Authors: Mimi Johnson
From the get-go, Sam knew she wasn’t going to say one thing about Erickson that he didn’t already have. She nattered on for a bit about the drunkard father and then moved on to some speculation about Elizabeth Erickson’s personal wealth adding to the candidate’s attraction to her. As Sam starting working his way toward calling it quits, she must have sensed his restlessness and hurriedly moved on to what he was now certain was her real purpose for the meeting. She wanted to gossip about her boss, and fish for information on his wife.
It had been easy to sidestep her mean-spirited questions about Tess, claiming they hadn’t work together much during their overlap at the
Trib
. And as far as the profile went, the interview had been a waste. But the crone had generously filled in some very large blank spots when it came to Tess and the almighty Thor. He didn’t regret a second of the time he’d spent with her.
Thinking of time, Sam frowned suddenly and checked his watch. His guy had said he’d show sometime around eleven, and it was almost 20 past. Sam had the sinking feeling he was going to be stiffed.
But the joint was jumping for an Iowa bar set out on a lonely stretch of highway on a bitter winter night. The front door kept opening, admitting greasy men from the Farmall plant down the road. The factory workers who just ended the swing shift and were beginning their evening pastimes took most of the seats at the bar. There were some hard-bitten older men, hunkered over their drinks and talking quietly enough. Their occasional, low-grunted laughs lent a sinister tone to their indistinguishable conversations.
Some young bucks over at a large table were playing the coin-plink game, anteing up around a heavy beer mug with a thin layer of paper napkin stretched tight over the top, a quarter resting on the taut middle. With their cigarettes clenched between dirt-rimmed fingernails, they took turns just touching the paper with the glowing tips, trying to burn as small a hole as possible. Whichever one did it last without the coin falling through won the kitty to much shouting, laughing and cursing.
The only woman in the place was a hefty dame behind the bar they all called “Rosie.” Sam figured that had something to do with the rose trellis tattoo crawling up her neck from the depths of her loosely hanging polyester blouse. He nodded his head at her now, as she looked over and pointed to his empty bottle of Pabst. As Sam watched her shamble over, he wondered what it was about seedy bars that always made him think about writing a novel someday.
Then his source came through the door, looking around carefully before he moved to the back booth where Sam sat. He shook his head at Rosie when she asked if he wanted something and, as she moved off, he slapped a manila folder in front of Sam.
“Here,” he nodded that Sam should take a look, perching on the edge of the bench seat, already impatient to leave.
Sam flipped the folder open and frowned trying to read the finely printed report carefully in the poor lighting. A few paragraphs down, his brow knitted.
“You got it?” The source noticed the drawing of his face.
“I just got to the, um, stomach contents.” The guy gave an edgy sigh, and Sam said, “Look, I’m not a doctor, and autopsy reports aren’t light reading, OK? You’re going to have to give me a few minutes, or else point out what it is I’m looking for.”
“Check the blood pathology, halfway down the page,” the source grunted, and Sam scanned downward. As he read, his eyebrows suddenly shot up. “See it?”
Sam nodded now. “Yeah. Shit, how can this be?”
“You mean compared to the death certificate?” Sam nodded again. “Well, isn't it obvious? It can only mean that someone pulled some strings.”
“You’re sure this report is right?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the guy’s face was grim. “I wrote it. I ran the blood alcohol myself.”
“And this is the exact report you turned in?”
The man looked uncomfortable. “It’s what I turned in, but …”
“But?” Sam looked up sharply.
“But it’s not what’s on file.”
“What does that mean?”
The guy sighed. “When I read in the
Record
that the death certificate listed cardiac arrest as the cause of death, I went to central files to pull the autopsy report I turned in. It wasn’t there. There’s no copy of this anywhere that I can find.”
“So how do I happen to have one in my hands?” Sam sat back looking at the doctor closely.
