The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 33

Nick had never set foot in Lieutenant Detective Don Reese’s office before that day. Given the circumstances surrounding their initial meeting, discretion was always an unspoken agreement between them. But when Nick phoned, already en route to the second district’s station house, Reese did not bother asking what he needed. Nick’s request to meet was reason enough for the detective to rearrange his schedule.

The uniformed officer assigned to reception duty, seated in a closet-sized room behind four inches of Plexiglas, was in her early twenties. After phoning Reese, she instructed Nick and Jillian through the intercom to take seats on the molded plastic chairs lining the foyer.

Tucked securely under Nick’s arm was a large manila envelope, thick with confidential records from six different Singh Center patients. Over a one-year period, four years ago, each of them had been treated for a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the face. Examined individually, there was nothing that stood out about any of the cases except for the violence and utter destruction of their trauma. However, beyond the differing names and Social Security numbers, these six cases were identical, right down to the CT scans, cardiograms, and progress notes. In addition, the lists of hundreds of supplies and medications, obtained through Shelby Stone purchasing, were also identical. The likelihood of even two cases having such similarities was probably akin to the odds of winning the Powerball lottery seven or eight times in a row.

Nick and Jillian knew they had stumbled upon something illegal, but they suspected much more was behind the charts than mere larceny-even larceny on a fairly grand scale. Who were these patients and did they have anything to do with Manny or Umberto? Those were questions Nick hoped Don Reese could help answer.

A buzzer sounded to their right and the large steel-reinforced door securing the entrance to the inner sanctum of the precinct station slid open. Reese greeted them with warm, enthusiastic handshakes. He wore a white button-down shirt and red-striped tie, his imposing stature made even more so by the holstered gun tucked beneath his left arm.

“Thanks for taking the time today, Don,” Nick said after introducing him to Jillian. “I really appreciate it.”

“I gave you permission to tell your friend about us when you told me how special she is to you. Did you?”

“He did,” Jillian said, “but my memory’s been horrible lately and I already forgot it. I was intending to call you about the fire that destroyed my condo, but I’ve been waiting until I get the report from the fire investigator for the insurance company.”

“Sorry to hear about your place. I’m here for you anytime.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Like I said in the hospital, Nick, we’ve got a long way to go before I’ll call us even. That goes for your friends, too. Let’s talk in my office.”

Reese escorted the pair through the high-tech, temperature-controlled dispatch center, pointing out details along the way such as the raised floor, necessary to keep the computer systems from overheating the room. There was also a bank of television monitors, broadcasting a grim version of reality TV-the lives of the prisoners locked in the nearby detention cells.

“The heart and soul of nine-one-one,” Reese said, gesturing around the communications center. “Over three hundred thousand calls handled last year alone.”

Nick could feel the detective’s pride in the force as he explained the dispatch process. Coming here had been the right way to begin. With Reese’s help, there was a good chance they’d soon have some idea of just how big a fish they had on the line.

They exited the dispatch center and were directly in front of the door leading to the detention facilities.

“How many are in lockup here?” Jillian asked.

“Like the heart of an enlightened man,” Reese replied with a wry grin, “the chambers are full.”

Nick was impressed by Jillian’s knowledge of police procedures and her familiarity with the jargon. It was knowledge, she had explained, honed over years of dealing with mentally ill patients, whose lives were often inextricably linked to the judicial system. After they had failed to explain the six identical cases, it was Jillian who suggested they use a police database to conduct a more comprehensive investigation. That was when Nick had phoned Reese.

The lieutenant detective’s modest office was on a third-floor corner, and so had windows on two walls. The desktop, shelves, and windowsills were filled with framed photos of his children and grandchildren, as well as volumes of forensics and police law. The walls were decorated with various memorabilia highlighting a twenty-five-year career of distinction. A cop’s cop.

Nick and Jillian took seats across from Reese, and Nick immediately launched into a detailed explanation of recent events, including their history with Manny Ferris and his possible link to Umberto, as well as their growing suspicions of the Singh Clinic’s billing practices following Jillian’s installation of a rootkit into Paresh Singh’s computer.

“Mother of God, Garrity. Talk about playing fast and loose with the law. You guys make Dillinger look like Little Miss Muffett. I’m beginning to feel the return-favor jar filling up.”

“That’s fine by me,” Nick said. “We can call this the last one. But I tell you, there’s some nasty stuff going on here, Don. Take a look at these medical records.”

