The Insurance Audit Found The Same Fish Listed As Dead Twice

The insurance examiner spread three versions of the same tank list across a table.

Her name was Inez Cole. She had glasses on a cord and a ruler she used to keep her place.

"I need you to describe your records," she said. "Please don't tell me what you think Mr. Greer intended."

"I can do that."

The meeting took place at Celia's office. My lawyer had arranged the production and kept a copy of everything I provided. The criminal investigators would receive their own records through their own process.

I opened the feeding book for the rear holding room.

"Tank Q2 had a cracked label," I said. "On February twenty-sixth, Deke put on a new one that said Q-02. I kept the old number in brackets."

Inez laid Russell's loss schedule beside it.

Both numbers appeared. Each carried the same species count and a claimed value of $18,600.

"Could there have been another rack?" she asked.

"There were four racks. I drew them on the back page because new staff kept mixing up the valves."

She copied the drawing.

Then we reached the discus batch.

My Sunday entry showed a red square and the words Monday Shipment, K-17. The next visit showed that section empty.

Russell's schedule listed the batch among fish killed by smoke on Tuesday night.

"Did you see them loaded?"

"No. I saw them ready for packing Sunday and gone Tuesday."

She wrote my answer exactly that way.

I left with a receipt for the copied pages and no grand feeling of victory. I wanted a sandwich. My hands hurt from holding them still.

At home, I washed an empty filter sponge in a bucket. There was no reason to rush it. Squeeze, release, let the dirty water drain. I had always been able to work through a bad day with my hands. It took longer to learn that papers could be handled the same way, one page at a time.

Three weeks later, the prosecutor's office asked me to explain the same marks.

This time, an investigator had shipping records obtained from the carrier and receiving records from the buyer. The K-17 fish had reached another state alive before the fire.

Other entries had problems, too. Some counted fish already sold. Some valued ordinary stock as rare breeding pairs. The surviving fish in the rear room had been photographed and counted after the fire.

The insurer's review put the supported stock loss far below $186,400. It had not paid that demand.

The fire damage was real. So were Nora's ruined chairs, Bea's breathing treatment, and the two firefighters' injuries. A false number on paper did not make the actual harm smaller.

"What happens to Nora?" I asked the prosecutor.

"Her lawyer is speaking with us. I won't discuss her agreement without her permission."

Later, Nora told me herself. She had given full statements and records. After reviewing the alarm timeline and her efforts to warn Bea, the state would not charge her. Her lawyer had the decision in writing.

"I keep reading it," she said.

"Then keep reading it."

We sorted her surviving receipts at my kitchen table. A tenant lawyer had helped recover her deposit through an escrow arrangement while her claims for damaged tools remained open.

She wanted to work again.

"Not under anybody's stairs," she said.

I laughed. So did she.

My own days were less empty by then. I took emergency tank calls and cleaned empty systems for a repair shop. One job paid $85. Another paid $140. I kept the van payment current by seven dollars.

Gideon called with an official update in early May. The fire finding was deliberate. The state team had taken charge of the criminal case, and his report was complete.

"Will I still see you?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"At court, probably."

"That wasn't quite what I meant."

"I hoped it wasn't. But while you're a witness and I'm part of this case, I want the line clear."

"I can wait for coffee."

"So can I."

After that, we spoke when the case required it. Sometimes a quiet minute followed the official business. He asked whether my van was running. I asked whether he had cooked dinner.

Neither question demanded more than the other person could give.

In June, the civil court awarded my warehouse company claim: $2,280, plus $210 in filing and service costs. Russell's company had offered no sound reason for refusing the signed terms.

Celia began collection. A judgment was a document, she reminded me, until money reached the account.

Two mornings later, Gideon called before I left for an $85 cleaning job.

"Deke Bell was arrested," he said. "Mr. Greer has been ordered to surrender through his lawyer."