Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (13 page)

In a state like ours, with retirees as thick as flies on road-kill, the authorities take Elder Abuse very seriously. Their definition of Elder Abuse encompasses everything from shoving in front of an oldster in a movie queue, to murder. To avoid falling into the latter category, I fished out my cell phone and dialed 911. I told the operator I wanted to report a potential double-homicide (mine and Harriet’s.) “Please connect me with the police department.”

“Sir, is the homicide in progress or has it already occurred?”

“Let’s not argue semantics. Send the police to the MacDonald’s on…” I gave her the address.

The two police cars with flashing rooftop bubble-gum arrived so fast I thought they might have been waiting down the street.

Guns drawn, two police officers charged into the restaurant.

One, a well-fed, red-haired young man gazed from side-to-side. “Where’s the body?”

With difficulty, I tried to explain that the murder hadn’t occurred yet.

He demanded, “Is there, or is there not a double homicide here.”

“Not exactly.”

After five minutes of my stumbling through an explanation, I could see the cop’s eyes narrowing, the wheels in his head churning while he debated whether or not to take us to the loony bin. Finally, he decided my problem did not fit his job description. He said, “Why don’t the two of you get in my car and discuss it with someone who speaks your language.”

Harriet gazed around Detective Mark Wilson’s cubicle in police headquarters then lamented that this didn’t look like any Nordstrom she’d ever been in.

Wilson
’s brow wrinkled.

I poured out the entire story of what I’d seen going on at the Restful Bowers’ Assisted Living facility. “People there are being tranquilized until they’re like zombies.”

 
He obviously was skeptical.

“Look, detective, we’re going to have to do something quickly. Lives are at stake.”

“Whose?”

“My wife’s and mine.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.
You’re
the detective. Get a warrant. Search the place yourself.”

He snickered. “Look, Mr. Whatever Your Name is—.”

“Callins. Henry Callins.”

“Mr. Callins, I go to my chief with a cock-and-bull story like you give me, he’d take my badge and gun and refer me to a shrink.”

I was getting nowhere. “Okay, forget it.” I grabbed Harriet’s arm and started to walk out of the police station. I wasn’t sure what I’d do but I’d have to think of something.

Wilson
held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Let’s us all go see the chief. You tell him what you told me. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

Chief of Detectives McBride was a beer-bellied man with a fringe of gray hair surrounding a bald pate. He sat drumming the top of his desk with his fingertips while I repeated my saga. When I finished, he looked at
Wilson
. “Where’d you find this flake?”

I was boiling. Frustrated. I pointed to the sign on his wall.

I yelled. “How about serving and protecting like it says?”

He flipped a hand. “Calm down,
Sir.
You say you want us to get a search warrant. Maybe you don’t know that we’d have to go before a judge with a reasonable excuse to invade a person’s privacy.”

“Isn’t saving minds and lives a reasonable excuse?”

He shook his head. “Look, put yourself in my place. Some citizen—.”

I interrupted. “Some flake.”

“All right. Maybe I was a little out of line.”

“Maybe? A little?”

“Okay. You made your point. Like I was saying, some citizen walks in with a story that’s like out of thriller-fiction, wouldn’t you think it’s far-fetched?”

I had to agree. “But if I didn’t see it I wouldn’t believe it.”

“That’s my point, exactly.” He glanced over at Detective Wilson. “Check it out, Mark. If it’s legit we’ll…I’ll figure something out. Oh, and take Hodges with you. From what he says there are women involved.” He addressed me. “Detective Margie Hodges. In case women have to be, you know, examined.”

Chief McBride stood up and extended his hand. I thanked him.

Harriet said, “What about my pink blouse?”

I was seated alongside a bewildered Harriet in the back seat of
Wilson
’s city-issued Crown Vic, as we were driven back to Restful Bowers. It was already 1 AM.

I said to
Wilson
, “How do you intend to play this?”

“By ear. We go in, tell them we have a report that some patients in the—what did you call it?”

“Assisted Living.”

“…Assisted Living were being overdosed with medicine and we had to check out the report.”

I could visualize one of the aides, Steve or Ernie, blocking the way. Kurt Berman and Chet would not likely be around this time of night—unless they were still looking for me.

I said, “You know you’re going to get some flak. They’re not going to let you see them.”

“Don’t worry I can handle it.” He didn’t add, “without your help.”

“What if they ask to see your warrant?”

From the shotgun seat, Detective Margie Hodges turned around. “In an emergency, where we suspect a life is in danger, we don’t need a warrant.”

Wilson
said, “You know, it might help if you could give us a name. Somebody who is, according to you, being drugged.”

I thought for a moment. “Gladys Andrews. She’ll tell you she’s fine. But they’ve put the words in her mouth. I can assure you that even if she looks normal, she’s not.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Either one of the aides or the administrator, Kurt Berman or his assistant, Chet. I don’t know Chet’s last name.”

When we pulled into the entrance to The Bowers, a red ambulance was already parked there.

An EMT came around and leaned into the front car window. He addressed
Wilson
. “We asked some security guy to take us to the emergency, but he said he didn’t know there was any. What is this, a false alarm?”

I said, “It’s no false alarm. Tell him the report was about Gladys Andrews in Assisted Living.”

He shrugged and started for the lobby carrying a large bag that I assume held his emergency material.

Wilson
called, “Wait a minute, Mike. We’ll go with you.” He turned to Harriet and me. “You two stay here in the car. We’ll yell if we need you. Come on Margie.”

We watched the two detectives and the EMT enter the lobby.

We sat and listened to the crackle of police calls on the car radio. A second EMT was leaning against the ambulance, chewing a cuticle.

