Ill Will (23 page)

I didn’t know enough about how supplements were made to know whether that meant anything or not. Maybe there were only so many pill sizes and colors, so there was bound to be overlap if you put enough of them out in a row. It was possible that the pill molds were standard, so only so much variation was possible unless someone wanted to shell out for a custom one.

I finally got tired of staring at the pills and playing with my magnifying glass—yellow-green is not a favorite color of mine. I put the supplements back in their appropriate bottles. Maybe the paperwork would be more revealing.

First I did a hasty organization, putting everything in order by date.

It was a big pile of medical and insurance paperwork. Most of the codes and jargon were beyond me. For about the first six months, things seemed to track. There was a receipt from the doctor—he saw several specialists—the insurance was billed, they paid except for his co-pay. What was interesting was that Reginald seemed to be an organized man, writing on the bills the number of the checks, the amount paid, the account number and the date.

Then he had a visit in late August of 2005, and after that nothing for four months. Many people, overwhelmed with evacuating and then suddenly scrambling to find a place to live while the city was being drained, never got past food and shelter to make it back into medical care. Reginald Banks seemed to be one of these people. In early December, he had an ER visit in Memphis. After that, two follow-up visits, one in Memphis, the second in Jackson, Mississippi.

Then shortly after the Jackson visit, about two years ago, he changed insurance companies and doctors, with the location shifting back to New Orleans. The number of visits increased. He had been out of care, had not had stable housing, I was guessing, from the multiple addresses of service right after Katrina, and his health had probably suffered. He started to get behind on his bills, making partial payments instead of full ones. After the initial increase, which lasted for about six months, then four months went by without any medical visits, only bills and his neat handing writing indicating how much he was paying.

I looked at his pharmacy bills. He was getting his prescriptions refilled about every five to six weeks, so it looked like he was stretching his monthly pills out to help decrease the cost.

Then a year ago, he switched doctors again, the address now of the group Cordelia was with. I found paperwork with Lydia’s signature on it for compassionate use of one of his more expensive medications. He had several visits, mostly about a month apart, with the usual receipts matching the insurance bills.

Then there was an insurance form listing several visits, now mostly two weeks apart, and next to two of them, in Reginald’s neat writing—
no visit, billing mistake.
He noted that he had called the doctor’s office about it.

Then another insurance form, with another list of visits of about every two weeks. Two of the visits had codes next to them that indicated they were beyond the usual and customary and would not be covered. They were what prompted the denial of services that Reginald had received about three months ago. Again, his neat handwriting:
billing mistake, called doctor, co-pays reversed.

There was a copy of the letter he sent appealing the denial, claiming that there was a billing error and that he hadn’t been seen by the doctor every two weeks, but only once a month.

A check for his most recent visit was sent back to him for insufficient funds in his account.

What had happened? A clerical error and his lack of money had kept him out of the doctor’s office. He’d taken a turn for the worse, thought he could tough it out, and had been horribly wrong.

Then I remembered Eugenia, the other patient claiming that she hadn’t been there when they said she had. Did it mean anything or was it just a coincidence? I’d have to tell Cordelia that she might suggest better training for the billing department.

All I knew was that I made my head hurt and seemed to have done little to answer why Reginald Banks, who shouldn’t have died, was in a morgue.

It was almost five thirty. Time for me to stop thinking about this and go home.

We stumbled into the weekend, both of us exhausted. If I had to pick the worst week of my life the last one would be in the running. My answer to “how’ve you been” would be “Let’s see, I almost got killed by a drug-addicted thug, my partner was diagnosed with cancer. If she survives it’ll be because she’s had to go through months of ugly chemo and being sick. And I had an epic fight with a cousin I was close with. I guess I won’t be borrowing his saber saw anytime soon.”

The free days passed in a blur; we didn’t go out, hibernated in an attempt to heal from the blows fate had dealt us.

On Monday morning Cordelia insisted on going to work. “I want to—need to—keep everything as normal as possible,” she told me.

I’d fallen apart last night, the free time finally let in the emotions I’d been holding at bay—I was going to blame it on the almost deadly car chase—so I wasn’t allowed to again for a while. I kept to our routine—when I could remember what our routine was. I got up with her, unusual for us. I told her I couldn’t sleep, which was true.

I made the coffee and breakfast—well, sliced bananas and strawberries for cereal. That wasn’t so unusual, except for my being awake to do it.

Then she was out the door and I was left wondering how the fuck I’d keep to anything approaching normal today. My mind was blank on what would be typical right now. And then I realized that no way was normal going to apply, so I’d aim for abnormal but constructive.

I cleaned the house, oh, yes, even under the stove top. Not a slow cleaning either, but a whirling dervish cleaning, filling my nostrils with bleach and my hands covered with soapy water. That was done a little before noon. It had been a while since the place was this spick-and-span.

Maybe I was struggling against being Reginald, so ill that his normally clean house had turned to a cesspool. If I kept the place clean, then that would avert his fate.

I considered going to the grocery store, but decided we’d do it together. Cordelia seemed to want to and I knew I needed not to just take over as if she was already ill and incapable.

Which left going to work. That, at least, I could check off the normal category. So I took a quick shower to get rid of the worst of the bleach smell. Then I started a load of laundry. My cleaning clothes needed it, and the bleach in them would help the rest of the whites get oh-so sparkling fresh. After that there was nothing to do except get dressed—black jeans and a dark gray cotton sweater—colors seemed too much. I started to automatically put on my holster, but paused to wonder if I really needed it now. Cordelia didn’t much like hugging me around the gun. I left it on; I could take it off at my office.

