallsworthy was complicit in the fraud.
Still, the massage tempted me.
And wasn’t that the point? How could any stressed-out, sore crash victim refuse a “free” massage?
Mary reentered the exam room.
“You’re in luck. Zoren can see you now,” she said as she led me to the massage room, a private, dimly lit room just down the hall. “You’ll like Zoren. Everyone just loves him. He has chronic pain patients who have come back for his massages for years.”
Him. So the masseuse was actually a masseur. Lucky me.
The massage room provided the tuneless New Age music I’d been waiting for, and an incense burner sat dormant on a small table in the corner. A set of wind chimes hung on the back of the door, tinkling with every movement of the hinges.
“Wow,” I said without thinking to censor myself. “This is a pretty non-clinical setting. Looks like a spa.”
“Yes,” Fallsworthy said without shame, “we pride ourselves on creating a relaxing atmosphere for our patients while at the same time offering tested medical therapies. This atmosphere was intentionally designed to facilitate healing.”
I nodded. I completely understood the value of therapeutic massage. But while I didn’t have anything against incense or chimes (I could do without the New Age music), I was here undercover and viewed everything as an attempt at fraud.
Fallsworthy gestured to a chair.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” she said and then pointed to a mini fridge nearby. “Have a bottle of water. Zoren will be here momentarily to go through your chart with you.”
As she left, I decided that I really did need to relax. The past few months with my sister, Slidell, and all the other bizarre incidents had left me chronically suspicious and prone to grumpiness. Maybe a massage was exactly what I needed.
I pulled a bottle of water from the mini fridge and drank deeply, enjoying its refreshing coolness.
By the time Zoren, a clean-cut blond whose blocky body was encased in medical scrubs, knocked discreetly at the door, I was primed to enjoy this perk of my undercover assignment, all under the guise of research, of course.
“Ms. Aliff,” Zoren said as he pulled a chair away from the wall so he could sit facing me. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I said, looking him over. His Nordic features lent him that authentic Swedish massage air, but he pulled open my medical file and discussed it with me like a medical doctor.
After chatting about my “medical needs,” Zoren began an explanation of therapeutic massage and its benefits.
“Before we begin, Ms. Aliff, you should be aware that clinical types of massage, such as what I am about to employ, may leave the body free from the acute pain associated with your injuries, but may replace it temporarily with a mild soreness from the applied pressure. It’s best to relax after a therapeutic massage session and not return to vigorous activity too soon.”
I gave him a cursory nod. I had no acute pain; after all, other than my black eye, Nurse Mary had fabricated my injuries, so I wasn’t worried about any lingering pain.
Zoren left me to disrobe, and when he returned, I was already draped under a light blue sheet and resting on the massage table.
With the first touch of his skilled hands, I was in heaven, and already contemplating ways to emphasize the fact that I was getting a free massage while Vincent was in the den of some ambulance-chasing lawyer.
Some days it was good to be me, I thought as I closed my eyes, letting work fall away as Zoren began to knead the muscles of my back with increasing pressure.
I was really feeling it now, and my muscles continued to loosen until I grew sleepy and languid.
As he worked progressively down my spine, however, the pressure continued to increase until finally it tipped over the edge into pain.
“Ow,” I said through sleepy lips.
“Breathe through it,” Zoren said as he kept up the painful pressure, “and try to relax your back muscles.”
I attempted to do as he said, but when the pressure kept building, I tensed reflexively. My relaxed state dissipated like mist on hot asphalt.
“Keep breathing,” Zoren advised again.
I started sucking in air like a Lamaze coach, but, try as I might, I couldn’t relax my muscles at all. In fact, my back drew up like a bow as every single muscle in my body tensed, including my eyelids, which consequently made by black eye start to throb.
I knew massage could be a bit painful, but this was getting absurd.
“It…hurts,” I said as I turned my neck to try to look at Zoren, who continued to abuse my back.
“Seriously,” I said through gritted teeth, when the pressure of his hands didn’t change. “You’re hurting me.”
“Trust me, Ms. Aliff,” he said, sounding bored. “I’m a trained and certified professional, so believe me when I tell you that I’m not applying undue pressure. I’m not hurting you. The pain you are experiencing is normal for a person with your injuries.”
He jabbed a spot in my lower back, causing me to swear.
“If you’re not,” I ground out, “applying ‘undue pressure,’ then why does this feel less like a relaxing massage and more like torture?”
“If you recall,” he said, “we discussed how clinical massage might cause soreness.”
“Soreness?” I squeaked. “This is full-on pain.”
