by Jack Parker
* * * *
Ken Freeman pushed through the double doors into the morgue. "Dr. Franks? Ken Freeman, Homicide. You wanted to see me?"
"Roger Franks, nice to meet you, Sir," he said as he shook hands with detective. "It's about the corpse that came in this morning." He gestured toward the wall of large stainless steel drawers behind him.
Ken tried to hide a shudder. He'd seen plenty of corpses in the line of duty, but for some reason he hated to see them laid out nice and neat in cold storage. He understood the necessity, but somehow it seemed to emphasize that they were now merely meat instead of human beings. "Well, I hardly thought you wanted me to get your cat out of a tree," he said, trying to put a little humor into the situation.
"In which case I'd have called the Fire Department," Dr. Franks said with a grin.
"So, what exactly makes you think there's a problem with this death?" Ken asked.
"She's an old woman, not in the best of general health, and her doctor had recently treated her for a bad cold. She had been prescribed rather strong pain medication, and there is a distinct odor of alcohol in her mouth."
"Are you saying she died from an overdose of pain pills mixed with alcohol?" Ken asked. This wouldn't be the first time he'd investigated such a death.
"No, Sir," Dr. Franks replied firmly. "She died from a severe anaphylactic reaction. The signs are pretty clear. I sent samples of blood and stomach contents to the lab, but it'll be a couple of weeks at least before I get the results."
Ken pondered the news. "I'm assuming you think there could be foul play involved, or you wouldn't have called me. But if a person was allergic to some substance, wouldn't they be sure to avoid it?"
Dr. Franks nodded. "Of course. But if she'd been drinking – and taking pain medication – her judgment would be clouded and she might not realize what she was ingesting. And don't forget that the cold would've impacted her sense of smell and taste as well."
"You're thinking that would make it easy for someone who knew about the allergy to induce her to uh, ingest this substance."
Dr. Franks nodded again. "She would trust them and probably wouldn't be able to smell or taste anything wrong."
"But in that condition, wouldn't it be possible that she ate it by mistake?" Ken asked.
"Possible, but it seems unlikely," the doctor replied. "Someone with a severe allergy wouldn't have anything that might cause a problem in her home just for that reason."
"So if her husband loved shellfish while she was deathly allergic to them, he'd have to eat 'em at the restaurant," Ken suggested.
"Just so. But this woman is a widow, which makes it highly unlikely that she would stock her pantry with anything she was allergic to."
"Was she recently widowed?" Ken asked.
"I have no idea. Why would it matter?"
"Perhaps a neighbor brought her over a nice seafood salad in her time of grief," Ken theorized. "The neighbor probably wouldn't know about the allergy."
"I see," said the doctor. "But one wouldn't usually eat a seafood salad in bed, and whatever she ate, or drank, she was in bed when she did it. It wouldn't have taken long for the anaphylactic reaction to occur and she would hardly climb into bed thinking to sleep it off. In point of fact, she would make every effort to call the paramedics."
"Okay, I'll buy that," Ken agreed. "Is it possible she got hold of something she didn't know she was allergic to?
"Highly unlikely," the doctor repeated himself. "She was 75 years old. Most older people are set in their ways and don't try new things. Lt. Freeman, I am not yet ready to state that this woman was murdered; I don't have the necessary information. But I am saying that her death was suspicious."
"All right, doctor," Ken said. "You've convinced me. Show me the body and give me all the details you have." He took a deep breath to calm his nerves as they approached the drawers.
CHAPTER 64
Friday
Alan Robertson walked up to the nurses' desk in ER. "Hey, Linda. I got a page to meet some cop here, do you know where he is?"
Linda pointed to a middle-aged man in a brown suit sitting where he could watch the news on the waiting room TV. "You trying to get out of a speeding ticket?" she kidded.
Alan frowned at the suggestion, thanked her, and approached the policeman. "Are you the man looking for Alan Robertson?" he inquired.
"Lieutenant Ken Freeman, Homicide," Ken introduced himself. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about a run you made this morning. Can we go somewhere a little more private?"
