The Ethos Syndrome

By Joseph DeMark

Ethos: Philosophy-Code-Moral Belief-Culture When Private Detective Walter Spotsman (Spots) is retained by grieving parents to make inquiries into the unusual and simultaneous deaths of their ten year old twin sons, he charges into the case with an insurmountable determination and ardent tenacity to reach a resolve. Spots' investigation exposes a diabolical conspiracy, linking a group of unscrupulous pediatricians and the cold-blooded owner of an international biochemical research company.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483439693

Book preview

novel.

CHAPTER ONE

Steam rolled off the Delaware River this early fall morning. An elderly man dressed in tattered blue jeans, weathered sneakers, and a stained bomber jacket covering his hunched shoulders, walked to his favorite fishing spot on a dilapidated wooden dock. He leaned his prized Benson graphite fishing pole against a wooden pylon. Without hesitation, he meticulously weaved the large, single hook through a night crawler he caught the night before, and cast the line into the murky water. The cool morning air was reason enough for Wally Masala to pull a discarded lawn chair under him, and pour hot coffee from his insulated thermos into a dented metal cup. He was prepared to enjoy the blueberry muffin his wife had packed in a small brown bag. ‘Man, it doesn’t get any better than this,’ he thought. This had been Wally’s Saturday morning routine for the last ten years. He didn’t care if he caught any fish; it was too much work to clean them anyway. Fishing was his way of relaxing and letting the world go by. Wally sat back comfortably in his chair. With his hunger satisfied, he started nodding his head into a sleepy doze. Suddenly, the end of his prized graphite pole tipped violently toward the water, and fell from its wooden perch. Moving as fast as his old muscles would allow, Wally rushed to retrieve the rattling pole from the dock before it splashed into the Delaware. He tugged up on the pole with a hefty jerk to set the hook, and started reeling in what he thought was the catch of his life. The strain on the graphite pole was near the breaking point. Wally drew his catch closer to the wooden dock, and let out a scream. Oh, my Lord God! It be a dead person! Oh God, I gotta call the police. First I need to make sure it doesn’t drift away. Wally pulled out his cell phone and touched the automated 911.

This is 911; how can I help you? a woman replied calmly.

Yeah, this is Wally Masala. I’m at the end of an old wooden dock at the Delaware near the bridge. I just caught a person on my fishing line. I think he’s dead.

Hold on, sir. You caught a person on your fishing line and you think he’s dead? Is he moving?

No, he’s not moving. He’s just floating next to the dock. He be still on my fishing line. Please send someone.

The police are on their way. Stay there and don’t touch anything.

Don’t worry; I’m not touchin’ nothin’, Wally stood motionless looking at the floating body and listening for sirens. Over here, over here! Wally shouted, waving his arms vigorously in the air.

The first police car arriving at the scene screeched to a stop at the steps of the wooden dock. Sergeant Richard Mobley, a ten year veteran with the Philadelphia PD, and a highly decorated Sergeant with the 24th District, Homicide Division, jumped from his vehicle and ran down the rickety dock toward Wally. His long legs took his six foot three inch body down the wooden dock in matter of seconds. Two more police vehicles pulled up to Mobley’s unit. Mobley’s partner, waiting in the police car, pointed in the direction of the dock. He’s down there at the end of the dock.

Mobley peered into the murky water and saw the outline of what seemed to be the body of a man floating face down. Did you touch anything? Mobley asked, walking closer to the edge of the dock. Did you touch anything at all?

No, sir, Wally replied, stepping out of Mobley’s way. I’ve seen enough. I don’t need to see no more.

What’s going on, Sarge? Do we have a floater? one of the officers asked, looking over the wooden dock’s splintered railing.

Yeah, I called it in. You two guys set up a perimeter with crime scene tape. The ME and Forensics are on their way. The body’s face down, and likely decomposed beyond recognition. The rats around here probably didn’t help matters. Just make sure he doesn’t get caught up in the current and float away, he said, pointing at Masala. I want to talk with this gentleman before the press gets here.

