by Carrie Smith
“It’s Mrs.” The woman was gaunt, and her shoulders curved inward although she was no more than forty. She hugged her door and seemed to debate her next move. Finally she swung it open. Her Stuyvesant Town apartment was on a low floor, and the living room windows faced another red brick tower within the large postwar residential complex. The room was somber. “You can come in for a minute or two, but—”
“Thank you.” Codella stepped in.
The woman gestured to a plaid couch—an ancient Jennifer Convertible, Codella guessed. She would have preferred to remain standing, but sitting on dilapidated and uninviting furniture was often a requirement of her trade, and she duly committed to a cushion and thanked the woman.
“You were one of the two last people to see Lucy Merchant alive.”
“I suppose so,” agreed O’Brien.
“You and her caregiver.”
“Yes. Brandon. Brandon Johnson.”
“You gave Mrs. Merchant her evening medications.” Codella stated this rather than asked, and the woman dropped her eyes guiltily.
“Yes. Her valium. Diazepam.”
“You prepared it in the dispensary?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me when and how you prepared that medication, Ms. O’Brien.”
“Mrs.,” O’Brien corrected her again. “I have to go to work very soon, my other job.”
Codella leaned forward. “This is important, Mrs. O’Brien.”
“Are you saying I did something wrong? That other detective kept asking me about where I used to work. What was that all about? I didn’t do anything.”
“No one thinks you did,” Codella assured her quickly. That fucking Novotny. Now she couldn’t put any hard questions to O’Brien. She had to tread lightly. Novotny had spooked her. “I just need to know how you prepared the medication.”
“I always prepare the meds the same way. In the dispensary. I wear an orange vest. That tells everyone I’m not to be disturbed. The medications are in a locked cabinet. I prepare each resident’s medications one at a time.”
“Could you describe that procedure?” Codella asked in a calm voice she wouldn’t have had to use if Novotny had followed her orders and stayed on the databases.
“First I label the cup. I put the resident’s dosage into the cup—sometimes it’s liquid, sometimes it’s a pill or several pills—and I check off the box on the medication checklist. Then I put the cup on a tray and move on to the next resident’s meds. When they’re all prepared, I start my rounds.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about Lucy Merchant’s medicine bottle that night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, was it in its usual position? Did it look out of place in any way?”
O’Brien squinted. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Did the medicine itself look any different than usual?”
She shook her head.
“How long did Mrs. Merchant take diazepam?”
“Since October or November, I think.”
“And why did she take it?”
“She got very anxious at night. She had trouble settling down. Dr. Fisher tried her on Atavan—that’s what most of the residents take—but it didn’t work for her.”
“How did she behave at night before she took the diazepam?”
“She’d get out of bed and wander around. She would scream at anyone she passed.”
“What did she scream?”
“Oh, crazy stuff, you know. Stop it. Get away from me. You can’t make me do that. Nothing rational. Sometimes she called me Daddy. She was having delusions. Dementia is a terrible thing, you know.”
“You said Detective Novotny asked about your work history. Forgive me if I’m repeating something he already asked you. How long have you worked at Park Manor?”
“Going on six months.”
“And before that?”
“Eldercare Elite,” she said. “And I was a visiting home nurse.” She looked at her watch. “I still am, and I’m supposed to be with a patient in half an hour.”
“Can you tell me why you left Eldercare Elite to come to Park Manor?”
“More money,” O’Brien said. “They offered me the night shift. It pays more and I can be a visiting home nurse during the day. And we need the money.”
Codella nodded. “I just have one more question. The night Mrs. Merchant died, did you allow her caregiver, Brandon Johnson, to administer the medication?”
O’Brien looked into her lap. She didn’t move or speak.
Codella waited. She had to know if the nurse would lie the way Baiba Lielkaja had lied or whether she would tell the truth like Hodges. The silence answered the question long before O’Brien opened her mouth.
“How did you know?” the nurse finally asked.
“Why did you do it?” Codella countered.
“Because whenever I came into her suite, she turned belligerent.” Now O’Brien spoke in a steady stream, as if she were relieved to have the truth out. “I don’t know why. No one else caused her to act that way. Maybe I reminded her of someone? All I know is that I would have been fired if Brandon didn’t help me. And my husband lost his job last year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He sold software. He didn’t make his quota. I need this job.”
Codella heard the terror in O’Brien’s voice. She was a woman trying to provide for her family against the odds. “Who do you think Lucy Merchant could have mistaken you for?”
“I don’t know. As I said, she called me Daddy sometimes.” She laughed. “Not that I look like a daddy—I hope.”
“Did she call you by any other names?”
O’Brien shook her head. “She couldn’t remember names, not even her daughter’s.”
Codella nodded. “All right, Mrs. O’Brien. That’s it for now. Thank you for your time.”
Codella returned to her car and sped up First Avenue with her hands gripping the wheel the way she wanted to wring Novotny’s neck. She crossed the park at Ninety-Sixth Street and pulled behind Manhattan North. Novotny was sitting at his desk and staring at the computer when she barged in his office.
