Sweeper #5

Divine Healing

by Lew Stowe

I got a call from Maurice Paulson at the morgue. He sounded concerned.

“Look, Sweep,” he said. “I don't know if this means anything or not. But you told me to let you know when I see something that looks like a pattern.”

“Right,” I said.

“Well, we've had three bodies come in last couple of weeks with roughly the same vague cause of death. All from the territory. All some kind of toxic symptoms. Maybe food poisoning, but I can't pin it down beyond that. Don't really know what to test for. Thing is . . .” He paused.

“Yeah?”

“There might be others. At least four over the past six months, and I recall two or three last year that fit as well. So . . . whatever this is, there could be ten or more over, say, a year and a half. Maybe it's nothing, but I can't be certain. No autopsies on any of them, but I do have blood, stomach and bowel samples on eight.”

“What were the symptoms?”

“This is mainly hearsay from family members, and I'm generalizing, but . . . some numbness of the face and extremities, breathing difficulty, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, muscle aches.”

“Those could fit a lot of different things,” I said.

“Yep--that's the problem. It does sound a lot like food poisoning, possibly bad seafood. But the kill rate is probably too high.”

“Thanks for the info, Mo. Can I get documentation? Examiner's reports, names, whatever you have? Pick it up tomorrow morning?”

“Sure, Sweeper. I'll see that it's ready.”

* * *

The next day was a nice one, and my dog, Snarl, and I ambled through the territory while I swept up rubbish, emptied it into my canvas shoulder bag, then shook it out into the next dumpster. The territory is a crumbling, inner-city area of some twenty blocks that leads the state in crime, poverty and general human misery. Mostly lawless, because the city tries to ignore it, and the police prefer to stay away. It's the worst of the worst. But it's where I live and do my work.

When I got to Spiggot Street , I crossed, left the territory and went east three blocks to Garza's Pharmacy to pick up a prescription for Mrs. Harris, who owned an apartment house in the territory. Garza's was where most people in the area got their medicine. It was in an old stone building with ornate tin ceilings, and I had known the owner, Manuel Garza, for a long time.

His daughter, Maria, was behind the counter. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hi, Sweeper,” she said. “Mrs. Harris' medicine? Got it right here.” She handed me a bag, then nodded toward the enclosed, raised area in the center of the store that was the office. “You might want to say hello to Dad. He's mentioned you a few times recently.”

Manny was glad to see me. He was in his late sixties, portly, gray-haired, and talkative. His wife had died two years before. In addition to being a pharmacist, he was also pastor of a non-denominational group in the territory that called itself the Church of Divine Healing . I was never quite sure how he managed to reconcile the two.

“You're always in too much of a hurry, Sweeper,” he said. “That trash out on the streets will always be there. You need to slow down. The older I get, the more I understand what's important in life: family, good friends, good wine, good conversation. That doesn't cost much. A few bucks for the wine maybe, but the rest is free. Wouldn't you agree, my old friend?”

We talked a while and he told me about trouble with his congregation.

“Lack of faith, Sweeper,” he said sadly. “I can't make my people really appreciate what that is. But it's behind most of the world's problems. I'm a dispenser of medicine, but what is medicine but a failure of faith in God? You understand that, don't you?”

“I understand what you're saying,” I said. “I don't know much about faith.”

“Ah, but Sweeper, faith is like a breath of fresh air in a sewer! A person without faith is a person with a soul like . . . your face.”

My face was burned in a fire years ago, and the scar tissue has made me nightmare ugly. Anyone with a soul resembling my face would be pretty bad off.

I chuckled. “The souls of all your people look like me ?”

“Well, not all, but too many. I try to help them, but it seems hopeless. They profess faith in God until illness strikes, then they crumble and head for the doctor. All they have to do is pray and wait for God. God will act. He will provide.”

“That might put you out of business.”

“No chance of that, Sweeper.” Manny shook his head slowly. “Without faith, God doesn't do anything, and I go on dispensing medicine. Actually, it's Maria who does it now. I hoped she would try the ministry, but her ambition was to be a pharmacist, like me.”

“Is she as good as you always were?”

“Probably better. Certainly prettier.”

“So how much divine healing is your church getting these days?”