“Because I keep a copy of all my reports on my computer. When this one went missing, I downloaded the file and took it home. At the end of the week, I came in one morning and booted up the computer. All my autopsy reports were gone. A tech checked the backups and recovered all but the last two I wrote. One was Carl Erickson's. As far as the hospital goes, this report no longer exists.”
Sam whistled softly, closing the folder. “You think Erickson’s behind it? How?”
“You tell me. However he did it, it's damn scary. He’s got to have a high-placed hospital administrator in his pocket to pull this off.”
“The coroner too,” Sam muttered.
“Of course it had to be Erickson. Who else has the kind of sway to fuck with a document as important as a death certificate? And who else but him would care about this particular one?” The man leaned over the table slightly, his voice dropping to a lower whisper. “I can’t help wondering, if he’s pulling this shit as a governor, what will he be up to as president?”
Sam shrugged. “Speaking of official documents, you realize you’re violating the hell out of Iowa state law, and probably national HIPAA regulations too, giving me this?”
The doctor looked blank. “Giving you? No, I agreed you could see it, that’s all.” He held out his hand, but Sam shook his head.
“Sorry. I’ve got to have a copy. Editors have a nasty way of insisting I back up the facts in my stories.” He grinned into the man’s pale face. “Don’t sweat it. I don’t give up confidential sources.”
With a dubious frown, the guy drew back his hand. “I’m gambling my medical license on that promise.”
Sam put the folder on the bench beside him. “Relax, Doc,” he laughed softly. “You’re doing the right thing. I won’t throw you under the bus. Trust me.”
The doctor stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I am. Don’t make me regret it. You’ll get to the bottom of this?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m going to try. You can bet that Erickson’s going to be pretty fucking surprised when I bring it up.”
“You’re just going to put it right out there and ask him?” Sam nodded. “Mr. Waterman, he might seem like an easy-going kind of guy, but trust me, Swede Erickson will make you pay for it.”
Sam's mouth turned up with his lopsided grin. “Doc, it’s been my experience that politicians can’t do a hell of a lot about the media. I’m not worried.”
“Good.” The man stepped away to go. “Just be sure to leave my name out of it.”
Sam was just finishing his beer when Rosie stopped back at his booth. “You ready for another, Sugar?” Sam smiled and shook his head, but before he could ask for the check, he found her prodigious, flowery bosom nearly shoved in his face. It wasn't a subtle message.
By Sam’s standards, it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Judith hadn’t let him touch her for quite some time before she’d thrown him out, and he’d given a passing thought to the possibility of hooking up somewhere along the road. But suddenly continued celibacy didn’t seem such a burden. He eased out of the booth, putting down a crisp $50 for a tab that had to be under $15 with a murmured, "Have a good night," and headed for the door, Rosie's squeal of delight following him.
It was late that night when Tess Benedict got a chance to check the
Journal’s
website for the day. Jack usually didn’t discuss the topics of his regular Monday column with her, and she looked forward to reading it to find out what was on his mind about Lindsborg, the county, the citizens, or his own work. Often she agreed with him, and sometimes she told him he was full of shit, but they always made for good conversation. But tonight, as she scanned the column quickly, and then went back and read it slowly, she felt a deep unease. It was clear that the words were Jack's, put together in his own distinctive style. But this particular subject hadn’t been Jack’s idea, she was certain of that.
"I think he wanted me to spin it a little for him."
She remembered Jack saying it, and she muttered softly to herself, "Damn."
The Sins of the Father vs. the Worth of the Son
By Jack Westphal, Editor and Publisher
Everyone in town knows it. Most Iowans know it. Soon the whole country will know it: Carl Erickson was a drunk.
In this close-knit town, where everyone knows everyone’s business, Carl’s drinking was old news decades ago. But with Swede running for president now, it won’t be long before the national press discovers this juicy piece of Swede’s past.
So let’s deal with it once and for all. Some awful things happened to Carl Erickson during the Vietnam War. He never talked about it, but he drank mighty hard trying to forget. And because of that, he wasn’t a good father.
