Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  ‘That may be,’ Mattie said, sitting in a wing chair across from the two women and placing the recorder on the coffee table that separated them. ‘If you could start by saying your name, address, and today’s date.’ Mattie then ran her through a series of questions to establish the sequence of events that led to Rose and Alice being under Delia Preston’s office windows at the time she jumped. ‘Describe, with as much detail as you can remember, what you saw.’

  Rose sat back, her lips pursed. ‘We were on the bench and I saw something shiny falling, like a shower of glass sprinkles, and I looked up and saw her go through the window.’

  ‘Was she standing or hanging from the ledge?’

  ‘No, more like a child in a swimming pool, just sort of plopped over the edge, not quite a somersault.’

  ‘Head first?’ Delia asked, trying to picture what Rose described.

  ‘Yes, but not fully.’ She made a fist of her hand and indicated with a downward motion of her wrist how she’d seen Delia fall.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I stood up and walked over to her.’

  ‘Was she still alive?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She didn’t move.’ Rose hugged the quilt tighter. ‘Her head twisted.’ Rose made a face. ‘It was wrong . . . broken, like the neck had snapped.’

  Mattie looked at Rose and then Alice, who was contentedly sipping some juice Aaron had gotten for her in a large plastic tumbler. She heard the front door, and Lil, her straw-blonde hair in a loose ponytail, came around the kitchen. Her forehead was smudged with ash and she seemed jumpy.

  ‘I brought you the memory card,’ she said, holding out a small black plastic case.

  ‘Thanks.’ Mattie took the tiny bit of plastic, pulled out a plastic evidence bag from one of her inner jacket pockets and dropped it in. Using an indelible Sharpie she wrote across the white strip, noting the date and time, and put down Lil’s name and address. ‘Before I leave I’ll need you to sign a form for this.’ Something’s up, she thought. Why wasn’t she here when I arrived? And where’s the camera? She was about to ask when her cell phone vibrated and then rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pulling it out and reading the LED, which gave the number and read ‘State of CT’. She knew who it was. ‘Arvin, what you got for me?’

  ‘It’s long and hard and . . .’

  ‘For Christ’s sakes Arvin,’ she snapped, picturing the rotund and mostly bald medical examiner, who was forever propositioning anything female with a pulse. At least, she hoped it only extended to those with pulses. She bit back a scathing remark. After all, she’d called him at home on a Sunday when she’d discovered Delia’s body had been whisked off to Brattlebury Hospital. She was deep in favor territory. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

  And like a switch being thrown, Dr Arvin Storrs dropped the creepy flirtation. ‘Her neck was snapped at C-3, pelvis shattered in four places . . . but all post-mortem.’

  Mattie’s breath caught. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘She’d been dead a good four hours before she went out that window, that’s what I’m saying. So unless you believe in zombies she didn’t jump; she was dropped, pushed, tossed, given the old heave ho . . .’

  ‘And the cause of death?’

  ‘Blunt trauma, to the back of the head, right above the occiput, a single blow from someone who knew what they were doing. You’re looking for something smooth, round and heavy. Say between a bowling ball and a baseball. Think grapefruit sized. I’ll tell you more when I have it, but thought you’d want to know this was no accident . . . and something else you might want—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’d had intercourse within an hour of death, two tops.’

  ‘Rape?’

  ‘Nothing to indicate that, absolutely no signs of a struggle, some minor abrasions and a bit of bruising.’

  ‘DNA?’

  ‘Not a hair that wasn’t hers, at least not so far. And no sperm if that’s what you’re looking for . . .’ Unable to stop himself, he added: ‘And if that is what you’re looking for, I’d be happy to—’

  ‘Not in this lifetime, Arvin.’ She cut him off short. A familiar excitement in her belly as the information sank in – homicide. She was about to hang up and then stopped. ‘Arvin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There were four other dead at the scene. One is an old doctor found in bed. It’s probably smoke inhalation, but . . .’ She remembered the tumbler of bourbon residue.

  ‘What? The only one they brought here was the Preston woman. Who was the doc?’ He sounded annoyed.

  ‘Norman Trask, a surgeon.’

  ‘Where’s the body?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Crap. If one’s a homicide, and it turns out to be arson . . . then they’re all homicides. Why the hell aren’t they here?’

  ‘If I give you the names, will that help?’

  ‘I hate my job,’ he said, at the prospect of multiple labor-intensive autopsies heading his way. ‘You know I’ve been cut back to a single assistant. And they’re still looking for another ten-percent cut.’