“Not enough to mention. No faith, no healing.”

“Are you expecting too much? Remember: render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and to God the things that are God's. You can't mix the religious and the secular. Why not divide up the responsibility? Let the medical profession handle the healing and give the souls to God."

“God is in everything , Sweep. You can't slice Him out of pieces here and there, just because you want to. He doesn't slice very easily, my friend.”

“Then don't try to manipulate Him. He can do His work through medicine and doctors just as well as through anything else.” I stood up. “Well, Manny . . .”

He squeezed my arm affectionately. “Come back some evening around 5:30 and we'll share a bottle of wine and get deeper into this subject. Nothing like good wine. We don't get to talk enough, even if you're not a believer. Okay?”

“Okay, Manny.”

* * *

When I left, I went to the morgue and picked up the material from Maurice. He had it all neatly collected in a manila folder. There were ten reports in all. I took them over to the Pritch Circle Soup Kitchen, found a corner table, and started reading. After a while, I decided to call in Abe Rubenstein to help me.

When he arrived, I spread the ten reports out in front of him.

“What we have,” I said, “are ten people of ages ranging from twenty-two to seventy-five, all deceased, all from the territory, all died with the same general symptoms. Numbness of face and extremities, trouble breathing, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, isolated muscle aches. Some died within a day; others took a little longer. Six Hispanic, two Black, two Caucasian. Nobody, including the medical examiner, is sure if this is something serious, or just unfortunate circumstances.”

“That's it?” Abe said. “No other points of similarity?”

“None that I can see. Unless . . . well, six of the ten were treated at the Wells Medical Clinic prior to the final illness. The free one that opened a couple of years ago. We could talk to them.”

“Place to start,” Abe said.

* * *

Dead end was more like it.

The director of the clinic started out hostile and defensive, wanting to know what our authority was. When we said we didn't have any, he was ready to turn us away. Then Abe pointed out the alternative. The police could come over instead, maybe get a search warrant and completely disrupt operations for a few days. Or we could quietly look through the files, not disrupting anything. Abe is good at pointing out reasons for people to cooperate. He's a former loan shark, but now a soft-spoken Jewish grandfather with impressive powers of persuasion.

The director ended up giving us full access to his files.

The six people on our list went to the clinic with widely varying ailments, mostly minor, but they were different from those on the medical examiner's reports. The later symptoms which preceded death--numbness, breathing difficulty, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, muscle aches--occurred after visits to the clinic. One might figure that something at the clinic had caused them. Except . . . we couldn't find anything.

Two of the six received antibiotic shots at the clinic, but four didn't. Three were given free medicine to take home. We got samples of those. That was it. We couldn't identify anything consistent and walked out shaking our heads.

* * *

Next, we talked to the families of the deceased. They all confirmed the symptoms reported by the medical examiner. Came on suddenly, progressed quickly, ended in death. Nobody had eaten anything unusual. Nobody had eaten any seafood. In all cases, meals had been shared with other family members, and no one else became ill.

Maybe environmental factors? Some of these families lived in crowded semi-squalor, and sanitation was poor. Easy for something infectious to get passed around.

But we weren't able to pin anything down.

“Are we wasting time?” I asked Abe.

“Could be,” he said. “Let's sleep on it and see if we can come up with another approach.”

* * *

That night, I got on the internet and did a search on toxins. Over a million websites were returned, from toxins in general, to household toxins, to marine toxins, to mushroom toxins--and a lot of miscellaneous others. I opened up a few and didn't find much that seemed pertinent. But under marine toxins, the two most prominent were saxitoxin and tetrodotoxin. One description of saxitoxin said that a symptom for people who managed to ingest it was numbness and tingling of the face.

So I did a search on saxitoxin. Some interesting information came up. This toxin was so deadly, it had once been used in suicide pills by covert forces. Saxitoxin was normally associated with shellfish contaminated by certain forms of algae. However, both saxitoxin and tetrodotoxin had been found in puffer fish taken off the coast of Florida near the town of Titusville .

But what really nailed my attention was the detailed list of symptoms: numbness/tingling of the face, arms, hands or legs, weakness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, muscle aches, abdominal pains. Almost identical to the list I already had.

Puffer fish? I figured this was bound to be another false trail. Still, it had to be checked out.

