Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe

by Barry Friedman

  I heard, “Yeah I got him. What do you want me to do with him?” He was talking on a phone. Silence while he listened. Then, “Don’t worry. I’ll wait till you get here. He ain’t going nowhere.”

  He may be strong, but his grammar could use some polish.

  I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. “We need you down here, stat. One-oh-six has thrown another seizure.”

  “Zimmerman again?”

  Crackle, crackle.” You got it.”

  “Shit.” Then. “Hey you. Stay here till I get back. Heh, Heh.”

  A comic.

  I heard the door shut. Had he left?

  I struggled against my bindings, but they held fast.

  I tried to pull one of my arms up, but the tape was around my upper arm and forearm as well. I wore a shirt and he hadn’t taken it off, so the cloth of the sleeve was between the tape and my skin. Again I tried bringing my arm up through the sleeve. The duct tape held it securely to the chairback. If I could get a little slack in the tape, I could slip my arm up and free it. Using all my energy I strained to push my arm away from my body and the chairback. It was enough to stretch the tape; I could pull my arm up a little way. If I leaned toward the opposite side, I could hike my shoulder up and pull my arm further out of the bindings.

  Blinded by the tape, I stopped what I was doing and listened. I heard no objections, no nothing. I was alone. At least, if he was in the room he didn’t see what I was trying to do.

  Pulling my arm up through the sleeve was painful, but gradually, slowly, I inched my arm up until it was free of the binding. I had one arm out. Partway home free.

  I shook the arm which was cramping, then ripped the tape off my eyes and mouth.

  The change from dark to light had me blinking. I swept my gaze around the room. I had been left alone. For how long, I had no way of knowing. I assumed muscle-man would be back. Soon.

  Now that I could see what I was doing, I frantically searched for the end of the tape, but it was behind the back of the chair. I tried to feel back along the edge of the tape until I felt the end. I broke two fingernails until I was able to peel it back an inch. Suddenly, my arm cramped and the edge I had freed dropped from my grasp. When I groped behind me I found it had again adhered to the underlying tape. Once peeled off however, it was less sticky, and with effort, I gradually unwound it from my body, the other arm and the chair back. I thought I’d never get it free, but once I could pull my other arm out, the rest was easy.

  After I’d unwound the tape holding my legs, I could stand, wobbly at first, but I was free—at least from my bindings. I looked at the closed door and realized I was far from being really free.

  I’d done my Houdini act, but I wasn’t about to wait around for the applause. I had to get out of the room, and off the Assisted Living floor. But fast.

  I sneaked a look down the corridor. There was no one in sight. I didn’t know this Zimmerman person, and didn’t wish him bad luck, but I hoped his seizure was Grand mal to tie up the guy who’d tied me up, for as long as possible.

  A fly on the wall looking down on this 79-year-old crock tippy-toeing out of the room, picking a lock on the “hidden door,” and tearing ass out of the garage, would be laughing its compound, multi-lens eyes out. But to me it wasn’t comical. These guys, whoever they were didn’t joke around.

  I used a side entrance to get into the Independent Living building and evaded a dozing security guard to take the elevator to my floor.

  I knew that not only my life was in danger but Harriet’s as well. I awoke her and said, “Hurry and throw on some clothes.”

  She opened an eye. “Huh?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” I didn’t want to alarm her by telling her that any minute someone could be using a pass key to charge into our apartment and do us the unmentionable.

  She slurred, “What’s the hurry?”

  “There’s a sale on at Nordstrom. Half-price.” I knew that would get her moving.

  “Oh good. I need a pink blouse. I wonder if that will be on sale too.”

  “Yeah. Everything. But it’ll be gone unless we move along.”

  It was dark outside, but I doubt she noticed.

  I kept prodding her, casting a wary eye toward the door. I was sure that by now they’d found I’d gone missing, and would be searching the logical place for me to have gone: my apartment.

