Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  “And our Jane Doe?”

  Susan looked over the rim of her cup in surprise. “You didn’t get an ID out of that belt?”

  “Not enough to be sure.” I shared Reece’s information on Lucy and Mitch Kowalski.

  “Can Reece put out her description? We need to find next of kin.”

  Susan’s question sounded ominous. “You don’t think she’ll come around long enough to give her name?”

  “The abdomen wound’s treatable, but the fall fractured her skull. We put her in an induced coma to keep her motionless. Her cranial pressure is building. If we don’t get that under control, the girl may never wake up.”

  I didn’t know what options we had. Take a picture of her in a hospital bed? In her bandages, she’d probably look like a mummy.

  Susan stared behind me. “Here comes the big boss and her mouthpiece.” She washed down the rest of her pastry with coffee and wiped her hands on her jeans. “O’Malley must not have given them the right quote for a press release.”

  I turned and saw Pamela Whittier, the chief hospital administrator, crossing the room accompanied by Howard Jefferson, the head of PR. Behind them lagged Ray Chandler, Susan’s colleague who had operated on the unidentified girl.

  Whittier wore a smartly tailored outfit more appropriate for a nine o’clock board meeting than a midnight encounter in the cafeteria. Jefferson wore a blue pinstripe, too heavy for this time of year, but the perfect wardrobe for the media coverage generated by the shooting. Chandler was still in wrinkled blue scrubs.

  The three of them came to our table. Whittier forced a smile. “Good work, Susan.”

  I stood up. “Barry Clayton. We’ve met before.” I nodded to Jefferson and Chandler.

  “Yes, of course,” Whittier said. “I understand you helped organize the first response at the scene. Thank you.”

  I suspected Whittier did remember me. I’d attended several hospital functions with Susan, and this woman hadn’t gotten to the top of her profession by missing details, including who was dating one of her star surgeons.

  Jefferson I knew only by reputation. He had spent a number of years covering the crime beat for a TV station in Spartanburg, South Carolina, before taking the more lucrative and socially connected PR position at the hospital about two years ago. I estimated him to be around ten years older than Susan and I. He had a reputation of being both feared and respected. Feared because he was quick to run over anyone who got in the way of his career path and respected because he had won a number of prestigious awards for his crime reporting. He was said to have been directly responsible for putting a number of criminals behind bars, thanks to leads and witnesses he’d uncovered.

  Whittier looked at Susan, who had remained seated. “I see there’s still no name for the girl with the head trauma.”

  “No, but Barry’s working on it.”

  “Really?” Jefferson said. His brown eyes sharpened as if trying to peer inside my skull.

  Whittier pointed to my chair. “Why don’t we all sit down and get brought up to date.” She motioned for Jefferson and Chandler to take chairs and then she sat close to me. “We need to learn something soon to get proper authorization for the girl’s treatment and to give Howard some idea of how to handle the media.”

  “Are you expecting her to remain on life-support?” I asked.

  Whittier looked to Susan, knowing physicians didn’t want administrators making medical assessments.

  Susan dabbed a tissue at her nose. Now that the pressure in OR was over, her cold symptoms had returned. “That’s a question for Ray. He was the girl’s primary surgeon.”

  Ray Chandler was the youngest member of O’Malley’s clinic, having just completed his residency at the hospital. He was smart, good looking, and a guy who appreciated Susan for more than just her surgical skills. In other words, I watched him like a hawk.

  Chandler gave Whittier a sideways glance. He didn’t seem anxious to express an opinion.

  “I think we’ve heard enough from Dr. Chandler,” Jefferson said with an edge in his voice. “I’ve got reporters hounding me about morning deadlines and all he says is the girl could be a minor whose care decisions need to be approved by her parents. Or she could be married. She could be seventeen or she could be twenty.” Jefferson puffed himself up. “I can’t go out in front of the cameras with vague information like that. I’ll look like a fool.”

  Chandler bristled. “Never stopped you before. I’ve told you what I know about the girl.”

  “And it’s precious little,” Jefferson snapped back.

