Dog Have Mercy

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Rick called as I was driving home. “Yo,” I said. “What’s happening in your world?”

  “Hell of a day,” he said.

  “Rochester and I are on our own for dinner,” I said. “Why don’t you bring Rascal over? I’ll pick up salads for us at the grocery on my way home.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “I’m too beat to deal with anything more than that.”

  I left Rochester in the car while I ran into the market, and when I returned home to a darkened house, my dog by my side, I remembered that was how it had been before Lili. Once again, I was grateful she had agreed to share her life with mine.

  I flipped on the lights, turned up the heat, and made a big bowl of salad, tossing in plum tomatoes, croutons, sliced mushrooms, and chunks of cooked chicken. By the time Rick arrived the house was warm and welcoming. I handed him a Highland Cold Mountain Winter Ale, a beer I’d read about online, and took one for myself,

  Over dinner, we talked about Tamsen and Lili, about the dogs and the holidays and pretty much anything but death and mayhem. It wasn’t until after we’d fed the dogs and we were out walking them that Rick brought up the topic.

  “I went back to the vet’s office again today,” he said, as both dogs pulled ahead of us. “What’s wrong with Hugh Jonas, you think?”

  “When we were kids they called it slow,” I said. “If you want to know what a doctor would say today, you’d have to ask one. My guess is that he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. Likes his routines, doesn’t talk much.”

  “I tried to ask him a few questions about his grandmother, the first of those patients to die at Crossing Manor, but he wouldn’t look at me, and he didn’t seem affected by her death.”

  “That’s autistic behavior,” I said. “When Mary and I first moved to California, I tutored part-time at a college writing center. One of the students I was assigned to work with was a high-functioning autistic. He was the same way, and I did some research to see if I could reach him.”

  Rochester stopped to squat and I dug in my pocket for a bag. “And did you?” Rick asked.

  “Not really. He was smart enough, one on one, but he had trouble concentrating on anything, so he never did his homework.”

  “You think Hugh could have been manipulated into stealing the potassium?” Rick asked as I bent down to scoop the poop.

  “I doubt it, but you’d have to get a psych evaluation if you want a real opinion.”

  We continued to walk, and then Rascal assumed the position. “Your turn,” I said, handing Rick a bag. “Who else did you talk to today?”

  “Call me Hugh Jonas, but I don’t multi-task well,” he said. “Hold that thought.”

  He picked up the poop, told Rascal he was a good boy, and then all four of us turned around to head back to the townhouse.

  “Back to the question,” I said. “You talk to Minna?”

  “Before I did I went back over my notes and I realized that when I spoke to her before I had no idea that the nursing home was connected, so there was no reason for her to volunteer the information that she had worked there.”

  We dumped our bags in a receptacle at the end of Sarajevo Court. “But I asked her about it this morning. She told me she didn’t leave there on good terms and hasn’t been back since.”

  “What does that mean? She got fired?”

  “I asked. She finally said that she got into a fight with Mrs. Joiner, the administrator. She wanted to go to a medical conference in Vegas with her husband, and Joiner wouldn’t give her the time off. So she quit in a huff.”

  “Which means she might have a grudge against Joiner, or the facility. Killing patients there would put Joiner in a bad light with her bosses.”

  “You read too many books, you know that?” Rick asked, as we walked up my driveway. “In the real world, people don’t kill other people for such convoluted reasons.”

  “Thank you for that wisdom, Sherlock,” I said.

  “Don’t get snarky,” Rick said. “I checked the visitor logs at the Manor for the times when the three people were killed. Minna Breznick didn’t sign in. And since she left on such bad terms I doubt she could have snuck in and out frequently enough to kill four people without someone noticing.”

  “What about the other staff?” I asked.

  “None of them had any connections to the nursing home. No family members there, no friends or family on the staff.”

  I opened the front door and we let the dogs off their leashes. They rushed toward the water bowl and began lapping noisily. Rick shrugged off his coat and laid it on the sofa. I hung mine up in the downstairs closet.

