Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  While Oscar lifted the house phone, Codella checked messages. Dr. Abrams had not called her yet. When was he going to get to her again with her results? She turned to watch water seep from the top of the hanging fountain and flow gently down the surface of the burnt red rock in an endless mechanical cycle that evoked the natural trickling of a glacial spring. Park Manor, she surmised, was a purveyor of artful and expensive illusions.

  Oscar escorted her to the director’s office, and Constance Hodges stood as Codella entered. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties. She was trim and immaculately dressed in a short beige jacket and navy pencil skirt. Her artificially blond hair was shoulder-length and straight. Her eyes were almost golden, like a feline’s, Codella thought, and they transformed her otherwise generic middle-aged attractiveness into something more compelling.

  Codella held out her hand, and Hodges gripped it across her desk in an impressively muscular handshake. “Please have a seat, Detective. What brings you to Park Manor?”

  Codella sat in one of the two chairs facing Hodges. “There was a death here yesterday. Lucy Merchant.”

  “Yes. Very sad.”

  “And unexpected, I take it.”

  Hodges frowned. “Not really. Mrs. Merchant was in a late stage of Alzheimer’s. She had a terminal condition.”

  “She was receiving hospice care?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then what were the circumstances surrounding her death?”

  Hodges crossed her arms, tilted her head, and knitted her brows. “I’m curious, Detective. Did someone send you here?”

  Codella wanted to say, People don’t send me, Ms. Hodges. And they don’t ask me the questions, either. Instead she just repeated, “What were the circumstances?”

  Hodges picked up a yellow pencil and twirled it between thin manicured fingers that shook ever so slightly. “Mrs. Merchant died in her sleep,” she answered. “Her heart gave out, according to our house physician. He certified her death early yesterday morning.”

  “He didn’t feel the need to understand what caused her heart to give out?”

  Hodges frowned. “I’m sorry, Detective, but should I assume from your questions that you are investigating Lucy Merchant’s death?”

  Codella leaned forward. “Let’s just say I’m investigating whether or not I should investigate it.” She met the director’s golden eyes.

  “And why is that?” Hodges’s tone turned demanding.

  Codella kept hers calm and casual. “Julia Merchant paid me a visit yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Hodges nodded, and her tone softened again. “I see.” She steepled her hands on the desk like a sympathetic funeral director. “I’ve watched many families lose a loved one, Detective. Even when they know the end is near, they’re often unprepared. Julia is very young—just twenty-two or three—and she was extremely close to her mother. This is hard for her. She was here yesterday, as I assume you already know. She was upset. She told me about the video she had. She obviously misconstrued what she saw.”

  “What did she think she saw?”

  Hodges’s tight mouth betrayed the fact that she obviously didn’t want to discuss this. “She was under the impression that a caregiver administered medication to her mother, but in fact he only gave her mother a drink of water.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I questioned my staff thoroughly.”

  “And you trust them to tell you the truth?”

  “Intrinsically,” said the director.

  Codella considered the choice of words. Could trust ever be intrinsic? “Were you here on Sunday night when Lucy Merchant’s last medication was administered?”

  “No. I only pop in sporadically on the weekends, and her medication was given after ten PM.”

  Codella tapped this information into the notes app on her iPhone. “Who was the senior person on duty when Lucy Merchant died?”

  Hodges answered quickly. “Baiba Lielkaja, the Nostalgia Neighborhood care coordinator, went home around eight PM that evening, so Cheryl O’Brien, our night nurse, was the senior staff member on duty.”

  “And what did she tell you about the death?”

  “That Maybelle Holder—one of our overnight caregivers—discovered Mrs. Merchant at four AM. Mrs. Merchant wasn’t breathing. Maybelle summoned Cheryl, and Cheryl phoned Baiba and me. Baiba got here within half an hour. I arrived within the hour.”

  Codella nodded. “Can you ask these two employees to join us—Cheryl O’Brien and Baiba Lielkaja? I’d like to ask them some questions as well.”

  “I’d be happy to, Detective,” said Hodges, “but Cheryl won’t be here until seven PM tonight—her hours are seven to seven—and Baiba called in sick today.”

