Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green

Chapter

12





Hunched over a small table at a Dunkin Donuts shop, Tommy brought the paper cup filled with hot coffee to his lips. Still too hot. He drank his coffee black, no cream, no sugar. Coffee should be hot, steaming hot, but damn, this coffee in his hand would scald his tongue and leave him with an annoying burn on the roof of his mouth that would pester him the rest of the day. Better to wait and let it cool off. No need to rush. A wild goose chase—that’s what he was on. Still, it was his job to follow the trail, no matter how far-fetched. He had to admit he’d been wrong before. Not often. Hardly ever, in fact. Dani seemed so sure this guy was innocent, but Tommy knew she was a marshmallow inside. Maybe outside, too. It took the kind of experience Tommy had to harden up and realize how perps lied so convincingly. He’d seen that plenty at the Bureau.

He tried his coffee again. “Mm,” he said out loud. “Just right.” He broke off a piece of his cinnamon Danish and dunked it into the coffee and then took a long sip of the rich brown liquid. His favorite breakfast: not eggs or bacon or pancakes, just a good cup of java and a Danish. Maybe sometimes a splurge with a bagel and cream cheese. He believed in keeping fit. Working out regularly at the gym and eating healthy—well, maybe the Danish wasn’t so good, but surely better than bacon—were part of his regular routine. Traveling broke that routine and put him out of sorts. When he’d miss more than two days at the gym, he thought it must be what withdrawal felt like. He’d done his share of traveling with the Bureau. Now he preferred settling in at home.

Tommy finished his breakfast and opened up a road map of Indiana. He had a straight ride east on Route 80, then Route 76, to Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania, the Calhouns’ hometown. A six-hour drive if he didn’t hit any traffic. In his leather briefcase, his initials stamped on the front in gold—a gift from his wife when he’d taken the job with HIPP—were signed releases from Calhoun. With any luck, they’d be enough to get the hospital officials and the doctors to open their records to him. If there were any records left. After all, if Calhoun told the truth, the records would be almost twenty years old. Had there even been computers then? Tommy didn’t remember, it was so long ago.

After paying the bill, he sauntered to his rental car and began his drive. An unbroken expanse of prairie land lay ahead. During the summer, cornfields might line the roadway, he thought, but now the brown land was flat and dry. With nothing to distract him, he reached over to his briefcase on the passenger seat and pulled out a CD and popped it into the slot on the dashboard. When riding in a car, alone like this, he liked to listen to books on tape and always brought one along with him on forays into the field. Mysteries were his favorite—Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, Robert Parker, pretty much anything by P.D. James.

Fiddling with audio controls while driving at seventy miles an hour was an art that Tommy had mastered long ago. Soon he heard a British-accented voice reading the words of John LeCarre’s newest fiction. Tommy adjusted the volume and settled in for the ride. Books were better than music, he figured. Music was a diversion; books were an absorption, displacing all other thoughts except the story unfolding. That’s what he wanted right now—to push aside all thoughts of George Calhoun and his date with the executioner.


Meadowbrook Hospital looked like most other community hospitals: a faded brick façade four stories high surrounded by acres of parking spots filled with cars. Tommy drove around for five minutes before he caught a blue Toyota pulling out and managed to beat out a Mercedes for the empty space. He figured he’d start with the hospital before trying to track down the doctor whom George claimed had treated his daughter. Even if he found the doctor—and without a name, he gave it a slim chance—it was so long ago that maybe the doctor wasn’t even practicing anymore. Maybe he wasn’t even alive. Hospitals kept records, though. If he could get a look at them, they could tell him whether George had been truthful about his daughter. At least the part about her being sick. The rest of his story seemed too cockeyed to believe. He couldn’t imagine walking away from one of his kids. Not for any reason. And especially not if they were sick. That’s when his kids needed him the most.

Tommy walked through the parking lot to the main entrance. As he stepped through the revolving door, the odor of ammonia mixed with decay hit him. He walked to the information desk and smiled at the elderly woman sitting behind it. “Hello, dear. Can you tell me where I can find the guy in charge of this hospital? I’m not sure what his title might be. Maybe ‘executive director’?”

The woman knitted her brow and seemed momentarily lost. “Oh, my. I’ve never been asked that question before. Usually I’m asked for directions to a patient’s room or the cafeteria or even the restrooms.” She smiled shyly. “I’m just a volunteer, you see. Two afternoons a week. It helps the time go by.”

Tommy pointed to the phone on her desk. “Maybe you could call somebody and ask.”

“How silly of me. Of course. I’ll do just that.”

Twenty minutes later, Tommy sat on a chair in the office of Ronald Cornwall, director of operations for Meadowbrook Hospital. The administrator held the medical-records release signed by George Calhoun in his hands.

“Mr. Noorland, I’ve already explained to you that we have procedures here. This release will be sent to our records department and they’ll do a search. If we have anything, we’ll send it to you. The process usually takes several weeks.”

“And I keep explaining to you that our client doesn’t have several weeks,” Tommy answered, barely able to control his frustration with this bureaucrat.

