Having spent most of my life in California, I hadn’t known much about medical examiners in Wisconsin, but I had come to learn that the office was independent of any police agency or hospital. I also knew they were responsible for investigating “reportable” deaths—and I had a strong hunch that David Lovell’s bizarre demise, with the suspicious circumstances surrounding it, fell squarely into that category.
When I had first met Dumont’s medical examiner, I was expecting someone older, more wizened, and less vibrant, but Heather Vance was blond and pretty, surprisingly young, thirty or so. Today she looked sharp and lively in a chipper skirt and jacket of cerulean blue.
“Have a seat,” said Simms as he stepped behind his desk and sat. Heather and I took chairs facing him. He told me, “I asked Heather to stop by and summarize her initial findings. I thought you might want to hear this, too, Brody.”
“Sure,” I said, though I was confused. Had Mary Questman—and Marson—been right? Had they foreseen that I would be drawn into another investigation?
Heather set a folder on the front edge of Simms’s desk and opened it, drawing out a raft of odd-sized notes, forms, and reports. Jogging them on her knees, she explained, “It’s not yet twenty-four hours since we were first called to the scene, so this is very preliminary, but I think we already have a sense of direction. First, the time of death could have been no more than a few minutes before the time the victim was found, as reported by Brody.”
I said, “I was the first to hear the odd sound of the organ—while we were over by the school, near the playground. We weren’t even sure what it was, so we went to find the source, which led us to the church. By the time we got the door unlocked, went inside, and found David, I’m guessing three or four minutes had passed. Maybe five.”
Heather nodded. “That would be perfectly consistent with the temperature, lack of lividity, and other factors pertaining to the corpse.”
I said, “His face appeared bluish to me. Isn’t that livor mortis?”
“Easily confused, but I’m fairly sure the bluish flesh was a symptom of cyanosis—which develops quickly from lack of oxygen. Essentially, David choked to death.”
Envisioning the scene, I suggested, “And struggling for air, seated at the organ, helpless and paralyzed, he finally lost consciousness, collapsing on the keyboards. Intended or not, the wailing of the organ was like a siren—a last and futile cry for help.”
“Phew,” said Simms, tugging his collar to ease his breathing. “What do you think choked him? He wasn’t strangled, was he?”
“No, definitely not,” said Heather. “There were no signs of struggle or abrasion of the neck. I think he choked because of something he ate. Any guesses?”
I took a stab: “Nuts?”
“It’s a strong theory. He was allergic to nuts, and his allergy was widely known.”
“Yeah,” said Simms, thinking aloud. “Even I knew that. Tommy’s in the choir—my son—and there were parties and potlucks, and David always warned about his nut allergy. Everybody knew about it.”
I said, “I knew it, too. He mentioned it to me the night before he died. He had dinner with us.”
Heather said, “So here’s my working theory: David ate nuts, or something with nuts in it, and he went into anaphylactic shock. In rare instances, the reaction can be sudden and severe—even lethal. Symptoms include David’s observed vomiting, swelling, and hives. Swelling of the throat, clogged with vomit, could easily asphyxiate a victim. We’ll perform a postmortem. The stomach contents will be analyzed, as will the vomit and the food that was present—potato chips and a plate of cookies, which appeared to be homemade macaroons.”
Simms asked if David carried an EpiPen, an injectable antidote to anaphylaxis.
“We didn’t find one,” said Heather. “But the bottom line is this: I’m fairly confident that our testing will conclude that the cause of death was anaphylactic shock and the mechanism of death was asphyxiation. We’ll know soon enough. But that still leaves the manner of death. And that’s up to you guys.”
Simms pondered aloud, “Manner of death: natural, accidental, suicide, or homicide.”
But I was still stuck on Heather’s declaration, “That’s up to you guys.”
Throughout the meeting, I noticed that neither Thomas Simms nor Heather Vance was asking me anything at all regarding what I had witnessed the prior afternoon—which had been the pretext for inviting me to the meeting—and instead, they were opening their files to me and drawing me into their confidence.
