The Key to the Future Page 3

  “I do remember that headline,” said Mills. “I’m afraid to ask… but what came next?”

  “He was warned, sanctioned and ultimately dismissed from the PGH medical staff,” said Sullivan. “He then took his message to the streets and was arrested several times. Ultimately he was committed to the old Psychiatry wing at the General.”

  Silence again filled the room as Sullivan brought up the final slide of the lecture. It was a mug shot of Schmidt on the Psychiatry wing wearing a hospital issued white gown with a steel necklace around his neck. At the end of the necklace was a single skeleton key.

  “This was his final photograph, just weeks before his disappearance. Believe it or not he was scheduled for a state mandated lobotomy the day after he went missing. The medical staff diagnosed him as a chronic paranoid schizophrenic.”

  “Holy cow, a lobotomy?” said Mills.

  “Yes,” said Sullivan. “Remember, it’s the mid 1970s. Lobotomies were still being performed, albeit on a small scale.”

  “What’s with the key?” asked the veteran from the rear.

  “Good question. He always wore an old skeleton key around his neck. It was a well-known fact among the house staff. That necklace you see in the photo was pure tungsten steel, welded into a loop without a latch. It never came off his body. You would need a blow torch or hacksaw to remove it.”

  “Wolfram!” said the walrus man. “That’s what tungsten steel is. It was part of my doctorate in college. It was recognized as a new element in about 1781, then a metal in 1783. Tungsten is a tremendously hard metal, with a density similar to gold.”

  “What’s the significance of the key?” asked Mills.

  “It was part of his odd persona,” answered Sullivan. “Schmidt was once quoted in a newspaper article claiming it to be ‘the key to the future.’”

  “That’s no ordinary key!” said the veteran from the rear.

  “How so?” asked Mills.

  “Gentlemen, I was raised by a locksmith and spent thousands of hours in my father’s shop, learning about locks and keys. That key is from the Baroque era, early 1700s. I would guess it was from France and made of pure gold. It would be worth a pretty penny today.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The cut. The design. Keys from different eras rarely carried a date on them. But each era had a specific look.”

  “Interesting information,” said Sullivan.

  “So what about his disappearance?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sullivan. “His disappearance. On the eve of his planned surgical procedure, Dr. Schmidt escaped from the lockdown unit he was housed in. A general alarm was sounded and a Philadelphia policeman on beat patrol spotted him just outside the hospital. Several witnesses described a surreal foot chase between the two, with Schmidt in a hospital gown and bedroom slippers, dashing down University Avenue. The two bolted into the Franklin Wing and rushed past a night shift security guard. They were last seen heading toward Schmidt’s office after which, the sentry described a brief flash of bright light and a short high-pitched zoom.”

  “And…?” asked Mills.

  “Incredibly, neither man was ever seen again,” said Sullivan.

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  “The date was July 4th, 1976.”

  “Our nation’s bicentennial.”

  “Correct,” said Dr. John Sullivan. “The day two Philadelphians vanished into thin air.”

  Chapter Three

  PAGANO DESTRUCTION

  Tommy Pagano Jr. was the CEO of Pagano Destruction Company and went by the nickname ‘Winky’.” He took control of the company at the age of thirty, which at the time appeared to be a premature transition from his father. However, one week later, Tommy Pagano Sr. was gunned down in a South Philadelphia eatery while enjoying some potato gnocchi with a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, the act so violent portions of his spleen were found on the ceiling fans. The hit was reportedly in retribution for some massive outstanding company debt. Tommy Pagano Sr. lost his life, but not the family business – a calculated transaction that Winky always respected.

  Tommy Jr. was of average height and a tad overweight. He usually had an unlit cigar stub hanging from his mouth, surrounded by a rough unshaven face. Dark monochromic clothing covered his frame along with a pork pie hat. His right eye uncontrollably twitched, hence the moniker that followed him throughout his adult life. He ran Pagano Destruction for the past twenty-five years, during which time he barely kept the business afloat.