Nick pushed the manila folder across the desk, but Reese was clearly reluctant to review the contents.

“Do you have any idea what a sharp DA could do to us for just having these in the room?”

“Jillian will help decorate our cell.”

“Silk flowers,” she said.

“I like her,” Reese said.

“Join the crowd.”

Unable to keep his detective’s curiosity in check, Reese softened, unhooked the envelope, and leafed through the printouts. After a few minutes he locked eyes with Nick.

“Enlighten me, Nick. I got a gift B minus in college bio, so most of this medical jargon is like Sanskrit. I’ll buy what you said, that we’ve got a bunch of rubber-stamped records that have never been billed to any insurance company for reimbursement. But what does that mean?”

“It means Paresh Singh is hiding something.”

“Such as?”

“Well, that’s what we need your help figuring out. The patient IDs on these files are actually Social Security numbers. From what we’ve been able to learn, if they’re not valid numbers, the system won’t even allow the patient record to be created. But when we tried to look up these six individuals by their Social Security number, we didn’t get anywhere.”

Reese leaned back until the two front legs of his worn wooden desk chair lifted off the floor. Then he stared down at his hands, processing.

“The Singh Center would have to bill an insurance company to recoup the cost of labor and supplies, right?” he asked finally.

“That’s right,” Jillian replied.

“So technically, Singh would be out a lot of cash if he did the work but didn’t bill.”

“Well, that’s what’s even more peculiar about it,” Nick said. “It looks like they were paid for these jobs. Look, here’s the column of charges for each case, and here’s the one for receipts. They balance out. Either somebody paid for these operations, or Singh’s books have been cooked.”

“What are you suggesting? I thought you said the insurance companies weren’t billed.”

“We took advantage of the rootkit access to take a closer look at their billing and financial records.”

“Great,” Reese groaned. “Say, did you also get a glimpse of those tiny detention rooms across from our dispatch center?”

“Stick with us, Don,” Nick pleaded.

“Okay, but you guys better be ready to treat my ulcer when it erupts.”

“We did some quick math on what the average total bill for a shotgun wound to the face would be. It was anywhere between five hundred thousand and a million dollars.”

“And?”

Jillian took over for Nick. “And I had some friends at Shelby Stone who work in accounts receivable do some more digging for us. They were able to tell me how much the hospital earned from their share of the Singh medi-spa’s net profits from four years ago. If we assume these six procedures here are forgeries that generated no revenue for Paresh Singh, then Shelby Stone’s share of the take that year should have been substantially less than in subsequent years.”

“But I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”

Both Jillian and Nick nodded.

“The profit Shelby Stone made from their joint venture with the Singh Center had to have included revenue from these six bogus procedures. At least our accounting people suggest that was the case.”

“But if that was true, then somebody, probably Singh, paid Shelby Stone out of his own pocket because no insurance company reimbursed them for the procedures. Why would they do that?”

“We agree it doesn’t make sense,” Nick said. “Maybe they were concerned some astute comptroller at Shelby Stone would notice that Singh’s supply orders and purchased inventory were significantly out of proportion with what they claimed to have earned in profit.”

“Singh buys his supplies from Shelby Stone?” Reese asked.

“Yes. It’s part of their joint venture agreement. Singh gets a good price on supplies because Shelby Stone Memorial buys their inventory in larger quantities. In exchange for that perk, and of course patient referrals, Shelby Stone takes a cut of the Singh Center profits.”

“But if somebody notices they’re buying more supplies than their profits suggest they need…”

Reese’s voice trailed off as he thought through the significance.

“It might suggest to somebody that Singh was hiding money from Shelby Stone,” Nick concluded.

“Interesting theory, but what about proof?”

“We have nothing useful at this point. And we don’t want to bag these guys on some money-laundering scheme either. We’re looking for Umberto.”

“And my sister’s killer,” Jillian added.

“So you want me to look up these people by the Social Security number on their medical records to see if I get a hit in our system?”

“You are the police. We’re assuming you have access to more resources than we do. Things that a pedestrian Google search might not turn up.”

“Supposedly, these patients shot themselves in the face with a shotgun,” Jillian said. “You’d figure somebody would have reported the incident to the police.”

Reese rose from his chair, laced his fingers together, and stretched his interlocked hands skyward until his knuckles cracked. Then he groaned and took his seat again.