When we had finished, Thomas stepped to the door with us and thanked Heather as she left. He then turned to ask me, “Can you stay a minute?”
I returned to my chair. Simms followed and sat next to me, in the chair Heather had occupied, rather than behind his desk. Whatever he had to say, evidently, was more personal than official. He angled his chair toward me and scooched it a few inches closer.
“Tommy is taking this real hard,” he said. “He’s seven years old, and he’s never had to deal with the death of someone he knew—and liked.”
I recalled watching an encounter between Tommy Simms and David Lovell the prior October, after the funeral I’d attended at St. Alban’s. Tommy beamed with pride stemming from his participation in the choir; Gloria Simms told the choirmaster how much her son loved singing and always looked forward to rehearsals; David patted Tommy’s shoulder and said he had a strong voice with perfect pitch and timing. I now realized, with a measure of shame, that David had been far more than a pretty-boy musician who wore too much perfume—he was a teacher and friend who’d made a profound difference in the lives of those he fostered with his talents. As a cruel addendum to his sudden death, dozens of other innocent lives had been robbed of his mentoring and affection.
“I’m so sorry, Thomas.”
Simms shook his head. “It’s a ‘life lesson,’ as they say. Someday, sooner or later, everyone learns the reality of death—when it’s suddenly no longer an abstraction. But it’s hard to watch a kid go through it.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Simms grinned.
I asked, “What?”
“You have a way with this, Brody. You have disciplined problem-solving instincts and great recall. Plus, the victim was gay, so you may have insights that would otherwise escape me. In short: I’m wondering if you’d be willing to supply this investigation with some friendly assistance.”
And there it was. Mary Questman was right. So was Marson. I was a sidekick again.
Hearing no protest from me, Simms continued, “So, then: manner of death. Any thoughts?”
I nodded. “I’d rule out that it was a natural death because David was young and vigorous, apparently healthy; the postmortem should clarify that quickly. I’d also rule out suicide because the whole setup was too goofy, and besides, I know from our dinner, the night before David died, that he was jazzed about the prospect of hearing Renée Fleming perform in New York, an opportunity he would never miss. Which leaves only two other options: David’s death was either an accident or a homicide.”
“Exactly my thoughts,” said Simms. “David could have accidentally eaten something with nuts in it. Or someone could have intentionally slipped it to him, knowing of his allergy, resulting in his death—which would be homicide.”
I raised a finger. “One more thought. What about the incense and the fire? The strangeness of that detail suggests that whatever happened was not an accident, but ‘staged,’ either to make a point or purely to create confusion.”
Simms raised a finger. “One more thought. Yesterday you told us that when you arrived at the front door to the church, Joyce Hibbard thought it would not be locked, but it was. That sounds like deliberate tampering. Combine that with the incense fire, and the whole scenario looks more and more like—say it with me—”
We said it together: “Murder.”
Murder always has a motive. Neither Simms nor I had known David Lovell well enough to fa
thom a guess as to why someone might want him dead, so we simply needed to start digging and then weigh the possibilities.
Simms had already checked with the parish office that morning and, through its employment files, identified David’s brother, Geoff Lovell, as next of kin. The listed contact number was Geoff’s mobile phone, and when the sheriff’s office reached him, he was visiting Dumont. He agreed to meet with Simms later that afternoon, and Simms invited me to sit in.
After lunch (after enduring some good-natured ribbing from Marson, calling me Sherlock), I returned to the county complex, as requested.
As before, the deputy outside the sheriff’s office told me, “He’s expecting you.” She took me in, but the office was empty, and she led me through another door that opened into the conference room where, the prior fall, Simms and I had explored the details of another untimely death.