  As I closed the closet door, Rochester came up to nuzzle my leg. In his mouth he had one of the blue plastic gloves Lili had used on Saturday night to pick up the glass shards. “You shouldn’t have that, puppy,” I said, snatching it from him. “There could be glass on this.”

  I looked at the glove and something clicked. “Could someone have used gloves to get into the cabinet where the potassium was stored?” I asked Rick.

  “Sure,” Rick said. “Doctor’s offices always have those latex gloves. I think there was even a box of them right on the counter near the cabinet.”

  “So it didn’t have to be an Animal House employee who took the vials,” I said. “It could have been a patient.”

  “Well, not a patient in the veterinary sense,” Rick said. “Maybe a human there with a patient? But hold on, that cabinet was in the back room. The only people who go back there are the staff.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the layout of Dr. Horz’s office. From the lobby, you entered a short hallway with the big animal scale along one wall. To the right there were two examining rooms, and a closed door that I knew led to the kennel in the back. To the left was another examining room, and then the door to the staff room, where the medications were kept.

  Just beyond that was the door to the restroom.

  “What if somebody asked to use the bathroom?” I asked Rick. I explained what I remembered about the layout of the office. “The door to the staff room was usually open, right? Somebody going to the bathroom would go right past there, and could look inside. I remember Dr. Horz telling me a while ago that patients could use that restroom.”

  “Thank you very much for widening my suspect pool,” Rick said dryly. “Next thing you’ll be suggesting I check the toilet for DNA evidence.”

  “I hope they clean that pretty regularly,” I said. “Were you able to see if any of the people who died had pets, and took them to Animal House for care?”

  “No matches for the people themselves. I suppose I have to go back and check their records for members of the victims’ extended families.”

  “And remember, you might not even need to be there with a patient,” I said. “For example, Hugh Jonas’s mother could have come to pick him up from work, seen the vials and figured out how to end her mother’s suffering.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the other deaths,” Rick said. “I think we have to look at someone who has a motive against Joiner, like Minna Breznick, or against the facility. Or maybe an angel of mercy, somebody committing euthanasia.”

  “Or is just batshit crazy,” I said.

  “Well, there’s always that.”

  28 – Palliative Care

  “I should be getting home,” Rick said. “Long day ahead of me tomorrow.” He looked around. “Where’s my dog?”

  I heard the sound of water lapping again. “Rochester! Rascal! Don’t drink so much or you’ll have to pee again.”

  “Maybe they’re both dehydrated,” Rick said. “Cold weather does that sometimes. Not enough moisture in the air.”

  “Let’s hope neither of them needs IV fluids,” I said.

  Rick and I looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds. “IVs,” Rick said. “That’s how the killer got the potassium into the patients, right?”

  I nodded. “The patients all were dehydrated before they were kil
led, so that they had to have IVs. The killer could be a nurse at the Manor who is able to put in an IV.”

  “The killer doesn’t have to be the one who put in the IV,” Rick said. “Let’s go back to Fictura. His records showed that he suffered from vomiting and diarrhea the day before he died, and the nurse put in an IV.”

  “The killer could have given him something to make him throw up, knowing that he’d get an IV,” I said. “How many of those vials of liquid potassium were stolen from Dr. Horz’s office? Five, right?”

  “Yup.”

  I began ticking the victims on my fingers. “One, Mrs. Tuttle. Two, Mrs. Divaram. Three, Mr. Pappas. Four, Mr. Fictura. That means that the killer still has one vial left.” I looked around the room and spotted my cell phone on the dining room table. “I’m calling Crossing Manor. I want to know if anybody there has been put on a IV recently.”

  “Give me the phone,” he said. “I’m the cop, remember?”

  While he introduced himself over the phone and asked his questions, I petted both dogs. “Are you good boys?” I asked. “Nod your heads if you are.”

