Answering Machine Knew

by Risner, Fay

  I wanted to pull the sheet down to view the body, but I gave the son a sideways glance and changed my mind. He didn't need to see an image of his mother he'd never be able to put out of his head.

  “Mr. Hutson, I bet you've had just about all you can take of this room. Would you like to go downstairs to get some fresh air and wait for me? After I'm done in here, we can talk in the kitchen a whole lot easier.”

  “I sure would like that. Thanks, Detective,” the son said, looking relieved that he could leave.

  “All right. While you're waiting, if you know how to make coffee, why don't you put on a pot. I could use a cup later on, and I imagine you need one now,” Renee suggested.

  Bill Hutson nodded fervently and fled the room.

  I moved back to the bed. While I waited for the woman's son to get far enough down the hall to be out of hearing range, I reached under the coroner's arm and stuck my finger on the side of the cup. The coffee wasn't completely cold yet. One more question I'd have to find the answer for.

  Chapter 3

  When Coroner Klink felt my arm brush his under arm, he stepped back to give me room to inspect the table. He cleared his throat. “Is it in the police rules that it's okay to ask a member of the victim’s family to make you a cup of coffee, Detective Brown?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not, but I threw that boring rule book away long ago. I have my own methods and processes. This happened to be one of my spur of the moment ideas. If you paid as much attention to the relatives as you do the corpse, you might have figured out what I was really doing.”

  “Oh, I knew. You're all heart under that hard exterior, Detective Brown,” Klink drawled with a slight grin.

  “Kindness didn't have anything to do with it. The man was about to fall apart. Having something to do until I'm ready to question him will help him calm down I hope. Makes it easier for me to interrogate him if his head is clearer. Besides, I really don't see any harm in it. I can always use another cup of coffee.”

  “Un huh,” the coroner affirmed, grinning at her.

  I moved around to the other side of the bed and looked down at the gruesome sight. “Did Briceson get pictures taken?”

  “He'd just finished up when I came,” Klink said.

  All over the murdered woman's chest was a large, red, blotch. Soaked through the lemon yellow sheet, the stain really stood out. The splotch resembled a Rorschach test only this splotch was red instead of black.

  Carefully, I peeled the sheet from under the woman's arms and looked at the entry wound in the heart. Blood had pooled along both sides of her, making an outline of her body and the gun in her hand on the sheet.

  I heard metallic clinking as Doctor Klink put his instruments in his bag. I pulled the covers up at the foot of the bed and studied the dark purple hue on the woman's mottled toes and heels. “Doc, how long you think she’s been dead?”

  “Since last night between seven and nine is my guess from the liver stick,” he said.

  “Kind of what I thought from the extent of the mottling and rigor,” I said.

  “Well, I'm glad we agree on something,” Klink said snidely.

  I ignored his tone. “Strange though that she has a full cup of coffee sitting by her bed that's still warm if she wasn't able to drink it since last night.”

  “I noticed that, but Detective Brown, that's your job to figure out how that mystery came to be. Now I’ve done about all I can here without further testing.” Doc picked up his bag. “I've need to keep moving, I've got a John Doe waiting for me at the morgue.”

  “Won't be much longer before I release the body. I'll want a complete tox screen to see what's in Mrs. Hutson's system and her stomach contents. Plus, I want to know if she had allergies or a cold,” I said.

  “I'll do a complete autopsy on her. See ya, Detective Brown,” Doc said as he hurried out the door.

  I took a long look around again, but I couldn't see anything out of place. This bedroom was as neatly arranged as the rest of the house. A look in each of the chest drawers told me the woman diffidently was a neat person. Her underwear and nightgowns were folded and stacked in piles.

  I pulled off the gloves and hunted the waste can which happened to be by the bedside table. I looked in it before I dropped the gloves. The waste can was empty.

  Suddenly, it occurred to me Briceson was missing. How had he slipped out of the room without me noticing?