Cornwall shook his head. “Even if I wanted to circumvent our procedure, you’ve said these records are from twenty years ago. We didn’t computerize everything then. It’ll take that amount of time for our records clerk to search through our archives—and that’s assuming I push this ahead of other record requests that are pending.”

Tommy leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “Well, we’ve got to figure something out, ’cause I’m sure you don’t want an innocent man to die just because your people are too busy to look through a shit load of papers.”

Cornwall’s face blanched. “Surely it can’t come down to our records.”

“It just may.”

“But—but—he’s been in jail, you said, for seventeen years. How could it be that you’re now first asking for our records? You can’t just lay this on me—you must know you’re being unfair.” Cornwall’s voice had risen in pitch and his widened eyes practically pleaded with Tommy to lift the burden he’d placed on him.

Although skeptical of finding documents that would jibe with Calhoun’s story, Tommy conducted all his investigations as if he believed his clients. He was a trained investigator, comfortable with himself only when he knew he’d been thorough. Shortcuts weren’t an option for him. He didn’t plan on walking away from the hospital empty-handed.

“Listen, I can help your guys look through the boxes.”

Cornwall shook his head. “No, that’d violate privacy laws.”

“F*ck privacy laws.”

Cornwall’s shoulders drooped. “I’d like to help you, really I would. But I’m not a miracle worker. Doctors make miracles, not hospital administrators.”

“I’m not looking for a miracle, just information. Seems pretty simple to me.”

The two men stared stonily at each other, like gunslingers waiting to see who’d draw first. Cornwall suddenly sat up erect in his seat. “Wait a minute. Maybe we can go about this a different way. You said she was treated here in 1989 or ’90. Maybe the treating doctor is still on staff here.” Cornwall opened a drawer in his desk, took out a sheet of paper, and looked it over. “I think we may be in luck.” He picked up the phone on his desk and punched in four numbers. “Is Dr. Samson available?” Minutes went by before he spoke again. “Gary, I’m glad you’re here. Were you on staff in ’89? Good. By any chance, do you remember treating a little girl back then for leukemia—her name was Angelina Calhoun, about three or four years old?” Cornwall nodded and smiled. “I’m going to send someone up to see you, if you have a moment now. His name is Thomas Noorland. He’s an investigator and has a signed release from the girl’s father.” He hung up and turned to Tommy. “You’re in luck. Dr. Samson is the head of our pediatric oncology unit now, but back then he was a staff physician. He remembers the Calhouns. I’ll have someone bring you up to his office and he’ll tell you what he knows about their daughter’s condition back then.”

Tommy had to admit his surprise. He’d expected the hospital to be a dead end, certain that Calhoun had fabricated the story of his daughter’s illness. Now it seemed that at least one part of his tale was true. As for the rest, Tommy remained skeptical.

Cornwall buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Vicky, is Billy around? Good. Send him in here, please.”

Moments later a middle-aged man in workman’s clothes entered Cornwall’s office.

“You need me, Mr. Cornwall?”

The man’s slow speech and shuffling gait suggested some degree of developmental disability. “Yes, Billy. I’d like you to take this man up to see Dr. Samson. His office is in Room 521. You remember how to get there, right?”

Billy nodded.

Tommy thanked Cornwall before he left his office and followed Billy as he wound his way around the corridors to the elevator. “How long have you been working here, Billy?” Tommy asked, just to make conversation.

Billy stopped to think about the question. “A long time.”

“You like it here?”

He nodded. “I like the children. I like making them laugh.”

They took the elevator to the fifth floor and made their way through another labyrinth of corridors to Room 521. “Here’s Dr. Samson’s office,” Billy said before leaving. “He’s a real nice man.”

The door was open, so Tommy knocked once to announce his arrival and stepped inside. A thin man, who looked to be in his early fifties, with sprouts of gray hair at his temples and wire-rimmed glasses over his eyes, sat behind a desk. The small office contained only a metal desk at the far end, two chairs in front of it, and file cabinets along a side wall.

“You must be Mr. Noorland,” the doctor said as he looked up from his papers.

“Please, call me Tommy.”

“How can I help you?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost sad.

It must be the worst specialty for a doctor, Tommy thought. Having to deal with children with cancer. The tragedies he saw every day had to take a toll, and the doctor’s hunched back and expressionless eyes seemed to confirm Tommy’s expectations.

“I understand you treated Angelina Calhoun,” Tommy said as he sat down and slid a signed medical release over to Dr. Samson. “It was way back in ’89, maybe ’90. I was hoping you might remember something about her condition and, well, how she did.”

“I remember Angelina very well. I treated her for leukemia.” Tommy thought he detected moisture in the corner of the doctor’s left eye. “Every child I treat here is special to me, the ones I save and the ones I lose,” he continued, his voice barely audible. “But some get to me deep inside.” He paused and shook his head. “Angelina was such a beautiful child, always smiling, always brave. All of the staff here were so taken by her. They talked about taking up a collection to help pay for her treatment, but it never would have been enough. I waived my fee but the hospital wouldn’t. I lobbied hard for that, but they’re a business and you know how it is with businesses, always looking at the bottom line. Her parents were hard-working folks, but they didn’t have health insurance. It’s different now. The times have changed. Now, with the Cover All Kids program in Pennsylvania, they’d have been able to get health insurance for her, if not for free then for a very low cost. But back then …” He stopped speaking and stared out the window.

