Blackman's Coffin (11 page)
At eight the next morning, I stopped by Dr. Anderson’s office in hopes of catching him before he started his rounds. Anderson had final say on my release and I wanted to be first on his next day’s schedule. Fridays were especially hectic with discharges and weekend passes, so a morning release could drag on into the afternoon.
His assistant was away from her desk. I knocked on his door under the Private sign. Anderson opened it quickly. His craggy face frowned as he saw me as yet another unexpected problem.
Anderson was career army, a no-nonsense medical man whose displeasure could extend to the brass above him as well as the veterans in his care. He played no favorites and suffered no fools.
“Blackman, what is it?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I have a favor to ask.”
Anderson rubbed a hand through his close-cropped gray hair and looked around his messy office. “You’ll have to ask it standing. There’s no place to sit.”
“This won’t take long. You know I’m being released tomorrow.”
He grunted. “As if you haven’t already been out of the hospital enough.”
“I’m sorry about that too. But my ride to Birmingham needs to leave first thing in the morning and I was hoping—”
“Hoping you could have an early discharge,” he said, finishing my sentence.
“Yes, sir.”
Anderson sighed. “I suppose so. Be sure and get your supplies from Hinnant this afternoon.”
“My supplies?”
He glared at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Right. If you’d been here when you were supposed to be yesterday, you’d have been given an appointment. The Hinnant people are up from Charlotte.”
I knew Hinnant constructed the prosthetics for many of the vets. They’d fitted me for my permanent leg upon my transfer from Walter Reed and had shown me how to use the socks and liners needed as the swelling went down and my stump became better conditioned.
“Don’t I just order from them?” I asked.
Anderson’s expression softened. The old doctor seemed amused by my confusion. “Yes. But I want them to check you out one more time, especially since you’re leaving the state. And I want to make sure the second leg fits properly.”
“What second leg?”
“You’re entitled to two. Sometimes the bean counters in Washington discourage us from ordering them. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew the request had cleared and I’d gotten the model I wanted.”
Crusty Dr. Anderson had evidently gone to bat for me. “Thank you.” I offered my hand and he gripped it firmly. “Did you get me the one with racing stripes?”
“Better than that.” He glanced down at my prosthesis. “What you’ve been working with is fine for everyday use. If you land a desk job or walk on smooth sidewalks, you’ll find it more comfortable.” He winked. “But you’re a young, active guy. Hinnant’s fitted the second leg with a foot model called Venture, designed for more rugged activities. Uneven terrain, running, why a guy in Florida is a champion surfer. Hinnant will check you out on it, and I’ve ordered a supply of multiple ply socks, liners, and gels. You’ll continue to have some atrophy and shrinkage in that left limb, and even the humidity will affect how well the socket fits on some days.”
I’d learned the paraphernalia required could fill a small suitcase. I had several liners with attachment pins that fit over my stump for locking into the prosthesis’ socket. A team of horses couldn’t pull the leg free. But fit was crucial and special socks went over the liner to ensure I wasn’t rubbing tissue that was never meant to bear body weight. Adding and removing socks of different ply thickness was key and adjustments were constantly being made as conditions changed.
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I said. “When I need another checkup, I’d like to come back here and see you.”
Anderson clapped me on the back. He’d never been so “touchy-feely” before. “If I’ve not been put out to pasture. But I’ll be in Asheville either way so look me up.” He lifted a clipboard off his desk. “I’ll schedule you to see Hinnant’s people at two this afternoon. After that, I’ll make sure everything’s ready for your discharge.”
I turned to go.
“Blackman. After I saw you yesterday, I heard you’d slipped out to look into Tikima Robertson’s murder.”
I stopped and faced him. “Yes, sir. Tikima had visited me. Her sister thought maybe I could help somehow.”
“Did you?”
“Let’s just say I might have gotten the police back on track.”
Anderson nodded. “Tikima was a good soldier. I served with her father in Vietnam. I’d like nothing more than to see her killer brought to justice.”
