Personal preferences?
I was on a roll and decided to go for the knock out. The Varner Clinic was located in the small town of Delancy, Ohio, about five miles north of Greene's Funeral Home. How convenient, I thought. It was like one-stop-dying. In L. A., they could add a Brother Bob's New Age Feel-Good Church, a drive-thru liquor store with an ATM, and sell franchises, but things weren't nearly that progressive here in the Great Outback of Central Ohio.
Driving through town, Delancy appeared fairly prosperous. It was the County seat and featured a quaint ivy-covered college campus, a block or two of renovated Victorian shops, the courthouse, and no doubt the offices of that law enforcement giant Sheriff Virgil Dannmeyer. The town stretched out in each direction from the crossroads of Anderson Road and Main Street. Looking at the fronts of the stores, they specialized in antiques, residential real estate, books, and small restaurants that catered to the college crowd with vegetarian food, pizza, and too much coffee. I drove both streets and stopped at a BP station where I asked the attendant where I could find the Varner Clinic. He gave me a very odd look.
“East on Anderson Road about a mile. You can't miss it,” he chuckled. “If that's where you really want to go.”
He was right. I couldn't. The building was a sprawling low-tech affair that someone had cobbled together from painted cinder blocks, narrow casement windows, and the occasional panel of cedar siding. It had a center core with a peaked roof, and three long, one-story wings that thrust out to the left, right, and rear. The building stood on a slight rise well-back from the road behind a gravel parking lot. A large, well-manicured lawn, no doubt somebody's old bean field, dressed-up with tall hedges and curved flower beds of roses and geraniums, surrounded it. Beyond the nearly empty parking lot stood a dense buffer of big oak and pine trees.
It was about 2:30 when I turned into the clinic's driveway and parked the Bronco in the “Visitor's Parking” space. I knew I shouldn't be doing this. When I left Tinkerton's office I should have driven straight to the State Police Headquarters, the State Attorney General, or even the FBI, but I couldn't. After the stunt with the delivery bags, Edna the secretary, and confronting Tinkerton in his own office, I felt I was invincible. I'd taken on Dannmeyer, Greene, and Tinkerton and they hadn't laid a glove on me. All I needed was one solid chunk of evidence to wrap it up and tie a bow around it. I figured I'd find it in the Varner Clinic, since that was where the bodies started going cold. Besides, I was two steps ahead of them. There was nothing these clowns could throw at me I couldn't handle now. I was hot. What could Tinkerton do to me? A lawyer? Nothing.
By the same token, what could I do to him? The sad truth was, not very much. The obituaries? The newspaper stories? They were interesting, but not nearly enough to get an indictment much less a conviction. Without hard evidence or one of them talking, the State Police, the State Attorney General, and the FBI would laugh me out of town. Go up against a trio of local, stand-up guys like Ralph Tinkerton, Lawrence Greene, and Sheriff Virgil Dannmeyer on their home turf? The Michigan football team stood a better chance of getting a break here in Columbus than I would. Knowing they were dirty and proving it would be two very different things.
That's why I took a shot at Varner. He was a doctor, an M.D., for Chris’ sake. All the ones I knew were invariably risk averse and not nearly as smart as they thought they were once they got outside medicine. Ever watched a doctor invest in real estate? A bar, an office building, or a trendy restaurant? They could lose money faster in oil well scams, cattle, or thoroughbred horses than they could possibly make it. Got something you want to unload? Find a doctor. Better still, find a group of them. You can't lose. Yep, Anias P. Varner was their weak link, particularly if I could get him off balance and keep him that way. If he stonewalled me, I could try the State Police or give it up and turn the Bronco east, but I had to give it one last try.
The exterior of the clinic looked cheap and poorly put together. The siding was grooved, plywood paneling and the brick accents looked to be that cheap, glued-on, fiberglass stuff. As I walked across the lot, I saw a six-foot high chain link fence running around the perimeter of the clinic grounds. It was tucked discreetly into the wall of oak and pine trees and painted black to be nearly invisible. It was the glint of sun on the white electric insulators told me the fence was there and it was carrying some juice. There was also a row of small security cameras tucked up under the eaves of the building. Their overlapping fields of vision covered the entire perimeter, sides and rear. Interesting. With an electric fence and cameras, were they trying to keep people from breaking in, or trying to keep them from breaking out?
