by Lori L. Lake
"Knowledge of human nature and experience dealing with the families and residents in nursing homes. I'm a student of psychology and human nature. You've heard of Armchair Psychologists? Well, consider me a Wheelchair Psychologist."
"You're good, Thom. Very funny. Disarming, too. I bet you manage to get people to confess to all sorts of things."
"Sometimes. Guys don't find me threatening, and the women seem to like my hair or something."
"Or something." She bit back a smile. "How should we approach the reports then?"
"I'm thinking we should trust your instincts and rule out the residents at Rivers' Edge. So let's cut right to the chase and examine the death records and see if any connections lead to employees."
Leo leafed through the pages arrayed on her desk until she found the packet titled All-Facility Deaths—Entire Historical Record. "We've got six deaths to check. Do we have to go to the jurisdiction where the deaths occurred to get this info?"
"Why don't you give me those documents, and I'll call the Department of Health. I've got a contact there who can access the information. Meanwhile, write down the six names and do some credit bureau searches to see if you can dig up any irregularities."
She quickly complied, put a Post-it on top, and handed him the stack of papers. He set them in his lap and started to roll back, then stopped. "I told Ralph I was going to help you, and he said to move closer to your spot and set up in Barbara's cube. Do you know where Barbara's desk is?"
"I've got no clue."
Thom rolled backwards, out into the hall, and disappeared to the right. Leo flipped on the computer, but before it could boot up, Thom was in her doorway again.
"Obviously Ralph hasn't paid any attention to the various cubicles."
"Oh?" Leo said.
"I found Barbara's area, but every square inch, and that includes the floor, is covered with files and stacks of paper. Looks like the most bizarre filing project in the universe is going on. No way am I disrupting her system. I'll zip over here, into this office. This is more convenient, and no one seems to be using it."
He rolled into the cubicle across the aisle from Leo. If she leaned to her left, she could see part of the doorway. Despite the visitor's chairs in the way, he managed to navigate around the desk.
"You want me to haul those seats out of there?" she asked.
"Nah, I'll push them in the corner and use it to stack stuff on. Gotta do my best to catch up with Barbara."
LEO TOOK DARIA'S hand. They sat in front of Dr. Winslow's desk as the thin, elderly doctor peered at them through the thickest glasses Leo had ever seen. How strange that an eye doctor would have such bad vision. Why didn't he have laser surgery? His irises were magnified to what seemed like twice the normal size, and with his sparse hair and parchment paper complexion, she thought of the Gollum character in the Lord of the Rings movies.
He picked up a photograph of the interior of her eye and pointed with a pencil. "Here, you see? This is the mass." He waited, but when neither she nor Daria responded, he set the photo and pencil on the desk. "The tumor is a choroidal melanoma. Dr. Spence's diagnosis is accurate. There isn't any doubt of it." With regular bobs of his head, he punctuated his words with a gentle karate chop into the palm of his left hand.
Daria sputtered, saying, "How—how can you be sure?"
"Miss, in my long career, I've diagnosed hundreds"—chop—"perhaps slightly over one thousand"—chop—"such tumors." He held his right hand ready for the next chop.
Leo hadn't expected to feel the shock she did. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd hoped Dr. Spence had erred. Hearing the diagnosis confirmed was every bit as upsetting now as when she'd first heard it.
"What do I do?" she asked.
"You've got three courses of treatment, Leona. Enucleation is the standard therapy for most large choroidal melanomas, especially those that are invading the optic nerve."
"E-what?" Daria asked.
"Enucleation. The complete removal of the eye."
Daria slumped in the chair as though she'd been shot.
Leo said, "Is there anything more, let's say, more hopeful?"