***
I went to the library to review my statement for Peters. A fresh look on a fresh day helped me make sure the report was as clear and concise as I could make it. I planned to have Nakayla deliver it to the detective along with the journal and the Armitage files as soon as we met with Ted Mitchell at the Wolfe Memorial. I thought about going with her to the police station, but Stanley would be itching to leave and after his brief run-in with Peters yesterday, another encounter might only set a combative tone for our drive to Birmingham.
I folded my statement and stuck it in the journal. As I rose from the table, Carol, one of the physical therapists, entered.
“There you are.” She handed me a scrap of paper. “You had a phone call and when you weren’t in your room, the guy said he couldn’t hold.”
I looked at a string of numbers scrawled in pencil.
“Did he leave a name?”
“No, just asked that you call as soon as you could.”
I studied the digits. “They’re too many to be a phone number.”
Carol laughed. “Shhh. It’s a 336 area code. Long distance. I gave you the access sequence so you can dial directly out of the hospital. Let the VA pick up your tab.”
336. The area code in Winston-Salem where Stanley was meeting with the lawyers for Galaxy Movers.
“Thanks,” I said. “Was Mr. Carlisle in the room?”
“Yes. Look, if it’s personal, you can use my phone. I’ve got a session starting in five minutes in the gym.”
Carol closed the door to her small office, leaving me with one of the rarest possessions you can find in a hospital—privacy. I scooted closer to her desk, lifted a pen from several stocked in a coffee mug and tore a sheet of paper from a notepad with the unpronounceable name of some pharmaceutical product stamped across the top. A glance at the pen showed me it was courtesy of another drug company. Eliminate promotional pens and pads and prescription drug prices would probably be cut in half.
A good seven or eight rings sounded before a voice answered. “Sam?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Walt. I’ve stepped outside our conference room and can’t talk long.”
Walt Misenheimer. My first thought was Stanley had screwed up the power of attorney. It served him right for playing loose with the notarization.
“What’s wrong?”
Walt’s words dropped to a whisper. “They’re offering four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Four hundred thousand?” The amount was larger than any check I’d ever seen, but Walt said the number like he’d been handed a wad of used Kleenex.
“Yeah. I mean that’s about what I’d expect for a first offer.”
“What’d Stanley think?”
“He wants to take it. I know he has your power of attorney, but I couldn’t in good conscience accept that without talking to you.”
Stanley the banker certainly knew the value of a dollar. I was surprised he’d go against Walt’s advice.
“I know things have gotten tight for him,” Walt continued, “and the sale of your parents’ home doesn’t close for another two months.” He paused and I heard his muffled words, “Just another minute.” Then his raspy whisper returned. “Christ, I still think he let the house go too cheap.”
Stanley was executor of our parents’ estate. Papers had been sent for me to sign in the hospital, but I’d been too pre-occupied with getting my life back to pay much attention.
“I’m afraid he’s making decisions he’ll regret later,” Walt said. “When he’s back on his feet.”
“I’m not following you. I know there must have been unexpected expenses with the twins.”
“He didn’t tell you about the bank?”
“He told me he might be transferred because of the merger.”
Walt sighed in my ear. “Sam, he was laid off over six months ago. I know he’s got creditors hounding him, but accepting this settlement is a big mistake. And God knows what kind of medical expenses you could be facing long term.”
My brother was out of a job? I’d seen the pictures of his big house with the swimming pool. His wife Ashley never met a designer dress she didn’t like. Premature twins and medical bills. His half of the settlement, even after legal fees, could solve a lot of immediate problems. And if I lived with them, I’d be bringing my disability income to the happy party. Instead of feeling sympathy for Stanley, I felt manipulated. When was he going to tell me? After I didn’t see him go to work for a week?
“What kind of money should we be talking about?” I asked.
“Five times that,” Walt said. “Maybe even ten times. I’d say between two and four million.”
“And Stanley knows that?”
“Yes, but he’s afraid Galaxy will drag this thing out in court. That’s always a possibility. But Galaxy knowingly put a drug abuser behind the wheel of a moving van. That’s not right.” Walt’s voice choked. “Your parents were my friends for over forty years and I admit this is personal for me. I want the bastards to pay. But even setting aside my own feelings, I can’t advise you to take this offer. Since you’re named as a co-plaintive, I can stop Stanley if you’ll rescind your power of attorney.”
