Mark Gilleo - Sweat

Earl Wallace and Detective Nguyen showed their badges to the security guard and walked to the TV studio and broadcast production facilities on the second floor of the building. A middle-aged production manager in jeans introduced herself as Crystal and showed the detectives to the newly appointed “news technology room.” Crystal, a redhead with curly locks down to her shoulders, introduced a young, wire-thin intern wearing an old Metallica t-shirt that looked like it was held together by nothing short of magic.

“This is T.J.,” Crystal said. “He can help you with whatever you need. If you would excuse me detectives, I have to go. News is coming across the wire on a potential terrorist incident in Kuala Lumpur. It looks like I’ll be up all night.”

“Thank you,” Detective Wallace said to the departing woman’s back. He turned toward T.J., who was happy to be helping with official police business.

“What do you have for us?” Detective Wallace asked.

“This is the story you asked to see,” T.J. said, holding the tape in his left hand as if to impress his guests, before shoving it into the machine. “What part are you interested in?”

“The final picture. The one with the senator and a group of people in front of some building.”

T.J. forwarded the tape and pressed stop.

“Go back a couple of frames. Can you do that?”

“This bad boy can define a standard video tape to fifty frames per second. It can also make a perfect digital copy of a two-hour movie in fifteen seconds. It is the best piece of machinery I have had the privilege to work with.”

“So can you show me what I need to see?”

“Sure.” T.J. pushed a button, dragged a small handle to the left and smiled. “There you go.”

“Perfect.”

Detective Nguyen took one look at the screen and realized the reason behind Detective Wallace’s desire for the sudden date.

“Take a look at that guy. Does he look familiar?” Wallace asked with a serious look on his face. He knew the question was rhetorical.

“The big Asian guy from the Fleet Bank ATM.”

“Yeah.”

“Who are the other guys?” Wallace asked. T.J. picked up a note that came with the tape and its untimely, premature circulation. He scanned the handwritten note, words scribbled horribly across the paper at an angle.

“From what I can decipher from this note, this is the rundown. The guy on the left is Senator Day’s aide. The man next to the senator is a businessman by the name of Peter Winthrop. The man on the other side of the senator is a man named Lee Chang. He is the owner of the manufacturing facility in Saipan where the piece was filmed. Next to him on the far side is one of Lee Chang’s assistants. The ‘big Asian guy,’ as you referred to him. No name given.”

“How much did you guys pay for this tape?”

“None that I know of, but I’m a just a techie intern. They don’t let me have control of the checkbook, if you know what I mean. I work here for the cool toys and late hours.”

Detective Wallace let it go. “Can you zoom-in on the face of the big guy and print a picture of it?”

“Sure.”

“Can we get a copy of the tape?”

“I already made you one. I didn’t figure you were coming over to spend your evening with me.”

“Could you also print a picture of the screen with the entire group—the senator, the businessman, the aides, everyone?”

“Consider it done,” T.J. answered. His fingers jumped to life and moved around the million-dollar equipment like a star player from the video game generation.

“What are you thinking?” Detective Nguyen asked.

“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I do have an idea.”

The detectives thanked the gracious intern and left the building past the now-empty security booth.

“Where to, boss?” asked Detective Nguyen, behind the wheel.

“Taco Bell and then back to the station.” ***

Earl Wallace pulled out the original file for Marilyn Ford and put it on his desk. Detective Nguyen watched the wheels of his mentor’s mind chug through the evidence.

“Humor me for a minute?” Detective Wallace asked without taking his eyes off the file.

“Shoot.”

“Ask me questions about the dead lady and see where it takes us.”

“With pleasure. What’s her name?”

“Marilyn Ford.”

“Age?”

“Forty-six.”

“Marital Status?”

“Single. Never married.”

“Address?”

Earl Wallace looked down and read the answer.

“Phone number?”

Once again he read the number off the information sheet.

“Occupation?”

“Secretary.”

“Place of employment?”

Detective Wallace looked down again at the sheet of paper. “Winthrop Enterprises.”

The two detectives locked eyes.

“What was the name of the American businessman in the news clip?

Detective Nguyen checked his notes. “Peter Winthrop.”

Momentary silence fell on the two as the evidence clicked. “Winthrop Enterprises,” they said in unison.

“I’ll be damned,” Wallace added. He looked at the clock on the wall. “You better get home and get a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow we start knocking on doors. Early.”

Chapter 29

The doctor used both hands to roll Wei Ling’s small frame and lost the first knuckle of his middle finger in the rotting flesh of a festering bedsore. Wei Ling’s scream could be heard on the sweatshop floor over the machinery and the cursing foreman. Upstairs, the blood-curdling wail pierced Lee Chang and he knocked a small plate of orange slices off his lap onto his morning paper. The prolonged agony ringing in the air propelled Lee Chang downstairs to the infirmary. He needed to check on his most-prized possession.

“How is she?” Lee Chang asked, out of breath, meeting the doctor in the main room of the infirmary.

“We need to move her,” the doctor said plainly, digging through his black bag of medicinal goodies on the desk.

“Why. Is she ill?”

“No. But she has been restricted for a long time.”

“You said she could be fed through the nose tube,” Lee Chang said hastily.

“She can. But you aren’t trying to keep her alive. It’s the child your father wants.”

“I told you to give her enough food through the tubes to feed both. It can’t be that difficult.”

“Her appetite is not my concern. Even if we stop feeding her through the tube, her hunger strike is not likely to kill the baby…without killing her. But there are other concerns. The feeding tube is causing breathing difficulties and irritation. The body’s natural reaction to having a tube where one isn’t needed. Wei Ling also has bed sores. Serious ones.”

“Bedsores?” Lee Chang asked.

“Bedsores. Rotting flesh. They can form in less than a week of immobility, and Wei Ling has been tied up longer than that.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as pneumonia which can take root in half that time, with the right conditions, in the right environment,” the doctor said, thinking aloud. “But, yes, bedsores can be dangerous.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“They usually afflict patients in comas and victims of paralysis, but even a broken leg on an elderly person can prove immobilizing enough to develop them.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“With all the modern medicine and medical techniques available, flipping the immobilized patient twice an hour, twenty-four hours a day, is still the best prevention. Wei Ling has been on her backside for ten days, give or take. I added antibiotics to the IV drip, but there is no guarantee the infected sores won’t get worse. If this happens and she starts to run a fever, we could have trouble. Pregnancy is a fragile thing. Even when there are no signs of complications, it can be precarious for both mother and child. But we are talking about a woman who can’t move about freely, who is refusing to eat, and who is being fed through a tube. This puts stress on both the mother and the fetus. While self-forced starvation alone is not likely to cause a miscarriage, her body could reject the fetus in an act of self-preservation under a combination of circumstances. The body works in mysterious ways.”