Q. This left how many people in Los Angeles County who measured up to his particular requirements?
A. Two hundred and fifty. Perhaps less.
Q. Did Dr. Everett comment on this figure?
A. No. No. He merely said one thing. “The coincidence is striking.”
Extract From the Statement of Harold Flinn, M.D.
My name is Harry Flinn. I’m a doctor of Internal Medicine at St. Robert’s Hospital. I’ve known Charlie Everett for . . . say seven, eight years. We were at medical school together and I used to see him afterwards from time to time until he went over to Los Angeles General. I guess we’re friends, friends in the way people are who like each other but can’t spend five minutes together without some kind of hassle. We rub each other the wrong way, but I wouldn’t like to get up in the morning and know that Charlie wasn’t around. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Then one afternoon, I’m taking a swim in the hydrotherapy pool at the hospital—I do it every afternoon when I’m free, just to keep in shape, relax—I’m taking this swim and I break water and I hear this voice say, “Harry, tell me about Anton Polanski.” I shake the water from my eyes and there he is, my friend the heart surgeon. None of this hello, how are you, how’s the wife, how’s the kids—not Charlie Everett. Just, “Tell me about Anton Polanski.” So I climbed out of the pool, got myself a towel and dried off. Meanwhile, of course, we were talking.
I said to Charlie, “What do you want to know?” and he said, “You were Polanski’s doctor. Tell me—everything.” I said, “Official or unofficial?” and he said unofficial, so I told him. In a way, Tony Polanski was a referral of mine. I treated him and kept on treating him from the time he collapsed until the accident. I told Charlie that Polanski would never have walked again, that the end of his spine was like a piece of frayed rope. Charlie wanted to know about his mental condition. I said not bad, considering he was a terminal case. I knew that would shake him.
“For a spinal deterioration?” Charlie asked. “No, Hodgkins’ Disease,” I said. “That was the feature attraction. The tests picked it up a couple of months back. He had, maybe, six months to live.” Charlie just whistled. Then he asked if anyone knew. Well there was no one, not a soul. Tony thought that, coming on top of the spine, it would kill his mother to find out. So I kept my mouth shut. “Are you sure no one knew?” Charlie asked me. I told him we could check the records if he liked. So I got dressed and we went down to the record room and hauled them out.
I didn’t know what he was looking for and I knew Charlie well enough to know he wasn’t about to tell me. He just studied those records as if he was back in school cramming for an exam. And there was plenty to study. I may not be the best in the business but one thing I’ll say for myself, I’m thorough. Everything was there—the disease, symptoms, the spinal deterioration, X-rays, basal, blood type, hematological tests, the works. Charlie went through it all.
Finally he asked me who had access to these records. “Well, for one, Charlie,” I said, “the people at your shop. We sent a copy of those records over to Los Angeles General two months ago.” I thought he’d go through the roof. “What for, for God’s sake?” he wanted to know. “Ask your own people, Charlie,” I said. “Ask your own people.”
Continued Extract From the Statement of Leonard Piper, M.D.
Q. Dr. Piper, you are an immunologist at Los Angeles General Hospital?
A. Yes.
Q. And included in your duties is blood research for the transplant team?
A. Yes.
Q. Can you explain this last duty?
A. Certainly. As you no doubt realize, the science of heart transplant surgery is still in its, well, its Wright Brothers-Kitty Hawk stage. There are contingencies and possibilities and obstacles we haven’t dreamed of yet. One of the things that Dr. Geiger has insisted that this hospital do is record all known contingencies on our computer. I personally am constantly running tests on every rejection contingency on every possible blood type.
Q. Including A-negative, subgroup B?
A. Yes.
Q. Dr. Piper, do you remember the afternoon that Dr. Everett came to you and asked to see this set of contingency reports?
A. I do. We had computer data available on only one test, one specimen. I pulled the card and showed him the name of the subject.
