The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “With an armored car service?”

  “Not necessarily. He wasn’t implanted to work for them. He was a walking ghost, a deadly greeting card. I’d like to find out whether he had ever been admitted to a medical institution, or worked in one. Your wife could probably help us with this,” I said, averting my eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “Brenda wouldn’t have told Joe that. He just leapt to a conclusion.”

  “He doesn’t leap to conclusions. He’s a medical examiner. Are you going to ask her about it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s probably wise. I’d hate to see you doing the singles bar scene—at your age.”

  “How do you know what a singles bar scene is like?”

  “I tried it when I was twenty-five. It didn’t thrill me.”

  “I’ve thought of marriage,” he grumbled.

  “So did Brenda, often, by the sound of it.”

  “She’s never brought up the subject.”

  “Did you?”

  “I thought about it.”

  “Say it out loud, Kenny. She can’t read your mind.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with our relationship,” he answered shakily.

  “Then why would marriage spoil it?” I asked.

  He was still mulling it over, when I spooled out of the parking lot.

  Jazz must have seen the unhealthy shine in my eyes when I dared to open them wider. She ate her breakfast in silence. Mrs. Tavalho came early and wouldn’t let me pay her extra.

  “You should have called me last night,” she said, cleaning the kitchen counter. “I would have come.”

  “My neighbor looked in on Jazz. I can’t trouble you in the middle of the night, every time I have an emergency at work,” I sighed.

  “You came home at five and you’re off again?” She clucked her tongue.

  “That’s the nature of my work,” I smiled tiredly. “There are long periods when not much happens but when something does…”

  “When something does, you pick up the phone and call me,” she said sternly.

  “Was somebody shot?” Jazz asked, not lifting her head.

  “Finish your breakfast and then go brush your teeth,” I said, ignoring the question. I never talked about my work at home. “Here’s five dollars.” I put it beside her plate. “That’s for a snack. Do your homework. I’ll phone to let you know when I’m coming home.”

  “We have to draw a family tree for our social studies,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “Draw a branch, or two—for you and me.”

  “Everyone has a family tree. The teacher won’t believe me if I draw a branch.”

  “Have her call me.”

  “Why can’t I have a family tree like all the other kids?” she asked tearfully.

  “You’re resourceful. Make one up. Whatever you put on it, I’ll back you up with your teacher.”

  “I want a real one, not a fake one,” she whispered.

  I thought about the opulent penthouse and the tall, thin man in a blue sweater and taupe slacks who instructed my nannies and tutors to talk to me about my mother because he was too busy to do it himself. “There isn’t one. There never was.”

  I went to get my car keys. Half an hour later, I picked up Ken.

  We went to the Langtry Office building. We had an appointment with Ms Sedgwick at the IMF. I’d called to confirm it and used the opportunity to tell her that we wanted information on an ex-employee, Jonathan Brick. It’d been four years since Brick had worked at IMF so I figured it would take the clerical staff some time to dig it out of the archives.

  “I’ve only been here two years,” Ms Sedgwick told us, opening a file. “I may not be able to answer all your questions but I’ve pulled whatever information we have on Mr. Brick from the personnel files.”

  “Do you know what projects he worked on?” I asked.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m an administrator. I won’t be able to give you technical details, only what’s in his file. After you called, I reviewed the information so I’d be able to give you a comprehensive summary. His performance review was excellent. He was a programmer and a mathematician, not just an economist. He was developing a mathematical model. It was based on the recommendation of the Financial Action Task Force that was set up a few years ago, during a G7 Finance Ministers’ meeting in Japan. They review rules and practices of several countries and territories, concerning criteria, standards and cooperation in a fight against money laundering. They issue advisories to domestic financial institutions. These are based on the data provided by Financial Intelligence Units. The model was complex. It would have been available to all the domestic banking institutions. It also would have helped them track even the slightest activity of money laundering. It also would have contained a component to track money laundering by government officials who seek to divert public assets. Once it had been implemented domestically, we could have sold it worldwide.”

  “But he never finished?” I asked.

  “No. And no one else had his expertise to continue. It’s a pity that he didn’t complete his contract. I’m sure the IMF would have assisted him, any way we could, had he told us that his medical condition was severe.”

  “What medical condition?” Ken asked.

  She leafed through the file. “Here it is, tension headaches. Apparently, they were quite severe. He saw Dr. Martin, our staff physician. I believe he referred him to a specialist.”

  “Is Dr. Martin still here?” I asked hurriedly.

  She shook her head. “Our project staff is all contract. Mr. Brick’s was the longest I’ve seen. He was an asset. Dr. Martin left just after Mr. Brick. That was more than three years ago.”

  “Left?” I echoed. “Do you mean Mr. Brick quit?”

  “Why, yes.” She sounded surprised. “Dr. Martin had referred him to a specialist. I believe he had recommended that he leave his job. His opinion was that the job was causing Mr. Brick’s tension headaches.”

  “Did the IMF provide this information to the police four years ago?” Ken asked.

  She frowned. “I don’t see why they would have. Why exactly are you here, officer?”

  Ken and I glanced at each other. He looked as confused as I was.

