Ned Armbruster paced anxiously around his office, twirling a pencil in his left hand like a drum major marching to a John Philip Sousa cadence. “Where the hell is she?” he muttered to himself, a question he had posed several times to his secretary, Norma, several assistants, and anyone else he came across. The answer from all of them had been the same. Tiffany had informed everyone that she was going to see her family in Pittsburgh. According to her parents, she had stayed at their house over the weekend until Monday midday, when she had said her goodbyes and started her five-hour drive back to the Allentown area. She was due in the office early this Tuesday morning to begin a round of meetings with Ned, the publishers, and newspaper attorneys to deal with the deluge of requests and inquiries after publication of the most incendiary of her series. Phineas had ordered Ned to put it all out there at their latest meeting.
“I want you to tell Tiffany to continue to name names,” he had told Ned, as Tiffany was putting the finishing touches on her latest installment. “Only those for whom you have good information, of course. We don’t want to be reckless. But it’s time to finish this exposé with a flourish. We want to finger all of the people who were harming patients. We don’t want anybody to go to jail, necessarily. We just want them to stop fucking around and get their colleagues to be careful. That’s the tack I want to take.”
Ned said he understood and would pass along McCoy’s instructions exactly, like the good soldier he was. But what he didn’t tell Phineas, and later on would sadly regret, was that he was beginning to suspect that Tiffany’s research was sloppy, to say the least. On those few occasions when he had taken the time to examine source documents and compare them to what Tiffany had written, it was clear that she was taking liberties with the facts. When she didn’t know something, she didn’t admit it or dig deeper but made assumptions that, at times, were unfounded. For example, Ned asked Tiffany to provide more details about kickbacks. How much money was involved, and how was it paid out and to whom and when? Tiffany’s responses were uniformly vague, assuring Ned that she had all of those facts but didn’t want to weigh down the articles with deadly details.
To this point, Ned had been able to satisfy himself that her overall conclusions were correct and defensible and that the industry had clearly attempted to manipulate physicians with aggressive marketing schemes. Impugning individual physicians and hospitals, however, escalated the risk substantially. And if Tiffany’s facts were as distorted on these accusations, as they had been in earlier installments, the newspaper could find itself in a very awkward position.
In the end, Ned had decided to wait to see what Tiffany actually wrote. With a strong bias to publish and after getting his marching orders from Phineas, he had given a green light to the latest installment with only minor edits. Now, when the shit was clearly headed for the fan, Tiffany, her laptop computer, and the files and documents they needed for their defense were nowhere to be found.
“Goddamn Tiffany!” Ned exclaimed each time Norma informed him that she had been unsuccessful in her attempts to find the reporter.
“I’ve tried everything, Ned. I’ve called her cell a hundred times and emailed and texted her as well. She usually answers quickly, even when she’s traveling. I also asked her family to call her friends out in Pittsburgh, thinking she may have stopped by to see one of them on the way home. I called her condo manager, and he told me her place is locked up, she didn’t answer her door, and her car is not in her space. I don’t know what else to do.”
“What about that idiot boyfriend of hers?”
“You mean Dr. Gilbert?”
“Yes, Gilbert. How many idiot boyfriends does she have?”
“I don’t know. I called his office. He’s not in today.”
“Then call his cell phone.”
“I don’t have his number, and his office said they don’t give out cell numbers for physicians.”
“They’re afraid patients might actually be able to get through to ask them questions.”
Norma shrugged. She was young and relatively new to her job and not yet ready to deal with Ned’s sarcasm.
“All right. It’s too early to file a missing person claim, so I guess we’ll just do the best we can. Do me a favor and see if you can get into Tiffany’s computer here at work. If you can, search to see if she has any files on her hard drive that relate to this device series she’s doing.”
“I’ll have to get IT to do that, sir.”
“Whatever, damn it. Just get it done quickly. I’m in a corner here, and Phineas is going to start getting feisty if I’m not able to help our lawyers with some hard facts.”