* * *

“Saxitoxin and tetrodotoxin,” I said. “Can you test for those?”

“Marine toxins,” Maurice said.

“Yep.”

“I'll probably have to send out. Don't think we have the equipment here. Take a few days. But why those? Did you find that some of the deceased ate seafood prior to death?”

“No, I didn't, frankly. But the symptoms for those two toxins are just about the same as the ones you gave me. I know it's a long shot, but we should try it. Right?”

“I guess so. I'll let you know.”

* * *

I kept going over my notes and the examiner's reports. Was there anything I had missed? I noticed that two of the people had belonged to the Church of Divine Healing .

We hadn't asked specifically about religion. That was just something that had been volunteered. No information about the religious affiliations of the rest of the ten. Not significant, I decided. Religion had nothing to do with cause of death.

But, of course, it was significant. Everything had to be considered significant until proven insignificant. I needed to go back to the families.

By late afternoon, the information was in my hands. I didn't want to believe it. I certainly didn't want to think about the possible implications. All ten of the deceased had belonged to the Church of Divine Healing .

* * *

“I talked to the doctors at the clinic,” Abe said. “Yes, the six that were treated there were given prescriptions for one thing or another. But they were all different. One was for blood pressure. Two others were antibiotics . A few were sort of placebos, because everybody likes a prescription when they leave. According to one doctor, it makes them feel their complaints are being taken seriously.”

I just stared at him.

“What are you thinking?” Abe asked.

I said: “All ten of the deceased were members of the Church of Divine Healing . Six of those got prescriptions from the clinic. Care to take a guess where those prescriptions were filled?”

“Garza's?”

“My guess, too. These are poor people, with no insurance. Only Garza's extends them credit. And why not get your medicine from your own pastor?”

Abe's eyes widened. “Wow,” he said in a low voice.

I had wondered how Manny reconciled being a pharmacist with being an advocate of divine healing. Now I wondered if he had ever really tried.

* * *

I went to Garza's and talked to Maria.

“Here's a list of ten persons,” I said. “The city wants to know where residents in this area get medical services. Can you tell me if any of these had prescriptions filled here within, say, the past year?”

“Sure, Sweeper. No problem.” She sat down behind her computer and pulled up her list of customers. The computer was one of her innovations. Manny wouldn't have anything to do with it. “Yes, all of these,” she said. “Some fairly recently. They're all from Dad's congregation. But most of these people are now deceased--maybe all. Did you know that?”

“Thought they might be,” I said. “Tell me, does your father still do prescription work--or do you fill them all now?”

“I fill them. Dad doesn't do much of anything anymore. He just sits up there in the office by himself. Well . . . he likes to look over prescriptions for anyone from his church. So I fill them and he takes them to the office and bags them up and staples them shut. I think he sometimes puts notes in the bags.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don't think so, Sweeper. He seems awfully depressed. I know he misses Mom a lot. There may be some guilt involved. Mom died of uterine cancer, and Dad didn't want her to get any medical treatment. He said God would take care of her. She held off as long as possible--and the delay might have been a factor. She didn't have an easy death.”

I shook my head. “Sad,” I said. “One more question. Do you know if your Dad has connections with anyone in Florida who does ocean fishing? A friend of mine was thinking--”

“Sure, he does,” Maria said. “His brother lives down there. Somewhere on the coast. Ask him about his brother.”

I went back to the office and knocked on the door. Manny was sitting at the desk, eyes closed. He sat up with a jerk.

“Why, hello, Sweeper,” he said. “Good to see you again, old friend. But you're supposed to be here at 5:30 so we can drink some wine. This is too early.”

“Too early for me as well,” I said. “I hear you've got a brother in Florida who does a little fishing.”

“Yeah, he does. He's always sending me stuff he catches. Got a place that freezes it for him and packs it in dry ice.”

“Where does your brother live?”

“Town of Mims .”

I knew where that was, because I had seen it on a map the previous night. Mid-eastern coast of Florida , north of Titusville , on the Indian River Lagoon.

“He ever send you any puffer fish?”

“You heard about those things, huh? He sent some a couple of times. Just as a curiosity, though. Those monstrosities are poison. I'd sure never eat any.”