  Harriet was now dressed. She started putting on her make-up, a fifteen-minute operation. But I told her to grab her lipstick and come.

  She protested. “You want me to go to Nordstrom looking like this?”

  “Just flash your charge card. They won’t give a damn what you look like.”

  I grabbed her arm, and with her shoes in her hand, dragged her to the elevator. Before I’d pushed the down button, I heard the whine of the elevator in the shaft. Someone was coming up. At eleven-thirty at night the only ones who’d be coming up would be the ones coming for me and Harriet. We charged across the hall to the service elevator. It crawled to our floor and as we got in, I heard the passenger elevator door open.

  The security guard at the back door of the building was not in sight when we arrived at the first floor. We ducked out to the street. So far, we’d made it.

  Getting my car was out of the question since I didn’t know which part of the multi-floor garage the valets had parked it. So we hurried down the street to get away from the building and our pursuers.

  The only place open was an all-night MacDonald’s half a block away. As we panted in, Harriet said, “Remember, I need a pink blouse.”

  How could I forget.

  Harriet looked around the restaurant. “This isn’t Nordstrom.”

  I said, “You wouldn’t want to shop on an empty stomach, would you?”

  “I guess not.”

  I ordered cups of coffee and when we were seated, I contemplated my next move.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  In a state like ours, with retirees as thick as flies on road-kill, the authorities take Elder Abuse very seriously. Their definition of Elder Abuse encompasses everything from shoving in front of an oldster in a movie queue, to murder. To avoid falling into the latter category, I fished out my cell phone and dialed 911. I told the operator I wanted to report a potential double-homicide (mine and Harriet’s.) “Please connect me with the police department.”

  “Sir, is the homicide in progress or has it already occurred?”

  “Let’s not argue semantics. Send the police to the MacDonald’s on…” I gave her the address.

  The two police cars with flashing rooftop bubble-gum arrived so fast I thought they might have been waiting down the street.

  Guns drawn, two police officers charged into the restaurant.

  One, a well-fed, red-haired young man gazed from side-to-side. “Where’s the body?”

  With difficulty, I tried to explain that the murder hadn’t occurred yet.

  He demanded, “Is there, or is there not a double homicide here.”

  “Not exactly.”

  After five minutes of my stumbling through an explanation, I could see the cop’s eyes narrowing, the wheels in his head churning while he debated whether or not to take us to the loony bin. Finally, he decided my problem did not fit his job description. He said, “Why don’t the two of you get in my car and discuss it with someone who speaks your language.”

  Harriet gazed around Detective Mark Wilson’s cubicle in police headquarters then lamented that this didn’t look like any Nordstrom she’d ever been in.

  Wilson’s brow wrinkled.

  I poured out the entire story of what I’d seen going on at the Restful Bowers’ Assisted Living facility. “People there are being tranquilized until they’re like zombies.”

  He obviously was skeptical.

  “Look, detective, we’re going to have to do something quickly. Lives are at stake.”

  “Whose?”

  “My wife’s and mine.”

  “What do you want me to d
o?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the detective. Get a warrant. Search the place yourself.”

  He snickered. “Look, Mr. Whatever Your Name is—.”

  “Callins. Henry Callins.”

  “Mr. Callins, I go to my chief with a cock-and-bull story like you give me, he’d take my badge and gun and refer me to a shrink.”

  I was getting nowhere. “Okay, forget it.” I grabbed Harriet’s arm and started to walk out of the police station. I wasn’t sure what I’d do but I’d have to think of something.

  Wilson held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Let’s us all go see the chief. You tell him what you told me. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  Chief of Detectives McBride was a beer-bellied man with a fringe of gray hair surrounding a bald pate. He sat drumming the top of his desk with his fingertips while I repeated my saga. When I finished, he looked at Wilson. “Where’d you find this flake?”

  I was boiling. Frustrated. I pointed to the sign on his wall.

  I yelled. “How about serving and protecting like it says?”