"Sure, Lieutenant." Alan swiveled his head to look around the waiting room. "I guess it would be all right to use the chapel," he said pointing to the appropriate door. "But we shouldn't stay in there long; it's intended for the use of families."
"I understand," Ken said. "I'll only need a few minutes of your time."
Alan led the way into the small room, and Ken closed the door behind them, motioning for Alan to take a seat.
"You responded to a 911 call for a possible dead woman this morning, a Roberta Redmond," Ken said.
"Oh, yes, Sir," Alan said. "A man found his mother dead in her bed." He shook his head sadly. "Terrible situation. I hate getting calls like that."
"I imagine you do; your job is to keep people alive," Ken said. "What can you tell me about it?"
Alan raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "The woman was dead, and had been dead for probably several hours. But that's not an official medical statement!"
"Not to worry, I've already spoken to the coroner," Ken assured him.
"Okay. There wasn't anything we could do except to load her up and take her to the morgue. We did that. The son asked if I knew cause of death, but I told him the doctors would have to determine that."
"In your opinion, what was the cause of death?" Ken asked. "I'm not looking for anything official, I just want your thoughts."
"I don't have an opinion on that, Sir," Alan said primly. "We determined she was indeed dead, and there wasn't anything else we could do."
"Okay, okay, no problem. What about the bedroom? Was there anything out of place there?"
"Not that I noticed. Are you thinking this wasn't a natural death, Lieutenant?"
"I don't have an opinion either – yet," Ken replied. "I'm just asking questions until I can form one. Were there any pill bottles on the nightstand?
Alan frowned in thought. "I don't remember any. Oh! There was a plate of cookies; I remember thinking she must've planned to eat them in bed. And…yes, I remember there was a book on top of the covers; it was open, but the pages were bent like she'd dropped it when she died."
Ken nodded. "Sounds like she planned to munch the cookies while she read herself to sleep, but instead something occurred to cause death. What did the son have to say? His name's Jason Wheeler."
"He was the one who found her and called 911. He was understandably in shock. He knew his mother was dead, but didn't want to admit it to himself; we see that a lot," Alan said.
"How did he act?"
"He showed us where the bedroom was, but he wouldn't go in. We wouldn't have let him if he had wanted to; non-medical personnel tend to get in our way. In fact, it looked like he'd been doing dishes when we got there, and he went back to the kitchen."
"Doesn't that strike you as odd?" Ken wanted to know.
Alan shook his head. "Not necessarily, Sir. People react to death in all sorts of odd ways. They'll focus on the smallest detail in order to keep their mind from thinking about it. Our minds make funny leaps; he probably thought his mother would be embarrassed for relatives to show up and find the sink full of dirty dishes."
Ken nodded understanding. "How did he react when you confirmed she was dead?"
Alan laughed a little. "He kept taking drinks of his coffee, like he didn't know what else to do. He wanted to know what happened to her, but seemed to accept that she was gone. I asked if he'd like a moment alone with her, but he told me that wasn't really his mother in there. He said he'd
seen her the night before and told her he loved her. I suggested he wait in the living room while we moved the body and he did just that."
"Is that a usual occurrence, not to want to view the body?"
Alan nodded vigorously. "Yes, Sir, it is. Some people want to say goodbye, and others don't. You can never tell which way it'll be."
"So, under the circumstances, you didn't see anything odd about his behavior."
"Not a thing," Alan confirmed. "I suspect he'd put some alcohol in that coffee, I could smell it. But that's not unusual either, even at nine in the morning."
"No, I can understand that," Ken said. "I'm used to seeing dead bodies, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't freak out if it was someone I knew and loved. Can't blame the fellow for thinking a slug of whiskey might help. Thanks for your time, Alan. I'll let you get back to saving lives."
They left the chapel and Ken walked to his car in the parking lot. He consulted his notebook and decided he'd just show up at Mr. Wheeler's home. If he called first it would give the man a chance to make up a story, if one needed to be made up. He'd rather see Wheeler's reaction to the fact that he was even asking questions, as well as to the questions themselves.
