by Owen Parr
“Doctor Death, how the hell are you?” I said to the ME in charge. “Detective Mancuso, what brings you to my dungeon? I thought you’d be in Florida wearing silly plaid Bermuda shorts and driving a golf cart by now,” the ME asked.
“Too young for that shit, Frankie. There’ll be time for that at some point. Tell me, do you have the body of Jonathan Parker here?”
“As a matter of fact, we did an autopsy this morning on him. Why would you be asking about that?”
“And the cause of death—or better yet, your conclusion?” I asked, ignoring Frankie’s question. “He’s got a variety of broken bones, severed spine, massive traumas. The COD is consistent with the fall that killed him.”
“With all the years, you spent in school and the exhaustive experience you’ve acquired here, you say the fall killed him?”
Taken aback, my buddy the ME stared at me and asked, “Are you going to challenge my conclusion on this, Mancuso?”
“Doctor D, I don’t think the fall killed him,” I replied seriously. “Then what did?”
“The landing, Doc, the landing,” I said laughing.
“Once an asshole, always an asshole,” the Doc replied, relaxing a bit. “Suicide?” I asked.
“Unless you have proof to the contrary, yes.” “No defensive wounds?”
“None apparent, no. Why are you asking?” “Can I see the body?”
“Why are you asking, again?”
“There’s an insurance issue involved. If it’s suicide, the widow is out a few million dollars. If not, the insurance company is.”
“And you guys represent whom?”
“We’re private investigators, with an emphasis on ‘private,’ Doc.”
“I see. Walk over with me, and take a peek. By the way, are you smoking again?” Shit, I must really have picked up this smell from Mrs. Adelle. “I stopped that habit many years ago. Call it a ‘transferred smell.’ How can you even smell that in here? All I smell is the odor of death.”
“Those of us working here become accustomed to that smell—the odor of death, as you call it. However, we become very sensitive to outside or foreign odors, like cigarette smoke.”
We walked to where the bodies were stored in refrigerated facilities. Doctor Death opened Parker’s niche. Rolling out the body, he said, “What are you hoping to find?”
“I don’t know, Doc,” I replied, shocked by the injuries to the body. I thought for a minute what goes through the mind of a person falling to his death. Does your life really flash in front of you?
As we both looked at the broken body, Frankie asked, “Are you thinking he was pushed out the window?” “Something like that, yes.” “If so, he would’ve been surprised from behind cause there are no signs of fighting off an attacker. No defensive wounds. Of course, falling twenty-one floors can disguise many things. He’s full of contusions, abrasions, and lacerations—again, consistent with the fall. Make that the landing.”
“Right. Any blunt force trauma?”
“As a matter of fact, he has a penetrating trauma here,” said the Doc, raising Parker’s head and pointing to a section on the back of the head just left of his right ear.
I examined it, and there was definitely a triangular penetration. “How big is that?” He peeked at his notes. “The penetration itself is eighty-seventh of an inch high. The indentation is almost a ninety-degree triangle.”
“A ninety-degree triangle?”
“That is correct.”
“What’s the overall size?”
“If it was a rectangle, it’d be almost an inch by half an inch.” “What the hell could make an indentation like that?” “Nothing comes to mind.”
“What do you think? Take a guess.”
“It could have been a rock he hit when he landed, or any other object that caused that trauma on the landing, or part of a window he hit on the way down.”
“Did you examine the scene?”
“Does a dog lick his balls? Of course, we did, Mancuso.” “The penetration, could it have been caused by something hitting him on the head before the fall? Is there any way to tell?”
“Not unless you find an object that fits the penetration, no. You think someone hit him and then pushed him?”
“Let me ask you: is it possible?”
“No one suspected any foul play. The autopsy is done because it was ruled a probable suicide at the scene.” “The keyword being ‘probable.’”
“I suppose he could have suffered that blunt force trauma prior to the fall.”
“So, there is a possibility of foul play?”
The doc thought for a second. “I could say yes to that, yes. But not enough to change the COD.”
