Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  “Helen said his family is suing you?”

  Breathing deeply, I reined in my temper. “Not me. The hospital. And it’s not his family; it’s his son-in-law.”

  “I don’t know what the world’s coming to these days,” she sniffed. “People sue at the drop of a hat, don’t they? And poor Clem’s not even buried yet.”

  She had a point. Clem died on a Sunday morning, and by lunchtime Monday, Jimmy Madigan was suing. How had he moved so quickly? It seemed impossible he could have found a lawyer and put together a settlement proposal in twenty-four hours.

  Unless he’d known Clem’s death was coming.

  I needed to talk to Laura—to find out more about Jimmy, and Clem, and exactly how much bad blood was between the two. I wished I’d gotten Laura’s number instead of just giving her mine.

  Then again, I was having drinks with Stillwater’s equivalent of social media.

  “Do you know Laura Madigan? She’s a librarian, I think?”

  “Yes, of course. She runs the children’s department. Riley participated in the summer reading program this year, so we saw quite a bit of her. She was Clem’s daughter, wasn’t she? I should bring her a casserole.”

  “A casserole?”

  “Food’s more useful than flowers,” my mother said, with the assurance of someone who’d been there. “Especially when you have children to feed. Speaking of, it’s time for dinner.”

  The meal passed pleasantly enough, though it was a constant battle between my mother’s insistence on etiquette and the ravenous appetite of a soccer-crazed eight-year-old. I could see why Charlie had asked me to run interference—Riley and my mom had a knack for pushing each other’s buttons, and Matt wasn’t there to referee.

  Finally, the meal was over, the kitchen cleaned, and we’d arrived at the hospital in my mother’s massive Buick. I checked my watch—6:20, which meant the shift change hadn’t happened yet. Exactly as I’d hoped.

  “You two go on ahead,” I said.

  “You’re not coming?” Riley asked.

  “I need to stretch my legs.” It was true. I’d spent most of my day sitting in the NICU or at the kitchen table—at work, I was typically running from one crisis to another. All that pent-up energy was making me restless, and Clem’s death had made me even more so. “I’ll be in soon.”

  My mother’s mouth tightened, and she slipped an arm over Riley’s shoulders. “You carry the cookies.”

  I waited until they’d gone inside, then circled the staff parking lot. Strack, I noticed, had a reserved space, complete with his name. He seemed like the sort to lord his position over lesser mortals, but at least the spot was empty, so it was probably safe for me to go inside. I kept to my loop as the streetlights flickered on and cars began filtering in, the new shift coming to take over.

  The wind was picking up and the temperature was dropping quickly. I turned up the collar of my vest and stuffed my hands into my pockets as a navy Prius pulled in at the far end of the row. A moment later, the driver unfolded himself from the car, his bald head and massive shoulders forming a distinctive silhouette. I grinned in triumph.

  “Marcus! Hey, wait up!”

  He squinted at me. “Frankie? Anyone ever tell you nice girls don’t lurk in dark parking lots?”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m not very nice.”

  He grinned, his teeth bright white against his dark skin. “Oh, I’ve heard. Strack and Costello want your head on a platter. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “And yet you are.”

  “What can I say? I’m a rebel. Hold these.”

  He handed me a stainless steel travel mug and a reusable glass water bottle.

  “Nice to see you’re staying hydrated. And caffeinated.”

  “Tools of the trade,” he said, ducking back into the car and emerging with a Superman lunchbox.

  I raised my eyebrows, and he patted it affectionately. “Birthday present from my wife. Now,” he said, “I know you aren’t hanging out here just to steal my turkey club. What’s going on?”

  “Clem Jensen. I want to see his chart—and the postmortem.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I rushed on. “Strack’s trying to get my license revoked. I need to prove I had nothing to do with Clem’s death.”

  “It’s a formality,” Marcus protested. “Once they realize they won’t find anything, Strack will leave you alone.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, handing him his mug. “Strack’s not just going after my license. He’s looking for criminal charges, too.”

  Marcus drew back. “That’s messed up.”

  “I know. Which is why I need to see Clem’s files.”

  “They won’t tell you anything new. And if Strack finds out, I could lose my job. You know how hard it would be to find another one with that kind of mark on my record? I’ve got a family to support.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I’d help you if I could, but . . .”

  I swallowed. I hadn’t meant to confide my suspicions to anyone yet, but Marcus had a point. If I was going to ask him to risk his job, he had a right to know why. And he deserved to know that, if my suspicions were correct, he hadn’t lost a patient—Clem’s life had been taken.

  “Something’s off,” I said. “Everything about Clem’s death feels weird to me.”

  Marcus said nothing.

  “You know I’m right,” I said. “You felt it too, didn’t you? That ice in your gut and on the back of your neck. He shouldn’t have thrown a clot, not with the meds he was taking. And once he was admitted and stabilized, he shouldn’t have crashed. Not so quickly, not from respiratory arrest, considering he was admitted with an MI.”

  “It happens,” he said weakly.

  “It shouldn’t have. Clem told me his heart attack wasn’t an accident. It was the first thing he said to me, but I didn’t understand what he meant. Please, Marcus. I know it’s your job on the line, but it’s mine, too. It’s my whole life. And Clem’s life. I already asked Hardy, but he won’t help me, and I’m running out of options.”

