by Linda Mooney
Chapter 17
West Texas, the United States, 1962
Deputy Halliday turned around when he heard the car drive up. He watched as Sheriff Mandel got out of the vehicle, uncurling his long legs as he emerged from the driver’s side. Straightening, the sheriff removed his hat and tossed it on the seat. After adjusting his pants, the man started toward the small wood frame house.
Mandel gave Halliday a nod and ascended the short flight of steps to the porch. “I was over in Grofton when I heard you radio in. What’s up?”
“It looks like a murder suicide to me.” The deputy motioned for the sheriff to follow him into the house. They walked through the living room, past the kitchen, and into the rear bedroom where both bodies lay.
At first glance, it was evident that Deputy Halliday’s guess was correct. Two people, covered in blood, lay on the bed. What Mandel wasn’t prepared for was to discover that the weapon of choice was a large butcher knife. Even more shocking was the fact that it was the female who held the heavy blade.
“I’ve already called dispatch to send over the meat wagon. Coroner should be here any minute,” Halliday commented, answering the sheriff’s unspoken question.
Watching where he stepped, Mandel leaned over the bed to examine the woman’s body, which was partially slumped over the male’s, who’d been sitting propped up against the headboard. “Talk to me, Curtis. Who’m I looking at?”
“Victims are David and Denise Wesner.”
Mandel gave him a surly glance. “You sure about that?”
Halliday pointed in the direction of the living room. “Their names are on the mail. Pictures on the wall gave me a firm I.D.”
The sheriff nodded. “Go on.”
“We got a call into the office this morning a little after nine from Sassy Look Beauty Salon. Ava Hearn runs the place.”
“My wife goes there,” Mandel remarked. “What did Ava have to say?”
“She said Mrs. Wesner didn’t arrive for her eighty-thirty hair appointment. She said the woman never missed. Not even when the weather was less than friendly. She said in all the years she’d been doing the woman’s hair, she could count on one hand how many times the woman had been late arriving. But she always showed.”
“So you came over to do a welfare check?”
Halliday gave a nod. “Yeah, especially when Ava mentioned that Mr. Wesner had been real sick for the past couple of weeks.”
Mandel peered closer at the couple on the bed, then eyed the paraphernalia gathered on the nightstand. Picking up one of the prescription bottles, he read the label. “This is some pretty strong stuff. It was filled over at Brook’s Pharmacy just recently. Call Dr. Mitnard and let him know his patient is deceased. Ask him what he was treating Mr. Wesner for.”
Halliday exited the bedroom to use the telephone located in the living room. At the same time, Mandel heard another car pull up to the house, and went outside to greet the coroner. “Arnold.” He held out a hand to the grizzled man, who shook it.
“Sam. I’ll be honest with you. I was expecting this call a whole lot earlier.”
Mandel gave him a surprised look. “You knew Mrs. Wesner was going to kill her husband?”
The coroner froze, a shocked expression on his face. “What? No!”
Rather than debate the issue, Mandel led him into the house to see for himself. As he was leading the man into the bedroom area, Halliday waved at hand at him to get his attention. “Dr. Mitnard wants to speak with you.”
Mandel took the receiver. “This is Sheriff Mandel of the Oeste County Sheriff Department. You’re Dr. Mitnard?”
“Anson Mitnard. I’m a general practitioner here in Gobbell.”
“You were David Wesner’s physician?”
“Yes. For both him and his wife, Denise.”
Mandel pulled out the bottle he’d tucked into his breast pocket. “Deputy Halliday informed you that both Wesners are deceased, correct?”
The doctor sighed. “He mentioned that they may have been victims of foul play, but you wouldn’t know for certain until after the autopsies. What can I do to help?”
“I’m standing here looking at a bottle of prescription meds you wrote for David Wesner. This is potent stuff. What were you treating him for?”
“We’d discovered a tumor on his prostate.”
“A tumor? You mean cancer?”
“That was our diagnosis, yes.”
“What was his prognosis?”
“The cancer was aggressive and pretty advanced by the time it was discovered. I gave him six months to a year to live, but I seriously doubted he’d make it another couple of months.”
Mandel stared again at the bottle. “I take it he was in a lot of pain.”
“He was in constant pain, poor man. He’s been pretty much bedridden for the past three months.”
“What about his wife?”
“Oh, his illness took a huge toll on her, as well. She tried to remain upbeat, hoping that he’d be cured somehow, but they both knew he didn’t have long for this world.”
“Would you say Denise Wesner was depressed because of the constant care her husband was requiring?”
“Depressed? Sheriff, are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Have kids?”
“Yes. A boy and a girl.”
“If your wife or one of your children came down with a fatal, debilitating disease, and you were forced to watch them slowly die in agony, wouldn’t you be depressed?”
Mandel couldn’t disagree. He caught sight of his deputy signaling for him again. “Well, thank you for your input, Dr. Mitnard. I’ll have Dr. Sizemore mail you a copy of the autopsy reports when he’s done.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll be on the lookout for it.”
Hanging up the phone, Mandel strode into the bedroom where the coroner had laid out Mrs. Wesner next to her husband. “Well? What’s the preliminary cause of death?”