  “Finally,” smirked Winky. “Finally, we’re going to blow that building to kingdom come. This project has been a thorn in my side for too many years.” The CEO sat in a drab South Philadelphia office at the head of the table, his inner circle in attendance. “First the bidding war with the Bloomsburg boys, then the ordinance delay at city hall, and now these Historical Society crackpots.”

  “You can thank the judge for that,” said Winky’s personal assistant, a female in her late thirties who was no stranger to the plastic surgeon’s office. “The usual for the judge, Mr. Pagano?” She wore a black skirt and tight, white blouse.

  “No, no. Double the judge’s standard fee, Stephanie,” replied Winky. “And send his wife a pearl necklace from Uncle Frank’s place down on Walnut Street.” Behind the company chair hung a picture of his father, taken just six months before he was sacrificed. A look of concern ran across the face of the deceased.

  “Why so long a delay?” asked Rocco, the on-site foreman for Pagano Destruction. “I mean, we’ve been renting the equipment for months now. The machines are just collecting rust up on the lot.”

  “And losing thousands of dollars a month,” barked CEO Pagano, his right eye flickering even faster.

  “Some Historical Society was claiming the basement to be the final resting place for two men who died in the building back in the seventies, their bodies never found,” said Attorney Louis Pompano. “They were represented by some legal chump from West Philly. The judge had to follow some protocol to make it look official. Therefore, the lengthy delay.” Pompano was the eldest man in the room and the company’s longstanding attorney.

  “There’s always a goddamn fly in the ointment,” moaned Winky “Ain’t that right, Steph?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pagano,” said the secretary while staring down at her cell phone. She patted her boss’s hairy left hand while speaking, ignoring the ring on his stubby fourth finger.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to point out one clause in the ruling to proceed forward,” said Attorney Pompano. “That being the Historical Society has access to the building subbasement area over the next four-week period. They want to document the history of the building.” While saying the word “history” the attorney mockingly raised his hands in quotation mark fashion.

  “What!” yelled Rocco. “I don’t approve of that. We’re going to be laying some heavy lines of explosives across the grid. It’s dark and dangerous down there. Somebody is going to get hurt.”

  “I know, I know,” said the attorney with a raise of his hand. “But to appear fair, the judge had to give them a concession. So, I would instruct the demo team to be aware of their presence. To my understanding the group is a bunch of old timers who meet once a month over a couple of beers. I would just let them wander around a bit, take some photos, and document their history.”

  “I don’t like it,” grumbled Rocco while stroking his massive biceps. The foreman was wearing his trademark white T-shirt with a pair of rugged work pants, imbedded with dirt.

  “It’s a legal decision,” said Pompano. “So please respect it. I don’t see a problem.”

  “Listen to Louie,” said CEO Pagano to his burly foreman. “Just give them a safety vest and hard hat. The basement will be lit up, correct?”

  “Yea,” grumbled the on-site foreman. “Per city code a series of lights will be rigged up throughout the lower levels, along with the standard safety cameras.”

  “Wonderful,” said Tommy Pagano while checking his
watch. “Any other concerns, gentlemen? If not, we will meet again in two weeks to review the final schedule of events.”

  “What land fill should we use?” asked Pompano.

  “Who offered the most?”

  “The Sukas brothers down by the Naval Yard. We’ve used them before. They keep their mouths shut.”

  “Good,” said Pagano. “Send the Sukas boys a box of Cuban cigars and tell them not to disappoint me.” The chairman got up from his chair to leave.

  “I have just one more concern,” came a meek voice from the opposite end of the table.

  “Yes Timmy?” asked Winky Pagano. “What now?”

  “One of the city safety inspectors reported an abnormally high level of radon in the basement,” said the chairman’s nephew. “He wants to know how we will be managing it.” Timothy Pagano was the youngest nephew of the CEO, and the son of his only living brother.

  “I’d manage it with a thousand dollars of cash in his car,” snapped Winky while taking a step towards the door. “Haven’t I taught you anything yet, Timmy? Just ask him which car is his in the lot, tell him to leave the door open, and put the cash in the vehicle. It never fails. Any other questions?”