The clinic's front doors were those new pneumatic, motion sensor, no-hands models that pop open when you get within five feet. Inside, they had decorated the clinic's small lobby with the taste and sensitivity you'd find in the waiting room of a car wash. No Ethan Allen here, the walls were a practical light beige. There was thin blue carpeting, cheap faux-leather chairs, and framed prints of Impressionist paintings from Wal-Mart on the walls. The chairs looked empty and unused, arranged in small, intimate groupings. The clinic must be real private, I thought, so private that the patients didn't get very many visitors.
In the center of the far wall, I saw another set of double doors. They must be the entrance to the clinic itself. Through the small panes of glass, I could see a long, brightly lit corridor beyond. In the ceiling above the doors was another security camera, pointed right at me. I smiled. There was no sneaking up on these folks.
To my left was a large, U-shaped reception desk with a very large, blond-haired woman holding court behind it. She was dressed in a white nurse's uniform and she eyed me up and down like a St. Bernard in heat. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she was far too heavily made up for my taste. And way too big. With her broad shoulders, long arms, and round, rosy- cheeks, she could easily fill the heavy weight slot on the Russian women's wrestling team.
I smiled. She smiled. “Hi, I wonder if I could see Dr. Varner.”
“And, you have an appointment?” She cocked her head coyly to the side and asked in a deep, husky voice.
“An appointment? Uh, no, I'm afraid I don't.”
“Then it would be tres impossible,” she shook her head. “You see, Doctor Varner is on rounds now. After that, he has appointments and several surgeries that will run well into the evening. That's why the poor man never sees anyone without a referral and an appointment. I'm sure you understand.”
“ Ah, certainement! With his schedule, of course I can. But tell me, what is the Doctor working on now?”
“Well, there's the new Herbal and Holistic Medicine Unit,” she ticked them off on her fingers for dramatic effect. “And Weight-loss and Body Recontouring Unit, Substance and Psychic Dependency, Cosmetic Re-engineering, Glandular and Hormonal Re-balance, and of course Dr. Varner's own Personal Preference Surgery.”
“Ah, Personal Preference Surgery. I remember now.”
“You remember? You mean you've been here before?”
“Oh, my, yes, I'm one of the Doctor's former patients.”
“One of Doctor Varner's? Ree-ally?”
I leaned forward and whispered, “That's why I must see him.”
“Personal Preference?” she asked again, still not sure.
“Yes! And very personal, as I'm sure you know.”
“Oh, yes!” Her eyes flashed.
“So,” I gave her a big smile, “if you could be a big dear and give him a message that Peter Talbott has come back to see him, I just know he'll pop right out and see me.”
“Well,” she seemed to glow. “If you'll have a seat for a smidge, I'll let him know you're here. But with his schedule, it may still be quite impossible.”
She picked up the telephone and I stepped to where I had a full view of the double doors that led back to the clinic and waited for the explosion. It didn't take long. Within a minute or two, a fat little man in a white smock with a stethoscope hanging around his neck burst into the waiting room. “What is the meaning of this outrage!” he sputtered. His nervous eyes darted around the small lobby until they settled on me. “Who are you?”
“Me? I'm Peter Talbott.”
“Peter Tal…?” he frowned, almost losing it.
“Yeah, the real one,” I answered, a confident smile forming on my lips. Weak link? One look at Varner and I knew that with a little pressure, he'd crack like a hot chestnut. “And I think we should talk, don't you?”
“Talk? Talk to you?” he scoffed. “Why should I?”
“Because it's me or the State cops and there's nothing your pals Tinkerton or Greene can do to help you then. You're going down.”
The receptionist was in shock as she watched the show unfold. Her eyes moved back and forth between us like a referee at a tennis match. “I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Varner,” she pleaded. “I had no idea.”
“That is all right, Bruce, it isn't your fault.” Varner reached out and patted her hand. “We don't want you to pop any stitches, now do we.” Varner turned and held the door open for me. “All right, come back to my office. If you insist on talking to me, we will talk.”
I glanced over at Bruce as I walked by, but she didn't look very happy about the situation. “A former patient?” She hissed. “I should have known.”