“Did you determine the time of death?”
“Not to an exact time, no. He landed on a second story ledge. From our examination, he must have stayed there, at least an hour before the body was discovered.”
“Had rigor mortis set in?”
“No, that takes at least four hours to set in.” “When are you releasing the body?”
“Services and cremation are scheduled for tomorrow.” “Shit, cremation?”
“That’s what I understand, yes.”
“Can you hold the body an extra day?”
“Not without catching a lot of shit from everyone. We’re late as it is; it’s been busy here.”
“I’ll owe you, Doc.”
“And how are you going to pay me?” Doctor Death said, laughing.
“I own Captain O’Brian’s tavern in the Financial District. How about you and your staff come over for Happy Hour one day, drinks on me?”
“No well drinks, only premium.”
“You’ve got it, Doc, thank you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN I got back to the bar. Father Dom was already there, meticulously writing down his notes from his interviews with the partners at Parker’s firm. He was anal about his organization. I stood behind the bar. Father Dom sat in a stool in front of me with his files opened. The bar, designed by Dom’s grandfather, was an incredible piece of work. It ran the length of the establishment on the left side. Beautifully worn solid dark oak. Mirrors covered the entire wall facing the bar with glass shelving for the liquor bottles and glasses.
“How did it go, brother?” I asked. “Interesting. Did you know that the wife, her father, and what’s her name were there the day he supposedly jumped?”
“Melody, the big breasted lady, was there?” “Melody, yes. I think she may have been the last one to see him alive.” “That doesn’t jibe with my information.” “What, that Melody was there?”
“That, and his wife’s visit. She told me her father went to see him. She never mentioned that she’d been there. And Melody never mentioned she was there, either.”
“Did you even have time to ask her that many questions?” Mr. Pat listening to this conversation, smiled. “Who, Mrs. Parker?”
“No, Joey, Melody. You guys seemed kind of cozy in Woody’s booth.”
“I conduct my interrogations in various ways,” I said, winking at Mr. Pat.
“I’m sure you do. Are you going to write down your notes so we can compare?” “It’s getting late, and we need to open the bar in a few minutes. I’ve got them all written down. I was a decorated detective first grade, remember?”
Dom made a face. “Mr. Parker’s assistant is going to stop in around six in the evening. She seemed concerned when I was there.”
“Did she recognize you?”
“She’s a patron. We call her Stella.”
“Oh, that cute thing. She worked for Parker?” “His personal assistant.”
“I bet she’s got a lot more information.” Dom asked, “What did the coroner tell you?” “Doctor Death ruled it a suicide. However, we noticed a blunt force trauma to the head just above the right ear at a right angle with almost half an inch penetration. It’d be an inch by half an inch, if it were a rectangle.”
“Can he tell if that happened before the jump?” “No, he c
an’t. However, he agrees with me that it could’ve been before. There’s no way to tell for sure.” “A right triangle? That’s an odd size for an object, isn’t it?”
“I agree. Did you get to see Parker’s office?” “I did. Nothing jumps at me—pardon the pun. Did you know he ended up on a landing, not the sidewalk?” “Frankie, the ME mentioned that. So, what?” I said, grabbing a Brooklyn Lager.
“It seems his body laid there dead for a while before anyone noticed he’d jumped or been pushed.”
“Who first noticed?” I asked, taking a sip from my locally brewed lager.
“I didn’t ask. That’s a good question, though.” “I need to train you better if you want to be a firstgrade detective.” “Kathy can probably answer that later.”
“Who’s Kathy?”
“Stella, the assistant.”
“Right. She’s a cute young lady. What, in her midtwenties?” I enjoyed toying with Dom by adding trivial stuff; he was just all business.
“That’s about right,” Dom replied, asking and keeping his eyes focused on the files and his notes, “Any defensive wounds on Parker?”
“None. If he didn’t jump, he was surprised from behind or got hit with an object, then pushed.” Dom glanced up from his notes, “Other than the partners, only Mrs. Parker’s father could have the strength to push him by surprise. His wife or Melody wouldn’t have the strength to just push him out the window.”
