Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  Vivienne giggled. “You’ve been watching PI shows again, haven’t you—where the investigator looks clients in the eye and can tell immediately whether they’re lying or telling the truth.”

  “It sure sounded well rehearsed.”

  “Of course it was. She wanted to appear in the best light possible when she came here to hire us, so she went over and over it in her mind beforehand. That doesn’t necessarily mean she was lying.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Olson heaved a sigh. “So where do we start?”

  Vivienne picked up her laptop and began typing while she spoke. “I’ll start with that cellphone she’s sending over. Since it’s the same model as the one Daren was using, I can check it out to see if it’s putting out frequencies that might affect a pacemaker. In the meantime, you get Riordan to agree to a test of the one at the crash scene. From what she said, it sounds as though it wasn’t hurt by the crash. Might still have been on, in fact. Find out about that. Get as much from him as you can about why they suspect her—if they actually do. She could just be paranoid.”

  “Paranoid? Not surprising if she is. Three hours of interrogation by Riordan would make anyone paranoid. I suppose you want access to his pacemaker, too.”

  “Darn right. Find out make and model, and I’ll get one direct from the company. Then we’ll approach the police for a test of the one Daren was wearing. Maybe a company representative in both cases, plus an independent expert, me and anyone else the police want there. And see if you can wheedle the name and address of whoever called in the accident out of your buddy. If he won’t tell you, the medics who were at the scene might be willing to give you that info. Oh yes. Be sure to pick up the newspaper clippings on the accident. Time to start a file.”

  “Are we planning on doing anything else besides this case?” Orson asked, wryly.

  “There’s nothing pressing. Besides, she’s put up a hefty retainer, so she needs our full attention. Anyhow, this is a lot more interesting than sitting in a car looking at a doorway half the night.”

  Orson wasn’t so sure. He had never really minded looking at doorways.

  ***

  Riordan wasn’t particularly pleased to learn that Orson was investigating the “supposed accident,” as the lieutenant called it. Grudgingly, and with the warning that the prosecutor would have a hemorrhage if word got out that Riordan had revealed evidence which could get back to a suspect, he passed along what Orson knew was an incomplete picture of the police’s discoveries. Even so, he was grateful for the crumbs and offered to pay for Riordan’s double cheeseburger in return.

  “There was a car right behind Daren’s when he went over. The witness, who was coming from the other direction, seems damn reliable. Even though she can’t identify the make of the second car, she’s reasonably sure it was a woman driving it. And the car she saw just went right on its merry way past the crash scene, never even stopping.”

  Orson felt this was scant evidence of anything, but he wasn’t about to throw a wet blanket on Riordan’s surmises. Instead, he filed the information away in his mind as something to ask the witness about—assuming he could find out her identity. He did. Riordan seemed to have no compunctions on that score.

  “Are you assuming the driver of the second car bumped Daren?”

  “It’s a possibility, though the witness didn’t see that. It could have happened before she came into view. You know, a car hitting you in the rear, even lightly, might prompt a heart attack if you’re prone to one. But there is something the witness saw that might account for what happened. She says the woman in the second car was also using a cellphone.”

  “So you figure she somehow triggered Daren’s phone to interfere with his pacemaker… . Is that what you’re saying? If so, you should be able to trace that call. It would have been to the same tower, same time.”

  “Oh, we did. We did. It was a call in to Daren’s phone, and it came from that general area, but the phone’s a clone. You know, one of those the hackers rig up, with someone else’s phone number, mostly for drug dealers. They run up a big long distance bill, then toss the phone into the nearest dumpster. The real owner of this particular number is in a convalescent home, his phone sitting on the nightstand right next to his bed. There haven’t been any calls since the one on the clone.

  “How much of this did you tell Mrs. Daren?”

  “Aw c’mon Orse. You know the answer to that. Nada. Smiley Face got nothing from us. Orson cracked his own smile at the very appropriate nickname, while Riordan continued after a pause for effect. “If you won’t buy the car bumping, then maybe you’ll buy the notion that Daren’s phone was rigged to screw up his pacemaker. And who could do that better than someone who sells those phones?”

  Both notions seemed farfetched to Orson, but he said nothing while Riordan, following a long swig of coffee, resumed. “The Daren woman can’t really account for her time. She says she was in the shop. It was Sunday afternoon, and they’d closed early, so she was the only one there. ‘Working on the books,’ Smiley Face says. But she didn’t answer when the police called her about her husband. She claims she just let the answering machine take the message in the other room and didn’t hear it. Sounds kind of unlikely, don’t you think?”

  Orson didn’t think so, remembering how many times he, himself, had ignored phone calls while concentrating on complicated bookwork. However, he merely shrugged in answer to the question.

  Finally, as they rose and Orson dropped a bill on the table, Riordan came up with a tidbit that Orson knew would require further questioning of his client. “You might be interested in knowing that Mrs. Daren was married before. Strangely, her first husband also died in an accident. An auto accident. A one-car accident.”

