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"I'm thinking, Holy shit, this is exactly like the movies," Fischer says. "I considered not taking the money, but then I thought, Wait, I didn't do anything wrong here. Everyone else is getting paid—why shouldn't I?"
An investigator made a proposal: They'd give him another $10,000 to come in with all of his documents. Fischer laughed, "My safety is worth $15,000?"
The next meeting came March 11 at a small park. This time, MLB top cop Dan Mullin himself showed up. He suggested a deal: Fischer would share everything in exchange for a $1,000-per-week salary for a year as a "consultant." He'd be on the hook to answer any questions about the records.
"I told him: 'No way. That's not enough to protect myself.' And he said, 'Porter, this stuff isn't worth a million bucks.' But I never said it was. I just wanted to know how I could feel safe cooperating with these guys."
Baseball was done with the carrots. On March 19, MLB attorney Steven Gonzalez texted Fischer. It was three days before baseball would file a lawsuit against Tony Bosch and other Biogenesis associates. Gonzalez warned Fischer about the suit and added, "I hope you take it as a sign of good faith that your name was not included. This does not preclude us from making a deal, but if you ignore a forthcoming subpoena, it will force us to compel the courts to produce the four notebooks."
Then Gonzalez made an offer: "We can compensate you in the amount of $125,000 for all the records and your signature on affidavits."
Fischer took the text as "a fucking . . . lawyer-speak threat."
"No, thank you," he quickly texted Gonzalez back. "Not worth it."
MLB never seemed to grasp one key fact about Fischer: He didn't give a damn about their sport. In fact, other than A-Rod and Melky Cabrera, Fischer didn't even recognize a single ballplayer's name in the Biogenesis records.
He had only one motivation: taking down Tony Bosch, the guy he says took his money and laughed in his face. That's why Fischer was so much more receptive when the Florida Department of Health came calling.
The health department was a strange choice to investigate Bosch. Drug Enforcement Administration agents or local cops would have been more logical, but a well-placed source says the feds initially refused to take the case.
Florida's DOH, by contrast, had a very narrow issue: If Bosch was practicing medicine or compounding drugs without a license, the department could charge him. Fischer met with an agent named Jerome Hill.
Fischer immediately trusted Hill. The investigator wanted only to go after Bosch. "I agreed to cooperate completely," Fischer says.
The two began meeting regularly, and Hill—who repeatedly declined to talk about his investigation—began building a case against Bosch.
Fischer provided documents, including copies of medical reports that indicated Bosch had prescribed testosterone, human growth hormone (HGH), and anabolic steroids such as Anavar, Winstrol, and MIC. Fischer had even taken Bosch's lab coat from the office, a full-length white coat with "Dr. Tony Bosch" stitched over the pocket.
But the seemingly slam-dunk case soon hit road blocks. The first came March 24, when Fischer, at Hill's request, traveled to a storage unit where he'd kept many of the boxes of medical files. When he stopped at the Boca Tanning Club in Boca Raton at 11:30 a.m., someone broke into his car and took the files, his laptop, and his .32 Beretta, according to a police report.
"I told the police right away, 'This is important state's evidence that was taken,'" Fischer says. "They thought I was crazy."
A close-out memo from the Boca PD shows a detective talked to Hill about the case and noted the New York Times reports that both A-Rod and MLB officials were reportedly buying documents from clinic employees. Hill "did not think Fischer sold files to any players," the officer writes. On March 20, they closed the case "pending DNA or new information."
Who took the boxes? It's still a mystery.
"Whoever did this was a professional," he says. "They followed me for hours, waited for their one opportunity, and then struck."
Worse was yet to come. About a week later, the DOH abruptly closed its case and announced Bosch would receive a citation and a $5,000 fine, but no criminal charges. "[We have] referred this matter to law enforcement," says spokeswoman Ashley Carr.
Why would the health department pass on a chance at such a high-profile criminal case? Bosch couched his business as an anti-aging clinic—which makes it part of a major industry in Florida. If regulators went after Bosch for improperly distributing HGH, how many others would they have to chase down?
Whatever the reason, Fischer is still baffled at prosecutors' lack of enthusiasm. "[They] completely blew this investigation, and I gave them everything on a silver platter," he says. "I blame the fucking bureaucrats."
When the story broke late on June 4, Fischer was livid: Citing two anonymous sources, ESPN reported Tony Bosch had reached an agreement with MLB to cooperate in its investigation. In return, baseball would drop its ongoing lawsuit against the bogus doctor, indemnify him against future damages, and provide personal security.