‘You’re kidding,’ Kelson said.
‘Can I meet you at your office?’ she said.
‘Hell, the way it’s going, let’s schedule for next week.’
‘I’ll be there in an hour – waiting.’
‘No, look, give me till noon. What’s this about?’
‘Aleksandar.’
‘The genius custodian.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘It’s lies – most of it. I’ll show you at your office.’
The 1800 block of North Orchard ran one-way northbound past multi-million dollar houses built in a mix of styles, early twentieth century to futuristic. Jeremy Jacobson owned one of the oldest and best kept – a three-story greystone with a basement garage, narrow windows, and a high front door. A black wrought-iron fence, piled high with snow, enclosed the front steps. On either side of the driveway, where Scott Jacobson had backed over his mom six years before, tall hedges, draped with snow, reached toward the sky. ‘Ghosts,’ Kelson said, and pulled in.
Jeremy Jacobson opened the front door and watched as Kelson came through the gate. He wore khakis and a yellow V-neck cashmere sweater. His fleshy face looked heavy and tired, but his eyes were alert. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’
Kelson kicked the ice off his shoes and stepped into a high-ceilinged front hall. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Please,’ the doctor said, and he led Kelson to a kitchen, where his son Rick sat by an open laptop. ‘Please take a look.’ Rick turned the laptop so Kelson could see.
Kelson stared at a spreadsheet with six columns, each topped with three or four capital letters – which meant nothing to him. ‘Very impressive,’ he said.
‘Look,’ Rick said, and brought up another spreadsheet. ‘That’s last month.’
‘That sure is a bunch of numbers.’
The father and son exchanged a glance. ‘We’ve known there’s a problem for several months,’ the doctor said. ‘We do internal checks. Even if we weren’t required to, we—’
‘Epinephrine,’ Rick said. ‘Fentanyl. See that? And that?’ He tapped the screen. ‘It’s missing.’
‘Where’s Scott?’ Kelson said.
‘At his apartment,’ the doctor said. ‘Why?’
‘He should be here for this.’
‘He has nothing to do with it,’ the doctor said, ‘no connection to the hospital.’
‘And enough problems of his own,’ Rick said.
‘Five to one, he stole the drugs,’ Kelson said,
‘Nonsense.’ The doctor looked flushed.
‘Last night, I would’ve spread the odds evenly between the three of you, maybe tipping toward him, but since you two called me, let’s throw the money on Scott.’
The father and son exchanged another glance. Then Rick exited the spreadsheet and opened a video file. ‘Watch,’ he said.
In grainy color, a woman in a red dress and open medical coat walked into the Clement Memorial pharmacy supply room. Suzanne Madani. For several seconds, she stood still, as if she forgot why she’d come. Then she moved into one of the aisles, took a large plastic-wrapped box from a metal shelf, and broke it open.
‘Epinephrine,’ Rick said.
Madani took a handful of vials and put them in her coat pocket, then took another handful, and another.
‘She had no good reason to do that,’ the doctor said.
‘Even if she did, she’d record it in the computer log,’ Rick said.
‘Huh.’
‘Then, this.’ Rick opened another video. ‘This was four days ago, the morning before she died.’
Madani came into the room again, her medical coat buttoned. Her movements were jerky. She took another box from the shelf – this one already unsealed. She took a handful of vials, pocketed them, and returned the box to the shelf.
‘Fentanyl?’ Kelson asked.
‘Yes,’ the doctor said.
‘How much did she steal?’
‘Three or four units.’
‘That makes no sense,’ Kelson said.
‘If it made sense, I wouldn’t have called you,’ the doctor said.
Rick opened a third video. ‘This was two nights ago,’ he said. ‘Late. After Madani was dead.’
A small, round woman in thick lipstick came into the room.
‘That can’t be right,’ Kelson said.
The woman took the box of fentanyl from the shelf. She plunged her hand in, just as Madani did in the previous video. She put the box back on the shelf. As she left, she turned her face straight to the camera as if posing for a mugshot.
‘Wendy Thomas,’ Rick said.