  “Office Briceson,” I yelled.

  Briceson's head popped back in the room. “You don't have to shout. I'm just waiting out in the hall. I needed a change of scenery and different air to breathe that didn't smell like blood and death.”

  “Fine, I understand.” For once I did. The guy looked green at the gills from viewing the body. “Put on your gloves and get the finger printing done on this room as quickly as you can. When you have that done, I'll release the body to the morgue. You can find me in the kitchen with the son, questioning him, when you're done.”

  So I retraced my steps back to the kitchen. That room was always easy to find in an old farm house, and usually, the most used room by the residing family.

  Bill Hutson was at the table, staring into his steaming cup of coffee. He rose when he saw me in the doorway. “Sit down, Detective Brown. I'll get you your coffee.”

  “Thank you. I'd appreciate that. Your mother sure has a nice home. Was this where you grew up?”

  “Yes,” Hutson said as he placed a cup in front of me and slid into his chair.

  I blew into the hot coffee and took a sip. “You make good coffee Mr. Hutson.”

  “That's not a hard job,” he said, trying to smile.

  “Maybe not but coffee isn't good if it has too many grounds in the pot's basket or too few. You did a perfect job,” I complimented, hoping to put him at ease.

  Hutson wasn't up to concentrating on the right way to make coffee. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “What happens next? To my mother, I mean?”

  “Officer Briceson is checking the room for finger prints. He'll bag the gun and anything else that needs to be tested. The coroner's van will be here soon. I'll sign release papers to go along with the body to the morgue where your mother will be autopsied.

  What you need to do is go to a funeral home to notify the director he can go get the body when the morgue releases your mother. Make the funeral arrangements except for the days and times. The funeral home can notify the county coroner so Ross Klink knows where to call later on.”

  “I see,” Hutson said flatly.

  “Now I have to ask you some questions. When is the last time you talked to your mother?”

  Hutson wiped his lips with the back of his hand to stop the quiver before he spoke. “Yesterday morning. I stopped in to have coffee with Mom. She liked my coffee, too.” He gave me a fleeting smile. “Every day for a while, I usually checked on her in the evening, but last night I had a Farm Bureau meeting so I couldn't come by. I didn't want her waiting for me unnecessarily so I stopped yesterday morning to explain the change in times. I told her I'd come by this morning to see her.”

  “Had your mother been ill?” I asked.

  “Yes, but she seemed much better lately. Then yesterday morning when I talked to her, she complain of not feeling so hot which is understandable, considering her ailment. Though I wasn't sure whether she wanted more attention from me, or if she really wasn't feeling up to par.

  She'd become quite needy lately since she's been recovering from shingles, so I thought I should keep an eye on her. If she didn't perk up soon I was going to insist she go to the doctor again.”

  “So you weren't sure what your mother's health problem was?”

  Hutson stared into his half empty cup. “No, I wasn't all together sure this time.”

  “Did your mom have allergies or a cold?”

  “I don't think so. At least I didn't notice it. Why?” Hutson's forehead wrinkled as he eyed her.

  “I saw a flowered handkerchief on her bed side table.
It looked used. I wondered if she had a cold,” I said.

  Hutson thought for a moment. “Mom always had a hanky laying there. She kept one in her apron pockets or in her dress pockets. I don't think I've ever seen her without a hanky on her or close by. A cold would explain why she wasn't feeling well though.”

  “Did your mother understand you wasn’t coming to see her last night like you routinely did?” I asked.

  “Yes, that's what I told her yesterday morning when I came to check on her I wouldn't be here last night on account of my meeting. She pouted a little about me upsetting her routine, and I promised she could expect me this morning for sure. I said I'd make the coffee for her, and even serve it to her in bed.” His eyes moistened as he focused on a brass candle scone on the wall.

  That little light went off in my head. Now the warm cup of coffee beside the bed made sense. “Is that what you did first when you arrived this morning? Make the coffee.”

