Sam McAtry, P.I.

And The Case of the Dead People

 

by

 

Mel-o-rama

 

 

It was raining cats and dogs. Not literally, but still it was dark in the Really Big Insurance Company break room. A young actuarial student sat alone in a booth, watching the rain fall, asking himself, Why?

It was lunchtime, and there were others in the room, but none of them sat with Sam McAtry. Was it his pocket protector? Was it his disheveled hair? Was it the deodorant he always forgot to put on? He never knew why. He just came down to eat his lunch and listen to the saxophone playing slow jazzy tunes in the company’s practice room next door. (Yes, they needed to soundproof that room, but the employees voted to soundproof the bathroom stalls instead.)

Pondering life’s questions and the purpose of his own existence, Sam thought, Who am I? Why am I here? Why do I pick LDFs all day long? Why am I still taking exams? Why do I get paid lower than the D.W. Simpson Actuarial Salary Survey range? Have I missed my calling somewhere?

As if on cue, the TV captured Sam’s attention. It was one of those Kibbles and Bits commercials. Man, those dogs were so cute! After that, the news came on. They were detailing another one of those unexplained deaths.

“We don’t know how she died,” said a doctor being interviewed. “She was perfectly healthy, then bam! She started coughing a lot. I mean really raspy. And then she died. It’s just like the others.”

“Yes,” said the reporter. “The mysterious raspy coughing disease strikes again. This is the fifth death this week and sixteenth since the epidemic started.”

“It’s not a disease,” said the doctor.

“Who died and made you the reporter? I have the mike, and I can call it whatever I want.”

“There are no signs of germs, and none of these people knew each other. So, how could it spread?”

“Um,” said the reporter. “Don’t we have a commercial coming or something ?”

A policeman walked in front of the camera, holding a piece of paper. He said, “This is just in!”

The reporter rolled his eyes and asked, “Is there anyone else who wants to do my job?”

“Here, we have some new information. Read this.”

“Okay. We have new information,” read the reporter.

The policeman interrupted, “I just said that!”

“That’s what it says here in your note!”

“Well, keep on going!”

“We have found a link. All of the victims took out policies with Life & Death Insurance.”

Life & Death? Sam asked himself. They were a small, local competitor.

“Yes, Life & Death Insurance. We don’t know what this means. Also, we found this note. What note? The one I’m reading now? That doesn’t make sense. If you’re writing a note, you don’t say you found that note. That’s stupid!”

The policeman gasped and said, “Oops. Sorry. Here it is.”

The camera zoomed in on the other note, which said, “I killed them all. TBA.”

“Okay,” said the reporter. “It appears that someone has been infecting these people with the raspy coughing disease. This has now become a homicide investigation.”

“No it hasn’t,” said the policeman.

“Give it up,” said the doctor. “I already tried.”

That was enough for Sam. He heard what he needed to hear. His lunch was done, and the saxophonist was packing up. Sam knew what he had to do. He just needed to muster up the courage to do it.

He had to talk to the big man: Arnold Fogarty, the Chief Actuary. He needed his experience and advice. However, Sam hardly saw him, as there were so many actuaries employed there. Will he know who I am? I just have to tell him my idea. He’ll understand.

At 4:30, when Fogarty was alone in his office, Sam knocked on his door.

“Yes? Come in!” he said in a rush.

Sam opened the door and saw the 70-year-old man rustling papers at his desk. He had his glasses on and he was buried in his work. When Sam didn’t say anything, he finally looked up and said, “What is it, kid? I don’t have all day.”

“Um, hi Mr. Fogarty. I need to ask you something.”

Mr. Fogarty flicked his glasses off and asked, “Do I know you?”

“Yes, I’m Sam McAtry. I’m an actuary.”

“I see. You’ve passed all your exams, then?”

“Well no, I ...”

Mr. Fogarty interrupted, “Then you’re not an actuary. How many exams have you passed?”

