“I don’t know. She went back to Ruthie’s house, and when I called her she said she was having really bad cramps and was just going to go to bed with her heating pad. Ruthie offered to fix her something to eat, but she said she wasn’t hungry.”
“Poor thing,” said Mum sympathetically.
Elliott changed the subject. “I got the subpoena today for Jay’s will,” he told me. “They’ll get a copy tomorrow.”
They, meaning the police. “Good,” I said. “Maybe now the firebug will leave us alone.”
“What are you talking about, Toni?” asked Jodi.
I told them about my theory that someone was trying to destroy all copies of Jay’s first will.
“So what?” asked Jodi. “If that will was done in 1995, and the other one just this year, doesn’t that make the second one the legal will? What would be the point in destroying all the copies of the other one?”
“Whatever the reason, somebody seems to have it in for Kathleen and her family. I mean, the fires have involved them in one way or another.”
“Not necessarily,” Jodi objected. “Maybe the person who set fire to Jay’s office was after Lance, not Kathleen. That’s probably how the police see it too: two unrelated fires.” Seeing the skeptical expressions on our faces, she added, “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure, anything’s possible, but what a coincidence that somebody murdered her husband and burned her husband’s office and her house. What are the chances that those are all unrelated? Besides which, Bernie Kincaid told me today that both fires were arson, with gasoline as the accelerant, and they found an empty gasoline can with the cap off at both fires. If they can get any fingerprints off them, they’ll know if the same person set both fires. I’ll bet that’s what happened. She and her family are the common denominator in all these things. Can’t you see that?”
“Oh, I guess I can see it,” Jodi admitted, “but why? What do they want?”
Elliott interrupted. “Kathleen’s copy of Jay’s will is in her safe deposit box at the bank; and now there’s a copy of the new one there too.”
“So, which one’s legal? The new one, right?”
“In general, that’s true,” Elliott replied. “But there may be extenuating circumstances. For example, was the decedent of sound mind when he made that will? He seemed to be, but was he really? Did he make it under duress? I didn’t think so, but maybe he was and was just damn good at hiding it. There could be factors we don’t know about. That might affect the validity of any will, no matter when it was made.”
“Doesn’t probate take care of that?” I asked.
“Don’t you have to decide which will’s going to be probated?” Mum inquired.
“Not only that,” I interjected. “But if Jay was murdered, doesn’t that have to be solved before probate even starts? Isn’t there something about a person not being allowed to benefit from his crime?”
“Then somebody’s going to a hell of a lot of freakin’ trouble for nothing,” Elliott commented. “A murder and two fires. What would be the point?”
“We really don’t know that it’s the wills this person’s after, do we?” asked my mother. “I mean, it’s daft. Didn’t this Lance person have a fireproof file cabinet in his office? Or a safe? And how would this nut job get at a will in a safe deposit box? Is he going to start burning down banks now?”
“There’s a thought,” I said. “Which bank is Kathleen’s safe deposit box in?”
“Twin Falls Bank and Trust,” Jodi said. “The same building Elliott’s office is in.”
Elliott clutched his head. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Don’t say that so freakin’ loud! You might give this guy ideas. And in any case, I’ve got fireproof file cabinets. The guy’d have to be a freakin’ idiot. Who the hell came up with this freakin’ will idea in the first place?”
I opened my mouth to answer that, but Elliott forestalled me. “Don’t tell me. Shapiro. Right?”
Jodi said, “My head hurts.”
“Mum’s got a point,” I said. “Were there fireproof file cabinets or safes in Lance’s office or Jay’s office? Seems to me that would be a dandy place to keep documents you didn’t want anybody else to know about. If Kathleen set up that Swiss bank account, she might know if the documents pertaining to it are there. Or maybe we can go down to the fire department and see if they managed to salvage anything like that.”
“If they did, they’d turn it over to the police,” Elliott said.
