Dead Ringer

by Annelise Ryan

  Despite this inevitability, death often has no place in a modern-day hospital. It is hidden, spoken of in whispers, and never dwelled upon. To the people who work in hospitals, death is seen as failure. In many cases, it is a failure, but not always. Sometimes death is the normal and peaceful end to a life well lived, or much-needed relief at the end of a long, exhausting battle to beat a disease. Over the last few decades, the hospice movement has helped alleviate some of the shame and embarrassment of death. Hospitals, though, still use special carts to move dead bodies—carts that hide their cargo beneath what appears to be an empty stretcher with a well-draped sheet covering the hidden compartment beneath.

  The fact that most hospital morgues and, if they have them, autopsy rooms are in the basement adds to the spookiness sometimes associated with death. Hospital basements are creepy places to be without the presence of dead bodies. Dark, windowless hallways, overhead pipes, clanking machinery, and an almost-unearthly silence compared to the bustle of the upper floors make hospital basements an uncomfortable place to be at times. Add some dead bodies to this mix and you have a relatively high fear factor.

  The basement where Dr. Larson works is no exception. Access requires a badge, as if going down to the spooky level is a privilege, and the hallways, while brightly lit, possess shadowy corners of darkness caused by the lack of outside light. Todd leads us down labyrinthine hallways, and despite my efforts not to feel spooked, I map out the turns in my head, just in case I need a quick escape. I’m wondering how deeply buried the morgue area is when Todd turns a corner and stops so suddenly that I nearly run over Izzy, who is in front of me, but behind Todd.

  “Dr. Larson,” Todd says. “Just the person I’m looking for.”

  The person we have almost literally run into is a man who looks to be in his forties, with deep-set eyes that are a warm, dark brown color and a boyish mop of hair cut in a style reminiscent of the early Beatles. He is wearing khakis and an untucked short-sleeved green shirt with a straight hem. He is shorter than I am, but not by much. He flashes us a tentative smile and raises his eyebrows at Todd in question.

  “These are the folks from Sorenson they told us about this morning,” Todd says. “And you need to hear what they have to say. They have a murder case in Sorenson that matches the MO of the Ulrich victims”—he pauses and leans in for dramatic effect, adding sotto voce—“and that includes the presence of yellow carnation petals in one of the wounds.”

  Dr. Noah Larson somehow manages to make his eyebrows go even higher. He shoots a questioning look at me and I nod. Then he looks at Izzy. “You’re Dr. Rybarceski,” he says in a soft-spoken, almost-reverent voice.

  “I am,” Izzy says, stepping forward and offering a hand. Dr. Larson shakes it and Izzy adds, “Please call me Izzy.”

  “And I’m Noah,” he says. He shifts his gaze to me and releases Izzy’s hand. “And you are?”

  Before I can answer, Todd does it for me. “This is Mattie Winston. She’s a medicolegal death investigator who works for Dr. Rybarceski.”

  Noah extends his hand to me and I give it a shake. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “I met Mattie at the forensic conference in Milwaukee,” Todd says. “It was that one last fall. We got to talking in the bar late one night and swapping war stories, and I told her about the Ulrich case, particularly the flower petals. In strictest confidence, of course.”

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “I didn’t repeat the information to anyone, but when our victim turned up, I vaguely remembered Todd mentioning something similar. That’s how we got onto this case and ended up here.”

  Noah Larson gives Todd a look I can’t quite interpret. The closest I can come is to say that it resembled the look my mother used to give me whenever I acted out in public. It was a wait–until–I–get–you–home warning look. That look made me think that Dr. Larson wasn’t too happy with the fact that Todd had shared the information.

  Dr. Larson dismisses Todd and shifts his attention back to Izzy. “You may not know this, but you are my hero,” he says with a smile. “Your situation in Sorenson is what prompted me to submit the proposal for the forensic pathology program here. The fact that you were able to set up as a forensic pathology–certified medical examiner in your town was an inspiration to me.”

  “Nothing heroic about it,” Izzy says. But there is a hint of pride behind his smile, nonetheless. “It was more a happenstance of opportunity and acquaintance. I happened to be friends with the governor who was in place ten years ago, and when I told them I was willing to set up shop in Sorenson and provide forensic pathology services for our county, he jumped on it. There was a shortage of forensic pathologists in Madison at the time, and they were terribly overworked, so any opportunity to ease some of their burden was fine with him. We set it up on a trial basis for the first couple of years, but it’s worked out well enough that we are a permanent part of the budget now. No governor since has suggested a change, probably because we do a good job, and because we sometimes cover neighboring counties that still operate under a coroner system, like you do. People are finally starting to realize how antiquated and outdated that system is. I think people thought a system of forensic pathology–trained medical examiners would be more expensive, but we’ve proven to be quite cost-effective. It costs a lot of money to ship all those bodies out of town.”

