Randy White - Deceived

I felt I should know more about Frank Hamilton Cushing but could only answer, “In the eighteen nineties, I’m pretty sure. You’ve done some reading since Friday.”

“Everything I could find. And made some phone calls, too-an archaeologist in Tallahassee, and finally got the zoning department this morning. The guy wouldn’t say shit, but it’s a start.” The deputy looked at me to see if I was interested or, possibly, impressed. I was both.

She continued, “Everything you told me is pretty accurate-an ancient, complex civilization, the remains are right here. What you told me about Dr. Candor is true, too. That she and her husband somehow got around all the restrictions and destroyed that Indian mound.” The deputy turned and motioned toward the concrete mansion. “Sorry you thought I was talking about your mother, but I couldn’t wait to get away from that bitch. You ever been inside her place?”

At last, I understood the confusion. “You were in Alice Candor’s house? Just now?”

Yes. Tupplemeyer had actually passed the man with the camera as he was on his way out and she didn’t care that he’d recognized her.

“Off duty, I’m still an officer of the court, but my time’s my own,” she explained. “I wanted to ask Candor face-to-face where they’d sent those dump trunks. And why the hell won’t she tell the archaeologists? They could at least sift for artifacts, which would be a contextual mess, but, you know, valuable. I was more polite than the way I just put it. Trouble was, I couldn’t pretend it was police business. The woman’s too savvy. She’s used to bullying people and getting what she wants. She wouldn’t tell me where they dumped the stuff, of course. In fact, she said she’d call the sheriff personally if I kept asking questions.”

“ Threatened you,” I said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to even try.”

Tupplemeyer flipped her hair back in a way that told me she had some actress in her as well. “No, I’m just pissed off-and I don’t have the financial worries most people do, so, you know, screw her if she wants to get tough. Over the weekend, I used a department computer to start putting the pieces together and also… Well, I’ll just tell you-I ran background checks on the local players.” She paused to give me a meaningful look before continuing. “There’s not much I could do in two days. If Candor actually calls the sheriff, my sergeant could restrict my computer privileges. I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let those assholes get away with destroying a shell pyramid. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

It was the second time that day a person had all but admitted to prying into my personal history. I decided to overlook the intrusion, however, until I understood the woman’s motives. I said, “When I first realized it was you-you look so different out of uniform-I thought you’d come about my mother’s garden. The attorney I called said don’t touch it until she makes some calls. So if that’s on your mind-”

Tupplemeyer had a lot of nervous energy and it showed. She stopped me by interrupting, “I get shitty assignments sometimes. That was one of them, so just drop it, okay? There’s something going on around here that stinks, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“Just the Indian mound or Sulfur Wells?” I asked.

“Definitely one,” she said, “maybe both.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” I replied, which kept me neutral but willing to listen. I did.

“Do you have any idea how many agencies had to look the other way when the Candors dug up that mound? Either that or people in charge weren’t paying attention. There’s a long list, including that dweeb who came about your mom’s garden. Plus county zoning and planning departments-the woman in charge of historical sites has a reputation for being an incompetent ditz. She’d be useless if I went to her.” Tupplemeyer made a fluttering sound of frustration while her eyes flitted around as if she was eager to get moving.

“Are you saying the Candors paid bribes?”

The deputy read my tone correctly. “I know, I know, I don’t believe it either. I work for county government, and it would be damn near impossible-too many people involved-to keep something like that quiet. But the Candors have money, and they know how bureaucracies work. They had a big health care business in Ohio. Bought two rehab clinics that were in trouble, then four hospitals in Indiana, and kept expanding until they screwed up and had to move out of the state.”

You’re shitting me? I nearly said but caught myself in time to ask, “That’s why they came to Florida?”

The redhead shared the details she’d uncovered. Within a few years after buying the rehab clinics, the Candors had created the largest private, for-profit health care company in the Midwest. Dr. Alice Candor had the medical background and the brains. Her husband was a CPA, but she was the one who had been chairman of the board. Four years ago, their company had owned more than a hundred hospitals, but then it had all fallen apart. Investigators from the FBI and the Department of Health and Human Services had served search warrants at their main office. An investigation followed, during which the Candors struck a deal. They pled guilty to fourteen charges, all felonies, after admitting their employees had fraudulently billed Medicare and other state and federal programs. They also admitted to giving doctors partnerships in their hospitals as a kickback for referring patients. The kickbacks included free rent, fully furnished offices, and free drugs from hospital pharmacies. After plea bargaining, the company had paid out more than a million dollars in fines, but the Candors walked away free.

“My lord,” I said, “most people would have gone to prison.”

“Read up on Florida’s governor, if you believe that,” the deputy replied, then looked at the house again. “You’ve never been inside that place? What do you call it?”

I was still pondering her remark about the current governor when she pursued the question, saying, “Tasteless architecture is usually given a nickname by locals. You know, like McMansion, Garage Mahal. A name like that.”

“Oh,” I said. “The Bunker, for a while. Walmart, early on, but nothing really stuck.”

The deputy, unimpressed, shaking her head, tried a few others-Bondo Condo, Slab-a-Lot, Plaster Disaster-but couldn’t quite nail it, so she got back to her point about what it was like to be inside with the couple who had built the house.

“Creepy,” Tupplemeyer said. “They’re like two mushrooms who live in artificial lighting. Lots of pink tropical décor, Christ, even some replicas of wooden masks the Indians wore, but it’s all fake.”

“Instant Floridians,” I said. “I didn’t know for sure she really was a doctor. Neither one of them comes outside much.”

“What they did was change the name of their company and moved here after they bought out a chain of rehab clinics-Tampa, Arcadia, Belle Glade-all low income areas with a lot of traffic. I’m guessing the clinics have a contract with the state or they bill Medicaid, but I’m not sure. She’s licensed to practice in Florida, and makes rounds at some of the clinics, but doesn’t actually practice, I don’t think. There’s a lot to find out.”

“What kind of doctor is she?”

Alice Candor was a specialist in psychiatric medicine, Tupplemeyer said. When she added that Dr. Candor had done psychiatric research as well, I felt a chill. At the same instant, Levi Thurloe appeared from behind the cement house, pushing a wheelbarrow, his coveralls sweat-soaked. When he saw me, Walkin’ Levi bowed his head to avoid eye contact but nonetheless watched me as he plodded toward the road.