The room had a high ceiling with tall windows and venetian blinds that were tilted to admit abundant sunlight but no view; there was nothing to see outside other than a brick wall of the jail. Opposite the windows was a wall of wooden bookcases, brown and varnished, containing cockeyed binders of whatnot. The space was sort of pleasant, in an old-timey, comfy kind of way, bearing no resemblance to the sterile, fluorescent interrogation rooms depicted on cop shows.
Simms brightened when he saw me and waved me in; the deputy left. Someone else—I assumed it was a police stenographer—was setting up a few feet away from the oblong conference table. Simms sat at the head of the table, arranging a stack of file folders. Behind him, I noticed a darker rectangle on the faded surface of the green wall where there had previously hung an old oil portrait, cracked and yellowed by the passing of years, depicting a man with a horse and something that looked like a monkey. The painting had always baffled me. Now I was baffled by its absence.
I pulled out a chair along the side of the table and sat near Simms. Unzipping a small leather portfolio containing a notepad and pen, I said, “At dinner on Tuesday, David mentioned something that caught my attention and piqued my curiosity.”
Simms arched his brows. “Let’s have it.”
“David dropped two details in passing conversation. He said he didn’t ‘need to work.’ And he mentioned ‘the hassles with my brother.’ He added, ‘We’re nothing alike.’”
“Hmmm,” said Simms, “something to do with money, and something to do with family friction.” Dryly, he noted, “That’s always promising.”
The deputy opened the door. Simms and I stood as she admitted a young man, presumably Geoff Lovell, who was followed into the conference room by a young woman and a large dog. I could tell from the sheriff’s expression that he was not expecting this. As the deputy bowed out, Simms and I stepped over to greet Geoff and the tagalongs.
Geoff looked several years younger than David, but the fraternal resemblance was obvious—to a degree. While they shared a strikingly similar build and features, Geoff had none of his older brother’s polish and style (I mean, let’s face it, he was straight). More to the point, Geoff seemed a little rough around the edges, with grungy clothes and neglected grooming. I noticed chewed, dirty nails and wondered if he smoked. Whatever I smelled, it wasn’t his brother’s perfume habit.
He vaguely introduced us to his companions, named Cindy and Spark.
The girl was petite and looked a few years younger than Geoff. Her bedraggled appearance matched that of her boyfriend, and her eyes had a vacant look, making me wonder if there was a drug problem. She sported a full-sleeve tattoo on her right arm, depicting a whirl of Japanese calligraphy and manga characters. All the ink was jet black, matching her hair, worn in a messy shoulder-length pageboy.
The big, leggy dog resembled a pony next to the girl. Of indeterminate breed with a shaggy brown coat, the poor pooch looked underfed and unhealthy. It wore an indigo paisley bandana instead of a collar.
Simms invited everyone to sit. Geoff and the girl took chairs on the side of the table opposite me. The dog settled on the floor between them.
Simms recited a few preliminaries while opening a folder, then offered Geoff condolences on the death of his brother, assuring him that the sheriff’s office was committed to sorting out the tragedy. Nothing was said about my presence, other than the fact that I was the person who had found David dead the day before.
“For the record,” said Simms, “let me nail down some personal information.” He established that Geoff Lovell was twenty-three years old and had been living in Madison with his girlfriend since completing college a year ago. He had a degree in history, was not continuing with grad school, and was not employed.
Simms said to the girl, “And I’m afraid I didn’t get your last name.”
“Kavanaugh,” she said and confirmed the spelling.
Simms asked, “And is it Cindy or Cynthia?”
The dog barked.
Wearily, the girl explained to Simms, as if he were stupid, “Cindy’s the dog. I’m Spark.”
Simms and I exchanged a bewildered look.
“Yeah,” said Spark Kavanaugh, “my parents are weird.” She further explained that she was twenty years old, majoring in communications, and had wrapped up the final exams of her sophomore year the week before. “So Geoff thought it would be a good time to drive up and see his brother.”
“Where are you guys staying?”
Geoff said, “Pine Creek Suites, out by the highway.”
“‘Suites,’” said Spark derisively. “It’s a motel, a dump.”