Sergeant Mobley took a few steps toward the witness. Could I have your name, sir?

Wally, Wally Masala, sir.

Ok, Mr. Masala, can I call you Wally?

Yes, sir.

Wally, in a few minutes an officer is going to take your statement. When you are through giving your statement, the press is going to ask you what you said to the officer. I don’t want you to give the press anything. Do you understand? We need to keep the facts to ourselves for now.

Yes, sir.

Are you ok? Would you like some coffee, Mobley asked.

No, sir. I jus wanna get my fishing pole and go home.

You can do that as soon as you give your statement to the officer. Do you need a ride home?

No, sir. I have my own vehicle.

The ME’s bus and the forensics team pulled up to the scene simultaneously. The first person sliding out of the ME’s vehicle was Doctor Mira Illsop. Mira Illsop, Chief Medical Examiner, and an attractive blond, has been with the Philadelphia PD for fifteen years. She has the reputation of being a no nonsense, take charge, ME. She conducted most of Philly’s high profile autopsy cases without any issues. Mira and her team made their way down the less than sturdy dock with their equipment stacked on the stainless steel gurney.

What do we have, Rick? Mira asked.

Tell ya the truth, Doc, I can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. The vic is face down and we haven’t touched a thing. We’re waiting for Forensics to get here. The body looks like it may have some decomposition; the rats around here are pretty big.

I get the picture, Rick. I saw Bev Grammer pull in the same time I did; she should be here in a minute or two. Are you the Sergeant in charge of the scene?

I am for now. I expect Captain Rodriguez will be here soon, and he’ll make that decision.

A clatter of footsteps could be heard walking down the dock toward the scene. The forensics team with all their equipment, led by Bev Grammer, were making their way down the dock. Grammer, also a veteran of the Philly PD was not unfamiliar with graphic death scenes. Her slender, but muscular, frame was no stranger to working in tight places, and lifting large pieces of evidence from unusual locations.

It looks like we have a full complement of people here. You know I have to ask, has anyone touched the scene? Bev questioned, bending over the dock railing and looking down the small embankment. Looks fairly decomposed.

No, no one’s touched a thing, Mobley waved a hand at Wally. This is Wally Masala, Bev. He found the body and assured me he hasn’t touched a thing. Is that right, Wally?

Yes, sir, Wally responded.

Ok, uh, I need to get down in the water and start working, Bev said, pointing at her assistants. Take everything you can, you know the routine, and bag it. We need to get this done so Mira can take a look see. Rick, can you get someone here with a net, and a block and tackle to hoist the body out when we’re ready?

Sure, Bev, I’ll get someone right on it, Mobley replied.

The forensics team labored for close to two hours under very difficult conditions. The level of the cold Delaware River was at its highest point this time of year, and the current seemed to be more menacing than ever. Several clear plastic evidence bags were hauled up from the river’s edge, labeled and stacked neatly on the four wheel cart. Finally, the top of Bev Grammer’s head could be seen weaving from side to side making her way up the muddy riverbank.

It’s all yours, Mira. We collected all we could find. There isn’t much evidence around here. I’m sure the body was dumped up river somewhere, drifted down here, and got caught up in the man’s fishing line. If you like, we can bring the body up on the dock without damaging anything.

That would be great, Mira replied.

The hoist, attached to the block and tackle, tipped down as the full weight of the wet corpse was slowly brought up from the river and laid to rest on the wooden dock. The technician rolled the corpse over, face up, and moved away, revealing the gruesome sight. Natural decomposition and the river rats had caused severe damage to the face and feet.

