Guilt could eat away at your insides.
I sat in the car pondering my conversation with Levi. His grief was real, but I still felt he knew more than he was saying. He had seemed so sure of Wykell’s guilt when he confronted him that I was convinced Levi had more information about Wykell. Was it torturing him that Zoe had been in that basement dying when he might have been able to help, or because he had contributed to her death through inaction? Either way, it was a horrendous burden to carry. So why was he holding back?
If he had known the smack was cut with something toxic, or if he’d participated in Zoe’s death, there was no place on the planet he’d be able to hide from Janek. But that didn’t explain Paul’s death or the fact that they had both been patients at the Renacido Center. This was about the center. I grabbed my phone and dialed Brynn.
“I forgot to ask earlier, have you gotten any of the information I was looking for on the treatment center?”
“Yeah. Hold on.” I could hear paper rustling. “They incorporated in 2005, privately held, your guy, Dr. Wykell, is listed as the principal. The building, however, is in the name of another corporation, Planck Holdings. They purchased the building in the middle of the market crash in ’08. No record of a mortgage, so this looks to be a cash purchase.”
“Anything odd in the zoning?”
“Looks okay on the surface.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Chicago’s wacky zoning codes aren’t so clear. You need a PhD in housing development or an alderman on your payroll to understand that mess. Based on what I’ve seen, there seems to be at least basic medical treatments being performed at the facility. I’m also not sure these guys are completely forthcoming, perhaps even hiding some of their treatment modalities.”
Wykell seemed like an “ask permission later” type of guy. And if there was as much money to be made on a miracle treatment as I suspected, obstacles such as government agencies were nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted away, at least as long as the benefit outweighed the risk. Especially if he thought he could get away with it until it was time to go public.
“Well, if they are concealing medical care, that could be a huge legal mess,” Brynn said. “I would imagine the inspection and reporting process for treatment facilities is quite different than for a therapist’s office. So how would they get away with that?”
“I don’t know. This feels like a drug treatment protocol to me. This might sound like I’m going off the deep end, but what if it’s an experimental drug or a unique combo of meds? It’s the only thing that I can think of that would lead to enough financial gain to make the risk worthwhile. If they’re experimenting with any non-FDA-approved chemical, the question that comes to my mind is, are they hiding something because the regulations are onerous or because they need patients as guinea pigs?”
Stories of quack doctors who’d bilked the vulnerable out of their hard-earned cash were all over the internet. Every year, desperate people forked over millions of dollars for nonexistent miracle cures when the sales pitch was compelling enough. Why not addiction treatment too?
“They could be slipping money to someone to look the other way,” Brynn added.
“Yet another possibility,” I said, thinking of Alderman Flores. Run-of-the-mill greed was a requirement for the office of alderman. No reason it wouldn’t be part of this district as well. “From outward appearances, it’s possible none of the neighbors were aware. It’s not like there are ambulances pulling in and out. I’m not suggesting they’ve got a hard-core medical facility set up, but it’s certainly conceivable that they’re skirting the boundaries of legality with the treatments they’re conducting. Let’s do some digging to see if we can understand how far they can push the medical angle without needing a whole host of complicated processes and reporting.”
“And the prying eyes of inspector types.”
“Exactly. There were tons of IV setups in the coach house. I don’t know if they’re doing anything more advanced. I didn’t see a surgical suite or anything.”
“I think the insurance angle could also be a good one to explore. I’ll add that to the list as well,” Brynn said.
“Great idea. Talk to you tomorrow.”
From what I could tell, the death over the weekend had not received any news coverage. I assumed the family was arranging an obituary, but a drug-related death printed in a back column of a newspaper wouldn’t connect to the center.
A new thought came into my mind. There might be a benefit to making the connection publicly if raising the heat caused Wykell to react. I ran off the copy in my head, just a simple short piece, appropriately placed, stating the death had occurred while Paul Macanas was a patient at the Renacido Center.
It would force the center to try to explain Paul’s death in some way that wouldn’t scare off new patients, damage the center’s reputation, or bring unwanted attention from regulators. It was a tough ask even for the most experienced of PR reps. Overdoses were explainable, but a death at the center during treatment would require a tightly coordinated campaign, particularly if there were expansion plans. An event like this had the potential to end any shot Dr. Wykell had at a financial windfall, unless he could keep it quiet or spin it as just another example of the ravages of addiction. The important point, for my purposes, was that it would raise the temperature of the pot and that would make Wykell react. I just had to do it without my byline.
It was late afternoon as I stood on the sidewalk in front of The Rusty Bucket, calling Darna Ocampo for the second time. I stared up at a neon Bud Light sign and weather-beaten door, as I left the nurse another message and wondered how long it had been since I’d fit the demographics of this type of watering hole. Probably freshman year of college with a fake ID.
