A Byzantine Case

CHAPTER 1

Alexei Kostadelos never believed in the medical profession. Except for the mending of a broken arm at the age of 40 he had avoided that crowd of entrepreneurial crooks and shamans for all of his 86 years. But much to his chagrin he was currently sitting on the top of a crappy piece of off-white paper which covered an examination table in a closet-like room. Then there was this primary care physician who had been recommended to him by his Greek Orthodox priest, Father Benjamin, with whom he had a close relationship by Alexei’s standards of closeness at any rate. He knew that Benjamin would consider their relationship to be nothing more than a slight acquaintanceship.

The doctor, a first generation Greek-American, knocked at the closed door and entered unbidden, before Alexei could respond. Alexei wondered why he knocked if he was going to barge in anyway. The doctor said brusquely, Mr. Kostadelos, nice to meet you. I’m Nick Mantos. He extended his hand to meet Alexei’s and with two quick bursts, he separated his hand while he sat down to gaze at a chart his nurse had dutifully filled out minutes before. That was another story.

As Mantos studied the chart Alexei noticed that his head moved slightly several times. They were miniscule shakes but Alexei picked up on them. He was always proud of his abilities to catch the supposed imperceptible. Mantos, in the fortyish age range, said, Mr. Kostadelos, I take it either to be that you are having a senior moment or that you don’t think much of doctors. You went to an orthopedic surgeon 46 years ago for a broken arm. Are you serious when you say that’s your only contact with my profession? Now much more apparent, Mantos shook his head a few times. Then he said, I’ve been at this for 13 years. You’re the first patient I’ve ever met who went as long as you did. Amazing. Well, you must be doing something right. But now that we have you, let me tell you a few things. Your blood pressure is good. 130 over 87. Some would consider that slightly elevated. I don’t. Pulse is 64, no problem there. Temp, normal; weight, right on target. Do you wear glasses?

Only at night, only to read and only when I’m really tired.

I wish we could bottle you, we’d make a lot of money, Mantos said with a slight smile. The sheet says that you’re having discomfort in your lower back. Some nausea too. Tell me about this.

Stabbing pain, not always, sometimes. But when it comes, I have to get by myself and sit it out doubled-over.

How many times has this occurred?

It’s averaging about twice a day.

When was the first attack?

About six weeks ago.

How long does each event take?

Five to fifteen minutes.

How is everything else for you? Other ailments? Problems?

No, Alexei said sharply. He was here for a specific problem. He didn’t need these fortune diggers in his life.

I’m going to ask you to lie on your stomach and loosen your belt. Do you need help? Mantos arose.

Kostadelos shot him a warning look. He wasn’t in a nursing home for Christ’s sake.

Mantos said, Let me know what you feel when I touch spots. Mantos started to press along his lower back and slowly extended his touch to the area that Kostadelos had feared.

Ugh! Kostadelos muttered unwillingly. There. Mantos went at it again, but this time Kostadelos didn’t mutter. He said, You’re on it, you’re on it!

I need to do this a few more times, you okay with that? I see that it hurts a lot. I need you to tell me what you’re feeling.

Do what you have to do, I’ll do my part, Kostadelos said disdainfully. Mantos did so, it hurt, and Kostadelos made the pertinent pain noises.

Mantos straightened up while saying, Sit up please. I need to look into your eyes for a minute. He looked closely into Alexei’s eyes. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You can pull up a seat if you find the table uncomfortable. He left.

Kostadelos eyed a small chair to his left and sat in it. He didn’t like what he sensed in the doctor. Some ominous animal in his back had been awakened by the doctor. When the doctor had pushed on it, the animal came roaring through his hands.

Mantos came back with a piece of paper in his right hand. He sat on the edge of the examining table and peered down toward him. Mr. Kostadelos, I’m going to be level with you. I don’t like what I felt. I want you to go to a radiologist this afternoon. He smiled, He’s a Greek too. Father Benjamin had called me about you. I don’t think I was supposed to tell you this, but he did. Because of that, you’re getting first class treatment. But I am concerned. Time could be critical here. Can you make it to Davenport this afternoon at three?