  Codella made another note in her iPhone. “Does she call in sick often?”

  Hodges narrowed her eyes. “What are you implying, Detective?”

  Codella only smiled. “I’m just asking questions. It’s my job. I’m sure you understand.” She shifted to a different line of inquiry. “You mentioned that Julia was close to her mother. How do you know that?”

  “I’m in a position to observe how family members interact. For the past month, Julia has visited her mother almost daily.”

  “At what time of day did she come?”

  “Lunchtime usually. She’d sit and feed her. During the past week, she’s been here at dinnertime, too.”

  “She was there on Sunday night?”

  Hodges nodded. “You see, on some level I’m sure she knew the end was coming, but she didn’t want to let go.”

  Codella watched the director pick up a clear glass mug of cloudy coffee.

  “I’ve been at Park Manor for twelve years, Detective, and one thing I’ve learned is that we humans don’t like to accept our losses.” Hodges took a sip. “We do many unpredictable things when we’re grieving.”

  Codella supposed the director’s observations about loss were perfectly reasonable, but they didn’t negate the possibility that a homicide had occurred. “Tell me about Lucy Merchant.”

  Hodges sat back in her chair and was silent for a few seconds. Finally she said, “By the time Mrs. Merchant came to Park Manor, she was already exhibiting pronounced cognitive difficulties.”

  “Such as?”

  “Short term memory loss. Sequencing problems. Confusion about her surroundings. Anomic aphasia.”

  “What is that?”

  “The inability to recall names of people and things. Lucy would start a sentence but couldn’t retrieve the words to get out her thought. The Alzheimer’s had already affected the part of her brain that controls speech.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Merchant before she developed her illness?”

  “I knew of her,” said Hodges. “And I had been introduced to her once or twice. She and Thomas—Mr. Merchant—were active in a number of charities, and I represent Park Manor at many of those events.”

  Was it evasion or defensiveness Codella detected in the director’s answer? Either way, she backed off again. Alienating the woman wasn’t going to help her get what she needed right now. She said, “I wish I’d seen her in that 1996 revival of Chicago. Unfortunately that was a few years year before I came to the city.” She smiled and leaned forward. “Look, Ms. Hodges, despite what you or I might think, Julia Merchant has for some reason convinced herself that her mother’s death wasn’t the result of natural causes. Whether or not that’s true, she could stir up a lot of unpleasant publicity that I’m sure you don’t want. But I can’t put her concerns to rest unless I perform my due diligence. I’d like to take a quick look around Mrs. Merchant’s room. Would that be okay with you?”

  Codella willed her face into a facade of nonchalance. Lucy Merchant was dead, so technically she no longer had a right to privacy, but that was a gray area Codella preferred not to face if the case ever ended up in a courtroom. Without a warrant, she wanted the director’s explicit permission to enter Lucy Merchant’s quarters. If Hodge
s knew her caregiver had administered a lethal dose of oxycodone, then surely she would find a way to keep Codella out of that room. Then again, she might know that oxycodone was in the cup without knowing that it had spilled onto the carpet. She might presume it was safe to take her upstairs.

  Codella took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In the prolonged pause, Ms. Hodges’s stiff shoulders and straight spine announced her discomfort. Finally the director gave what appeared to be a forced smile. “Of course, Detective. I agree. By all means, let’s put this to rest. I’ll take you up myself.”

  The elevator was large enough to accommodate multiple wheelchairs or stretchers. It ascended in slow motion, as if it had been purposefully calibrated to the pace of Park Manor’s residents. Codella followed the director out onto cushioned carpet, turned left, and stopped in front of solid double doors. Hodges punched a five-digit code into a keypad on the wall, and the doors opened slowly like the gates to a heavenly kingdom or a maximum-security prison. “This is our Nostalgia Neighborhood, Detective.”

  As the double doors closed behind them, Codella surveyed a spacious room to her left. She had seen impressively appointed rooms like this in cavernous prewar apartments. Decorative molding framed panels of elegant wallpaper. Against the far wall stood a cast-iron fireplace. Fresh-cut flowers in blown glass vases sat at either end of the mantel. Overhead, ornamental plaster made the ceiling a work of art.