“Three, sir,” was Sam’s reply. Shouldn’t he know already?

“Okay, that would make you an actuarial analyst.”

“That’s not what I put on my tax forms. I say ‘actuary.’”

Mr. Fogarty laughed and said, “Just hope they don’t audit your taxes, son!”

“Besides, I don’t see the difference. Actuarial analyst. Actuary. They’re both the same.”

Mr. Fogarty suddenly stood up and said forcefully, “They are not the same! You are not an actuary until you’ve passed all your exams! Until then, you are just a student!”

“I do actuarial work, just like Fellows.”

“It’s still not the same! Can you sign actuarial opinions? Do you have letters after your name like this?” He pointed to the nameplate that took up the whole front of his desk.

“No,” answered Sam.

“Listen, kid. You’ve got a long way to go. You have no idea how many kids start taking exams, and then they give up. They become accountants or even worse – financial analysts. Those aren’t actuaries. Those are losers! Do you know how long I’ve been doing this?”

“Um, fifty years?”

“Close enough! When I was your age, we didn’t have fancy computers. We didn’t even have calculators. We had to do all our calculations on abacuses.”

“Abacuses? Yeah, right!” said Sam.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how many parts we used to have on each exam!”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I’m just getting started! When I began working, Sholom Feldblum published his first paper.”

“Which one was that?” asked Sam.

“Aha! If you were a full-fledged actuary, you wouldn’t have to ask! He was two at the time, and it’s called, ‘On the Stochastic Variations of Bottle Temperatures.’”

“No way! I didn’t know bottle temperatures followed a time series! Did anyone take him seriously?”

“Of course they did,” Mr. Fogarty answered. “That was when mothers began splashing milk on their wrists!”

“That’s impressive. You really have been around a long time! Shouldn’t you be retired by now?”

“No, that’s not for me. Ever since I saw that movie about actuaries, I’ve decided to work till I’m dead.”

“What?” asked Sam. “‘The Billion Dollar Bubble’?”

“No! ‘About Schmidt’! As soon as I retire, you guys are going to throw all my life’s work into the trash!”

“I’d never do that,” Sam lied.

“What did you come in here to ask me anyways? I have to get back to work!”

“Well, sir. It’s about those murders.”

“What murders?” asked Mr. Fogarty.

“The coughing death murders. I think we can help solve the case.”

Fogarty laughed. “What? Go on, kid, tell me why.”

“Haven’t you heard they’re all connected to Life & Death Insurance? We could use our actuarial knowledge to help them out.”

“Help them out? I don’t think so. If they go under, it’ll be more premiums for us. The way I see it, you need not worry about it. You’re busy enough as it is – taking exams and working for us. Let the police handle this.”

“But innocent people are dying,” insisted Sam. “I could speed up the process.”

Mr. Fogarty looked confused.

“Oh,” said Sam. “I mean the catch-the-bad-guy process, of course.”

“They’ll catch him. Don’t worry about it. Remember what that note said? TBA. That stands for ‘to be announced.’ Just a couple more murders and he’ll announce his identity.”

“If you won’t help, could I ask for one day off? That’s all it’ll take. I could have that case solved in no time.”

Mr. Fogarty seemed distracted. “Do you hear a saxophone, son?”

“Oh yeah. He plays downstairs at lunch. Should I ask him to go back to the practice room?”

“No, it’s kind of relaxing. Jazzy. Oh yes. I remember when they started that too!”

“Huh?”

“Listen kid,” said Mr. Fogarty. “You can’t have the time off. If you work for this company, you’ve got work to do. You know our company motto. ‘If it’s Really Big, it’s ours.’ You don’t have time to chase pipe dreams. Now, you’re coming into work tomorrow, or you’ll be working for Life & Death! They don’t pay as well. The only way you’re not coming in is if you’re sick or something, so you should just let it go.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “You’re the boss.”

Unless I get sick? Hmmm. That gives me an idea.

