Dream Lover (5 page)
“I knew I should have called out sick today,” Ron Peterson said. “I’m going to jail if I don’t close some of the files that are already on my desk.” He pulled out a chair in the midst of his favorite women. “So dump away, Dee Frank.” He bit into his gigantic sandwich and moaned with his eyes closed. “Better than sex.”
The women groaned. “Oh yuck. Thanks for ruining lunch for me, Ron,” Betty scolded. “Get it over with, Dee.”
“Well, to start with, evidently someone dropped the ball over at Saint Paul. They had a fellow, a man named Jack Smith, come through the Trauma Department at the end of May. He had a heart attack on the train, and the ER tech drew blood and sent it off, according to protocol. The problem is that no one followed up when he died the same night up in the CCU.
“An ER nurse-manager was cleaning out some files and she came across the printout of his ELISA and it was positive. No follow-up testing was done because he died and as I said, the ball was dropped. We don’t know why blood wasn’t sent during the autopsy.
“Now here is the clinker. When I got this report, I called his wife. Are you ready for this? She just found out she’s got AIDs. And, evidently, she is in contact with two of her late husband’s sexual partners. One has AIDs and the other is HIV positive. Their names were already in the system but we just haven’t gotten to their paperwork yet. I think we have a real mess on our hands,” Delores said.
“The wife gave me the names of the two other women. One, a Miss Sandra Benson, is pregnant with Jack Smith’s baby. I then called Miss Benson. She gave me the names of two possible contacts—a William Smith, Jack Smith’s brother who is at Riker’s and has admitted to being a sexual partner; and his wife, Anne Smith, in city jail.” Dee stopped talking. And then she remembered the second partner. “There is the other woman who has AIDS, Miss Marie Fabian. She is Mrs. Smith’s sister. Jack Smith has two college-age children that Mrs. Smith has agreed to question.” Dee took a long breath and let it out slowly. She felt sick to her stomach. Her three colleagues looked at her, shocked. This man evidently was a whoremonger and an adulterer of the worst type; he didn’t care whom he slept with. He was dead; how would they find his victims?
“We are going to have to advertise, I’m afraid,” Betty said. “If you all agree, I’ll get a court order going. If and when it’s instated, we can start with the underground publications. I’m not ready to expose his family in the
Times
.” All but Maggie shook their heads in agreement. This policy, although tricky to pull off legally, had worked for them in the past. Betty had a standard ad that she took out with the decedent’s name in small type.
Friends and Friends of Friends
You may have information that is desperately needed.
If you are a friend, or a friend of a friend of Jack Smith,
please contact Helen Davenport at
718-555-1212
immediately.
Helen Davenport was their pseudonym for the Health Department.
“What is going to work for us in this case is that he was mugged on the train after his heart attack. That fact was advertised in the
New York Times
in a story that accompanied his obituary. To anyone who knew Jack Smith—but not about his proclivity for sexual promiscuity, not that I am judging him—it might appear that we are looking for information about the mugging. They won’t be tipped off so easily,” Dee said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maggie argued. “He was a family man, correct? Don’t we have some obligation to protect his children, at the very least, from slander? I mean, even if you only place those ads in the most obscure papers, the court order will still be part of public record. Good luck trying to get those documents sealed.”
“Good point. What’s the alternative?” Ron asked.
“The problem is that if we wait, his victims may be having unprotected sex. It is no guarantee that anyone will come forward, anyway. But at least we will have done what we are supposed to do legally,” Dee said.
No one else said anything.
Finally, Betty spoke up. “How’s this for a compromise? Let’s wait until Thursday to file the order. It will give us through the holiday weekend for someone to come forward. In the meantime, let’s interview the five known contacts. Does that sound like a plan?”
“I think so,” Maggie agreed. “Hopefully, we can determine right away if there is a need to go public. Why’d I ever go into this field?”
“The same thing just crossed my mind,” Dee said. She finished her lunch and got up to start the mountain of forms each interviewer would need. Ron Peterson walked back to Dee’s office with her.