  “This is our parlor, Detective.” Hodges smiled with satisfaction. “This is where our Nostalgia residents read, watch movies, or listen to guest speakers and performers.”

  Codella had the impression Ms. Hodges was reciting the script she used with wealthy families of potential Nostalgia residents. The four vacant, watery-eyed seniors sitting in the room with their caregivers hardly looked capable of tracking print, following a movie plot, or interacting with a speaker. Codella guessed that she was about to get the grand tour, so she nodded her appreciation and followed where Hodges led.

  Beyond a restaurant-style dining area, they entered a sunroom where five seniors swayed awkwardly to Chubby Checker singing “Let’s Twist Again,” but the only ones actually twisting were the Park Manor caregivers in their burgundy polo shirts. Hodges apparently felt the need to comment on this scene, too. “For many sufferers of dementia, music is the one stimulus that still connects them to their vibrant pasts. Music etches deep memories in our brains, Detective.”

  Codella nodded like an attentive acolyte. She had seen her share of old shut-ins on the West Side. When they died and a foul odor finally announced their demise, a detective usually had to confirm that their death was not suspicious. She remembered the unrenovated rooms of one old woman five or six years ago. The smell of urine throughout the apartment was so pungent that Codella had not wanted to breathe. A thick layer of dust blanketed every surface. The old woman had hoarded hundreds of plastic containers, grocery bags, and condiment jars. And her cat, who had not been fed for days, lay dead on the cracked linoleum.

  By comparison, these dancing dementia sufferers lived in luxury, but were they any happier than that old woman? Codella wasn’t fooled by the illusion of this place, and she doubted anyone else could be fooled by it, either. As artfully arranged as it was, it was still depressing, the same way even the most state-of-the-art cancer ward was depressing. The “Nostalgia Neighborhood” was a place you would never willingly go to—and a place you would never walk out of.

  Hodges led her to a quiet corridor that felt like a guest floor at a Ritz Carlton. Mounted on the wall next to each door they passed was an engraved brass nameplate, and Codella skimmed the names. Dr. Evelyn Bruce. Mr. Arthur Lane, Esq. Senator Phillip Prinz. Tomasina Knight. Mrs. Dottie Lautner. The placards suggested permanence, except that none of them were permanent, she realized when they arrived at the last door on the wing and she saw the Velcro wall strip where Lucy Merchant’s nameplate must have been.

  Hodges unlocked the door, and Codella stepped into Lucy Merchant’s sitting room. Coaster-sized depressions in the plush beige carpet marked where furniture had been. Enlarged Playbill covers in gold frames leaned against the walls where they had hung. “We don’t usually remove a resident’s belongings so quickly,” Hodges explained, “but there is a Park Manor Village resident who now needs Nostalgia’s services. We’re moving Mrs. Merchant’s furniture downstairs until the Merchants can arrange to have it picked up.”

  As she entered the bedroom beyond, Codella gave an “I-understand-perfectly” nod to conceal her suspicion. Had Hodges’s staff already combed this place for evidence? Three taped and labeled moving boxes in the far left corner were the only indication that Lucy Merchant had been here. The queen-size mattress had been stripped. Personal artifacts that might have rested on the built-in shelves or window ledge were gone. The open closet across from the bed was empty except for several smooth wooden hangers.

  Codella closed her eyes and mentally replayed the surveillance video Julia Merchant had shown her yesterday. In that video, the nurse and caregiver had stood on the far side of the bed in front of the window. The caregiver had been closest to the bed, holding the cup to Lucy Merchant’s lips. Codella moved to the window now and stared down at the carpet. At first, she saw nothing in the shiny nylon fibers. But as she continued to scan the length of the bed, a small matted and faintly discolored patch caught her attention. Hodges, it seemed, had not brought the carpet cleaners in yet.

  With the director watching her from the doorway, Codella pulled her iPhone out of her pocket, bent down, and photographed the patch. Then she pulled nitrile gloves out of her jacket pocket and ran a gloved index finger over the patch. The fibers felt rough. Whatever substance had spilled was now dry and crusty. She removed sterile tweezers from her jacket pocket, unwrapped them, and yanked up some of the carpet fibers.