“Understood,” Norma said, backing out of the office, as if Ned were royalty who couldn’t see the back of one of his subjects, and wondering if a transfer to another executive at the paper might be a good idea.
Gilbert’s absence from work that Tuesday didn’t go completely unrecognized either. The electrophysiology lab staff called his cell and his office line several times.
“He has a couple of cases down here,” the laboratory supervisor explained to the secretary that Gilbert shared with five other doctors.
“Are they urgent?” the secretary asked.
“Of course not. Ray doesn’t do important cases anymore. One’s a tilt table test, and the other is an elective cardioversion for some gomer who’s in atrial fibrillation. He can do them both in a half hour. The problem is, they came in as outpatients so they’re prepped and sitting in our holding area, and the families are in the waiting room.”
“Can someone else do the cases?”
“If I give these cases to someone else and Ray shows up, he’ll eat me for lunch. He needs the income, and let’s just say he hasn’t exactly been knocking it out of the park recently.”
“OK. I’ll try him again in a few minutes and tell him to call you if I reach him.”
But Gilbert never surfaced that day, and neither did Tiffany. Ned’s anxiety mounted by the hour, but he managed to get through the day without pushing the alarm button. He fell asleep at home only after a generous dose of bourbon and arrived at work on Wednesday, convinced that Tiffany would be at her desk, offering some lame excuse as to why she had disappeared.
So when he saw her empty desk and blank computer screen, he went directly to Norma and asked her to call the newspaper’s security office. “Tell them this involves one of our reporters. And make sure they know it’s urgent,” Ned needlessly stipulated. Norma was well aware of the seriousness of the situation. Ned had someone on the line within seconds.
“One of our reporters is missing,” Ned started.
“Tiffany Springer, sir?”
“How did you know that?”
“Heard some rumors that she was MIA. I figured her boss would be worried about her, given the situation, sir.”
“Well, then, Sherlock, you understand why this is a priority.”
“I do, sir. I assume you want us to contact the authorities.”
“This isn’t Casablanca, damn it. Call the police, and tell them to find her.”
“They’ll want to talk to you, sir.”
“Whatever. Just get them on the trail while it’s still relatively warm.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Ned hung up, shaking his head at the Smokey and the Bandit language the security people insisted on using. He reminded himself to direct his anger appropriately. The rent-a-cops the newspaper employed weren’t expected to be anything more than the frustrated police officers they were, and they weren’t very helpful in this kind of situation. They mostly tried to keep the buildings secure and theft-free. Company policy said to call them first for incidents at the paper, but missing persons was way over their heads. So why give the poor schlep a hard time?
The police who arrived at the newspaper a half hour later weren’t much better—two uniform cops who were probably more comfortable with directing traffic than finding a missing reporter. But once again, Ned persevered and answered their pro forma questions, promising to provide Tiffany’s personal information so that her family could be informed and interrogated. While Norma went into Tiffany’s contacts and jotted down the phone numbers and addresses of family, the officers reviewed the procedures with Ned.
“We’ll take this information and spend the next few hours making phone calls, sir. If nothing turns up, we’ll pass the case on to our detective squad, and they’ll intensify the search. If they don’t find anything locally, they’ll put out an all-points. We’ll find her, sir. Don’t you worry.”
“Alive.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to find her alive.”
A smirk from the younger of the two officers. “Oh, I think she’ll be alive, Mr. Armbruster. I’ve been on the force for ten years, and I can’t remember a missing person in this jurisdiction being found dead. Unless it was from natural causes. And I gather Ms. Springer is a young, healthy person?”
“She is. And I hope you’re right, Officer,” Ned said, refraining from reminding the officers that no one had placed herself in as much jeopardy as Tiffany had, with an exposé that the entire country was talking about.