  “He seemed really official,” squeaked Timmy Pagano. “Has been calling me every day. He sounds very concerned.” The youngest Pagano in the room fidgeted in his seat.

  “If that doesn’t work, have Rocco talk it over with him,” snapped Pagano as he left the room, his secretary in tow. “Don’t bother me with such nonsense, Timmy.”

  “The majority of these old structures have a high level of radon in the subbasements,” retorted Attorney Pompano. “Especially the hospitals. They were started as clinics across the river from downtown Philly back in the late 1700s, then built over as time went on.”

  “Just give me the guy’s name,” growled an inpatient Rocco. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “He said the levels were astronomical,” said Timmy. “Never seen or heard of radon levels so high. Mentioned something about a radon belt epicenter.”

  “Have him measure it again,” said Pompano. “There can be no more delays, or the boss will have a stroke.”

  “He’s measured it three times, on different days, under different weather conditions. Same results. The radon levels are off the scale.”

  “Well then, give the inspector my name and forward the results to my office,” said the firm’s legal counsel. “I’ll get an independent review of the numbers just in case we need a second expert opinion. We may have to get the judge involved again.”

  “I’m not going to listen to this crap anymore!” screamed Rocco as he got up. “Give the guy the wad of money, Timmy! For Christ’s sake I feel like I’m back in college waiting for the big football game to kickoff. I just need to hit somebody! Let’s implode the goddamn building!”

  “Gentlemen, please calm down,” said Pompano, aware of Rocco’s short temper. “We only have four more weeks. Rock, I don’t see a problem with these radon readings. They crop up all the time.”

  “No more delays!” shouted the foreman while pounding his right hand down on the table. “No more freaking delays!”

  No one dare spoke as the meeting adjourned. Just outside the room Attorney Pompano ran into the CEO’s favorite son, having just entered the office.

  “Vincent, good morning,” said Pompano. “How’s my favorite orthopedic surgeon?”

  “I’m good Louie. Where’s pops?” asked Dr. Vincent Pagano.

  “In his office with Stephanie. Make sure you knock first.”

  “Come on Lou, it’s nine in the morning. So, are we still on track for four weeks?”

  “Yes, no problems,” said the attorney. “Once the demolition is done, we should have the new hospital wing up in about eighteen months.”

  “Great.”

  Without knocking Vincent walked into the office of his father. The CEO was staring at the sports page while his secretary glared down upon a cell phone, just inches from her face.

  “My boy!” yelled Tommy Pagano Jr., upon seeing his youngest son stroll in. “Good morning, son.”

  “Hello, doctor,” said Stephanie with a smile and crack of gum in her mouth.

  “Good morning, Dad. Hello, Stephanie.”

  “We’re in the home stretch, Vincent,” said the CEO. “One month to detonation.”

  “Are the architect plans complete for the new hospital wing?”

  “If you mean the Pagano Orthopedic Institute then yes, the plans are complete. I’m so proud of you, son.”

  “The name is definite? Are you certain?”

  “Yea, yea,” said Winky with a wave of his hand. “Uncle Frank is on the hospital board of trustees and flexed a little muscle to seal the deal. Look here son, the final blueprints. They just arrived yesterday.”

  The CEO rapidly unrolled an architect’s rendition of the new building, set to occupy the former site of the Franklin Wing. While spreading the paper a broad smile came upon his face. His secretary stared adoringly at the young doctor.

  “It will be the paragon for all orthopedic clinics in the United States!” exclaimed the CEO. “From top to bottom we’ve built a one stop shopping center for joint replacement surgery.”

  “Very nice, Dad. Very nice.”

  “It will have ample space for exam rooms, an MRI, gymnasium, therapy pool and nine brand new operating rooms,” said the father while pointing at the plans. “Simply put it will be thee orthopedic hospital to get your hip or knee replaced in the greater Philadelphia area. We’re going to blow the competition out of the water.”