She was right. There wasn’t a pine or a creek within sight of the place. Only asphalt.
Geoff added, “But they take dogs. And it’s cheap.”
“Okay,” said Simms, “this gets a little touchy, but I understand there may have been some friction between you and your brother. If that’s the case, why the visit?”
“It’s a long story.”
Simms said, “I have nothing better to do. Tell me about it.”
“Well, for starters, Dave’s five years older, first born, got Dad’s name, the ‘junior’ thing. Me? I always felt like—not exactly an accident—but more like an afterthought. And Mom used to joke that she always wanted a girl. And then Dave turned out gay. So in a crazy way, she sorta got the wish that I didn’t deliver.”
“How’d your dad feel about all that?”
“Hell, he didn’t care. Too busy making money. Sure, he was a jock, real macho—always said it was good for business—and I think he liked being ‘the man in the family,’ so, no, it didn’t bother him that Dave went gay.”
Simms asked Geoff, “And you’re not a jock?”
Dryly, he reminded the sheriff, “I have a history degree.”
“How did your father make his money?”
“The way I hear it, he grew up in Green Bay and was sort of a jock hero in high school. Then he met my mom, who went to college in Appleton, and that’s where they settled when they got married. He went into real estate and did great with it, trading on his jock-hero thing—people just seemed to like doing business with him. Then, by the time Dave and I were growing up, he quit real estate and started an investment company in order to make what he called ‘real money.’ It worked—I’ll hand him that. But it all ended three years ago. You may know about this. Dad and Mom were both killed in a car accident. Driving back from dinner at this country place they liked. Hit a tree. I guess he was drunk.”
Simms nodded. “Now that you mention it, I do remember that. And you’re right—he was drunk.”
“Like father, like son,” said Geoff. “I didn’t take after him as an athlete, but I did inherit his weakness for, shall we say, bad habits.”
Gently, Simms said, “Explain.”
“Well, I drink, sure—sometimes too much—who doesn’t? And I’ve also done a little too much experimenting with drugs, a college thing, but that is over now—I swear it, Sheriff. Trouble is, along the way, I had a few scrapes with the police, including a robbery. Dad had to bail me out of jail so I could get back to
classes. That was less than a year before he died.”
Simms turned to me. “Brody, tell Geoff what his brother said the night before he died.”
I hesitated. “Geoff, this is awkward. David had dinner with us Tuesday night, and at one point, he said, ‘I don’t need to work, but I love what I do. And it sure beats the hassles with my brother—who’s been threatening a visit.’” I added, “Sorry if that seems harsh. What was he talking about?”
Geoff took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. “It’s all related. After Dad got me out of jail, his attitude toward me changed—totally. I was now ‘the bad one.’ I was the immature ne’er-do-well who couldn’t be trusted. He threatened to disown me. A few months later, he was dead. He didn’t disown me, thank God, but he had time to tinker with his estate plan. As survivors of both Dad and Mom, Dave and I were the only heirs. But my inheritance was put in a trust, with Dave as trustee, until I turn thirty—after I’ve had a chance to ‘do some growing up,’ the will said. The trust made available enough money for me to finish college, but basically left me on my own after that, with a measly ‘allowance’ to be paid at Dave’s discretion. Did I hassle him about it? Sure I did.”
Simms asked, “And in the event of David’s death…?”
“Huh?”
“David was trustee of your portion of the inheritance. What did the will stipulate would happen in the event of David’s death?”
“Beats me,” said Geoff. “Never thought about it. I’m probably screwed.”
Spark groaned, looking sick. Cindy the dog whimpered.
But I highly doubted that Geoff had been screwed by his brother’s death. To the contrary, I thought there was a good chance the entire estate would now pass to the only surviving son. Had that not occurred to Geoff? Or was he playing dumb?
Simms asked him, “Who was the lawyer, the estate planner who set this up? You need to look into this. And frankly, so do I.”
ChoirMaster Page 9