  “Yes, I made the coffee and took a cup up to Mom, thinking I'd wake her up and find out if she was feeling better. She ... she was the way ... you saw her,” Hutson faltered, wiping tears from his eyes.

  Briceson tapped on the door facing as he entered the room. “I'm done now. Would there happen to be another cup of that coffee, or did you drink it all, Detective Brown?”

  “Plenty in the pot yet, Officer Briceson,” Hutson said, his tone chilly. “Sit down. I can get you a cup.”

  I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “Briceson isn't a guest here. I'm not getting in the habit of waiting on him. You shouldn't either.” I nodded toward the coffee maker. “Help yourself, Officer Briceson.”

  Briceson brought his cup to the table. He asked bluntly, on purpose I was afraid, since he thought I could protect him from an irate witness, “Your mother looks fairly young. Did you know she might be suicidal?”

  Hutson twisted quickly on his chair to face the deputy. He raised his voice adamantly. “No way! Never that. She just wasn't feeling well like I just told Detective Brown.”

  The man really didn't like Briceson's attitude, and I didn't blame him. He had been much politer with me.

  “What was her ailment?” Briceson asked.

  “She had shingles a month ago, but I thought she'd gotten over that,” the son said, spreading his fingers to comb through his mass of dark hair.

  Deputy Briceson persisted, “Your mother must have had more besides that wrong with her. That doesn't seem like a reason to commit suicide.”

  Hutson turned pink faced and bristled up again. I placed my hand on the grieving man’s arm. “Briceson, you ever have shingles?” I squinted daggers at him as I waited for him to answer.

  “No,” Briceson croaked.

  “Didn’t think so or you'd know how painful shingles can be. Takes forever to get over the pain and for the sores to heal. Can drive you up a wall before your damaged nerve endings settle down. That nerve pain can suddenly flare up for the rest of your life,” I declared. “I’m speaking from personal experience. Mrs. Hutson could have been suffering from nerve damage because of the shingles when she told Mr. Hutson she didn't feel well.”

  Briceson shrugged. “No kidding. I didn't know shingles were that bad. You had shingles, huh?”

  “Sure did,” I said adamantly.

  “You never said anything about that before,” Briceson declared.

  “That's because it was none of your business,” I said shortly. “Besides, I had the shingles before you came to work.”

  Hutson smiled at me for defending his mother. “Thank you, Detective Brown.”

  Chapter 4

  It looked to me like this would be a good time to give the son a breather from Briceson's questions before the grieving man passed out or decked the officer.

  I asked, “Have you seen anything out of place or missing in the house, Mr. Hutson?”

  Hutson looked puzzled. “Like what?”

  “Valuable items that would make us think this was a break?” I suggested.

  Hutson shook his head. “I really didn’t notice anything missing. I wasn't expecting to find what I found in Mom's bedroom so I hadn’t thought about looking around.”

  “Look for me now, will you? So we know if this was a robbery gone bad,” I said quietly.

  As soon as Hutson left the kitchen, I hissed quieter than any snake, “You better use a softer touch with that man. He has developed a real dislike for you.”

  “Oh well,” Briceson replied offhandedly.

  I glared at him. “Don't oh well me, Briceson. I'd rather the man stayed in good humor with us. He might know more than he's telling. You get the man all riled up, and he won't even talk to me, because I associate with you. Keep in mind the poor guy just lost his mother in a shocking way.” Briceson lost his tough act look and concentrated on his coffee. “Briceson, you or Doc, touch anything in the house without gloves?”

  “Of course not,” said Briceson, defensively. “We know better than to compromise a crime scene.”

  “Good. It doesn't hurt to check. We don't get a murder case every day. When Doc examined Mrs. Hutson, did he leave everything the way it was when he started, including putting the sheet back where it is on the body?”

  “Yes, I watched to see he did since you had to stop for breakfast before you showed up.” When I glared at him, Briceson lamented, “I tried to get the coroner to wait to start until you got here. Doc said he didn’t intend to stick around all day. He said he had to start without you.”