“I try to remind myself to stretch every couple hours. These days, my bones have more creaks than an old mattress… Okay, you convinced me. I agree there is something going on here. I’ll run these Social Security numbers through our database. But Nick, what you guys have done, up to and including compromising their computer system, isn’t just crossing the line, it’s drawing a damn new one. And stealing medical records seems like a shortcut to both of you losing your licenses.”

“Then call us even,” Nick offered.

Reese just shook him off.

“Nah, I’m famous for my shortcuts. I just don’t want to see you get in trouble.”

Reese keyed in the patient ID from the first record on the pile. His eyes were focused and intense as he typed.

“Damn…”

Reese’s voice trailed off as his fingers continued tapping away on the keyboard, searching.

“What is it?”

“I ran this first Social several ways. No matter what, it keeps coming up classified-restricted.”

“What does that mean?” Jillian asked.

“Ever since nine-eleven, local police departments have been sharing data with federal law enforcement agencies. That cooperation has helped to nab not only a bunch of would-be terrorists, but your run-of-the-mill crooks as well. These days, if you get a speeding ticket in Orlando or a federal gambling charge in Vegas, I’ll see it here.” Reese poked his computer monitor for emphasis. “That’s how conjoined all these data have become.”

Nick thought for a beat before asking, “So, what did that first patient tell you?”

“That you guys are into some deep yogurt, my friend. I’ve never been restricted before.”

“Tough time for a first,” Nick said. “What about the others?”

Reese keyed in the next ID. His intense expression returned. Again he shook his head.

“Same thing. Classified. I’m starting to think we need to bring the captain in on this.”

“I don’t want to put you on the spot, Don, but can you wait? I’m sure you trust the captain not to sit on us, but we’re just not ready to chance it. We don’t know who is involved or what Paresh Singh is really up to. If we jump the gun, we risk exposing ourselves and perhaps losing the only link we have to Umberto and to Belle’s killer. Who do you think could have this sort of clout?”

Reese shook his head in disbelief. “Who do you think? FBI? CIA? NSA? One of those agencies that doesn’t even bother with initials? You’re already in deep, my friend, and I’m not sure when all is said and done, I’ll have enough rope to pull you out.”

“Maybe they’re making new identities. I mean, it is a plastic surgery center,” Jillian suggested.

Nick appreciated her stepping in and breaking the escalating tension between him and Reese.

“Possible. But I’ve been able to access personal information about other people in federal witness protection before. Why not these guys?”

“Maybe they’re just bigger fish,” Nick said. “More difficult to hide.”

Reese continued searching the other IDs. Gauging by his expression, Nick figured something about the fifth patient ID might be different from the preceding four.

“Hey, look, this guy here seems to be a real person.”

“You got an address?”

“Forget the address, I got a name, a name we all know,” Reese exclaimed. “This Social Security number is registered to a Manuel Jimenez Ferris.”

“Manny! We were right, Nick.”

“Well, put away your party hats, folks. I looked up this Social when you asked me to search for the guy, but it was a dead end. I couldn’t track him after his last address in Richmond, Virginia.”

“We met him. He had found his way to his cousin’s place in D.C.”

“Did you see his ID?”

“No, but that wouldn’t have helped much. His face was badly scarred. We had a picture, though, and we’re both sure the man we saw working the men’s room at Billy Pearl’s gentleman’s club was him.”

“Billy Pearl’s,” Reese mused. “I know that place. Know of it, I should say. So why was your Manny Ferris’s face messed up? You think he had plastic surgery?”

“With that result, not by Paresh Singh he didn’t.”

“Unless Singh never finished the job.”

“Or that wasn’t the real Manny Ferris.”

“I don’t know what I think yet. Let’s see what this last record shows.”

Reese keyed in the patient ID of the sixth record in Nick’s stack. A few seconds passed, then Reese’s eyes widened and a look of amazement washed over his face.

“Another restricted file?” Nick asked.

The cop shook his head. “Nope. We got ourselves another hit.”

“Yeah? What’s the patient’s real name?”

“According to this database, that Social Security number is registered to Umberto Vasquez. Your missing friend, Nick.”

“So why didn’t they change his and Ferris’s Social Security numbers like all the others?” Nick said, his jaw now tense.

“I think you know the answer,” Reese said. “These guys don’t leave loose ends. They didn’t change the Socials because they didn’t need to. My bet is that neither of them were slated to survive.”