Most Wanted (41 page)

“Christine, hello, I'm Tim Foster.”

“Nice to meet you.” Christine shook his hand. He had a strong grip, and such a convivial way about him that she liked him instantly. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Happy to. Come this way, we can talk. I have a half an hour before I have to leave. Everyone's at lunch, and I wanted to fit you in.”

“Thank you so much.” Christine followed him through the open door and past a row of tall blue cubicles, which were empty except for family photos, Eagles and Phillies sports schedules, and miniature American flags.

“This is where our inside salespeople sit.” Tim spoke freely as they walked down the hall. “They're the only ones who get cubicles. Brigham has fifty-five employees and fifteen account managers. We supply medical instruments nationwide and we're a medium-sized player. It's a family-owned business, started by the Brigham family about sixty years ago.”

“Did Zachary have a cubicle?”

“No, he was an account manager. His office was in his house. We mail our account managers anything they need, so he only comes into the main office one to three times a month to pick up samples, supplies, or for a meeting. We do send the big paper catalog home, but we're encouraging more of our accounts to order online, as you can imagine.”

“Yes,” Christine said, as Tim let her into a small corner office with a dark wood desk and a narrow window that overlooked a loading dock, where a white container truck was reversing in. A stack of blue Brigham catalogs sat on the corner of his desk, next to a flat monitor, and Tim gestured at a wall chart that read
BRIGHAM PREMIUM INSTRUMENTS
, above
PREMIUM GRADE, MIDGRADE, AND FLOOR GRADE
, with an array of shiny, stainless-steel instruments.

“We make fifteen thousand medical instruments of all types. Three different product lines, each with its own scissors, hemostats, forceps, needle holders, retractors, and whatnot. We manufacture instruments for all surgical fields. Cardiac, gynecology, rectal, urology, ophthalmology, microsurgery, you name it. We even make instruments for plastic surgery, which change fairly often. Please, sit down.”

“Thanks.” Christine sat and slid her pad from her purse. “Do all the account managers sell all of the types?”

“Yes, they do.” Tim eased into his desk chair. “That's what's difficult about the job. It's a challenge to keep abreast of the product lines. We make twenty-seven different types of scissors, alone.”

“I was curious what kind of an employee Zachary was.”

“He was the best.” Tim nodded. “He really was. He was the golden boy. No pun. Yes, he's a good-looking kid, he's been employee of the month more than anybody else. Eight times in two years.”

“Does he report directly to you?”

“Yes, and I report to the vice president of sales, who reports to the president of sales. They're not in today. I knew Zachary better than they do, so you're not missing anything.”

“Did you review his performance?”

“Yes, he's gotten a bonus for going beyond his quotas, every quarter.”

“Could I see his personnel file?”

“Unfortunately, not. I thought you might ask that, so I checked with Legal, and they said no. You need to have his lawyer write us a letter.”

“I'll do that.”

“Good. Legal said I could talk to you, and we'd like to help Zachary if we can. No way in the world is he guilty.” Tim puckered his lower lip, shaking his head. “No damn way.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He's a good guy, all around. He always worked without complaint, he filled in when guys got sick. Like when Stan, one of our other account managers, got prostate cancer, he filled in for him while he was in the hospital. Zachary's just that kind of a kid. He's the youngest account manager here, and he's interested in medicine. He got into med school but didn't have the money to go. It helps him with the doctors and the purchasing people. It's all good.”

“Did you know that he was dating nurses who worked at these hospitals?”

“No, but that's his business, he's single. I don't blame him. I met my wife on this job. She's a bookkeeper at Riddle Memorial.” Tim shrugged his heavy shoulders. “That's who we meet at our accounts. Doesn't mean he killed anybody. I can't picture him doing that.”

Christine wanted to believe him, but she remembered that flash of anger she'd seen today. “Did he have a temper?”

“No, not that I saw.”

“Did you trust him?”

“Absolutely. I like him and trust him.”

“How about the accounts?”