He started the car and headed out, thinking about what the paramedic had told him. His first thought was that Wheeler would've been a whole lot more nervous if he'd fed Mom something he knew could kill her, but some people were cool customers. And the EMT hadn't been looking for signs of guilt; though in Ken's opinion those guys were very good at gauging peoples' reactions. Just because Wheeler had been the one to discover the body didn't necessarily mean he'd killed her, though killers persisted in thinking that made them look innocent. Even the liquor was equivocal; the man might have used it to calm his nerves so he could feign shock, or he might have genuinely needed to anesthetize his mind against the pain of his mother's unexpected death. He'd get a better idea of which it might be during the interview.
There were two cars in the driveway at the Wheeler home, so Ken parked on the street, walked across the lawn to the porch and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door looked harried; her shoulder-length blonde hair was tied back and she wore an old sweatsuit.
"Good afternoon, Ma'am. I'm Lieutenant Ken Freeman." He pulled his badge from his pocket to show her. "May I come in?"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but we've had a death in the family. We don't have time to talk about the Policeman's Ball right now."
Ken deftly slipped his foot between the jamb and the door she tried to shut in his face. "I'm with the Homicide Department and I have some questions for you and your husband, Mrs. Wheeler."
"Homicide?" she said in a quiet voice. She opened the door again. "My husband just lost his mother and he's not handling it well, as you might imagine. It would be better if you'd come back tomorrow, but if you insist then come on in."
Cindy stepped back to allow Ken access, then began walking away briskly obviously expecting Ken to follow. They went through the living room and down a short hallway to a den. She stopped in the doorway and called out to her husband. "Jason, there's a police officer here to see you."
Ken heard an incoherent mumble from inside the room. Cindy shook her head exasperatedly and strode into the room. As Ken followed he saw her grab an empty glass from the table beside the overstuffed chair her husband was sitting in. Holed up in might be a better description, Ken thought. Jason Wheeler was curled up in the big chair with a blanket wrapped around him; his once-crisp white shirt was wrinkled and his eyes red. Though tears may well have been involved, the nearly-empty bourbon bottle on the table beside him was the more likely culprit.
"I'll bring you some coffee," Cindy said. Empty glass in hand, she flounced out leaving Ken to introduce himself.
Jason raised his eyes to stare at the newcomer. "My mother's dead, she died in her bed. We don't need a cop."
"I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Wheeler," Ken said. "I realize this is difficult, but the coroner's preliminary investigation uncovered some irregularities and it's my job to investigate."
Before he could say anything more Jason erupted in anger, leaning forward and glaring balefully at Ken. "Irregularities? She's dead, how much more irregular can it get?"
"Take it easy!" Ken said soothingly. "I just want to ask you a few questions."
"I've got a question for you, why don't you leave?" Jason said belligerently.
"Mr. Wheeler, the paramedic tells me that you asked what caused your mother's death. Wouldn't you like to know the answer?"
Jason's head fell forward as if he were suddenly so tired he couldn't hold it up any longer. "I know the answer," he said quietly. "She drank half the night – my own sister started pouring – and then she popped a handful of pain pills on top of it all. She passed out and just never woke up." His hand automatically reached for the glass and he turned his head to see why he couldn't find it.
Cindy strode in and handed Jason a mug; Ken could see steam rising from it. "Here, drink this honey. Careful! It's hot," she said.
She turned to face Ken. "Detective, my husband is right. Robbie started drinking yesterday evening and I'm sorry to say she often did." She cut her eyes towards her husband, as if to indicate that drinking ran in his family. "She wasn't feeling well, she had a bad cold and she probably did take her pain meds on top of the liquor. Nor would it surprise me if she took more than she should. She did that a lot, too. There's no mystery here, she simply failed to exercise due caution."
"Pardon me for asking, but are you sure it wasn't deliberate?" Ken asked.
"Suicide?" Cindy asked, laughing a bit. "Absolutely not. She had too much to live for."