  Whittier raised her hand to bring the quarrel to a halt. “We understand your need for information, Howard, and I’ll get it for you.” She turned to Susan. “Dr. O’Malley talked to me about airlifting the girl to Charlotte’s trauma unit, but he also said the helicopter flight itself wasn’t without risk to her condition. And we could be separating her from a family who may not want her moved out of the area. I’m asking you what you think.”

  Susan’s knuckles went white as she gripped her coffee cup in both hands. While neither Whittier nor Jefferson had any direct authority over Susan, Whittier did approve all aspects of how the medical complex was run, including accepting the credentials of its practicing physicians. A surgeon without privileges at the local hospital would find it hard to get patients.

  Jefferson, on the other hand, not only controlled the public relations machine in the area but also was known to hold Pamela Whittier’s ear. He wasn’t above putting in a disparaging word just for spite. Neither Jefferson nor Whittier were people Susan needed to have as enemies.

  “And I said you need to ask Ray,” Susan answered.

  That’s my girl, I thought. She’d swordfight Zorro if he made her mad. No wonder I loved her.

  Whittier colored at Susan’s rebuke. Then she brought herself under control. “I see.” She looked past Jefferson to Chandler. “Do you agree with Dr. O’Malley that the girl shouldn’t be moved?”

  “Yes. We’ve got her stable here. That’s all Charlotte would do at this point. We have to monitor her cranial pressure. We’ve done what surgery we can at this time.”

  Whittier spread her ringless fingers on the Formica tabletop and stared at them. “We’ve all had a long might. I don’t mean to be the wicked witch of western North Carolina. I care what all my doctors think, and we’ll do whatever you decide is best. It’s just that I care about this hospital and I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  The words were barely out of Whittier’s mouth before Jefferson chimed in. “I agree. I just want to be sure that we’re all speaking with one voice when I talk to the media.” He gave us his best broadcaster smile. “I’ll stall the reporters until we’re able to get some more information.”

  Whittier laid her hand on my forearm. “Barry, now you see why learning the girl’s identity will help us all. Is there anything Howard or I can do to assist you?”

  Whittier’s offer caught Jefferson’s attention. “Right, maybe a little publicity would be helpful. Maybe there’s already a missing person report on the girl or somebody might recognize her description if I get it on the air.”

  “I’ll mention your offer to Deputy Hutchins. He’s in charge of the investigation until we can get Tommy Lee involved.” I thought how Tommy Lee would be hell to keep uninvolved. He’d be chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital.

  Then an idea struck me as to how Tommy Lee could keep involved in the case and still get some rest and recuperation at the hospital. “Maybe there is something you can do. Would it be possible to have a computer in Tommy Lee’s room where he could get emails and updates on the case from the Sheriff’s Department?”

  Whittier gave my arm a squeeze. “Sure. I’ll see to it that the sheriff is put in a room where his deputy can consult with him at all times. Direct phone, internet, and email.”

  “Let me handle the phone and computer hookup,” Jefferson said to Whittier. “I deal with those guys down in Information Technol
ogy a lot more than you. They’re kind of an odd bunch. I’ll call Bumgardner and have him take care of it personally. He’s the best.”

  “Thanks,” Whittier said and looked at Susan. “As long as we’re not violating doctor’s orders.”

  Susan smiled. “Since when has any doctor told Tommy Lee what to do? His head’s as hard as Barry’s.”

  Her diagnosis was right on the money.

  I dropped Susan at her condo at one-thirty in the morning. Then I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to call the funeral home and wake Mom since she should have been in bed, but I didn’t want to leave her hanging if she’d waited up for news. Although I’d telephoned her and Fletcher from the hospital as soon as Cindy and Tommy Lee were out of danger, I’d also promised to give them a progress report before I left. I hadn’t. The night had gotten away from me. I decided I’d better drive by before heading to my cabin.

  My parents had always lived above our funeral home. Other than the kitchen, the rest of the family living quarters—a den, Mom’s sewing room, and two bedrooms—were upstairs. Like me, my father had grown up here. His grandfather had built the house back in 1929 and our business opened in 1930. Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors was as much a Gainesboro institution as the hospital.