The next morning, Sam called his supervisor at 7:30. He said in his sickest voice, “Hey Bart. I’m sick today. I can’t come in.”

“Really?” asked Bart. “Do you have a fever?”

He’s not going for it! Wait! I know!

Sam faked a few raspy coughs.

Bart yelled, “No! You’ve got the disease! Don’t come in! Please don’t!” and he quickly hung up the phone.

Sam laughed. “Hee, hee, hee. I knew that’d get them. Now it’s time to get down to business.”

First stop was the home of the last victim, Diada Lass. The place was covered with cops. One of them stopped Sam.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you supposed to be here?”

Sam quickly flashed a fake badge, and then put it away, saying, “The name’s Sam McAtry, P. I. I’m here to talk to the husband.”

“Oh, he’s over there,” she answered, pointing to a broken man.

Sam approached, looked the man straight at his feet, held out his hand and introduced himself.

The man answered, “I’m Peter. What do you want?”

“I’m just here to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered tons of questions. Could you just leave me alone?”

“Sir,” said Sam. “I can solve this case. I’m a specialist. Not only am I an investigator, but I’m also an actuary.”

“Actuary? What’s that?”

“We work with math and statistics. We can do life insurance.”

“Oh, I see,” said Peter, pretending to understand. “You’re really one of these actuaries?”

Remembering what Fogarty said the day before, Sam answered, “Actually, I’m an actuarial analyst.”

“Wow! That’s better than an actuary!”

“Um, yes. I guess so.”

“Now that you mention it, I seem to remember an actuary joke. Something about an accountant?”

“Oh yeah,” said Sam. “An accountant is someone who wanted to be an actuary, but didn’t have the personality.”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“It does go both ways.”

“I don’t get it,” Peter said.

“How about this one? There are three types of actuaries. Those who can count and those who can’t.”

After a long pause, Peter asked, “Okay, what’s the third?”

“That’s it! That’s the joke!”

“I don’t get that one either. Hey, do you have a light bulb joke? How many actuaries does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“Oh,” said Sam with a groan. “You don’t want to go there.”

“I see. I think I’m starting to understand the personality joke.”

“Hey, we’ve got to figure out who murdered your wife. Tell me about this Life & Death policy. How long ago did she take it out?”

Peter thought about it then answered, “About five years ago.”

“How old was she?”

“When she died? She was thirty.”

“Are they going to pay the claim?” asked Sam.

“They say they are. There’s no way they can deny it.”

“Very interesting,” said Sam as he thought out loud. “Sixteen deaths, and Life & Death has to pay out all those claims. This must really be cutting into their profits.”

“Who cares about their profits?”

“I’m just trying to establish motive. I think the answer lies with Life & Death Insurance. That’s where we need to go next.”

Peter looked distracted. “Excuse me, but who’s that playing the saxophone?”

“Oh, him? How should I know?”

Peter shook his head and said, “I don’t know about you. Are you really a private investigator?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m here.”

“May I see your credentials?”

Sam took out the fake badge, flashed it, but Peter grabbed it before he could put it away.

“What is this? Did you get this out of a Cracker Jack box?”

Sam was busted. He answered, “Maybe.”

“Are you even an actuary?”

“Yeah, here’s a business card.”

Peter studied it, reading out loud, “Really Big Insurance Company? I see. And your name really is Sam McAtry?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“Does your boss know you’re here?”

“No,” said Sam truthfully. “If he knew, I’d lose my job.”

“Just a word of advice. If you really want to do this private investigating, I suggest you don’t use your real name. Also, you don’t want to be caught on camera looking like yourself. You need a disguise. Here, I have an idea. Use this.”

Sam looked at the object Peter gave him and asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s called a comb. Here, let me try.”

Peter combed Sam’s hair and then said, “There. Now no one will know it’s you.”

“I’m confused. Why are you helping me so much?”

“These policemen don’t know what they’re doing. You might be able to figure this out. Go get ‘em!”