“And thus it’s proof that you have sustained more severe injuries than you originally thought when you arrived.”
I felt my eyes widen as I realized what was happening. This asshole was trying to make me believe that I was injured, which meant more treatments, more massages, and more money for the Accident Care Clinic.
Zoren’s pressure had not eased one iota, and I finally had enough.
“Well, ease up,” I said, “or I’m walking out of here, and I’ll file some kind of complaint against this place.”
Immediately, Zoren’s hands softened.
I felt myself begin to relax again, allowing him to undo the damage he had caused.
“Is that better?�
� he asked, still clearly bored with my pain.
After my affirmative response, Zoren continued. “You’ve got to remember that you’re injured, so you should expect some stiffness in the next twenty-four hours. It’s a natural result of stimulating the damaged areas of your body. After six to eight weeks of massage, you should be returned to perfect spinal health.”
Ugh, I thought. This was all part of the scam to manipulate patients into driving up the insurance claims. Tempt them with a free massage, claim that the sessions revealed the full extent of their injuries, add some medications and further treatments, and pad the bills as they came. And apparently, Zoren had patients going back for years.
If the bastard hadn’t turned my body back into jelly, I would have leapt off the table to find Dr. Keller and discover his level of involvement. As it was, I knew I had to talk to him.
The Accident Care Clinic was a well-oiled fraud machine, and Keller was probably making a ton on this little massage racket alone. And it had been going on for years. Why had he decided to become Ted’s source and give up his gold mine? It didn’t make sense.
Surely something prompted him.
But what?
At length, I felt Zoren’s hands drift away, and I heard him shuffling with something on a nearby shelf.
Languidly and not without some residual stiffness from the pummeling he’d given me, I turned my head to see what he was doing. He lifted an item from the shelf, and when he turned toward me and I got a look at it, my eyes popped open, fully alert.
“Is that a toilet plunger?” I demanded, staring at him in shock and horror.
He laughed, twirling the device in his palm.
“Oh no,” he said, displaying it for me as if that proved a thing. “This is a therapeutic suctioning device. I finish each massage with it to draw the negative energy and toxins from your body.”
I’d seen the suction devices used in legitimate massages. They were small, clear plastic cups. This was a freaking toilet plunger, painted medical, clinical blue. Up close, I thought I could discern a picture of a toilet on the rubber piece.
Did a can of blue spray paint really fool people into believing a plunger was a real treatment device?
I could just imagine the glee Zoren and the clinic got from charging people to be treated with a toilet plunger.
It would have been hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic.
Well, I, for one, drew the line at toilet plungers.
I flipped over, yanking the sheet with me as my muscles screamed in protest. Unbalanced and in pain, I winced and lurched forward, and Zoren reached to steady me. I jerked back.
“Remember, it’s best not to attempt vigorous activity for at least twenty-four hours,” he chided. “Now, lie back, and I’ll finish your treatment.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, gripping the table and throwing my legs over the edge despite my anguish. “I decline the plunger treatment.”
“You’re going against medical advice, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him. “Just how big a fool do you take me for?”
He stepped back, returned the plunger to its place on the shelf, and said, “I’ll leave you to dress. Be sure to drink plenty of water, and take these files to the front desk when you leave.”
I didn’t bother to thank him as he exited the massage room. Instead, I thought of how much pleasure I was going to take in bringing charges against Zoren in the near future. I could envision the headlines now: “DOI Special Agent Uncovers Bizarre Toilet Plunger Medical Scam that Excreted Millions from Insurers.”
God, Ted would love that.
I laughed aloud, causing Zoren to pause as the door shut behind him.
I heard him say, “It’s a therapeutic suctioning device.”
“Yeah,” I said to the now-closed door. “Tell that to the jury.”
Sixteen
During the course of my drive home from the Accident Care Clinic, every single muscle in my back began to contort and scream in agony after Zoren’s deliberately painful massage.
I managed to stop at a drugstore for some liquid concealer for my eye and a humongous bottle of extra-strength anti-inflammatory pain reliever. After popping a few pills into my mouth, I really wanted to give in to the temptation to go straight home and collapse on my sofa in abject misery, but instead, I dragged myself back to the DOI.
I limped my way into Vincent’s office, where I did collapse with an undignified groan onto one of his guest chairs.
“Looks like you’ve had a nice visit at the clinic,” Vincent said, sitting back in his office chair to look me over. “Based on the way you’re moving around here like a geriatric…”
His voice trailed off as he noticed my hard look.
