Scared Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  I shake my head. “No, Bjorn. You’ve already eaten more sugar today than most people eat in a week. It’s not healthy.” He opens his mouth in preparation for his next protest and I cut him off, delivering my coup de grâce. “Besides, all that sugar makes you pee more so your bag is going to fill up faster.”

  He clamps his mouth shut and stares out the windshield for a moment, contemplating. I can tell he’s suspicious about my claim but I also know he isn’t likely to know if it’s true or not. When I see a look of resigned acceptance on his face, I know I’ve won, at least this round.

  “Okay,” he says, turning the key. He carefully backs out of his parking space and into a light post. The one advantage of his snail’s pace is that these little fender benders don’t cause too much damage or injury. A definite disadvantage is the road rage he triggers among those forced to share the streets with him. His driving skills, or lack thereof, create pockets of chaos everywhere we go. At least five cars honk angrily at us and I lose count of how many drivers make obscene hand and finger gestures. Bjorn is blessedly oblivious to it all as we crawl our way along.

  I, however, am not. I take every glare, every gesture, and every unheard uttering personally. So when we finally pull onto the street where the hospital is located, I breathe a sigh of relief. But when I see the crowd of people and vehicles gathered in front of the building, I realize the chaos has followed us here.

  Chapter 28

  Cop cars, ambulances, TV vans, and half a dozen miscellaneous vehicles are parked willy-nilly in front of the hospital by the ER entrance. I see uniforms of all types amidst the crowd: cops, hospital security guards, EMTs, and a few generic hospital white coats. There must be close to fifty people milling about and Bjorn is so captivated by the scene that he almost runs over three of them in his efforts to negotiate the bedlam.

  As soon as he’s safely parked I take out my cell phone and dial the ER. Fortunately one of my old nursing cronies, Phyllis—aka “Syph”—answers, a coup for me since I know she’ll tell me anything I want to know.

  “What’s going on out front of the hospital?” I ask her.

  “It’s one of those precious Hallmark family moments,” she says, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Apparently some family got into a tiff about a will and things got physical. Ambulances were called and one of the people involved was transported to the ER. He’s in here and his cereal bowl is a few flakes shy, if you get my drift. A couple of cops are trying to deal with him but the guy’s gone totally off his rocker.

  “The rest of the family members are out front, arguing. Rumor has it two of the women got into a hair-pulling contest and an EMT got punched when he tried to break it up. His partner called for backup and that’s when security and the police got involved. We’ve been told none of the injuries are serious but we have no way of knowing since the only patient we’ve seen so far is the Froot Loop in here.”

  This scenario sounds disturbingly familiar, and as I scan the crowd of faces my suspicions are confirmed. There, right in the middle of everything, is Aaron Heinrich. Having no desire to get caught in another of the Heinrich family melees, I grab Bjorn’s hand, duck down so I can’t easily be seen, and guide us both along the edges of the crowd. We make our way to a back entrance to the hospital, one that’s mainly used by delivery personnel. It’s locked on the outside but I remember the key punch code needed to open it and, within seconds, Bjorn and I are inside. I send him off toward the cafeteria and then take some back hallways that lead into the patient care area of the ER.

  The curtains around bed four are wide open, and standing on top of the stretcher is Easton “Sailor Boy” Heinrich. He’s yelling something at the two cops nearby, one of whom is Larry Johnson. Syph and another nurse are standing off to one side watching the show and I join them.

  “Hey, Mets,” Syph says when she sees me. Syph isn’t her real name. Her real name is Phyllis but years ago when I worked in the ER, we got bored one night and gave one another nicknames that were disease related and sounded somewhat similar to our real names. This was our way of poking fun at how we tend to refer to patients by their bed numbers and disorders rather than their names, which is why Easton Heinrich is now known as the Whackadoodle in Bed Four.

  Syph nods toward the Whackadoodle. “This is a good one. I haven’t had anything this interesting since your nipple incident. I’m not sure if the guy is crazy or just drunk, but he sure as hell is entertaining.”