I never said my job was easy. Mira said, kneeling next to the body. She stuck a long metal thermometer into the corpse’s liver and looked up at Rick. Looks like a man, about fifty to fifty-five. By the looks of his Brooks Brothers suit, and Florsheim shoes, we can safely say he was not a street person. I don’t see any noticeable bullet wounds or body punctures. I won’t be able to tell whether there’s been any blunt force…there’s none readily visible. It looks like the rats did some damage, but I’ve seen worse, Mira said, standing. Oh, Captain Rodriguez. I didn’t see you.

Hi, Mira. I heard most of what you said, can you give us a TOD, O. Rod asked, squatting next to the cadaver. O. Rod was the name most of the veterans called Captain Oscar Rodriguez. He earned his way up the ranks of the Philly PD, and was instrumental in helping Walter Spotsman, the Chief of D’s at that time, with the demise of several crime gang members. His tall, solid frame was a picture of health. He looks pretty bad.

It looks like between seven and twelve hours. I can be more accurate when I get him back to the lab, Mira replied. O. Rod, one thing that stands out, there’s a diamond ring, with several diamonds, on his ring finger that was too tight for Bev Grammer to remove. I told her I would give it to her after I surgically remove the finger, but that’s not what caught my attention. Mira picked up the hand and turned it to a palm up position. You see one of the settings is empty?

Yeah, I see what you mean, Doc. What do you think happened to the diamond?

That’s a good question. Those are sizable stones on that ring. I’m sure it went missing lately. Most people who can afford a diamond ring that size wouldn’t let the setting stay empty very long. Oscar, I need to get him back to the lab. We need to identify him. I’m sure he has family looking for him, and we need to ascertain the cause of death.

Captain, I’ll run a missing person’s report to see if anyone’s looking for a family member, Mobley said, looking at Mira. How long do you think it will be before you can give me a COD?

Hopefully, I can determine the cause of death within a day or two. You’ll be my first call when I have the answer.

Thanks, Mira. Hey, by the way, have you seen Spots lately? O. Rod asked.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I saw Holly and Spots in a restaurant with the twins about a month ago. They looked great. Spots still keeps himself in great shape.

CHAPTER TWO

The warm, fall mid-day sun reflected off the glossy gray granite gravestone in Saint Stephen’s Cemetery. John and Laura Martin were staring at the inscription: Theodore ‘Teddy’ Martin; Jonathan ‘John John’ Martin. 2005-2013. John’s arm closed tightly around Laura’s hunched shoulders moving her closer to him. Tears streamed from their eyes, and they were soon unable to hold back the sobs. The moment was broken by the sound of a lawnmower in the children’s section of the cemetery. John turned and glanced in the direction of the sound, then returned his attention to the twins’ marker.

Laura, it’s time to leave, he said, as he moved his arm gently onto Laura’s hip. We have to go now.

Laura turned toward John, and tightened her lightweight, black sweater around her shoulders. I don’t want to leave yet. John, please, just a few more minutes, Laura begged.

We’ve been coming here to see Teddy and John-John every day. It’s been a month now. Honey, we need to try and get our lives back in order.

John, I know something is wrong with this whole thing. How could we lose the twins on the same day with the same ‘so called’ progeria disease? John, I tell you, there’s something wrong with this whole picture, Laura said, trying to hold off the sobs. Oh, John, what are we going to do; our little boys are gone. Laura turned away, brushing her hands through her brown, shoulder length hair. We need to do something, anything!

I know…Laura, we’ve been over this before. It’s a disease and we can’t do anything about it. Please, let’s go home. If it will make you feel better, I’ll talk to a friend of mine, Mira Illsop, who can recommend a pediatrician. We’ll get the medical records sent to a different doctor for a second opinion. But anyway we look at it, we’ll never get the twins back.

I just can’t accept the fact we lost both boys on the same day. Please promise me you’ll do what you just said. Talk to your friend, and maybe there’s a logical answer to this.

I promise I will. As soon as we get home, I’ll give Mira a call.