Suddenly Carol’s office shrank to the size of a closet. I felt claustrophobic as Walt’s words closed in on me. I needed to walk because I think better when I walk. Except now I had to think even about walking. I stood up shakily, stretching the phone cord to its limit. “Do I have to send you something in writing?”
“No. I recognize your voice. And I originally placed the call.”
“Stanley’s going to be furious with you.”
Walt chuckled. “Not half as much as with you. So, what do you want me to do?”
“I’m revoking Stanley’s power of attorney and I’m settling for nothing less than five million dollars.”
“Good for you.” Walt paused. “This can get messy, especially where Stanley’s concerned. Try not to have things escalate to where you’re suing each other. Nobody wins those legal fights.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to be very objective and dispassionate. Because you’re right. I have to worry about my future.”
***
The two o’clock meeting with Hinnant Prosthetics lasted nearly an hour. Kale Hinnant watched me walk and then had me remove the leg, socks, and liner. He checked for redness or irritation and told me to keep everything as dry and clean as I could. Even a wrinkle in a sock rubbing against my stump could create a problem. Then he had me try the second leg. There was a different feeling that was hard to describe. Sort of like the suspension in a car that’s been adjusted to handle rougher roads.
“Walk some trails with it,” Hinnant said. “Get accustomed to the way the foot responds on different terrain and at different gaits.”
“What about shoes?”
“Excellent question. Are you planning on wearing any cleats?”
“Not unless I get invited to try out for the Carolina Panthers.”
Hinnant laughed. “Believe me, they could use the help.” He picked up the prosthesis and examined the foot. “If you’re not wearing anything other than a standard athletic or walking shoe, then this dynamic setup should be fine. But if the Panthers call—”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I shook his hand and carried my extra leg and supplies to my room.
Stanley stood outside my door. He made no move to greet me, but his face grew redder with each step I took. I stopped directly in front of him, my arms filled so that I couldn’t make a point of not shaking his hand.
Through clenched teeth, he said, “We need to talk.”
“No, we needed to talk. But you didn’t tell me a god-damned thing. Just had me sign the paper to give away what should have been a fair and just settlement.”
“Five million dollars?” His voice yipped like a frantic dog’s. “You think they’ll shell out that kind of dough? We’re talking years to collect a tenth of that.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money!” A part of my brain tried to reel back my emotions, but I thought, so much for being objective and dispassionate. “You lied to me, Stanley. That’s what hurts.”
Stanley’s red face drained pale. He glanced up and down the hall. A nurse came out of a patient room to see what was wrong. I waved her away.
“I didn’t lie,” Stanley protested.
“A lie of omission is still a lie. Those sons of bitches killed our parents and you’re letting them off easy because you’ve got your ass in a financial sling, and you weren’t man enough to tell me.”
“I thought you had enough problems of your own and God knows it’s all about you.” His lower lip quivered and suddenly he was on the verge of tears. “Killed our parents? Where were you when Mom and Dad needed you? You who defied Dad and skipped college. You who left me to take all the crap—‘work hard at the bank, Stanley, join the Rotary, Stanley, you and Ashley come to lunch at the club on Sunday, Stanley.’ God, I was never so happy as when I got transferred to Birmingham where I could breathe on my own.”
I stepped closer to him. “Don’t lay your spineless life on me. If you ran to Birmingham because you couldn’t stand up to Dad, that’s not my fault. A little more courage and maybe you wouldn’t have gotten fired. Ever think about that. A little more backbone and maybe your wife wouldn’t spend you into the ground.” I knew as I spoke I was hitting below the belt but there was too much anger boiling out for me to stop.
Stanley’s face went calm and he stared at me for a few seconds without saying anything. Then a cold smile creased his lips. The transformation caught me off guard, as if he knew he held a trump card and I’d overplayed my hand.
“And you haven’t run away, little brother? Joining the army wasn’t running away? Well, what has your running gotten you?” He looked at the leg in my arms and then down to the metal pylon visible beneath my shorts. “I only lost my job.”