“They all did. The docs, the purchasing people, everybody. I've been getting calls since he was arrested, and none of them believe that he did it.” Tim spoke with conviction. “He's such a
good
guy. Did what I asked, even the things that I get pushback on from some of the others.”

“Like what?”

“Perfect example, I ask my account mangers not to have a Facebook page. I don't want our accounts looking up my managers, finding out whether they're Republican, Democrat, or anything about them, personally. You never know who you turn off these days.”

Christine thought it explained why Zachary didn't have a Facebook page, which Lauren had thought was strange. “What about the fact that the killer used your instruments?”

“So what?” Tim's dark eyes flared. “You know how many people come in contact with those instruments in the hospital or doc's office? Everybody from the docs, to the nurses, to the orderlies, to the techs, to the people who unpack the boxes. Anybody could use our instruments.”

“What was his region?”

“Mid-Atlantic. Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. It's a big region, but he handled it. I was grooming him to succeed me. He was a real go-getter. Look at this.” Tim turned to a black bag on the floor, then lifted it onto the table and opened the top flap. “This is what they called his ‘kill bag' or ‘hit kit' in the papers. It's the sample bag we give to our account managers. They said in the paper that it was a plain black bag, that's intentional. It doesn't say Brigham because these instruments cost a couple hundred bucks a pop. We don't label the bag so they don't get stolen.” Tim extracted a black nylon folder from inside the case and opened it to reveal an array of different tweezers on a field of blue velvet, held in place by black elastic bands. “This is what it looks like inside.”

“And these are … tweezers?”

“No, forceps. Top line of forceps, tissue forceps, Adson forceps, Adson-Brown forceps. It's a typical sample bag for forceps.”

“Was this what Zachary had in his car?”

“Not specifically. He had our surgical general kit for top-of-the-line operating rooms. It includes a Langenbeck metacarpal saw, named for a Bernhard von Langenbeck, a Prussian army surgeon. Unfortunately, many surgical advances and instruments come from wars.”

Christine remembered what Zachary had said. “Was that the murder weapon? A saw used by hand surgeons?”

“Yes, I have one to show you.” Tim stuck a hammy hand into the bag and pulled out a long, shiny saw that had a serrated edge, then handed it over with care. “Watch out, it's sharp.”

“Yikes, and it's heavy.” Christine eyed the jagged edge, which gave her the creeps.

“It has to be. It's nine and a half inches long, including the blade, which is four and a half inches long. The tip is part of the blade, the saw has no curvature, it's straight. It's stainless-steel, reusable, rigid, and strong enough to saw through small bones. It can also punch through a chest, but anybody could've had this.” Tim pointed to the saw. “This is a very common saw in an OR, and any trauma surgeon, hand surgeon, orthopedic surgeon, or podiatric surgeon could have these instruments. It costs about $160, so it's not even as expensive as many medical instruments. So you see, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for Zachary's having it in his car. It doesn't mean he's a serial killer.”

“How about the tourniquets?”

“Same, very common, everywhere. I pulled those for you, too.” Tim dug in a pocket of the sample bag and extracted a roll of bright turquoise bands. “You can find these a zillion places. We sell them, and so do a lot of other people.”

Christine knew as much. She got her yearly blood test, and her local Labcorp used the same tourniquet. “And the tourniquets are used by hand surgeons, but not only by hand surgeons?”

“Exactly.”

“Can laypeople buy these things?”

“No. We sell only to hospitals, hospital supply companies, and medical professionals.” Tim frowned. “I see our metacarpal saws on eBay sometimes, but that's resellers.”

“May I take these things and some catalogs, to read through them later?”

“Sure.” Tim packed the saw, tourniquets, and some catalogs in the black nylon bag and flopped over the top flap.

“Did the police talk to you about Zachary?”

“Yes, they talked to my boss, too. I told them what I told you. Zachary's not a serial killer.”

“Did they ask for his personnel file?”

“Yes, and we gave them a copy. Legal said we had to.” Tim frowned. “It won't hurt him any, and we complied. The fact that whoever killed those nurses used our instruments isn't helping, public relations–wise. We got tons of calls from the media the first week. We even hired a PR firm. The Brigham family isn't happy. The sooner this is over with, the better.”

