Vultures at Twilight

by Charles Atkins

  ‘What?’ Ada rose to her feet, spilling tea on her beautiful wool skirt and my Persian rug. ‘You said it was worth three hundred thousand! Where did two to three million come from?’ she waited for his reply.

  He stared at his hands and said nothing.

  Ada exploded. ‘I am so sick of the lot of you! The way you come traipsing through somebody’s home telling them that all of their possessions are worthless and then going out and selling them at a ridiculous markup. I was in retail for forty years and if I had conducted my business the way everyone around here seems to, I wouldn’t have lasted a year.’

  I’d never seen her like this; she was furious, her face red as she bore down on Tolliver. ‘What were you planning to do? Sell the painting and then tell me it went for a fraction of what you got? Don’t you think I would check? This whole thing makes me sick. Is it any wonder that someone is going around bumping you all off. I think that’s what it is, you cheated one person too many and now it’s payback!’

  ‘Ada . . . Mrs Strauss,’ Mattie said. ‘Let me handle this.’

  ‘I’m so angry.’ Ada stormed toward my kitchen. On the threshold she stopped, and glared back at Tolliver. ‘What gives you the right? You should be ashamed. I hope the insurance company does a thorough investigation and I will be all too happy to supply them with whatever information they need.’

  ‘Mrs Strauss—’ He tried to speak.

  She cut him off. ‘Save it, tell it to the detective.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mattie. ‘No one’s leaving till I get some answers.’

  ‘You wanted to use the phone,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The one in the bedroom is best. If no one listens in,’ I said, looking pointedly at Barbara.

  After she was out of the room, we all looked at Tolliver. He’d grown pale under Ada’s tirade.

  ‘I’m sorry about Philip,’ Chris said, giving him some breathing room.

  ‘Thanks. Look, about the painting . . .’ He was about to say more, but then stopped himself. ‘She’s right, you know,’ he said after a long silence. ‘We all do it, and it becomes so much a part of what we do, that you don’t question it, or think it’s wrong. I mean, most of the time people are just so grateful to get money for their things that they don’t really care.’

  ‘I imagine,’ I said, curious as to where this would go, ‘that a lot of times people don’t know what their things are worth.’

  ‘You have no idea. That’s how we make a living. Buy low and sell high. And every year there’s less merchandise and more and more dealers. And now everyone’s selling on eBay; it’s gotten much harder. And you have to believe me, that when I first saw the painting I really didn’t know how high he listed. It’s a museum piece.’

  ‘But you did look it up,’ I said, certain that he had.

  ‘Yes, I should have told her.’

  I settled back on the sofa, wondering what would happen next. Sounds of Ada assembling another round of tea emanated from the kitchen. I so wanted to go to her, to hold her and try to calm her. I winced as I heard the rough clang of my Fiesta ware. But something told me she needed time, and several cups of tea, maybe even a slug or two from one of the many unopened bottles of excellent single malt patients were forever giving to Bradley. I had a moment’s reverie wondering what it might be like to throw a few back with Ada; maybe some more kissing, maybe loosen my tongue to where I could actually tell her how I felt.

  My head swam, too much all at once. Barbara and Chris were conversing in hushed tones by the sliding glass doors that overlooked the woods behind my condo. I was convinced that I was the subject of conversation; a battle brewing between me and Barbara, and I suspected she was trying to recruit Chris. Tolliver sat across from me, occasionally looking up from his hands to give me a weary smile. Aaron sat on the step between the foyer and the living room. He, too, seemed subdued.

  After a while, Mattie reappeared in the bedroom doorway. ‘Lil, you were going to get me those records?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you could. Kevin is working on tracking the calls with the phone company.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can find them,’ I said.

  ‘What records is she talking about?’ Barbara asked, breaking off with Chris.

  ‘Some of your father’s old charts.’

  ‘What? Are you sure you should do that, Mother?’