Varner ushered me through the double doors into the clinic and down the corridor to the left. The thin blue carpet of the lobby quickly gave way to gray-flecked linoleum, white semi-gloss enamel, and harsh fluorescent lights. His office was two doors down. I felt supremely confident as I walked in and took a chair across from his desk. It was Varner who was fidgeting nervously as he closed the door behind us. I knew I had him.
“See here. I don't know who you are, young man, but I run a legitimate business here. What right do you have to come here and bother me and my staff like this?”
“You mean Bruce? Oh, he'll get over it. You? I doubt it.”
“I shall have you arrested.”
“Go ahead,” I leaned forward and pushed the desk phone toward him. “Call the cops. If you don't, I will, but it won't be your buddy Virgil Dannmeyer who comes this time. It'll be the State Police and the State Attorney General's Office with search warrants. Neither Tinkerton nor his Washington pals can help you then.”
His face turned red, and he was having trouble pulling off the outraged innocence act.
Behind him, the wall was covered with framed diplomas, medical degrees, and board certifications. “Anias P. Varner, Doctor of Medicine,” I read aloud. “You weren't in the Marine Corps, were you?”
“The Marine Corps?” he sounded flustered. “What are you…?”
“I assume they talked to you — Tinkerton and Greene?”
“Tinkerton and Greene? I have nothing to do with them. If they did something illegal, it is none of my business. None whatsoever.”
I pulled the newspaper clippings from my shirt pocket. “None of your business? Let's see. The Pryors? The Skeppingtons? The Brownsteins? Edward Kasmarek? And now, a couple of bogus Talbotts? Do those names ring a bell?”
His eyes shifted nervously from me to the door.
“None of your business?” I laughed at him. “You signed the death certificates, Doctor. You ID’d them. And you put down the cause of death. No autopsies. No fingerprints. No questions. No nothing. That's a felony. A whole bunch of them.” My eyes bore in. “But was that all you did, Doc? Falsify a few records? Help with the paperwork? Sign a few forms? Or did you help kill them, too?”
“No! No. I swear.” He shook his head violently from side to side denying it, but I could see he was cracking and I'd barely started. “I never touched those people. That was all Tinkerton's work.”
I smiled, my voice turning cruel and sarcastic. “When the real cops get finished with you, Doctor, you'll lose your license and you'll probably end up in the slammer, taking care of other people's “personal preferences” for a long, long time.”
“I only did what Tinkerton told me to do,” he cowered. “Don't you know who he is? Who he is working for?”
“Probably for himself, but you're too dumb to see that.”
“No! No, you have it all wrong.”
“Yeah? Well, I'm sure he'll clear it all up at your trial. A stand-up guy like Ralph Tinkerton? He'll step forward and set everything straight, won't he?”
“You cannot touch him, you fool.”
My eyes narrowed. “Watch me.”
“He is protected, him and the sheriff.”
“Really? He can talk about the White House all he wants, but those are your state licenses hanging on the wall, Doctor, and the Ohio Attorney General isn't going to accept his Washington “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Not this time. Even if they do, it won't help you. You have a half dozen bodies to answer for, Doctor. You're the fall guy. Tinkerton and his friends are going to run away from you as fast as their feet can carry them.”
Varner slumped back in his chair, his eyes glazing over as the slow realization caved-in on him. “I did nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing.”
“Then come downtown with me.”
“What? Downtown?” he mumbled, not understanding.
“Yes, downtown, now, to the State Police Headquarters. If you come clean and tell them everything you know, you might be able to save yourself. If you don't, Tinkerton's going to leave you holding the bag, and you know it.”
Varner blinked. “The State Police? Me?”
“You aren't a stupid man, Doctor. It's all unraveling now — the whole thing. That makes you a liability and makes me your only chance to get out of this thing alive.”
I felt a slight draft on the back of my neck. As I turned my head and looked over my shoulder, the office door had swung open and behind me stood Sheriff Virgil Dannmeyer.
“You aren't going anywhere, Doc,” he snarled as his hand swung down at me. It was holding a black leather sap and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It caught me hard on the back of the head.
The lights went out as I heard him say, “Semper Fi, asshole!”