Death by the Bay Page 12

  “Before it reached the nervous system,” Cubiak said.

  “Precisely. But like so many others, Melk’s approach didn’t work on his initial subjects. At least he was honest enough to admit that, but it doesn’t mean that he didn’t try again, perhaps with more frequent or higher dosages. There might be records of additional experiments in that carton.”

  Cubiak struggled to keep up. “In order to know if the serum worked, Melk had to expose the inoculated subjects to the virus and then wait to see if they became ill.”

  “I am afraid so. And given his position at the hospital, he had an almost limitless supply of patients on which to test his theories. Polio is a highly contagious disease. An occasional outbreak at a place like the Northern Hospital for the Insane would not have been considered cause for alarm.”

  “Innocent people crippled at his own hand?” The horror was almost more than the sheriff could take in. “I’m sorry the man’s dead. I’d like the privilege of killing him myself,” he said. Maybe someone else felt the same way. For the first time, Cubiak wondered if perhaps Melk had been murdered and his death made to look like a heart attack. The doctor’s experiments were decades old, but if someone had learned about his research methods, someone related to one of his victims, they might have decided to get even. Revenge had a long shelf life.

  “But why?” he continued. “By the time he was doing this, wasn’t a polio vaccine already available?”

  “There were two. Sabine’s and the one developed by Salk that eventually was most widely used.”

  “Then what the hell was Melk up to?”

  “Vaccines cost money to develop and produce. Melk had access to the blood he needed for free. All he had to do was to match blood types. If the treatment worked, it would be cheaper and he could claim it was ‘natural.’ Even back then, that was a deciding factor for many people.”

  Bathard looked at the wall again. “He may have had another reason as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Melk claimed that he was an only child, but he had two brothers, both of whom died before he was born, and his parents took up residence in Green Bay. They moved to Wisconsin in 1918, two years after a polio epidemic killed more than six thousand people in the United States. A third of those who perished lived in New York City, and most of them were children, among them Melk’s two siblings.”

  “How’d you find this out?”

  “I told you, I still have contacts.”

  “Do you think Melk was trying to find a cure for the disease that killed his brothers?”

  “That may have been his initial incentive. In fact, I would like to believe so. Eventually, however, I suspect that his motivations became muddled and that he merely wanted to make a name for himself.”

  “And his position at the hospital gave him the cover the needed.”

  Bathard sighed. “For his purposes, the situation was ideal. Consider the location: In a society unequipped to deal with the insane, the mentally ill were hidden as far away as possible. What better location for a mental asylum than the remote north woods? And who was there to question him? The staff was probably overworked and minimally trained. Melk was free to act with impunity.”

  “I don’t understand how he found these kids. I can’t imagine him traveling from farm to farm searching for immigrant or desperate families with crippled children.”

  “He didn’t have to do that, Dave. It was a different time. Today farmers order goods off the internet like everyone else. Back then they either drove to town or relied on traveling salesmen to bring the wares to them. Pots, hairpins, fabric, ointments, whatever was needed. I imagine a good sales rep would get pretty close to the families on his route and would sniff out the vulnerable fairly easily.”

  “And the rep would pass along the information to Melk.”

  “For a price, yes, or even in the mistaken belief that the doctor meant to help.”

  “He couldn’t go on after the hospital was destroyed.”

  “Without the cover of the institution, Melk had no viable means of conducting his experiments with blood serum. But as a doctor with a private practice, he could test any number of drugs on unwitting patients and report his findings back to the pharmaceutical companies. For a fee, of course.”

  Cubiak opened his phone to the photo of the boy Francisca had identified as her brother. “Unwitting patients like this boy with Down syndrome?”

  Bathard looked appalled. “That’s the picture you showed me the other day.” He grew more dismayed as Cubiak told him the story behind the photo.

  The coroner was quiet for a several moments. Finally, he spoke. “It would appear that at some point Melk moved on to more contemporary problems and found new sources for his subjects.”

