Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  I ended up taking my lunch break at a little after ten that morning, using it to visit my bank with Deborah on my heels. She even accompanied me inside the bank, making it clear that trust wasn’t something she came by easily. I briefly wondered about her life and history, curious as to what had shaped her into such a cold, untrusting, and selfish person, but then decided I didn’t care. I did, however, take the precaution of giving her the money in a cashier’s check rather than cash, and made her sign over the paperwork to me there in the bank with the teller as a witness, Deborah huffing her impatience the entire time. Once that was done, she turned and left without so much as a thank you, screw you, or good riddance.

  I hollered after her retreating form with “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Deb-ra,” making sure she heard my mispronunciation of her name. I couldn’t tell if it fazed her at all, but it wasn’t important. It made me feel better, and that was all that mattered. That, and the fact that I still had Roscoe.

  Roscoe’s sweet demeanor and high level of intelligence not only made him a perfect pet but also an ideal candidate for work as a therapy dog. When he was eight months old, I enrolled him in a training program, and for the past two years we have been a team, visiting patients in the hospital, in the local nursing homes, and even at my grief therapy group at times. His calming influence and loving nature make him a big hit during these visits. Sometimes all someone needs is to bury a hand in that soft fur. Sometimes it’s Roscoe’s head laid gently in a lap. And on one occasion, while visiting an eight-year-old boy in the hospital, Roscoe gently climbed onto the bed and settled down next to the delighted child, who draped an arm over his furry neck and hugged him tightly.

  Roscoe provides temporary therapy to the people we visit on our rounds, but he’s my full-time therapist—that is, if you don’t count the psychiatrist I see on a regular basis. His smiling face and wagging tail are always there to greet me when I come home, and it gives me an instant mental and emotional boost.

  Tonight is no exception, and I squat down to give him a hug as soon as I’m through the door. “Did you miss me?” I ask him, and he responds with a more vigorous wag of his tail. I set my purse on the table beside the door and put my briefcase below it on the floor. Then I grab Roscoe’s leash from the coat tree, hook him up, and head out.

  It’s dark outside, but my neighborhood is well lit with the warm glow of lamps and the cooler blue light of TVs emanating from the windows of the houses we pass. I sneak peeks as we walk, playing voyeur to the lives of those around me who aren’t hiding behind curtains or blinds. I see a couple cuddled together on a couch watching a Hallmark movie I recognize, a family of four playing what appears to be a charades type of game, a group of six adults—three couples, I think—gathered together around a dining room table drinking beers and playing some kind of card game, and a family room filled with teenage girls laughing and chatting with one another as their nimble fingers constantly work their cell phones.

  These glimpses of family life both warm and depress me. It’s a life I’ve never had or experienced, and I feel the lack of it at times. I try not to dwell in the land of self-pity too much, though, and if I do linger there overly long, Roscoe seems to sense it, and he’ll nudge me out of my depression.

  With all that happened at the grief support group meeting, the time I spent with Sharon, and my walk around the neighborhood, it’s not a huge surprise that I dream of my mother during the night. My dreams of her these days are rare, and even though I’m left with a feeling of empty sadness when they do come, I welcome them. My memories of her are dim at best, her image fading from my mind more with each passing year. I have a photograph of her, but only one, and it’s cracked and faded with age. It was taken when she was young, just before or around the time she found out she was pregnant with me.

  Though I loved my mother and we had some good moments together, many of my memories of life with her aren’t good ones. I recall a parade of skeevy, possessive, and often abusive men traipsing through whatever hovel we were living in at the time. Day or night, it didn’t seem to matter. I worried a lot because sometimes I would find my mother bruised and beaten, or curled up in a corner crying, or stoned out of her mind. I didn’t always understand what I saw, but I knew it was bad.

  There were some pleasant times, typically occasions when my mother was more flush than usual with cash and hadn’t yet had a chance to blow that money on drugs or booze. She would load me into our ramshackle car and we’d be off on some adventure together: a picnic at the park by the lake, or shopping at the mall, or a treat at the ice cream parlor. During those times when it was just her and me, I would often fantasize about a different life, one with nice clothes, an abundance of food on the table, and a home that didn’t have a revolving door of male customers. But a fantasy was all it would ever be.

  I awaken with a sense of loss. I want desperately to solve my mother’s murder, to find justice for her, but I know that after so many years, the likelihood of that happening is slim at best. Yet every time I dream about her, I am imbued with a renewed sense of determination despite the long odds, and I can’t seem to give up my quest. I suspect that my personal failure in this regard is behind my desire to help Sharon Cochran unravel the mystery around her son’s death. Some part of me wonders idly if my new fixation is a healthy one, but this fleeting moment of illuminating self-awareness doesn’t deter me in the least.