‘Huh,’ Kelson said.
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that,’ the doctor said. ‘It makes me question whether you’re the right man for the job.’
‘What job?’
‘When Rick suspected thefts, he put in new cameras – hidden – aligned with each aisle in the supply room. Rick wanted to handle the situation internally. The hospital directors much prefer to deal with this kind of thing discreetly – partly out of concern for employees suffering from addictions but, as you might guess, mostly because they worry about the hospital’s name and profitability. Rick had the situation under control until Dr Madani’s death.’ He gave his son a tight-lipped nod before continuing. ‘He may have thought he still had it under control even after the videos of Dr Madani. But now we have the video of Wendy Thomas. You understand this is very delicate.’
The doctor went to a cabinet and opened it. Next to the china, there was a white envelope. He gave it to Kelson.
Kelson opened it and riffled a stack of fifties.
‘Five thousand dollars,’ the doctor said. ‘We can draw up a contract as soon as there’s time.’
‘What’s the job?’ Kelson said.
‘We understand you’re working for Wendy Thomas’s fiancé. She appears in only the one video. We need to account for the fentanyl – which means creating a plausible medical reason for her removing the drug, a reason she agrees to sign off on. We need to head this off immediately and quietly.’
‘You’re at least a few hours too late.’ Kelson handed the envelope back to the doctor. ‘The police arrested Wendy Thomas last night.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Kelson drove to South Lawndale, where Jose Feliciano and Wendy Thomas lived in a brick bungalow, a few houses in from 31st and Albany. The couple could look out their front window, across La Villita Park, to a towering industrial smokestack and, next to it, a Department of Corrections Division IX maximum-security dormitory. But on summer evenings when the wind blew warm, families grilled and picnicked in the park, and the air would smell of charcoal smoke and cooking meat and the sugary sweetness of churro carts. Today, when Kelson got out of the car, the park was a blanket of untrammeled white, and the air smelled of snow.
Kelson rang the doorbell, and Jose let him in to a bright little living room. A framed poster for the Atlantic City Bull Riding Invitational hung on one wall. In the middle of the poster, under the word CHAMPIONSHIP, Jose rode an enormous white bull, his right hand gripping a braided bull rope, his left hand raised to the sky as if praising God, the bull bucking its hind quarters as if it meant to send Jose to the God he praised.
The man who stood in the living room with Kelson looked angry enough to climb off that bull and throw it to the dirt. ‘They say Wendy stole drugs from the hospital,’ he said.
‘She did,’ Kelson said.
As if he didn’t hear: ‘Wendy never, never …’ Jose caught his breath. ‘Wendy’s the most honest – the most honest—’
‘The hospital installed cameras,’ Kelson said. ‘I saw the video. She went into the supply room two nights ago, grabbed a bunch of fentanyl, and walked out.’
Now the words penetrated. ‘She what?’
‘Then, yesterday, Josh Templeton’s mom died of a fentanyl overdose. I’m guessing the drug that killed her is the same th
at Wendy stole. I doubt the cops have connected her to it yet, but they’ll get there. Then they’ll charge Wendy with murder.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, cabrón?’ Now Jose looked ready to throw Kelson to the dirt.
‘I’m telling you what I saw. I’m telling you the way it’s going to be – unless Wendy can explain her way out of this.’
‘She stole nothing,’ Jose said.
‘I saw her.’
‘If she took anything, a doctor told her to. How did she get into the supply room?’
‘She walked through the door.’
‘She doesn’t have a key. Nurses aren’t allowed. Somebody let her in.’
‘Not on the video. Did you call Ed Davies?’
Jose shook his head, like the whole world sickened him. ‘He said he was busy. He’ll get to Wendy this afternoon. I told him, this is my fiancée – she’s never been in jail. He needs to get her out.’
Kelson checked his watch. Ten fifteen. He phoned Davies.
The lawyer picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Don’t tell me I need to bail you out too.’
‘I’m one step ahead of trouble, or behind it, or—’
‘What d’you need?’
