by J K Franko
Yet, after that conversation in the study, everything had seemed to improve.
Susie’s attacks on him had stopped.
Bareto had never come out of the coma. He’d died. Complications from the head trauma, according to the autopsy. Justice served. But not revenge.
Shortly after, Susie had begun therapy.
Probably as a result of therapy, she’d left television and gone into advocacy.
He thought that it had worked for her.
That she was all good.
As he sat in the study, brooding, this is what had Roy worried. This is why he was preoccupied. This was important.
He’d thought that she had moved on. That the woman he had met that day three years back in his study had gone back into her cave, and returned his Susie to him.
But Susie had told him point blank a few hours earlier on the dock that it was still an issue. They had not avenged their little girl. There was still a gap between them. A space between them.
We failed our daughter. And it’s tearing me apart. It’s tearing us apart.
That was something Roy couldn’t live with because, in his heart, he knew—as horrible as it sounded—that he could live without Camilla, but he couldn’t live without Susie.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Liz Bareto didn’t bother returning Veronica Rio’s phone call that evening. Instead, the next morning she went to the radio station and waited until Veronica arrived at 8:00 a.m.
Liz had brought with her a manila folder, which was now in front of Veronica on her desk.
“Ms. Rios. I know Liam made a mistake. And I know the consequences were tragic. But he should still be alive.”
Veronica, not unaccustomed to posing hard-hitting, some would say callous, questions when the story called for it, chose her words very carefully. “Mrs. Bareto, I can understand your frustration, and can’t even imagine how it must feel to have lost a son, but I am a journalist. I have to deal with facts. Evidence. When you say your son should still be alive, are you claiming that the doctors made a mistake, or are you suggesting something else?” The question was posed carefully. Veronica already knew the answer. That’s the very reason she had contacted this woman in the first place.
“I don’t know exactly. I have three pieces of evidence and, for what it’s worth, a mother’s instinct. The police weren’t able to make heads or tails of it all, but I know there’s something here, and I’m hoping you might be able to help.” She looked at the woman, eyes full of hope, and then she glanced at the folder.
Veronica made a show of hesitating, and then nodded. “Okay.”
Bareto opened the folder, and began, “When Liam was in the hospital, I was with him every day. I took off work. My boss was great about it. That particular day, I had gone to get a coffee from the vending machine on the third floor—one floor down. When I stepped off the elevator, there was activity—staff rushing around—alarms blaring.”
“Liam coded?”
She nodded and said, “I rushed down the corridor toward his room—it was right at the end—he had a private room. We have very good insurance.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a beat and swallowed hard. “When I got there, they were working on him.” She paused, fighting off the memory of that moment. “They wouldn’t let me in. Jenny—the duty nurse—pulled me out into the hall and talked to me. She tried to keep me calm.” Bareto paused again. “But, um, they couldn’t revive him.” Veronica wanted to say something, but instead she let the woman continue. “When the autopsy report came back,” she said, holding out a several-pages-long document in her hands, “it stated that Liam died ‘as a result of brain trauma consistent with injuries’ from the accident.”
Veronica pursed her lips, nodding.
Bareto ploughed on. “I wasn’t satisfied, so I hired my own pathologist and had them do a second autopsy.”
Bareto pulled out a second document from the file. She flipped it to the second page and pointed to a section that was highlighted in yellow. Veronica followed her cue and read for a few seconds before speaking. “So, they found evidence of an injection in his right arm. Is that unusual considering that he was being treated at the time?”
“Well, he had an IV in his left arm. Why would anyone be sticking a needle in his right arm? And there is no record in his chart about any injections.”
“Did they find evidence of anything unusual in his system?”
“No, but my pathologist said that there are a number of possibilities—different things that could have been injected that might not show up. Even just plain air could have been enough. Liam was already injured. His brain was swollen. The right amount of air might have been enough to push him over the edge. Apparently, even something as little as five mililiters would have been enough to cause harm. And it would have been undetectable.”
Veronica skimmed through the rest of the report. “It doesn’t say that anywhere in here.”
“They’ll only put facts in the report. Things they find evidence of. They found evidence that an injection had been given, but not of what was injected.”
“And what was his prognosis before he… um. Before he passed away?”
“He was in an induced coma. It wasn’t good, but he was improving. His doctor gave him a seventy percent chance of making a full recovery. That’s why I got the second opinion and how I found out about the injection.” Liz leaned forward. “I know it’s not much, but it was enough for my lawyer to be able to get the hospital to pull the security footage to see who had access to his room. Or at least access to that end of the hall.”
Bareto pulled a blurry black and white photograph out from under the pile of papers and placed it in front of the journalist.
It was a screengrab from a security camera. It showed a hallway in what looked like a hospital. In the center of the photo was what appeared to be a woman in scrubs and wearing a surgical mask walking toward the camera. The person was looking down, which made it difficult to identify her.
“This is from the video footage. A still frame where you can see the clues,” Bareto offered.
