The Victims Game
Part Five - the Meal
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

About a week later, I was sort of hovering in the doorway of Kerry Weaver's kitchen, watching while she and John Carter puttered around, fixing dinner. Mostly, she fixed and he just puttered. I swear, the poor guy was culinary-challenged. Watching him fumble with the simplest of food preparation tasks, I hesitated to think what he must be like around a trauma case.

Kerry, by contrast, was in her element. You ever look at a seal or sea lion on land, how they're all floppy and ungainly? But put one in the water, and it becomes poetry in motion. Same here. As soon as she set foot in the kitchen, Kerry had shucked the crutch, propping it in a neutral corner, and begun maneuvering effortlessly around the room. Only once or twice did I catch her leaning a hip unobtrusively against a cabinet for support, or steadying herself with a casual hand on a countertop. Plus, she cooked with a Vengeance.

For all his ineptness with food-related items, Carter seemed to have his choreography down pat. He knew exactly when and where to move about the kitchen floor, not merely avoiding collisions with his supervisor-slash-landlady, but actually making it appear as though such collisions were never imminent. The artless ease with which they moved around the kitchen's space together seemed more characteristic of an old married couple. Maybe, I reasoned, it was a reflex born of years hustling around trauma rooms under frantic conditions, while seventeen other people did the same.

For myself, I practiced Fox's First Rule of Cooking: stay out of the way and leave it to people who know what they're doing. I also had to squash an occasional pang of guilt. I had gone behind the back of this woman, who I liked and respected, and now she was cooking me dinner. Yeah, that's fair.

I had spent the last week tracking down the assorted names that Randi had given me. Of the original fifty, thirteen had moved out of town. Nine had died - four of unrelated incidents, the rest of natural causes. Five had proved impossible to locate, as they had given false names and addresses. People do that, sometimes.

I had located and interviewed the remaining twenty-three, but it wasn't easy. Several of them had no fixed abode, but stayed with whomever would put them up. A third of them were homeless, but there are ways to find these folks, too. I won't bore you with the details of how I tracked them all down, but that's an awful lot of what a private investigator does. You spend a good chunk of time locating long-lost relatives, or witnesses needed for civil trials, or runaway husbands or wives or kids...you could go on.

As routine and unexciting as the work was, there were still people who stuck in my memory long after my business with them had been concluded. There always are. For instance:

Theresa Coolidge, a diabetic woman, was obese, by legal definition. She was barely able to leave her apartment, let alone come into the clinic to receive insulin. The clinic had made arrangements to have someone bring the insulin to her, or have it delivered by messenger. While she was greatly appreciative of the clinic's consideration, it was obvious to me that she was resignedly waiting for me to start with the fat jokes, which she considered a sad fact of life, like traffic jams or inflated prices. I didn't make any jokes. You can only do so much to preserve people's dignity.

Leon Ramirez, who was John Carter's age, looked like he was in his late fifties. That's what AIDS in its advanced stages will do to you. He and the young man he lived with didn't know Carol Hathaway by name, but when I told them she was the founder of the clinic, they spoke her name in the same breath with the Blessed Saints.

Hiram Grabscheid received me very politely, and tried to be as helpful as possible. He spoke of the clinic with great respect, but initially declined to sign the consent form. He did not wish to be unhelpful, he explained, but as a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, he doubted his signature would be legally binding. I said he probably had a point, but since neither of us were legal experts, why not sign it and let Walter Montgomery determine whether he could use it or not? Hiram was agreeable to that, but admitted that he was functionally illiterate, and had never learned to read or even write his name. He did, however, make a little 'X' on the signature line, just to be amiable. He even apologized for not getting up when I left, even though it was obvious that he had lost both legs in Vietnam. I thanked him very much for his help and his hospitality, and after I left his tiny apartment, I went ahead and signed his name for him.

There were plenty of others, many of them memorable in their own way, but suffice it to say, I'd found all twenty-three of the clinic's former patients, and interviewed them each briefly. I asked them if they were satisfied with the care they had received, and their answers ranged from 'not bad' to 'a godsend'. The worst opinion I heard was from a sullen, bearded man with rank B.O. named Earl Pruitt, who was indifferent about the clinic, but grudgingly admitted that they did okay by him. I think he was hung over when I talked to him.

Each of the twenty-three people had been willing to sign Walter Montgomery's consent forms, granting him permission to obtain their records from County. I had met with Montgomery yesterday afternoon, at my hotel, handed him the signed forms, and asked him to tell Millicent Carter that my research had uncovered nothing but positive endorsement of the clinic. He thanked me on her behalf, handed me a generous check, and shook my hand, stating that they were very appreciative for my efforts, and that he hoped we could do business again sometime. I wanted to tell him not to hold his breath, but I was too polite. At one point in the conversation, he said 'Just so' again. Weird.

And thus ended another hair-raising adventure for the Fox. Except, of course, for dinner at Kerry Weaver's.