  ***

  “Coincidences happen all the time,” Vivienne commented when Orson came back to the office with a detailed account of Riordan’s information and speculation. “But, at least I have something solid to move on. I’ve already got a cellphone expert lined up for that meeting at the station tomorrow. If the phone is the culprit, it will definitely have been tampered with, because the shrink-wrapped one Kristina sent over is A-OK. No way could that model interfere with a pacemaker. As for the pacemaker, I’ve got one coming in by tomorrow or the next day. This is getting exciting.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I can’t think of anything duller than staring at a bunch of chips and transistors.”

  “I much prefer them to doorways.”

  ***

  Vivienne left the office the next morning with a “hooray” and a thumbs up. Not only was the cellphone about to be opened for inspection, but the pacemaker was also going to be checked out. Both Omnivac and Heartways were flying out their experts, obviously to fix blame on their opposite numbers if blame needed fixing. Vivienne would be in her glory. Orson was left with an early appointment to see Kristina at the shop and Vivienne’s suggestion that he drop by the police station afterwards, since the cyber “autopsy” was bound to take hours.

  Never having been in the Daren store before, Orson was suitably impressed, if not exactly intimidated by the twenty-first century’s fantastic range of electronic gadgets, ranging from handheld notebooks tying in with satellites, to enormous, flat-screen monitors staring empty-eyed from the shelves. One entire section was devoted to surveillance equipment he might have looked over more closely if Kristina hadn’t immediately invited him back to her office.

  Orson assumed there was little to be gained by beating around the bush. Kristina gave him her now trademarked smile when he brought up the previous accident. “I can see I’m already getting my money’s worth. It never occurred to me the police had checked into that, but it does explain why I’m a suspect. I imagine you want the details.

  “Floyd and I owned an automobile agency, just outside of Rochester, Minnesota. Let’s see… must be almost fifteen years ago, now. Superficially, the accident in which he died seems a lot like what happened to Art. But, beyond the fact that they were b
oth single-car accidents where the cars ran off the road, they’re completely different.

  “Floyd was half Art’s age, he wasn’t wearing a pacemaker and that was before cellphones were virtually standard equipment for a businessperson. Oh, yes. Another difference is that I was nowhere around. I’d left that morning for an auto sales convention, right here in Los Angeles. The police have all that information. But I don’t imagine there’s much point in my telling you that. Knowing what the police know, I’m sure is a major part of your business.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Frankly, I didn’t even think about it. It seemed all so far back in the past. Besides, the police back there said it was clearly an accident and I didn’t make the connection… that the police here would go delving back into that past.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Actually, it does make a lot of sense now to think that they would have questioned me so closely. I imagine if I were a detective, I would have jumped to the conclusion that a woman who’d lost two husbands in mysterious auto accidents might have to do some explaining.”

  “Could you fill me in on the details of that accident back east? There’s a limit to what the police will tell me.”

  “It’s simple enough. Floyd was going to work and was driving down the steep hill near our home. We had a beautiful view from the house, by the way. That’s why we bought it—though winter driving was something of a chore.”

  “This was winter?”

  “No. It was a fine July day. No rain. Dry roadway. That’s part of the mystery. The car ran over the bank on a curve and was almost totally demolished, so the police were mostly guessing at why it happened. Brake failure seemed to be the most obvious explanation, since there were no skid marks. No witnesses, either. That was another difference between that accident and this one.”

  ***

  The interview nagged at him all the way to the police station. There was something else he should have asked. There was something she’d left out—or put in. The nagging was quickly dispelled by the scene in the conference room the desk sergeant had directed him to.

  Along with Riordan and Vivienne, four other men and women were crowded into the room. On the battered metal table were several pieces of testing equipment, along with two eviscerated items—which Orson would never have recognized as a cellphone and a pacemaker had he not known beforehand what was to be scrutinized. These lay neglected, as most of the room’s occupants were standing in front of a blackboard, scribbling incomprehensible graphs and formulas while arguing in loud voices. Vivienne was holding up more than her end as her familiar contralto seemed to dominate the discussion.

  Riordan was sitting back in a chair, isolated from the disputants. He greeted Orson with considerable relief. “I think we’ve unleashed the whirlwind, Orse.”

  “I take it no conclusions have been reached.”

  “Your partner may be able to fill you in, but what’s happened so far is beyond me. Let’s sneak out and get some coffee. We turn out a pretty good brew here, as you may recall.

  “So you confronted her with the earlier accident.” Riordan made the statement sound like a question after they’d settled down in one of the conference rooms.

  Heaping two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, Orson hesitated before answering. It was one thing to tap the police for information, but that didn’t necessarily make it a two-way street. Carefully choosing his words, he answered. “She thinks that’s why you suspected her.”

  “That’s not too far off the mark.”

  ***

  Vivienne looked gloomy when she arrived at the office shortly before five.

  “Long day,” Orson commented.

  “Long and disappointing.”

  “I take it there’s no connection between the pacemaker and the cellphone?”

  “Right you are. The cellphone is confined to just a very narrow transmission band, and with the flea-wattage of power it puts out, you could put it right on top of the pacemaker and it wouldn’t have any impact—even if it were the right frequency. The Omnivac engineer actually did put them back to back. The pacemaker didn’t show the least sign of being affected.”

