Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

“Have you been back to your house since last-?”

I interrupted his question before he could complete it. “Not yet.”

“You know you’ve really gotta go-”

I didn’t want to snap at him again, and I knew I had been avoiding a difficult situation for too long, but I hadn’t been able to face a weekend alone in my lovely old farmhouse since I had returned there with Mike during the investigation of Isabella Lascar’s murder last fall. “The caretaker closed it up for me for the winter. It’ll just be easier to deal with the whole thing in a few weeks when it’s springtime. The inside is being painted now and I’ll wait ‘til Ann or Louise are going up to their places. I have been avoiding it but I’m about ready to go back.”

The flight attendant was directing us to fasten our seat belts for our initial approach to the airport. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as we circled out over the ocean and I tried to urge Mike to relax his grip on the arms of his seat before he broke them in half.

Mercer was standing on the ramp of the gateway as we deplaned through the front door. A sergeant from the Port Authority Police had taken him past security to meet us, and we were able to clear Customs and Immigration before the luggage even landed on the carousel.

We picked up our bags and went out to his car, which was parked directly in front of the terminal. The highway was jammed with the Saturday night bridge-and-tunnel crowd on their way into the city for dinner or theater or sports events. We crawled along with them, Mercer saving his stories until we could sit quietly at dinner and catch up on his news.

When we reached the Triboro Bridge, I used his car phone to call Giuliano at Primola. It was almost seven and I told him we could be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. “Got a corner table of Adolfo’s that you can give three of us?”

We ordered quickly so we could get down to business. For me, stracciatelli soup and a small bowl of pasta that could just slide down my throat with barely any effort on my part. Mike and Mercer both went for veal chops. Adolfo brought over the first round of drinks as Mercer started to talk.

“Here’s what we know so far. Our fugitive started life in a parish outside of New Orleans. Name was Jean DuPuy-Cajun, I guess. Graduated high school, then got a bachelor’s degree in pharmacology. That’s the closest his formal training ever came to medicine.

“But he’s been impersonating doctors for almost ten years. Somehow he found out about the real DuPre, who’s a bit of a hermit at this point. Ninety-four years old. Most folks just assume he’s dead.

“You know part of his scam. Writes to Tulane and claims his diploma was destroyed in a fire. Sends ‘em ten bucks for a new one along with his name and a post office box address. They’re happy to give one of their favorite sons whatever he asks for. Next, our impostor starts with that one priceless piece of paper-Xeroxed a few times-and some phony letterhead, which he uses to mail off to medical societies and journals. And before you can say Jefferson Davis, he’s got an entire portfolio establishing his credentials as Dr. John DuPre.”

“D’you talk to anyone who knew him before he got to New York?”

“Just this afternoon. Once he had his papers, he applied for jobs in clinics in the South, working his way up-with experience, of course-to better positions at medical centers.”

“What did they say about him?”

“Two of the neurologists he worked with said he acted like a real pro. They’re among the many who gave him glowing references when DuPre started to make plans to move to New York. All the patients raved about his bedside manner.”

Just ask Maureen about that, I thought to myself. At least, that’s what she said the first few days.

“Looks like he started doing this when he lost his pharmacist’s license for a Medicaid fraud. The prosecutor from the Louisiana Attorney General’s Office said when they investigated him for that offense in the early eighties, all the local physicians were shocked. They used to call him Doc ‘cause he seemed so knowledgeable about the profession. A real charmer. That’s when he moved to Georgia and started life all over again-as DuPre.”

“Get any word back on the lawsuit he told us about?” I asked between spoonfuls of steaming hot soup.

“Yeah, the malpractice case. Poor patient was a thirty-year-old guy. Came to see DuP-well, whoever he is. Described his symptoms, which were-” Mercer flipped open his steno pad and looked at the notes he had written. “Complained of sudden weight loss, insatiable thirst, dry lips and mouth, and dizziness.

“This quack orders some blood tests, fills a beaker of urine, but simply told him to stay home and rest. The medication he ordered was for vertigo. Forty-eight hours later, lady friend finds the guy in his house-dead.”

“How come?”

“His symptoms, Dr. Chapman, are the classic markers of an uncontrolled case of diabetes. Any first-year med student should have picked it up. Our clown missed it completely and his trusting patient left the office and went into a diabetic coma. A completely avoidable death.”

“So that drives him out of some small town near Atlanta and where better to go than the naked city? Eight million stories here and nobody’d even ask what his used to be.”

“Now we got to figure out if he really left New York yesterday or if he’s still lurking around here somewhere.”

“Update on that, too.” Mercer was sliding his knife through the largest, most tender chop I think I’ve ever seen. “Checked with the squad while I was at the airport. American Express and Visa are helping us track a flight route, which looks like it’s headed right on back to the bayou.

“Somebody’s using the cards of an eighty-eight-year-old man, Tyrone Perkins. Car rental in the Bronx, gas on the Jersey Turnpike, motel in South Carolina last night.”

“When were they reported stolen?” I asked.

“Haven’t been-yet.”

“Then I don’t see-”

“The companies each called up the guy’s house ‘cause the cards are showing a flurry of recent activity after a very long dormant period. Problem is, Tyrone’s niece says he’s been in the hospital on life support for about seven months so he has definitely not been leaving home or anywhere else with his American Express card.”

Mike was pointing his fork at Mercer. “And if I had to guess, I’d bet ol‘ Tyrone is hooked up to some machines over at Mid-Manhattan.”

“The lieutenant sent someone there this afternoon to check the lockup where they store the valuables of the patients in the intensive care unit. Mr. Perkins’s personal things seemed to have been ‘misplaced’ sometime during the past few days. So we got a trace going nationally on ATMs, restaurants, and stores ‘til we find that scumbag.”

“Anything else going on at the hospital while we were out of town?”

“Well, I was over there yesterday afternoon. I say starting Monday morning we gotta bring every one of these guys down to the D.A.‘s Office and reinterview them. Whoever left that note under your door-the one about black and white-was trying to point a finger at DuPre if that’s what it was a reference to. Now, would they be doin’ that because they knew he was guilty of murder? Or just because they knew he was a fraud? Or was it simply because they wanted to divert attention from themselves?”

“I’m with Mercer. Enough of trying to give ‘em special treatment and meet them on their own turf. They’re regular witnesses, like in any other case. Who’d you see there yesterday?”

“I wanted to bypass administration and go right to Spector’s office. But somebody got on the horn when I walked into the lobby because Dietrich was on my back the minute I got to the reception area on the sixth floor.”