  Hodges stepped closer. “What are you doing?”

  Codella dropped the fibers into a small evidence bag and tucked the bag and the tweezers back into her pocket. “There was a spill in the carpet. I lifted a few fibers.”

  Codella rose. Hodges’s eyes remained glued to her as she crossed the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom doorway. She could sense the director’s unspoken questions about to erupt, and she raised her hand up to hold them back. The bathroom, too, had been completely emptied, and she imagined that the now immaculate shelves built into the tiled back wall had once held large packages of adult diapers, toilet paper, and tissue. The towel rack was empty. And the small trash receptacle below the sink had been emptied. She turned to Hodges. “Do you have an incinerator on site?”

  Hodges shook her head. “We have a waste disposal service that comes two times a week.”

  “Have they come since Sunday?”

  “No. They’ll be here tonight.”

  Codella visualized Lucy Merchant’s Sunday night medicine cup sitting in an industrial sized garbage bag resting in the bowels of Park Manor. The rug fibers in her pocket might test positive for oxycodone, but she couldn’t prove they had entered Lucy Merchant’s body. If, on the other hand, the residue in her cup matched the substance spilled on the carpet, and if Lucy Merchant’s DNA were on the rim of the cup, then she had a much tighter case for possible homicide.

  If she did not leave Park Manor with the cup right now, she knew, it would be lost forever. On the other hand, if she found it and it tested positive, she would have enough evidence to demand an autopsy of Lucy Merchant’s body. She glanced up at Constance Hodges. “Can you take me to where you keep your trash?”

  “Why?”

  “We need the cup she drank from on Sunday night.”

  Hodges looked skeptical. “It will be mixed up with all the others.”

  “But it will have her name on it, won’t it?”

  The director nodded.

  “You need to help me,” said Codella. “I won’t be able to dismiss this inquiry until I can assure Julia Merchant I’ve looked into the matter. Let’s just get it done.”

  Hodges led Code
lla out of Nostalgia, and they rode a service elevator into the underbelly of Park Manor. The thick smell of petroleum told her that the enormous boiler ran on fossil fuel. They passed a loud, steamy laundry room in which three tired-looking Hispanic women were folding towels and tablecloths. A labyrinth of narrow cinderblock passages led them to the back of the basement where large bags of garbage were sorted for pickup. At one end of the room were red hazardous waste bags. Black garbage bags sat on the other side.

  “Which bags contain the trash from residents’ garbage cans?”

  Hodges pointed to the black bags. “They are considered general medical waste. The small trash bins get emptied into white bags that are labeled by floor. The white bags go into the large black bags, so they are separate from the garbage that comes from the kitchen. Still, there’s no telling how many bags you would need to pick through to find the cup you’re looking for.”

  Codella considered. The task could take fifteen minutes or it could take hours, and it wouldn’t be a pleasant interlude. “Can I get some bodies to help?” she asked.

  Hodges disappeared briefly. When she returned, two porters wearing work gloves were following her. Hodges asked the shorter Hispanic porter which bags might contain the Nostalgia Neighborhood’s general waste from Sunday night.

  The porter held up his index finger in a “wait here” gesture. Then he spoke Spanish to the other porter, a thin man with an olive complexion, high cheekbones, and bristly black hair, and they disappeared through the outer door. They returned three or four minutes later carrying two overstuffed black bags they had removed from a dumpster beyond. The younger porter opened one of the bags, and inside were four medium-size white bags. Under Codella’s direction, the porter opened one white bag at a time and dumped its contents into a bin. Codella studied the used tissues, Q-tips, old toothbrushes, dental floss, and other debris from the Nostalgia residents’ trash. The first bag held only two medicine cups, but neither was Lucy Merchant’s. The porter stuffed the debris back into the bag and dumped out the contents of six more white bags before Codella saw what she was looking for—a clear polypropylene cup with a white label on the side that read “3F Merchant” and the date it had been administered. She carefully lifted the cup from the bin with her gloved hand. In the bottom of the cup were the crystalized remains of a liquid.