Their heavy hearts made the ride home from the cemetery seem longer than usual. The afternoon daylight was yielding to early evening shadows when John and Laura drove onto the paved driveway. The once well-manicured grounds and flower gardens hinted of neglect. John drove their Mercedes into the three car garage and parked next to two new child’s bicycles. They hesitated, both looking at the blue and red two wheelers, then pulled themselves out of the car.

John, what should we do with the boys’ bicycles? Please, I don’t want to get rid of them yet.

We’re going to leave them right where they are until I can find a home for them. I just can’t deal with it right now. Maybe when the time comes, we might find some boys that would like to have them. His Rolex beamed ‘6:30.’ It’s dinner time. I’ll give it another hour before I call Mira. Why don’t we try to relax in the living room?

They entered the living room through the double French doors. The room was tastefully furnished with colonial furniture and original oil paintings. The colonial style rug in the center of the room had a large blue and gray circular design. There were a number of small toys neatly tucked into a corner.

John, you’ve never mentioned Mira before. What does she do for a living?

John hesitated. Why don’t you have a seat and relax while I pour us a drink, he said, walking to the wet bar. Honey, what would you like?

I would like a very dry vodka martini with an olive, Laura said, sinking into her favorite overstuffed loveseat, and easing her head back into the soft headrest.

John drew two high stem crystal cocktail glasses from the wooden overhead glass holder, placed two ice cubes in each glass, stirred the vodka and a drop of dry white vermouth together in a silver cocktail shaker, poured the liquid over the ice, and dropped an olive in each glass. He purposely took extra time concocting the martinis. He needed to think of a way to tell Laura about Mira’s profession. He handed the martini to Laura. There you are, Honey. Try to enjoy.

John, what does Mira do for a living? This is the second time I’ve asked you. Laura was not sure if her husband was trying to hide something. Are you going to answer me?

Mira is the Medical Examiner for the Philadelphia Police Department. We went to Villanova together. I know she has a lot of contacts and, when the twins passed, she came to the funeral home and told me if we needed anything to give her a call.

Really? Maybe she could do more than refer us to another pediatrician.

What do you have in mind, John said, sipping on his cocktail. If you’re thinking of asking her to research the twins’ death….

No, I’m not, Laura interrupted, taking a large gulp of the martini. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.

As soon as we’re through with our drinks and have dinner, I’ll call Mira. I’ll ask her only to see if she knows someone that can give us a second opinion from the medical records, and that’s all I’m… John stopped, realizing he was raising his voice at his wife without considering the amount of stress they were both experiencing. He took a sip of his cocktail and rested next to Laura on the loveseat. He held her hand for a few minutes in total silence.

Laura, I think we should get some grief counseling. What do you think?

Maybe someday, but not until I’m satisfied we did all we could to find out what happened to our sons. John, can’t you see the unbelievable coincidence?

I can see the coincidence, and that’s all I see. We lost our sons to a terrible disease. I’m trying to accept that, and only that. I will never forget our sons, but we have to move on.

CHAPTER THREE

It was 9:30 a.m. when the phone on Mira Illsop’s desk rang. Mira trotted across the room with her lab coat flapping behind her. The caller ID read ‘John Martin.’ She quickly pulled the phone off the cradle, while pushing her blond hair away from her ear. Hello, John. How are you?

Hi Mira. I’m doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. I was going to call you after dinner last night but I procrastinated.

How is Laura doing? It must be so difficult for both of you. Is there something I can do for you?

As a matter of fact, Mira, there is something we want to ask you. You’re going to think this absurd…

It’s ok, go ahead, Mira interrupted, taking a pen into her hand. Nothing you ever say is absurd.

Now, Mira, you must understand. I’m calling for Laura’s sake. She seems to think the twins passing on the same day, and at approximately the same time, is more than a coincidence. We would like to know if you could recommend a pediatrician who would give us a second opinion on the cause of their deaths.