He looked up. “What’s eating you, Codella?”
“I gave the team direct orders not to contact anyone from Park Manor, and you went right to the phone. You called up one of the last two people to see Lucy Merchant alive.”
“Cheryl O’Brien.” He smiled. “That’s right. She worked for Eldercare Elite until six months ago,” he said. “You didn’t know that, did you? Eldercare is trying to buy Park Manor, Codella. It was in that New York Times article. Something’s going on there. She’s part of something bigger. It’s an important connection.”
“An important connection? How the fuck do you know it’s important?”
“She could be a plant. Don’t you see?”
“You don’t want to know what I see, Novotny.” She leaned across his chair as if she were going to tear him to shreds. “Did it ever occur to you that if you’re a nurse at Eldercare, then Park Manor is the next logical step in your career? It’s the pinnacle of care facilities in Manhattan. People have all kinds of reasons for making a move, Novotny. You were supposed to come to me with your connections. Cheryl O’Brien is not our killer. I spoke to her. She didn’t hide anything. If you ask me, she’s just busting her ass to keep her family afloat. You’re a fucking moron.”
Novotny pointed a finger at her. “Don’t use that tone with me, Codella. I don’t work for you.”
“You do on this case. You report to me. And as of right now, you’re off the team.” She grabbed the Merchant files off his desk.
He pulled them back. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’ll go to McGowan,” he threatened. “We’ll see who wins that one.”
“We’ll see right now.” Codella turned and stomped down the hall to the lieutenant’s office. “Am I running the Merchant case or aren’t I?”
McGow
an looked up from a precinct map on his desk. “What’s your problem, Codella? I gave you a team, didn’t I?”
“Good. And as of this moment, Novotny’s off it. If he contacts one more person involved in the case, I’m writing him up.”
CHAPTER 46
Hodges watched Heather’s thin fingers set the cup and saucer in front of Codella. “Thank you, Heather,” she said, but her kindly tone and benevolent smile were not for her assistant’s benefit. Detectives, she supposed, were like psychotherapists. They registered far more than the words you uttered. In the minuscule movements of hands or mouth, they read your fear or anxiety. In the rise and fall of your voice, they detected amiability or animosity. In the angle of your gaze, they distinguished between veracity and deception. Hodges did not intend to provide any windows into her soul, but she would certainly watch for Codella’s unconscious revelations.
As soon as Heather left the room, Hodges said, “Thank you for coming, Detective.”
Codella sipped her tea but said nothing.
Hodges sensed that a hard, protective shell surrounded Codella. But if she could just crack that shell, the two of them would be on equal footing. “I imagine you haven’t had time for lunch, Detective. Let me get you a sandwich from our Manor Bistro.” She picked up her phone.
Codella shook her head. “Please. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Hodges insisted. “How does turkey and brie on a baguette sound?”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“Our chef does a very nice sandwich. Let me order you one.” Hodges gave the order to Heather. When she hung up, she said, “I can only imagine how demanding your job is on a daily basis.”
“We all have demanding jobs,” said Codella.
“Maybe so, but I suspect yours is a bit more demanding than most—and you’re a little too modest. I confess. I Googled you yesterday after you left my office.”
Codella shrugged. “Yes? Well, I suppose we all Google each other these days, don’t we?”
“But we’re not all NYPD celebrities.”
“I just do my job.”
Here was a skillful deflector, thought Hodges, a woman who would make an interesting and challenging patient. Yesterday Hodges had been too unnerved by the detective’s surprise visit to observe her closely, but now she scrutinized her face. She was not beautiful in the “classic” sense—not like Baiba with her long blond hair, large eyes, and voluptuous lips—but her coal black hair, ice-blue eyes, and cerebral intensity made her compelling. Hodges leaned forward. “You’ve been through a lot, Detective. It must be difficult for you, coming back after the terrible health scare you’ve been through.”
Was it irritation or suspicion that caused Codella to frown for an instant? The detective was sensitive about her illness, Hodges observed as she sipped coffee from her clear glass mug. “I trained as a clinical psychologist,” she explained, “and I’ve worked with a number of patients who went through cancer treatment. I know how debilitating it is, and I know how hard it is to come back. I admire your stamina.”
“I’m fine now,” was all Codella said in return. “Why did you ask to see me, Ms. Hodges?”
Hodges folded her hands on her desk. “I want to discuss a staff member I think you should look into.”
“That wasn’t necessary. We’re looking into all your staff members.”
“I realize that,” said Hodges. “But your background checks won’t turn up any criminal records. We have a very rigorous employee review process at Park Manor.” She reached for her coffee again and watched her hand ascend to her lips. There was no tremble, she assured herself. “We use a private investigative firm staffed by former NYPD detectives like yourself. They run criminal checks on all prospective staff members. They fingerprint. They speak directly to friends and neighbors of applicants. We also administer a personality test to future employees.”
“Even caregivers?”
Hodges smiled. “I like to know who I’m working with. And we update our background checks on a yearly basis—no exceptions.”
“That’s impressive,” Codella acknowledged.