  ‘It’s the same everywhere,’ she said, not wanting to get into another discussion on the wretched state economy and the new governor’s promise to balance the budget, even if it meant closing prisons and laying off hundreds of state workers. She gave Arvin the names of the dead, and likely locations for their remains. ‘With Dr Trask,’ she added, knowing from experience that the more information you gave Arvin about the crime and the scene, the more focused his findings would be. ‘The fire started in his living room. The state Fire Marshall won’t commit to arson, and the local one insists it was an accident caused by oily rags spontaneously combusting in the guy’s apartment. Either way, there was definitely accelerant. I’m very interested in the toxicology on him. He was found in bed, likely had been drinking.’

  ‘And you want to know how much?’

  ‘Yeah, and anything else he might have been taking.’

  ‘This day’s going to go on forever,’ he griped.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and hung up.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Yes and no.’ Mattie retrieved her recorder, noting how close Ada had moved; she’d obviously been listening. ‘Rose, thank you so much. If you remember anything else, anything at all, it could be important.’

  ‘What’s happened,’ Lil asked.

  Mattie looked at Lil, who finally met her gaze. What’s going on here? Feeling as though she were the one being interviewed. ‘What time did the two of you get to Nillewaug?’ she asked.

  ‘A little after four,’ Lil said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Looks like it might not have been an accident,’ Mattie said, getting up, her thoughts back at the scene. ‘I’ll need a statement from both of you, you might have seen something . . . or someone.’

  ‘Was that call about Delia?’ Lil asked.

  ‘I have to go,’ the detective said.

  ‘Just tell me this.’ Lil persisted. ‘Was Delia Preston murdered?’

  And then Mattie understood. The last time she’d been in Grenville Lil and Ada had been valuable resources. Lil especially, with her vast insider’s knowledge of the town and its residents. Since then, the two women had kept up a friendly email correspondence, Mattie had even read some of Lil’s local columns about antiques. They were good – informative, conversational, even funny – and that’s why her antennae were up. ‘Are you planning to do a story about this?’ she asked point blank.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Mattie nodded and thought, what’s the harm? In fact . . . if the fire had been deliberate . . . an attempt to conceal a homicide, what would the perp do if he or she knew it hadn’t worked? ‘OK,’ Mattie said, knowing these things can work for or against an investigation, but it would only be a matter of time before the results of Arvin’s findings were known. ‘I’ll give you a scoop. Delia Preston was dead before she went out that window. She’d been murdered.’


  Lil didn’t blink. ‘How much before?’

  ‘Wow!’ Mattie said. ‘You’ve changed.’

  Lil nodded, her dark eyes eager.

  Like a pair of cops grilling a perp, Ada didn’t miss a beat coming at Mattie from the other side. ‘Was it hours . . . minutes? And why did you ask if she’d been raped?’ she asked, having clearly overheard Mattie’s half of the conversation.

  ‘Maybe later,’ Mattie said. ‘Got to go. Ladies,’ she said, nodding to Rose and Alice. And to Lil and Ada: ‘I’ll call.’

  SEVEN

  Lil cracked her right eye open, and then shut it fast. Lil, what did you do? Her tongue scraped the back of her front teeth, a layer of mucus clung there and to the roof of her mouth. A vein twitched on her forehead and with it the first dull thud behind her eyes. Not good, she thought as snippets from last night flooded in. How much did you drink? She pictured one . . . no two bottles of top-shelf single malt on Ada’s dining room table. It’s Monday! Hangover or no, her brain went from zero to a thousand with that realization.

  Trying to ignore her head, which felt like it had been squeezed into a hat two sizes too small, she swung her legs out of bed, and caught sight of Ada. Like oil on rough seas, she stopped. She was still asleep, her lips gently parted, a look of peace on her lovely pixie face. Just the sight of her sent a flutter. Glancing down, she spotted her fleece lined slip-ons, and reached over for yesterday’s sweatshirt that lay crumpled on the oak rocker next to the bed. It was five a.m., and she had work to do – her column should have been finished and emailed to her editor by seven last night; she hadn’t started it. Which is different from saying she hadn’t gotten something in to the paper. She most certainly had, and as her slipper-clad feet landed on the bedroom Tabriz that was foremost in her thoughts. Did they run it?

  Trying not to wake Ada she headed to the kitchen, but, ever a creature of habit, flicked on both the coffee maker and the electric kettle. This was an unspoken rule of their still-young relationship: whoever gets up first makes coffee, black and strong, for Lil, and tea, for Ada, with two teaspoons of sugar and a dollop of milk. With the coffee making its first rhythmic chug and the kettle humming to life, she checked the screen door for the morning paper – not yet there. Frustrated, but not defeated, she went to the computer on the dining-room table. Since she’d started the weekly columns this had turned into an accessory office. Wary of being hacked, or of getting a virus, she reserved the HP in the dining room for editing photos, email and the Internet and the Dell in the tiny third bedroom was where she wrote.