The officers left, and the waiting began. By the end of the business day, the police informed Ned that they had not been able to contact Tiffany but had notified her parents and siblings, all of whom lived in the Pittsburgh area. Her parents were planning to drive to Allentown immediately and wanted to help in any way possible. Tiffany had not told them she planned to stop anywhere, and there were no reported fatal car accidents along the turnpike she would have used for the return trip. In addition, the police had obtained permission from Tiffany’s parents to enter her apartment, which they did using a key from the condo office. Not only was it empty, but it was in perfect order. The mail piled up in her box confirmed that Tiffany had not used the place since she had left for Pittsburgh. With the routine inquiries over, the uniforms were turning the case over to detectives, who would surely be in touch with Ned soon.
The next morning at nine o’clock, two men in cheap suits showed up unannounced to speak with Ned. As soon as they produced their badges, Norma understood and asked them to have a seat for just a moment while she made sure that Ned was ready to see them. Within seconds, Ned popped out of his office, walked over, and extended his hand.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Ned Armbruster. You’re here about Tiffany Springer.”
“Yes, sir. My name is Patrick Burgoyne, and this is Danny Ramos. Mind if we talk in your office?”
“Of course,” Ned said and led the two through the door and directed them to a couple of armchairs in front of his cluttered desk. He only had a moment to size them up and saw little to distinguish either of them. Burgoyne—obviously the senior, graying hair slicked back from a forehead that was just a little too big for the rest of his pock-marked face. Ramos—looking like his Hispanic name, brown eyes and dark features, with a well-maintained goatee.
Burgoyne started in. “Mr. Armbruster, we just got this file from our uniforms late last evening, so we haven’t really dived into it yet. But we will. We just wanted to get your perspective on this case before we expand the search for Tiffany Springer beyond her family. I know you’re worried about her—for obvious reasons.”
“Yes, Detective, for very obvious reasons.”
“Do you suspect foul play in this case?”
“Yes, I do. Tiffany had received some death threats.”
“When was that, Mr. Armbruster?” Ramos asked.
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Because of the articles she was writing?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“You believe so? Were they emails? Did you see the messages?”
“No. Tiffany didn’t show them to me. She just told me about them.”
“She had no idea who sent them?”
“I don’t think so, although according to her, they obviously came from someone who had a stake in the medical device scandal.”
“We need to see those emails, Mr. Armbruster. Can you access them?”
“We had our IT people go on her computer here yesterday, and they couldn’t find anything to help us find her. I think she carried many of her files and her personal emails on her laptop, which isn’t here.”
“And she was allowed to do that?”
“No, but reporters around here do as they please. We don’t come down on them for it, as long as they password-protect the computer and sensitive files.”
“Were there any other threatening messages? Like letters or such?”
“She didn’t tell me that. We went through her desk and didn’t find anything. You can check her apartment, I guess.”
“We plan to do that after we leave here. Is there anyone else we should contact as we begin our search for Tiffany?” Ramos asked.
“I didn’t know Tiffany well enough to meet her friends. There is one person you do need to contact, though. A physician named Ray Gilbert.”
“The guy at Allentown General?” Burgoyne asked.
“You know him?”
“No. But I’ve been reading Tiffany’s series right along, and that’s the guy she says fed her the information that helped her crack the case, right?”
“Yes.”
“How friendly were they, Mr. Armbruster?”
“Let’s say very close.”
“They were having an affair?”
“I think so,” Ned said, hoping to keep from looking like a complete idiot.
“And do you know where Dr. Gilbert resides?”
“No, but you should be able to call him at his office.”
“Anyone else you suggest we talk to?”
“No, but feel free to interview her colleagues here. Norma, my secretary, can give you the names of the people who know her best in the newsroom. They might be able to give you a lead.”
“Thanks, Mr. Armbruster. We’ll get on this and keep you posted. If anything else occurs to you, please call us at this number.” Ramos handed over a card.
And so began the routine police investigation of Tiffany Springer’s disappearance, an investigation that took three days to complete and that was solved by a cleaning lady.