  “Do you think Sage knew?”

  Bathard made a sound like a laugh. “How could he not? Perhaps he wasn’t fully aware of his mentor’s history, but eventually he had to realize that something untoward was going on.”

  “‘For the greater good,’” Cubiak said.

  “Are you trying to justify what Melk did?” Bathard sounded incensed.

  “No. That’s the IPM motto. I think that’s how Melk rationalized his research. Sacrificing a few for the good of the many.”

  The coroner turned away in disgust. “All those innocent victims. How many were there over the years? And who were they? You may have a lead on the one boy, but there have to be so many others.”

  The sheriff moved up to the wall. “As it turns out, I may be able to identify one of the polio victims.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe the girl in one of the photos is Margaret Stutzman. If I’m right, she grew up on this farm and went missing years ago. The woman who lives here now may even be Margaret’s sister.”

  “How?” Words failed the normally erudite Bathard. He looked around the bleak room as if the answer to his question were hidden in a corner just out of sight.

  Cubiak told him Florence Fadim’s story and showed him the picture of Melk with the car.

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “But the photo of the girl does.”

  “If it is she.”

  “It’s her.”

  “Dave . . .” Again Bathard failed to go on. His silence was recrimination enough.

  Cubiak still lacked proof and he knew it. “It certainly points to something,” he said in his own defense.

  Outside the rising wind rattled the windows and banged a loose board.

  Bathard put an arm around the sheriff’s shoulder. “What are you going to tell Mrs. Fadim?”

  “I don’t know.”

  With Bathard trailing behind, Cubiak plodded across the yard. His thoughts were as tangled as the wild vine that had overgrown the native plants and clung to the soles of his shoes. What would he say to the old woman? Did he owe her kindness, or the truth as he understood it?

  Just as important: Who had discovered the files and hid them in the barn? What did they intend to do with the incriminating information about the illustrious Doctor Melk?

  As the sheriff struggled with the questions, he pulled out his phone. He had turned it off when he first entered the barn and forgotten to turn it back on. Perhaps there had been a development, something that would point the way for him. He glanced at the bright screen and stopped so abruptly that Bathard blundered into him.

  “Something’s happened,” the coroner said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  13

  TIRE TRACKS IN THE GRASS

  Harlan Sage is dead. An apparent suicide.” Even as Cubiak repeated the news to Bathard, it struck him as surreal. “I’ve been trying to reach him for two days.” And thinking the worst of him for the lack of a reply. Chagrined by the realization, the sheriff kept it to himself.

  “Can you check on Mrs. Fadim? Give her my apologies and tell her I was called off on an urgent matter.”

  “What about the intruder and the barn?” the coroner said.


  “She may have forgotten all about that, but if not, say as little as possible. Make her a cup of tea. She’ll appreciate it.”

  Sage lived at the far western edge of Door County. His address took the sheriff along a narrow road that wound through heavy woods and was lined with upscale homes set along the Green Bay shore. Every few minutes, the forest opened to another imposing structure. McMansion heaven, Cubiak thought as he flew past the expensive properties. Each house sat in a sea of tranquility that was guarded by security cameras posted along the periphery. Each could easily shelter an extra family under its roof. The houses reminded him of a scene in Doctor Zhivago, the one when the peasants invaded the physician’s home after the czar was overthrown. Through hate-filled eyes they took in the luxury of space enjoyed by Zhivago’s family, and with a greedy vengeance they staked out their claims to the finely appointed rooms. By the time the serfs were finished, it seemed as if half the village had poured in through the open doors, dragging the muddy squalor of their past lives with them.

  Sage’s home differed from the rest of the houses in one respect. While the others were built of wood or brick or even stucco, his was carved from blocks of white granite—a three-story house with oversized windows and a great arching black door. A miniature forest of evergreens dotted the doctor’s acre and a half, but even the gentle trees did little to offset the mausoleum-like feel that the house projected, almost like a Keep Out sign.

