I suppose part of it was my own fault. I wasn’t a very agreeable child when I first entered the system. I was angry, frustrated, afraid, and lonely . . . emotions that often had me lashing out or acting in reprehensible ways. This got me bounced from one foster home to another as each placement proved to be a “poor match”—foster speak for “this kid’s more of a pain in the ass than we want to deal with and not worth the money you pay us.” Troublemakers like me and a few other fosters I came to know got labeled quickly, and the households willing to take us in were limited. Most of them were people who did it for the extra money it brought in, not because they had any altruistic interest or investment in any of the kids.
It was always hardest when I was sent to a home where I was the only foster kid. Clearly outnumbered, there was little I could do other than hunker down and try to survive. If the situation became bad enough, I would act out as much as possible in hopes of having the family send me back to be placed elsewhere. It was always better and less lonely if I landed in one of the homes that took in multiple kids.
The other fosters were my true and only siblings. Occasionally I’d run into one who exercised bullying rights, but overall there seemed to be an unspoken code of conduct we lived by. We supported one another as much and as often as we could. In fact, when one of us managed to obtain a treat or a privilege of some sort, we’d often try to find a way to share it with the other fosters. I’m still in touch with several of my foster siblings, and even though we’ve all gone our separate ways, we share a connection much the way regular siblings do.
My foster sibs understand my quirk. They know how important it was to hide treats, to take things when given the chance, and to get good at lying and charming one’s way out of a confrontation. These were basic survival skills. I became so adept at grabbing and slipping items into a pocket, or up my sleeve, or in my shoe, or down my pants—wherever I could drum up a hiding spot—that I started taking things without realizing I was doing it. Not until later, when I undressed for the night, would I discover my hidden stash.
Despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to shake off this habit. It was this instinct, this impulse that led to me taking the candy bar from the coat pocket of the girl who died in the ER. When I realized what I’d done, I knew I’d have to come clean and turn the candy bar over, but I feared the repercussions that might come out of it. After much thought about how to deal with the situation, I finally decided to approach Mattie Winston, my gut telling me she would be the lesser of all possible evils in that regard. I’ll never know if that was true, but Mattie was very kind and understanding. She even handled it in a way that kept anyone else from knowing what I’d done. For that, I am eternally grateful to her. Hopefully, she will be as helpful and understanding today as she was on that occasion.
I’m released from Hold Hell with the sound of Mattie Winston’s cheery voice. “Hildy?”
“Hi, Mattie. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Hanging in there. I haven’t copped anything I shouldn’t have recently.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says with a chuckle. “And I’m glad you called. I’ve been wanting to thank you for taking on Kit Johnson. I hear she’s doing well.”
Kit Johnson, one of the twins who works at a local funeral home, got herself into a bad relationship with an abusive boyfriend. At Mattie’s request, I stepped in to try to help Kit deal with the aftermath of that situation, which got quite violent and intense. Fortunately, things turned out okay in the end, and I still see and counsel Kit to this day.
“She is,” I say. “And I was happy to help.”
This is true for two reasons. Not only did I want to try to get this girl the help she needed, feeling a kinship as I do for anyone in an abusive situation, but I owed Mattie for the way she handled the candy bar incident.
“And we are happy you did,” Mattie says. “What can I do for you today?”
“Well, I don’t know if you remember me telling you this, but I run a grief support group here at the hospital.”
“I remember.”
“Last night I had a new member show up for the group, a woman named Sharon Cochran.”
“Oh, yes,” Mattie says. “Very sad. She lost her son recently.”
“Yes, from a drug overdose, she said.”
Mattie hesitates, and I gather she’s gauging how much information she can share with me. Given that Toby’s death and the cause of it were reported in the local paper, I don’t think I’ve hit on anything confidential. Yet.
“That’s correct,” Mattie says, apparently coming to the same conclusion I did, though I hear a note of hesitancy in her voice.
“Sharon Cochran seems convinced that her son’s death was no accident,” I say. “She thinks he was murdered.”
“I know. She’s called here a lot, and to the police department, too. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to support her claim.”
“Did she tell you about his recent problems at school, and that he dropped out suddenly?”
“She did. It sounded like the boy had a severe case of depression.”
There it was again, that tone of... hesitancy? No, more like doubt. “You’re bothered by his death, too, aren’t you?” I say, taking a stab in the dark.
Mattie doesn’t answer right away, and I push on, eager to continue with the momentum I’ve built. “There was no evidence of prior drug use, was there? And no known connections to any other drug users?”
“Hildy,” Mattie says finally. There is a tone of frustration in her voice and I fear I’ve pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss the details of the case with you.”
I say nothing, letting the silence between us build and do my work for me.
“But,” Mattie says with a sigh, “you might want to talk to Detective Bob Richmond. He was the detective assigned to the case, if I recall, though I don’t think he got involved much. It was a clear-cut scenario.” She sighs. “But if it helps, I can put in a word for you.”
Bingo! “I’ll take any help I can get, Mattie. Thank you. And at the risk of pushing my luck, can I ask you one more thing?”