“I’m not convinced that waiting until Thursday to file is a smart move,” he said. “I have to countermand your plan. We don’t know anything about Jack Smith right now. I know we are not supposed to form opinions based on behavior. But what we can do is to project possible outcomes based on past behavior. The scary part is that I recognize his name. His family is Columbus Circle, Central Park West, the whole nine yards. That scares me. Rich people think they can get away with murder. No, I think I’ll give it day and if we don’t uncover anything by closing tomorrow, you better file with the court.”
“Ah, why didn’t you say anything when we were all together?” Dee asked. Then she added, “Sir.”
Ron smiled. “Because you work for me and I want you to tell them.” He walked into his office, dismissing her, and closed his door.
“What an asshole,” she whispered to herself. So she went back to the conference room where Betty and Maggie were having a final cup of coffee.
“Ron wants to file by tomorrow afternoon unless we can convince him that this was isolated behavior on Smith’s part. Sorry, Betty. I thought it was a good plan, but he’s the boss.” Dee went to the food tray and started cleaning up their lunch mess. “I’ll take one of the interviews and that will speed things up. Why don’t you two head out to Long Island and talk to the wife this afternoon if she is available. I’ll head downtown and start with the girlfriend.”
“He’s probably right,” Betty replied. “The longer we wait, the more difficult it will be for contacts to come forward. I just feel sorry for the family. Did he say anything about the media we chose?”
Dee shook her head. “I’ll help you decide where to place the ad when the time comes,” she said. “Maggie, would you get copies of his credit card statements?”
Dee went to her office and closed the door. She looked through her notes and found Sandra Benson’s contact information. She sat down at her desk and pulled the phone closer, keying the numbers in. A generic “hello,” followed by a chipper “Lane, Smith and Romney! How may I help you?”
Dee asked for Sandra Benson. Another ring. Another hello.
“Miss Benson?” Dee gave the woman a chance to confirm it was she before she went any further. “This is Delores Frank from the Department of Health here in Manhattan. How are you today?” They always asked that question to allow the client time to absorb the Department of Health shocker.
“I’m okay,” Sandra answered hesitantly. “I’m nervous about this call.”
“Yes, I understand that, truly Miss Benson. Can we meet somewhere to talk privately? I understand you are at your place of business. I can tell you that I am a Public Health representative. Everything we discuss will be confidential.”
Expect public humiliation for your boyfriend
, Dee added silently.
“Where and when?” Sandra asked. “I’m available now, if that will help. My office is downtown.”
“I’m in Chelsea, Miss Benson. You tell me where to meet you and I’ll be there,” Dee said.
“I can come to you. As a matter of fact, I would rather come to you. My office may not be as private as I think it is and I don’t want to take any chances,” Sandra confessed. They arranged to meet in half an hour at Dee’s office. There was a little-used, comfortable, and private interviewing area with an unmarked door accessible from Twenty-eighth Street. The locals weren’t even aware of its tenant.
Sandra knew the purpose of the meeting. That it should take place so soon after Cindy Thomasini’s visit was unsettling. There was a timeliness to these things that brought terror to Sandra rather than peace. Slowly, what she thought she knew to be true about her life was being destroyed.
B
etty James picked Marie Fabian to interview after the meeting with Pamela Smith was completed. She and Maggie left the Smith house in Babylon with sadness and compassion, but, strangely, also with admiration. Pam Smith was a woman who, only a month or so into grieving the loss of her beloved husband, had discovered shocking information about the man. Not only was he a philanderer who left a pregnant mistress behind, he had sexually abused his wife’s sister from the time she was fifteen years old. And to make matters worse, all three women had positive Western blocs, confirming that they had HIV or AIDS.
When Betty and Maggie had pulled up to the front of the Smith house, they both sighed. It was such a picturesque house; white clapboards with green shutters and a cedar shake roof. From the street, it appeared to be a modest Cape Cod with a large, three-car carriage house in the front. The garden was lovely; salt-tolerant perennials grew in colorful clumps along a split rock path to the front door. As they walked the path, the true size of the house became evident. It was a trick to the eye. The door was eight feet tall and wide enough for two adults to go through side by side, yet from the curb, it had looked like a gnome’s door.