  The drunk part is obvious from Easton’s bloodshot eyes and the alcohol fumes wafting from his body so strongly I can smell it from where I’m standing. “Is he under arrest?” I ask.

  “Not yet, but I suspect he will be before he’s done.”

  Easton screams at the cops, “You want me? Then come and get me, fuckers. I dare you.” He makes a come-on gesture with his hands, waggling his fingers at the cops. Larry shrugs and glances at his partner. They look like they are about to take Easton up on his offer when Easton ups the ante by stripping off his shirt. This gives the cops pause and Larry opts for a little verbal coaxing instead.

  “Come on, buddy. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

  “I’m not your fucking buddy,” Easton screams, tossing his shirt at the cops and then proceeding to loosen his belt. Seconds later his pants drop down to his ankles and he steps out of them, nearly falling off the stretcher in the process. He kicks them toward the cops and then wiggles his ass like some flaky pole dancer.

  Larry and his partner take an involuntary step back as the pants fly at them, and this meager bit of success seems to fuel Easton’s fire. Before I can blink he strips off his boxers and assumes a “ta-da” pose with his arms outstretched overhead.

  “Wow,” Syph says. “This guy really is crazy.”

  “And very well hung,” observes the other nurse.

  Easton hears the comment and thrusts his hips toward Larry. “You want me?” he taunts, shaking his impressive tallywacker at Larry. “Then come and get me, you one-bullet Barney.”

  “Hey,” Larry objects, looking wounded. He looks at his partner and they apparently share a silent exchange because the partner nods and starts slowly moving toward the foot of the bed. Easton is flinging his hips from side to side and is so taken with the sight of his own penis whacking against his thighs that he misses this move. Nor does he see Larry remove his Taser from its holster.

  “Go!” Larry yells.

  This momentarily befuddles Easton who looks up at Larry with an expression of confusion. Meanwhile Larry’s partner makes a quick dash to the other side of the stretcher, arriving mere seconds before Larry fires.

  There’s a brief buzzing sound as Easton screams like a girl and crumples. Larry’s partner manages to catch him before he flops onto the floor and moments later, a subdued Easton is curled into a fetal position on the stretcher, crying like a baby.

  “God, I miss this place,” I tell Syph.

  “Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “It does have its moments.”

  The other nurse moves in and tries to soothe Easton. The cops are more than happy to step back and let the nurse do her thing, but they stay close by just in case. It seems the Taser has taken all the fight out of Easton because he willingly submits to being dressed in a gown and lets the nurse draw some blood and start an IV on him.

  “Might as well start an alcohol pool,” Syph says, looking over at me. “You want in?”

  “Hell, yeah,” I say, digging in my pocket and coming up with a dollar. “Are you doing Price Is Right rules or closest takes it?”

  She thinks a minute, then says, “Closest.”

  “Okay. I’ll take 389.”

  Larry fishes some change out of his pocket and walks it over to Syph. “Put me in. I’ll go for 325.”

  Within minutes we have a pool of money totaling eight bucks, hardly enough to get rich off of but that’s not the point. The ability to accurately estimate blood alcohol levels is a prized talent among ER workers and cops, and the esteem of
winning goes a lot farther than the money.

  While waiting for the blood test results to come back, I relay Bjorn’s predicament to Syph and she manages to find me not only the necessary order form for the new urine leg bags, but a sample of one left behind by a sales rep. Next I explain to her that I’m curious about Shannon’s health history and want to review her medical record. Normally this would be a violation of HIPAA, the law that makes it easier to get your hands on a nuclear weapon than a patient’s chart. But because I’m a deputy coroner and Shannon’s case is one we are investigating, I have a legal right to pull and examine her record.

  Pulling a chart is a term left over from the days of Medical Records departments that stored thousands of paper files documenting a patient’s care. Nowadays everything is on computer and in less than a minute Syph has accessed the information I need and given me control of the computer.