“If it’s about that file you gave me regarding your mother’s case, I haven’t had time to look it over. Sorry.”
“No, it isn’t that,” I say, though in the back of my mind I had been wondering if she’d done anything with it. “I have Toby Cochran’s laptop. His mother said I could take it. It’s password protected, but after a few attempts at a password, it prompts for a fingerprint identification on a scanner built into the laptop. Would it be possible to fake Toby’s finger using any fingerprints you have on file, so his mother and I can gain access?”
“Interesting question,” Mattie says, and I’m heartened by the fact that she doesn’t simply dismiss me right away. “I’m not sure what the answer is, but I’ll check into it. Though I imagine it would have to be his mother making the request. I’ll have to get back to you, if that’s okay.”
“That would be great! Thanks, Mattie. I really appreciate it.”
“Just a thought, Hildy,” Mattie says in a cautionary tone. “If you want Detective Richmond to reopen this case, it might be better if you don’t mess with anything that could be considered evidence.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m trying to find something that might be considered a smoking gun. I suspect the detective won’t be inclined to reopen the case without it.”
“True enough,” Mattie says with a tone of resignation that lets me know I have my work cut out for me. “Keep in mind that the answers you get aren’t always the ones you want.”
“I’ve told his mother that, but I don’t think she’s willing to let it go. Not yet, anyway.”
“Fair enough,” Mattie says, and this time I hear a smile in her voice.
I give her my cell number so she can get back to me on the fingerprint issue, then I thank her again and hang up.
For the next couple of hours, I cruise the
ER and help with some patient issues: a psych patient in need of placement, a homeless patient in need of pretty much anything I can offer her, and a family whose patriarch has just received a devastating diagnosis. While I’m helping with this last situation, my cell phone buzzes to let me know I have a call. I’m not able to take it, and when I check the phone later, I see that it was Mattie Winston calling back and that she has left me a voice mail message.
It is now one in the afternoon, a full hour past my intended leaving time, so I grab a ham and cheese sandwich from the cafeteria and eat it while I report off to Crystal at her desk. Before vacating my office, I listen to the voice mail Mattie left, my heart beating hard with anticipation. But all her message says is that she has spoken to Detective Richmond and I should call him. She has left a contact number, and I’m about to call it when I pause to think through the situation and what I’m going to say.
The fact that Mattie didn’t address the fingerprint question in her message suggests to me that I’m not likely to get the answer I’m hoping for. And though I’m assuming she wants me to call Detective Richmond because he’s willing to listen to me and reopen the Cochran case, when I think about the likelihood of that happening this easily, I realize it’s unlikely. The more probable scenario is that Detective Richmond will tell me to mind my own business, in polite, politically correct terms, of course.
I think again about how easy it is to dismiss someone over the phone as opposed to face-to-face and decide that a call isn’t my best approach. It’s time to put some of my conniving foster skills to work. I gather up the laptop, clock out, and head for my car—after a stop in the restroom to fix my hair and makeup.
Chapter Eight
Ten minutes later I’m standing in the lobby of the Sorenson police station, listening as a dispatcher named Heidi calls back to Detective Richmond to inform him that he has a visitor who wants to discuss a case. I see the dispatcher shoot me surreptitious looks a couple of times and answer some unheard questions from the other end with vague “uh-huhs” and “unh-unhs.” I’m prepared to be turned away when she disconnects the call and says, “Detective Richmond will be out in just a minute.”
“Thank you.” I consider taking a seat, knowing that “just a minute” might mean anything from thirty seconds to half an hour or more, but decide to stand for now. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long, and I add a mental mark for punctuality in the pro column under Detective Richmond’s name.
He greets me with a formal, “Ms. Schneider?” His hands are stuffed into his pants pockets as he crosses the room toward me, and they stay there.
It’s been a few weeks since I last saw him, but he looks just as I remember him. He is tall, a little over six feet, and has hazel-colored eyes and an etched, well-lived face. “Hello, Detective Richmond. I don’t know if you remember me, but we talked a few times briefly about that human trafficking case a few weeks ago?”
“I remember,” he says, though I can’t tell if he really does or if he’s just saying so to be polite.
“Did Mattie Winston talk to you about me? About the case I’m working on?” I see the corners of his mouth twitch up slightly and know that something I’ve said or done has amused him for some reason, though I don’t know what or why.
“She did,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
Heidi buzzes us through the door, which Detective Richmond holds open for me. I pause in the hallway on the other side, since I’m unsure of where to go, and wait for him to take the lead. He does so, and his long-legged stride forces me into a half run to keep up as we move down a long hallway marked with doors. I see one with a name plate for Chief Hanson, but none of the other doors bear any form of identification. Some of them are open, and a quick peek inside reveals various crowded office arrangements, most with at least two desks. I’m a little out of breath by the time Detective Richmond turns down a short hall and opens another door, waving me through it.