  Neither dog nodded. “Hmm. Does that mean you’re not good boys?”

  Rascal’s fur was wirier than Rochester’s, with a greater pattern of color, black, white, brown all swirled together. My dog’s coat was more monochromatic, all golden, though in shades from light to dark.

  “Look at what big brown eyes you both have.” I knew that because dogs were often active in dim light, their pupils were large, with less depth of field. “And you both have moist black noses.” I touched each one in turn.

  The dogs and I carried on a one-sided conversation until Rick was finished. “The nurse on duty says that one of the patients has been sick all day. A Mr. MacRae.”

  “We know him,” I said. “He was a janitor at Crossing Elementary when we were kids.” I stood up. “We should go over there. Make sure he’s all right.”

  “I can handle it,” Rick said.

  “The Hardy Boys are a team,” I said. “We’ll leave the dogs here and head over there together.”

  “I could argue with you but that would just waste time. Let’s move.”

  We grabbed our coats and told the dogs to behave while we were gone.

  The parking lot at Crossing Manor was empty except for a couple of cars in the staff spaces. The wind was cold and I pulled my scarf tighter as we hurried to the front door. It was locked, and Rick had to press a button to alert the nurse to buzz us in.

  We walked inside, and the warmth hit me. I quickly undid my scarf and unzipped my parka. Rick stopped to talk to the nurse on duty, an older African-American woman in dark blue scrubs, but I headed directly for Mr. MacRae’s room.

  The halls were quiet and I assumed most of the patients were asleep. The lights were dim, casting eerie shadows as I hurried along. Mr. MacRae’s door was closed, but I pushed it open very quietly. His roommate, an elderly man with dementia, dozed in the bed by the door. The overhead light was off and the only illumination was a soft uplight above his head.

  The curtain had been pulled between the two beds, but I could see light streaming out. As I stepped forward I heard the sound of retching.

  I was surprised to see Allison standing by Mr. MacRae’s bedside, wearing a heavy wool sweater and jeans. She held a pink plastic emesis basin in front of his mouth.

  “Isn’t this a school night?” I asked Allison. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  She shook her head. “School doesn’t start until Thursday,” she said. “I knew Mr. MacRae was sick. There’s only one nurse on duty at night and she gets busy, so I came over to look after him.”

  He finished and she put the basin aside. “I’m not sure if I want to go into a nursing program or be pre-med,” she said she wiped Mr. MacRae’s mouth with a wet towel

  She looked fondly at the old man, who had closed his eyes and rested his head back against the pillow. “I just know that I want to help people. I’ve been talking to Mrs. Joiner a lot about palliative care.” She patted Mr. MacRae’s hair. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Helping people with pain?” I asked.

  “More than that. So many sick people are suffering, you know? Poor Mrs. Tuttle with her dementia. She didn’t even know her own family anymore, and she was always moaning with pain.”

  I began to understand. “So you helped her,” I said.

  “That’s it exactly,” she said. “I used to sit with her and hold her hand, and it was so sad. In my AP chemistry class we studied potassium and I realized that if I could get hold of some, I could help her.”

  “You were the teenager who went to Dr. Horz’s office at the end of the day,” I said, remembering the conversation I’d had with the vet.

  “I read somewhere that vets had liquid potassium in their offices. So I found a picture online of what the vials looked like, and when I took my dog in I said I had to go to the bathroom, and I went into her supply room.”

  She shifted position and behind her I saw Mr. MacRae’s IV drip. There was a small vial attached to it. Holy crap. She was killing Mr. MacRae right in front of me. Where was Rick? The nurse?

  I had to keep Allison talking as I moved closer to Mr. MacRae’s bed. If I could pull the IV out of his hand, perhaps I could short-circuit the effect of the potassium. “But what about Mrs. Divaram?” I asked. “She wasn’t sick.”

  “She was heartsick,” Allison said. “Her son abandoned her. She had nothing left to live for.”

