If a Tree Falls

by Robert I. Katz

  “Well, here’s another question: when this guy isn’t strangling young girls, what else is he doing?”

  George Rodriguez sighed. “If we knew that, we would be one step closer to finding him.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Bill Harris asked.

  “I already suggested it,” Kurtz said.

  “Alright,” George Rodriguez said. “Thank you for your interest. Do you have any other concerns?”

  “Ouch,” Kurtz said. He grinned. “Frankly, I do. How much do any of you know about Premier Projects Development?”

  Bill Harris looked at Drew Hastings. “They’re buying up land, here in Clark County.”

  “The rumor is that they’re planning on building a resort,” Drew said. “What does this have to do with a serial killer?”

  “Probably nothing,” Kurtz said. “It’s just that more than one strange thing has been happening around here. Premier Projects Development has made an offer to Mabel Stone. She owns the best restaurant in town. They want her to open a second restaurant at the resort, assuming it ever gets built. I’ve also spoken to Bobbie-Jo Runson. She’s assured Premier Projects Development that they’ll get tax abatements to build this resort in Clark County.”

  “Bobbie-Jo Runson?” George Rodriguez said.

  “County Executive,” Drew Hastings said.

  “So, they’re serious about building a resort,” Bill Harris said. “So what?”

  Kurtz gave Bill Harris a brooding look. “They’ve also made an offer to buy Clinton Memorial Hospital from the County. Nobody knows why.”

  Drew Hastings shrugged. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Again, so what?” Bill Harris said.

  Kurtz’ lips twitched upward. “There’s been an unusually large number of adverse patient outcomes at Clinton. Patients died and nobody could figure out what went wrong. The State Board of Health has come in to investigate.” Kurtz shrugged. “In a few weeks, they’ll issue a report. It’s barely possible that they’ll close the place down. More likely, Clinton’s accreditation to perform complex cases will be revoked or at least put on probation.”

  They all stared at him. “Didn’t know this, huh?”

  “No,” Drew said.

  “The offer from Premier Projects Development is looking more and more attractive. The place is turning into a white elephant. A couple more incidents, and I suspect that the County will be eager to dump it.”

  “This is unfortunate, but it’s not evidence of anything criminal,” George Rodriguez said. “I would wait for the State to finish their investigation.”

  “However,” Bill Harris said. “We do appreciate the care and concern of our fellow citizens, even if they are out-of-towners with too much time on their hands who are poking their noses into other people’s business.” He gave Kurtz a thin smile. “Anything else around here seem strange and suspicious to you?”

  Kurtz stared upward at the ceiling. “Tom Hawley.”

  “The preacher?” Drew Hastings said. “He died a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes, he did. He was forty-seven years old and died from a heart attack, with no history of heart disease and no prior symptoms. Tom Hawley had been speaking out against the Casino Legalization Bill. He was due to present his case to the House of Delegates. He dropped dead three days before he could testify.

  “Bobbie-Jo Runson tells me that a casino is a key component of this resort that Premier Projects Development hopes to build.”

  Drew Hastings chuckled. George Rodriguez’ face grew red.

  “Well, shit,” Bill Harris said.

  “But hey,” Kurtz said, “what do I know? It’s all pie in the sky, right? Speculation mixed in with a large dose of bullshit.” He shrugged. “Unless it’s not.” Kurtz rose to his feet, gave the other three a lopsided smile and walked out of the office.

  “Well, shit,” Bill Harris said again.

  Tom Hawley had been cremated. There had been an autopsy, which found nothing suspicious except for the fact that the dead man’s heart looked good, with no evidence of coronary artery disease. This was not definitive, however, since after death, blood in the coronary arteries always stops circulating and then clots. If a clot prior to death had caused a heart attack, it can be impossible to identify it post-mortem. Also, a sudden arrhythmia could happen to anyone at any age.

  It was unusual, though.

  Natural causes could mean so many things, Drew Hastings reflected. He remembered a line from a book by Jimmy Breslin, something to the effect of, “He died of natural causes when someone shot him in the chest.”