  Shannon’s record isn’t a huge one. There are a couple of ER visits: one from a few years ago for vaginal bleeding that turned out to be a miscarriage, and another for a small laceration on her leg that needed a few stitches. There is also the appendectomy from a few months ago that I already know about. Her doctor’s office visits are a bit more interesting. Apparently Shannon was dead set against getting pregnant, fearful it would affect her figure so much that it would shatter her modeling dreams. Yet diet alone was obviously a problem too, since there were multiple requests for diet pills. One thing I don’t find in the record is any mention of IBS.

  When I’m done, I close the file and log off the computer. Easton’s blood test is back and his alcohol level is a whopping 426, making me, who had the highest guess of anyone, the prized possessor of eight bucks. After thanking Syph for her help with the chart and gloating for a few minutes over my win, I head down to the cafeteria, where I find Bjorn finishing off the last of a food tray. Despite my cautions, I see that he’s currently working on a piece of strawberry shortcake and still has a slice of peach pie to go.

  I settle in with him at the table. “Are you about done here, Bjorn?” I ask, glancing at my watch and then eyeing all the empty plates on his tray. “I have another appointment to get to.”

  “Almost,” he says around a mouthful of shortcake.

  I’m about to lecture him on his poor diet when I hear voices approaching. A moment later a small crowd of people enters the cafeteria and, much to my dismay, I see that it’s the Heinrich clan, minus Easton of course. Tagging along with them is a uniformed cop named Junior Feller, and Hurley.

  Junior steers the Heinrich trio to a nearby empty table and motions for them to sit. Hurley, who saw me the moment he entered the room, approaches our table.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Official business,” I say vaguely. “Are you socializing with the upper crust these days?” I add, gesturing toward the Heinriches.

  “Part of our divide and conquer strategy,” he says. “Two of the uniforms inherited Bitsy’s kids and took them down to the police station to get a statement. Junior and I inherited this bunch. Their brother is in the ER.”

  “Yes, I saw him,” I say, smiling at the memory.

  Over at the Heinrich table, Junior and the two sisters get up and head for the food line. Aaron looks like he intends to follow but then abandons the group and moves over to our table instead.

  “Well, hello there, Mattie,” he says to me. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Hoping to avoid getting caught up in the family’s drama I say, “I’m just about to leave.”

  Aaron pouts handsomely and says, “Darn. I was hoping to have a little time to chat with you.” He settles into a chair beside me and nods at Bjorn, who has finished his shortcake and is working on his pie.

  “I don’t have any more information on the death of your father, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” I tell Aaron.

  “Well, I suppose that would have been nice, but that really isn’t my objective. May I ask you a personal question?”

  This catches me off guard, and while I want to say no, my sense of politeness won’t let me. But since I can’t quite bring myself to openly invite him into my private life, I simply shrug instead.

  “I see you aren’t wearing a wedding ring,” he says. “Does that mean you’re single?”

  “Um, yes, sort of,” I say stupidly, squirming uncomfortably in my chair.

  Hurley moves around the table and takes a chair next to Bjorn, his expression dark. He glares at Aaron, who appears oblivious.

  “Sort of?” Aaron echoes.

  “I’m separated and in the process of filing for a divorce.”

  “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate for your ex but good news for me. Are you seeing anyone?”

  I realize Aaron is flirting with me and apparently Hurley has figured it out as well because he shifts his attention to me and his glare intensifies. Despite the coldness in his stare, I feel myself warming beneath the heat of his gaze.

  I hesitate for the briefest of seconds before answering Aaron’s question, my evil side warring with my good side. The evil side wins. “No, I’m not seeing anyone in particular,” I tell him, smiling. I start playing with my hair, wrapping a strand of it around my finger.

  “Good,” Aaron says, “That means you can have dinner with me tonight.” His voice is warm and behind his eyes I sense something deliciously dangerous.