‘I’m standing here with Wendy Thomas’s fiancé. Any chance you can get to her before this afternoon?’
‘I’ve been waiting on her at Harrison Street since nine,’ Davies said.
Kelson gave Jose a thumbs-up. ‘It’ll be a narcotics charge,’ he told Davies. ‘Maybe theft in there too.’
‘Yeah, I knew that at nine-oh-five. But something’s funny about this. Usually, I see a client within a half-hour of arriving, unless the client refuses counsel – or agrees to talk without me – or the police hold off on the interview because whatever’s happening is happening fast. Whatever it is, someone usually tells me, because they know I’ll bust their balls in court if they don’t.’
Kelson gave Jose a thumbs-down. He told Davies, ‘Get her out now, or else she’ll be facing a murder charge.’
‘Do you want to explain that?’
‘My wanting to explain it has nothing to do with my explaining it.’ He told him about finding Deneesa Smithson dead in Fort Wayne and about the videos the Jacobsons showed him.
‘Answer this without letting the fiancé know I’m asking,’ Davies said. ‘Would Wendy Thomas be better off in jail? For her own safety – or others’?’
Kelson held the phone away and, because he couldn’t help himself, asked Jose, ‘Would Wendy be better off in jail?’
‘No,’ Jose said.
‘No,’ Kelson told Davies.
‘I’ll see what I can do. One more question, and don’t tell him I’m asking. Do you think she’s responsible for this woman’s death?’
Kelson stared at Jose but told Davies, ‘I don’t know. I can’t see why she would be, but I really don’t know.’
‘I’ll call as soon as I have something,’ Davies said, and hung up.
When Kelson relayed the message, Jose didn’t look like that would be enough. Kelson said, ‘He can do more than just about anyone else.’ Still not enough. ‘He’s done it for me. More than once.’ Still. ‘You need to tell me everything you know.’
‘What can I say? I told you, Wendy wouldn’t do this.’
‘Tell me what you know about the Jacobsons. Especially Scott.’
‘Why? What’s up with them?’
Kelson told him about Patricia Ruddig witnessing the accident that killed Terry Ann Jacobson.
‘I don’t know, man,’ Jose said. ‘I hear the gossip, you know. The doctor – him and his wife was like a love story. They say he was mean before her. Then they met, and she’s something special. They say he became like a new man with her and his kids. You know, caring.’
‘I looked her up online but didn’t find much,’ Kelson said.
‘When they met, she was a pharmaceutical salesperson, you know. Or medical equipment. This was a while ago – like thirty years. Long time before I started at the hospital. She and Jacobson got married and they had the boys. Rick, then Scott. I don’t know about them when they were kids. But everyone around the ICU knows them now. Rick wants to be a big man – a playboy with all the girls. You know what we call men like him at the rodeo. Gunsels. They dress like big boys – they have pride – but everyone laughs at them. A proud little man who wants people to think he’s a big man – that’s dangerous. His brother, Scott – he’s another thing. Too bad about him and his mom.’
‘What are the stories about that?’ Kelson asked.
‘Stories, that’s all. Some say Scott argued with her. Some say that’s a lie. She was on the driveway – I know that much – talking on the phone with Dr Jacobson. Scott backed out of the garage and hit her. Some say he meant to do it. Anyway, he kept driving. Maybe he panicked. He ran her over. Then he drove away.’
‘The police found him by the lake?’
‘That’s what they say. Story is he tried to kill himself. After that, they sent him away for a while. You know, these rich people, they tell the cops to close their eyes and put their fingers in their ears, and the cops do it – I see it at the hospital. The people say they’ll send their son or daughter to rehab. They say they’ll get a psychologist. Family wishes. Dr Jacobson already lost his wife. The cops left Scott alone, the way it always is.’
‘Not if Scott meant to kill his mom,’ Kelson said. ‘That would be too much for them.’
‘You don’t know cops the way I do.’
‘I used to be one.’
‘That’s what I’m saying. Anyway, no one really knows what happened.’
‘Patricia Ruddig knew. She wanted to testify.’