“I wouldn't, either,” I said.

* * *

At 2:35 A.M. , I carefully jimmied a window on the back of Manny's building and got inside. I left Snarl on guard. If anyone came, he'd howl and alert me.

The pharmacy's alarm system covered only the front half of the store, so I got into the office easily. A little brown compact refrigerator was built into a counter near the desk, humming away busily. Inside were soda bottles, half-eaten sandwiches, a couple of partly-empty wine bottles. Back in one corner was a little common pickle-type jar with a screw top. It contained a clear liquid and had a white label with a small red x in the center.

I searched through the desk and found a tiny hypodermic needle in a plastic bag in the lower left drawer.

I took the jar and left. On the way home, I rummaged through a few dumpsters and found a duplicate for the jar. Cleaned it out, sterilized it and filled it with water. Then transferred the label from the first one. Within two hours, I was back at the pharmacy with the new jar. I replaced the hypo with one from the store's own stock.

* * *

Maurice watched as I took the jar out of my canvas shoulder bag, carefully placed it on the table and stepped back.

“What's this?” Maurice asked, bending to examine the liquid inside.

“Death,” I said. “The source of it, actually.”

“Really?”

“I think so. I need you to tell me for sure. But on this one, I'd like you to go a little farther than usual. Take a few guesses at how you think it was made, where it came from. And the concentration. Is that making any sense?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“And one other thing.” I pulled out the hypodermic needle. “See what you can find inside this. And . . .”

“Something else?”

“Here's a strip of tape with two different sets of fingerprints. Have the lab remove all prints from the jar and the hypo and compare them with these two. See if they match.”

Maurice grimaced. “Man, I do more special stuff for you than I do for the police. And you're just a street sweeper.”

“But a very unusual one,” I said.

* * *

Snarl and I were walking down Spiggot Street when a sudden realization hit me like a thunderbolt between the eyes.

Mrs. Harris was a member of the Church of Divine Healing . And I had delivered a prescription to her two days before. From Garza's Pharmacy.

However, she looked plenty healthy when she opened the door to her apartment.

“Why, Sweeper,” she said. “You're all out of breath. You been running, haven't you? What's the matter?”

I told her that the medicine I had given her might be wrong.

“No problem,” she said. “That was just a spare, anyway. I ain't opened it yet.”

After she retrieved the bottle for me, she insisted I sit down and have a cup of coffee. We got to talking about her church. I asked her about Manny.

“I'm worried about him,” she said. “He used to be real nice, but he so mean lately, some people want to replace him as pastor.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, he don't want nobody to use any medicine or see a doctor. I mean, he preach two-hour sermons on that, yelling and screaming until his face all red. He say we don't have any faith. He say faith and prayer all we need. He say we gonna die and go to hell if we don't stop putting that poison in our bodies. Can you imagine? And he's a pharmacist!”

“You don't believe in divine healing?”

She cocked her head at me. “I believe, Sweeper, but I'm a practical woman. I do whatever works. If God don't heal me, I try something else. All I know is without my blood pressure medicine, I'd be dead by now. If God wants to adjust my blood pressure, then I stop using the medicine. Simple as that.”

I patted her hand. “Sounds sensible to me,” I said.

* * *

I finally got the call from Maurice.

“Item one,” he said. “All eight samples I have were full of saxitoxin, with some tetrodotoxin mixed in. More than enough to have killed the eight people. I'd say we've nailed down cause of death for that group.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Item two. The liquid you brought in also contains both toxins, but in a far more concentrated form. Man, there's enough of it to kill a thousand people. It also contains what seems to be fish particles. Like someone cut fish up and cooked it down into a broth, then strained it. Wouldn't be puffer fish, would it?”

“That's a possibility.”

“Item three. The hypodermic needle had traces of the two toxins. And all the fingerprints belonged to the same person. They matched the first set of prints on the tape you gave me. The one you marked with a black asterisk.”

“Okay.”

“Item four. Those capsules you brought in later? They had the toxins, too. Not all the capsules, but most. Looks like a hypo was used. Hard to see with the naked eye, but the hole is clearly visible under a microscope.”

“That's what I thought.”

“The question now is what to do with all these test results.”

“Nothing,” I said.

