Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  I looked through just about every aspect of the malpractice cases against Dietz, from the official complaint served on him to initiate the case, through all the depositions, expert reports, motions, and all the court-room testimony. Nowhere could I find the reference I needed.

  Kennedy came back while I was looking through Dietz’s deposition. I helped him bring in the groceries, updated him on the new development, and got right back to it as Kennedy prepared sandwiches for us.

  After almost two hours and twelve hundred pages of reports, depositions, and transcripts later, Kennedy and I still hadn’t found what we were looking for. I leaned back, frustrated as hell, and rubbed my neck. I let out an agitated sigh and asked Kennedy what we had left.

  “Just the OR records from Dietz’s malpractice cases. You wanna look at them or should I?”

  “I’ll do it. As an ex-surgeon, I might pick up on something you’d miss.”

  I studied the anesthesia, pre-op, and operative forms, the patient’s medical clearance notes, Dietz’s operative dictation, and the pathology reports—all with no success. I was combing through the nurse’s report, pretty mundane stuff, indicating the time surgery started and finished, materials and meds used during the case, and how the patient did during and after surgery. Nothing was out of the ordinary—until I hit the notes section of the report.

  There it was, scribbled down in all its glory.

  Barely legible, it resembled the typical chicken scratch most doctors wrote, rather than the neat penmanship of most nurses. The notes section of the report indicated that the cards kept by the nurses on Dietz’s techniques for elective abortions and D & C’s needed to be updated. He was using a few new instruments and had modified his approach. This information didn’t even belong in the nurse’s report.

  Updated cards should have simply been written up by the circulating nurse, without any reference to it here. But Nurse Courin had written it down.

  I grabbed my cell phone and started dialing. I needed to confirm my findings with Nurse Courin and Doctor McGowan as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 67

  After months of dead end investigating and the politically motivated arrest of an innocent man, who did I have to thank for our first break in the case? A rude motorist who had to reach over himself to flip me off.

  I had the proof I needed. Dietz wasn’t our man. Courin’s note indicated a rare anomaly in the surgical world: a left-handed surgeon. McGowan confirmed the killer was a righty.

  Kev and I mulled over this information. Was it the slam-dunk break I thought? McGowan seemed to think so. Based on the depth and orientation of the leading edge of the wounds, only a right-handed person, or someone ambidextrous, a rare occurrence present in but 0.03 percent of the population, could have been the killer. The killer being right-handed didn’t impress McGowan at the time she wrote the reports, 88 percent of serial killers were right-handed based on a recent study in The American Journal of Forensic Pathology. She mentioned the killer’s handedness just once in her report, and like the rest of us, was unaware Dietz was a southpaw.

  But Nurse Courin knew it. She had scrubbed in on many a D & C, abortion, and C-section with Doctor Dietz. Dietz’s handedness was of the utmost importance to her. It affected how she handed instruments to him, where she set up the surgical tray, and how she loaded his needles. It even required her to, on occasion, order left-handed versions of some instruments designed for right-handed surgeons.

  Was Dietz’s handedness enough for Kennedy and me to go on? Did it justify us to run a clandestine investigation? If we were wrong, we’d both be in long-term hot water with Mayor Blumenthal, Police Commissioner Kelly, and that asshole Spatick. We might even get fired. If we were right and did nothing, the killer could strike again at any time. It was a tough position to be in, but we both badly wanted this guy and we’d risk anything and everything to nail him.

  We reviewed what we had on Dietz. It was all circumstantial. He led the state each of the last three years in the number of abortions performed, an activity that gave him a plentiful supply of illegal stem cells for insane research he hid from us throughout the investigation. He had multiple patient complaints against him with the Office of Professional Medical Conduct, two malpractice suits, and even a sexual harassment case filed by an ex-employee, which was subsequently dropped. None of the complaints or malpractice cases, though, were ever upheld on investigation. Dietz lacked good alibis on the nights of the murders. So did Johnny Briganti, Gerry Buehler, and Brad Kimball. Physical evidence against Dietz, or any other suspect for that matter, was absent in each of the murders.

  The most damning part of the case against Dietz was the most troubling as well. Inappropriate comments in April Cassidy’s records and those of other patients under Dietz’s care were hard to account for. What doctor is crazy enough to put such things in writing? A sadistic serial killer perhaps. But would a murderer smart enough to not leave any clues at his crimes be careless enough to draw attention to himself with such comments? I doubted it and so did Kennedy. If it weren’t for the pages and pages of damning evidence on Dietz’s computer, we wouldn’t have even made the arrest. No, we would have just continued our investigation into Dietz until we found physical evidence linking him to the murders. But that hadn’t been our call. Political pressure from above forced the arrest.

  Now we had to clean up the mess—and we only had one week to do it.

  Chapter 68

  After a two-hour break to see the kids, eat dinner, and let Michelle know what the hell was going on, Kev and I had been up till two in the morning culling through all the files and talking over the case. Today we were each hitting the investigative trail again. Kennedy was out following up on some loose ends that needed tending to. I was busy calling in a favor with Jason Stippler, the FBI’s local computer guru and the agent who had uncovered all the damning files on Dietz’s computer.

