ColdScheme (10 page)

“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 job 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.”

* * * * *

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 2000” 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.”

* * * * *

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 charming 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?”

I told him what we had found out at the IMF.

“So you figure this Martin guy was behind it?” he asked,
scratching his head.

“You keep saying that guessing is not a part of your job.
Coincidence is not a part of policeman’s job.”

“I don’t know of any doctor who would dare to do that in an
accredited medical institution, certainly not at Hopkins,” he declared. “If it
was sanctioned research, yes but not clandestine. They sure as hell didn’t
reach this stage of excellence after a brief field trial. They had to
experiment on many subjects, possibly hundreds. There’s no doctor who would be
able to do that sort of thing, without someone noticing. You can’t experiment
on your patients—not unless you’re comfortable with a high mortality rate. If
that were the case, you’d end up before a review board. The hospital
administration keeps success and failure statistics. They’d check. Then there
is the patient’s family. They would ask questions. You’d get a reputation as a
Grim Reaper. Who would come to you? There’s no way a doctor would be able to do
these implants in a regular hospital.”