  No light shone from the windows on the second level. I figured Mom had gone to bed. But as I turned onto the side street, I noticed a glow coming from the window of the downstairs parlor. Then I saw Fletcher Shaw’s silver Honda convertible parked in the driveway. Evidently he and Mom were waiting up for me.

  The back door to the kitchen was unlocked. I knew the layout well enough to navigate in the dark, and I went down the hall to the section of the house where we conducted our business. The slumber room, as my Uncle Wayne insisted upon calling it, lay on the right and served for family viewings and visitations. On the opposite side of the foyer was a small parlor for counseling families or receiving visitors in a more intimate setting.

  In that room, a single lamp burned with the three-way bulb on its lowest wattage. In the dim light, I could make out Fletcher stretched on the sofa in a position more suitable for the inside of a casket. For a second, I watched to make sure he was breathing.

  “Fletcher.”

  He jumped like I’d discharged a cannon by his head. “Barry. I didn’t hear you.”

  He swung his feet off the sofa and started brushing the cushions as if I might inspect them. He stood up, looking unsure what to do next.

  I realized that in his eyes I was the boss. “That’s okay. Did my mother go to bed?”

  “Yes. We figured you’d have called if there was a change one way or the other.”

  I motioned for him to sit down and I eased into an armchair by the stone fireplace. A summer mountain fern occupied the hearth in front of the dormant gas logs.

  “Everybody’s stable,” I said, “but the unidentified girl’s condition is the most precarious. Cindy and Tommy Lee should have a complete recovery.”

  “That’s good.” Fletcher’s expression contradicted his words.

  “What?”

  He looked away from me. “I’ve been thinking that if I hadn’t asked Cindy to dance with you—”

  “Then you might have danced with her and she could have stopped in a different place where the bullet could have gone through her head, not her spleen. Fletcher, if you stay in this business, you’re going to learn that death is even more unfair than life. You can only help people cope with it, not explain it. Cindy’s alive. That’s the main thing.”

  “You sound like my father. Mr. Practical.”

  “Oh, I have my flights of fancy,” I assured him. “But, at some point, we all have to play the cards we’re dealt and not stay hung up on the fairness of the dealer.”

  The young man smiled. “While we were in the waiting room, Cindy’s mom told me how you’ve played your hand. I’d just like to say it’s an honor to work for you.”

  His compliment caught me off guard. Maybe it was the late hour and the ordeal at the hospital. My throat tightened and I felt tears in my eyes. Now I was the one who looked away. I managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

  Life had dealt some tough cards. Not so much to me, but to Mom and Dad. Alzheimer’s had struck my father when he was only in his fifties. For several years he, my mother, and Uncle Wayne struggled to keep the business going while Dad’s condition deteriorated. They also looked for a potential buyer, but, at the time, their small-town funeral home wasn’t attractive to the big chains.

  I’d moved to Charlotte, married, and started my career in law enforcement with the Charlotte Police Department. My flight of fancy was to someday work for the FBI with a posting to a larger city, one where my wife, Rachel, could be happier.

  Although my parents never asked me, I saw what needed to be done. So, I returned to Gainesboro at the cost of my career and eventually my marriage. But I’d played those cards into a life I valued. I had Susan and I had a community that depended upon me. Yet, moments like this told me I was still not at peace, and that a part of me regretted what I’d given up.

  I didn’t know how much Helen had told Fletcher about my past. I certainly didn’t want to get into it now. “You were kind to stay,” I told him. “You’d better get back to your apartment and grab a few hours’ sleep. Tomorrow could be crazy.”

  “Do you think we’ll be involved with the dead man?”

  “I don’t know. Deputy Hutchins got an ID. Mitch Kowalski of Delray Beach, Florida. Next of kin will need to be notified. I assume we might assist a funeral home down there with prep and shipment of the body.” I stepped closer to him. “We’ll find out tomorrow. Now get some rest.”

  He nodded. “Okay. But I didn’t stay here just to talk. You had a phone call and I wanted to make sure you got the message.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A nurse in the recovery room. Emily something. It was about the sheriff.”