Veronica studied the photo, but couldn’t see anything unusual. “Okay. What am I looking at?”
“This image was taken about three minutes before Liam coded. Why would a nurse be walking down the hall toward his room wearing a surgical mask?”
Veronica pulled a face. There could be many reasons.
“You see the syringe? In her hand.”
The radio host squinted at the photograph. Yes, the right hand appeared to be holding a small object and it could quite easily be a syringe—or a pen, or a tampon. “Mrs. Bareto…” Veronica began, shaking her head, but the woman cut her off by placing a second picture in front of her. It was similar to the first, and showed what appeared to be the same person walking in the opposite direction, away from the camera.
“Do you see it?” Bareto asked.
Veronica stared at the photo and was about to shake her head again when she spotted something. But it couldn’t be. Could it? She picked up her reading glasses and examined the picture once more.
There was no question. The image based on what could be seen of the figure’s outline showed a woman walking away from the camera. The left hand was down by her side and bent backwards so that it was visible to the camera, and the middle finger did appear to be extended.
“Is she flipping us off?” Veronica asked, incredulously. “Flipping off the camera, I mean?”
“Looks like it to me,” Bareto answered. “This camera was near the end of the hall. There are only two rooms beyond it. Liam was in one. The other was empty.”
“What did the police have to say about this?”
“Well... ” Bareto straightened up and pursed her lips before speaking. “They said the cause of death was trauma and that the autopsy showed no evidence of an embolism or anything that could be remo
tely linked to wrongdoing. As for ‘her,’” she nodded at the photo, “they have no idea who she is. But, come on. What was she doing there? And why would she do that to the camera?”
“Did they check the footage from the other cameras?”
Bareto gave a reluctant nod. “They couldn’t find her anywhere else. She must have changed clothes or something.”
“And so…” Veronica hesitated, “um, you think that Susie Font is this female in the photo?”
“No, oh no. Well, maybe at first. Actually, to be honest... Yes. At first, I did. She’d just lost her daughter. It seemed... plausible. But it couldn’t have been her. I know that now. She wasn’t even in Florida at the time. She was in South Carolina. She and her husband were visiting Susie’s mother. There are plane tickets, airport cameras, TSA records. The police checked. That lady is not Susie Font. It can’t be.”
“Then why did you call in to the show to talk to her?”
“To see if maybe she knows something. If she has any idea who this might be. I mean, I’ve called and written... ” She shrugged off the rest of the sentence.
“They have a restraining order against you,” Veronica stated.
“Yes,” Bareto admitted with another shrug. “That was a misunderstanding. You see, I waited for her, near her house, when she went on a run. I guess I spooked her.”
Veronica leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Mrs. Bareto. I’ll agree with you… There is something... odd here, but if the police couldn’t put anything together, then I’m not sure what you expect me to do. I mean, did they interview Mrs. Font or her husband?”
“They did. But they lawyered up. They denied any knowledge.”
“And they had an alibi?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well, look. They possibly have a motive. I’ll give you that. Though, I know them—well, Susie, really. I’ve only met her husband briefly. But, in your own words, you said that she couldn’t possibly have done this because she was out of town. And beyond that,” Veronica shrugged, “you don’t really have much else, do you?”
Bareto’s shoulders slumped. “This is all there is. I was just hoping that perhaps, maybe, if I spoke with her, you know, mother to mother... ” The woman paused here and began to gather up her files in an effort to mask the emotional wave of hopelessness that had washed over her. She was alone. She’d hoped Veronica could help. But she didn’t see it. She just didn’t see it. She was just like everybody else.
But Veronica did see. She could see that the woman was keeping her head down to mask the tears bubbling up behind those sad eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Veronica said. That was all she could put into words. Everything else was flimsy at best, and yet... “Out of curiosity, who did you work with—at the police?”
Bareto didn’t hesitate. She knew the name well by now. “Detective Garza. Eddie. Eddie Garza. He was very helpful. Very understanding.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a number for him? Maybe I could follow up?”
Bareto’s face lit up.
“I can’t promise anything,” Veronica added quickly, seeing the look on the woman’s face. But Mrs. Bareto had already pulled out her phone and begun consulting the directory. She read the number out to the journalist who wrote it down on her notepad. Then Veronica showed the obviously grief-stricken mother out of the building with a promise to call if she discovered anything.
Back in her office, Veronica dialed Detective Eddie Garza at Miami-Dade Homicide.
“Go for Eddie.”
“Hello, Detective, this is Veronica Rios with Veronica in the Morning.”
“Ha! Veronica Rios... sure. Is Doug Raines still doing sound over there?”
“You know Doug? Small world. No, I’m afraid Doug retired about a year ago. Spends his days fishing now I believe.”
Eddie laughed. “Fishing, not catching, I’d guess. Doug loves the gear and talking about the ones that got away.”
“That he does.” Veronica forced a chuckle, but the detective knew she wasn’t calling to chat.
“So, what can I do for you, Ms. Rios?”