Who, in this case, was a sweet, diminutive Portuguese lady named Isabel, whose job it was to clean the rooms at the Little Town Motel, situated on the outskirts of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The irony of the name was lost on most of the clientele, who weren’t interested in the ambience. What attracted them was the remote location and the absolute discretion of the manager and staff, who understood their business model and adhered strictly to the rules of engagement—cash preferable to credit cards, the statements of which might be subject to spousal inspection; no interruptions under any circumstances; and rentals for hours, days, or weeks, with the option of foregoing maid service for the sake of absolute privacy. Which was why the scene in room 235 went undiscovered for as long as it did.
“Mr. Jimmy, I need to talk to you,” Isabel said to her fat manager, who, on this particular day, like most others, was seated in his office, feet up on his desk, surveying a wrestling magazine.
“What is it, Isabel?” he said in his most dismissive tone. “Did we run out of toilet paper again?”
“No, sir, we have plenty of that—this week.”
“Then why are you bothering me during my lunch break?”
Break? Isabel thought. That would mean that this lazy shit actually did some work, which he never does. But Isabel knew better than to crack wise with Mr. Jimmy, who made sure that any transgressions on Isabel’s part, including silly requests for a living wage, would be a good excuse for him to call the immigration police, something Isabel knew she and her family couldn’t let happen.
“It’s room 235, sir.”
“What about it, Isabel?” Mr. Jimmy leaned over his belly to look at his desk ledger. “Paid up for three weeks. You’re supposed to leave it alone whenever they put a privacy sign on the door. Which, as I recollect, they did.”
“And I leave alone, Mr. Jimmy, I promise. But it smells bad.”
“Did you open the door, Isabel?”
“No, sir. The front window is open a little, and I get a whiff. Smells like something is rotting in there, Mr. Jimmy.”
“Seriously?”
“Come see for yourself.”
“This better be for real, Isabel, or I’m going to be pissed.”
“Come, come, you look in window.”
Which is not exactly what Jimmy did. Because the stench that came out of the window of room 235 turned him on his heels and blew him back to his office, where he wasted no time in calling the police. The precinct receptionist took the information, including the aliases of the room’s renters. The call didn’t take long. No use asking for information about the renter. The police and everyone else in Allentown knew all about the Little Town Motel and the purpose it served. The likelihood that whoever was in the room had used a real name was low.
“Don’t do anything until the squad car gets there in a few minutes,” the dispatcher said.
The uniforms pulled up about twenty minutes later and went to the office. Jimmy filled them in with what little he knew, and together, they walked over to 235. They knocked loudly and called out the names of the renters before asking Mr. Jimmy to use his master key. What the uniforms found when Mr. Jimmy opened that door, with Isabel crouched behind him, would occupy the crime scene unit for the next several hours and the police for weeks.
The room was a mess—clothes and empty food containers thrown around the room, without a major surface spared. A man and a woman lay dead in the king-size bed. They were uncovered and naked; two used condoms were perched precariously on the bedside table. They were facing each other, locked in a mortal embrace, with heads thrown back as if struggling to disengage at the moment of their departure from life.
Time of death was later estimated as at least two days prior to their discovery, judging from the rigidity and lividity of the bodies. What killed the loving couple wasn’t going to take a genius to figure out. Judging from the pills, reefers, and injection paraphernalia on the bedside table, the lovers had likely gone a little too far in their attempts to enhance their sexual experience, a supposition that was readily and easily verified by the toxicology test results a few days later. That, together with no other obvious findings at the autopsies ordered by the medical examiner, made the cause of death pretty clear.
As was confirming the identity of the unfortunate couple. Not only had both been on the missing person’s list for the past two days, but they had abundant personal information in their possession, in addition to the cars that were parked outside their room at the motel.
When Ned got the call an hour or so later, he dropped the phone and fell back into his chair. His intense sadness and his guilt over losing a young colleague and mentee were mixed with an ironic reflection that Tiffany’s series would reverberate farther than she ever could have dreamed. Any follow-up installments would have to be written without her, but her messy death ensured that her exposé would be the most spectacular story in the history of the Allentown Times Herald.