  She clicked the link for The Brattlebury Register, one of the three largest dailies in Connecticut, and the paper that owns the weekly Grenville Sentinel that runs her Cash or Trash column. She didn’t even have to enter her password for full-text access. Her article was on the front page.

  Five Dead, dozens missing as Blaze Ravages

  Grenville’s Nillewaug Village Assisted-Care Facility:

  Murder and Arson suspected

  – Lil Campbell, correspondent

  The call to 911 came in from paper delivery man Avery Osborn at 4:08 a.m. By the time first responders were on site less than ten minutes later, flames and clouds of dense black smoke were visible for miles. Fire companies from as far off as Hartford, Danbury and New Haven responded to the five-alarm blaze, which swept through the central four-story residential complex of the Nillewaug Village assisted residential facility. As of this morning there are five known dead, including Nillewaug’s Administrative Director, Delia Preston, age 42.

  It has been determined by the state medical examiner that Preston, who it was initially thought had jumped to her death, was in fact the victim of homicide, the details of which have not yet been released.

  In addition to Preston, retired area physician and orthopedic surgeon Norman Trask, MD (82) was found dead on the scene, as were long-time Grenville residents: Elizabeth Grasso (85), and Hillary Flanders (90). Margery Rayburn (94), who had moved to Nillewaug Village from Salisbury CT, was pronounced dead of smoke inhalation at Brattlebury Hospital.

  The article stopped there, with a prompt for subscribers to enter their user ID and password, which she did. Her heart raced as she read the rest of the one thousand words she’d agonized over yesterday afternoon. To say she was conflicted over submitting this would be an understatement. The fact that the editor and chief, Edward Fleming, had actually run it was a tribute to the importance of the story, and the fact that she’d managed to scoop it. Her phone conversation with him had been strained to say the least. ‘I already have a reporter covering it,’ he’d said.

  ‘But I was there from the beginning.’

  ‘He was too.’

  With her heart in her throat, she’d laid it all out. Her words had tumbled fast, she’d been on the good side of the barricades, had pictures . . . ‘I know that Delia Preston’s death is a homicide.’

  That had gotten him. ‘What? How do you know that?’

  ‘I heard it from the lead detective.’

  ‘Will he go on record with it?’

  ‘She, Detective Mattie Perez, and I think so, and even if she doesn’t I promise that it’s true. I heard her talking to the state M.E.’

  ‘She a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d said, matching his no-nonsense tone with simple answers. ‘And I have photos of Preston’s body – close-ups. And if Preston’s death was a murder, is the fire a coincidence or . . .’

  She could almost hear his thoughts, as he’d paused. ‘Arson,’ he said, completing her sentence. ‘I doubt we’ll use the pictures of the dead woman, much as I want to. Maybe post one on the website if it’s not too gory.’ And then Edward Fleming, known for being stingy with compliments had said, ‘Well, looks like you want to be a real reporter. Get me one thousand words by four p.m. and be damn sure of your facts . . . I’ll have someone check them, but if you’re wrong about the homicide angle, you’ll not get this chance again. And Lil . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Make it good.’

  Apparently, it was good enough. Other than changing the headline, the text had been edited with a light hand. While yesterday’s horror was still fresh in her mind – the cries, the smells, seeing poor Betty Grasso – she couldn’t stop this other feeling. What’s wrong with you? Wondering at what point she’d turned into a ghoul, but no denying – you got a front page byline.

  The tea kettle clicked off, and she went back to the kitchen. Her emotions mixed as she poured Ada’s tea and deposited it on her bedside table. Her eyelids fluttered at the sound, and she muttered ‘Thanks’, without waking.

  Lil kissed her forehead and returned to the kitchen. She poured a generous mug of coffee and superheated it for sixty seconds in the microwave, and took it back to her office.

