Death of an Intern (32 page)

T
he fax machine ringing interrupted my thoughts. It was from Mary, a transcript of a TV reporter's exclusive on Milo Bannini. The connection had been made.

The reporter had worked in Atlanta prior to Washington and talked to his former news director there. He learned that Manchester Enterprises, Inc., and Manchester personally had done fundraising for the Vice President of the United States and for the Griffin/Grayson ticket. For some reason, he had not been told anything about the Manchester porno film operation.

In his report, he said it was a
“morbid coincidence that Mr. Bannini actually knew the injured woman presently recovering at the Reagan Institute of Emergency Medicine.”
Milo Bannini's background was very bland. He had been in town that night to watch a softball game. His second one that week. The reporter had unwittingly done a big favor for the Graysons and defused a conspiracy theory before it got started.

Although Max and the hospital protected my identity, this intrepid reporter had found an L.W. Fields in the local MPD precinct's records of the accident. Address unknown.

I called Jerry. “I need to talk with you.”

“I'm on my way,” he promised, hearing the urgency in my voice.

I called Mary.

“There is nothing for you to worry about. Ms. Lassiter is preparing a news release on your behalf. She called me into her office and told me. I'll be faxing it to you as soon as I get it. She wants you to look it over, make changes, and get it back to her ASAP. Sort of an editor-in-reverse thing.”

I smiled. Bless Mary. The fax arrived a few minutes later. It explained my presence as being “…
an outgrowth of a story Ms. Wolfe had been developing centered on the young women who worked for the Vice President. It came out of the Star's investigation of the Janet Rausch serial killing. Ms. Wolfe was featuring Katherine “Kat” Turner. The two were walking back toward Ms. Wolfe's car when the accident occurred. That story has since been shelved.”

Smart subterfuge, I thought.

Although I wouldn't have exposed Kat, I saw Lassiter's wisdom. I had no facts to back up my deep belief that Kat would not return to work for the Graysons. I did, however, feel her boyfriend Scott would have a lot to say about that. His new job was out of the area.

Another reporter, who had dug a little deeper, doing what I normally did, discovered I had been in the accident on the George Washington Memorial Parkway a week earlier, and reported, “…
Ms. Wolfe had been temporarily hospitalized for tests, all of which turned out negative for any injuries. She was treated and released.”

I went back to Lassiter's release and found it printable. I liked that she had made no mention of Max nor did she give out any details about Kat's injuries. I also liked that I had a statement out there. Ironically, both the Graysons and I benefited from the weekend's headline events about the storm and the killing.

I received another fax from Mary.

MPD reported that casts had been made of tire tracks. They said nothing of the side-view mirror. Max hated what had happened in the D.C.-area sniper investigation, when an erroneous vehicle description was made by a so-called eyewitness. MPD was making no speculations, and there had been no eyewitnesses. In fact, Max had made no comments about a vehicle, period.

“There may be a time,” he told reporters at his briefing, “when we will need you to advertise something. We don't want the waters muddied by unfounded speculations. Hear me, we will come down hard on anyone who puts out false information. There are only two of us in MPD who know all the facts, and neither of us is talking. You put out one
unnamed
source and we'll call you on it.”

T
uesday morning dawned with bright prospects for solving the serial killer case. I was at work a little after 8:30. While going through my mail and messages from Mary, my intercom buzzed. Lassiter wanted to see me.

“Glad you're in. How are you feeling?”

“Still have some sore spots, but I'm fine. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. I must have a Kevlar womb.”

Lassiter actually cracked a smile. “You sound like your old self. Good. I've got an assignment for you. Our weekend has overloaded us with aftermath stories of the storm and, of course, the third killing.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“City Council is embroiled in another hospital mess. This time, it's the private one over in Southwest. It could close due to not being in compliance with recommendations given it over a year ago. They've also suffered a number of unexplainable deaths and could lose their accreditation.”

“I've been so busy, is this a hot topic or…?”

“I'd like to run it tomorrow.”

“What about my followup if Mrs. Alvarado is a third victim of the serial killer?”

“Have you learned anything we don't know?”

“MPD has a huge clue, and it's not the tire tracks, although—and this is only for you—they match those from RFK.”

Lassiter was interested. She stared at me. “How far away are they?”

“They're searching DMV records for all vans, trucks, and SUVs. It's a slow process.”

“Do you know what the
big clue
is?”

“Yes.”

Lassiter sat back to ponder. “If something breaks, you're on it. Wilder will back you up covering MPD news conferences.”

“The evidence deals solely with the vehicle that could have been stolen, and therefore, not belong to the killer. There are several options.”

“But you'll know soon after MPD knows?” Lassiter asked straightforwardly.