Armed with a new name and a disguise, Sam marched on to Life & Death Insurance. As expected, there was a commotion there, complete with cops and reporters. The president of the company was busily fielding questions.

A cop stopped Sam asking, “Who are you?”

Sam flashed his fake badge quickly, (he was getting good at it), and said, “I’m Alma McLyst, P. I.”

“Oh, and who’s your friend?”

“The saxophone player? I don’t know. He keeps following me.”

“What is with you private investigators? Why do you always insist on having your own theme music? You know, we cops have our own music too. Hey George! Come over here.”

A man came over carrying ... “Bongo drums?”

“Yes. You know. Bad boys, bad boys. Watcha gonna do?”

“That’s not bongos,” said Sam. “That’s reggae.”

“Really now? Listen, the bongos stay, or your friend’s out of here. At least I know my musician’s name!”

Sam had no room to complain. The bongos had to stay. George and the saxophonist just stared at each other. How awkward! Then again, Sam didn’t have time to worry about it. He had a case to solve!

The cop said, “Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting to ask the president questions.”

“Sure. What’s his name?”

“Leif N. Surants. Now’s your chance. Hurry before someone else grabs him!”

Sam wasted no time and approached the president. “Excuse me, Mr. Surants. May I ask you a few questions?”

They introduced each other. Sam couldn’t help but notice how nice and pleasant the man was compared to Fogarty. I’ll have to keep this place in mind for later. I could see myself working here.

He just had to ask him, “Do you guys happen to have a company motto?”

“Sure. ‘If it’s not alive, it’s dead.’”

Sam fought back a chuckle, then said, “Now, that’s interesting.”

“I made it up myself,” said the president. “It’s so hard these days to come up with a good company motto. You don’t want to offend anyone, and as you know – dead people are dead, so they can’t be offended. It’s also a double-entendre. People can be alive and dead, but so can ideas! If an idea dies, just let it die! Isn’t that clever?”

Nodding his head, Sam answered, “I can see that. Wow!”

After a few more niceties, Sam cut to chase and asked, “Could I see your records on the sixteen who’ve died?”

“Sure thing. Come with me.”

Sam and the others followed. They entered a sterile room – all enclosed with white walls, white flooring, no windows, and no decorations. Some ten white-shirt-clad persons typed away at their computers. It was strangely quiet and eerie – like in that “Birds” movie.

Mr. Surants said, “This is our actuarial department.”

“Hi,” said Sam with a wave.

They all waved back in response, looking at Sam’s feet.

Wow! Extroverts like me! This place is great!

“You’ll have to excuse them,” said Mr. Surants. “They’re not taking this too well. You see, if this keeps up, we’re going to have to raise our premiums or go out of business.”

“In other words,” said Sam, “you’re going to have to go out of business.”

“Exactly. That is if we can’t figure out where this disease is coming from. Here you go. Files on the deceased.”

He handed Sam sixteen folders. Sam studied the contents, which didn’t make sense. “They were all young and healthy,” he said. “They should have lived much longer.”

“Yes. Can you imagine having to pay out all these claims without having the premiums built up over time?”

“Hey, wait just a minute,” said Sam. “I believe I see a pattern. I need a calculator.”

Several actuarials (that’s what you call them when you’re not sure if they’re Fellows or just students) held up calculators.

Sam said, “I need a financial calculator.”

Someone held up an HP, but Sam said, “No, does anyone have a BA-35 Solar?!”

A student handed over one. It had the SOA and CAS logos on its back. Sam punched away until he saw some of the keys weren’t working.

“Alright now,” he said. “Can I have a BA-35 Solar that actually works?!”

The president pulled one out of his briefcase. He said, “This may be the last working model in the state. Please go easy on the buttons.”

Sam punched away, doing all kinds of calculations. When he was done, he said, “Just as I thought. These files are incomplete.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Surants.

“These files don’t contain their current health records.”