  “Ah, yes,” Dr. Larson says, rolling his eyes. “The almighty budget. I thought board certification was what I needed to become official, but I’ve since learned that getting to be a line item in the budget is a much stronger position.”

  The two men share a chuckle over that comment, and then Dr. Larson says, “I assume you’re here to look through our files on the Ulrich victims’ autopsies?”

  Izzy nods.

  “You’re welcome to look at anything you want, and we’ll be happy to make you copies of documents you need as well,” Dr. Larson says. “But before we get buried in paper, can I give you a quick tour?”

  “I would love one,” Izzy answers.

  Dr. Larson turns and takes off with Izzy on his heels. I’m not sure if I’m invited along on this little mutual admiration society tour, but when I look at Todd, he gives a sideways nod of his head and says, “Come on.”

  Dr. Larson takes us to his autopsy room first, and it’s a surprising exception to the dim, shadowy light of the rest of the basement area. The surfaces gleam with silver stainless and white enamel brightness lit by two rows of fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling. There are procedure lamps overhead, too, a high-wattage bulb inside a reflective shade attached to the end of a movable arm so one can aim the light in dozens of different directions. The room is small and has only one autopsy table, which looks to be identical to ours. Also, like our autopsy suite back home, there are two entrances, one meant for those who are still walking and the other for those who enter feet first on a stretcher. A microphone for use in dictating findings during the actual autopsy hangs down from the ceiling over the table.

  “Looking good,” Izzy says.

  It’s a kind and generous comment, given that our autopsy suite is at least twice the size of this one, and our town is only one-fourth the size of Eau Claire. Using his admitted connections to the governor at the time, Izzy had somehow managed to talk the guy into investing a lot of money to convert what was once an old municipal office building into a modern-day medical examiner’s office. I’m not sure exactly what Izzy’s connection to that particular governor was, but it certainly came with a lot of influence and perks.

  From the autopsy suite, Dr. Larson takes us to his office, one he shares with Todd. It’s a big room, and even though they share the space, I think the Eau Claire team has one-upped us on this one. My “office” is a desk located in our library, and my job-share cohort, Christopher, also has a desk in the library. It’s not very private, but Izzy’s office is the size of a closet, probably because that’s what it was at one time. There aren’t any other spaces for offices in our building. Whatever
funding Izzy got for the conversion of the building he poured into the autopsy suite and Arnie’s lab upstairs, not into office space.

  “We have a mix of old and new here,” Dr. Larson says, once we’re in the office. “We don’t have any X-ray machinery down here yet, though there are plans to build a room for it, so we have to take all our body films using the machinery and staff upstairs in the radiology department. It makes for some interesting sleight of hand.” He pauses and, with a sly smile, says, “Or perhaps ‘sleight of body’ would be the better term. But we make it work. We do have modern recording equipment installed, however, and we videotape all of our autopsies. I can show you the reports or you’re welcome to review the tapes, if you like.”

  “The tapes would be great,” Izzy says. “I’m sure your reports are thorough, but there’s nothing like visualizing the actual autopsy for comparison. Since I just did the post on our victim yesterday, it will be interesting to see how the victims and the results compare.”

  Dr. Larson invites Izzy to sit at his desk and then provides him with a pair of headphones. Then he shows him how to access the videos on the computer and leaves him there. He tells Todd he’ll be available on his cell if needed and steps out of the office.

  Izzy looks mesmerized and there is a gleam in his eye that tells me this sort of documentation will be the next tech advancement for our office. He’s in seventh heaven.

  I turn to Todd. “While Izzy’s watching the videos, I’d like to review the scene photos, autopsy photos, and evidence inventories for each of the cases. Can you help me with that?”

  “I can,” he says with a smile. “All that stuff gets scanned and uploaded to a secure server.” He steps behind his desk and pulls the chair out. “Have a seat.”

  “I don’t want to impose. Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” he says. “Besides, I think it will be helpful if we review this stuff together, so I can answer any questions you might have. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Before I can answer, the door to the office opens and a short, squatty fellow, with the physique of a fireplug, walks into the room. He looks to be in his fifties, and has red hair, bushy red eyebrows, and a red handlebar mustache. His blue eyes are bloodshot, and his bulbous nose is streaked with tiny superficial blood vessels, a sign of someone who has a close personal relationship with booze. He’s dressed in a standard Wisconsin uniform: blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and boots.