Pam greeted them both warmly and led them into a wide hallway. But it was what lay beyond the low-ceilinged hallway that took the women’s breath away; a large set of sliding glass doors opened up to a vast veranda right out of
House Beautiful
. And then, the vista of the sea. The dunes rose just high enough to obscure the beach. The only thing one could see from that vantage point was the very tips of the beach umbrellas and the vast blue of the Atlantic Ocean. The doors were open and the sounds of gulls calling, of the surf hitting the sand, and of children’s laughter made Betty and Maggie want to take their shoes off and run to join them. They immediately relaxed, staring at the water and saying nothing.
Pam laughed aloud. “It’s the magic of the sea,” she said. “Enjoy it while you are here.” She stood in the doorway and swept her hand toward the veranda. “Come and sit, won’t you? I have a light snack for you.” She would struggle to stay in character no matter what these interlopers threw at her. Faking peace had gotten her this far.
The women moved forward, mesmerized. Later, Betty said she didn’t remember even arriving at the house. It was as though they went from the car to sitting on the veranda in one movement. Betty pulled her chair out without taking her eyes off the water. Maggie couldn’t stop looking around.
“Check out that rock garden. I might have to take a picture later,” she whispered, reaching into her briefcase to pull out the paperwork she had on Pamela Smith. It was the law that hospitals and laboratories send the names of new HIV-positive cases to the Department of Health for surveillance data. She also had Partner Notification forms, which were not mandatory in the state of New York. It was ethical and moral to tell the interviewers who your sex partners were, but it was not illegal if you chose not to do so.
In the case of a dead person, what the team had planned on doing by taking out a cryptic ad was considered illegal by some factions, but could be supported if the behavior of the decedent was so promiscuous that many lives were endangered. Also, if a person known to be HIV-positive infected many partners in a wanton manner, which may be the case here, a court order would absolve the team from criminal charges if the family found out and sued. There was always the risk that a citizen who became infected with AIDS by a person known to the Department of Health could sue if he or she had not been notified by the department. There were so many angles. The staff always tread lightly. The women wanted to err on the side of conservatism, but their boss was quicker to act. It was his head that would be on the chopping block.
Pam Smith was a known HIV case because her physician had contacted the health department and sent in the required paperwork. She had been on the list of people to interview. When her husband’s blood tests were found, she moved to the front of the list. No one wanted to disturb the peace of another human being, but it had to be done. As though she were entertaining long-lost friends, Pam returned with a tray of iced tea and cake. But the illusion would not last for long.
“Mrs. Smith, do you understand why we are here?” Betty asked. Pam acknowledged that she did, gritting her teeth. “We want you to know that everything we say here is confidential. Also, that some of the questions we ask may be painful for you to answer. You are under no legal obligation to reveal anything to us. If you feel like we are coercing you at any time, please say something right away. Is that clear to you?”
Yes,” Pam replied.
Get on with it, will you?
she thought.
I hate you, Jack.
“Okay, we can get started. Have you had unprotected sex, which includes anal, vaginal, or oral with another partner? Unprotected means without the use of a condom or rubber dam.”
“No,” Pam answered, shivering involuntarily. She clenched and unclenched her fists, resolving to stay calm no matter how gruesome and depraved this meeting became.
“Have you shared needles to inject intravenous drugs with anyone?”
“No!” Pam exclaimed.
What the hell did they think she was?
The interview continued for several more minutes with the same questions being answered different ways. Pam was quickly losing patience until the last question was asked.
“Do you know of any other partner your late husband may have had sex with, or shared intravenous injected drugs with?”
Pam stared at Maggie with an unreadable emotion; either contempt or stubbornness or complete disgust. But she answered. “Yes. He slept with my sister, Marie Fabian, and with Sandra Benson. I can provide telephone numbers for both women if you don’t already have them. However, I gave Miss Frank this information.”