  “A cash cow,” added Vincent Pagano. “Especially with all the baby boomers limping around. Thanks Dad.”

  “Look here son,” said the CEO while pointing to a sketch of the hospital’s eastern edifice. “Look at the size of our name in relation to the building itself. A real eye catcher.”

  Within the blueprints, atop the hospital, sat the name of the new hospital wing in gigantic letters, – THE PAGANO ORTHOPEDIC INSTITUTE.

  “Wow. I love it!”

  “Everyone driving by on the Schuylkill Expressway will see it,” said Tommy Pagano. “The wattage is so high that people downtown are going to have a hard time sleeping at night. We had to put in a separate generator just to power the letters. Hell, they may be able to see it over in Jersey!”

  “The bigger the better,” said Stephanie while tapping on her cell phone.

  “Nice Dad. The Pagano Orthopedic Institute… it sure has a catchy ring to it.”

  “Thank you, son. Thank you for being the best son a father could have. Not like your two older brothers, wasting their time chasing tight skirts and spending my money. Mom always knew you were different.”

  “How’s Mom? I haven’t spoken to her in a while.”

  “Fine. Fine. She’s down at the shore house for the summer. I signed her up for a few wine of the month clubs. She couldn’t be happier… has a lot of friends down in L.B.I.”

  “The Loveladies section of Long Beach Island”, said Stephanie with an emphasis on the word “love.” She knew of the Pagano summer home in the tony Jersey shore neighborhood called Loveladies. “I just adore that word – the Loveladies section of L.B.I.”

  “Oh Dad, I almost forgot, an old med school classmate of mine belongs to the Historical Society that threw a wrench in the works. His name is Dr. John Sullivan.”

  “Really? A guy your age belongs to a Historical Society?”

  “Yea. He is a bit of a dullard, but a nice guy. And get this, he works at the PGH. His specialty is Geriatrics.”

  “Geriatrics? What the hell is that?”

  “A subspecialty in medicine that deals with the health and care of the elderly,” said the younger Pagano. “He takes care of old folks and problems specific to their generation.”

  “Maybe you should see him,” chimed in Stephanie with a giggle. “You know, for the little problem you have at times with ‘Mr. Softie’.”

  “Hey, hey! Pi
pe it down,” said the destruction boss to his secretary. “Or I’ll trade you in for two twenty-year olds.”

  “Oh, Tommy. I was just joking! You’re so sensitive.”

  “I think he is planning on videotaping the basement,” said Vincent Pagano. “He is infatuated by some old time doctor whose office occupied the Franklin Wing.”

  “Well tell him to make it quick,” barked Winky, now upset over his secretary’s wisecrack. “Otherwise he’s going to get buried in a pile of rubble.”

  “I already told him,” replied the younger Pagano while studying the plans.

  “Nobody is going to stop the Pagano Destruction Company from blowing that building to smithereens!” screamed the CEO, his right eye in a rapid twitch. “Absolutely nobody! So help me God!”

  Chapter Four

  THE FRANKLIN WING

  “The building was named after Mister Benjamin Franklin,” said Reggie Washington while staring at the camera. “Built in, oh around 1760 or so. Actually, I believe it was one of Mr. Franklin’s original homes, prior to becoming a hospital.”

  “And Mr. Washington, how long have you been a security guard here on the Franklin Wing?” asked Sullivan with a video recorder in his right hand.

  “Believe it or not since 1974,” said the Philadelphian with a smile and modest laugh. “It was the first job I took out of high school. I’ve never left since.”

  “And to my understanding you were on watch the night Dr. Schmidt came racing through, with a policeman in chase. Isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s right,” said the sentry. “At this very desk. It was the evening of July 4rd, 1976…. just before the midnight hour. I remember the day well, since it was our nation’s bicentennial.”

  “Can you describe what happened on that fateful night?”

  “Sure,” replied Washington. “It was a hot summer night and I was watching a late-night movie on T.V. Suddenly the double metal door down the hallway burst open and that’s when I saw him.” While speaking Washington pointed down a corridor to his left.