William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Yeah. Over in Brookside.”

Harris nodded. “That was an HMO. HMOs believe in many things. Health, welfare, prevention. But what they believe in most is low overhead.”

“Go on.”

“They decided the best way to cut costs would be to have every doc specialize. Everyone was to have one chore they did well and efficiently. That would streamline the medical examinations.”

“Okay. So?”

“So… I drew rectal examinations.”

Mike’s lips parted wordlessly.

“Some career, huh? You start at the bottom-and you stay there.”

Mike tried really hard not to smile.

“I’d see some forty or fifty patients a day. Think about that-fifty big hairy butts a day, one right after another.”

“That would be… different.”

“Yeah. And of course, no one enjoyed or appreciated my work. No smiles, no chitchat. It’s worse than seeing the dentist. No one wants to talk when the doc is feeling up their butt. Although I did get the occasional twenty-one-gun salute.”

“Excuse me?”

“Farts. They can’t help themselves. They get nervous, and…”

Mike slapped his hands together. “Well, this is fascinating, but-”

“I was miserable at the office parties. All the other docs started calling me the Rear Admiral. Ha, ha. At cocktail parties, everyone wanted to tell me about their hemorrhoids. I mean, I went to school for years to become a doctor. I spent a fortune. And I was doing important work-colorectal cancer is a major killer. But no one else saw it that way.”

“So you quit.”

“I went out on my own. But do you have any idea how hard it is to get a solo practice going these days? I think some people have the idea that anyone who graduates from med school ends up rich a day after graduation. But it isn’t true. Not these days. Particularly not in a competitive market like Tulsa that’s already saturated with physicians. It’s hard to make a living. And you’re a slave to the insurance companies.”

“So you started in with ear candling?”

“It was just a hook. Something different. Something to attract the attention of… you know. Well-to-do women.”

“And it worked?”

“I’m eating regularly. I like all my clients. I can work out of my home. I have virtually no overhead. I don’t have to deal with insurance companies or Medicare. And best of all, I don’t have to answer to some money-grubbing HMO.”

“Yeah,” Baxter said. “If only your work wasn’t total quackery, it would be perfect.” She grabbed Mike’s arm. “Okay, Morelli. We’ve heard the doctor’s oh-so-sad story. Can we go now? This guy is stressing me out.”

“I could help,” Harris volunteered. “I give great candle.”

Baxter flashed him a look that defied description. “Pass.”

“First of all,” Ben said, standing at the head of the conference table, “I want to thank you for all your work. I know it’s not easy bringing fresh enthusiasm to a case that’s been around so long, but you’ve given me 110 percent just the same, and I really appreciate it.”

Jones, Loving, and Christina sat around the long table. Loving spoke first. “Why do I think there’s a but comin’?”

“Because there is, of course. The but is, for all our work, we haven’t come up with much that’s new. Certainly nothing that’s going to get a habeas corpus petition granted by Judge Derek. And the hearing is just around the corner.”

He turned toward Jones. “I read your report on the Faulkner home invasion. Several times. So did Christina. And she has this… theory-”

Christina smiled. “Thank you for not making little quotation marks with your hands.”

“Don’t mention it. Christina has this theory that maybe there were two killers. Two people in the Faulkner home. And that if we approach the case from that angle, we might see something we missed before. Something everyone missed. So…”

Jones buried his head in his hands. “Don’t tell me you want me to do more research on that horrible crime.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Boss… that case is seriously depressing. Every horrible thing that could happen to those people did, or damn near. I just can’t take it anymore. Paula says I haven’t been sleeping well. She’s says I’ve lost all my energy and drive and-”

Ben held up a hand. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’ve already heard more than we’d like of what your wife says about your drive. Just review the material. Find a trace of that second man.”

“Yes, Boss,” Jones said, but he didn’t appear happy about it.

Ben shifted his attention. “Loving, great work on Erin’s death. Between your reports and what I get from Mike, I feel as if I’m riding around in the police car with Mike. Except, from what I hear, I don’t want to be riding around in the police car with Mike.”

Loving grinned. “I heard ’bout some of that down at Scene of the Crime last night. He still partnered with Mad Dog Baxter?”

Ben nodded. “With no hope of parole. And frankly, that’s just as well, because his partner doesn’t believe Erin killed herself.”

“Then who did?”

“So far, they have no answer. What do you think, Loving? Wouldn’t be the first time you beat the cops to the punch.”

Loving shook his head. “That’s a pretty big order, Skipper.”

“Well, you’re a pretty big man. What do you say?”

“What I always say. I’ll give it my best shot.”

“You’re the man, Loving. Do it to it.” Ben shifted his gaze around to Christina. “Any luck on the legal-research front?”

She shook her head. “The case you want doesn’t exist, Ben. In these conservative times, habeas corpus relief is a rarity. Particularly in the Tenth Circuit.”

“But there have been some petitions granted.”

“And believe me, I’ve pored over those cases. Wiseman v. Cody. Horton v. Massie. Battenfield v. Gibson. ”

“Detect any pattern?”

“Nothing we haven’t talked about before. We need to hit Judge Derek with all the evidence we’ve got indicating that Ray Goldman is innocent. And anything that points a finger in another direction.”

Ben nodded. He knew that nothing they had uncovered to date would be sufficient to persuade Derek to issue such extraordinary relief. Besides being a major jerk, he was a Bush Sr. appointee. His friends back at the country club wouldn’t approve.

“One more thing,” Ben added. “I need someone who can educate me on fast food.”

Loving shrugged. “There’s a McDonald’s on every street in Tulsa.”

“I’m thinking more like an expert witness.”

“Loving’s an expert on eating it,” Jones said.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind. I need someone who knows the ins and outs of the business. Especially the taste-creation part that was Frank Faulkner’s specialty.”

Christina shrugged. “Well, the ideal candidate would be Peter Rothko.”

“Who’s he?”

Christina stared at him. “Come on, Ben. I pointed him out to you at the bar reception, remember? And he’s been all over the news, ever since that horrible hostage situation where so many people were hurt. Peter Rothko is Tulsa’s fast-food magnate. Owns the Burger Bliss chain-you know. They serve high-class fast food that tastes good and won’t totally destroy your health. That’s their advertising angle, anyway. He started about ten years ago with one shack in south Tulsa. Now he’s got hundreds of them.”

“Conrad Reynolds mentioned that they’d done some work for Burger Bliss. Sounds like the man I need. Can you set up an interview?”

“I can try. I’m sure he’s a busy man. Maybe if I went out to see him personally…” She batted her pen against her lips. “Rothko is a darned good-looking man. And very single.”