I heard Maurice sigh. “Nothing? That's it? Do I at least get to know what this is all about?”

“Mo, I'm eternally grateful for your help, and I'll tell you anything you want to know. But, believe me, it's best that you don't. It really is.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. It's sure nice that your projects are so damned interesting. Otherwise I might get tired of working blindfolded.”

“Can't blame you. Mo, I'll probably ask you to destroy those test results. But not just yet. I'll be in touch.”

“Okay, Sweeper. Good luck.”

* * *

I had a long conversation with myself. Action was necessary, but what action?

How could I bring the police into this? Manny would be tried and convicted, probably imprisoned, possibly executed. Devastating to Maria and other family members. And to the families of the victims and to Manny's congregation. With the adverse publicity, Garza's Pharmacy was bound to fail, thereby punishing Maria even further, not to mention residents who really had nowhere else to go.

Manny had somehow stepped over that invisible line between religious fervor and religious fanaticism. And then over another line into madness. He was a terribly sick man, but the media would demonize him. After all, he had killed at least ten people. Manny wasn't a demon.

But he was an old friend.

Never any easy choices. That's always the problem with what I do.

* * *

I watched from across the street as Maria left the pharmacy and walked down the street to her car. The time was 5:35 P.M.

When I entered the store, I locked the door behind me and flipped the sign to Closed. Manny was still in the office. He looked up as I went in.

“Here I am,” I said. “Right on time and ready for some serious conversation.” I reached inside my shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of wine. “And for you, some serious Spanish red to go with it.”

Manny smiled. “Wonderful, old friend. I've been looking forward to this. Maybe we can talk tonight about divine healing. And maybe I can convert you.”

“We'll see.”

He uncorked the wine and pulled out two glasses.

“None for me,” I said. “I don't drink anymore. It's all for you.”

“Too bad, Sweeper. This is a good wine.” He poured and raised his glass, swirling the glowing red liquid around in the light. Then he took a deep swallow. “Ah yes, Sweeper, very good indeed.”

“Manny,” I said, “why did you kill all those people?”

He looked at me, but he didn't seem surprised. “It wasn't me,” he said.

“Who, then?”

“God. God did it through me. He was tired of being ignored and insulted. You may be able to insult God a few times--He will permit that--but not continually. There are limits to God's patience.”

“What were these insults?”

“Medicine. Doctors. Lack of faith. God is a healer, Sweeper. He wants to heal, if people only give him a chance. I warned my congregation over and over again. They just wouldn't listen. If you are sick and you prefer to use the services of man in preference to the gifts of God, what is that but an insult? What but a betrayal? They betrayed me first, then God.”

“So you had to punish them.”

“Not me. God. He told me to challenge them. Give them an illness that would force them to choose: God or death. One or the other, no waffling.”

“And they all chose death?”

“What else? If they had chosen God, they'd still be alive.”

“What about your wife? Did you give her the challenge, too?”

He finished off his glass and poured more wine.

“No,” he said. “But she, too, betrayed God. She gave up too soon. I could see God was testing her. I told her to hang on. But she gave up and went to the doctors. And died. Broke my heart twice: once when she betrayed God, again when she passed away.” Manny gave me a quizzical look over the top of his glass. “You understand, don't you, Sweeper? That I had to do what God told me to do?”

“I understand,” I said.

“When God speaks, you have to listen. After all, if God is with you, who can be against you?” He rubbed his cheek. “This is good wine, Sweeper. It's making my face all tingly.” He drank more of it. “Are you going to tell anyone about me? Like the police?”

“No, I'm not going to tell.”

“Good. Not that it matters. God did it, not me. So how can anyone punish me? I'm beyond punishment. And I can't kill myself. God would never permit that.”

“Oh, yes, He would,” I said, but I wasn't sure if I said it out loud. I may have just thought it.

* * *

If I had to rate this one, I couldn't give it more than a five out a possible ten. Not with all those people dead. And Manny. A case as heartbreaking as any I can remember.

On the positive side, Maria is doing well, and business has been brisk at Garza's Pharmacy. She misses her father, and so do I. He was once a very good man, warm and kind and sympathetic and always a fine conversationalist. A real people person. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

A little too religious, though.

Be with God, old friend.