“Like a lovely geriatric,” he amended. “I’m inclined to believe something is hinky happening at the Accident Care Clinic.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something’s hinky there all right, and it involves a toilet plunger.”
“Okay,” Vincent said, drawing out the word. “You’ve lost me. There was plumbing involved?”
I laughed at the image of Zoren wielding a wrench and showing his plumber’s crack.
“Well, no actual plumbing, but I’ll get to the plunger in due time. Consider it a teaser to keep you interested during the duller bits of the story,” I said, rubbing at a shoulder and then immediately regretting it as a sore muscle flared.
“I’m hooked already,” he said.
“On the surface, the Accident Care Clinic seems to run almost as Dr. Keller said it did,” I said. “Busy waiting room with canned music, sterile exam rooms, nurses in scrubs, and a jacked-up bill at the end. But I think Dr. Keller’s been holding out on Ted. I think the fraud’s been going on for years, long before he started with the fraud ring.”
Vincent raised a questioning brow.
“Keller also said someone on the inside of the fraud ring was watching him, reporting his movements back to whoever’s in charge, and I suspect Mary Fallsworthy,” I said, adding, “although I wouldn’t be surprised if Zoren had a hand in it too.”
“Zoren?”
I waved a hand and continued.
“Let me start over. I think the ‘massage,’” I said with deep sarcasm, “has affected my brain.”
Vincent looked curious, but he only nodded in response.
“As you know,” I said, “the paramedic who sent me to the clinic specifically mentioned Fallsworthy, and look at her diagnosis.”
Wincing, I pulled out my discharge papers and handed them to him.
“Notice all my ‘symptoms’ and the corresponding therapies Nurse Mary recommended.”
Vincent’s blunt fingertips brushed mine as he took the paper.
At first glance, it seemed to be an ordinary discharge document with check boxes indicating symptoms in one long column and therapies in the next.
“Well,” he said, after scanning the list of my injuries, which included trauma to the head and neck, elevated blood pressure, and signs of extreme stress and chronic fatigue, “you better lie down because, according to this, you are just about clinically dead.”
I couldn’t prevent the wry amusement from showing on my face.
“My personal favorite recommendation is the massage therapy. In fact, Nurse Mary and Zoren the butcher—er, masseur—recommended an additional six weeks of therapy to stave off my whiplash symptoms.”
“Did you even claim whiplash symptoms?” he asked.
“No, I told them I felt fine and that I only kept the consultation appointment as a precaution, but the nurse conveniently discovered these ‘signs of trauma’ during the physical exam. She also reminded me that neck trauma could still manifest itself years after an accident. Said I should keep it in mind.”
“And this Zoren character you keep mentioning?”
“Well, he made sure my so-called whiplash signs manifested themselves right away,” I said, explaining about t
he painful massage techniques and finishing with the “therapeutic suctioning device.”
Vincent looked at me with his usual calm expression and said, “I’ve traveled the world with the Navy, and believe me, I’ve heard hundreds of stories about massage parlors in various countries, everything from a tiny Asian woman walking across a soldier’s back in high heels to your standard happy-ending situation, but I’ve never heard one tale that involved a plunger.”
“Gee, I’m just lucky, I guess.”
“Not sure I’d call it luck, but at least we now know that the Accident Care Clinic has arranged itself a sweet deal. They recommend a pleasant therapy—”
“Barring the torture portion and the therapeutic plunger,” I interjected.
“—something people will pay gobs of money for at salons, and then they convince patients that the pain they experience means they require further treatments. Then they charge the insurance company, and the patient gets a series of free massages.”
“Not all it’s cracked up to be. Trust me,” I said, rubbing again at my shoulder. “And they throw in a few extra charges—maybe for medications or supplies—on top of it all.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “And you’ll never guess what clinic Ms. Cattaneo-Segretti suggested that I visit, just to make certain I wasn’t showing any signs of whiplash from the accident.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “She referred you to Dr. Keller.”
“At the very same Accident Care Clinic.”
“How convenient,” I deadpanned.
“I don’t think I’ll opt for the massage,” he said.
“Highly not recommended,” I agreed.
“So not only are runners receiving kickbacks for referring victims to Dr. Keller, but Cattaneo-Segretti is too,” I said. “What’s more, Dr. Keller is probably paying for those referrals, something else he neglected to mention to Ted.”
Our list of parties involved in the fraud ring was growing: Dr. Keller, Nurse Fallsworthy, Zoren the Masseur, Paramedic Kitto, runners Eddie and Tammy, and now Counselor Cattaneo-Segretti. And if my gut were correct, we’d have to include the two cops from the accident scene as well.