  He flipped a hand. “Calm down, Sir. You say you want us to get a search warrant. Maybe you don’t know that we’d have to go before a judge with a reasonable excuse to invade a person’s privacy.”

  “Isn’t saving minds and lives a reasonable excuse?”

  He shook his head. “Look, put yourself in my place. Some citizen—.”

  I interrupted. “Some flake.”

  “All right. Maybe I was a little out of line.”

  “Maybe? A little?”

  “Okay. You made your point. Like I was saying, some citizen walks in with a story that’s like out of thriller-fiction, wouldn’t you think it’s far-fetched?”

  I had to agree. “But if I didn’t see it I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “That’s my point, exactly.” He glanced over at Detective Wilson. “Check it out, Mark. If it’s legit we’ll…I’ll figure something out. Oh, and take Hodges with you. From what he says there are women involved.” He addressed me. “Detective Margie Hodges. In case women have to be, you know, examined.”

  Chief McBride stood up and extended his hand. I thanked him.

  Harriet said, “What about my pink blouse?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I was seated alongside a bewildered Harriet in the back seat of Wilson’s city-issued Crown Vic, as we were driven back to Restful Bowers. It was already 1 AM.

  I said to Wilson, “How do you intend to play this?”

  “By ear. We go in, tell them we have a report that some patients in the—what did you call it?”

  “Assisted Living.”

  “…Assisted Living were being overdosed with medicine and we had to check out the report.”

  I could visualize one of the aides, Steve or Ernie, blocking the way. Kurt Berman and Chet would not likely be around this time of night—unless they were still looking for me.

  I said, “You know you’re going to get some flak. They’re not going to let you see them.”

  “Don’t worry I can handle it.” He didn’t add, “without your help.”

  “What if they ask to see your warrant?”

  From the shotgun seat, Detective Margie Hodges turned around. “In an emergency, where we suspect a life is in danger, we don’t need a warrant.”

  Wilson said, “You know, it might help if you could give us a name. Somebody who is, according to you, being drugged.”

  I thought for a moment. “Gladys Andrews. She’ll tell you she’s fine. But they’ve put the words in her mouth. I can assure you that even if she looks normal, she’s not.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Either one of the aides or the administrator, Kurt Berman or his assistant, Chet. I don’t know Chet’s last name.”

  When we pulled into the entrance to The Bowers, a red ambulance was already parked there.

  An EMT came around and leaned into the front car window. He addressed Wilson. “We asked some security guy to take us to the emergency, but he said he didn’t know there was any. What is this, a false alarm?”

  I said, “It’s no false alarm. Tell him the report was about Gladys Andrews in Assisted Living.”

  He shrugged and started for the lobby carrying a large bag that I assume held his emergency material.

  Wilson called, “Wait a minute, Mike. We’ll go with you.” He turned to Harriet and me. “You two stay here in the car. We’ll yell if we need you. Come on Margie.”

  We watched the two detectives and the EMT enter the lobby.

  We sat and listened to the crackle of police calls on the car radio. A second EMT was leaning against the ambulance, chewing a cuticle.

  Through the open lobby door we could see Wilson, Hodges and the EMT at the concierge desk. Judging by the hand action, they were arguing with someone behind the counter.

  After what seemed like ten minutes, Ernie, the aide approached. More hand gestures, pointing. Finally, Ernie shrugged and the entourage disappeared from view.

  We fidgeted in the detective’s car for about half an hour. Harriet drove me batty asking when we’d get to Nordstrom. “I hope the pink blouses aren’t all bought.”

  Another Crown Vic pulled up in back of us. A man, presumably another detective got out and entered the lobby. He talked to someone behind the concierge desk, then proceeded into the building.

  Another nail-biting twenty minutes went by. The constant chatter from the police radio was driving me out of my mind. I told Harriet to stay put while I checked to see if Nordstrom’s sale was still on. I got out of the car and was about to enter the lobby when Detective Hodges approached. “Come on. They want you in Assisted Living.”