Kerry was putting the finishing touches on something that smelled just heavenly, all the while talking excitedly about some sort of medical case she had come across the other day. Some kind of unusual syndrome that would make a terrific subject for an article she wanted to write. I didn't understand a word of what she was talking about, but I enjoyed listening to the enthusiasm in her voice. Carter listened with almost as much excitement, occasionally interjecting a medical question, which she answered with gusto. Between cooking and talking, Kerry Weaver was clearly having a terrific time. She was practically glowing.

When it seemed like the topic had wound down, I said, "So, what are we having tonight?"

"Chef's Specialty: Chicken a la Weaver," she said, with a smile. "I'm sorry, Daniel, I didn't mean to exclude you from the conversation with all that shop talk."

"Don't worry about it. When people do that, I just translate it all into baseball talk in my head, and it sounds like it was hell of a game."

They laughed at that, and began getting out plates and silverware. I insisted on setting the table, to be useful.

When we were seated, Kerry served us each chicken, with salad and home-baked biscuits. She said, "Daniel, I hope you like this. I made a point of keeping everything low-fat, since I noticed you had put on a few pounds."

"Now wait, I have not been putting on that much weight," I protested.

"Oh really? Have you looked in a mirror lately?" There was a set to her eyebrows that made me wonder if this was some kind of mind game she was playing with me.

I glanced at Carter, to see if I could tell anything from his expression, but he was gazing at the salad with concern. "Kerry," he said, "are these those same peppers as last time?"

"Yes, John, they are," she replied, "Why do you ask?" There was a definite hint of amusement in her eye.

Rather than answer her, Carter got up from the table, went into the kitchen, and returned with a large glass of water, which he placed in front of me, saying, "Let's go easy on our guest, shall we?"

I plucked one of the peppers, a shriveled, satanic-red little thing, out of the salad, saying, "I'm supposed to be worried about these, I gather?"

"Danny, if you knew where she got those things from-"

"Please, Carter, I ate from the Air Force chow line for four years. I once slammed down three Pinks Chili Dogs in a row."

"That would explain the extra weight," Kerry put in, slyly.

"Now, that's hitting below the belt," I said, "Or right around it, anyway."

"Look, I'm just giving you fair warning..." Carter said.

I popped the pepper in my mouth and bit down, giving them the John Belushi, 'hey, no problem' look.

John Carter and Kerry Weaver put down their utensils and watched me silently.

My expression didn't change.

Carter checked his watch and started mumbling, "One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand..."

About the time he got to "four one thousand", a canister of napalm went off in my mouth. I whooped and sucked air and bulged my eyes out and grabbed the water glass and chugged it and spluttered and managed to gasp out, "Jesus, Kerry, are you trying to kill me, here?!"

Kerry Weaver placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. "I made you a promise once, remember?" she said, with icy calm.

I looked back at her, a tiny thread of fear coming over me.

She held it for a long, long moment before allowing a smile to creep onto her face. Carter had already begun grinning like a maniac. They exchanged a mock-solemn high-five.

I threw up my hands with a smile. "Okay, you got me! I surrender!"

Kerry's voice dropped an octave. "Daniel, I haven't even begun to get you for that 'birthday' episode. Think of this as Weaver's Revenge, stage one."

"I'd be concerned if I were you, Danny," Carter added, "The ER is a breeding ground of bizarre ideas for her."

"Thank God I'm headed back to LA tomorrow, then," I said, and we managed to laugh it off.

The rest of the meal passed pretty smoothly. Perhaps to make up for the earlier medi-babble, Kerry asked me about my job, and I told them a few tales. In an effort to build up good karma, and stave off future stages of Weaver's Revenge, I told them the true versions, rather than the stuff I had fed Malik McGrath.

At one point, after I had mentioned Richard Wintergreen's limited activity, Kerry asked me, "Have you ever thought about expanding your agency?"

"What, you mean like hiring more investigators and becoming a real business?"

She nodded.

"Perish forbid," I said, "Then I'd have to manage staff and file paperwork and all that stuff. Who wants to deal with-"

I broke off at the glare she was giving me.

"Actually," I admitted, "I've occasionally thought about hiring a secretary or receptionist or something, but I don't know anything about hiring people. I'd probably end up with someone like that girl Lucy."

Carter's head came up. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, she's this character on that David Kelley show, 'The Practice'. She's hyperactive, opinionated, never knows when to shut up...you probably know the type."

"As a matter of fact, I-"

"Let it pass, John," Kerry warned him.

"Anyway, it's just more than I want to deal with," I said. "It's all I can do to manage myself, let alone anyone else."

"How does Richard feel about this?" Kerry asked me.

That was a good question. "I don't know," I admitted, "We've never really talked about it."

"Perhaps you should," she said, "It sounds like he's not going to continue working much longer, and you should probably consider what direction the agency's going to take in the future. Sometimes a business has to grow and develop, or it dies."

"Well, to be honest, Kerry, I've been giving serious thought of late as to whether I even want to keep doing this job any more, myself."

"You're kidding," she said, genuinely surprised, "I thought you loved being a detective."