  ‘Of course,’ I answered, ‘if they can help with the investigation.’

  ‘Don’t you need some sort of warrant for that?’ Barbara persisted.

  An imperceptible change came over Mattie as she confronted my daughter. ‘Your mother offered the records of her own free will. I intend to obtain them in a manner consistent with the law. What that entails is her signing a release form that states she gave me her permission to review the documents and, if need be, to remove them for the duration of the investigation and any subsequent trial.’

  ‘I’m not so sure you should do that, Mother. Shouldn’t you at least talk to a lawyer?’

  ‘Why would I do that? Lawyers just slow everything down. If I have something that can be useful to a homicide investigation, it’s my duty to help.’

  ‘I don’t think you should just let her walk in and rummage through Daddy’s medical records. Those are supposed to be confidential. I don’t think he would have allowed it.’

  ‘Dear, your father is dead. And right now I intend to go with Detective Perez and help her find what she’s looking for.’ My heart beat uncomfortably fast inside my chest.

  ‘I don’t think you should.’ Barbara’s nostrils flared.

  ‘I understand that, now would you mind getting out of our way?’

  I led Mattie back toward the bedroom.

  Barbara shot out, ‘I forbid you to do this.’

  ‘What?’ I turned to face her. ‘That’s it. I want you to get back in your car and get out of here.’

  ‘Would you two stop it!’ Chris stepped in. ‘I can’t stand it when you do this. We haven’t been together for an hour and look at what’s happened.’

  ‘It’s just like I told you,’ Barbara said, driving her case home. ‘She’s not in her right mind. She shouldn’t be making decisions like this. For God’s sake, she signed herself out of the hospital two days after having a heart attack.’

  ‘It was three,’ I corrected. ‘And it’s my life and my decisions. And I really want you to leave.’

  ‘No one’s leaving,’ the detective said. She turned to Barbara. ‘And your mother has full authority to do with her possessions, which include your father’s records, what she will. And as for you forbidding her to do so, it borders on coercion. I intend to conduct this investigation to the letter of the law and I assure you that under no circumstances will I jeopardize the confidentiality of any records that are not germane to the current case.’ She looked at me. ‘Mrs Campbell, are you willingly and of your own free will showing me the medical records of Wendy Conroy?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I answered. Barbara was apoplectic.

  ‘Do you understand,’ Mattie continued, ‘that these records may be used in a court of law and entered into evidence?’

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  ‘Fine.’ Mattie foraged through her valise for a blank form. Balancing the paper against her briefcase, she filled in spaces on the printed page and then handed it to me. ‘This is a permission to search,’ she explained. ‘At the top I’ve filled in the specifics about what I’m looking for and that you’re giving me permission to take it. Why don’t you take a couple minutes to read it over.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ I said, taking the pen from her hand. ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  Barbara fumed as I signed the double-sided document.

  ‘I need someone to witness,’ Mattie said, looking around the room.

  ‘I will,’ Ada stepped from the kitchen. She shot Barbara an angry look, took the pen and signed below my signature.

  I was shaking as I led Matti
e back into the bedroom and opened the double doors to my closet.

  Without asking permission, my daughters and Ada followed.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Mother?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Dear,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘I would appreciate it if you and your sister would go back in the other room.’

  ‘And she gets to stay?’ Barbara asked, looking at Ada.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘Now please get out of my bedroom.’

  I waited while Chris half pushed her older sister toward the living room. I heard Barbara mutter something about my mind and that I’d obviously lost it. It had an ominous, almost legal overtone.

  Mattie looked at me with the embarrassed expression people get when they find themselves in the middle of someone else’s family quarrel. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to stir things up.’

  ‘It was already stirred,’ I reassured her, while pulling back my winter clothes to reveal a wall of neatly stacked cardboard archival boxes. I started to pull at the top box.