After a few moments, Tommy asked, “What happened to her? Did she die?”

Samson turned back to Tommy. “I’ve often wondered that myself. I assume she did. I never heard from her parents after the hospital turned her down for treatment, so I couldn’t tell you with certainty. But even with treatment …” He shook his head. “Her prognosis wasn’t good.”

“I don’t suppose you still have her medical records.”

Dr. Samson shrugged. “I’m sure I do, somewhere. I’ve moved the older files to my garage.”

“Do you think you could take a look for Angelina’s?”

The doctor nodded. “If I find them, I assume you’d like a copy?”

“You’ve read my mind.” Tommy stood up to leave. “Thanks, Doc. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Wait a moment. You can’t go off without explaining why you’re asking me these questions. Do you know something about Angelina Calhoun? Is she alive?”

Tommy sat back down. “That’s the million-dollar question, Doc. Her father is facing execution in five weeks for murdering her.”

“My God! That’s impossible. He was devoted to that child. Both her parents were.”

“Yeah, well, he says he didn’t kill Angelina. Claims he and his wife drove her to the Mayo Clinic and then left her there with all her medical records, hoping they’d treat her for the cancer.”

“I suppose that’s possible. She would have been turned over to Child Protective Services. If they couldn’t find her parents and knew of her medical condition, the state would have paid for her treatment. But—leaving a sick four-year-old alone in another state and just walking away? I can’t imagine the Calhouns doing that.”

Tommy chuckled softly. “You know, Doc, I couldn’t imagine it either. I thought he had to have made up this nutty story. And maybe he has. But he told the truth about Angelina being sick and him not being able to pay for her care. And I’ll be damned, but I’m starting to believe the crazy son of a bitch.”


As he made his way through the hospital corridors and out to the street, the doctor’s words kept running through Tommy’s head. He’d been so certain Dani had sent him off on a fool’s errand. Now, for the first time, he entertained the idea that George Calhoun might be telling the truth. There were still many unanswered questions, but foremost was the one that would be hardest to answer: Who was the little girl found buried in the woods nineteen years ago?

Tommy walked toward the sea of vehicles in the parking lot. Now, where’s my damn car? When driving his own car, he always found it easily: his dark blue pearl Lincoln Navigator stood out tall and proud above the other, mostly small, gas-saving vehicles. He felt entitled to a big car; five children and a wife took up a lot of room. Now, though, he had a rental car, a silver-gray Hyundai that looked like every other car in the lot. And how the hell could he be expected to remember the license-plate number? He walked in the direction from which he remembered coming and took out the remote and pressed the emergency button. A piercing sound came from his left, and as he turned in that direction he saw flashing headlights. “There you are,” he muttered to himself as he strode over to it. He reached for the door before noticing a white paper flapping under the windshield wiper. Expecting to see a flyer for some business, Tommy pulled it out and began to crumple it into a ball. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the red ink scrawled on the page, unfolded the sheet, and read: “IF YOU WANT TO STAY ALIVE, DON’T STICK YOUR NOSE WHERE IT DOESN’T BELONG. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.”

He opened his briefcase, pulled out a plastic evidence bag and, holding the tip of the paper with a tissue, carefully slipped the note inside and sealed the bag. He scanned the parking lot but didn’t see anything unusual, just rows of empty cars. He looked out to the street, and again nothing caught his attention. As he turned back around, he glanced toward the hospital entrance and caught sight of Billy leaning against a tree, a cigarette dangling from his lips, staring right at him. Tommy considered confronting him with the note but thought better of it. He may be a man, but he has the mind of a kid. He got into his car, but before starting it, he took out his cell phone and dialed Dani.

“What’s your pleasure? Good news first or bad?” he asked when she answered the phone.

“Take your pick. No, good news. I need to hear something positive.”

“I found the doctor who treated Angelina Calhoun. He confirms she had leukemia and her folks couldn’t afford the treatment. He says he doesn’t know what happened to her after he sent them away.” Tommy filled her in on the rest of his conversation with Dr. Samson.

“That’s great news,” Dani said. Tommy could hear the excitement in her voice. “Does he have records for us? I’ll need them for our appeal.”

“Well, it’ll take some time to find the hospital records. If they exist at all, after so many years, they’d be in deep storage. The head administrator here promised me they’d put the search on a priority status, but it could still take weeks. And then no guarantee they’ll be found. The doc has his own records, though, stashed in his garage, but, again, no guarantee Angelina’s are there.”

“If that’s the bad news, I can deal with it. We’ll get an affidavit from the doctor.”

“No,” Tommy said. “The bad news is that somebody wants us to back off.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” he looked around to make sure no one was nearby—“I mean someone is following me. And he or she isn’t happy about my being here.”