“Did Zachary have any enemies that you know of?”

“No, not at all.” Tim cocked his head. “Uh, one of the other account managers wasn't a fan. But that's between us.”

“I'll keep it confidential. What is his name?”

“Dan Pepitone.”

“Is Dan here today?”

“No, he's calling on accounts. The managers are always on the road, remember? They never come in.”

“Right.” Christine made a mental note to follow up and meet Pepitone. “Why didn't Dan like Zachary?”

“Zachary came into Dan's region. I needed to bring somebody new. All of our regions are large, and there's hundreds of accounts, we're spread pretty thin. Dan's in his late fifties.”

“Are you saying that Zachary was brought in as Dan's successor?”

“That's about the size of it.” Tim buckled his lower lip. “Dan is slowing down, he's just burned-out. It's not easy being a road warrior. When Zachary came in, the numbers went way up. Zachary made Dan look bad. That's sales.”

“What do you think makes the difference?”

“Zachary tries harder. He charms everybody. He's always closing, that boy.” Tim frowned slightly. “But Dan thought Zachary was a BS artist, which I get.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm in sales. I manage salesman. It's a mentality. Some salesman, they're made. Others are born.” Tim smiled. “Zachary was a born salesman. He could sell ice to the Eskimos. It's a cliché, but it's true about him.”

Christine didn't know if she wanted her baby to be a born salesman, and if that was a good thing or not. “What makes a born salesman?”

“In my opinion, it's a knowledge of people. Zachary can clue in on what somebody wants and give it to them. He knows how to work people.”

“That's manipulative.” Christine couldn't help but wonder if Zachary was manipulating her, like Gary had warned.

“It is and it isn't.” Tim shrugged again. “Sales requires you to understand people and to a certain extent, yes, manipulate them. To tell them what they want to hear, so you can close.”

Christine thought it sounded worse and worse. “So is he a liar?”

“No more than I am.” Tim chuckled. “We're just trying to sell you something. You need it, and we make it, so it works out. There's no harm, no foul. Zachary's very good at his job, the best young salesman I've seen in a long time. Zachary was a star. Not everybody likes that. Dan thought Zachary was arrogant, but I want my account managers to be arrogant. You know who are the most arrogant people on the face of the earth?”

“No, who?” Christine asked, because he seemed to wait for a reply.

“Surgeons. Surgeons think they're God. They will cut into the human body without hesitation. They will save a life. They're brilliant men and women, and they don't respect dumb. I want my account managers to be arrogant and confident enough to earn the respect of surgeons.”

Christine understood. “Could Zachary?”

“Yes, totally. He could walk into a hospital, collar a surgeon when he's on his way to the OR, grab whatever three minutes he can, and convince him that we make a better instrument than the next guy. If my guys don't have that confidence, I'm not gonna be able to feed my family.”

Christine tried to understand. “So Zachary's arrogant and manipulative, but you like him anyway?”

“No.” Tim smiled. “Zachary's arrogant and manipulative, and I
love
him anyway.”

 

Chapter Forty-four

Christine hurried down the busy sidewalk, crowded with students carrying backpacks, businesspeople scrolling through smartphones, and Temple University employees in red lanyards, hurrying back to their offices after lunch. It had taken her almost an hour to drive into the center of Philadelphia, then another half an hour to fight the traffic going up Broad Street, which was evidently the city's main artery. Hannah had said she only had twenty minutes between classes, so Christine had driven like a maniac, sensing that Hannah didn't want to meet with her at all.

The air was impossibly humid, and Christine wiped the sweat from her brow as she passed a bustling campus bookstore, then made a beeline for the cheesesteak place that Hannah had specified. She threaded her way to the restaurant, pushed open the door, and breathed in the delicious smells of sizzling steaks. Her eyes adjusted to the dim, cramped rectangle, mostly a take-out joint with an order counter, open griddles, and cooks on the left, and on the right, two rows of small brown tables.