“Agreed, unless he was struck on the head, then pushed.” Father Dom got up from the stool and began putting all his notes inside the file. “Yes, I’d agree. I wonder if the window was opened prior to the jump.”
“Parker smoked cigarettes, which is not allowed. So, more than likely, he’d open a window when he lit up.” “That’d make sense.” I downed the beer and recycled the bottle in a bin under the bar. “Let me review my findings,” I said, as Father Dom remained standing in front of me. I continued, “Mrs. Parker is devastated. Besides the fact that he died, her husband’s death not only eliminated his income altogether, but also the returns on investments from her trust account of four million dollars dropped from twelve percent the last four years to about four percent this year, going forward.”
Father Dom interrupted, “Where’s the money invested?” “Ah, with the partners. But wait, she had four million. Her sister also had the same-sized account, and her father had at least thirty-two million with Parker and the partners. They were all getting twelve percent per year since they moved the account to the company.”
“How the hell do you get a consistent twelve percent return on your investments? Interest rates are at an all-time low. These guys must be geniuses, no?”
“What’s been the return of the indices the last three years? Do you know?” I asked, as Mr. Pat opened the bar’s front door.
“No clue. We need to check that. Those returns aren’t feasible. I bet Marcy would know that.” “Why, because she’s FBI?” I asked.
“No, because she’s into that kind of stuff. She’s with the white-collar crime division. And she’s smarter than both of us.”
“You’re impressed with Special Agent Marcy, aren’t you, Father Dom?” “She’s a professional—and bright.”
“Right,” I said.
“What else is in your notes?” Dom asked.
“Both Mrs. Parker and Melody forgot to tell me they were there the day this guy died.” Father Dom came behind the bar and opened a Coke. “Listen to this. Both Mrs. Parker and her father were heard arguing with Parker that day.”
“That’s consistent with what Mrs. Parker told me, except that she was there. Her father was upset with the returns on the investments, and they were trying to cash out the holdings.”
“So, why didn’t they?” Dominic questioned. “She said they were heavily invested in shit that isn’t liquid. The investments included certificates of deposits in a Caribbean bank.”
“CDs in a Caribbean bank? Who does that?” Just then, Marcy walked in the front door with a large bag. “You guys hungry?” she asked. “What you got there, special agent?” I asked, smiling at her. “Four pastramis on rye with melted cheese and four orders of curly fries. You in, Mr. Pat?” she asked.
“You bet, Ms. Marcy. I’ll just take another pill for my cholesterol,” replied Mr. Pat in his Irish brogue. The scent from the hot pastrami permeated the bar. “How do they make curly fries anyway? And, why bother?” I asked.
Everyone made a face, a bit puzzled and ignoring my question.
“Besides bringing lunch, I also did some research on Evans, Albert, and Associates,” said Marcy.
“Wonderful,” replied Father Dom, sitting back down on a stool. “We were just talking about the investment returns that the partners were able to get on a consistent basis. Is it feasible to get twelve percent returns four years in a row?” I asked.
Marcy took the sandwiches from the bag and placed them on the bar. She replied, “In 2015, the Standard and Poor’s index was down slightly. However, in both 2014 and 2013, they were up double figures. But let me tell you, these guys, Evans and Albert, have been paying out twelve percent for longer than four years. According to my research, they’ve been doing that for almost seven years straight. And because of that, their client list has grown tremendously, including some state pension plans as well as public and private unions.”
I reached for my sandwich and fries. “How do they do that?” Marcy gave Father Dom and Mr. Pat their sandwich and fries. “Remember Mr. Bernard Madoff? I think he had consistent returns on his fund of about eight percent.”
“Good ol’ Bernie had a Ponzi scheme going on. How about a Pellegrino, Ms. Marcy?” Mr. Pat asked. “Thank you, that’d be great,” Marcy replied. “A Ponzi scheme in which he was able to pay the returns with the new capital invested by other investors.”