  Stippler and I sat in a booth at Pete’s Café on East Fordham Road in the Bronx. A nondescript place, it was famous for two things; great food and Pete’s Rollie Fingers style mustache. While a student at Fordham University, I spent many a Sunday afternoon at Pete’s escaping the terrible cafeteria food. Today, as we sat in a booth by the window, the sunlight streaming in on us, Jason and I just hoped to escape detection by the NYPD and the FBI.

  Kennedy and I were far from computer geniuses, but we both knew the case against Dietz hinged on the evidence we found on his computer. We needed Stippler’s help—badly—to have any chance of finding the real killer. Stippler was the best computer expert the Feds had on the East Coast, maybe even the best in the country. He was, in FBI parlance, a blue flamer. He was even rumored to be in line for a promotion to run one of the Bureau’s NYC offices, whenever one of the current chiefs stepped down. This morning was all about getting him on board—before our small window of opportunity closed and a deranged psycho killer slipped through our grasp for good.

  Last night Stippler and I talked the case over on the phone for about an hour before he relented, agreeing to meet me at the diner.

  We sat there eating our breakfast, drinking our coffee, and making small talk. I did my best to act casual, concealing my desperate desire to get Stippler’s help. After a few minutes, I decided to move things forward.

  “So what do you make of this, Jason? Doesn’t smell right to me.”

  “I think the eggs are fine, Chris. But you gotta steer clear of those sunny-side-up suckers. The Salmonella’s going to catch up with you at some point,” Stippler said through a wide grin and large, pearly white teeth.

  “Very funny, big guy. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Turning serious, Stippler put down his fork, looked at me hard and replied, “Your theory about the evidence being planted on the computers is worth pursuing. I have to admit that in my eagerness to catch Dietz, I didn’t consider the possibility when I hacked into his files.”

  I studied Stippler’s face. It was impassive, providing no hint if he was
inclined to help us or not. “So where do we go from here, hotshot?”

  Stippler knew what I was asking. The investigation was basically closed except for gathering more evidence against Dietz. I was asking this fast rising FBI star to take part in an unofficial investigation, one based on a hunch. If I was wrong, our actions would derail all of our careers, perhaps even end them.

  “Well, Chris, as you know, it’s a tough situation. All Dietz’s computers have been impounded as evidence and are being watched closely. I don’t even know if I can get on them for another look.”

  “Jason, I’m sure the FBI’s most talented computer hacker can finagle some more access…in the interests of furthering the DA’s investigation and pursuing justice, of course,” I said as my eyes remained riveted to Stippler’s.

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Stippler stared back at me, then out the window at the ever-present chaos on East Fordham Road. He sipped his coffee and pushed around his scrambled eggs with his fork before he looked up at me again. He let out a forceful sigh through pursed lips. “I’ll see what I can do, Chris. I’ll call you later.”

  As I exhaled, the tension left my body all at once and the knots in my gut uncoiled. I now knew we had at least a fighting chance of catching the killer. I reached across the table and patted Stippler’s shoulder. “That’s all I can ask for, Jason. I owe you, big time.”

  “You got that right, Chris. I just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

  I did too. There was no time left to be wrong any more.

  Chapter 69

  My cell phone buzzed as I walked towards my car. Kennedy was calling.

  “How’s it going, partner? What do you have for me?” I said in an upbeat tone.

  “Nothing you’re going to want to hear, Chris. I’ll start with the good news though…Briganti, Buehler, and Kimball are all right-handed.”

  “Good, though pretty much expected. What else have you got?”

  “I decided to talk to McGowan and confirm a few things on the last two victims. Without a doubt, it was the same manner of death and mutilation as the earlier cases. Both victims were also pregnant and both babies were, of course, missing. The victims died earlier in the morning the day we found them, which was the day they were reported missing. McGowan puts the time of death as somewhere between 2:00 and 8:00 a.m.,” Kennedy said before pausing. “Now here’s the bad news: All three of our remaining suspects have airtight alibis.”

  “What?! Are you sure?” I said as I kicked a crumpled Budweiser can in front of me. It flew forward, scaring some pigeons off a few feet away.

  “Yup. I mean no big surprise on Kimball since the Feds got him in custody, but Buehler and Briganti also came up clean. The Feds were staring right at Briganti the whole time and our guys followed Buehler to his house. He was in the whole night, didn’t make or receive any calls or have any visitors. He turned in at 11:00 p.m. after watching a CSI rerun and was out the door at six the following morning for the gym. The officers on him unofficially entered his house and tossed the place after he left. They came up with nothing,” Kennedy said with obvious disappointment.

  “Shit! Any chance one of our suspects had done the girls earlier and thrown them on ice for a while before dumping the bodies?”

  “No. McGowan was certain on time of death, and besides, the girls were missing just a few hours before they died,” Kennedy said, downtrodden. “Well, that’s it for me. What have you been up to, Chris? You make any headway?”