  Brick’s cold case file had information about his job with the IMF but not in detail. We had assumed that our colleagues, who had started up Brick’s case four years ago, would have gone to the IMF to investigate and informed them of his disappearance. Was it possible that they didn’t know? Or was Ms Sedgwick clueless because she was new? It could be that if Brick quit his job before his trip to the Dundalk 7-Eleven, they didn’t know their former employee had disappeared.

  “Did he submit a letter of resignation?” I asked, motioning toward the file.

  “I believe it was a verbal arrangement, given over the phone.”

  “So there’s nothing in his file to suggest resignation?”

  She frowned. “His employment was properly terminated. All the administrative procedures have been documented. That’s only done when the employee quits. Given Dr. Martin’s files, I assumed it was for medical reason.”

  Horowitz and Weiss had opened the case. Both were now Inspectors in Robbery. They were good cops. We had consulted with them often, when reviewing Brick’s files. They would not have forgotten to visit the IMF, to tell them that Brick was a missing persons case. Even if he had resigned, Horowitz and Weiss should have gone to the IMF and carried away all the information in his personnel file. Yet, we had no medical information. Nothing about the headaches, or that Brick had consulted the staff physician who had referred him to a specialist—or that he’d resigned.

  “Was this information available four years ago?” I asked.

  “Why, of course.”

  “And if we’d asked for it you would have provided it?”

  “I wasn’t here then.”

  “But it’s been in his file all along?” I persisted. It was possible that if Brick quit his jo
b before his trip to the Dundalk 7-Eleven, they didn’t know their former employee had disappeared.

  “Yes, of course. It’s in our database, as well as a hardcopy in our archives.”

  “Who would have released this information if the police had asked for it four years ago?”

  “My predecessor and our staff physician.”

  “Who was your predecessor?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Lock. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to get in touch with her. She passed away. That’s how her position became vacant. It was a boating accident. She drowned. There were two acting supervisors for a year and then I got the job.”

  “So Mrs. Lock and Dr. Martin would have released this information four years ago?”

  She nodded.

  We asked her for a copy of everything that was in Brick’s file. She started to refuse. Ken told her what happened to Brick—four years ago and ten days ago—and why we were there. She gave us two copies of everything.

  “Mrs. Lock and Dr. Martin had accepted missing persons information from Horowitz and Weiss but didn’t give them everything. Then they ‘lost’ what the police had submitted about Brick’s disappearance,” I said, when we left the IMF offices.

  “Mrs. Lock is dead and I don’t think we’ll find Dr. Martin either. His Coolidge Hill Apartment address doesn’t exist anymore,” Ken said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Brenda and I saw something about it on TV last year. The apartment complex was demolished to make way for a new development, a seniors resident village.”

  “You watch the demolitions of old apartment buildings on TV?” I muttered.

  “It’s great entertainment. We both love it.”

  “Marry the woman, Ken. Trust me, you won’t find another gem like her.”

  Chapter 13

  Peter Jeffries lived in genteel poverty. That was my opinion of the Lofton Terrace neighborhood. It was old. Had it been kept up, it would have become historical and distinguished. However, the city planners had ignored it. The “Rebuilding Day 2010” had not reached this far. We saw a lot of Georgian, Norman and Tudor architecture but the crocuses didn’t bloom in Lofton. The authentic building materials had waged a battle with time and human abuse for decades and lost. The large, stately homes now sagged before our eyes reincarnated as rooming houses and transient shelters.

  Mr. Spadafora was the landlord or the manager—he couldn’t make up his mind whether he owned the place or managed it for someone. He was not inclined to remember much, not even the faces of his residents.

  “The fellow, the fellow,” he mumbled, when I asked him about Peter Jeffries, who had lived in a left loft. I didn’t dare to ask him whether there was a right loft.

  “He was about my height, a little thinner, clean-shaven face, dark hair, brown eyes—he worked as a waiter at the Prince Excelsior Hotel, on the waterfront,” Ken said, trying to prod his memory.

  “They all say they work but come month’s end, there’s never any money for rent,” the landlord murmured grievously.

  I was not in the mood to discuss social injustice. I flashed him my badge again and asked him to show us to Jeffries’ apartment.

  “He paid eight hundred a month for this hole?” I raised my voice when I saw the dingy cubby.

  “All inclusive and it’s heated,” he answered threateningly.

  “Really? Running water too?” My tone colored with sarcasm. Ken touched my arm, signaling me to stop.

  Jeffries’ hotel salary wasn’t great but he should have been able to afford something better than this elevated dungeon. I looked around and found an explanation. He had a stack of racetrack forms, old lottery tickets, gambling incorporated. All the stubs represented losses of staggering proportions.

  “Did you know any of Mr. Jeffries’ friends, girlfriends, or visitors?” I asked the manager, feeling he would not give me any useful information.

  “I don’t bother my tenants,” he growled. “Is someone going to come and clean this up?” He motioned at the sparse furnishings and the few articles of clothing strewn around. Our district had sent a couple of uniformed officers last night. They’d told him what had happened to his tenant. He was probably still sore that they had roused him from his drunken slumber. I smelled the sour stench of fermenting whiskey on his breath.