“It appears that Mrs. Wesner put her husband out of his misery, then took her own life.”
“So, a murder suicide.”
Sizemore cast his eyes up at the man. “It looks that way, yes.” But there was something in the man’s tone that made him pause.
“Is there more?”
Sizemore straightened, then pointed to the elderly couple. “I think there’s more to this than what can be seen on the surface.”
Mandel crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain.”
“I don’t believe this was a typical murder suicide.”
“You’re thinking it was a mercy killing.”
The coroner didn’t appear surprised by his remark, and nodded. “I’d heard David Wesner had cancer. I’m thinking she ended his life to end his suffering, then took her own because she couldn’t live without him.”
“I spoke with Mr. Wesner’s doctor. He told me the man had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, and was in a lot of pain.”
“Maybe she killed him because she couldn’t take having to watch him suffer anymore, then took her own life out of guilt,” Deputy Halliday suggested.
Sizemore gave a little shrug. “Maybe. We may never know for sure. He could have begged her to end his life. But what I can tell you is that, when she killed him, she did it in a way where he wouldn’t suffer at her hands.” He pointed to a spot on the man’s chest. “She slid that knife directly into his heart, as clean and precise as any surgeon, then did the same to herself. Call me crazy, but that tells me she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“As precise as any surgeon?” Mandel repeated. “Kind of hard to believe a seventy-year-old woman would have that kind of skill.”
“Maybe Mrs. Wesner had a secret talent we didn’t know anything about,” Sizemore speculated.
Through the open bedroom windows they heard the sound of another car pulling up. Halliday peeked outside. “There’s the meat wagon. I’ll show ‘em in.”
Mandel watched the man leave before continuing. “Then I’m going
to assume there was no foul play here. That this was, in your words, a mercy killing.”
“I can almost guarantee that’s going to be my final finding,” Sizemore confirmed.
“All right. I’ll take your cue and mark this case closed. Thank you much, Arnold.” He cast one last look at the couple, and he was struck by something. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a body, much less two, where both victims were smiling after their deaths.”
The coroner gave a little laugh. “You noticed that, too? It’s pretty rare to find, considering how the muscles normally relax before going into rigor.”
Mandel grunted. “Guess they were both happy to be ending it all.”
“Looks that way,” Sizemore agreed. The man grabbed his briefcase, and the two left the bedroom to allow the ambulance attendants inside, where they would bag, tag, and transport the bodies to the county morgue.
Chapter 18
Alabama, 2011
She became aware of being flat on the ground, face down, when she awoke. Bright light from the ball of fire in the sky told Gova it was daylight. Its heat was baking her back and the earth around her to where she knew she would be in danger if she didn’t find shelter.
Opening her eyes, she tried to get a sense of where she was. There was little to see. There were no buildings, and no other people. And the silence… Not even a bird or insect broke the absolute quiet.
She tried to rise, when hard, unrelenting pain streaked through her. Crying out, she paused to wait out the burning waves. This time, instead of going at it all at once, she tested small areas of her body. Her fingers and hands. Her feet and toes. Her head and neck, she could move. But when she tried to lift her right leg, another sword of agony sliced through her.
Rather than attempt to sit up again, she used an arm to roll herself onto her back. It was then she noticed the pool of blood underneath her. Blood that seeped from a wound around her abdomen. Unable to bend over to examine it, she tentatively probed it with her fingers, and discovered a large portion of something jammed at an angle into her. Gritting her teeth, she grasped the object and slowly drew it out. The pain nearly made her black out. Gova screamed and gasped for breath. After a while, she held the object up to where she could see it. It appeared to be the handle off of some implement. A handle that had been broken in two, its ragged, pointed end impaling her.
Tossing it to the side, she tried again to rise. Although it was difficult, the knife-like agony no longer stabbed her. Instead, it had been replaced by a dull, pervasive throbbing.
She knew she was dying. She suspected she was bleeding inside, more than what could be seen on the outside. It was imperative she find Muam before she succumbed, or else…
Moaning, she slowly managed to get to her feet. Blood trickled down her thighs, but she could walk.
She had to take in the total devastation around her. Something had occurred here. Something that completely destroyed everything far as she could see. Unrecognizable debris littered the landscape. Piles of what appeared to be collapsed houses lay scattered here and there. Even the trees hadn’t escaped the gods’ wrath. Stripped of their leaves and most of their branches, what few remained standing were no more than bare wood skeletons. Gova saw something yellow flutter in the faint breeze near a top limb. A shirt. Someone’s shirt waved like a pennant.
She took a step, and more blood gushed from the wound. She clutched it with one hand and forced herself to start walking. Where, she had no idea. In all her past lives, she’d learned to trust the person whose body she inhabited to find her way.
She could tell she was on some sort of road. Here and there, some of those strange, horseless wagons lay tossed about like children’s toys. Some were on their roofs, or left on their sides. A few had been crushed by fallen debris. But nowhere could she see any people. No people, no animals, no other signs of life.
Where was Muam?
She grimaced as tears rolled onto her cheek. Wiping them away with the back of her free hand, she noticed the smear of blood and dirt that covered her knuckles. It was impossible to tell how unrecognizable she might be. If Muam saw her, would he still know it was her?