  A vehicle from the sheriff’s department stood along the edge of the road, and Cubiak saw a familiar figure wrapping yellow caution tape around the house. Rowe had beaten him to the scene.

  The four vehicles that lined the wide half-circle driveway faced toward him, which meant they had entered from the right. The ambulance stood nearest the door, lights flashing. Each time the warning beams clicked around, red streaks splashed across the house’s shiny white exterior like rivulets of blood. The last car in the lineup, a lime green compact, belonged to Emma Pardy. The other two cars were black. According to the message Cubiak had received earlier, Sage’s assistant, Noreen Klyasheff, had made the call, so one of the vehicles belonged to her. Who else was on the scene?

  The sheriff drove in from the left and parked far enough away from the house and the other vehicles so the ambulance could leave unhindered. The ground was still soft from the previous day’s early morning rain and speckled with footprints. At one point, a stretch of tire tracks cut into the edge of the lawn. The tracks pointed in the direction he had just come from and were evidence of an earlier visitor, perhaps someone who left in a hurry and had carelessly driven on the grass. He took his time passing the two black cars, curious about what the interiors might reveal about their owners. One was obsessively bare and antiseptic. The other held an accumulated mess of empty water bottles, snack food wrappings, and miscellaneous items of clothing, including a crumpled black jacket that had been tossed on the back seat.

  Sage was even more security conscious than his neighbors. An alarm company sign was planted in a flower bed near the front door, and security cameras were mounted on all four sides under the eaves. These were in addition to the cameras posted along the road and driveway. Unless the doctor kept a store of gold bullion in the basement, the fortresslike protection struck Cubiak as excessive.

  At the moment the sheriff was about to knock, an EMT opened the door. They exchanged nods as the medic put two fingers to his mouth indicating a need for a smoke.

  Cubiak let him pass, resisting the urge to join him. Strike three, he thought.

  The black door opened to a two-story foyer that was as colorless as the exterior of the house. Everything in sight was white. Not just the walls and ceilings but the couches and chairs in the living room that opened to one side, the grand piano that stood in front of the large window, the statues of nudes on marble pedestals, the paintings hung at eye level. Even the wooden floor planks and stairs to the second floor were made of ash that had been drained of any tint. Nothing of warmth. More like the sterility of an operating room.

  Cubiak thought of the man he had met at the conference. The house seemed to reflect the owner.

  “In here,” Pardy called out to him from the other side of the entrance hall.

  The sheriff pushed through a second door and entered Sage’s library. The room was as large as the living room and lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were crammed with thick, oversized books—medical tomes, surely—bound in white to match the shelves they filled. A beige brocade wing chair sat in one corner, under an arching, silver reading lamp. Its twin faced the side window and the lush stand of cedar trees outside. Sage slumped over the arm of the chair. It looked as if he had been reading one of his medical texts when he dozed off and his shoulders slipped, letting the weight of his head and upper torso gently pull him into the awkward position—except for the handgun that lay on the floor near his dangling fingers.

  “A peaceful spot to die,” the medical examiner said. Her bright orange jumpsuit was a welcome splash of color and the only one visible from where Cubiak stood. Then he stepped around to the front of the chair and saw a color with which he was all too familiar. It was the deep red, almost black, hue of dried blood—a substantial amount of it. The stain defiled Doctor Sage’s tie and spread across the front of his crisp white shirt and light gray suit like a Rorschach test that allowed only one interpretation: death.

  “How long?”

  “Two days at least. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. The bullet went up under the rib cage, directly into the heart.” Pardy pointed to the entrance wound. “Death was instantaneous.”

  “Self-inflicted?”

  “It looks that way. He was shot up close. I’ve swabbed for gunshot residue on his hand, for what that’s worth.” She shrugged. They both knew it was no proof that Sage had pulled the trigger.