Alexei, forever the fatalist, was convinced that he had just heard the beginnings of a death chant. He said, Of course I can and I will. Thank you for your concern. He took the slip of paper from Mantos’ extended hand and stood. Mantos patted his arm and looked silently on as Kostadelos departed.

Mantos went into his office, closed the door and called his friend Michael Christopoulos, a Davenport radiologist.

Michael answered immediately. Mantos explained the situation. Thanks on this Michael. It’s got to be pancreatic. Not just the back area, his eyes – scary yellow. He’s 86. Tough buzzard. Father Benjamin said that he has nobody. He’s kind of a mystery man but he’s one of ours.

We’ll run the tests. I’ll give it priority. But if you’re right, at his age, it’s goddam hopeless and it’ll be quick.

Yeah. But it’s a Father Benjamin thing. I owe him so much that I’m defenseless when he asks a favor.

Tell me about it. Anything else?

Keep me in the loop.

Hey friend, it’s all coming back to you. You’re the point man, I’m just the bearer of the news. Michael disconnected.

Father Benjamin, he answered in his ever so soft voice.

Father, this is Nick Mantos.

Ah, yes, Nick. Everything okay?

Yes. Well, I don’t know. This man Kostadelos came in this morning.

Oh, yes. How did that go?

I have sent him to Michael Christopoulos in Davenport for a radiological study. Frankly, I think he’s in big trouble but we’ll have to see on the tests. If I’m right, he won’t be around for long.

Oh, he paused. I’m sorry. When will you know for sure?

It’s in Michael’s hands. He’ll see him this afternoon. A few days maximum. I think it’s pancreatic cancer but that’s between you and me. If it is and given his age, it might be over in 30 days or less.

Benjamin said nothing for about 20 seconds. Then he said, Nick, I thank you for all of your help on this. The matter is now in God’s hands. I’ll be here to help him. He’s a very difficult man. He belongs in another era, I mean by this a medieval era. In a way, it’s a miracle that he made it into the 21st century. If ever there was an argument for the transmigration of souls, the Pythagorean concept that we keep coming back into new bodies, he would be my first exhibit. He seems to have lived many lives. If you would be kind enough, please keep me informed of things. I don’t want this man to be alone at the end.

Of course, Father.

Alexei arrived back in his apartment in downtown Moline, Illinois, at 4:45 p.m. It was a long day topped off by a traffic delay on the I-74 bridge which spanned the Mississippi River between Bettendorf, Iowa, and Moline, Illinois. The Quad City area, composed of Bettendorf and Davenport in Iowa and Moline and Rock Island in Illinois, needed one more bridge; it would never happen.

In Greece it would be 12:45 a.m. He knew in his heart that he would soon have to call there to make some arrangements.

CHAPTER 2

Bertrand McAbee sat in his office in downtown Davenport. He was gazing out at the Mississippi River which was churning its way westward in the never-ending Iowa February. Two days ago he had experienced a near-death at the hands of an ex-Marine sniper who had worked feverishly over a span of 14 years to murder people who were offensive to him. The experience had so shaken McAbee that he was wavering about whether to remain in the private investigation business. The words of his antique dealer brother, John, echoed in his head, Why the hell are you in that goofy business anyway? One demented brother is enough, an unsubtle slap at still another brother, Bill, who was into the game of investigation in a big league way.

Pat, his assistant, manager, aide, and whatever, came to his open door and said, Are you aware of a man by the name of Kostadelos?

Yes, why?

When I went to lunch, I left the answering machine on. There was a message from a man who identified himself as a Greek Orthodox priest, Father Benjamin. He asked that you return his call because he wanted to speak to you about this Kostadelos. He said that the name would be familiar to you.