  I had a hard time not focusing on the silver stud on her tongue each time she opened her mouth, but I kept edging closer. “Mr. Pappas?”

  “He had that terrible disease,” she said. “He was never going to get any better.”

  “And Mr. Fictura?”

  “I just didn’t like him,” she said. “He was so mean and nasty and he upset the other patients. As long as I had the potassium I gave some to him.”

  I was almost by Mr. MacRae’s side. Allison was on the other side of the bed, by the pole that held the IV drip, but if I could reach his hand I could pull the IV out. It would hurt, I was sure, but it was the only way I could see to save his life.

  I reached across the bed for the IV tube, but Allison grabbed my hand. “You can’t do that,” she said. “The people here, no one loves them, no one cares about them. They’re sick and in pain. Mr. MacRae’s kidneys are failing and the dialysis isn’t working anymore.”

  “It’s not up to you to help them,” I said. “Let go of my hand and let me pull the IV out of Mr. MacRae’s hand.”

  “No! You don’t know what it’s like, watching people die,” she said. “My nana had Alzheimer’s, but there was nothing else wrong with her, so she just hung on like forever. She didn’t remember who we were and she cried all the time.”

  Mr. MacRae started coughing behind Allison, and that distracted her enough that I was able to pry her fingers off my hand and pull out the IV. Blood began to ooze out of Mr. MacRae’s hand. “Rick!” I called. “Where are you? I need the nurse in here!”

  I heard the door swing open. “What’s going on?” Rick said, as he pulled aside the curtain.

  “Allison put the potassium in Mr. MacRae’s IV drip,” I said, as the nurse followed Rick inside.

  The nurse hurried over to Mr. MacRae’s side. “What have you been doing, child?” she asked Allison.

  “I just wanted to help him,” Allison said, and she began to cry.

  The nurse began working with the IV. “Can you call an ambulance for me?” she asked Rick. “Tell them they’ll need an IV with calcium gluconate. That will move the potassium out of his blood and into his cells.”

  “I’ll call,” I said.

  Rick pulled another pair of plastic wrist restraints from his belt and walked over to Allison. He gently put the cuffs around her wrists and began to read her rights to her as I called 911 and the nurse worked on Mr. MacRae.

  The old man looked up at the nurse and smiled weakly. “You just hold on, my darli
ng,” she said to him. “We’ll have you right as rain in no time.”

  Rick led Allison out of the room and I followed, my heart racing. “I’ll keep an eye on Allison until a unit arrives to take her to the station,” he said. “And then once she’s gone I’ll need to do a lot of interviews. Can you stay in the lobby and open the door for the paramedics? And then I’m going to need you to come by the station and give a statement. Can you wait?”

  “Sure.”

  By the time we walked out to the lobby, a black and white patrol car was pulling up at the front door. A blast of arctic air swept in as Rick turned over Allison to their custody and returned to Mr. MacRae’s room.

  I waited at the front door until the paramedics arrived and let them in. While they worked on Mr. MacRae, I called Lili.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “I got home a couple of minutes ago to find two dogs and no Steve.”

  “At Crossing Manor,” I said. I explained what had happened.

  “What am I going to do with you, Steve? You didn’t put yourself in danger again, did you?”

  “No, I swear. I stumbled on Allison and she wasn’t going to hurt me. She just wanted to help Mr. MacRae.”

  “I’ll see what Rick says,” Lili said. “I’m glad you were able to help Mr. MacRae. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Steve.”

  While I waited for Rick to finish his interviews, Marilyn Joiner arrived. “What’s going on?” she asked me. “Marie called and said Allison tried to kill Mr. MacRae.”

  I resisted the urge to gossip. “You’ll have to talk to Detective Stemper,” I said.

  “Then it’s true.” The color drained from Marilyn’s face. “I thought Allison was such a sweet girl,” she said. “She was so kind to the patients, and so dutiful. She was here all the time over the holidays. She and I talked a lot about what kind of career she should have.”