  “He left two notes.” This time she pointed to a low table on the other side of the chair. “One was addressed to me, saying he wanted to leave his brain to science. But it’s too late for that by at least twenty-four hours. The other note is for you.”

  Cubiak picked up a white envelope with his name neatly written across the front. Not the physician’s typical illegible scrawl, he thought. The message inside was brief. “I meant no harm. I did it all for the greater good.”

  He read it aloud to Pardy.

  “Sounds like a suicide note,” she said, not bothering to look up.

  “Or a confession.” Father, forgive me for I have sinned. The familiar refrain tunneled up from Cubiak’s past. All those Saturday afternoons spent on his knees inside the dark confessional at the parish church, beseeching God to pardon his boyish indiscretions. The sheriff turned back to the windows. Whose forgiveness was Sage seeking, if, in fact, that was the purpose of his final missive?

  “What about a rationalization?”

  The question—or was it a challenge—came from Rowe, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  Cubiak hid his smile. He had taken a chance when he hired Rowe, hoping that the spark he had spotted in the brash young man was evidence of intelligence and not conceit. He hadn’t been disappointed. In the ten years that Rowe had been with the department, he had shed much of his bravado and matured into an insightful investigator, one who had learned to see beyond the obvious and to think before acting or speaking.

  “That’s another possibility. Maybe the message is a combination of all three: suicide note, confession, and rationalization.”

  Cubiak gave his colleague time to consider the suggestion. Then he led Rowe into the hall. “Are you finished out there?” he asked, motioning toward the front door.

  “Not quite.”

  “We’ll need crowd control for when the media gets wind of this.”

  Rowe looked toward the porch. “I got backup coming.”

  “Good.” He’s learning, Cubiak thought. Every day, getting smarter, better.

  “Did you notice the security cameras on Sage’s house and t
he ones on the other properties along the road?”

  “Could hardly miss them.”

  “See what you can get from them. It would be interesting to know if anyone beside Ms. Klyasheff has been out to see Doctor Sage recently.”

  “Right. And there are the tire tracks on the lawn as well.”

  Cubiak was pleased that his subordinate had noticed them.

  “I thought you might want a cast made before they’re washed away or someone drives over them,” Rowe said.

  For the second time since arriving, Cubiak stifled a smile. “Right.”

  “It’s on the list,” the deputy said as he moved aside for the EMT who was returning from his smoke break.

  “Are you the one who answered the call?” Cubiak asked the medic.

  “Yes, sir,”

  “Who found him?”

  “Some lady. She’s in the kitchen. Down there,” the medic said, pointing to the white hallway that extended back behind the stairs.

  By now Cubiak was accustomed to the muted white of the house and expected to find the same monotonous tone in the kitchen. Instead he was surprised with a blaze of color: pale orange walls, scarlet cabinets, sea green countertops, and a porcelain sink as shockingly blue as the lake under the bright summer sun. Even the floor was a patchwork of tiles dyed like Easter eggs. The overall effect was dazzling. It seemed as if Sage or his decorator had finally tired of the tedium of the rest of the house and in revolt created a kaleidoscope of clashing tints in this one room.

  Inside, another surprise awaited the sheriff. There were two women at the table: Sage’s assistant, Noreen Klyasheff, and the elusive journalist, Linda Kiel.

  With their hands curved around vivid purple mugs, the women sat stiffly and watched him approach.

  He was tempted to ask the writer if she had gotten his message, but instead he stuck to the business at hand.

  “Which of you?” Cubiak started to ask.

  “I did,” Klyasheff said.

  Her eyes were red and burdened with dread and fear. She had aged a decade since he had met her three days earlier at the conference. Shock had deepened the lines that spread weblike across her forehead and cheeks. She had chewed off her lipstick, leaving only a thin border of red that outlined her mouth like a strip of fresh blood. Only her coifed hair and smart suit hinted at her professional status.