  ‘Just write,’ she said, staring at the lit screen. Knowing that the subject on her mind was the fire and not some puff piece on the local antiques industry. Then again, she was thrilled to be doing these columns, and, lead story or no, she was behind on the deadline. ‘Just write.’ Her headache eased as her fingers rested on the keyboard – nothing’s coming. But then – he won’t want it – thinking of frightened little Corey Bingham, the editor for the Grenville Sentinel. Corey, in his early thirties with a lovely wife and two sweet babies, was convinced his tenure at the small local paper was contingent on keeping everyone happy, most notably Edward Fleming at the parent paper. ‘It’s all about the advertisers,’ Corey had explained when he’d offered Lil the chance to do the column after the prior antique expert had decided it was too small potatoes for him. ‘Keep it light, keep it local and keep it positive, Lil,’ had been his words of advice. Followed by his attempt at a stern tone: ‘And whatever else, get it in on time . . . please.’ Having already missed her Sunday deadline, but thinking if she could get it done before he made it to the office, she’d probably be OK. She started to type. For Lil, writing was a passion, even though this was the first time she’d been paid for it. She’d a
lways journalled, but rarely shared the contents. Occasionally, she’d pull one out to look at her thoughts at age twenty or thirty. Like going through old photos. But now, as her words flowed about the opening of the Brantsville flea market on Saturday, she was simultaneously looking at the turns her life had taken in the past and now. Your first lead story, Lil. Feeling an urge to get up and check to see if the morning paper was here yet. From there her thoughts zipped to the local newsstand, and wondering how many copies of the paper she’d buy – a dozen, two. And then back to the task at hand. Keep it light, keep it local, keep it positive . . .

  Tchotchkes in the Mist

  By Lil Campbell

  Like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, the first Saturday of April drew an excited crowd of over 5000 eager treasure hunters to the Brantsville Fair Grounds. The near-freezing temperatures and dense fog that shrouded the five hundred dealer booths did little to dampen the mood, as long-time Flea Market manager Daryl Crane welcomed back the throngs of eager buyers. At six a.m. sharp he made the announcement, ‘Open the gates.’

  As she wrote, trying to stay light, local and fluffy her thoughts were pulled in darker directions. It wasn’t just the fire and the awful – from certain perspectives wonderful – photos of Delia Preston that were in the same digital photo album as the flea market pictures she’d shot the day before, but the flea market itself. She and Ada adored the Brantsville market, and mourned its closing each November. But this Saturday, what started with the usual anticipatory excitement as they waited for the gate to open, had a number of queer notes. Starting with the obvious and really irritating, which she didn’t think fit into her fluffy little column. But what had crept into the Brantsville market over the past few years were a number of practices that had wrung some of the joy out of the Saturday morning treasure hunt. Firstly, years back you could go on to the field as the dealers were setting up. This added an element of excitement – and risk – as they’d all head out in the dark with flashlights to look at the merchandise as it came out of assorted vans and trucks. Clearly, ‘buyer beware’ took on added meaning as chips, cracks and outright forgeries were much harder to spot in low light. That changed when the owners – three local antique dealers – fenced in the field about five years ago and began to charge admission. The stated reason had to do with liability and concern that excited buyers would trip, fall, and injure themselves in the dark. But really, it was greed. The market’s owners realized that the thousands of antique and collectible aficionados who showed up each week would shell out a buck or two. The market was a cash cow, so in addition to the rent they charged for the spaces and the cut they got off the food concessions they were now raking in over ten grand a week from admission fees. Sure, a couple bucks is no big deal, but it rankled and the loss of the free-for-all fun of scurrying across the field in pursuit of bargains at five in the morning was sad to lose. But this Saturday, and what she’d noticed for the past couple years, by the time they paid the two bucks and made it through the gate on to the field, other buyers had been there long before them. What had apparently happened was dealers, and some of the locals, were slipping bribes at the gate and getting on to the field hours before the official start time. The going rate was around fifty bucks. Which, yes, some antique shows advertise early buying for which they charge a premium. But not Brantsville, so essentially it was graft. Low-level, annoying corruption at Lil’s favorite place to spend a Saturday morning. So while she dutifully typed in all the details about the flea market for her column – how to get there, the URL for the website, how much it cost for the dealers to set up, etc., she ran a parallel piece in her head, and jotted down a few notes for a future column. Stay on task. Easier said than done, as she remembered something that sent her scurrying back to the other computer on the dining-room table. She scrolled through the flea market photos, flagging the ones that would accompany the article, including a beautiful long shot of the dense mist hovering over the market, and the long line waiting to go through the admission gate. But that’s not what she was looking for. ‘Wow!’ And there he was. Dr Norman Trask, a man she knew peripherally through Bradley, who’d clearly gotten on to the field well ahead of the rest of them. As they were just clearing the gate, the tall silver-haired surgeon was heading in the opposite direction toward the parking lot pushing a battle-scarred shopping cart laden with bulging cardboard boxes and a large wooden clock, hastily wrapped in a stained blanket and duct tape. The expression on his face a combination of exertion and glee. ‘Wow!’ she repeated, as Ada emerged from the bedroom. With her tea in hand, she looked at the photo.