  Marcus’s huge hands tightened on his coffee mug. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and then stared at his shoes. “Strack’s on the warpath, Frankie. He’s already called me in for questioning once, and he’s been real clear we’re not done. If I got caught helping you . . . or even talking to you . . .”

  He trailed off. A car door slammed a few rows away, and he jerked, checking to see who it was. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t risk it.”

  EIGHT

  “Who was that man?” my mom asked as soon as we returned from the hospital. She’d sent Riley upstairs, which should have been my signal to disappear as well.

  “What man?” I dug in the rooster-shaped cookie jar, avoiding her eyes.

  “The one in the parking lot. You were waiting for him. I spotted you from the window. Are you seeing him?”

  I spun to face her. “I’ve been home for three days, Mom. I’ve spent almost every minute with Charlie, Riley, or you. When would I have the time to meet somebody?”

  “Anything is possible with you,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment. “I wouldn’t have said you had time to get caught up in Clem’s death, either. What’s his name?”

  “Who?” I asked, and started unloading the dishwasher.

  “The man you were meeting. Clandestinely.”

  “He’s one of the cardiac care nurses. I had some questions for him about Clem.”

  She made a noise of disapproval. Then: “Is he single?”

  “Married.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Happily married?”

  I stared at her, then turned my attention back to the silverware. “His wife packed his lunch, so I’m going to say yes.”

  “Hmm. He might have single friends,” she said hopefully.

  “I won’t be here long enough to find out.”

  Her shoulders sagged, but she rallied. “Long distance relationships can work.”

  I groan
ed. “I’m not interested in a relationship right now. With anyone.”

  “Because Peter broke your heart?” She covered my hand with hers.

  I drew away and kept my voice light as I reached for a towel. “Because he didn’t.”

  “I noticed he’s called you several times. Have you considered reaching out to him?”

  “Not even once.” In fact, I hadn’t felt the urge to check in with anyone in Chicago—not just Peter, but my friends and coworkers too. I felt a brief jolt of panic at how easily I’d left behind my old life.

  I hefted a stack of plates into the cabinet. “Right now, I’m more interested in finding out why Clem Jensen died. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Not really. I don’t spend much time at the store these days, you know. He was a steady customer. I don’t remember any complaints about his work.” She hung her egg-patterned dishtowel on the drying rack and added, “Isn’t this your girls’ night with Garima? I’ll finish up here. You get ready.”

  I went upstairs and surveyed the clothes I’d jammed into my backpack. Nothing I’d packed qualified for a girls’ night, but Crossroads didn’t have much of a dress code to begin with. Still, I switched into a coral-colored sweater and frowned at my reflection.

  Clem had been paying for CJ’s medication, and cutting-edge drugs didn’t come cheap. How was he managing?

  “Are you going back out there?” Riley asked, wrapped in a fuzzy purple bathrobe. Her hair hung in wet ropes down her back, and she seemed oblivious to the puddle forming around her.

  “Back out where? To the hospital?” I rubbed styling cream into my hair and tried to shape it into something more like curls than steel wool. “I’m going to Crossroads with a friend.”

  “Did you already go there?”

  “A long time ago. Why the interest in dive bars, kid?”

  “Grandma said you needed to get back out there,” she said nonchalantly, examining a tube of lipstick. “Can I wear this?”

  “Not until you’re twenty.” I plucked it out of her hands. “What else did Grandma say?”

  “I don’t know. She was talking on the phone. She thinks you’re getting a maid.”

  I turned. “A maid?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Because you’re old.”

  “I’m thirty-four, Riley. That’s not—oh. Did Grandma say I’m an old maid?”

  “She says you’re getting to be one. But I said you’re a nurse, and nurses have more fun than maids.”

  “We do,” I assured her.

  “Riley,” my mother said from the doorway, “don’t gossip. And don’t repeat stories you don’t understand.”

  I smiled sweetly. “I think she understood perfectly, Mom. How do I look—you know—for an old maid?”

  “Very nice,” she said, folding her hands in front of her and giving me a dour look. “Pity you’re wasting it on the crowd at Crossroads. Do you have a key?”

  I shook my head, and she waved her hand. “Get mine out of my purse. Put them back when you get home.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as a horn sounded outside. “That’s Garima—don’t wait up. Us old maids tend to stay out pretty late.”

  * * *

  Not only was Crossroads still standing, it was exactly as it had always been: loud, messy, welcoming, and full. Garima and I edged through the crowd watching ESPN to a back booth. I sat where I could see the room, marveling at how little everything had changed.

  “So,” Garima said, after she’d ordered a glass of the house wine, “have you gotten that lawyer yet?”

  “I was hoping to handle it myself,” I muttered.

  “That’s what got you into this mess,” she said. “And what have you got to show for it? A malfeasance investigation and a back injury. You’re smarter than this, Frankie.”

  She had a point. From the moment I’d tried to bring Clem inside on my own, I’d done nothing but hurt myself—literally and figuratively.