Q. Who was Anton Polanski?
A. That’s right. At the time I’d computerized the information, several months ago, there was no reason for me to take any particular notice of the name—I was merely recording a test. But now I was surprised.
Q. Was Dr. Everett surprised?
A. No. I had the impression he was merely confirming something he already knew. And he didn’t seem at all happy about it. He asked me how we got hold of the specimen—I don’t mean the actual blood sample, we didn’t have that, I mean the profile, the data on Polanski which showed him to be an AB-negative type. I told him it came from St. Robert’s Hospital, two months ago. We’d put out a call, an inquiry concerning AB-negative. I did the test, put it on the machine, and then filed the records away. Dr. Everett wanted to see the records. I showed them to him, we had a complete case history from St. Robert’s.
Q. Did Dr. Everett request any further information?
A. Yes, he did. He wanted to know who would have access to these records. I told him what he already knew—the heart transplant team had access. “Anyone else?” he said. “Could anyone else get permission to see them?” I told him no, this was privileged information. The only other person who’d be allowed to see them, of course, would be the hospital administrator. That’s Mr. De Toledano.
Continued Extract From the Statement of Melvin De Toledano
. . . Of course I was willing to see Dr. Everett that day. He was, after all, the hero of the hour you might say, and, well, let bygones be bygones. He was quite brusque. He wanted to know what I was doing with the records of Anton Polanski. Not our own admissions records, but those which had been sent to us several months ago by his physician at St. Robert’s Hospital. I really had to refresh my memory before I realized what he was talking about. And then I had to explain to him, as one would explain to a child, how a hospital is run. You see, charitable foundations don’t just give money away on request, without investigation. One applies and the foundation evaluates. This is how we received our five million dollar grant from the Todd Medical Foundation. Our application was made on the basis of our transplant work. Other hospitals are involved with heart transplants, but no other hospital is as far advanced as Los Angeles General in its contingency work. I reminded Dr. Everett that the Todd Foundation paid for our cardiology wing. And that, as a part of our responsibility, as evidence of our activities, we continued to send the Todd Foundation complete documentation of our work in this field. Records of surgery, records of all research, including tests, went to them on a regular monthly basis. I explained this to Dr. Everett. He just stared at me blankly. Then he asked me who the head of the foundation was. I told him Mr. Crosby McCullen was the chairman and Dr. Mantle the operating director.
Q. What did he say?
A. He just shook his head. And then he started to laugh. I must say I found his attitude most annoying.
Continued Excerpt From, the Diary of Natalie Everett
Under Dateline December 5
. . . “We fingered him,” Charlie said. “We fingered him, every single one of us involved in this business. Scientists pushing back the frontiers of human existence, that’s the way we like to think of ourselves, and in the end we’re all accessories. Tony Polanski was a dead man from the moment of the first successful transplant. A ten-thousand-to-one shot, and Todd found a way to load the dice.”
He must have realized from the look on my face that he wasn’t getting through to me because he stopped. “You asked me a question the other night,” he said. “Why Tony Polanski? I suppose I’ve been asking myself the same question all along, only in different ways. I asked it in one way from the moment I heard Todd wa
s flying out here. Why here, for God’s sake? A man back East, dying, in immediate need of transplant surgery. With good men, good teams near at hand—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Johns Hopkins—why risk a three thousand mile flight when there wasn’t even a donor waiting? Only there was a donor waiting. We didn’t know it, nobody knew it. Nobody but Hollis Todd. That’s why Tony Polanski. I found out.”
Then he told me what he’d learned from the people he’d been seeing. That Tony Polanski had an incurable condition, and his doctor sent a report of his blood type to L.A. General and L.A. General sent the information along to the Todd Medical Foundation. So Todd knew there was someone out here, someone who could match his rare blood type when he needed it.
“Only Polanski wasn’t dead yet,” Charlie said. “And when the crisis came, he had to die if Hollis Todd was going to live. So it was just a question of how to set it up. And that’s where Sandoz came in.”