  “Come back upstairs with me. I want to look around again,” I said. We passed Bill Hutson in the living room. “Everything in place in here?”

  “So far,” he said. He stared intently at pictures of his mother on the built in shelves in the living room wall. He was probably wishing he could turn back time and have his mother with him just a little longer.

  “Well, keep looking. Maybe you could go through the personal papers your mother kept in her office. I'm going upstairs and look in your mother's bedroom one more time before I release the body,” I told him.

  With Briceson right behind me, I went directly to the bed side. With two fingers, I pulled back the sheet and studied the round hole in the nightgown. “She didn’t kill herself.”

  “We don’t call you detective for nothing. How do you know that?” Briceson moved around me and bent closer to look at the bullet hole in the woman's gown.

  When he straightened up, I placed the sheet back like it was. I pointed to the bloody spot. “No hole in the sheet. The bullet hit her heart. She'd have been dead before she could pull the sheet back up to her neck.”

  Briceson nodded agreement. “Guess so. We need to check her hand for gun powder residue.”

  I lifted one eyebrow. “You think? You do that.” I continued to study the victim, wishing I could see clues to answer what happened to her. “I'm thinking she had company last night, and she was expecting a man.”

  “Now how do you know that?” Briceson asked.

  “She has on a new, see through, nylon nightgown, a new hairdo and makeup. Rather sexy looking for an older widow lady. I'll bet you a ticket to the next Iowa Minnesota basketball game she has several faded nightgowns hanging in the closet or folded in one of those drawers she'd have worn for every day use.” I tried hard not to smile since I already knew where to look and what Briceson would find.

  The officer put on a pair of disposable gloves and opened the top dresser drawer. He pulled out a well worn flannel nightgown with a long skirt, high neck line and long sleeves. The gown had been washed so many times the lace was tattered. He shook it out “Like this one.”

  “Like that one,” I confirmed.

  Briceson ran his finger along the side of the stack. “There are three more just like it.”

  “A woman living alone like her would have put an older nightgown on when she didn’t think anyone would see her in bed. She wouldn't waste her money buying new gowns until the old ones were completely falling apart.” I pointed to the new gown on the body. “S
he'd save a new, cotton, serviceable gown for when she went on trips or had to be in bed because she was sick. Maybe an emergency trip to the hospital.

  The new gowns wouldn't have been the nylon, sheer style she has on unless she was trying to impress a man.”

  “Her son said she hadn't been feeling well. She might have gone to bed early, knowing he wasn't coming over, and that's the first gown she grabbed,” Briceson said.

  I shook my head no. “I'm telling you that's not a I am not feeling well gown she's wearing. It would have been on the bottom of the nightgown pile, waiting for a special occasion. A very special occasion with a man if you get my drift.”

  “Ah ha! A vacation nightgown would be like this one at the bottom of the stack.” Briceson pulled out a bright blue, cotton gown with lace around the sleeves and neck. Clearly new and never worn. It still had the price tag dangling under the arm.

  I nodded. “That one would work for vacation with a bunch of women. That would have been the type of gown she'd put on for her son or other company to see her in. Not the one she's wearing right now.

  Mrs. Hutson knew her son wasn't coming to see her last night. I'm betting the gentleman we want to talk to about last night's visit was invited to spend the night or would be invited after he got here.

  The man was one this woman was comfortable enough with to wear that see through nightgown. That's why I think our mystery man had been here before. Alice Hutson knew him well.

  She prepared for his visit by buying this new nightgown I'll bet my bottom dollar.” I paused to think, rubbing my chin. “If Alice Hutson was already in bed, the man must have a key so he can let himself in if she kept the house locked at bedtime. I'm betting since she lived here alone, she'd lock up at night.

  Otherwise, she’d have been dressed and downstairs like a proper lady until after the gentleman left.