Bertrand sat down. He had a bad feeling about this call. Alexei Kostadelos was at least 80 years old and calls from priests about him did not portend good news. But before dealing with the situation he decided to rib Pat whom he knew was fazed by and suspicious of any religion that had priests and vestments and odd rituals. Greek Orthodox would fill the bill. How did the priest sound? he asked nonchalantly.

I don’t know. Soft spoken. Maybe a little weird, she answered in her terse manner.

Weird?

Well you know, he’s a priest. Aren’t they the ones with the beards? He kind of mumbled like he was saying a prayer. But his English was good.

Be careful Pat. Some of those characters trade in curses and hexes.

What? I didn’t even speak with him for God’s sake. I’m just delivering a message. Don’t get me mixed up in that Catholic stuff. I don’t want anything to do with it.

There is a bad history between Roman Catholics and their Orthodox colleagues. Father Benjamin would not take kindly to being referred to as a Catholic. I think that he’d lay a deadly curse on you if he heard about your associating him with the Romans, he looked at her seriously.

She backed away from the door and moved toward the receptionist area. Bertrand, don’t you mess around with me. I don’t want anything to do with these types, Romans, Orthodox, the rest. They’re into hocus pocus. Not my cup of tea.

Okay, but be careful if he calls back. Your distrust might show through.

Now she came back into Bertrand’s office and laid down a post-it on his desk. That’s the number and keep me out of it, please, she looked at Bertrand and saw the slight smile on his face. Ha-ha. Not so funny. But you got me good. And it’s nice to see a smile on your face again even if it got there by a low-down trick.

Sorry. I couldn’t help myself, Bertrand said in the midst of a chuckle.

That’s not a defense, as you well know, she smiled and left for her desk.

Now it was back to this Father Benjamin whom Bertrand did not know but felt obligated to call because of the mention of Alexei Kostadelos.

He punched in the number, the phone rang twice and was answered in a low and mild voice, Father Benjamin.

Father, this is Bertrand McAbee. You called a little bit ago.

Yes, yes. Please hold for a minute, I need to close my door. Some seconds later he came back to the phone and said, Thank you for calling me back.

Sure, McAbee said.

As I mentioned on your message machine, I am calling about Alexei. You must know him well?

We go back a bit, Bertrand said circumspectly.

I will get to the point with you. Alexei is dying. He has pancreatic cancer and the prognosis is hopelessly bad. He may be dead within the week. He has refused all experimental treatments and he might soon be in hospice. He stopped.

Bertrand shook his head. More bad news. He recalled the Chinese piece of irony, ‘May you live in interesting times.’ How about an interesting week. The only thing that did not surprise him in what Benjamin said was that Alexei refused experimental treatment. He pictured Alexei burning a stare through some oncologist’s head when propositioned to be a tryout for some new drug concoction. I’m very sorry, Father. I haven’t heard from or seen Alexei in probably two years. Which hospital is he in?

A good question sir. I must emphasize what I’m going to say to you. He pleaded with me to ask you to visit him as soon as possible. His urging me would be an understatement. I have never seen him so intense and serious. If it is possible, a visit from you this afternoon? He’s at Trinity, the Moline campus.

Bertrand had begun the day unsure of how long he would have to deal with the FBI about the sniper case he just concluded. Accordingly, he had cleared his calendar and the afternoon was open. He had intended to do some file reviews but a visit to Alexei would take precedence. I’ll go this afternoon, Father. Do you have any idea on this? McAbee said, searching for a heads-up.

No. He can be a closed book when he wishes to be. In this case he was just that.

Very well then. Thanks for the call.

Yes. Keep me informed please. Let me know if there’s anything that I can do.

Sure. They disconnected.

McAbee stared across at his Loeb collection of classical authors, a set of over 500 volumes of Greek and Latin classics, each volume composed of the original text on the left with an English translation on the right. Published by Harvard University the books were divided by color, red for Latin works and green for Greek works. In what he saw now as a previous life, McAbee had been a classics professor before he found his way into the PI business via a route that was increasingly clouded in his memory. The set of books haunted him as he grew his PI business. They did now too in a cloying way as in why are you doing this PI stuff?