Okay, I thought. Number four on the list: call the police station tomorrow and find out.
Friday, December 19
Chapter 18
Yet who would have thought the old man
to have so much blood in him?
—Shakespeare, Macbeth
Lance died during the night, and an autopsy was requested.
I didn’t find out until I got to work Friday morning. For once I didn’t get awakened in the middle of the night for an autopsy, and wouldn’t you know, Hal wasn’t here to see it. Or hear it. Or not hear it. Whatever. Go figure.
Even so, I hadn’t slept well, and it wasn’t due to visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. Even with makeup on, I looked like a dog’s breakfast, as Mum would put it. Mike would be sure to notice and comment on it.
And he did. “Y’all don’t look so good,” he observed. “What the hell’s goin’ on with y’all?”
I leaned wearily against the doorjamb. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’d hoped it wasn’t quite that obvious.”
“Well, I tell you what,” Mike said. “You look like hell. You don’t just look tired, you look sick. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I told you. I’m just tired. Okay?”
“Well, excuse the hell out of me. Y’all don’t need to bite my head off.”
“Sorry, Mikey. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“Y’all want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Mike took me by the shoulders, steered me to a chair, and pushed me into it. He pulled his chair around to face me and sat down so close that our knees touched. “Well, you need to,” he said sternly. “Hell, you’ve been lookin’ like dog meat lately.”
“Oh, come on,” I objected. “I don’t look that bad.”
“All I’m sayin’ is, you keep on like this, and then you are gonna get sick, and then I’ll have to work twice as hard to keep this department going. Somethin’s goin’ on, and I need to know what it is. It’s not me, is it?”
The idea was so ludicrous that I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” Mike demanded.
“Nothing,” I protested, controlling myself with difficulty. “That thought never occurred to me. No, it’s Hal. He left me last night. He’s got a girlfriend. I really didn’t want to talk about all this,” I added as tears came to my eyes and I turned my head away. Mike reached out and turned it back, looking into my eyes.
“I’d say that’s more than enough,” he said gently. “I tell you what. I thought you and Hal were solid as a rock. What happened?”
I didn’t want to talk about Hal, but with Mike’s gentle urging, I soon found myself telling him about how distant Hal had been over the last few months, his constant criticism, Marilyn spilling the beans about seeing Hal kissing a student, and me seeing them together at the bar with Bernie. My tears flowed freely, and somehow I found myself sobbing on Mike’s shoulder with his arms around me.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” observed a caustic voice behind me, and Mike and I jumped apart guiltily to see Hal standing in the doorway. Oh, fuck. What next? I stood rooted to the floor, staring at him, unable to speak. Hal stared back coldly and then turned away. By the time Mike and I managed to reach the doorway, he was out of sight. The whole thing happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it.
But Mike’s reaction told me otherwise.
“Damn. I’m sorry, Toni,” he said. “Now he thinks you’re fooling around with me.”
“I’ve got to go after him,” I said. “Did you see which way he went?”
I turned to go, but at that moment, Lucille appeared in the doorway, her round face avid with curiosity. “Sorry to interrupt you guys, but there’s a frozen.”
Flustered, Mike and I stared at each other. “Whose turn is it?” he muttered. “I can’t remember.”
“I think it’s me,” I said. I’d be glad of the opportunity to hide my hot face in the cold cryostat for a while. Also, the decision whether or not to run after Hal had been effectively taken out of my hands. Oh, sure, if I really had wanted to run after Hal, Mike would have been glad to handle the frozen for me. But what would I have said, anyway? I’m not fooling around with Mike. Oh yeah, he would have said, sure looked like it to me. First Kincaid, and now your partner. And we would be saying all this right out in the hallway with people going by and hearing everything—and then talking about it.
The hole I was digging myself into with Hal resembled the one on the patient’s face, once the surgeon and I got done with it. It was a basal cell carcinoma—actually a basal cell marathon—as margin after margin turned out to be positive, resulting in the removal of more and more skin, until the patient would need a skin graft to close the defect.