  ‘Lil, stop,’ Mattie said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, finding it hard to think straight. ‘They’re all alphabetical, but unfortunately I didn’t think to label the outside of the boxes with the contents.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ She pried the first box free from its perch and slit the packing tape open with her penknife. ‘Looks like S through Z,’ she commented and reached for the next. The third box contained ‘A’ through ‘Danielson’. She found Wendy Conroy’s chart and pried out the two-inch-thick folder. ‘Big chart.’

  ‘She came often,’ I explained. ‘I think it was more for her mother, who was frantic. Not that I could blame her. Her only daughter was having a breakdown and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do.’

  Mattie fanned the chart.

  I looked on as pages of Bradley’s quickly scrawled notes passed before her eyes.

  ‘Ouch,’ she commented, trying to read one of the entries. ‘I hate to say it, but your husband had lousy handwriting.’

  ‘He was a doctor.’ Ada tried to lighten the mood. ‘They’re all that way. They do it intentionally so no one can read what they’ve written.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said, catching Ada’s smile. ‘It’s just he was always in such a hurry to get the note written. And he had all those strange abbreviations.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Mattie asked, pointing out a line with a caret over it.

  ‘That’s his down arrow,’ I explained. ‘It meant decreasing, so let’s see, the line reads . . . I need my glasses. Hold on.’ I retrieved them from the bedside table. ‘Let me look.’ I sat on the bed and smelled the forgotten scent of an old office chart. ‘OK.’ Mattie sat on my right and Ada on my left. ‘The note reads:

  ‘“August seventeenth, 1986. Vitals stable, afebrile. Fourteen-year-old patient brought by her mother, again exhibiting rapid alterations in mood. Mother reports patient has decreased sleep and appetite with ten-pound weight loss. At times she states her daughter is confused. In the office Wendy’s speech is rambling with an odd impressionistic quality.

  ‘“Patient is complaining of dry mouth and light-headedness from the antipsychotic medication. Mother states she thinks there may have been some improvement since increasing the dose, so I will hold at the present level. I again encouraged patient and her mother to follow-up with my referral to a psychiatrist.”’

  ‘It doesn’t say who the psychiatrist was?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘You want me to try another?’ I asked.

  ‘Please. Try going back a bit.’

  ‘OK, here’s one. “June twelfth, nineteen eighty-five. Vitals stable, afebrile. Thirteen-year-old patient appears calmer and less agitated. However, mother reports there have been extended periods where Wendy has isolated herself in her room, refusing to come down even for meals. Mother is concerned that her daughter may be using illicit drugs. In the office patient is fully alert and oriented. At times she appears to stare excessively, but there is no other evidence of frank psychosis.

  ‘“My continued impression is that in the absence of any notable physical impairment, patient is suffering from the early onset of some nervous disorder.

  ‘“At her mother’s request I will pursue urine and blood toxicology. However, I have begun to discuss with patient and her mother the usefulness of referral to a psychiatrist.” He doesn’t say who, though . . .’ I commented. ‘You want another?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mattie, looking on as I read. ‘Although, I’m beginning to get the hang of his writing.’

  ‘Forward or backwards?’ I offered.

  ‘Try that one,’ Ada said, pointing to a particularly lengthy entry.

  ‘All right, let’s see. “September first, 1987. Slightly tachycardic, afebrile. Fifteen-year-old patient agitated and disheveled. Mother reports she has been this way since first meeting with psychiatrist, P. Gruenwald. On observation client makes poor eye contact and rambles. Mother reports that Dr Gruenwald recommended weekly therapy. At present, both mother and daughter are unwilling to follow through with this recommendation. I will contact Dr Gruenwald, and am strongly encouraging Wendy and her mother to keep the next appointment. I have also discussed the usefulness of tranquilizing medications, and will pursue this further with patient’s psychiatrist.” Maybe that was it,’ I commented.