  Was there a pattern? Not that any of them could see.

  “Dr. Kurtz? Someone to see you.” Mary Reeves smiled at him from the open doorway.

  Kurtz glanced at the clock. The last patient had just left. It was 4:45 PM. He was looking forward to getting back to the farm, having a good dinner and spending some time with Lenore, just the two of them.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Sheriff Hastings.”

  Kurtz glanced again at the clock and sighed. “Please send him in.”

  Drew Hastings walked in, nodded to Kurtz and sat down in the visitor chair. He had an amiable smile on his face.

  “What can I do for you?” Kurtz said.

  “What do you know about our serial killer?”

  That was unexpected. The most valuable commodity in any investigation is information. Those who had it, tended to hoard it. The local cops’ reactions to his visit the other day had not exactly been welcoming, and he had no expectation that the authorities were going to regard Richard Kurtz, MD as anything other than a pain in the ass.

  “Fifteen dead girls,” Kurtz said, “all teenagers, presumably raped and strangled.” He shrugged. “One more in New York who seems to fit the pattern.”

  Drew Hastings nodded. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have a lot of experience with serial killers. It’s why I called in the State cops and the FBI.”

  Kurtz stared at him. “And you’re coming to me? For what, exactly? Jesus, I’m a surgeon, not a cop, as my cop friends keep reminding me.”

  “See, that’s the thing. You have cop friends. There are what, five thousand cops in New York? Ten thousand? Around here, maybe a half dozen.”

  Kurtz sat back in his seat and considered. “I wasn’t expecting my input to be solicited or even welcomed. I doubt that the State cops or the FBI will want me hanging around their investigation.”

  “Well, neither do I. Hanging around, that is.” He grinned. “However, you have shown considerable insight into the criminal mind. You ever read any of the Sherlock Holmes stories?”

  “Sure. Who hasn’t?”

  “You remember Inspector Lestrade?”

  Kurtz stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “I,” Kurtz declared, “am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  “But I,” Drew Hastings said, “am out of my depth, and I’m not too proud to admit it. I’ve looked you up on the internet. You’ve had quite an interesting few years. You’re almost famous. First, there was the obstetrician.”

  “Sharon Lee,” Kurtz said tightly.

  Drew nodded. “And then there was the anatomy professor, Rod Mahoney, and the business with Herbert Development. A nation-wide, multi-billion dollar scandal. There were a few stories about some weird goings-on with a chairman at Staunton College of Medicine. You have anything to do with that?”

  “More than I wanted to.”

  “The ex-husband kidnapped her?”

  “Yeah. He planned on murdering her and then killing himself.”

  Drew shook his head. “And finally, and most recently, there was that business with the Russian mob. Normal people with a normal sense of self-preservation do not fuck with the Russian mob. You do get around.”

  A pained expression crossed Kurtz’ face. “All I wanted to do was practice medicine. These things keep happening.”

  “The bottom line is that you’ve had a
lot more experience with murder than I have.”

  Kurtz scratched his head. “Not more than the State cops and the FBI. I will admit that I’ve poked my nose into some things that maybe I should have left alone.” Kurtz sighed. “And I’m out of here in just a couple of weeks.”

  “But you’re not out of here yet, and you’ve shown an ability to think outside the box. That thing about the hospital, and Tom Hawley. Coincidence? Maybe, but it’s a disturbing coincidence. George and Bill were actually embarrassed.”

  “I’m the first to admit that it’s probably all bullshit.”

  “Probably, but as you said, maybe it’s not. Anyway, now that you’ve rubbed our noses in it, we’re going to be taking a closer look at Premier Projects Development. We have to.”

  “I bet the boys in the Capital are just loving you for that.”

  “Bill can deal with them.”

  “Fine by me,” Kurtz said. “Just do me a favor and keep my name out of it.”

  “No problem,” Drew Hastings said. He smiled. “So, you have any more thoughts we might be interested in?”

