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Editor’s Note: Every investigator has a favorite story; something that happened in the course of an investigation that was unexpected, enlightening, entertaining or educational. Most are funny; all are meaningful. In the Trenches will be an ongoing column and we invite your submissions for publication in future issues of The John Cooke Insurance Fraud Report. To give you an idea of what we’re looking for, consider the following story submitted by an investigator for The Home Insurance Company.
The clinic, if accurately named, would have been called The Insurance Fraud Medical Clinic and Paper Accident Report Facility. It was located north of Los Angeles and the medical reports covered a variety of soft tissue injuries, extensive treatments and highly questionable accident facts. And that was why I traveled there one day, three-page form in hand, to do an on-site clinic inspection.
For those of you familiar with doing clinic inspections on less-than-reputable facilities, you’re aware that one of the favorite tricks is to let the investigator sit in the waiting room and wait – and wait – and wait. The administrator hopes you will tire of waiting and leave.
Nearly an hour passed as I sat quietly in the reception area. Three other people shared the room (patients?) and they chatted amicably with the two individuals behind the reception desk. They laughed, they pointed, they carried on an extensive conversation, but not in English.
I caught a few words that I thought were Hebrew. Since the claims we were seeing appeared to emanate from a group of Russian Jews, it was a good bet that I was correct in my assumption. It had been over 30 years since I’d gone to Hebrew School, attending after regular school for two hours, four days a week, for two years. My entire retained vocabulary consisted of perhaps a dozen words and my retained ability was limited to being able to write my name – in Hebrew.
Finally the lady office administrator came out. “Oh, are you still here?” she asked, disappointment evident in her tone. “Sure am,” I replied, rising to follow her into the back office area.
“Tell you what, honey,” she said as she pointed at my three-page inspection form, “Why don’t you just let me fill out those papers for you and we’ll both get out of here a lot faster?”
I gave her my dumbest blonde look and smiled sweetly. “Oh thank you,” I gushed, “but my company makes me do this in my own writing or they get mad at me.”
“Oh, all right,” she replied somewhat exasperated (surely from having to walk too many insurance fraud investigators through her facility). “What did you say your name was again?”
“Here, let me write it down for you,” I answered, and I promptly wrote my name – in Hebrew – on my note pad and showed it to her.
The woman’s mouth dropped open, way open. Her eyes bugged. “Funny,” I said pointing to my small nose and light blond hair, “I sure don’t look it, do I?”
–
She caught her breath in a gasp. “You’re Jewish?” she asked incredulously.
“One hundred percent,” I answered with what I hoped was a knowing sort of tone.
Her voice dropped two octaves. “You also know the language?”
“Enough,” I lied convincingly and grinned.
“How long did you sit in our waiting room?” she asked in a low whisper.
I smiled, just as sweetly as I could. “Definitely long enough,” I answered.
In all my days of investigating – in all the countless hokey clinics – never have I seen an administrator so flustered. Right to the very bone. Twenty minutes later, form completed, I thanked her profusely. “This has been sooooo interesting, meeting you, sitting in your waiting room, listening to your friends….. Shalom!” I stifled a giggle and walked out the door into the sunlight.
Had I understood anything beyond a very few words? Heck, no. But it apparently didn’t matter. My ability to write my name in Hebrew, say goodbye in Hebrew and smile knowingly was all it took. Three days later, for no explained reason, the drop letter arrived in the mail and we never heard from the claimants again.
© Copyright 1996 Alikim Media