  I let Roscoe out into the backyard to tend to his potty needs, and then I pour myself a cup of coffee from the small pot I set up every night to be ready when I get up the next morning. Once I let Roscoe back in, I get myself showered, dressed, and ready for work. I’m about to head out when there is a knock at my front door. Given that it’s quarter to seven in the morning, I have little doubt about who it is. The only person who would show up at my door at this hour is P.J., the eleven-year-old, freckle-faced, redheaded bundle of energy who lives next door. And if it wasn’t for the hour, she likely would have walked into the house without knocking. I gave her a key two years ago so she can come and go as she pleases, but I also told her that mornings are my quiet, private time, so she needs to knock when she comes by for that first visit of the day.

  “Good morning, P.J.,” I say after unlocking and opening the front door.

  “Good morning.” She squats down as Roscoe rushes over to greet her. “Good morning, you handsome boy, you,” she murmurs to Roscoe, who wags his tail in appreciation and then licks her face.

  P.J. showed up on my doorstep mere days after I moved into the house three years ago, asking me if she could play with my puppy. I said of course, and that was the beginning of a great love affair and a handy arrangement for me. P.J. comes to my house several times a day to walk Roscoe, and in exchange for this service I pay her twenty dollars a week. All of this evolved after her parents met and vetted me. They are nice people, but they are both devoted to and embroiled in their careers. Her father is the manager of the town’s largest grocery store, and her mother is a highly successful real estate agent who opened her own brokerage right around the time she found out she was pregnant with P.J. Given that P.J. has a brother who is fifteen years older than she is, and has been out on his own for several years, I think P.J. was something of a surprise for her parents. I also think P.J. might have Asperger’s, a high-functioning disorder on the autism spectrum. She is whip smart, but socially awkward, and doesn’t seem to have any friends her own age. And when it comes to expressing emotion, she doesn’t, except with Roscoe.

  Our relationship developed over time, and after three years P.J. is comfortable with me, more so than with her parents, I think. A good part of that progress is due to Roscoe.

  After giving Roscoe a scratch behind his ears, P.J. stands, takes the leash from the coat tree, and hooks him up. “Back in a bit,” she says. She looks at me with my purse slung over my shoulder and my briefcase in hand. “You are going to work?”

  “I am.”

  “Should I lock up when I
’m done?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll be by after school and walk him again.”

  “That’s great. Thanks.”

  Our conversations often go like this. Blunt and to the point.

  * * *

  I arrive at the hospital a few minutes before seven, my briefcase stuffed with Toby’s laptop. I leave the briefcase in my office and head down to the ER to see if anything is going on that might require my help. The department is completely empty, so I hit up the cafeteria for more coffee and an egg and bacon biscuit, which I take back to my office.

  I barely have time to get settled in behind my desk and log onto my computer when my boss comes in. Crystal Hoffheimer is a forty-two-year-old woman who never married, though she’ll tell the story of Tom, The One Who Got Away, to any poor soul willing to listen. Crystal has been carrying a torch for her high school boyfriend, Tom Reese, for twenty-five years, a torch that burns so hot and bright that it blinds her to the fact that she’s throwing her life away over some guy who has not only moved on with his life, but moved out of the country. After serving in the military and being stationed in Germany, Tom met the true love of his life, married, and stayed there.

  Crystal, who saw Tom off to the military thinking that the two of them would get engaged and married within the year, didn’t take it well when Tom broke things off. Crystal’s fixation with Tom and her savviness in mining social media tidbits borders on stalker status. She knows everything about the man: where he lives, where he works, the name of his wife, the names of his three kids, the names of most of his in-laws, and who some of his best friends are. Crystal is convinced that she and Tom are meant to be together, and that it’s only a matter of time before he comes to his senses, ditches the “frumpy Frau,” and returns home to her.

  Aside from this admittedly unhealthy obsession, Crystal is a relatively well-rounded person with good sense in all other matters. She is fun to socialize with, great at her job, and successful in her own right, since she owns a home, a fancy hybrid car, and two rare Napoleon cats, tiny little fur balls with stubby legs and adorable faces. The cats are Crystal’s children, at least for now.

  “Good morning, Hildy,” Crystal says from my office door. “How did your group go last night?”

  I’m not fooled by her seeming ignorance of how things went. I know that Charlie feeds Crystal information on a regular basis, and since I saw him enter the cafeteria when I was leaving it, and Crystal is now holding a food container from there, I’m betting she’s already gotten an earful. “It went well,” I say. “We had a newcomer who changed the dynamic some, but for the better I think.”

  “I talked to Charlie Matheson this morning,” she says, confirming my suspicion. “He mentioned that the group did something different last night.”

  I smile benignly at her while silently cursing Charlie and his need to blab. “Yes, I decided to let things take a different tack, to see how it would go. The group has been feeling a little stuck and stagnant lately, so I thought something different might be good.”

  Crystal arches an eyebrow at me. “Be careful, Hildy,” she cautions. “Remember that you’re the facilitator for these people. Don’t get overly involved.”

  I can’t be sure exactly how much or what Charlie said to Crystal, but since he doesn’t know about my trip to Sharon’s last night, I assume he told her about Sharon’s story and her plea for help in looking into her son’s death.