The bar was only two blocks from Wrigley Field, but the street did not yet hint at the crowds that would come over the next few hours. Although the Cubs were scheduled to play this evening in Philadelphia instead of at home, the bars would still be overflowing with fans cheering them on the big screen.
As I walked in the door and paused for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light and hoping my nose would adjust to the stench of a dirty fryer and stale beer. I imagined the scent was embedded in every absorbent surface after years of exposure. Four solo men were settled in with their drinks when I took a seat at the bar. I got the impression a drink at four thirty in the afternoon wasn’t an unusual event for these guys, but the raised eyebrows told me seeing someone who looked like me pull up a stool, was. One guy in a John Deere T-shirt leaned so far off his chair to check me out, he spilled his beer.
The bartender approached, setting down a coaster and a glass of water. He was about my age with intricate, colorful tattoos covering both forearms. His beard was thick and well maintained, and he sported a T-shirt advertising some brand of tequila that I had never heard of, not that I was any kind of connoisseur.
“What can I get you?” he asked, smiling.
I fumbled for a moment, feeling awkward about ordering my usual. I doubted that their Cabernet would live up to anything I could actually swallow.
“How about a bottle of Corona?” I said, feeling that was a safe choice and more appropriate for the venue.
“You got it.” He stepped away and opened the cooler, popped the top on the bottle, inserted a lime slice, and brought it over.
“You’re a little early for the game,” he said, ESPN playing on the three screens behind the bar.
“I imagine you get quite a crowd in here. I hope you’ve got some backup help coming in for tonight,” I said, lifting the bottle to my mouth.
“The reinforcements will be here within the hour. We always have a lot of prep work to do on game days. Our crowd has simple tastes in booze, but you gotta make sure you’re well stocked so the glasses are kept full and the pretzels keep coming.”
Mr. John Deere was lumbering toward me, unsteady on his feet. There was a smile on his face that I assumed he meant as suave but only came across as creepy.
“Henry, go back and sit down,” the bartender said. “The lady isn’t here to make new friends.” JD let out a boozy guffaw but thankfully did as he was told. “He’s harmless, but persistent after tipping back a little liquid courage. Thought I should save you the grief.”
I laughed. “I appreciate that. Um, quick question for you. Did a guy named Paul Macanas used to work here?”
He stopped wiping the glass in his hand and looked at me, his eyes curious. “Yes, he did. Left about three months ago, I think.”
“Do you know why he left?”
“He said he was going into rehab. It was no secret he had a problem, so I’m not just spreading gossip. He was very public about it. How do you know Paul?”
“Just from the bar,” I said, formulating a quick lie. “I don’t come in often, but he was always really nice to me. You know how it is when a single woman comes in. Some guys think she’s there for more than just a drink, you know?” I tipped my head toward Henry and smiled. “Paul was always considerate that way. Shooed away the assholes that were being obnoxious.” Somehow these lies were flowing freely from my mouth. I might not have had the experience I relayed at this particular bar, but it was a universal truth that every woman knew, so I told myself it was only half a lie.
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. I hope he gets his act together. I’d sure like him back. Told him he has a job whenever he’s ready. Most people aren’t so open with their struggles,” he said, setting down the glass he’d been cleaning. “Everybody’s got shit in their life or knows someone who does. It’s no reason to treat people like they’re defective.”
“That means he felt it was safe to talk here,” I said, admiring the openness of his response. “That’s equally important. And something most people don’t have, either.”
It was surreal to sit here and speak about the man as if I didn’t know he was dead. Images of his convulsing body wouldn’t leave my mind, but I couldn’t be the one to say the words. His former employer would have to learn of his fate from someone else. I wasn’t sure if I was being cowardly or calculating, probably both, if I was honest with myself, but it just felt like the news needed to come from someone other than a reporter.
“Fair enough.” He nodded pensively, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before.
“Had he been struggling to get clean for a while?” I asked, taking a swig of the beer. I was trying to sound casual, to figure out how to ask the questions without sounding like a reporter. And the sour stink of old booze was giving me a headache, so I also needed to be efficient if I had any hope of keeping the discomfort from ruining my night.
“Yeah, he’s gone twice before. I guess that’s normal. Like most people, he said he’d tried a bunch of stuff, but none of it worked for long. He was really excited about this new place. Said they had some out-there philosophies, but he was willing to do just about anything to get clean.”
“Sounds expensive. Tough on a bartender salary.”
“Yeah, I asked him about that.” He shrugged, clearly finding it odd as well. “And it’s not like he has health insurance that would cover it. He said the center had some kind of trade deal and he wouldn’t have to pay anything. Sounded wacky to me.”
There it was again, another patient who had made some unusual financial accommodations with the center. I understood why the patient would be interested, but what did the center get in return?
“All I could think of was that he was going to become a lab rat or they’d force him to donate a kidney.” The bartender laughed. “What do I know? Maybe they’re locking him in a room to perform sex acts. I think he’ll do just about anything if it gets him clean.”