"I understand she's a widow."
Cindy made a strangled sound of wry laughter. "She wasn't grieving, if that's what you're asking. Six months ago she finally got free of that controlling man. She intended to enjoy life; she was just waiting for the Estate to be settled so she could afford to do a few things."
"John meant well," Jason said from his lair. "He was just tight with his money."
"He was that," she muttered.
Ken held up both hands, palms outward. "Whoa, slow down. Mrs. Redmond was involved in a contentious Probate case?"
"Why do you say 'contentious'?" Cindy asked.
"Because if someone weren't making objections the Estate should've been settled by now," Ken replied reasonably. "Would that be the sister you spoke of, Mr. Wheeler?"
"It's that bitch," Jason said. "John's sister. What's-her-name, Mary Beth."
"Meredith Rodgers," Cindy supplied the name. "John hadn't seen her for years, and now she's demanding half the Estate. We all had a meeting about it last night, and Meredith was there too."
"I take it that John was not Mrs. Redmond's first husband, not your father Mr. Wheeler?"
"Third," Jason said. "She was his third, too. Don't know why he bothered to marry her, he was never home, spent all his time at that damn office."
Ken was making notes furiously, but there were so many possibilities here he needed to take one issue at a time. "Okay, okay. Let me go back to this morning. Mr. Wheeler, please tell me exactly how you discovered your mother was dead."
Jason's brow furrowed with the effort of recalling the morning's events; they'd already become something of a blur. "I was supposed to pick her up to take her to a hearing about the Estate. I rang the bell but she didn't answer, so I used my key to let myself in. I thought maybe she was in the shower. Anyway, when she didn't answer I went looking for her and found her in the bed. She was…"
Cindy ran over to rub his arm soothingly. "She was dead, Detective. Jason called 911 and the paramedics took the body away. He called me and I left work to meet him there."
"Okay, now tell me what happened yesterday evening," Ken requested.
"There was a family meeting at Robbie's house," Cindy said, with an air of speaking for the husband who was too distraught to do so himself. "We wanted to discuss today's hearing. Jason and I were there, his brother Charlie S
tubblefield and his wife Karen, and his sisters Loretta Logan and Ashley Kamp. Apparently Loretta took it upon herself to invite John's sister."
"She got all pissy about the computer," Jason put in.
"Because Loretta told her your mother gave it to you," Cindy said with a touch of anger. "And I thought Charlie was going to have to physically stop her from going to the garage."
"Why did she want to go to the garage?" Ken asked.
"The urn of John's ashes was out there," Jason said.
"Her brother's remains were in the garage?" Ken asked in some confusion.
"She said she just wanted to see the urn," Cindy told him. "But I'm sure Robbie was afraid she'd try to steal it."
"Did Ms. Rodgers make any threats over these issues?"
"Said she'd tell her lawyer," Jason mumbled.
"How did the meeting go?" Ken asked. "Any problems between you with that?"
"No. After causing so much trouble Loretta smoothed things over with coffee for everyone," Cindy said. "I could smell the liquor she'd put in Robbie's cup. But the upshot was that all we could really do was wait for the hearing and see how the judge ruled. Robbie seemed to think there wouldn't be any problem."
"You're telling me that after harsh words were exchanged the sister calmly sat down and worked things out with you," Ken said, not quite believing it.
"Well, that friend of hers just kinda took over and asked us questions and pretty much told us we should wait," Jason said. "What's-her-face, Marcie Means."
"No, honey, it was Gracie Greene."
Ken looked up from his notes in astonishment.
CHAPTER 65
Friday
"Honey, you need to get in the shower," Cindy told Jason. She turned to look at the detective. "I'm afraid you'll have to go now. The rest of the family will be here soon, and we must get ready. I've been cleaning all afternoon, and I need to shower, too. We need to plan the burial service."
Ken cleared his throat, still wondering how his friend Gracie had gotten involved with this group; it never occurred to him that it might be another woman with the same name. "The coroner hasn't released the body yet," he said.
