Tracking a Killer in Tijuana : Volunteer: Lemon Grove real estate agent spents most of his spare time gathering supplies for or working at the Tijuana AIDS clinic, which treats 70 patients for free.

A doctor recently turned to Fred Scholl, a volunteer in the AIDS clinic in Tijuana, and asked him if there were any birth control pills among the facility’s supplies.

“In an AIDS clinic? What do we need birth control pills for?” Scholl answered.

But, after that day, the clinic has been stocked with the contraceptives.

“We are prepared for anything,” Scholl said proudly.

Every week, Scholl drives from San Diego to Tijuana with the trunk of his car jammed with miscellaneous medical supplies--as well as a smattering of stuffed animals--to help keep the clinic going. Local San Diego doctors and medical facilities donate the stuff, knowing how desperately it is needed only 18 miles south.

‘If Fred stops going to Tijuana, the whole clinic would shut down,” said Mary McCarthy, a UC San Diego nurse who helped found the AIDS clinic, where 70 patients receive treatment free.

To some, Scholl--or “Tio (Uncle) Fred” as he is known around the clinic--is an enigma.

For three years, week after week, the 53-year-old Lemon Grove real estate agent has made the trip to Tijuana.

He spent his evenings and lunch breaks shuttling out to doctors’ offices, picking up gear.

He journeyed to San Diego AIDS patients’ homes, toting away supplies that could prove useful to less fortunate patients in Tijuana.

He has even become an expert at sizing up the Mexican patients and figuring out their clothing sizes--just in case he happens upon a cache of donated goods in the United States.

“Let’s face it, selling a house doesn’t give a feeling of contributing to the community, or doing something useful and productive for your fellow human beings,” said Scholl, who helped found the clinic.

Surveying the small, hot waiting room crowded with patients, Scholl said, “This gives me a feeling of doing something useful.”

The free clinic, open every Tuesday evening as soon as Scholl arrives to unlock its door, has become more than a medical facility. The patients here are often treated like modern-day pariahs by the world outside. They are frequently kicked out of their homes, shunned by relatives and friends. For them, the clinic may be the only place where people are not afraid to shake their hands.

“The people in the clinic are like my brothers and sisters,” Scholl said.

And yet, when patients die, Scholl is no longer filled with overwhelming grief. He cannot sustain that volume of emotion in a medical facility where the patients can only temporarily dodge death.

“There is a sadness; it’s more like a friend of yours has left town, and you’ll see him again,” Scholl said.

Scholl, a buoyant, energetic man who slicks back his salt-and-pepper hair, likes to wear bright colors when he works in the clinic. He has learned to entertain children by making balloons out of surgical gloves. And he’s modest about his role in the AIDS clinic, which is tended by one physician, Dr. Jose Lepe.

“What I saw was just thousands of dollars of medical supplies being tossed away that could be used just 18 miles south of San Diego,” Scholl said. “I am just transferring a resource where it can be used.”

And so, every Tuesday afternoon, Scholl leaves San Diego about 4:30 so he’ll have time to deal with the inevitable traffic. He always arrive early, getting to the clinic long before it officially opens at 6 p.m. Usually, patients are already waiting for him.

There, he unloads his catch on the newly constructed shelves, which contain bottles from pharmacies all over San Diego. He places small, stuffed animals amid the drug vials, hoping to brighten the room.

All the animals are destined for patients, except one. The large brown dog lounging by the pharmaceutical counter is a permanent resident.

“That’s my condom dog,” Scholl explained. “Usually, he has condoms stuffed in his mouth.”

Though the prophylactics were missing, the clinic’s shelves seemed well-stocked with a variety of drugs to treat AIDS patients, as well as a selection of items that seemed out of place, such as the Nicorette chewing gum.

But Scholl looks at the gum with a mischievous grin.

“I’m just waiting,” he said, “for the doctor to ask me if I have anything to help someone stop smoking.”