‘A long time ago, man.’
‘How well does Wendy know Scott?’
‘No reason she should know him more than I do. He comes around because of his dad and Rick. Mostly, we try to avoid him.’
‘Does Wendy get along with the other Jacobsons?’
‘Until Dr Madani got her in trouble when that lady Jennifer Kowalski died. The hospital took Wendy back, but she thinks Dr Jacobson’s looking for her to make a mistake.’
‘How well did she know Dr Madani?’
‘It hurt her when the doctor blamed her for Jennifer Kowalski. Wendy always liked her. You know, respected her. She thought Dr Madani respected her too.’
‘Madani seems to have had a complicated life,’ Kelson said. ‘Can you think of any reason Wendy would steal the fentanyl?’
‘No.’ Again, Jose looked like he was getting ready to wrestle a bull. ‘She wouldn’t. Whatever you saw on that video, it’s a lie.’
‘Love sucks that way, doesn’t it?’ Kelson said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You see evidence that someone you love did something wrong. You know it’s a fact. But you deny it anyway.’
‘The evidence is a lie,’ Jose said.
‘Yeah, love sucks that way.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Kelson arrived at his office at a quarter to noon. Caroline Difley stood outside his door, a camelhair coat draped over her arm, a manila folder in her hand.
He stuck his key in the lock, and said, ‘Before you tell me what you have, tell me about Suzanne Madani.’
‘Sad,’ she said.
‘Yeah, sad,’ he said.
‘What’s to tell? Out to save the world, even if the world doesn’t want to be saved.’ They went in, and she laid her coat over one of the client chairs and sat on the other. ‘She was from Connecticut. Got married when she was in med school at Temple. Divorced when she was doing her residency. Came out as gay six, seven years ago. Dated a veterinarian named Liz for three years – the vet got the dog when they broke up. Athletic, but not obsessive about it. Tried vegetarianism, missed Chicago hotdogs, gave up vegetarianism.’
‘What’s to tell?’ Kelson said.
‘Sitting at the orderly desk, you don’t have to try to listen – you just hear.’
‘What have you heard about
the Jacobsons?’
‘Which one?’
‘Start with Scott.’
‘Sad, too,’ she said, then repeated much of what Jose had told Kelson, but as fact, not rumor. Scott and his mom argued. He killed her. He attempted suicide. His dad managed a cover-up. Scott spent time institutionalized somewhere in Wisconsin.
‘How do you know all this?’ Kelson asked.
‘I worked at that desk for eleven years. I heard everything.’ She opened the manila folder and laid three sheets of paper on his desk. The top sheet was a photocopy of a page from a high-school yearbook. It included a picture of Aleksandar Kovacic at eighteen years old – only it named him Alex in the margin.
‘Lane Tech High School,’ she said. ‘On Addison? Aleksandar grew up in Chicago – not in Bosnia.’
She pulled away the page. The next was a transcript of Kovacic’s freshman year at University of Chicago. The grades ranged from C to F, averaging around D-minus.
‘Failed out,’ she said.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Kelson said.
‘I’m not working any more.’ She laid her eyes on him. ‘I have spare time.’ She showed him the final sheet of paper, a printout from a company called Checkpeople.com. It said that Alex Kovacic was arrested twice for shoplifting – first when he was eighteen and again when he was nineteen.
‘What the hell, right?’ She was turning red.
Kelson asked, ‘How did you get the Bosnian med student story to begin with?’
‘Aleksandar told me. Why would he make up a story like this?’
‘How good of friends are you?’
‘We’re work friends, that’s all – or we were. You know, we got along. We’d have coffee. Sometimes we’d eat at the cafeteria.’
‘Did you ever think he wanted to be more than work buddies?’
‘Aleksandar? He’s like fifteen years older.’
‘Yeah, enough to make a guy tell stories to impress a woman he thinks is out of reach. There’s a certain heroism in a man who suffered through a war and sacrificed so much, just to push a mop over a hospital floor. Kind of makes you want to take him in your arms.’
Head Case Page 17
