Bruce Sackman - Behind the Murder Curtain

CHAPTER 2

Double O Swango

When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
from The Adventure of the Speckled Band

I n October 1995, I was just settling in to another day at the office, opening the file on an ongoing case, when Agent Tom Valery charged through my door and yelled, Boss, pick up line one right now! Tom was easily excitable so I didnt exactly drop the file I was reading and reached for line one. But when he continued into the room and took up position over my left shoulder, I sensed this call was out of the ordinary. I had no idea it would change my life forever. But it did.

This is Special Agent Sackman, I said in my long practiced, measured what is this about? tone.

This is Doctor Thomesen, I am a psychiatrist at Northport. You need to get out here right away. We have a doctor who is killing his patients, was the response. Without taking a breath, she told me something about a television show and a doctor named Swango. How could this be happening?

I had no idea what she was talking about but again in my long-practiced manner, I thanked her for calling and promised I would look into it. Without another word, she hung up. I sensed she was a little frustrated. I shrugged my shoulders, hung up, and looked up at Tom, who had been bent over the phone trying to listen in.

I know what she is talking about, he said. I think we should get out there. Ill give you a fill-in in the car.

It was not my style to rush into things. While I investigated crimes in VA medical centers and was trained to use the 9 mm automatic on my hip, my work rarely called for a lights-and-siren response. I was known for being skeptical and careful. Some thought I was bored, but believe me, I took everything in. I had heard many outrageous claims in my career, but never anything like this. Tom was an experienced agent and as he was already putting on his jacket and grabbing the car keys, I told my secretary I was going out to Northport and followed him out the door.

In less than fifteen minutes after the phone call, we were in the bare bones Chevy Caprice supplied by the Veterans Administration for use by its investigators, on our way to the Northport VA Medical Center. About seventy miles from our Manhattan office, we had both been there many times before on routine cases.

I chose to drive because I thought Tom was too aggressive behind the wheel and our rule was the driver controlled the radio. I liked Frank Sinatra and he liked Johnny Cash. As we bucked the heavy traffic, I looked across at Tom and asked if he thought there was really any merit to Doctor Thomesens call? Of course, I wanted to ask him this as soon as I hung up the phone, but I did not want to dampen his enthusiasm, as he clearly had been eager to run out the door. The answer was typical in-your-face Tom: Damn right, boss! Everyone in the office has been talking about the television show last night. It was about this doctor, Doctor Michael Swango. They said he served time for poisoning coworkers in Illinois, paramedics no less, and that wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of death. Hes a resident at Stony Brook University Hospital in New York, practicing in Northport. The medical students call him Double O Swango, Licensed to Kill and Doctor Death.

I asked, The show said he killed people?

Well, they couldnt actually say that, but clearly they believe it and so does anyone who watched it, responded Tom.

Friends thought Tom and I were mismatched bookends. Im a buttoned-down, conservative suit-and-tie guy who, I know, could pass for a Brooks Brothers salesman. I was a good listener and considered every move carefully; I tried to be the perfect image of an agent-in-charge. Tom, in contrast, was right out of a Damon Runyon story. He was old-school tough, quick with a joke, and disdainful of orders and anyone from headquarters. In a dictionary, his picture would be included in the entry for politically incorrect. We were about the same five feet, seven inches in height, but Tom was stocky and strong, the guy you wanted next to you in a foxhole. He was a volunteer firefighter in a town not far from where I lived, and many mornings he would show up to work after fighting a blaze all night. But together, our record proved we made a formidable team: I directed an investigation and handled headquarters, and Tom followed his instinct and made noise when required (and sometimes when not required).

I drove on in silence. I was thinking about what I was getting into and how I would describe it to my bosses in Washington: Doctor, killer. I was mostly concerned with white-collar crimes like embezzlement, identity theft, and, occasionally, pension fraud. I was pretty good at it. Once in a while, an investigation might involve missing drugs from a VA hospital pharmacy, and I would take part in a raid with the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) guys in their bulletproof vests and helmets, but that was about as extreme as it got. And even those suspects were not killers.

I thought to myself that I might not be the man for this particular job. Many years later, when I drive that stretch of the Long Island Expressway, I return to that thought. I also realized I had no choice in the matter. I was responsible for investigating all fraud and official misconduct at 295 VA facilities, including medical centers, cemeteries, and two hundred and fifty thousand employees. I ran agents like Tom Valery up and down the east coast. I could not remember any of them ever investigating a doctor killing a patient. This seemed like a case that might require me to involve the FBIa thought that did not thrill me.

I was pleased that traffic was moving at a crawl; I was not eager to jump into these unknown waters. But I am not a guy who passes the buck. And there was no one to whom to pass the buck to. From the time I picked up line one, I owned this case, whatever the cost or reward.

I grew up in Brooklyn, both my parents were civil service workers and they pushed me in their direction. I attended Thomas Jefferson High School, a school with the reputation for a street-tough student body and a football team to prove it. The only jewelry I wore was my high school ring. The only decoration on the wall of my office was my diploma from Thomas Jefferson High School. On several occasions over my career, colleagues or suspects would notice the diploma and ask if I knew the schools legendary football coach Moe Finkelstein. I knew him and would say so.

They assumed I played football for Moe. I never said I did, but they would take a step back and think I was a tough guy with a tough background. I would notice a new level of respect from then on and I liked it.

In truth, I was aware my toughness came more from my mind than my body. After high school, I went to nearby Long Island University, where I also received my masters degree in political science. I could be like a dog with a bone but would rather outsmart opponents, be they embezzlers, drug dealers, or bureaucrats getting in my way. I was Columbo, not Dirty Harry.

As we approached Northport, I laid out a strategy. I thought I should have watched the television show the psychiatrist mentioned before we left the office. I wondered why nobody gave me a heads-up about it. Usually the press office in DC was on top of those things. Tom appeared to know all about it.

I understood I should not be so sure that we were on to a homicide case. So far, we were moving forward based solely on a panicky phone call from a psychiatrist I did not even know, and what was probably a lot of speculation from a television program.