"The other two treatments are moderately new procedures that have proven some success. Episcleral radionuclide plaque brachytherapy is the first. It's useful on medium-sized tumors. I'm not optimistic about its use based upon the location of your tumor, so close to the optic nerve. The second is an external-beam, charged-particle radiation therapy performed with a proton beam or helium ions. That second method could have some success. We may want to try it. Both of these treatments tend to reduce the size of the tumor and often save the eye, though your actual vision is likely to worsen substantially in that eye. For both options, the more substantial the tumor, the less effective the course of treatment. In your case, the tumor is large, impinging upon the optic nerve, and likely to continue to grow."
Leo said, "And I could go blind in that eye."
"Yes." Chop.
"And it's cancer for sure."
"Yes." Chop. As if he suddenly realized that his karate chop motions were irritating her, the doctor clasped his hands together. "The major concern is that the tumor is malignant and could eventually spread to other parts of the body, thus compromising other organs and systems."
"My God." For a moment, Leo couldn't speak. He referred to her body as if it were a machine, with systems and functions, instead of the soft, frightened thing it felt like to her. She didn't want to ask the next question, but she had to know. "What if it's already spread?"
He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Very good question. My nurse will take a blood sample for the lab to analyze. We'll see what it indicates. In my experience, tumors that present as yours does are sealed off. The malignancy is likely contained to the interior of the eye at this point."
Daria said, "You've got to be wrong. This can't be happening."
Dr. Winslow's chin went up slightly. "I assure you, young woman, my diagnosis is accurate."
"What if we went to the Mayo Clinic?"
The doctor gave her a cold stare then met Leo's gaze. His expression changed from haughty to compassionate as he said, "Leona, you're free to go to any eye specialist in the region, the state, in all the world, but you should know that I'm the consulting expert for the Mayo Clinic. In fact, I regularly consult about cases such as yours with over seventy specialists throughout the country. I know this is difficult news to hear, but I'm certain of the diagnosis."
Daria exploded up out of the chair and paced behind Leo. In her peripheral vision, Leo saw hands flailing, and the air currents in the room suddenly seemed to be swirling. Daria paused for a moment. "Why can't you remove the cancer with surgery and save the eye?" she demanded.
Dr. Winslow was back to the karate chop. "The eye is compromised by the cancer. Cutting through the sclera, into the vitreous humor, and excising the tumor would likely result in the release of cancerous cells."
"Likely?" Daria asked. "You keep saying likely. What do you actually know?"
"I know that between thirty-six to sixty months after doing the kind of surgery you're suggesting, several of my patients died. For the last three years, I have chosen not to attempt such risky surgery on cases like Leona's."
Sixty months or less? That timeline hit Leo like a punch to the gut. "So then, Doctor, what should I do?"
"That decision doesn't have to be made today," he said kindly. "Let's do the blood work, and I'm going to provide you with some material to read at home so you can learn terminology and understand the different courses of treatment. I know that terms like episcleral radionuclide plaque brachytherapy don't roll off the layman's tongue. I've got diagrams of the eye that are labeled with the parts so you can make sense of it all. I'm also going to write you a prescription for a mild painkiller to minimize the headaches. We'll meet again next week to discuss this further." He rose and held out his karate-chopping hand.
ON THE WAY to the parking lot, Daria gripped Leo's hand tightly, which was uncharacteristi
c for both of them in public. But the connection to Daria was the only thing that helped Leo stay on her feet. Leo's other hand clutched her valise, which now contained an additional three pounds of pamphlets, diagrams, and books about the human eye.
Before they left the air-conditioned entryway, she pulled Daria to a stop. "Do you want to go get a cup of coffee, or an early dinner?"
"Can't. Have to go back to the office."
"Dunleavey?"
"Yeah."
"Are you making any headway?"
"The prosecution rested early this morning. I didn't manage to shake any of their witnesses much, and it doesn't look good. The judge was fine about recessing early, but I've got to go to the office to update Myron and Dan as soon as possible." She checked her watch. "I'm sorry, Leo. I feel like I'm being pulled five directions at once."
"I know."
"You go home and rest. You should take it easy."
The prospect of rattling around the giant house with this on her mind was too frightening to consider. "I'd rather go back to work."