“Yes.”

“Okay, go exercise your journalistic skills on the D.C. Council for now. That memo could be half your work, unless of course you uncover some sinister plot.”

We exchanged light smiles.

“If either of us hears something, we call the other. No assumptions, right?”

I nodded, getting her warning, and went back to my cubicle. I called Max and filled him in on my assignment. He was pleased Lassiter was keeping me off the front lines. He thought her release about the Bannini accident and the TV reporter's story were supportive of his belief that
the accident
was an accident.

“We have no motive. Bannini's remains were released to the family over the weekend,” he said neutrally. “But on the positive side, we have great hopes with that right side-view mirror. We're researching back four years to when that mirror was first manufactured.”

I got on the phone to my D.C. Council contacts, but got little new information on the hospital's crisis, although I did learn two names to call. There had been eight deaths in the last year not attributable to the patients' medical problems. That's almost three times the number of serial victims, and yet the hospital deaths got no headlines.

Why didn't all unnatural deaths receive heavy press? Why is this story a non-headliner? These eight people could have been killed by neglect. All of them could also have suffered greatly at the hands of their supposed caregivers. Wasn't that as despicable as a serial killer?

I wondered how many people were lying in hospital beds getting lousy or no treatment? How many—
easy girl, write it and worry about the rest later
. However, the hospital inspector's memo said the deaths were preventable.

I needed an independent professional's point of view and culled up a local administrator from a well-established hospital who had appeared on various radio and television talk shows. He was very responsive, and I could quote him.

He said, “The problem is the failure of city government to address itself to its poorest sectors, where services are more desperately needed. The loss of this hospital will leave a huge sector of citizens without an acute-care hospital for heart attacks, strokes, etc., or an ER.”

That'll raise some eyebrows. This was going well. The memo Lassiter gave me had stated that “…
the hospital was unresponsive to requests for plans to correct the lack of proper care given to the eight who died and to other patients who suffered greatly from being given wrong medications and inadequate professional attention. The hospital had also failed to achieve any of the ‘items of compliance.'”

I found a quote from a council member.
“The crime here is a battle of egos with no concern for the citizens. Not one earlier recommendation has been complied with.”

I made more calls and talked with people who were involved on the protagonist side, but none wanted to say, even anonymously, that the hospital's administration needed a complete overhaul. However, an outside observer gave me a good quote:

“The problem here is with the Health Department. It never acted on the initial memo. The mayor may say he wants to preserve a hospital in the ward that will provide good medical care and ER services; however, neither he nor anyone in city government has taken the lead on doing it. Placating and enabling won't get the job done.”

No one from the hospital would talk, but I didn't care. I had all I needed. My little blast of journalistic reality will get some attention. I ran off a copy and put it in the box to go to Lassiter. I wondered what Max was up to.

M
ax picked up Mr. Brown in front of Ford's Theatre on 10th Street. He drove down Pennsylvania Avenue, turned on 4th Street to halfway across the National Mall, where he parked. He took a folder from his traveling file and extracted a sheet of paper. It was a photo and description of the side-view mirror picked up in Rock Creek Park.

“This will lead us to the killer's vehicle. DMV and MPD are compiling a list of General Motors light trucks, vans, and SUVs that go back four years, the length of time this style mirror has been in production.”

“That's got to be a lot of vehicles,” the special agent said.

“We've confined this search to a small group of my people on full overtime. They've got a good system going. No DMV or MPD staff knows why we want the list.”

“Good move. No leaks.”

“Let's hope it wasn't stolen. If we have to go into Virginia's DMV, we will need your assistance, and you will have to take the lead.”

“How soon?”

“Maybe by tonight. I want this killer, and I want him now.”

“I'll inform the assistant director in charge of the Washington Field Office. We'll tell the director ASAP.”

Max looked out over the traffic and when he saw an opening, he U-turned and headed back toward FBI headquarters. “You are more than welcome to join me at MPD.” Max's cell phone rang. He checked the display. It was Laura.

“I might do that. Let's see how things go the rest of the day.”

“Excuse me.” Max answered, “Captain Walsh.”

“Ooh, you're with some brass? Okay. I just finished that hospital story. How are things going?”

“We are proceeding as scheduled. I'm out in the field right now.”

“How soon before you are freed up.”

“About ten minutes, I'll call you back.” He clicked off.

“You have my cell phone,” Max said to Mr. Brown. “That will be your best way to reach me. Besides, after normal office hours, a call to my office or the Cold Case office will be intercepted by the senior lieutenant on duty.”

“Cell phone it is.”

They arrived at 10th and Pennsylvania Avenue, where Mr. Brown got out.

Max punched in Laura's number.