CHAPTER 3

McAbee left his office in Iowa at 2:00 p.m. driving toward Moline by taking the Rock Island Arsenal Bridge, constructed back in the late 19th century. He went south on it crossing over Lock and Dam 15, until it took him to a Y intersection where if he proceeded left he would have gone onto the Rock Island Arsenal, a federal possession and part of America’s vast military complex. Its working population stood at about 6000 employees. By going right, however, he found himself in the city of Rock Island, Illinois, which had a population of about 43,000. He proceeded east on Fifth Street, soon passed Augustana College and shortly thereafter, he was in Moline, Illinois, where he picked up Interstate 74 south toward John Deere Road and turned west toward Trinity Hospital, about a mile away. He recalled a client who had come up from Ottumwa, Iowa, who stared at McAbee in anguish. After some prodding McAbee found that the man was frazzled by the layout of the Quad Cities. His concluding comment went as follows, Since when does the damn Mississippi River head east and west? Do you realize what happens to people who use it as a tool for finding their way around? McAbee consoled him by pointing out that the Quad Cities was like a budge on a straight line, rendering an east/west bearing. Not surprisingly, the meeting with the potential client was a failure.

His relationship with Kostadelos was curious and went back a good 30-35 years when McAbee was a young classics professor at St. Anselms College in Davenport. Kostadelos was probably around 50 then and had taken an interest in classical Greek thought. He took three courses from Bertrand: Ancient Philosophy, Classical Greek, and Plato’s Republic (Books 1 and 2) in translation. He was an odd man who would show intense interest in a subject and then just as quickly lose interest, but beneath it all, his passion for all things Greek made him a Grecophile in every sense of the word.

McAbee thought of him as being mercurial, suspicious, and defensive, yet very loyal and true to the friends whom he acquired. Over the years his dealings with Kostadelos waxed and waned; however, he never doubted the depth of their feelings toward each other. Bertrand was never quite sure just exactly how Alexei made a living. He would say that he owned rental properties or that he was an investor in various businesses. He was not specific and McAbee never pressed. He had some sense that Alexei was probably rich, but he didn’t know for sure and really didn’t care.

Shortly before McAbee left St. Anselms, Kostadelos offered a highly restricted gift to the school, $100,000, for the re-introduction of classical Greek into the curriculum. To McAbee’s shock, and still another reason for his leaving academia, the gift was rejected.

He later found out that the gifts department at the school pegged Alexei for $250,000. Alexei was not a negotiator. Another reality was that the school was going in another direction, that direction being business and accounting and decidedly away from the less lucrative majors found in the liberal arts. Alexei told McAbee that it was his way of telling the school that McAbee belonged back in the classroom and not in administration where he was then located and that he knew his gift would be rejected. He told McAbee that his sense of humor had a dark side to it. Another proof that the damn Catholics shouldn’t meddle with the Greek classics anyway, he said in his fiery manner.

When McAbee had launched into his new career as a PI, Alexei supported him. He said that the study of the classics and detection work were cut from the same rock – the investigation of things hidden. There weren’t many acquaintances of McAbee who felt that way, but Alexei did and McAbee appreciated his support.

When Alexei came to Bertrand some eight years ago, things had changed. Alexei was being watched by a man whom he assessed to be dangerous. What brought him to McAbee’s office was a close encounter with the man who had followed Alexei to his apartment in downtown Moline. Alexei lived on the second floor of a rundown building on Fourth Street in Moline. The building had a vacant store front on the ground floor with Alexei’s walk-up apartment overhead. The apartment was reached by a single, narrow fifteen step stairway. When Alexei was midway up the stairway, he heard the street door open behind him and saw what he took to be a very menacing blonde-haired man in his 40s, the same one whom he had noticed too often in the past few days. Alexei ran up the remaining steps and the man pursued him. Only through a pure stroke of luck did Alexei manage to open the door and double lock it before the blonde man rushed at it unsuccessfully. The stroke of luck was due to his long-time cleaning lady who had called Alexei just a few minutes previous saying that she had to leave, that his dinner was in the oven under low heat and asking him if he needed anything else. He said no and fortuitously told her to just leave the door unlatched as he would be home in a matter of minutes. He hated fumbling with all the damn keys that he had. The unlocked door may have saved his life, he thought.