The way Charlie explained it, it really sounded wild. Sandoz was a professional killer—like the ones you hear about, working for the Syndicate. Somebody “puts out a contract,” as they call it, and they do the job. It sounded wild, but the more he talked about it, the more sense it made.
Charlie figured it was all set up in advance. The Sandozes were already here, waiting—maybe they did come from St. Louis, but it could be anywhere because people like that have fake names, identification, credit cards, everything they need. And they located Tony Polanski and set up a watch on him. They learned his habits so they could make their plans accordingly. The important thing was that it had to look like an accident. By the time they got the word to go ahead they were all prepared to act on a moment’s notice.
Charlie says it must have been Elsie, Mrs. Sandoz, who went up to the top of the hill and talked to Tony Polanski when he came out to go to the tavern that night. They knew his schedule and she and her husband had everything timed to the split second. She choked Polanski with her scarf and pushed the wheelchair down with the brakes released. Her husband was waiting below in the car, ready to drive past that intersection at just the right moment. But after Polanski crashed into the car he was still conscious. Sandoz got out and that’s how he got his hand bitten, when he started to hit Polanski with the brake handle from the wheelchair. In the end, Sandoz did hit him and then his wife phoned the police. All the police found was two innocent tourists with an accident victim.
“They got away with it,” Charlie said. “It was a clean job. A clean, dirty job. Hollis Todd and his wonderful foundation. De Toledano and his eager-beaver cooperation, feeding in the information. And the Sandozes. A real triple play—Tinkers to Evers to Chance. Only there was no chance involved. It was deliberate, outright murder.”
Just hearing it made me feel sick. Whether it’s true or not, the idea itself is horrible. And I told Charlie even if it is true there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t prove it. The Sandozes are gone. Certainly he isn’t going to get anywhere trying to accuse Mr. Todd, not without evidence—real evidence, the kind the police would believe.
“That’s the hell of it,” Charlie said. “I don’t have anything like that. But how can I live with myself unless I do something about this thing?”
Well, I did my best to answer him. I told Charlie it’s never all that simple, never just a question of all black or all white. Hollis Todd is a rich man, but not all rich men are villains. Even if he’d planned it the way Charlie thought, the foundation was still an instrument for good as well as evil. De Toledano probably didn’t know a thing about it, he just followed orders and supplied all sorts of information on request—sure, he played up to Todd, he was after money, but it was for the hospital, not himself. Even the Sandozes might have their other side.
I don’t know what all I said, I went on for quite a long time, but in the end I calmed him down. That’s what I wanted to do. I couldn’t bear seeing him like this, blaming himself for something he wasn’t responsible for when he was only trying to help. At least I think I got him around to seeing he wasn’t an accessory, as he called it. I hope so, anyway. And I made him promise me one thing, that he wouldn’t do anything foolish.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie said. “We both agree on that. There’s nothing I can do. But if I live to be a thousand—”
I told him he wouldn’t live to be more than five hundred unless he got some rest. And just to make sure of it, I made him take a sleeping pill. He was exhausted anyway, or it probably wouldn’t have worked, but it did.
Mine didn’t. I still feel sick. Sick because of what he told me, and sick for Charlie too. When I think of how it was only a few weeks ago, me believing I wouldn’t be writing this diary anymore, I feel a little sick about myself, too. But there’s nothing anyone can do. Nothing at all.
Continued Extract From the Statement of Melvin De Toledano
. . . When Dr. Mantle spoke to me about the possibility of Mr. Todd leaving the hospital I was, I must admit, somewhat disturbed. My rather unpleasant interview with Dr. Everett was still fresh in my memory and I wondered if he was in some way responsible for Mr. Todd’s desire to leave.
Q. And was he?
A. Apparently not. From what Dr. Mantle said I gathered it was not a question of any dissatisfaction with hospital procedure or personnel. In fact Mr. Todd had expressed himself as being more than pleased with our service and facilities. But because of the rapid progress of his convalescence he was hopeful it might be possible for him to return home for the Christmas holidays.