I’m momentarily taken aback. I was expecting to be taken to an office like the ones we passed, but instead I find myself in a conference room. There is a large table occupying the middle of the room, and there are several cushioned chairs positioned around it. The décor is a hideous mix of colors and design, but the chair I opt to sit in—at the head of the table, since that’s where Richmond indicates I should sit—is reasonably comfortable.
He takes a seat near the door, laces his hands together, and leans forward, arms on the table. “I understand you have some questions about Toby Cochran,” he says. “His mother attends a support group that you run?”
“She does, yes,” I say, answering the last question first. “It’s a grief support group. And yes, I have some questions about Toby’s death, as does his mother.”
“I know his mother is having some difficulty accepting her son’s death,” Richmond says. I like his voice; it’s calm, deep, and rich. “But the circumstances surrounding it seem straightforward.”
I scrutinize his face, trying to see some hint of what I think I just heard in his voice. It was subtle, a slight inflection, but I feel certain I heard it. And then there is his word choice. His expression, however, is implacable; not surprising, given his occupation. Cops are taught to keep their masks firmly in place, to not show emotion, and to not react. I decide to take a leap of faith.
“The circumstances seem straightforward?” I pause long enough to see if I get a reaction. There is the tiniest muscle tic in one eyelid. Not much, but I’ll take it. “You don’t believe his death was straightforward at all, do you?” He opens his mouth to answer, but before he can utter a syllable, I add, “Neither does Mattie. There’s something about this case that bothers the both of you, isn’t there?”
I watch his eyes narrow and see that subtle twitch at the corners of his mouth again. “Ms. Schneider,” he says in a tone of patient tolerance.
“Please call me Hildy,” I say. “I’m a pretty laid-back person, not formal at all. And ‘Ms. Schneider’ makes me feel like some lonely old spinster.”
Sadly, I’m getting close enough in age and relationship status—or rather the lack thereof—to qualify for this label, and as a result I’m a little sensitive about it.
This time it’s not just a twitch. Richmond breaks into a full smile, and it lights up his face. “Fair enough,” he says. “You can call me Bob, and I’ll call you Hildy. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“And yes, you are correct in your assumption that there is something about the Cochran case that bothers Mattie. Unfortunately, it’s nothing more than a feeling at this point. The evidence we have is straightforward.”
I notice he didn’t include himself in the bothered category, but I feel certain he’s on the list. “You reviewed the case, then?” I say. “Because Mattie told me she didn’t think you were very involved in it since the circumstances . . . um . . . seemed straightforward.” I put a bit of skeptical emphasis on those last two words.
“That’s true,” he admits. “If foul play isn’t suspected, the case doesn’t require the investigative efforts of a homicide detective. The ME’s office and any police officers on the scene can make that determination.”
“And they did so in this case?”
Bob nods, but quickly adds, “Even so, I did look into the case, because Mattie was bothered by it. She couldn’t say why, though, and I didn’t find anything irregular, so I haven’t delved any deeper.”
I give him what I hope is a coy look, though a foster sib from years ago once told me the expression made me look demented. I’ve practiced it in a mirror since then, and I think I have it down now, but if someone comes into the room bearing a straitjacket, I’ll know I still have work to do.
“So, tell me,” I say in what I hope is a slightly flirtatious tone, “what do I have to do to get you to delve deeper?”
Richmond . . . Bob, I correct myself, blushes, coughs, and looks away from me, reacting to my efforts like a teenage boy. “I . . . um . . . there isn’t . . .”
he stammers.
Mattie Winston picked up on my interest in the detective right away when we worked together a few weeks ago. Apparently, subtlety isn’t my strong suit. I recall her telling me at the time that he didn’t have a lot of experience in the romance department, so I chalk up his current stammering and awkwardness to that. I realize that if I’m going to have any hope of making progress on that level with him, I’ll probably have to take the lead.
Then again, maybe I haven’t honed my coy look after all, and he’s stammering and glancing away because I look idiotic and crazy.
I reach down into my briefcase and pull out Toby’s drawing of the footbridge. “Does this look like any place you know?” I ask, sliding the paper over to him.
He picks it up, studies it, and shakes his head. “Why?”
I tell him about the other drawings in Toby’s room, and his mother’s comments about his recent fixation with this bridge scene. “Something happened to the boy at school, and his mother was never able to get him to talk about it. But it had to have been something big, something significant. He obsessed over this drawing during that time, which makes me think it might be relevant. The kid had a full-ride scholarship that included his housing, and he belonged to a fraternity on campus. He had his whole education mapped out and paid for, and yet he suddenly got up and walked away from it all. Why?”
“Drugs?” Bob offers. It’s the obvious answer, and one I knew would be coming.
“Except he didn’t have any marks on his arms, from what I understand. And there was no evidence he was using IV drugs prior to the night of his death.”
“These kids use other routes,” Bob says. “IV drugs are one step in a long line of progression. Unfortunately for this kid, it was the last step.”
“I take it he tested positive for other drugs?”
Bob starts to shake his head before he remembers who he’s talking to. “I’m not at liberty to share that information,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic.
Needled to Death Page 6
