[Lady Justice 06] - Lady Justice and Dr. Death

by Robert Thornhill

  “We have been given guidelines as to what is right and what is wrong, but circumstances alter cases, and all we can do is make the best choice possible at the time.”

  I sensed that I had gotten as much from the reverend as I was going to get, so I thanked him and said my farewells.

  On the way home, I realized that, once again, I had gone to Pastor Bob looking for a definite ‘yes or no’ and left with a ‘maybe’.

  It seemed that every time when it was all said and done, the answers I had been seeking were not in a book or written as a commandment, but were to be found somewhere deep inside myself.

  Pastor Bob has a way of making you look there.

  Maybe that’s why I like him.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning, Ox and I were summoned into the captain’s office.

  At last, I thought, maybe our data mining had paid some dividends.

  The captain’s first words took the wind right out of my sails.

  “We’ve come to a dead-end on this Dr. Death thing.”

  He must have seen the expression on my face.

  “It’s not your fault, Walt. You and Ox did a fantastic job and your data pointed us in the right direction, but these guys simply covered their tracks too well.”

  “What about the four doctors that had the high clusters of deaths?” I asked.

  “Since all the bodies had been cremated, there was really no forensic evidence that could link any of the doctors to the euthanasia thing. From a statistical point of view, those clusters could have happened by chance. Any good defense attorney would have a field day.”

  “But what about Arthur Manning?” Ox asked. “We had forensic evidence there.”

  “Indeed we did. Manning was Dr. Franken’s patient.

  “We made some discreet inquiries because we didn’t want to tip anyone off that we had suspicions, and it seems that Dr. Franken was in Palm Beach, Florida attending a medical conference on the night Manning was --- uhhh --- euthanized.”

  “How convenient,” I said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he replied. “It seems that what we have is a group of physicians associated with some version of this Final Exit Network. Apparently, they refer patients whom they feel are qualified for their services, to an individual who actually assists the patients with the final steps.

  “Since they are not directly associated with the act itself, they can create alibis and insulate themselves from our investigation.”

  “So there really is a ‘Dr. Death’ out there doing the deed!” I said.

  “That’s our theory,” he replied, “and it looks like the only way to get to him is through one of the doctors, but there is one more avenue that I want you to explore, the chemicals he uses in his death cocktail.

  “Potassium chloride of the strength and purity he needs, isn’t something you can just go buy at the local pharmacy and it’s not something one of the doctors would normally have laying around his office.

  “This guy has to be getting it from somewhere. Find out where you can buy the stuff locally and see if you can find a connection.

  “Will do!”

  It was back to the Internet to learn more about the uses of potassium chloride and where it could be purchased.

  We found that its primary use was as an ingredient in fertilizer, but I was surprised to discover that this chemical that could stop a heart was also used in water treatments. It was also a component of the Ice Melt used on sidewalks.

  There were four companies in the Kansas City area that were suppliers of the chemical.

  “So what are we going to do?” Ox asked. “Just march in and ask some guy if he’s selling the stuff to Dr. Death?”

  “We could ask for a list of all his sales of potassium chloride, but I’d be willing to bet that even if he was, it would be off the books.”

  “I have a thought,” Ox said. “Let’s cross-check the owners of the companies with the list of deaths we ran for the last twelve months.

  “It’s a long shot, but if one of our suspicious deaths ties in with one of the companies, it could be a lead.”

  We spent the afternoon pouring over our database and discovered that the wife of Warren Flynn, the owner of West Side Chemicals, had died of complications of multiple sclerosis.

  Her physician was Dr. Stein and, of course, she had been cremated.

  “That’s way too much coincidence,” I said. “This has to be our guy!”

  West Side Chemicals was on Mulberry Street in the West Bottoms.

  The business was in an old brick structure that had a rail spur leading to a loading dock.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Ox asked.

  “No point beating around the bush,” I replied. “Let’s just hit him right between the eyes and watch his reaction.”

  A man in his late fifties rose from his desk when we entered.

  “May I help you?”

  “Are you Warren Flynn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Officer Williams and this is my partner, Officer Wilson. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure. How can I help?”

  “There’s no delicate way to say this Mr. Flynn.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your wife. I know it can’t be easy watching someone you love waste away.

  “No one would blame you for wanting to help end her suffering and leave this world with some dignity.”

  “What are you saying? That I killed my wife!”

  “Absolutely not! But we were wondering if she might have had some help ending it herself.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. We believe that Dr. Stein referred you to someone associated with a euthanasia society like the Final Exit Group.

  “We also believe that you might be supplying this someone with the potassium chloride he needs to do his work.”

  “I have nothing to hide and nothing to apologize for. You can look at my books anytime you want. You don’t even need a warrant.”

  “I really didn’t think that we’d find anything there. We were hoping that you would be willing to cooperate with us.”