Finally, after an hour and a half, the excision was deemed to be complete. For that patient, my job was done, but the poor surgeon still had to repair the damage.
And I’d completely recovered from the morning’s emotional excesses. In fact, I felt embarrassed, now that Mike knew about my marital problems, and I was reluctant to face him. Not a good situation for professional partners to be in, but Mike solved that problem for me by marching into my office, coffee cup in hand, and flopping into a chair.
“Are you done signing out already?” I asked.
“Done dictating. Just have to wait for the typing. How about y’all tell me about this autopsy? We’re gonna do it together, right?”
So we went over the chart and decided on a battle plan that should cover anything Ruthie could possibly come up with to sue us for.
Then Mike went back to his office and I got busy with my list. So far I’d only been able to check off one item: Jeannie’s pregnancy test. Next, I’d established the existence of an oral form of heparin, but I still had to find out if anybody involved in this case was taking it. That one looked like it would be the most labor intensive, so I mentally shuffled it to the back and tackled Dave McClure’s alibi next.
I Googled him and obtained his office address and phone number. Then I called the number and got the receptionist, whose name was Carol. Carol was happy to inform me that Dave and his new wife, Jennifer, were on a Caribbean cruise and were not expected back until next week. When had they left? Oh, let’s see now. The wedding was on Saturday the sixth, so they left on the seventh, and they should be back on the twenty-first. Could she tell him who called? Was there a message? I said no to both and hung up.
That took care of Dave. If he’d left on a cruise the seventh, he certainly wasn’t around to murder Jay Braithwaite Burke on the eleventh. Next, the contents of Lance’s office.
I called the police station and asked for Pete. I was reluctant to talk to Bernie; I didn’t really know what to say to him. Thanks a lot, bub. You got me in trouble with my husband. Oh yeah? All I did was invite you to lunch. You could have said no. Why didn’t you? Don’t put all this on me. It takes two to kiss, you know.
But Pete wasn’t available and Bernie was, so it seemed I had no choice.
“Toni? What can I do for you? Have you changed your mind?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “No, Bernie, that’s not what I called about. I was wondering if the fire department recovered anything from the fire at Jay Braithwaite Burke’s and Lance Brooks’s law office, like a fireproof file cabinet or a safe.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They haven’t turned any in to us yet. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m curious about what might be in them. Like wills. Or bank statements from a Swiss bank account. I want to know if Jay Braithwaite Burke actually had any money for anybody to inherit.”
“And you want to know this why?”
“I’m trying to figure out a motive for those fires. If there’s no money to inherit, why would anybody set fires and nearly kill eight people just to destroy a will?”
“Okay, Toni, now listen to me. We have copies of both wills. Unless there are extenuating circumstances that we don’t know about yet, Jay’s second will is the legal will. So why does anybody need to destroy copies of the first one? What would be the point? And in any case, Kathleen probably keeps her copy in a safety-deposit box. Most people do. Surely you don’t think this scumbag is going to start burning down banks now, do you?”
He sounded like Mum.
“If that’s not the reason for the fires, what is?” I persisted. “If whoever it was is trying to kill people, he needs to do a better job.”
“All right, Toni, you may have a point. Let me call my buddy Roy Cobb and get back to you, okay?”
Hmph. I may have a point? I slammed the phone down. “Asshole,” I muttered, just as Natalie came into my office with a tray of Pap smears.
“Goodness, I hope that wasn’t Hal,” she said, smiling as she put the tray on my desk. Speechless, I stared at her. “Sorry. I was just kidding,” she blurted, red-faced, and fled.
I had managed to push Hal to the back of my mind while talking on the phone, but now the tears came to my eyes, and I had buried my face in my hands trying to control myself when Lucille came in. “What’s wrong with Natalie?” she demanded, hands on her ample hips. Then she saw my face. “Jesus Christ, Doc, what’s wrong with you?”