“But we’ve had someone on our staff for the last few years who failed to meet some of our employment criteria. Please bear with me while I give you a little history on this. About two and a half years ago, Park Manor denied employment to a male caregiver. He happened to be a gay man. And let me say right up front that I personally have nothing against gay people. I have many gay friends and acquaintances. It’s of no concern to me. But this young man was—well, let’s just say that his effeminate gestures were quite pronounced.”
“And you felt he wouldn’t go over so well with the Park Manor clientele?”
“I knew he wouldn’t go over well here, but that’s not why we denied him employment,” said Hodges. “He’d been treated for depression, and we don’t hire people with known emotional instability. Remember, these caregivers are making life and death decisions for people who can’t make those decisions for themselves. We serve a wealthy and litigious clientele. We have to protect them and ourselves.” Hodges paused.
Codella nodded. “Long story short?”
Hodges opened the file she had pulled for this meeting. “Long story short. He filed a complaint with the Civil Rights Bureau of the New York State Attorney General’s Office. He claimed Park Manor had violated his protections under New York State’s Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act, SONDA.”
“I see,” said Codella. “And what happened?”
“We settled out of court and paid a hefty fine. Since then, we’ve made a few hiring decisions that I would prefer not to have made. And one of them happens to have been Lucy Merchant’s primary caregiver, Brandon Johnson.”
“The caregiver who held her last medicine cup to her lips.”
“That’s right.”
“He is also gay?”
“No. He’s a transgender man.”
Codella sipped her tea. “And that disqualified him for employment?”
“No. What disqualified him was the fact that he was under a psychologist’s treatment.”
Codella shrugged. “But you were a psychotherapist. You know that half the people in Manhattan have seen a therapist. If we disqualified them all from jobs on the basis of that, we’d have a severe workforce shortage on this island, Ms. Hodges.”
“Please, call me Constance. And I agree with you, Detective. All of us have moments when we need to tell our story to someone, don’t we?” She gave Codella a penetrating look that said, Yes, I know about your past. I put my investigative team to work on you. Although Codella did not move a muscle, Hodges could feel her register the unspoken message. “But I think this young man has serious issues,” she continued. “They wouldn’t have concerned me if I were running a restaurant and he were my waiter. But as I said previously, he makes daily life and death decisions for our residents. And I hired him against my better judgment because I felt pressured to do so by the Foster Health Enterprises counsel. You see, Brandon applied for his position right after the case I just mentioned, and although transgender individuals are not explicitly protected under SONDA, he could have argued that we turned him down because of his perceived sexual orientation. Our legal counsel strongly encouraged me not to decline him employment given his credentials.”
“What credentials did he have?”
“He was a certified nurse’s aide in New York State, and he’d worked as an emergency medical technician in the state of Michigan.”
“In other words, he looked impeccable on paper.”
“That’s right.”
“What serious issues did you think he had?” asked Codella.
“Gender dysphoria. Clinical depression. And after observing him for the past two years, I would also characterize him as someone suffering the long-term effects of emotional abandonment.”
“How so?”
“He shows a desperate need to feel connected to someone.
And whom does he choose to connect with? A woman who can’t even remember his name. He treated Lucy Merchant like the mother he wished he’d had. He was more doting than her real daughter was, and he wanted her all to himself. He wouldn’t let anyone else near her. He boasted about how she smiled when he came into her room. He bragged about all the things only he could coax her to do.” Hodges sipped her coffee again before summing up. “He met Lucy’s physical needs, Detective, but Lucy sustained him emotionally. He had a fantasy relationship with her. He used her to fill the huge gulf in his life.”
“Then why would he kill her?”
Hodges felt herself in complete command of the interview now. “I can think of at least two reasons, Detective. For one thing, he might have sensed her slipping away from him. Recently Mrs. Merchant’s memory has been deteriorating rapidly, and perhaps he couldn’t stand the prospect of another parental abandonment. Julia Merchant told me a gold charm was missing from her mother’s room the morning she died. The charm was a dancer—like Lucy Merchant—and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Brandon Johnson took that charm as a symbol of her to hold onto.”
Codella was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You mentioned there were two possible reasons?”
Hodges nodded. “The other very real possibility is that he conflated Lucy Merchant with the bad mother from his past. He might have lashed out at her the way he wanted to punish the biological mother who emotionally abandoned him.”
Hodges paused while Codella typed notes into her iPhone. Then the detective looked up at her. “Have you ever seen his temper flare? Has he ever acted violently here?”
“No,” Hodges acknowledged. “But I’ve seen evidence that he has violent impulses. On Monday morning, I brought him into my office along with two other caregivers who worked the shift when Lucy—Mrs. Merchant—died. I was debriefing them, and he got very defensive. At the time, of course, I didn’t realize that the death might be suspicious. In the course of the conversation, I found out he had violated Mrs. Merchant’s care plan. He gave her ice cream before he got her ready for bed. Mrs. Merchant is on a strict no-sugar diet. I was not happy with him, and he gave me a look that let me know he felt nothing but contempt and rage.”