  “I met earlier today with Stippler, the Fed’s computer guy.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  “He’s doing us a favor, accessing Dietz’s computer to see if the evidence was planted.”

  “Great,” Kennedy replied with sarcasm. “He clears Dietz, then we got no suspects.”

  “And Stippler’s ass would be in a sling, a bright red cross-hair painted on it for helping us out in clearing Dietz,” I said with frustration and annoyance.

  “Geez, you really know how to take care of your friends, Chris. Guess we won’t be getting a Christmas card from Stippler this year.”

  “It’ll also be the end of all of our careers, Kev, if we don’t find out who, in fact, killed these women. And unfortunately, we’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it.”

  Chapter 70

  The last two days flew by, and Kevin and I were feeling the intense pressure to finish our investigation before we both had to return to work on July 6th. After a little cajoling and a lot of arm-twisting and threats, Doctor Peter Hornfeld, founder, president, and CEO of Physof, released his list of tri-state area users to me. He and I hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on the necessity of my request until I reminded the ex-con, who served six years on charges of sodomizing three of his pediatric patients, that any parole violation would send him right back to prison. I was sure the pedophile had filth on his home computer, enough to send him back and his company’s stock price reeling. My hunch must have been right, because Hornfeld agreed. I had the list in my hands in under an hour.

  The Physof users ran the gamut from solo practitioners, multi-specialty groups and small community hospitals, to large academic medical and research facilities. Holed up in Kennedy’s home office, I feverishly accessed my Medical Society of the State of New York—the MSSNY—and American Medical Association—the AMA—online accounts for a list of OB’s in private practice or who worked in research or maybe both, who practiced in the tri-state area.

  I had joined MSSNY and the AMA as a medical student and kept the memberships active despite my abrupt and radical career change. The memberships provided excellent access to much needed, hard to find databases, and in situations like this, they were invaluable.

  More arm-twisting, threats, and brow beating got us access to every fingerprint, drug test, and urine sample on record for the doctors on our list. The State of New Jersey helped us out by providing access to its database of mandatory physician fingerprints. As soon as Kennedy had this information, he contacted McGowan and coordinated comparing the doctors’ DNA and fingerprints to the one partial print and fragmented DNA sample found at April Cassidy’s murder scene.

  With the federal holiday looming, getting lawful access to certain databases would be difficult if not impossible. It also meant we were running out of time with our investigation.

  We worked through the night, cross-referencing what we had, hoping for a match…before it was too late.

  Chapter 71

  Independence Day was right around the corner. Various municipalities would be hosting fireworks shows over the next few days, so as to avoid competing with each other on the 4th. After having worked the last few days of my vacation, I promised Michelle and the kids we’d go to the Kensico Dam Fireworks show tonight at 8:00 p.m., but there was no way that was gonna happen now. She was not taking it well.

  Michelle sprang up in bed, glaring at me, “Are you kidding me, Chris? You can’t spare an hour and half to be with your family to watch fireworks? You promised.”

  “I know I did, honey, but Kev and I are really close now. We’ve got to nail whoever is really the killer before the weekend is over or we’ll end up putting the wrong man away for all these murders.”

  “I’m so sick of hearing about these murders! Reality check, your family is what matters. I went along with uprooting all of us, moving from a beautiful, safe home in a great school district to living in this beaten up, cockroach-infested dump in a crappy neighborhood.” Michelle’s face was on fire and her arms were flailing. “I made all these sacrifices so you could chase some crazy dream of yours, and you can’t even do this one small thing for your family?”

  “Sorry honey—”

  “Don’t honey me, Chris! Go on your wild goose chase with Kev,” Michelle said as she pointed towards the bedroom door. “You can sleep with him in his car tonight for all I care!”

  Figuring there was no reasoning with Michelle now and that silence was my ally, I quietly exited the bedroom and took of
f.

  §

  Stippler and I had another breakfast meeting. Paranoia that someone on the force would see us led to a change in venue. This time we met at the Metro Diner on Scarsdale Avenue in Scarsdale. The bustling eatery was quiet at this early hour. We grabbed a booth next to the window and got right down to business.

  “Chris, I analyzed all the inappropriate entries in April Cassidy’s chart and those of other patients in Doctor Dietz’s care. All the comments were imported into the system,” Stippler said with a thin smile and a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m not following you,” I said, somewhat confused.

  “The comments were not typed into the patient files on any of the computers in Dietz’s office or home. All these files were hacked into and their notes overlaid with these comments,” Stippler explained.

  “How is that possible? Are you sure the comments weren’t just added after the exam, maybe at the patient’s next visit or at some other computer Dietz might have used?”

  “I’m positive. The hacker did a very good job covering his tracks, but did leave trace evidence of his presence. The inappropriate comments were added to all the charts on the same day over a period of forty-five minutes. There would be no reason for Dietz to put all these comments in so many different charts at the same time. Some of these patients he hadn’t even seen for months. If he was going to put comments in the charts, why would he do it much later and all at once?”

  “Hmm, did you consider the possibility that someone on his staff set him up by accessing and altering the records from a remote location?”