  My heart raced. “She called after I left the hospital?”

  “I don’t think so. Earlier. I told her I thought you were still there. She said the sheriff had asked for you. She told him he couldn’t have any visitors other than immediate family until he was in a room.”

  “So why’d she call?”

  “She said the sheriff insisted. He had a message and he wanted it delivered word for word. The nurse apologized and said normally she wouldn’t have bothered you, but even though he was still flying from the anesthesia, he was the sheriff. And she said these were his words, not hers.”

  “Oh, boy,” I muttered.

  “Yeah. The message is ‘as soon as I get my room, have Deputy Barry Clayton get his ass in here.’” Fletcher grinned. “I didn’t know you were a deputy.”

  Chapter Four

  Deputy Reece Hutchins leaned against the wall of the hospital corridor. His crisp tan uniform and spit-shined black shoes conveyed authority. The stiff blue folder in his hand proclaimed a purpose, but his pale, thin face projected a fear that was impossible to hide beneath his veneer of officiousness. Reece looked like he was next in line for a colon examination.

  “Have you seen him?” I asked. The door to Tommy Lee’s room behind Reece was shut.

  “No. The nurse at the desk said they’re checking the wound’s drainage and changing the dressing. The docs will let us know if he can have visitors.”

  That sounded reasonable. Nearly fifteen hours had passed since the shooting. I’d been able to sleep for three of them. “There’s a lounge down the hall. I can wait there till you’re finished.”

  Reece shrugged. “Why? Patsy said he wanted to see us together.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. Fletcher hadn’t mentioned that detail last night.

  “You didn’t know?” Only a hint of sarcasm laced Reece’s question. Normally he loved having inside information, but today he seemed to be doing his best just to hold himself together.

  The door to Tommy Lee’s room opened and Susan emerged. “Gentlemen.” She winked at me.
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  “What’s the word?” I asked.

  Susan nodded her head toward the room. “O’Malley has the last word.”

  Although I couldn’t see the older surgeon, I heard his voice boom loud and clear. “You’re not going to do anyone any good if you come out of this hospital one minute earlier than I tell you. So, get over it.”

  There was a mumbled growl in response.

  A few seconds later, Dr. O’Malley stepped into the hall. The scowl on his face didn’t soften at the sight of Reece and me. “So, what are you here for? Pin his badge on his bandage?”

  “He wanted to see us,” Reece stammered.

  O’Malley sighed in exasperation. “Sure, why not. He’d probably get out of bed and track you down otherwise. But you can do your buddy a favor by keeping your visit short. He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s got a lot of tissue that needs time to heal.”

  I smiled. “Did you tell him that?”

  “Yeah. I might as well have been talking to the damn bedpan.” He gave each of us a concerned stare. “Try not to let him get agitated. The calmer he stays, the faster he mends.” He turned to Susan. “Let’s go check on Cindy Todd.”

  “How’s the other girl?” I asked.

  “Hanging by a thread,” O’Malley said, and then briskly walked away with Susan hurrying to catch him.

  Reece motioned for me to enter first. The room was indirectly lit by a fluorescent bulb mounted to the wall behind the hospital bed. Its soft white light cast an ethereal glow over the sheets and medical equipment. A computer monitor hanging from the ceiling displayed heart rate, blood pressure, oxygenation levels, and several other functions unknown to me. An IV tree held multiple bags of fluids dripping into Tommy Lee’s arm. A single bag at the foot of the bed collected urine. From somewhere among the paraphernalia, a barely audible beep sounded with the rhythm of a slow dance tune.

  The upper section of the bed was inclined at a thirty-degree angle, and Tommy Lee’s head was propped up on two pillows. Never before had I seen him without his eye patch. Scar tissue covered the left socket, leaving a pale void that drew my gaze with hypnotic power. The remnants of mangled flesh seemed to spawn the familiar long, thin scar that crossed his cheek and disappeared into the corner of his mouth. Seeing the whole wound exposed made me wonder how he’d ever made it out of Vietnam alive.