  “I have tremendous respect for what you do,” he said, “but it seems to me that the police department’s resources could be better spent looking for the crack heads, rapists and muggers that roam our city streets. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  I wanted to say that I disagreed with him, but I couldn’t.

  We reported back to the captain that the chemical lead was a dead end.

  “I was afraid of that,” he said, “so we may have to go after Dr. Death from a different angle.”

  “Any ideas on how to do that?” Ox asked.

  “Well actually, we do have an idea,” he said, looking squarely at me.

  “What?”

  Then it hit me.

  “No! Not again!”

  “Walt, you seem to be our ‘go-to’ guy lately for undercover work, and this one is right up your alley.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “We need someone to pose as a terminally ill patient and you’re the closest thing to dead that we have.”

  I couldn’t believe he had said that.

  In my three years on the force, I had been undercover as half of a gay couple with Vince.

  I had been a ‘john’ in a prostitution sting because I looked 'needy,' and most recently I had dyed and slicked back my hair to impersonate a thug.

  I had even donned a dress and a wig to pose as a transvestite, supposedly because I had the best-looking legs.

  But now, to inherit this job because they figured I was on death’s door was one distinction I didn’t appreciate.

  “Do you really think I’m that far gone?” I asked.

  “Not really, he replied with a smile, “but we have people who can make you look like you are.”

  “I suppose that means more make-up?”

  I looked over at Ox who
was doing his best to suppress a giggle.

  I remembered him actually laughing out loud when he caught me in my bra and panties.

  “Maybe one day they’ll need a fat guy and it’ll be your turn,” I said.

  He gave me one of those ‘now you’ve hurt my feelings’ looks.

  “The last time I checked,” I said, “I was in fairly decent health. How are you going to get around that?”

  “It’s all been taken care of,” the captain said, handing me a folder. “Meet Ray Braxton, the new you.”

  “So who is Ray Braxton?” I asked, opening the folder.

  “Not 'is,' but 'was,' " he replied. "Ray died in prison. He was eaten up with cancer on the inside. He had no family, so when he passed, as far as the world was concerned, Ray Braxton didn’t exist.

  “We have his complete medical record from the prison including x-rays, blood work --- everything.”

  “But won’t the doctor want to do tests of his own?”

  “Not after he sees Braxton’s records. He would see it as a waste of time and money.”

  “So which doctor is the target?”

  “Dr. Graves. You will have gotten his name from Roger Beckham.”

  “All the patients died in their homes. How are we going to handle that?”

  “We’ll use one of our safe houses. It’s all set up; just like home.”

  “Seems like you’ve thought of everything,” I said. “What’s our timetable?”

  “How about right now? Our makeup artist is waiting for you.”

  “Oh really! How did you know I would I would even go along with this hare-brained scheme?”

  “You’ve never let me down yet.”

  The captain introduced me to a young lady named Samantha.

  She looked like Betty Rizzo, the beauty school dropout from the movie, Grease.

  “Call me Sam,” she said, sticking out her paw.

  “Hi. I’m Walt. Is this going to hurt?”

  She grinned and popped her gum. “Naw, I’ll be gentle, but it is going to take awhile, so just sit back, relax and let me make you look like a dead man.”

  “Swell!”

  As we progressed, she gave me a running narrative of what she was doing.

  “It starts with the skin. You’ve got some wrinkles --- that’s good --- we’ll just enhance them to give you a more shriveled look.

  “Next is the color. You need to be real pale and that’s gonna take a lot of foundation.”

  She started spreading gunk on my face with a wooden spatula. I felt like a piece of bread being buttered for the grill.

  “Now the eyes. It’s all about the eyes. You can tell a lot about a person from just looking into their eyes. They need to look dark --- sunken.”

  I remembered the eyes of the old lady in the wheelchair who had reached out to me and I knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “I can change the appearance of the eyes, but what someone will see when they look deep inside, is up to you. A person who is dying and has lost the will to live will lose that special sparkle.”

  It occurred to me that maybe I was selling this gal short.

  “The hair --- hmmm --- it’s already gray and kind of mousey --- I think it will be OK.”

  Mousey?

  After three hours in the makeup chair, she handed me a mirror.

  “There! Let’s see what you think.”

  “HOLY CRAP!”

  I looked like the older brother of Gregory Grave, the host of Channel Nine’s 1958 sci-fi show, Shock Theatre.

  At that moment, the captain entered.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I don’t think the doctor will be wasting any tests on you.”

  “So what’s next?” I asked.

  “You get to go home and study the dossier on Ray Braxton. In two days, you need to be him.”

  “Two days?”

  “Yes, and don’t shave. We don’t want you messing up Sam’s handiwork, and a couple of days of stubble would be consistent with a person who’s given up.