Through the open lobby door we could see Wilson, Hodges and the EMT at the concierge desk. Judging by the hand action, they were arguing with someone behind the counter.

After what seemed like ten minutes, Ernie, the aide approached. More hand gestures, pointing. Finally, Ernie shrugged and the entourage disappeared from view.

We fidgeted in the detective’s car for about half an hour. Harriet drove me batty asking when we’d get to Nordstrom. “I hope the pink blouses aren’t all bought.”

Another Crown Vic pulled up in back of us. A man, presumably another detective got out and entered the lobby. He talked to someone behind the concierge desk, then proceeded into the building.

Another nail-biting twenty minutes went by. The constant chatter from the police radio was driving me out of my mind. I told Harriet to stay put while I checked to see if Nordstrom’s sale was still on. I got out of the car and was about to enter the lobby when Detective Hodges approached. “Come on. They want you in Assisted Living.”

“What’s up?”

She didn’t answer, but moved rapidly and I followed her.

In the elevator to the Assisted Living floor, I again asked what was happening.

She smiled, “You’ll see.”

When the elevator door opened at the Assisted Living level, I heard voices. Compared to the usual silence, this was a commotion.

At Gladys’ door, Chet stood leaning against the corridor wall, his chin on his chest. His hands were behind his back. Hodges stood alongside him, and gestured with her head for me to go into the room.

At Gladys’ bedside were Detective Wilson, the EMT, and the short, dapper man I’d seen leaving the second detective car.

Wilson
said, “Mr. Callins, meet Detective Hanaoka.”

Hanaoka smiled. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for alerting us as to what was going on.”

I glanced at Gladys who was half sitting up in bed. Her eyes were wide open staring at the opposite wall. She didn’t acknowledge my presence, even when I said, “Hello, Gladys.”

The EMT chuckled. “She won’t speak. She didn’t say anything when I took her blood pressure, either.”

I stared at him. What was funny?

He went on.” She had no blood pressure.”

It didn’t take a medical degree to know that every living being has a—“D—D—Dead?”

Hanaoka said, “Let me show you something.” He pulled up Gladys’ pajama top. I looked away, embarrassed. When I slowly turned my gaze back to her inert form, the sight that met my eyes caused my legs to buckle.
Wilson
caught me and propped me up.

Where the middle of her chest should have been, was a rectangular cut out. In its depths, I could make out a metallic box with knobs protruding from its front.
 

“My God!” My lips moved but no sound came from my mouth. At the same time, Gladys raised up one of her arms.

Wilson
said, “Detective Hanaoka is our computer guru.”

Hanaoka said, “Listen.” He turned to Gladys, or whoever that was in that bed, and said, “How do you feel?”

From somewhere, Gladys’ voice said, “Fine. Just Fine.”

Her lips hadn’t moved.

Hanaoka said, “I’ve disconnected the synchronized lip movements.

I shook my head.

Hanaoka said, “You’re looking at one of the most sophisticated robots I’ve ever seen.”

“A robot?”

“A robot.” He went on. “They have it programmed to respond to key words or phrases such as ’Do you like it here?’ with a stock answer. ‘I
love
it here. The service…’. ”

I let it sink in. “If this is a robot, where is the real person, Gladys?”

Wilson
said, “That’s what we’re trying to get the guy standing outside this room to tell us. I think she’s been deep-sixed. Probably gone di-di.”

“Di-di?”

“Departed. As in dead. And so is everyone else on this floor that we’ve seen.”

The rest I could figure out. For the first few days after a resident was moved to Assisted Living, they would let that person settle in. They’d use the time to record his or her voice and gestures, adjusting the voice and gestures of the robot to match the timbre and inflections of the real person. After the robot had been programmed, they’d substitute it for the unfortunate resident.

I touched the cheek of Gladys’s robot. Not quite the texture of skin.

Hanaoka explained. “The guy who constructed the robot’s body used silicon rubber. It can be molded to any shape you want.”

That would be Chet, the make-up artist.

I glanced out the door. Chet was being led away by Detective Hodges. His hands cuffed behind his back.

At three in the morning I was still wide awake, seated in front of Detective Wilson’s desk. I had put Harriet back to bed in our apartment after promising I’d get her a pink blouse.

To
Wilson
I said, “Why? What was to be gained?”

He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Crimes are committed for three reasons: Jealousy, revenge or money. You can scratch jealousy and revenge as motives here.”

“That leaves money?” Showing him I was paying attention.

“You got it, m-o-n-e-y. Monthly fees. Social Security checks. Dividend checks. With a stroke of a forger’s pen, someone could become a stand-in for the real thing. And the ‘real thing’ wouldn’t be missed because his or her place would be taken by a talking, smiling, walking replica.”

I added, “Since robots don’t need food, think of the money that could be saved.”
 

 
The pieces fit, the puzzle no longer a puzzle.

Chet’s artistic skill in making the robots look like real people, under different circumstances would have won him another Oscar.

Martin Berman, in addition to his role as Executive Director of Restful Bowers, showed his robotic engineering skill in producing the computer heart of the robots. These mechanical people could do everything but breathe.

Chet, Martin Berman, along with his son Kurt, the Administrator of Assisted Living, and his enforcers, Fredricka Himmler, and the two aides, were all safely stashed away in jail. Their felonies ranged from murder to forgery and embezzlement. They were all awaiting trial.

Two weeks later, another chain, Motel Eight, bought the assets of Restful Bowers. For the residents, nothing changed.

Well that’s not entirely true. Harriet, wearing a new pink blouse, sat next to me in the auditorium. The occasion was a ceremony to announce the new name of
Restful
Towers
. It was now Ω i, omega iota, (pronounced Oh my) a Greek expression roughly translated to mean The Last Resort.