  Kurtz looked at him. “Not at the moment, but if I come up with any, I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 21

  Jerry Mandell showed up the next morning, barely acknowledged Maggie Callender and Mary Reeves, ignored Kurtz, walked into his private office and closed the door. Maggie and Mary stared after him. Kurtz shook his head.

  Kurtz saw one patient, a post-op on an elderly lady whose umbilical hernia had been repaired a few weeks before, then Jerry Mandell poked his head into Kurtz’ office. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  Here it comes, Kurtz thought. He nodded. “Have a seat.”

  Jerry Mandell sat. He looked around the office as if he had never seen the place before, then his eyes snapped to Kurtz’ face. “I’m of two minds about you,” he said. “I wanted you to know that. I’ve known your father a long time. He talks about you. He’s proud of you. You seemed a convenient solution to a problem.” He shrugged. “Water under the bridge. The fact is, I recognize that my interest in the job is not what it used to be. I’ve been a practicing surgeon for forty years. That’s a long time. I get up every day and I do the same things I did the day before. It used to feel like it would last forever, but then, suddenly, the kids were bigger, and then they went off to college. My back started to bother me and I put on a little weight.” He gave Kurtz an unamused grin. “One day, I was walking down the street. Somebody walked past me. I barely saw him out of the corner of my eye and I wondered, who is that old guy, and then I realized: it was me. It was my reflection in a store window. It shook me up, I can tell you.

  “My wife and most of my friends are dead. My kids have moved away and I don’t see them as often as I would like. I go home at the end of the day. The house is quiet. I eat dinner, watch a little TV and go to sleep.

  “I’m tired of this. I’m sick of it. I’m not too happy with your interference in my life and I can’t say I like you very much, but maybe you did me a favor. I’ve just completed a thorough neuro-psych evaluation. Organically, there is evidence that I suffered a small stroke, probably about two years ago. Has it caused any actual impairment?” He grimaced. “Hard to say. If so, it doesn’t appear to be major. There is no reason to conclude that it would prevent me from doing the job. A more relevant diagnosis is depression. Too much responsibility for too long and I stopped enjoying what I was doing a long, long time ago. I didn’t need them to tell me that, but maybe it helped to have my nose rubbed in the facts. Dr. Philips will be arriving in a couple of weeks. I’m going to help her get oriented and then I’m going to get on a plane and go someplace sunny and warm and stay there for as long as I like. I should have done it a long time ago. Maybe, I’ll be back, but I doubt it.”

  His voice ground to a halt. Kurtz took a deep breath, feeling like he should say something but unsure of exactly what. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. Sincere but inadequate.

  Jerry Mandell gave a tiny snort.

  “Yeah, well…” Kurtz lifted his hands, let them fall back down to the desktop. “My psychiatric friends tell me there are two different types of clinical depression: circumstantial and essential. You might be depressed over your circumstances or you might just be depressed. Flying off to Tahiti seems like a great idea but you might be just as depressed once you get there.”

  “So says the expert.” Jerry Mandell shook his head. “I’m also taking anti-depressants.”

  “Ah,” Kurtz said. “That seems smart.”

  “Whatever.” Jerry Mandell rose to his feet. “I suggest that we never talk about this again. Let’s see some patients. That okay with you?”

  “Yes,” Kurtz said. “That’s just fine with me.”

  It was the sort of request that the average cop looked at with a furrowed brow and a skeptical eye. Give us a call if anything comes up having to do with the great state of West Virginia. Anything. Ken Lerner was pretty sure that there was not a single self-respecting denizen of the Big Apple who had ever spent more than ten milliseconds thinking about the great state of West Virginia.

  Nevertheless, an official bulletin was an official bulletin.

  Ken Lerner stared at it for a long moment. “Huh…” he said. Then he picked up the phone and placed a call to the Sheriff’s Office of Clark County West Virginia.

  “Hasty? Call for you. It’s from New York.”

  Drew Hastings stared at the phone, then picked it up. “Sheriff Hastings,” he said.