“Um, well, it’s a bit delicate, actually. I’ve just had a discussion with Liz Bareto. I believe the name will mean something to you.”
There was a pause. Not something Veronica had expected and then the detective’s tone changed. “Ah, yeah, I know the lady. I don’t know how much I can get into it, though—I think maybe I need to transfer you to media relations?”
Veronica forced a laugh. “Detective. Come on. Eddie. This is informal. Off the record. I’m just trying to get some background info. I don’t need a source and I’m not going to quote anyone. I just want to... um, fill in some blanks.”
There was another long pause. Eventually, Eddie said, “Let me call you back in a few minutes from another number. Okay?”
The journalist pulled a face as if the man could see her. “Oh, okay.” She gave him her number and hung up.
Ten minutes later, her phone rang.
“Veronica, it’s Eddie.” The detective must have stepped outside because Veronica could suddenly hear the sound of traffic in the background. The man raised his voice in an effort to compensate.
“Hi, Eddie.”
“Doug says you’re okay, no bullshit, so I’ll talk to you, but off the record, background only. Deal?”
“That’s fine. It’s just that I met with Mrs. Bareto earlier and…”
“Ay Dios! She showed you the lady-finger photo?”
“It has a name?”
“Yeah. Sure it does, but I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve seen some really weird shit. Trust me, on a scale of freaky, it doesn’t rank that high.”
“No?”
“No. But don’t get me wrong. We chased it down. You know, as a matter of procedure. Didn’t find anything. Nada. It’s like the woman was a ghost or something. I mean, I know the lady lost her kid and all, but if we spent all our time on conspiracy theories, we wouldn’t get much done around here. You know what I’m saying? I mean, I can appreciate how she’s feeling, but we can only work the evidence.”
“What about the injection?”
Eddie sighed. “Roni? Can I call you that?”
“Sure, if it gets me an answer.”
Traffic growled down the phone at her. Then, “Veronica. One hundred percent off the record?”
“Sure, Eddie.”
“Off the record, the medical examiner probably fucked up. We’re talking an eighteen-year-old kid in a serious head-on. That’s lots of broken bones. Real bad head trauma. Real bad. He was drugged up, put in a coma for Christ’s sake, but his chances weren’t good to start with. So, he dies, not a big fuckin’ surprise! And the ME misses the injection. This shit happens all the time. Just, in this case, there was a second opinion. And they find a needle mark, but that doesn’t mean shit. It could just mean that someone else screwed up—happened to inject the wrong arm and didn’t account for it. We’re talking human beings, not robots. Was it unusual? Sure. Unusual enough to start a whole conspiracy thing? Nah.”
“What about this… lady thing. Lady Finger?” Veronica prompted.
The detective scoffed. “You mean, why would a nurse be walking down the hall, flipping the bird at a security camera? Could happen for a shitload of reasons. Pissed at a patient. Pissed at being surveilled. Could mean anything.”
“So, that’s it? Nothing else?”
“We got nothing else. Even if there was anything to all of this, the most likely candidates were out of fucking state when the kid died. We’ve got no evidence, no motive, no suspects, nada.”
“Dead-end, huh?” Veronica asked.
“Very dead.”
“So, from your side, the ‘most likely candidates’ are the girl’s parents—Cruise and Font, right?”
“Yep. Who else? I inte
rviewed them personally. The lady was distraught, almost catatonic. Her husband wasn’t taking any shit from us, or any chances. He brought in their lawyer. Not that it mattered. Their alibi was solid.”
“Could they have had someone do it?”
“What—you mean like a contract killing?”
Veronica paused. The concept sounded ridiculous. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Sure. Anything’s possible, but no evidence. They were cooperative in that regard. Finances seemed pretty legit. We found no suspicious cash withdrawals to substantiate something like that.”
“So, it was never a homicide?”
“Homicide?! Roni, get real. Kid’s head got smashed to a pulp ‘cause he was googling Russian MILFs while driving. Anyone who does that has got a death wish. I’d say it was more like suicide than homicide.” The detective was getting bored.
“Got it. Okay.”
“Why you interested, anyway?”
“Nothing, Eddie. Just came across my desk. Seemed odd. Thought I’d get an expert’s opinion.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s a dead-end. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“No, no. I appreciate your candor.”
“No problem. Anytime.”
Veronica heard the traffic sounds die down just before the connection ended.
She wadded up her notes from the call and tossed them into a small trash can under her desk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After his fight with Susie on the dock, Roy spent the better part of three days in his study. He didn’t plan it that way; it just sort of happened.
For all her clanging about in the kitchen that first evening, Susie had not popped in to say that dinner was ready. Roy had hoped she would, but she hadn’t. She was obviously still angry with him.
Roy, unsure about how to approach her, stayed in the study, drinking his scotch and brooding.
Slowly, his drinking and brooding turned into something else.
Was Susie serious about killing this Harlan guy? Maybe. Maybe not. She’d pushed him to kill Bareto three years prior, in the same study he was sitting in now. Then she’d backed off.