"No, don't do that. You deserve a break. Take some time to yourself."
"I don't want time to myself." Her words came out sharper than she intended. Exasperated, she went on. "I prefer being busy. It's easier if my mind is on something else."
She let go of Daria's hand and folded her into a hug. A part of her wanted to let down her guard and cry all over her, but what was the use?
"What are we going to do?" Daria whispered.
Leo stepped out of the embrace. "I guess we'll read all these materials and make a decision." She hated to see the expression on her face—a mixture of anguish, pity, fear. She wondered if she appeared the same to Daria. Other than the fear, she didn't feel much else, only fear, apprehension, and more fear, along with a sense of finality that pressed against her chest as though she were trapped in a vise.
At some deep level, she believed she already had an idea what she'd do. She wasn't ready to let it come to the surface, though. Acknowledging it at this point seemed too soon.
At the car, Daria kissed her goodbye, and after a final squeeze to her shoulder parted to seek her car at the opposite side of the parking lot.
The late afternoon sun felt merely warm, but the interior of Leo's car was unbearable. She sank into the seat, the door open and the AC running. It was hard to think, partly due to the heat, but also because she felt so overwhelmed by the confirmation of the diagnosis. Oddly enough, though, her head didn't hurt, which was a welcome change.
While she waited for the air conditioner to cut through the heat, she called Kate and told her the bad news. Kate was on patrol, so she couldn't stay on the line long enough to get the details, but she assured Leo she'd call later.
The drive to DHS barely registered. She felt like she dreamed her passage through the building entry and up to the Investigations Unit. As she entered her cubicle, she was surprised to hear a voice call her name. Turning, she saw Monique Miller standing next to Thom at his desk in the cube across the aisle.
"Hey," Thom said, "you came back."
"And it's nearing five and you're still here."
"Yessirree," Thom said. "Monique pulled some records for me on other investigations at the Rivers' homes, and I called around and got some info from the cops. You're not going to believe who deposited a big chunk of change in the bank yesterday."
She set the valise on her desk and crossed the aisle to lean in the doorway. "Who?"
"It just cleared today," he said with a satisfied smile.
"Let me guess." She ran through the various suspects and came up with Ted Trimble, Hazel Bellinger, Rowena Hoxley, and Chuck Kippler. "The son."
"Nope. The gold digger."
"Really. I hadn't expected that of her. How much?"
Thom said, "Ten thousand smackaroos."
"Only a drop in the bucket of what's missing from Eleanor's accounts, though."
Monique said, "She may have a confederate. I did some cross-checking to find out more about your gold digger."
Thom held up a sheaf of papers. "I ran her name through a bunch of databases we keep. Before Rivers' Edge, about ten years ago, she worked for a large nursing home that had multiple patient and relative complaints and then a couple of suspicious deaths. The place was cited several times. They never cleaned up their act, and we eventually shut them down. Hazel Bellinger was investigated because an old man died a few months after giving her several thousand dollars."
"Doesn't that sound familiar?" Leo said. "I'm not sure what any elderly male would see in her, though."
"That's the same thing Thom mentioned," Monique said. "She's not too easy on the eyes, huh? Well, one of the investigators who's retired now looked into it, but nobody could prove that Hazel did anything illegal."
Thom said, "So she pocketed the money and moved on."
"How did the old man die?" Leo asked.
Thom thumbed through the report. "His family suspected foul play and had an autopsy done, but the M.E. said he died of natural causes. The guy was 88, so that's as far as it went."
Leo said, "I didn't spend a lot of time with her, but she didn't seem the type to stoop to murder. Character assassination was more up her alley."
"Either way," Thom said, "the cops have gone to pick her up. Sorry I didn't wait for you. Wasn't sure if you were coming back today. I called them as soon as Monique brought me the report."
"No problem at all." Leo wondered what they should do next. Wait for Flanagan to report in? They'd already been through this with Habibah, thinking that the murderer had been found, and they were wrong.