John, I don’t know if any doctor would even try to second guess a cause of death at this stage. The prognosis for the disease is always fatal. You’re not suggesting we try to get a court order and exhume the twins are you? There’s not a judge around that would sign such an order.

Oh, no, no, John said, running his hand nervously through his hair. We would just like a second opinion from another doctor based upon the medical records on file. Laura has some notion that the twins dying on the same day, at almost the same hour, was not a coincidence. I don’t…

Are you saying you think there was foul play? Mira asked, walking around her desk and sitting down. John, you can’t be serious. Do you know what you are implying? You and Laura should think about what you are getting yourselves into. Do you really want to go down that road?

Mira, I don’t know what I want to do, John sobbed. What do you suggest? I would like to put this to rest for Laura’s sake. I’m personally satisfied with the medical reports. We have no one to turn to and tell us otherwise.

Ok, before we go any further, anything I say from here on is off the record. Do you know what that means? Mira asked, hesitating, and feeling unsure about continuing the conversation.

Yes. It means I can’t quote you on anything you tell me. Is that what we’re saying?

Yes. That would be sufficient. If you, or Laura, suspect something is not normal about the way the medical staff conducted their research and findings, then I will proceed under the assumption there may be some chance the twins’ care was mishandled. What we’re saying, in effect, there was malpractice involved. Is that how you would like to approach this?

That sounds terrible. I hate to accuse the wonderful doctors and staff, who worked so hard to keep the boys comfortable through all this, of malpractice.

John, you can’t have it both ways. Once you start, there’s no turning back, and the shit will hit the fan. You and Laura better be ready to endure anything that comes your way. I mean anything. I have a friend who might look at this, and I’m sure he’ll tell you the same thing I just told you.

Yeah, I know. I need to talk with Laura about this before we go any further. I don’t want to wait. Can you hold for a minute?

Certainly. Would you like to call me back? Mira asked.

No, you’re fine. John’s conversation with Laura carried on for a number of minutes. Mira could hear parts of a heated discussion in the background.

Mira, we, uh, Laura decided to go forward with this. We’re not sure where to go from here.

Ok. I have a friend who is a private detective, and I’ll give you his phone number. He is one of the best in the country. I’ll let him know you will be calling. You’ll find that Walter Spotsman and his staff are no-nonsense investigators. I’ve known Spots for several years; he’s an honest straight shooter with the tenacity of a Pit Bull, and the compassion of a religious minister.

Can you call him now, so we’ll know if he would take this case or not?

Sure, I’ll put you on hold and see if he’s in. Remember, I’m not making any promise on his behalf. If he takes the case, I will back away, and you’re on your own.

Fair enough, John whispered.

Mira put John on hold and speed dialed Walter Spotsman. ‘God, I hope I know what I’m doing.’ Walter Spotsman, Spots, as everyone called him, was a highly decorated Marine who had served in a sniper unit. When he was discharged, he worked his way through the ranks of the Philadelphia Police Department and became the Chief of Detectives. He retired from the police department after solving one of the most highly publicized crime cases in Philadelphia’s history. His six foot three inch, two hundred ten pound muscular frame was most intimidating to any would be aggressor. Spots was known as a hardboiled law enforcer, with compassion for honest people who were down on their luck.

Spotsman and Spotsman, Amy Klotts, the Agency’s receptionist answered.

Hi Amy, Mira here. Is Spots in? It’s important.

Hi Doctor. Let me see if he’s in, Amy said, tapping Spots’ interoffice phone button.

Yes?

Spots, Mira’s on the phone. She said it was important.

Hi Mira, what can I do for you?

Hi, Spots. I hesitated calling you, but you’re the only person I know that would even consider what I’m about to ask.

What’s so mysterious?

I have a man on hold, actually, a good friend. He and his wife are in deep depression about their twin sons’ deaths. His wife is determined to find out why the twins died on the same day, and about the same time of day, while they were under a physician’s care.

My God. Mira, what happened?