  ‘What?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘It was a long time ago, but I actually think I set up appointments for Wendy with the psychiatrist. Maybe that’s what the note in her poem is about. Not that it was Bradley who did . . . whatever she said was done, but that he was somehow involved in sending her to someone who . . .’ I heard desperation in my voice.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ the detective commented. ‘At least we have a name. If I need you to help me decipher the rest of these, would you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As Mattie struggled to restack the boxes in my closet, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Do you want me to get that?’ Ada asked.

  ‘No, I’m sure the girls will.’

  I heard a man’s footsteps and then Kevin Simpson knocked on the outer frame of the bedroom door. He was soaked. ‘OK to come in?’ he asked, half out of breath.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Mattie,’ he started, ‘Hank wanted me to find you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  He looked at Ada and me. ‘It’s OK with them here?’

  ‘They’re fine. What’s happened?’

  ‘The search team found another body,’ he blurted. ‘Actually . . . two.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Damn,’ Mattie muttered as she followed Hank down the treacherously slick and steep leaf-covered ravine. Behind them, a couple dozen men and women in yellow police parkas and mud-soaked boots took a break, drinking coffee from thermos flasks, their focus on Mattie and Hank. One trooper and handler with the canine team held an umbrella over the four-year-old bloodhound that lay against at his feet, contentedly chewing on a rawhide bone.

  ‘We left them the way we found them,’ Hank explained, hanging on to a sapling to keep from tumbling forward. ‘Give the Medical Examiner a chance to see them as we found ’em.’

  ‘Who discovered them?’ she asked, struggling to keep her footing on the slick ground of the steep incline.

  ‘A bloodhound named Daphne and her handler. I guess you were right about the whole thing.’

  ‘Wish I hadn’t been. So it is Jeffries and Rinaldo?’ she asked, stepping over a half-rotted log.

  ‘Can’t say for sure.’

  ‘Not more acid?’

  ‘Nope, just the swamp and lots of critters looking for food. I think the raccoons and maybe some coyotes had a go at them.’

  The smell of carrion rose from the gorge. It reminded Mattie of opening the lid on one of her garbage cans after it had sat inside her garage baking in the summer heat. At least in the open, the stench got dilut
ed with the earthy smells of the trees and the swamp. As they neared the bottom their shoes sank in the muck. Her feet made wet sucking noises as she followed Hank to what looked like a cement pipe that stuck straight up out of the ground.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘A bad idea,’ he answered. ‘A while back some fool got the notion of putting drainage pipes in a lot of the wetlands. We forever have to cover them up. Kids love to play in them and then they get stuck. I’m surprised the killer didn’t dump the bodies into one of them – would have kept them hidden longer.’

  ‘That’s not what he wants.’

  ‘True.’

  The smell of rotting meat grew, but aside from the muddy trackings of the cops she couldn’t see where the stench originated. Then, not ten feet in front of her, Hank stopped.

  ‘Here’s number one,’ he said, standing in front of the gristly remains of a man.

  It was like one of those children’s puzzles, where objects are hidden. The body melded into mud and fallen leaves, and where woodland creatures had torn the flesh, the wounds showed bits of slick bone, yellow fat and red muscle, now oxidized to a sickly gray. The body lay twisted on its side. She walked around it, careful to touch nothing, hating the damage that her hiking shoes did to the surrounding ground. She crouched in front of the body by the place the face should have been. With slow breaths, she tried to identify features from the pictures she’d seen of the two missing dealers. It was useless; but she could see what might have been a small dark entry wound in the middle of the forehead.

  ‘What do you think?’ Hank asked.

  ‘Maybe when we get them cleaned up and on the slab. Were there any good footprints?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. After the last two days of rain we’re lucky the bodies weren’t completely submerged.’

  At the top of the ravine she spotted Kevin, the Medical Examiner and two other detectives as they started their descent. Behind them the sky had grown dark and was filled with heavy gray clouds. A wind kicked up the branches overhead and she could tell that the storm, that had briefly abated, wasn’t over.