I added, “So in effect, he wasn’t getting the returns advertised, but he was using fresh capital to pay the current investors. No one had a clue?”
Marcy took a sip from her Pellegrino. “Insiders of the firm had a clue, but yes, the investors had no idea. His returns were fabricated, and there was money missing. Money, he was using for their personal expenses. Plus, he was able to get away with it for years and years.”
Father Dom put his sandwich down. “And now he is serving what, one hundred fifty years in prison?” “Exactly,” Marcy replied. “Wow, this pastrami is good, isn’t it?”
Patrick mumbled something in the affirmative. I said, “Let me ask you something, Special Agent, isn’t our Social Security being run like a Ponzi scheme by our government?”
Father Dom reached for another Coke and said, “Here we go again.” Marcy smiled at Dom and replied, “As a matter of fact, you can say it is. Our government has borrowed the money paid in by Boomers, who are now retiring, for other purposes. As the Boomers retire and Generation Xers and Millennials pay into the system, their money is going to pay those who retired.”
“You see, brother, I know what I’m talking about,” I said, with my mouth full.
“Fine,” Dom replied, “Let’s get back to our case. Marcy, do you think these guys are doing the same thing?” “Very possible, Father. But there are no complaints to follow, and unless a whistleblower comes forward, there is no reason to begin an investigation.”
Four people walked into the bar. Mr. Pat said, “I’ll take care of them. You guys go on.”
I asked, “A whistleblower? Don’t they get paid if the tip proves to be real?” Marcy smiled. “Indeed, they get anywhere from ten percent to thirty percent of the funds recovered. That’s if it’s their information that leads to the conviction and recovery.”
I turned towards Dominic. “Interesting. Did you hear that, bro?” Wiping his hands and ignoring me, Dom added, “We have the assistant of Mr. Parker coming in later. She appeared a bit concerned when I saw her earlier today at the offices of Evans and Albert.”
“You think she’s ready to blow the whistle?” Marcy asked. Shaking his head, Dom said, �
�She acted worried. I don’t know if she has something to say about the suicide or anything else. We’ll see when she gets here.”
Marcy asked, “What time is she coming in?” “She said she’d stop by after six,” Dom replied. “I’ll try to come back then. Hope you enjoyed your sandwiches,” Marcy said, as she got up from her stool. “Let us pay you for these,” Dom said. “She makes big bucks, brother. She can afford it,” I said, smiling and embracing Marcy. “Can we get together later?”
“I got it, Father,” she replied, and turning towards me, she said, “Maybe. We’ll see if I can make it back. Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”
“I have a few ideas. But before you go, I have one last question,” I said.
“If it is not about the case, I don’t want to hear it,” Dom said, emphatically. Marcy smiled at Dom. “It’s about the case. What do you know about offshore certificates of deposits, like in a Caribbean bank? Are they safe?”
“I’ll cite another Ponzi schemer, Allen Stanford, serving one hundred ten years in federal prison. He owned a securities firm in the U.S. and a bank in the Caribbean. He also paid investors an unreasonably high return on the CDs. It’s the old saying: if it’s too good to be true, it probably isn’t,” Marcy replied.
“So, this hold thing with the partners could be a house of cards,” I said.
“Possibly, yes,” Marcy replied.
“You see, Father, I told you Marcy was smarter than both of us together. I know how to pick ‘em or what?”
Marcy replied, “Mancuso, there’s another saying: don’t count your eggs before they hatch. And by the way, you didn’t pick me. I picked you.” She turned and began walking out of the bar.
“Love you, Special Agent,” I said smiling, as she turned back and waved with one finger.
CHAPTER EIGHT It was a little after six in the evening, and the bar was packed. Lots of energy inside this place. I guess it must have been a good day on the stock market. The Wall Streeters were spending money on good prime liquor and cigars. Father Dom was anxious because Stella—make that Kathy—had not shown up. I was anxious, too; this cute, young lady might have some information to break this case. Assistants usually know as much, if not more, than their bosses about what’s going on.