McAbee asked him why this man was chasing him; he had no idea. Sarcastically he said, I have nothing to do with blonde-haired men anyway. I am a Greek! McAbee let that pass aware that Alexei had all types of opinions and that many of them were best left unexplored. His attack on my door was an act of war! What can you do about this? McAbee recommended the police. That got him an ugly sneer and the comment, Blondes I don’t deal with, police neither – you are hitting all of my buttons today, Bertrand.

Close to that time, Bertrand had employed a former Marine named Jack Scholz to help with a client named Augusta Satin. Augusta had once been a detective on the Rock Island Police Department. She had been abandoned by her M.D. husband who had moved to Wisconsin into the arms of another woman. His refusal to pay child support for their two daughters left her in a nasty spot. Scholz had managed to convince the doctor to pay up. When McAbee learned of his methods in doing so, he had his first of many qualms over the usage of Jack whose viciousness had few limits. To this very day Augusta, now a confidant and employee of McAbee’s, had no idea how Scholz had accomplished his mission and she would never learn it from McAbee.

How long were you being followed Alexei?

Probably about four days. It just didn’t register. He was hanging around, part of the downtown scene. There’s a bunch of characters who shuffle around in between things. I noticed him more in the last day or so.

Did you see him this morning?

No, but I had two of my friends from the church walk with me out of my place and to my car.

Look around?

Yes, nothing.

I have a man who could talk with him.

This blonde, he’s big, built. An Aryan piece of scum!

McAbee smiled. Kostadelos was out of an ethnic-oriented era in which every nationality except Greeks had negative value ratings. It was all about everyone being against the Greeks. Somehow Bertrand had flown beneath this suspecting radar. I have a man, ex-Marine, tough. So tough, in fact, that I have no fear that the blonde will be putty in his hands. I agree that his assault on your door is equivalent to an act of war. Thus fire should be returned. What do you think?

Alexei thought this over for a bit. Finally he said, Send me a bill for your counsel and whatever you choose to do. I’m fine with this. Don’t worry about money. I can’t live in fear Bertrand.

McAbee hired Jack Scholz to undertake the job. McAbee didn’t ask for details when Jack reported back to him two days later.

Scholz eschewed meetings in offices. In his world, listening devices were everywhere. Bertrand met him just east of the Centennial Bridge by the single A Midwest League baseball park – John O’Donnell Stadium. It was an early April day, windy, sunny, and about 70 degrees. The Quad City River Bandits were practicing, the crack of bat against ball in the air. Scholz wore dark sunglasses, had a receding hairline, was about 5’9 and weighed no more than 160 pounds. One thing was clear about him, he had been around a lot of action in his military days. He got right to the point with Bertrand, We had a talk with him yesterday afternoon."

Where? Bertrand asked.

Jack hesitated before saying, In the back of a friend’s van. You don’t need to know the particulars of how our conversation went down. But I can tell you what he said.

Bertrand demurred, saying, Okay, what’s up with the blonde?

He’s a German. His father served in Greece during the second war. When he got back from the war he fathered this kid in 1952. This is the kid who menaced Kostadelos. The kid, Hans, was brought up by the father. Broken marriage. When the father was dying in 1971, he told Hans, then about 19, that there was unfinished business in Greece going back to when he was part of the occupying army during the war. Did you know that Alexei Kostadelos had served in the Greek resistance? Prominent, actually, according to Hans.

So what? McAbee said defensively, thinking that what Alexei did during World War II was no one’s business.

Scholz shot McAbee a look of bafflement.

McAbee explained, "Alexei is a good friend of