  I smile and swallow hard, feeling my heart beat faster. A strange warmth courses through my body and centers somewhere between my thighs with a sensation like molten lead. I feel confused, unsure if these strange sensations are the result of Hurley’s stare, Aaron’s flirtation, or a combination of the two.

  Before I can summon up a halfway intelligent response to Aaron’s invitation, Hurley jumps in and says, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Aaron and I tear our eyes from one another to give Hurley a questioning look. Hurley stutters a moment, turns a bright shade of red, and then adds, “It would be a conflict of interest, given Mattie’s attachment to the case involving your father.”

  It’s a valid point. Score one for Hurley. “Hmm, yes,” I say, unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed. “There is that.”

  Aaron looks momentarily distraught, but then he brightens and says, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to hurry up and solve the case then. I’m a patient man. I can wait.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. Aaron is a handsome and presumably wealthy man, who seems to have his head on straight, unlike his siblings. I can’t deny some small attraction to him but I’m not sure I’m interested in dating him. Still, I’m amused enough by Hurley’s growing discomfort to leave things open for now.

  “I guess I better get to it then,” I say, hoping my words sound both noncommittal and vaguely promising.

  Aaron and I exchange a long, innuendo-laden look while Hurley watches us and steams. The moment stretches out between the three of us until Bjorn, who has finished his pie, drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter, making everyone jump.

  “That was good,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied expression. He looks at me and adds, “I’m ready to go now but I’m afraid my peter needs some attention first.”

  Chapter 29

  Though Aaron looks amused and raises his eyebrows at Bjorn’s comment, I offer no explanation. Instead, I say my good-byes and escort Bjorn to the nearest bathroom.

  Within minutes I have switched the old urine bag over to the new one that Syph gave me, and after a brief demonstration on how to empty it, Bjorn does it himself without difficulty. He is delighted and I seize the moment by trying again to convince him to let me drop him at the cab office so I can go meet Sally Hvam on my own. But Bjorn is having none of it, particularly after I make the mistake of mentioning that it’s a luncheon meeting.

  “Lunch?” he says, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “Sounds good. I am kind of hungry.”

  I simply stare at him, speechless. I’m not sure if I’m worried or envious of his ability to e
at everything in sight without gaining an ounce. Most likely it’s a little of both. The worry stems from the thought that he might have something physically wrong, like cancer, diabetes, or a tapeworm. The envy is because I would kill to be able to eat like he does without getting fat.

  Resigned to feeding Bjorn yet again, I drive the two of us to the Home on the Range café where Sally Hvam is supposed to meet me. Though I’ve never met the woman, I easily pick her out of the crowd as soon as we enter the place. For one thing, she is the only woman sitting alone. But the primary clue is the license plate thing, though I’m thinking these tatas look more like 50DDs.

  I steer Bjorn over and introduce myself. Sally stares at Bjorn with a suspicious expression. “Who’s this?” she asks.

  “My chauffeur, sort of. It’s a long story. Mainly, he just wants to eat.”

  Right on cue, Bjorn settles into a chair and says, “Where the hell is the menu?”

  Sally hands him hers, which is nothing more than a computer-generated flyer folded in half. As Bjorn takes hold of it, his eyes settle on Sally’s primary attribute and a whole new hunger starts to show on his face. “Good Lord, woman,” he says. “If those ain’t made for nuzzling, I don’t know what is.”

  “Bjorn!”

  “It’s okay,” Sally says with a chuckle. “I’m used to it.”

  A waitress comes by and delivers two more menus. As soon as she’s gone I open mine, zero in on a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, close it, and go to work on Sally. “So how do you know Luke Nelson?”

  “I was your victim’s predecessor,” she says, “along with several other women.”

  “Really?” For a second I think she means other women were murdered. Then it hits me that she’s talking about dating, not about Luke Nelson being a serial killer.

  “Yeah, the bastard suckered me big time. I thought I was his one and only but I found out later he was stringing me along with a couple of other women. He was smart, I’ll give him that. He never dated two women in the same town. Made it less likely his sneaking around would get discovered.”