  Ken told him that social services and the police would take care of the cleanup and disposition of personal articles.

  “How about Jeffries’ friend, the security guard, Mr. Amato, as our next stop?” I tipped my brows at Ken, when we drove out of the fading neighborhood.

  The security guard’s parents lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood, in a neat, white-sided house with a well-trimmed lawn. I saw flowers blooming in the walkway borders.

  The parents were obviously distressed by our visit—as was their son. He lay on the couch, in front of the TV, sucking on pop and munching chips. He was their only child. That explained why the twenty-eight year old sissy vegetated at home.

  “Yeah, sure Pete had a part-time job,” he said. He sounded more upbeat than last night, when he had almost collapsed from trauma.

  “Well, not really a part-time job,” he said, changing his mind.

  I reached over and took away the chips. I told him to get rid of the pop. His mother shut off the TV and retired to the kitchen.

  “You look healthy to me,” I said and sat down in front of him on the coffee table. “The shock must have worn off. Did he or didn’t have a part-time job?”

  “Pete needed extra money,” he said and scratched his head. He slid his hand, heading toward his armpit. He reconsidered when he saw my frown.

  “We’ve seen his apartment—and the gambling forms. Go on,” I urged.

  “Yeah, Pete liked to bet on the ponies and…well, he needed money.”

  “Where did he get the money for his hobby?”

  “Giving blood, taking drugs…like tests, nothing illegal. You know, there are these ads in the paper, clinics and laboratories and chemical places that ask for volunteers to come in for a weekend of tests. They give you drugs, take your blood every couple of hours and ask you questions. They pay you good money for it.”

  “That’s enterprising,” I murmured. I knew that pharmacological companies did testing but I’d never heard of anyone who had volunteered to spend a weekend taking remedies he didn’t need, just to earn money.

  “What were the names of these places?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t bother my friends about things like that.”

  We didn’t leave Mr. Spadafora our business cards. We didn’t want him to call us. But we gave them to Amato and told him to call us when his memory improved.

  “That’s the medical connection,” Ken said, as we headed to grab lunch.

  “A solid one. A volunteer goes for a weekend of tests. He would be fed drugs. They could knock him out for three days with a good tranquilizer. He would never know what had been done to him.”

  “We’re drowning in medical quicksand,” he mumbled. I thought so too. I pointed at the Oregano Garden Restaurant. I felt like having a salad.

  “Johns Hopkins is full of doctors who would fit the bill,” I said, when the waitress took our order.

  “He could be anywhere except pediatrics,” Ken said. He’d ordered a fruit platter topped with yogurt and a calamari appetizer. I started to visualize duct tape over his mouth when his food came.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not Brenda’s boss. Yogurt and calamari?” I squinted.

  “I’ll eat it separately,” he said, giving me an injured look.

  “I hope so.”

  He grinned. “But it’ll end up in the same place.”

  Chapter 14

  Two days later we sat in the small office, behind the morgue, while Joe paced and mused out loud. I kept a hand in front of my mouth, to hide a smirk.

  Joe had visited Brenda at work, in the hospital garden patio restaurant, over lunch. The medical examiner thought she was a c
harming and delightful colleague.

  “She said she was unattached, that you and she are just friends, Ken,” Joe said, smiling at my partner who for once looked like most people who find themselves in proximity of the morgue—gloomy and apprehensive.

  Joe continued when Ken remained silent. “So, you don’t mind… I mean, it’s okay if we have lunch again, maybe dinner…” his voice trailed off.

  I could just imagine Joe’s delight when Brenda confessed that she wasn’t married. Ken was just an old friend. Joe probably clapped his hands and exclaimed, “What a coincidence! I’m not attached either.” At this point Brenda probably turned the conversation to business because she just wanted to nudge Ken into opening his eyes to see that what he had others found desirable too. Brenda had contacted friends at Maryland Shock Trauma and the Greater Baltimore Medical Center. They gave her a lot of interesting information and she shared it with Joe.

  A research group at Shock Trauma was doing computer modeling of design and fabrication of cranial implants. Three doctors, two specialists and a supervisor, were involved with the project. There were a lot of problems with the surgical fitting of implants. The traditional methods involved surgical procedures. These depended entirely on the surgeon’s skill. They were close to designing—in virtual state—a near-perfect fit. It would be customized for each patient. The implantation, however, still posed problems. One problem was material, another, the surgeon’s courage.

  “I’m talking about cranium, bony defects,” Joe said, gesticulating. “There’s still a great deal of doubt and hesitation when it comes to stereolithography approach. They can produce a decent three-dimensional model of the defect site but we’re talking about the head here. These devices were implanted in the chest. There’s nothing to scan but tissues and organs.”

  “That would be challenging,” I commented, glancing at Ken. He looked gloomy.

  “Damn right! Brenda got the doctors’ names on the project…”

  “Any of them named Martin?” I interjected.

  He shook his head. “Jones, Difulho and Bahrain are the project team. But there are ton of Martins at Hopkins. Why Martin?”