That’s about it. This isn’t a scandal, because Swede has never shown a hint of a drinking problem himself. Thankfully, Swede did have other examples to follow. While he had a pathetic father, he had one of world’s the best mothers. And as everyone in town knows, my own father took a personal interest in a kid who wanted to play roundball even while he picked up the slack at his father's store.
Unlike many children of alcoholics, Swede didn’t grow up in poverty, the son of a drunk who couldn’t even make a decent living. For a long time Carl was a competent businessman. As Swede showed when he took over, the grocery business had the potential to be a lot more successful. But Carl mostly stayed sober enough during store hours to keep it afloat. And this town cared enough for him, and Augusta and the boys, to keep buying their groceries there.
You probably remember his funeral as well as I do. Drunk that he was, you couldn’t find a place to sit in the Lutheran Church that day. I know lots of folks who had to sit in the basement and listen on loudspeakers. Carl wasn’t a bad man. He was a good man with a bad disease.
Alcoholism is a terrible disease that brings heartache to millions of American families. It’s already reached the White House, probably well before Betty Ford’s candid public acknowledgement of her addiction.
Still, you can count on the national news media getting all excited about Swede’s alcoholic father. But at least here in Lindsborg, let’s keep everything in perspective. It would be a huge story if Carl Erickson was a murderer or a war hero. But he was nothing that unusual. He served his country with honor in war. He served his community with honor in peace. And he shared an awful disease with millions of other Americans.
His son lived those years with him, and emerged as a strong man who knows how to face adversity and still get good things done.
End of
story.
********************
She was finally back in his bed, and he caught his breath with excitement. Rolling tight against her, he buried his fingers in the satisfying thick tangle of her curls, his heart pounding with a joyful mix of memories and anticipation. But just as his mouth grazed the tiny dimple at the side of her lips, a phone beeped, loud and jarring, and he groaned as she pulled away.
He opened his eyes to a dark hotel room. Fumbling, Sam reached for the phone, pulling the receiver to his ear, expecting his wake-up call. But the voice that came through the line brought his eyes open wider.
“Sam? Sam, where are you?” It was Tess, and for a moment he was lost, trying to decide if he was still dreaming. “Hello?”
“Yeah,” he ran his hand over his face and cleared his throat. “I’m here.” Slowly he remembered that this was the morning for the interview with Erickson at Terrace Hill, and glancing toward the window he saw a thin line of bright sunlight peeking around the edge of the stiff hotel curtains. “What time is it?”
“Jesus, were you asleep? I’ve been down here waiting for you for ten minutes. Isn’t the interview at 9? It’s twenty till now.”
“Aw fuck,” Sam came off the bed. “I was supposed to have a wake-up call more than an hour ago.”
“OK, I’ll just go on over and start the shoot.” He recognized the tone in her voice, the calm practicality she always used when work got screwed up. “Try to get there before I’m done.”
“No,” Sam didn’t bother to analyze why this wasn’t a good idea. He only knew he didn’t want her to leave without him. “How far away is it?”
“Just five minutes if traffic on Grand isn’t backed up.”
“OK, come on up. It’s room 412. I’ll …”
“No way,” she broke in. “I’ll wait down here.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake …”
She didn’t let him continue. “If you’re not down in 15 minutes, I’m leaving without you.” She hung up the house phone.
It had only been 12 minutes when Tess checked her watch and then looked up to see Sam striding out of the elevator, his wet hair clinging close to his head, his tie dangling loose from his collar. He juggled a number of things in his hands. As she hurried toward him, he paused at the front desk, shouting at the clerk over the heads of an elderly couple who were checking out, “I left a goddamned wake-up call for 7:00 this morning, you stupid son of …”
She grabbed his arm, and pulled him toward the revolving door. “Yell later. We can just make it. Come on.” With an angry backward glance, he hurried out with her, and they ran to the Jeep. Tess threw herself behind the wheel.