  “I think it’s healthy to think outside the box from time to time,” I say. “But no need to worry. I’m a professional.”

  “I hope so. I’m headed up to the floor to handle the discharges, though there aren’t many patients today. You have the ER. Call me if you need help with anything.”

  “Would it be okay if I took off early today? I have some personal business to attend to, and I have plenty of comp hours built up from my group time.”

  As a salaried employee, I make the same amount of money every pay period regardless of how many hours I work. I’m supposed to work forty hours a week, but most weeks it ends up being more like forty-five because of the time I spend running the grief group and other groups I’ve offered from time to time, as well as situations that come up in the ER that require me to stay beyond my normal end time for the day. Those extra hours get banked as comp time, and I’m allowed to use them to leave early, make midday appointments with my doctor or dentist, or even take a day off without tapping into my vacation time. I currently have enough comp time built up to take an entire week off with pay.

  “What time are you planning on leaving?” Crystal asks.

  “Would it be okay if I took off after noon?” Since my shift normally runs from seven in the morning to three thirty in the afternoon, with half an hour of that time dedicated to lunch, this will mean three hours of comp time. I hope it will be enough to do what I want, and not so much that it annoys Crystal. Fortunately, Crystal is reasonably flexible with stuff like this most of the time.

  “Sure,” she says. “The floor isn’t busy right now. The census is really low, so it shouldn’t be any problem for me to cover.” With that, she disappears from my doorway.

  I have follow-up phone calls to make to patients and family members I’ve had contact with recently, and I do those right away. Once they’re done, I take Toby’s laptop out of my briefcase and set it on the desk. I try several passwords, getting rejected each time, but wanting to ensure that the fingerprint ID will come up. Sure enough, after four attempts, I get a prompt for the fingerprint. Just for grins, I try applying my own finger, and it is quickly rejected.

  I lean back in my chair and stare at the computer screen, thinking about how best to approach Detective Richmond. My preference would be to see him in person, though calling is also an option. But then I decide a phone call is too easy to escape from, too easy to ignore. I want to make my appeal face-to-face, so he can see my sincerity and eagerness to pursue this case. Of course, I also want him to see me, to gauge if he might have any interest in a more involved relationship. I make a mental note to tread carefully, however. I don’t want to mix my personal life with my professional one too much.

  Even though I’ve decided Detective Richmond requires a face-to-face meeting, a phone call to arrange that meeting is necessary. I’m not sure how much I should tell him about the reason behind my request, fearful he might dismiss me right away. But I also don’t want to anger him by being cagey and vague.

  Then I remember that Bob Richmond isn’t my only connection. Maybe I’d have better luck starting with Mattie Winston at the medical examiner’s office. She was very kind and approachable when I dealt with her before, and she seemed receptive to new ideas.

  After a moment of indecision, I make up my mind and call.

  Chapter Seven

  “Medical examiner’s office. This is Cass. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Cass,” I say in my best chipper voice. “This is Hildy Schneider. We met once before, a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, of course. I remember,” Cass says. “You’re a social worker over at the hospital, correct?”

  “Wow, you have an excellent memory,” I say, figuring a little flattery to grease the wheels can’t hurt. “I need to speak with Mattie Winston, but I don’t have a direct number for her. Any chance she’s in the office today?”

  “She is, but she’s on another call. Would you like me to have her call you back, or would you prefer to hold?”

  “I’ll hold. Thanks.”

  The sound of tinny music emanates from the phone, and I start mentally rehearsing my next words, wanting to sound as convincing as possible without coming across as crazy.

  My first encounter with Ms. Winston was an awkward one, in that I had to admit to copping something that turned out to be a key bit of evidence in a case she was investigating. The victim had come into, and eventually died in, the ER, so I’d been involved in the case. When leaving the patient’s room at one point, I spied a candy bar, the edge of which was
sticking out of the pocket of the coat that had been taken off her and flung onto a chair. A little while later I found that candy bar in my own pocket. I didn’t recall taking it, but I remembered seeing it, and envying it, and knew I had copped it. I knew it because I’ve done something similar many times before.

  This odd quirk stems from my childhood in the foster system. Treats like candy bars were far and few between, and often as not, if you did get one, someone would take it from you, usually one of the “real” kids in the home. In most, though not all, of the foster homes I spent time in—and I got bounced around homes a lot—the biological kids received privileges that the foster kids didn’t: food treats, special outings, new clothing . . . that sort of thing. Only twice did I live in a home where a kindhearted biological sibling was aware of and embarrassed by this class division and unfair treatment. Those two kids did their best to try and share with me and the other foster kids, to even things out, but their parents and blood siblings didn’t share their empathy. They did their utmost to see to it that we foster kids got little or nothing. They would steal whatever we did get or sabotage an outing if given half a chance. The treatment I and other foster kids suffered at the hands of some of these families easily qualified as emotional and mental abuse, and on a few occasions, there was even some physical abuse.