They were both diagnosed with progeria. It’s a premature aging process. There’s no cure, and no one with the disease has lived longer than thirteen years.

Mira, what on earth could we possibly do? Spots asked, sympathetically.

They want to have their sons’ deaths investigated. They think there may have been foul play. Spots, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t even listen to them, Mira said, then paused for a moment. Spots, why don’t we leave this one alone?

There probably wasn’t an autopsy because of the attending physician’s report, was there? Spots asked.

No, there wasn’t any autopsy.

They must be going out of their minds with grief. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to our twins. Sure, Mira, I’ll talk with them. Have them call Amy to set up an appointment. Who are your friends?

John and Laura Martin. Spots, I’ll tell them you will listen to what they have to say, but that’s all. You know I have to back away.

Spots hung up the phone, sat for a moment, and thought about his twins. He walked up the hallway to Amy’s desk. Amy Klotts has been with the Agency since its inception, has a PI License, a black belt in martial arts, and has been involved in several high profile cases. She is very devoted to Spots and his wife, Holly. Hi Spots. I know something’s up when you have that ‘someone’s in trouble’ look on your face.

Yeah, really? You’re going to get a phone call from a John Martin and his wife, Laura, for an appointment. Get them in here as fast as you can, even if you have to slide some appointments around. I would like you in the meeting to observe their body language. We’re going into an area we’ve never been before, and I want to make sure the prime interest these people have is not a malpractice lawsuit for money.

Spots, what kind of case is this? Amy asked, picking up her iPad to take notes.

They recently lost their twin sons to a disease called progeria. It’s a disease that turns children into ninety year old people. The disease is incurable and the patients pass before they turn thirteen years old.

My God, Spots, that’s terrible! But what can we do about it?

They feel there was foul play and that malpractice was involved. That’s why I want you to watch their every move while we’re meeting with them. I think they’re legit but I don’t want to take any chances.

Spots, just a thought. What if, by some chance, they’re right? Are we ready to take on the whole medical establishment?

If they’re right, there’s more than the medical establishment involved. I don’t think we’ll make it out of the gate with this. They might be more distraught than anything else. Let’s listen to what they have to say, then we’ll determine how far we’re willing to take this.

The phone on Amy’s desk rang, displaying ‘John Martin’ on the CID screen. Amy spun the phone carriage around so it faced Spots and her. She picked up the receiver. Spotsman and Spotsman; how can I help you?

This is John Martin. May I make an appointment to see Mr. Spotsman?

Certainly. I think Mr. Spotsman is expecting your call; one moment please, Amy said, putting the caller on hold. Would you like me to record the conversation, she said, looking at Spots?

No. Let me talk to him and I’ll make some time for him myself. I’ll take it in my office. Spots walked to his new mahogany desk, hit the blinking red phone button, and eased into his soft leather chair. Walter Spotsman."

Mr. Spotsman, I didn’t expect to hear your voice. Mira Illsop, a friend of mine, gave me your phone number. She said she would give you a heads up before I called.

Yes, Mira called me. She gave me a brief account of your situation. From what Mira has told me, I’m at a loss for words. What do you think our agency might be able to accomplish for you.

Mr. Spotsman, my wife Laura would like to tell you what she has on her mind. If you think there is no merit in what she says, we’ll go on our way.

That’s fair enough, Spots looked at his calendar. I have some time first thing tomorrow morning, about 9:00 a.m.

That would be fine. We’ll see you in the morning. Oh, Mr. Spotsman, Laura is in a very depressed state, and she may say something that makes no sense at all. Please allow a little leeway.

Sure, I understand. When you come in, please bring anything you have regarding meds, doctors’ appointments, and anything else you think would be important for us to look at.

Yes, sir. I’ll see you in the morning, John replied.

Amy, I booked an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Martin for tomorrow morning at 9:00.

Yes, I heard. How would you like to handle the meeting?

"Before