I realized I didn’t want to go out in the world where people could see me and I had to pretend that everything was okay, when it so wasn’t okay.

But the day was moving and I had to be aboard.

It was bright and sunny, as if the sun could shine through anything.

Maybe it would be okay.

At least I could enjoy the sunshine.

When I got to my office, there were two TV trucks parked in front. An amateur video of my car chase had surfaced and therefore Dudley’s insane car chase was finally getting its fifteen minutes of fame. The DA, bless his political heart, had a press conference this morning to announce the arrest. He didn’t want the story buried over the weekend. Given that Dudley was in the hospital and not talking, that left me as the only other principal capable of speech.

I kept driving, not changing speed to clue them into it being me in the car by speeding away. Nope, I was just another resident toolin’ on by. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to the news media on a good day. And today was such not a good day. I turned the corner and parked near the next corner.

There is a back entrance to my building and it involves only minor trespassing. First I had to go through the little store on the corner, buying a newspaper, a couple of soft drinks and some chips—which I had no intention of eating—as a bribe to let me exit through the back. It was a good thing that I wasn’t hankering for the chips. My next move was to toss the bag over a fence. It wasn’t tall, so it was easy to step on an old wooden crate and hoist myself over. From there a quick cut through someone’s backyard, over my building’s tottering remains of a fence, and I was at the back door.

Without a key. But my landlord didn’t think the back door was a security risk, so the lock could actually be opened with a credit card. I would have to talk to him about that, I thought, as I slipped inside. His one other nod to security back here was to pile a bunch of junk, making it an obstacle course to get to the stairs.

Oh, yeah, my normal routine.

When I got to my office, normal did await me. My answering machine light was blinking and the Grannies had a report for me. Hard choice, but I decided I could get my phone messages out of the way first, make a cup of coffee, then peruse what the Grannies had sent.

First one was Mr. Charles Williams calling about our meeting. I’d let him know we were meeting when we met.

Cordelia. “Hey, I just wanted you to know how much you mean to me. Love you. See you this evening. You don’t need to call back. I just wanted to hear your voice. Even on an answering machine.”

Yeah, normal. Although I was glad I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t perfectly keep to our usual routine.

The next message was from Joanne. “Hope you’re still alive. Call me when you get a chance.”

Danny. “I assume you’re pressing charges. Call me so I can follow up on my boss’s orders.”

My good friend Carl Prejean. “Look, I didn’t send any guy after you, okay? We’re cool. I figured out who most likely torched my house. It wasn’t you, okay? So call your cop friends off, okay?”

What a choice of messages.

I called Cordelia first. She didn’t answer, which meant either she had turned her cell off or was with a patient. I left a message. “Hey, it’s me. I got your message. You’re going to be stuck hearing my voice for a long time. I love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

Joanne was next. She wasn’t available. I just left the message that I had called.

Then Danny. She also wasn’t around. Another message.

How to handle phone calls quickly and efficiently—just don’t talk to anyone.

Time for the Grannies.

Nature’s Beautiful Gift was privately owned. Only two complaints of adverse reactions had been reported to the FDA. One was for constipation—everything ends up at the colon—the other for headaches and fever. The complaints were for different supplements. No actions were taken. As the Grannies footnoted, usually action was only taken if there was a pattern of adverse events that could be traced to one particular product and if the problems were severe. The company was involved in a number of community projects, including donating to inner-city schools, and had underwritten playgrounds in poor neighborhoods. Its “naturalists” were independent salespeople, so it did operate as a multilevel marketing company. That meant that people like Vincent bought their supplies from the company, and it was up to them to sell enough of them to make a profit. Some of these were quite legit and offered people the chance to set their own hours and to work from home. There were some claims to the Better Business Bureau, but not as many as one might think. The Grannies had done some comparisons, and NBG had a fairly clean record compared to other companies with a similar setup. In fact the only company that had fewer complaints was one that sold sex toys. Guess people didn’t want to admit that their dildos were defective.

More and more NBG was looking like a legitimate company. Maybe I should try the sample packs that Vincent had given me and see if my regularity improved.

I started skipping through the NBG stuff. Most of it seemed of little help or interest to my client. There was nothing he could use to convince his aunt she was being sold powdered Lake Pontchartrain slime. Plus it was boring. They’d found some reference to studies, although they tended to be small and funded by either NBG or some other similar firm. But they bolstered their claim that the products “helped improve” whatever they were supposed to. For the most part, though, they were in the usual limbo—nothing proved they did work, but nothing proved they didn’t.

The Grannies had been less successful with The Cure. It had no website promoting its products. I was willing to bet that since they walked past the legal line, they had to be careful about to whom and where they promoted. They’d found references to it in several blogs, but some of it was secondhand—
My friend’s aunt used something called the (sic) Cure and she was cancer free within weeks
—or part of a rant—
The government only lets the rich people have access to The Cure, the rest of us get to rot in their antiquated medieval medical system.
One claimed
The Cure will kill you
, but as they noted, the blog was old and hadn’t had any entries in over six months.

They finished with saying that they’d keep searching for info on The Cure, but unless I wanted more on NBG, they’d stop there. As far as I was concerned, they could have stopped ten pages earlier on NBG than they had. The only advantage to the length of their report, I thought as I made a copy of it, was that I could hand this stack of paper to Mr. Charles Williams and then he could have as much fun as I did. Plus it would help Fletcher’s wife feel like they’d gotten their money’s worth.