  “And the pacemaker itself was OK?”

  “Looks that way. If there was a failure, there’s no evidence of it in what we examined. The Heartways consultant says there’s a warning that goes out to patients and doctors that the wearer should avoid sitting in front of a radio transmission tower, but she insisted that that’s like those long descriptions of side effects that go with any pharmaceuticals. She didn’t use the phrase, but it’s known as ‘covering your ass’ against all possible, and even a few impossible, eventualities.”

  “So it looks as though we might as well tell Kristina she can have most of her retainer back. Right?”

  “Let’s hold off for a couple of days. The pacemaker I ordered should be here tomorrow morning, and it would be nice to check it out without someone looking over my shoulder. I keep having the feeling that it might have failed, in spite of the line that was being fed me.”

  “O.K. Let’s hold off until after the weekend. That will give me time to figure out how much we’ve spent, and you can work up an invoice. I’ve got a few other items to take care of, including going out to see Dad.”

  “How is he?”

  “Mentally, he’s fine. Ornery as ever, and regularly complaining about the nursing home. But he’s pretty much confined to a wheelchair these days.”

  “Give him my best.”

  “Will do.”

  ***

  Wilton Roddenberry wheeled down the hall to meet his son. Orson didn’t expect a greeting and got none. In a way, that made their relationship that much simpler. No protocol. Wilton immediately launched off into the events of the week, ranging from an especially bad dinner of several days ago to the vapidity of the summer reruns. While he talked, they worked their way back to his room.

  Before sitting, Orson passed his father the usual half-pound of liqueur-filled chocolates. Wilton slipped the contraband under the blanket covering his legs and gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement. The monologue slipped into the usual reminiscences, most of which Orson had heard many times. He didn’t mind, however. There was actually something pleasantly comforting about sitting and letting his mind wander while the old man rambled on.

  The nursing home, far from being the wretched place so often described in exposés, was actually quite cheerful. The attendants were efficient, patient and seemingly devoted to caring for their charges. That the costs were high was not surprising, but a combination of railroad pension, Social Security and Medicare made it possible for Walton to spend his last years in considerable comfort.

  “It must be some kind of fever machine.”

  “Fever machine?” Orson had lost the thread, but somehow what his father had been saying had broken through his reverie.

  “Yup. Like I said, the static on my radio gets awful sometimes. I’ve told that flaky attendant, but he just says the radio’s getting old. I know better. It’s not the radio. Something’s causing all that interference. Did I ever tell you about Bill and me rigging up an old Model-T magneto to get even with Mrs. O’Shaugnessey? That brother of mine was something else again.”

  Orson began to listen in earnest, and Wilton seemed to warm to the subject, perhaps encouraged by the now obviously attentive audience. “Mrs. O’Shaugnessey was an old nosey-barrel. Always watching us from behind her curtains and complaining when we played bat-the-cork because she was afraid we’d break one of her windows. I don’t know where Bill got the idea, but he was the one who thought it up. Dad was still driving a Model-T back then, and did most of the work on it himself. He had a shed full of parts left over from his repair jobs.

  “Well, Bill and me made a wooden box for one of the old T’s magnetos Dad had lying around, and he added a crank to rev it up. Come seven at night we’d get it going. That was when she was listening to Amos ‘n Andy. You wouldn’t believe how many ti
mes she had the repairman come out to work on that old Philco of hers. She was sure one mad Irishwoman.”

  By this point, Orson was completely alert. “How far away from her house were you?”

  Somewhat startled by this sudden display of interest, Wilton said, “Across the street,” then broke into a chuckle. “It wasn’t until weeks later that we found out the whole block was affected. That repairman should have paid us kids a commission.”

  ***

  There were times when Vivienne’s enthusiasm overwhelmed him, and the following morning was one of those times. “That’s it! That’s it! She did kill him. It all fits.”

  “Whoa, Dobbin! Nothing fits. There are blanks all over the place. How would she know about magnetos? You admit you never heard of them used this way, and you’re the electronics expert. And, remember, she was in her office miles away from the accident scene.”

  “So she says.” As she spoke, Vivienne snapped open her laptop and started typing furiously. “Let’s start filling in the blanks. I’ll test out the pacemaker that’s coming in today with a magneto to see if I can cause it to fail. You call Rochester PD and find out all you can from them about the accident back there. And then call the witness to the accident here. We’ll go out and talk to her. Then…”

  “Witness! I knew there was something she said last time I talked to her that sounded wrong. She said that, unlike this accident, there had been no witnesses to the Minnesota accident. But Riordan said he didn’t tell her anything. If he didn’t tell her, how did she know there was one? I sure didn’t mention any witness to her.”

  “See. You’re already filling in the blanks. Let’s get started.”

  ***

  Lunchtime would be fine. That was the word from Mrs. Louise Altman, who was at work downtown. Orson set off for the interview after leaving the office phone number with the Rochester PD, hoping they would make the effort to run down the information on an accident that had occurred fifteen years ago. He wasn’t terribly sanguine about that possibility, but was resolved to keep bugging them if need be.