  Drew Hastings sat in Kurtz’ office, placed a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a toasted coconut donut on the desk. “The guy’s name was Steven Kyle. He left a suicide note that said he couldn’t go on without the love and support of his wife and kids but the wife says he was playing around for years and didn’t give two fucks about her or the kids. He hasn’t been by to see them in weeks and he’s been welching on both the alimony and the child support, even though he was loaded. According to my source, all his acquaintances—I won’t say friends, because he didn’t seem to have any—thought he was a self-centered asshole, but an asshole who enjoyed his life.”

  “Maybe it was all a coverup,” Kurtz said, “and he was secretly miserable over the petty state of his shallow, unfulfilled existence.”

  Drew Hastings snorted. “Maybe, but according to Ken Lerner, nobody who knew him thought so.”

  Kurtz shrugged.

  “What’s particularly interesting,” Drew said, “is that his firm was considering a proposal to invest in a project to build a super luxury resort in Clark County, West Virginia.”

  Kurtz stared at him. “Premier Projects Development?”

  “Premier Projects Development is the firm that wants to build the resort. Steven Kyle worked for another firm, called Riverside Asset Management. Riverside, in addition to their own deals, partners with other firms.”

  “You mean they lend them money?”

  “Yeah,” Drew Hastings said.

  Lew Barent glanced over at Ken Lerner and smiled to himself. Nothing he liked better than putting a little fear of God into the bad guys. Or so he told himself. There was nothing, after all, to indicate that Premier Projects Development was anything other than what it seemed, a mid-level real estate developer with offices in New York, Pittsburgh, Chicago and St. Louis.

  Richard Kurtz, Barent well knew, was totally nuts, but he was also entertaining. Kurtz had this unique and weird tendency to stumble into absurd situations that all too often resulted in major league mayhem.

  Barent was not going to interfere with another cop’s investigation but there was no reason for Barent not to do his old buddy, Richard Kurtz, a favor. Ken Lerner had called Bill Harris. Bill Harris had discussed Ken Lerner’s call with Drew Hastings and George Rodriguez. Drew Hastings had talked it all over with Kurtz. Kurtz had called Barent and Barent had called Ken Lerner.

  And so, here they were.

  “Mr. Doyle will see you now.” The secretary was young, blonde and buxom, almost
a stereotype of the unqualified bimbo hired for her ability to frolic away an afternoon with the boss. Barent smiled at her. Pure speculation, of course. Most likely, she and the boss were both solid professionals who would never dream of such a thing, but a good cop had to consider all the possibilities.

  “Thanks,” Lerner said.

  Anthony Doyle was listed on the company’s website as Vice-President and head of the New York office, the firm’s principal offices being in Chicago. He was a plump little guy who wore a tailored suit and glasses. He rose to his feet as Barent and Lerner walked into his office. “Officers, what can I do for you?”

  Barent sat Lerner down in the visitor’s chair. The office was cozy, with two chairs and a small couch arranged around a low coffee table and a couple of bookcases framing Doyle’s desk, which faced the door.

  “I was hoping you could give me some information,” Lerner said. “I was curious about your project in West Virginia.”

  Doyle blinked. “Really? Why?”

  Lerner smiled. “A question has come up in the course of another investigation. I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”

  Doyle stared at him, cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. “As a real estate developer, we are always on the lookout for opportunities. We believe that Northern West Virginia offers such an opportunity.” He paused.

  “Go on,” Barent said, and glanced at Ken Lerner.

  “To sum it up: fishing, hunting, hiking, skiing, boating, scenic beauty.”

  “Sounds very nice,’ Lerner said, “just like the Catskills or the Poconos, which, over the past seventy years or so, with the advent of inexpensive plane fare, have both turned into tourist backwaters.”

  Doyle winced. “The similarity has been noted. It has also been noted that Orlando was a sleepy little town in the middle of a Florida swamp before Disney took an interest in the place.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that, but there’s only one Disney, and the attractions you’re talking about are completely different from those of Disney World.”

  Doyle frowned. “What separates a place like Orlando from the Catskills or the Poconos is the uniqueness of the experience. There are plenty of amusement parks, but Disney and Universal are bigger and better than the rest. We hope to create an experience unlike any other.”