Q. What did you tell Dr. Mantle?
A. I said that I could understand Mr. Todd’s natural desire to terminate his stay with us, but that any request for a discharge must be made directly to Dr. Geiger. Since he was handling the case personally, such a decision would be his responsibility. This is, of course, standard procedure.
Q. Dr. Mantle was not aware of this?
A. He was, he was. But there seemed to be a certain—lack of communication, shall we say, between Dr. Geiger and Dr. Mantle. Not friction, I most certainly do not suggest or imply that, because Dr. Mantle had been most cooperative in every respect. He had stepped aside most willingly and allowed Dr. Geiger to assume complete charge. Inasmuch as Dr. Mantle was Mr. Todd’s personal physician, I regard this as a laudable gesture in placing professional ethics above pride. Unfortunately, there was no great reciprocity on Dr. Geiger’s part. To be frank about it, in Dr. Mantle’s own words, Geiger never even gave him the time of day. So before making a request for discharge, Dr. Mantle wanted some assurance of cooperation on my part.
Q. He wanted you to back him up?
A. Exactly.
Q. You gave him this assurance?
A. Yes. I promised to impress upon Dr. Geiger, to the best of my ability, that it was important for Mr. Todd to resume the conduct of urgent business affairs. On a limited basis, of course, and subject to whatever medical supervision Dr. Geiger might indicate—a private nursing staff and so forth. Actually, in view of the circumstances I felt it highly advisable for Mr. Todd to leave as soon as he might safely do so. After my conversation with Dr. Everett I wished to prevent any further incidents of a similar nature. I felt it my duty to inform Dr. Mantle accordingly.
Q. You told him what Dr. Everett had said?
A. In substance, yes. As I say, I felt it was my duty.
Continued Extract From the Statement of George Mantle, M.D.
Q. Dr. Mantle, what was your reaction to what Mr. De Toledano told you about Dr. Everett’s conversation?
A. I was concerned. Greatly concerned. Despite our personal differences, I entertained the utmost respect for Dr. Everett’s professional capabilities as a surgeon, and I felt that he was going completely overboard. This disturbed me. And I was also concerned for Mr. Todd.
Q. In what way?
A. As Mr. Todd’s physician I realized the importance of his peace of mind—particularly during convalescence, when the interrelationship between physical and mental well-being must be maintained at all costs. I consid
ered it my duty to shield my patient from this undignified and embarrassing situation.
Q. You are saying you did not report this matter to Mr. Todd?
A. That is precisely what I am saying.
Q. Did you report it to anyone else?
A. Only to insure that my patient be protected from possible annoyance. I emphasized how important this was, just as I have explained it to you. That was my sole reason for mentioning the affair.
Q. To whom?
A. Crosby McCullen.
Q. What were his feelings in the matter?
A. He agreed my position was perfectly justified and that Mr. Todd should not be subject to any disturbance on the part of Dr. Everett. He thanked me for informing him and said he would speak to Dr. Geiger immediately about making arrangements to leave the hospital.
Q. Was there any further discussion?
A. No. That is, not directly. I might add that I did express my concern for what I felt was an indication of Dr. Everett’s, ah, mental instability. I wondered whether or not it might be advisable for Crosby to make some tactful reference to this when speaking to Dr. Geiger, in the event he was unaware of the situation.
Q. Did Mr. McCullen agree?
A. No, he did not. He said he felt it would be unethical. The important thing, he said, was to prepare for our departure. “Everett’s not your problem,” he told me. “You have only one person to concern yourself with, and that’s Hollis Todd. He’s your patient. Let’s get busy and see how soon we can put this show back on the road.”
Continued Extract From the Statement of Eva Veillier
. . . December seventh, Pearl Harbor Day. A time of painful memories, but for me an occasion of rejoicing. I cried, yes, but because I was happy. Because Hollis told me he was going home.