  “You’re right,” I said, chastened. “I’ll call Chicago Memorial tomorrow, get in contact with my union rep.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “Even a report to the Office of Professional Regulation is going to make your life difficult, you know. Once a complaint is filed . . .”

  “I know,” I said. Depending on the complaint, the OPR could temporarily suspend my license, and that mark would stay on my permanent record. “Strack knows it, too. He’s the one who should be coming under fire,” I said, my temper gathering steam. “The ER didn’t have enough staff on duty during a multivictim trauma, and that’s the administration’s fault, not mine.”

  We paused to order a pizza after the waitress brought our drinks. When she left, Garima said, “It’s all about the money. Strack is pushing to sell the hospital, and we’re a far less attractive investment if we’re fending off a wrongful death suit. If he can shift the blame to you, the hospital won’t have to pay out nearly as much, which will make potential buyers very happy. Once the deal goes through, he’ll negotiate a lucrative new position for himself, I’m sure.”

  “He’s going to destroy my career to line his own pockets?”

  “Absolutely,” Garima said. “Plenty of people use Stillwater General as a stepping stone. We get a lot of doctors and administrators who stay long enough to pad their resume, then head somewhere with more prestige and more money. Not many people are here for the long haul.”

  Myself included. “What about you?”

  She smiled. “My family is here. Besides, I’ve worked hard to build a great department. I’m not willing to hand that over to someone else so I can have a bigger office.”

  I took a long swallow of mediocre beer, considering her words. “What about Paul Costello? Is he looking for greener pastures?”

  She shook her head. “He and Meg moved here after his wife died. It seems unlikely he’d want to uproot her again.”

  An ugly suspicion bloomed in me. “What if he’s responsible? What if he screwed up—gave the wrong order, or missed something in the initial diagnosis? Could he be using me as a scapegoat?”

  “It’s possible,” Garima said slowly. “Do you really think Clem’s death was suspicious?”

  “According to his daughter, his heart problems weren’t severe—he was managing it through medication. And yet his blood work looked way, way off when he was admitted.”

  Garima stopped in the middle of blotting grease from her pizza. “I’m not going to ask how you saw his test results.”

  “Best not to,” I agreed. “The point is, he shouldn’t have had a heart attack, but he did. And he shouldn’t have died . . . but he did. I can’t help thinking there’s more to the story.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But you’re going to have a tough time getting it. Strack’s made it clear nobody should be talking to you. There was a memo.”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “I’m not great with memos,” she said airily. “I’m too busy delivering babies to read them. Besides, they can’t suspend me unless they want to lose their level-three NICU designation.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  She smiled. “Now, since I’ve given you the inside scoop on the hospital, give me the inside scoop on the surgeon.”

  “No scoop,” I said. “The surgeon called it off right before I came out here.”

  “Why?”

  I finished my beer before answering. “Because I didn’t want to marry him.”

  “Which seems reasonable. Except . . . why were you engaged to someone you didn’t want to marry?”

  “That,” I said, “is an excellent question.”

  “He’s not your first, is he?”

  I choked slightly. “Come again?”

  “Weren’t you and Noah MacLean engaged? At the end of senior year, right? Everyone said he popped the question on prom night.”

  Reflexively, I brushed my opposite thumb over my ring finger. “We were just kids.”

  “What happened?”

  “I
wanted to leave Stillwater. He wanted to stay.” I shrugged. “Hard to do both.”

  It was as simple as that. And infinitely more complicated. I’d known, even then, that I had to leave Stillwater. My father’s death had taught me that nobody’s future was guaranteed, so you had to make the most of every single moment. Drink in the world in great, noisy gulps and treat your days like one giant adventure, because you might not get another chance.

  At seventeen, Noah—hot-headed, smart-mouthed, and sweeter than most people realized—had felt the same way. He’d encouraged me to go away to college, to see the world, to break free of Stillwater. But as my horizons expanded, it became harder to return every Christmas, harder still to pass the summers behind the counter of the hardware store when there were so many other places to see. Gradually, boredom turned to resentment—of the store, of my family, of Stillwater itself. That’s when I knew I had to leave for good.

  At the same time that I realized I couldn’t stay, Noah had realized he couldn’t leave. There’d been no money for school, so he worked at a local garage, taking the occasional night class at the community college and watching over his brothers and sisters when his parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t. Once his dad took off, nothing in the world could have convinced him to abandon those kids.

  An impasse, then, broken into jagged pieces on a late-summer afternoon, when I’d told him I wasn’t coming back, and he’d told me he wasn’t leaving, and neither of us displayed much compassion for the other. I’d fled, leaving behind my chip of an engagement ring and some vital piece of my heart I’d spent the next few years training myself not to miss.

  “I see,” Garima said softly. “And that’s got nothing to do with the surgeon, right?”

  “Nothing,” I said firmly. “I need another beer. Want a refill?”

  She gestured to the barely touched wine glass in front of her. “I’m set.”

  I made my way up to the bar, which was packed solid. Our waitress stood at the end of the counter, back to the railing, holding her tray like a shield. In front of her was a weedy-looking man, unshaven, his hair slicked back and his flannel shirt limp and grubby in the dim bar lighting.