  “Plus, you have an appointment at Dr. Graves’ office at nine o’clock, the day after tomorrow.”

  I should have slipped out the back entrance to the squad room, but old habits die hard.

  I was about to leave through the front, when Officer Dooley entered.

  He took one look and his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Oh my God!” he said. “Are they doing a remake of Night of the Living Dead?”

  That, of course, drew a crowd.

  As I hurried out the door, someone shouted, "If you’re going out with Lily Munster, tell her I said 'Hi.' "

  I always get this warm, fuzzy feeling when I can brighten someone’s day.

  On the way home, I noted that I was eliciting stares from the drivers of passing cars.

  At one stoplight, I glanced at the lady in the car beside me and the look she had on her face was much like the one I get when I step in a pile of dog poo.

  I arrived at my apartment building just as Dad was leaving.

  “My God, Walt! You look like crap!”

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  “Are you sick?”

  I explained that it was just makeup and that I was on an undercover assignment and asked him to please keep it quiet.

  He promised that he would, but as he walked away, I heard him mutter, “My son, the stiff!”

  Maggie was a different story. I didn’t want to scare her to death, so I knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Maggie, it’s Walt.”

  “Did you lose your key?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you before I came in. I didn’t want to shock you.”

  She threw open the door.

  “What in the world ---”

  She just stared for a moment and then she doubled over laughing.

  “Walt Williams,” she said between fits of giggles, “life with you is never dull.

  “Get in here and tell me what you’re up to now.”

  I shared our undercover operation with her over dinner.

  When it was time for bed, she said, “I hope you don’t have any amorous ideas. I’m just not sure I could handle it.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  We clicked off the light and the last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the thought that I should get extra compensation for loss of consortium.

  I arrived at Dr. Graves’s office at a quarter to nine.

  The receptionist gave me some papers to fill out and told me to take a seat.

  I noticed that when I sat, the people closest to me discreetly moved to seats across the room.

  I didn’t blame them. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to catch whatever it was that I had.

  I turned in the papers along with the medical history files of the late Ray Braxton.

  I returned to my seat and waited --- and waited --- and waited.

  I have never understood why it’s always that way in doctor’s offices.

  If I have an appointment for nine o’clock, why do I have to wait until ten?

  If they can’t see me until ten, why don’t they just schedule my appointment for ten?

  I just chalk it up to one of the great mysteries of life.

  Finally, a nurse stepped into the room and called my name --- well, Ray Braxton’s name.

  She led me to an exam room, took my temperature and blood pressure, handed me one of those goofy gowns that open down the back and told me to strip.

  I had forgotten about this part. If I had remembered, I might not have given in to the captain so easily.

  I hate these stupid gowns.

  No matter what you try to do, your ass hangs out the back.

  To make matters worse, it’s always as cold as a meat locker in the doctor’s office and inevitably, after you’re decked out in the thing, you have to wait another half hour before the doctor gets there.

  The chairs are either metal or vinyl and it’s like sitting on an ic
e cube.

  I wondered how many other bare butts had sat on that chair and if they disinfected it between patients.

  Probably not.

  When the doctor finally entered, I was mildly surprised.

  Since this guy was suspected of being part of a nefarious euthanasia scheme, I suppose I had pictured him as the mad scientist type.

  Quite the contrary.

  He was middle aged, medium build and had a pleasant smile.

  When I shook his extended hand, I found that it was warm.

  That was a good sign. I definitely like doctors with warm hands.

  “Mr. Braxton. I’m Dr. Graves.

  “I’ve taken a moment to read your files and I suppose my first question is why you’ve come to see me. It would appear that you have been under a doctor’s care.”

  “I have,” I said, “but he told me that he had done all he could do for me. I guess I’m looking for another opinion.”

  “I totally understand,” he said, “but after reviewing your medical history, I would have to concur with his findings. I’m afraid there’s nothing more that I could suggest either.”

  “I was afraid of that and that’s why I came to you. I have --- had --- a friend who was a patient of yours. He gave me your name and said that you have some --- ummm --- unconventional treatments for people in my condition.”

  “Oh really! And who was your friend?”

  “Roger Beckham.”

  When I said the name, he stopped writing, paused and looked me squarely in the eyes.

  I knew this moment was coming and I did my best to duplicate the look that I saw in the eyes of the old lady in the wheelchair.

  Finally, he spoke. “The treatment we prescribed for Mr. Beckham was, shall we say, somewhat rigorous. Are you sure that you’re up for a treatment like that?”

  We both knew that we both knew.

  “I want it more than anything else,” I said with conviction. “It’s my last hope.”

  “Actually,” Dr. Graves said, “I don’t perform the procedure myself. We refer it to a specialist. I’ll forward your file to him and if he can work you in, he will give you a call.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  “Actually, I do,” he said as closed the door.