“Of course they don’t. We only consider those at the time they take out the policies.”

“Would you mind looking up info on this Diada Lass? Check to see what table pertains to her.”

“It says here in the file. She was a young healthy 25-year old woman.”

“No,” said Sam. “I mean to check and see what table applies now – in your computer system.”

Mr. Surants looked confused, but he still had an actuary pull up the information. (This actuary was a Fellow, so we can call him that.)

“This is strange,” said the president. “She’s not on the healthy table. She’s on a terminally ill table.”

“Terminally ill and smoking ,” corrected the actuary.

“That would explain the raspy cough,” said a cop.

Mr. Surants asked, “What are you talking about? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Here,” said Sam. “Check some of these others.”

The actuary pulled up five other names, and the results were the same. Each one was on a terminally ill and smoking table.

“This is impossible,” said the president.

Sam explained, “At least we can see what happened. Somebody must have moved your policyholders’ names to terminally ill and smoking tables, which caused them to die a short-lived life.”

“There’s just no way this could happen! When we write a policy, everything is locked in place. How could somebody switch tables in the systems without it being reflected in the annual premiums? Even then, how could switching tables ...?”

Sam interrupted, “Only a computer genius could have accomplished this! Every system has its weaknesses, and this person found and exploited yours. We’re looking for someone who spends all his time on the computer. I believe I know who that person might be.”

“Who is it?” asked the cop.

“Bring me that note where he said he killed them all. Then I’ll tell you who it is.”

The cop brought the note to him. Sam closely inspected it and said, “Aha! What is this here? I see a little dust on this note.”

He brushed the dust away and showed everyone what it really said: “I killed them all. TDA.”

“TDA?” asked the president.

“Yes,” answered Sam. “That stands for ‘The Drunken Actuary.’”

“The drunken who?” asked the cop.

“Actuary!”

“Oh, what’s that?” asked the cop.

Half the people in the room groaned. Then they went on, ignoring the question.

Sam explained, “He’s an internet personality. He posts on the actuarial forums.”

“Who is he?” asked Mr. Surants. “Why would he sabotage my company?”

“No one knows who he is, though there are many who wished they did.”

The cop, now irritated, said, “Hold it! You said if I brought you this note, you’d tell us who it was. Now you say you don’t know?”

“Hold your horses,” said Sam. “We’ll find out soon enough. I need to make a phone call, first.”

He took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Hello, Traci? I have a question for you. ...” (He paused while listening.)

“No, I haven’t read your book yet. It’s in the cue, though. ...”

“Yes, it’s about TDA. ... Yeah, that’s him. ...”

“You don’t think he’s really an atheist? Well, he’s got me convinced. ...”

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me who he was. ...”

“Well, he’s been somewhat of a naughty boy. He’s killed a few people and ...”

“You’re kidding! ...”

“You don’t say! ...”

“Yeah, we’ve got cops here and everything. ...”

“Okay, thanks for your help. I’ll let them know. ...”

“Sure, bye.”

He closed his phone and the cop asked, “What did she say?”

“She didn’t say,” answered Sam. “She’s not allowed to reveal any of the forum member’s identities.”

“Why that ...,” said the cop. “I’ll subpoena her ...”

“There’s no need for that,” said Sam. “We have other ways of determining TDA’s identity. Think about it. This had to be an inside job. No matter how good you are at computers, you still have to know the inner workings of the company. We’re looking for a former employee who had a grudge against Life & Death. Mr. Surants, do you recall any of your employees being fired for what could be seen as unjust cause?”

The president thought a little then said, “I can’t think of anyone. We’re always fair to our employees, and we hardly fire anyone.”

“Could you take me to HR and show me some of your prior employee files?”

“You’re in luck, because in this small company, the actuarial department doubles as the HR department.”

“You don’t say!” said Sam.

That same actuary produced a list of former employees, indicating which ones were fired.

“So,” said Sam, “you say you’re fair to all your ... whoa! I can’t believe this! You fired Prakash Naor?!”