She halted in her steps and scanned the area again. What if he wasn’t able to find her in time? What if she died before…
Oh, Ancient Mother. I renew my faith in you. In my belief in you. You have sent me on this journey, and in all my past lives you have not failed me. Help me to stay strong until my beloved arrives, so that we can depart this life together. Give me the strength, Ancient Mother. Sustain me.
Taking a deep breath, Gova pressed on.
She was forced to take slow, small steps. She didn’t have the strength to move any faster. Already, she could tell she was becoming light-headed from the loss of blood, yet the world around her remained desolate and eerily silent.
A cry.
Stopping, Gova strained her ears to listen.
Faintly, just ahead, it came again.
She pressed forward. It sounded like a distressed animal. Or a child. A baby.
Fighting her growing dizziness, she searched for the source of the sobbing, which steadily became louder. It led her to the other side of the road where a pile of fallen limbs and other rubble was located. The sound was more discernable here.
Grabbing some of the wreckage, she fought to push it aside. Underneath, lying amid a heap of clothing and other things, an infant stared back at her. The baby was covered in mud, its clothing almost shredded from its tiny body. Seeing her, its tiny face wrinkled and its toothless mouth opened to let out another plaintive cry.
“Oh, you poor thing! Where is your mother?” Gova reached down and picked up the baby that couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, and tucked the infant under her chin. Bouncing it gently, she tried to soothe the child. She had no way of knowing who the child belonged to, but she knew she couldn’t leave the baby there in the hope that its parent might find it. The baby was hungry. It also needed to be changed. More importantly, it needed to be examined for any injuries. She could search it for wounds, but for what purpose? Even if the child needed help, she couldn’t give it. All she had to offer was comfort, and pray the both of them would eventually be rescued.
The baby settled in her embrace, curling up against her as it continued to whimper. Holding the infant took both hands, meaning she was no longer able to stop the steady trickle of blood running down her legs and soaking her clothes.
Returning to the road, she continued going in the direction she’d been moving, and concentrated on placing one foot forward at a time. Any little distance, no matter how slight, was an achievement. She also kept her head bowed over the tiny baby to keep the hot sun from burning its delicate skin any more than it already had.
Gova tried to swallow. Her throat was scorched and raw. She needed to find a source of water. Lifting her face, she tried to spot a nearby river or lake, anything that could suffice. If she could manage only a few sips, it would help sustain her a little while longer.
There was movement in the distance. Praying it wasn’t her imagination, Gova blinked and focused on where she’d seen it. A heartbeat later, it appeared again from behind another pile of ruins. It was one of those horseless wagons, weaving its way slowly down the road as it tried to avoid running over or into the scattered debris. When it turned in her direction, she waved an arm over her head. The wagon stopped, unable to come toward her because of the littered road, and a man emerged from it. She instantly recognized him, and waved again. “Muam! Muam, over here! I am over here!”
The man spoke into something clinging to his shirt as he approached her. She tried to signal to him a third time, but her legs unexpectedly gave out, and she fell hard onto road. The baby cried out, awakened by the sudden jolt. Cradling it, she murmured soft words to it to calm it.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
It wasn’t Muam. It was him, but he hadn’t yet awakened. There was no recognition in his golden eyes.
Gova
shook her head. “I am wounded and bleeding.”
“How about your baby?”
She adjusted her hold on the infant. “It is not my child. I found it along the roadside, amid the debris.”
“Is the baby all right?”
“I do not know. Please, can you help us?”
In answer, Muam stooped and gathered both her and the baby into his arms. Lifting them, he proceeded to carry them back to his wagon. He set her momentarily on her feet when they reached it in order to open the door, then helped her inside. Gova noticed him eyeing the blood covering her belly.
Going to the rear of the wagon, he lifted a door and pulled out a white box, bringing it around to her. He squatted beside her, opened the box, and grabbed several bags from it. Tearing them open, he gathered up a handful of white cloth, then motioned for her to lift up her shirt. Gova shifted the baby to her other arm and gingerly exposed her stomach. Muam winced and pressed the pieces of white cloth to it. Taking her free hand, he laid it on top of the covered wound. “Keep pressure on it.”
He tossed the white box into the rear of the wagon, shutting the door, and climbed into the other side where the wheel was. Picking up a smaller black box sitting beside the wheel, he glanced at her as he spoke into it. “Dispatch, this is Four Tango Charlie. Come in.”
“Four Tango Charlie, this is dispatch.”
“I am in route to County General with two survivors. One is a young woman, approximately twenty years of age, with a severe puncture or laceration to her abdomen. She’s bleeding profusely. The other is an infant, approximately two or three months old. No knowledge of the baby’s medical condition as yet.”
The front of the wagon talked back to him. “Affirmative, Four Tango Charlie. Will notify the hospital that you are in route. Any idea as to your ETA?”
“Negative. It’s slow going.”
“Affirmative. EMS is on its way. ETA two minutes. Stay safe, Carson.” The wagon stopped talking, and Muam replaced the little box he’d been speaking into and looked at her as the wagon growled like a caged animal.