“Lucille, please don’t say anything,” Natalie begged as she came in practically on Lucille’s heels. Her face, like mine, was tear-stained. She stopped short when she saw my face, and Mike, right behind her, almost bumped into her. “I’m so sorry, Doctor,” she sobbed. “Doctor Mike just told me.”
“Told you what?” I glared at Mike, who looked sheepish.
“Now, Toni, don’t get all pissy. Y’all shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I started to say, when Lucille grabbed me in a bear hug, practically smothering me in her ample bosom. “Honey, I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there. Three times,” she added with a rueful chuckle.
I knew that. I even remembered all of them.
Natalie put her arms around both Lucille and me. “You and Hal were there for Dale and me when we needed it,” she sniffled. “The least I can do is be there for you.”
Despite my indignation, I felt touched by their concern. “Thank you, I think,” I said unsteadily. “But I don’t want the whole hospital to know. I don’t even want the whole lab to know. I don’t want to have to keep explaining to people …”
They assured me that they hadn’t told anybody else, but I was skeptical. In a hospital, especially in a hospital lab, the walls have ears.
With Bluetooth amplifiers.
Mike and I weren’t able to get to the autopsy until four o’clock. When we arrived at Parkside Mortuary, Rollie expressed surprise at seeing both of us there.
“Can’t take the chance,” Mike told him, brandishing his Nikon. “Dude’s a lawyer.”
Rollie nodded and looked wise. “I see,” was all he said.
It occurred to me that I was about to autopsy the fourth and final member of the firm of Burke, Braithwaite, Burke, Bartlett and Brooks, Attorneys at Law, because, looking back in my records, I discovered that I’d also autopsied Bill Bartlett ten years ago.
I try not to be superstitious. I am, after all, a physician and should not be
susceptible to those sorts of things, in spite of being half Irish on my father’s side; but I had a very bad feeling about this autopsy.
I’d even talked to Monty, who informed me that he’d already discussed the case with the hospital’s legal counsel, who said we had nothing to worry about.
Mike and I had decided to handle this case as a homicide and leave no stone unturned. Well, we didn’t do a rape kit, but other than that …
First, we drew blood from the heart for possible laboratory studies. The blood flowed easily into the syringe, and we kept drawing it until we had filled every kind of tube the lab used. We collected all the urine in the Foley catheter bag. It was grossly bloody.
We removed all the intravenous lines. Blood ran from the puncture sites. When we removed the endotracheal tube, the mucus was bloody. The drainage from the nasogastric tube was bloody.
I had a definite feeling of déjà vu. “Mikey,” I said, “this is creeping me out.”
“How’s that?”
“Too much blood. It reminds me of Jay Braithwaite Burke.”
The resemblance didn’t stop there. When I made my Y-shaped incision, bloody ascites fluid, under pressure within the abdomen, shot nearly to the ceiling. We hastily jumped back to avoid a bloodbath. We had to suction out several liters of it in order to see the contents of the abdomen more clearly. That was a bit of a problem, owing to extensive scarring and adhesions because of Lance’s multiple bowel resections. There were no clots at all, anywhere. Liquid blood filled the stomach, esophagus, small bowel, and colon, as well as bronchi and trachea. The lungs showed hemorrhage and edema, and both chest cavities contained bloody pleural fluid.
We collected gastric and small bowel contents, just in case toxicology would be needed, although we didn’t really think it would be.
Normally we would have taken a chunk of liver for toxicology too, but we didn’t, because Lance’s liver was almost totally replaced by grayish-white tumor nodules. The remaining uninvolved liver was dark green. The tumor originated in the head of the pancreas and blocked not only the pancreatic duct but also the common bile duct, causing bile to back up into the liver, which accounted for its color. We were both amazed that Lance had survived this long.
Too Much Blood Page 15