“Did you know him?” asked Mr. Surants. “He was a real jerk. We had to fire him for everyone’s sanity. He went ballistic when we wouldn’t give him free tickets to the fair. I kept telling him it was company policy. He just wasn’t with us long enough to get the tickets!”

“Dude! This could be our guy!”

“I doubt it. After we fired him, he killed himself. He wrote some kind of suicide note on the internet and bam! He’s not alive, so he’s dead. You know?”

“Hmmm. And none of these other names ring a bell?” asked Sam.

“No. These are all gentle-natured people. I can’t think of anyone who’d hold a grudge against us.”

Sam thought about this and said, “Wait a minute. I’ve been approaching this the wrong way. This couldn’t have been someone you fired. No one could have accomplished this from the outside.” He then whispered to Mr. Surants, “Whoever did this still works here.”

The president looked around and said, “Oh my gosh! He’s missing!”

“Missing?” asked Sam. “Who?”

“Hüdy. He was here when you came in, and he’s not here now.”

“Hüdy?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Surants. “He’s a Swedish import. Hüdy Büdy van Mørk deMüdy.”

“Yep,” said the cop. “That’s gotta be him. With a name like that, I’d be drunk all the time, too.”

“I should have seen it!” said the president. “He was a Fellow in his country, but we wouldn’t recognize him here. It wasn’t our fault, but we told him he had to take the US exams. He couldn’t pass them because they were much harder.”

“That’s too bad,” said Sam, who could guess what he went through.

“Lately, he’s been bitter and withdrawn. I never knew he’d take it out on us.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I believe we’ve found The Drunken Actuary! Now, where is he?”

Nobody saw where he went.

“Think!” urged Sam. “We’ve got to find him now, before it’s too late! Do you realize what’s happening, Mr. Surants? Do you have a policy taken out with your company?”

“Of course I do. All upper management supports their ...”

“You don’t get it! Your life is in danger!”

“Oh!” said Mr. Surants. “My life insurance policy! He’s going to switch tables on me!”

“Yes! And gain ultimate revenge! He blames you for making him retake those actuarial exams. He’s desperate, and now he’s doing whatever he can before they catch him!”

“I still don’t see how switching tables can ...”

“You don’t have time!” interrupted Sam. “Think! There ought to be very few places in your company that have access clearance high enough to pull this stunt.”

“Let’s see,” said the president. “This room has the highest clearance. There’s nowhere else except my office, which is locked, and ... Oh no! The receptionist’s desk!”

“That’s where he is!” yelled Sam. “Run!”

They quickly ran to the receptionist’s desk next door and found the receptionist unconscious. Hüdy Büdy, no make that TDA, was typing away at the computer. Sure enough, Mr. Surants’ name was on the top of the screen, and TDA was about to push the button, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The cop jumped on the culprit and knocked him over.

The president walked over to the computer and carefully backed out of the screens that were meant to kill him. He said to one of the actuarials, “I want this loophole fixed immediately! We don’t need any more innocent lives lost! Get IS on it right away!”

The actuarial answered, “Sir, we are the IS.”

“Oh, oh yeah.”

Hüdy Büdy regained his composure enough to say, “Oy! Don’ta hurta me!”

Everyone laughed. The case was closed.

 

The very next day, Sam McAtry was back in the dark break room, watching the rain fall, eating his lunch and listening to the saxophone play. Only this time, there were bongos, too. At least someone made a new friend.

Sam watched TV as they told the news of how a crime spree was halted by one Alma McLyst, P. I. No one at work knew the difference. Peter was right. The disguise had worked. Sam couldn’t help thinking that he missed his hair being straight, but he didn’t dare comb his hair now, as people would recognize him.

Sam received no reward, nor any kind of payment, but he knew he had done well. In a world that holds its life expectancies secret, he found a way to make that world a better place to live. With that, he smiled as he counted the number of sick days he had remaining.