"I'm going home," Monique said. "See you two on Monday."
Leo bid her goodbye. She stepped into Thom's newly acquired cubicle and sat in a visitor's chair inside the doorway. Everything was neat and tidy, nothing stacked on seats or floor. "You still haven't given this place the Barbara treatment."
Thom glanced up from the report. "Decided it was too much work."
She shifted and winced. The hard plastic she sat on was clearly not designed to accommodate the human body. The back waffled, giving no support, and the seat pan was tilted forward slightly so she felt like she was going to slide out of it at any moment. Perching on the edge, she asked, "Why would Hazel kill Callie Trimble? That doesn't make sense."
"Yeah," Thom said. "Good question. Had to be something Callie saw. Maybe she caught Hazel pawing through the mail."
"Maybe." Something seemed out of whack to Leo, but she wasn't sure what. "Did you find out anything by checking on the deaths at the other facilities? Hazel worked somewhere else for Martin Rivers before Rivers' Edge opened. Was she employed at any of the four apartments where the people died?"
"You've got those records. Let's check them out."
She crossed the aisle, grabbed the background checks from her desk, and leafed through the pages. Before she could find the information, someone cleared his throat. Fred Baldur lurked in her doorway. He still looked tired, and his cheap blue suit was shiny, particularly at the knees, but he appeared to have washed his hair recently. Instead of the flattened patch of bed-head over his left ear, his thin, dust-colored hair stuck out in tufts along both sides.
"Listen here," he said, his voice stern, "I was expecting you to finish off the murder case."
"Some other details came up," Leo said. "I wasn't able to complete the report without more documentation."
"If you're dragging your feet, I'll have no choice but to report it."
"I'm not dragging anything. There were some new developments, and—"
"I'm not interested in excuses. I want to see results. We've got scores of cases coming in the door, not just this one."
A deep voice from behind Fred said, "Nothing's stopping you from jumping on the bandwagon, Baldur."
With Fred blocking her doorway, Leo hadn't noticed Thom wheeling out from behind the desk across the way.
Fred jerked around and found Thom planted in the doorway of the cubicle across
the aisle. "What are you doing here?"
"Ralph sent for me."
"He never told me you were coming," Fred said, his chin held high in the air.
"That's because he doesn't answer to you."
In a haughty voice, Fred said, "I'm doing everything I can to keep this department going, and—"
"You mean you're doing everything you can to avoid going out in the field. Don't dump it all on Leona because the office is short-staffed."
"Don't be ridiculous. I've been an investigator more than twenty years longer than you, Mr. Know-It-All."
"Baldur, investigators investigate. You sit in the office answering phones, typing, and avoiding the great outdoors. I don't care if you've been classified as an investigator since birth. If you aren't out doing the job, you're nothing more than a chair jockey."
Leo looked back and forth between the two men, suppressing a grin. She'd seen this before on patrol when a competent younger cop challenged a burned-out officer. She'd also seen it come to fisticuffs, but she didn't expect that from Fred Baldur. Thom had a huge advantage. Nobody in their right mind would hit a man in a wheelchair. Thom glanced her way, and she saw the challenge in his eyes, along with a twinkle.
Fred's head whipped toward her, glaring at Leo, and she barely had time to compose her face. Just as quickly, he turned back to Thom. "If I'd known it was you coming down here—"
"Maybe," Thom interrupted, "if you showed up on time for work once in a while, you wouldn't miss out on valuable information."
Fred's eyes went wide, and he all but snarled. "I've had enough of your bullshit." He stepped past the wheelchair and stabbed an index finger toward Thom. "You watch yourself here. This is my office, not yours."
He spun and stomped off, his hands in fists and shoulders stiff and drawn up so high Leo could hardly see his neck.
"What was that all about?" she asked.
Thom sighed. "I can't help poking my finger in the tiger's cage. The guy infuriates me."
"It's more like you infuriated him."
"I did my initial training down here, and he did the same thing to me that I suspect he's doing to you."