"I do, or did, but lately it's seemed like the reasons I got into it have been forgotten. I got into the business to try to help people, do some good, but all I'm doing is messing around in other people's business." As an example, I told them about Councilman Bob and how I had tailed his wife, Patricia, and caught her on video with her female lover. I didn't give their real names.

"So, this guy didn't really care that his wife was cheating on him?" Carter asked me, a touch confused, "He just wanted to blackmail her into not divorcing him?"

"Right. Her family had all the money, and it would have looked bad in his political circles if she'd left him."

"I don't quite understand what advantage this tape would give the Councilman," Kerry said, "Preferring a member of your own sex is hardly the unmentionable subject it once was. If Patricia didn't really love her husband, why wouldn't she just leave him?"

"I'd have had a lot more respect for her if she did," I said, "but to lose her place in the upper-crust world of political phonies and their trophy families would be a fate worse than death in her eyes. You're right, if she just owned up to her sexual identity, Bob wouldn't have any leverage over her. But she'd be ruining her social standing, which is just anathema to her."

"Sounds like they should have hired a marriage counselor instead of a detective," Carter said.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"So what did you do with the videotape?" asked Kerry.

I shrugged. "Gave it to Bob, like I was paid to do."

"I see." She didn't elaborate, but the set of her shoulders clearly stated that she disapproved.

I said as much, adding, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Kerry..."

She set down her fork. "I realize you were just living up to your contract," she said, "and I know I have no business saying this, but...I just have a problem with what you did to her. I know, it's all part of your job, but in giving the Councilman that tape, and knowing how Patricia felt about it, you're effectively limiting her to two options: live a lie, or come out of the closet, like it or not.

I said, "Isn't that pretty much the choice that all gay people have?"

"Yes, but before the tape, the choice was entirely hers to make. Now, it's her husband who decides which it's going to be. You've forced the issue upon her, perhaps before she was ready to make her choice, and you've put her entirely under the thumb of a husband who doesn't love or respect her. Don't you feel bad about that?"

"Hang on, Kerry, there's more to this story," I assured her. "Before I gave Bob the tape, I followed-"

Kerry's pager went off, interrupting me. She excused herself to use the phone in the kitchen, leaving Carter and me at the table.

I said to him, "I'll finish when she comes back. She's appreciate how it turns out."

"Don't worry about it," Carter said, "You know how outspoken she can be. So, what have you been doing for Walter, if you can talk about it?"

I figured it couldn't do any harm to tell Carter about the job, provided I left out Randi Fronczak's contribution. "Actually, he was pretty much a go-between for the real client. A relative of yours, I believe. Millicent Carter?"

"Oh, really?" We could hear Kerry speaking quietly on the phone in the background.

"Yeah. What is she, anyhow, your stepmother? Aunt?"

He laughed, saying, "Oh, Gamma would love to hear you ask that! No, she's my grandmother."

Something in my stomach suddenly didn't sit right at all, and it wasn't Weaver's Revenge, stage one. "Say that again? Millicent Carter is your GRANDmother?"

He spread his hands. "Is that such a big surprise?"

I looked carefully at him, picturing the woman I'd met in the mansion library. I didn't see any great resemblance between them. Besides, young though John Carter was, he'd have to be the product of two generations' worth of teenage pregnancies to be the grandson of the woman I had spoken with.

I described the woman to Carter, remembering abruptly how the lighting had been very dim in the library. But still... "Does that sound like her?"

He shook his head, clearly puzzled. "I don't know who it was you talked to, Danny, but..." He trailed off, his attention suddenly diverted. I was distracted at the same time, and by the same thing.

Kerry Weaver's voice had risen as she spoke, an alarming tension entering her tone. We could clearly hear her, now. "Mark, you know that's not possible! What sort of evidence are we talking about, here?"

I got up and went to the kitchen doorway, with one of those gut feelings that tell you that the world is about to start coming apart at the seams.

"Oh, Jesus, tell me you're not serious," Kerry was saying, stricken. "No, calm down, I know you're just telling me what you've been told. I understand that. But you and I both know-- My God... No, tell Romano I'm coming in. I'll be there in minutes."

Kerry hung up, spinning to push past me, and headed for the door. Her crutch thudded more heavily against the floor as she committed more of her weight to it in exchange for speed. She scooped up her keys and purse, snagging her coat from the closet without pausing, and headed for the door.

"Kerry, what the hell is going on?" I asked, pursuing her. Carter was right behind me.

"I don't know yet!" she shot back, her eyes fixed forward as she descended her porch steps and beelined for her car, "But I have to get there now, and try to get a handle on this situation before it explodes."

"What situation?" Carter and I were right beside her, though I hadn't bothered with my jacket.

She opened the car door, and looked at us. "They could shut us down," she snapped, and climbed in. Clearly, that was as much explanation as we were going to get at the moment.

Carter and I barely made it into the car with her before she floored it and launched towards County General, driving like Robocop out for blood.

Dinner had been lovely. Next time, my place.



"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid