by Angela Hunt
A uniformed cop hurries toward them. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t have you disturbing the area until we’ve finished our investigation.”
Antonio gestures to the dazed woman at his side. “I’m Antonio Tomassi, and this is my daughter-in-law. I’m taking Erin to my house, but first she needs to get a few things.”
The cop frowns and grips his belt. “Wait here and let me get the lead detective. They’re almost finished dusting for prints.”
Erin lifts her head. “Is someone inside? Jeffrey doesn’t like strangers in the house.”
Antonio grips her arm and leads her to the garden bench beneath a skeletal maple. “Let’s get out of the way, my dear. We’ll sit until the detective comes out.”
“All right.” She obeys as meekly as a lamb, keeping her hands in her pockets.
He sits beside her, grateful that she has finally decided to speak. Perhaps she can help him make sense of this madness. “Erin,” he begins, “what can you tell me about this morning? When you got up—” his voice breaks “—what happened?”
Her eyelids droop as a cold wind rattles the leafless branches overhead. “I woke up,” she says, a quaver in her voice. “I woke up and Jeffrey was still asleep. I didn’t want to bother him, because he didn’t have any appointments until later. I went into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and walked into the kitchen for some toast. After making breakfast, I put Jeffrey’s on a tray and carried it into the bedroom. He was still sleeping, so I left the tray on the dresser. Later, when I heard the clock strike nine o’clock and realized Jeffrey was still asleep, I knew I should wake him up. He and Jason play racquetball, you know, every Wednesday morning.”
Antonio nods as a lump swells in his throat. “Go on.”
She closes her eyes again. “I went in and shook him, but the minute I touched him I knew something was wrong. His face was blue, and his skin…felt like rubber. I stepped back and picked up the phone to call 911. The woman asked if Jeff was breathing, and I said I didn’t think so. She asked if I knew how to do CPR, and I said I thought I could, but she’d better send someone. I tried to pump his chest, but it didn’t work. The next thing I knew, men were pounding on the door, so I let them in.”
“Did he act sick last night? Did he complain of a headache, anything?”
Her eyes fly up at him like a pair of bluebirds flushed from a shrub, then she looks away. “He was fine last night. He was…strong enough.”
Antonio drops his hand to her arm as an older man in a blue overcoat comes out of the house and walks toward them. He studies Antonio and thrusts his hand forward. “Mr. Tomassi? I’m Mark Malone, Homicide.”
Antonio nods, pleased that the fellow knows his name. “Detective, do you know my daughter-in-law? Erin Tomassi.”
The cop looks at Erin, his eyes crinkling in sympathy. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, ma’am. I’d be happy to let you inside, but first I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few questions.”
Erin blinks, then glances at Antonio. “Do I?”
He pats her arm. “You will always have time to cooperate with the police. I’ll wait until you’re finished, then we’ll gather your things and get you settled at the house. We’re going to take care of you.”
Erin smiles her thanks as the detective pulls a small notebook from an inner coat pocket and flips it open. “Mrs. Tomassi, Dispatch has a record of your 911 call placed at 9:05. According to the EMTs first on the scene, your husband was unresponsive when they arrived. The medical examiner has tentatively put the time of death at around 2:00 a.m.”
Erin shudders, as if she can’t bear to know she spent most of the night sleeping beside a dead man.
The detective licks the tip of his pen, then props one foot on the end of the garden bench. “I hate to intrude at a time like this, but I need to know—had your husband been under any kind of professional care?”
Erin widens her eyes. “Like…a doctor?”
“A therapist, perhaps? A psychologist or counselor?”
Antonio opens his mouth to protest, but the detective cuts him off with a sidelong glance.
Erin shakes her head. “Jeffrey wasn’t the sort to unburden himself in front of anyone.”
“So he wasn’t seeing a counselor?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention suicide?”
“No!”
“Has anyone in the family ever committed suicide?”
She glances at Antonio, then shakes her head. “Never.”
“Was your husband a heavy drinker?”
“Not really. We were out last night at a fundraising event, but he had very little to drink. Maybe one glass of wine, early in the evening.”
“Was he on any medication?”
“Only his insulin. He’s a diabetic.”
“To your knowledge, did he ever use recreational drugs?”
“No, he did not.” Her voice is uninflected, pushed through the pale face she wears like a mask. “Jeffrey was a committed public servant. He would never want to set a bad example by using drugs.”
“Any change in his routine lately? Any deviation in sleeping habits, eating routines, a lack of interest in his work?”
“No.”
“Any loss of interest in his favorite activities or his family?”
She closes her eyes. “No. I doubt you could find a more attentive and involved man than Jeffrey.”
“Involved in his work?”
“Involved in everything. He never did anything by half measures.”
The detective scribbles something in his notebook, then looks up. “Anything unusual happen before you two went to bed last night? Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”
A one-sided smile tugs at the corner of Erin’s mouth as she looks away. “We came home, we got dressed for bed, we reviewed the evening. After that, I wasn’t feeling well, so I took a couple of pills and went to bed. Next thing I knew, it was morning.”
“What kind of pill?” the cop asks.
“Oh…sleeping pills. Ambien. When I’m hurting, the pills help me sleep.”
The detective makes another note and offers Antonio a grim smile. “Thank you for your cooperation. I’m sorry to ask a lot of questions at a time like this, but it’s routine in situations of unattended death.”
Unattended death…The words tighten a new knot in Antonio’s throat. He wouldn’t let one of his dogs die an unattended death, yet his beloved son had died without comfort, without hope. Had Jeffrey awakened in pain? Had he been able to speak? Had he called for help, for his father?
He looks at his daughter-in-law, whose pale cheeks have been reddened by the cold. Why didn’t Erin hear anything? She’s such an attentive wife, a good girl for Jeffrey. Surely she would have awakened if he’d struggled or called out—
But he can’t think about those things now. If he does, he’ll buckle like a marionette with cut strings and be no good to anyone. Erin needs him now; so do Jason and the girls.
He’ll consider how and why Jeffrey died when he’s prepared to do something about it.
But he does need to speak to this detective. He stands and steps toward the front gate, then motions for Malone to move closer. When the man approaches, he turns his back to Erin and lowers his voice. “Have you found any sign of an intruder? Do you suspect foul play?”
Malone tucks his notebook away. “I really can’t say at this point.”
“There are security cameras, you know. Jeffrey was quite vigilant about security.”
“Yes, sir. We saw the cameras aimed at the front and back entrances, so we looked for the control center and found it in a closet. I’ve skimmed the tapes, but I saw nothing unusual.”
“What about the alarm? They had a good system.”
“They did, and the alarm wasn’t tripped. We found no signs of an intruder at the doors or windows, so right now I’d say we’re looking at a natural death. But the medical examiner won’t be able to confirm that until after the auto
psy.”
Antonio digests this news in silence, watching as men and women in blue jackets stride in and out of the house, many of them carrying bins filled with plastic bags, all neatly labeled. Within those bags he sees syringes, insulin bottles, scraps of paper, a comb, and toothbrush. They’re doing a lot of work for a so-called natural death, but then, Jeffrey was not an average citizen. He maintained a high profile, and people who rise above the crowd can’t help but tempt others to take potshots at them.
As the wind blows the scent of wood smoke over the street, he turns his attention back to the detective. “Those questions you asked Erin…do you think my son might have committed suicide?”
The cop lifts his chin. “Do you?”
“Not a chance. Jeffrey had everything to live for, and he loved life.”
“I understand he was preparing to run for higher office?”
“He felt he’d grown stagnant as a state senator. We were certain he could win a seat in Congress, so we were testing the waters. Quite successfully, I might add.”
“Enemies?”
Antonio frowns. “Jeff’s opponents squared off against him in the courts of public opinion. He never mentioned anyone more threatening than those rabid radio talk show hosts.”
The detective shrugs. “I don’t see any reason to suspect foul play. But we’ll know more once we review the medical examiner’s report.”
The man turns, as if to walk away, but Antonio catches his arm. “You and your team—you did a thorough search, right? Got everything you needed?”
“For a man who doesn’t believe his son had enemies, you seem convinced that something’s amiss.”
“I’m not convinced,” Antonio says. “But if the autopsy reveals that someone did harm my son, I don’t want you to miss a thing. If someone murdered my boy, I want that person to pay.”
Chapter Seven
Drawing a jagged breath, Antonio rubs the tense muscles at the back of his neck and approaches the morgue. For more than a week, he has been waiting for the autopsy results. As an exercise in courtesy he has refused to badger the chief medical examiner, but he has also spread the word that he would appreciate timely answers to the questions of how and why Jeffrey died. If the reason for Jeffrey’s death lies in a genetic health problem, Jason might be affected, too. The boys, after all, are twins.
The baby-faced assistant who escorted Antonio into the morgue last week greets him in the waiting room and leads him to the medical examiner’s unimpressive office. “Wow,” the idiot says, lingering after Antonio takes a seat. “I’ve never seen toxicology results come back so fast. You must have friends in really high places.”
Antonio swallows his irritation and crosses his legs at the ankle, waiting for the M.E. to arrive. Insensitive creatures like the man in the doorway have no business working with the public; they should be confined to interaction with computers and cadavers. Let them impress lab rats with their painfully obtuse observations, but keep them away from grieving fathers who can’t understand why fools survive and the brilliant die young.
He looks up, distracted, when the door opens and a fresh wave of formaldehyde-scented air flows into the room. The chief medical examiner enters, followed by a man with a familiar face. “Detective,” Antonio says, standing. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
The cop shakes his hand. “I wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Does your presence mean I’m about to hear bad news?”
“Mr. Tomassi, I’m James Drew.” The M.E. gestures toward the chair. “If you’ll have a seat, I’d like to share my findings. I’ve asked Detective Malone to join us because he has news, as well.”
Antonio draws a deep breath and sinks back into the proffered seat. The detective slides a stool from beneath a counter and perches on the edge, notebook in hand.
The M.E. pulls a folder to the center of his desk and laces his fingers. “First, Mr. Tomassi, let me say how sorry I am to be in this position. I was acquainted with your son, and knew him to be a man of great strength and moral courage.”
Antonio struggles to swallow over a suddenly tight throat. “Thank you.”
“That’s why—” Dr. Drew opens the folder “—it’s hard for me to share this report. Your son was in excellent physical condition, as you’ve assured us, but the toxicology report indicated elevated vitreous insulin.”
“What—” Antonio pauses to steady his voice. “What does that mean, exactly?”
The M.E. folds his hands again. “The vitreous is the clear, jellylike substance found between the eye’s lens and retina. Insulin overdose is almost impossible to prove, because insulin breaks down in the body postmortem. Even the vitreous fluids will not reveal an overdose of insulin unless the fatal dose was massive—an unfortunate exception which does apply to your son’s case.”
Antonio lifts his hand to his mouth, taking a moment to compose himself. “My son would not have made a mistake with his injection. He knew how to use a meter, he knew to be careful. He’s been giving himself insulin injections for years.”
Drew presses his lips together. “That’s what I suspected. Since the dosage that killed your son was probably more than fifty units, I must conclude that the injection and the overdose were intentional.”
Antonio shakes his head. “Jeffrey wouldn’t kill himself. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he didn’t realize what he was doing—”
“His blood-alcohol level was consistent with what his wife told Detective Malone. He had very little to drink that night. And we found no indication of other drugs in his system.”
Unable to make sense of this news, Antonio presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Did you double-check your results? Repeat the tests, or whatever you had to do?”
“We were extremely thorough.” Dr. Drew softens his voice. “And that’s why I’ve asked Detective Malone to meet with us. Because insulin overdose is so hard to prove, it’s virtually impossible to establish whether a fatal dose was self-inflicted without a detailed scene investigation and careful police work. The detective has some information he’d like to share with you.”
Feeling as though he has aged ten years in the past five minutes, Antonio turns his attention to the quiet policeman. Silence sifts down like a snowfall, a dense quiet broken only by the shush of cars moving on the street. The detective props his notebook on his bent knee, then looks squarely into Antonio’s eyes. “Mr. Tomassi, it’s my duty to inform you that our investigation has led us to believe your daughter-in-law may have had a hand in your son’s death. In the bathroom trash can we found a syringe marked with fingerprints we assume to be hers. In a basket beneath the vanity we found your son’s insulin supply. One half-empty bottle also bore this second set of fingerprints.”
Antonio stares at the cop, his heart drumming in his rib cage. “You can’t believe that Erin—”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that we have officers on their way to your home. They’re carrying a warrant for Erin Tomassi’s arrest.”
Chapter Eight
Erin looks up from her book when the housekeeper raps on the guest-room door. “Yes?”
“Visitors for you, Mrs. Tomassi. They’re waiting downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
She pulls herself off the settee and moves to the mirror, staring at the wan face that seems to have nothing in common with the woman she once was. Jeffrey’s been gone nine days; the funeral is a faded memory. Any day now, feeling should begin to creep back into her fingers and toes, energy should return to her step. How long has it been since she experienced an unexpected surge of happiness? How long since she felt alive?
She picks up the brush on the dresser and runs it though her hair. Her oval face is plain and unpainted, a look her husband would never have approved.
But Jeffrey is no longer here to express his opinions.
She runs her hands over the sweatpants she slept in and checks the T-shirt she found in a dresser drawer. She doesn’t look much l
ike a politician’s wife, but that’s okay. At this moment, she’s nothing to anyone. A nobody.
Reporters surrounded her at the funeral, and for a few days they loitered outside the gates of this house, peering into cars and rummaging through garbage cans in search of anything that might qualify as news. But then Antonio called a press conference and said the family would wait for the results of the police investigation before making any further comments. Thankfully, the photographers disappeared and the phone stopped ringing.
Erin steps into the hallway and descends the stairs. Who could be calling? Who knew she was here? She has few friends of her own, and since the funeral, Jeff’s friends have vanished.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turns into the great room. A man and woman are standing by the fireplace, both of them wearing overcoats and scarves. The woman is studying the photographs on the mantel, while the man seems more interested in the elk’s head on the paneled wall.
They turn in her direction when a floorboard creaks under her sock-clad feet.
“Erin Tomassi?” the man asks in a voice that is all business.
“Yes.”
“We’re Detectives Hoff and Lorning from the Eighth Precinct. We’re here with some follow-up questions about your husband’s death.”
Erin offers a tentative smile and gestures to the sofa. “Won’t you have a seat?”
The woman—Erin isn’t sure if she’s Hoff or Lorning—perches on the edge of a wing chair. “Mrs. Tomassi,” she says, glancing at a small tablet she’s pulled from her coat, “you told another investigator that your husband was a diabetic.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he use an insulin pump or syringes?”
“Syringes. He was used to them.”
“He kept those in your master bathroom?”
“In a bin beneath the sink. I’m sure your investigators found them.” She shifts her gaze to the man. “Why this sudden interest in Jeff’s medication?”
As relentless as a bloodhound, the woman continues. “Did he store insulin in any other location?”