  “What’s up?”

  She didn’t answer, but moved rapidly and I followed her.

  In the elevator to the Assisted Living floor, I again asked what was happening.

  She smiled, “You’ll see.”

  When the elevator door opened at the Assisted Living level, I heard voices. Compared to the usual silence, this was a commotion.

  At Gladys’ door, Chet stood leaning against the corridor wall, his chin on his chest. His hands were behind his back. Hodges stood alongside him, and gestured with her head for me to go into the room.

  At Gladys’ bedside were Detective Wilson, the EMT, and the short, dapper man I’d seen leaving the second detective car.

  Wilson said, “Mr. Callins, meet Detective Hanaoka.”

  Hanaoka smiled. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for alerting us as to what was going on.”

  I glanced at Gladys who was half sitting up in bed. Her eyes were wide open staring at the opposite wall. She didn’t acknowledge my presence, even when I said, “Hello, Gladys.”

  The EMT chuckled. “She won’t speak. She didn’t say anything when I took her blood pressure, either.”

  I stared at him. What was funny?

  He went on.” She had no blood pressure.”

  It didn’t take a medical degree to know that every living being has a—“D—D—Dead?”

  Hanaoka said, “Let me show you something.” He pulled up Gladys’ pajama top. I looked away, embarrassed. When I slowly turned my gaze back to her inert form, the sight that met my eyes caused my legs to buckle. Wilson caught me and propped me up.

  Where the middle of her chest should have been, was a rectangular cut out. In its depths, I could make out a metallic box with knobs protruding from its front.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “My God!” My lips moved but no sound came from my mouth. At the same time, Gladys raised up one of her arms.

  Wilson said, “Detective Hanaoka is our computer guru.”

  Hanaoka said, “Listen.” He turned to Gladys, or whoever that was in that bed, and said, “How do you feel?”

  From somewhere, Gladys’ voice said, “Fine. Just Fine.”

  Her lips hadn’t moved.

  Hanaoka said, “I’ve disconnected the synchronized lip movements.

 
I shook my head.

  Hanaoka said, “You’re looking at one of the most sophisticated robots I’ve ever seen.”

  “A robot?”

  “A robot.” He went on. “They have it programmed to respond to key words or phrases such as ’Do you like it here?’ with a stock answer. ‘I love it here. The service…’. ”

  I let it sink in. “If this is a robot, where is the real person, Gladys?”

  Wilson said, “That’s what we’re trying to get the guy standing outside this room to tell us. I think she’s been deep-sixed. Probably gone di-di.”

  “Di-di?”

  “Departed. As in dead. And so is everyone else on this floor that we’ve seen.”

  The rest I could figure out. For the first few days after a resident was moved to Assisted Living, they would let that person settle in. They’d use the time to record his or her voice and gestures, adjusting the voice and gestures of the robot to match the timbre and inflections of the real person. After the robot had been programmed, they’d substitute it for the unfortunate resident.

  I touched the cheek of Gladys’s robot. Not quite the texture of skin.

  Hanaoka explained. “The guy who constructed the robot’s body used silicon rubber. It can be molded to any shape you want.”

  That would be Chet, the make-up artist.

  I glanced out the door. Chet was being led away by Detective Hodges. His hands cuffed behind his back.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  At three in the morning I was still wide awake, seated in front of Detective Wilson’s desk. I had put Harriet back to bed in our apartment after promising I’d get her a pink blouse.

  To Wilson I said, “Why? What was to be gained?”

  He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Crimes are committed for three reasons: Jealousy, revenge or money. You can scratch jealousy and revenge as motives here.”

  “That leaves money?” Showing him I was paying attention.

  “You got it, m-o-n-e-y. Monthly fees. Social Security checks. Dividend checks. With a stroke of a forger’s pen, someone could become a stand-in for the real thing. And the ‘real thing’ wouldn’t be missed because his or her place would be taken by a talking, smiling, walking replica.”