  “What the hell is going on, Todd?” he says in a gravelly voice that is much louder than it needs to be.

  I hear Todd curse under his breath as the man’s eyes zero in on me, since I’m positioned closest to the door.

  “Are you the one who’s trying to stir up trouble in the Ulrich case?” he says. His face looks like he just sucked on a lemon.

  Todd clears his throat and says, “Cory Llewellyn, meet Mattie Winston, a medicolegal death investigator from Sorenson, Wisconsin.”

  Cory Llewellyn gives me a rapid head-to-toe once-over, and apparently finds me lacking if the look of disgust on his face is any indication.

  “What’s the deal?” he asks in a challenging tone. “You urban yahoos think us dumb-assed country folk can’t do the job right? Is that it?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Todd speaks before I can. “Looks like we might have gotten this one wrong,” he says in a calm, soothing tone. It’s a wasted effort.

  “Aw, bullcrap,” Llewellyn scoffs, glaring at me. “I talked to Hamilton about it and it sounds like you got yourselves a copycat. If you think for one minute that Ulrich is innocent, then you are dumber than you look.”

  “Sir, you owe Mattie an apology,” Izzy says from behind me in a sterner tone than I’ve ever heard him use.

  Llewellyn gives him a startled look, and I realize he didn’t see Izzy sitting there, his short body hidden behind the computer screen on Larson’s desk. “Who the hell are you?” he snaps.

  “I’m Dr. Izthak Rybarceski, a board-certified forensic pathologist.”

  He puts emphasis on the “doctor,” and the fact that he has given Llewellyn his full formal name tells me he doesn’t like the man. When he likes someone, Izzy always tells that person to call him by his nickname.

  “Who the hell are you?” Izzy counters in an ironically polite tone.

  Apparently, he hadn’t taken off his headphones before Todd’s introduction, though I can’t be sure. Izzy might simply be trying to take the man down a peg.

  “I’m Cory Llewellyn, the coroner for this county these past twelve years.” He puffs his chest out and takes on a dismissive expression. “I know you medical types think your system of doing things is the best way, but we’ve done just fine in these parts without costing the taxpayers a lot of extra money.”

  Izzy smiles at him. It’s a forced, somewhat predatory smile I don’t see often on him. But I know what’s going to come next and I also know I’m going to enjoy watching it.

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” Izzy says, getting out of his seat and standing as tall as he can.

  It isn’t much, but there is something about Izzy when he’s in this mode that makes him seem much bigger than he is. I’ve seen him do it in court before.

  “You’re in charge of an antiquated, embarrassingly faulty system that, in fact, costs the taxpayers more money in the long run because of your need to ship bodies to Madison and Milwaukee. Your ‘just fine’ system compromises evidence, puts the public at risk, and wastes time and resources. The only benefit I can see to your ‘just fine’ system is that it helps you puff up your ego. What’s more, there’s a very good chance that your ‘just fine’ system has put an innocent man behind bars for life. And that means the real killer is still out there, putting the public in danger. If you doubt me on the cost issue, I’ll be happy to provide you with a detailed cost-benefit analysis of my system against yours. I think you’ll see that the cash flows and outcomes are a little more complex than they are in the bar business. Any other questions?”

  Llewellyn opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. His face is beet red and I swear I can see steam coming out of his ears. He wants to say something—that’s clear—but the words aren’t coming out. He is shifting from one foot to the other, his hands opening and closing into fists. Something about him seems very familiar, and a second later, I realize why: Cory Llewellyn is the spitting image of the cartoon character Yosemite Sam.

  After several seconds of Llewellyn’s stuttering posturing, Izzy says, “Now, as I said before, I think you owe Mattie here an apology.”

  Llewellyn stutters some more and finally says, “I don’t owe anybody an apology. You people don’t know what you’re talking about. You come waltzing in here like you’re some big authority on this death stuff, but I’m here to tell you that I know what I’m doing, and I intend to keep doing it.”

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” I say, putting on my best plastic smile, “I’m sure you are the ‘hootenest, tootenest, shootenest bobtailed wildcat in the West,’ when it comes to being a coroner.” I hear Izzy snort back a laugh behind me and know he gets the reference. He and I have watched Bugs Bunny cartoons together dozens of times—they were my favorite as a child and they are now my son’s favorite, too—and this is a quote from one of Yosemite Sam’s classic rants. “But things are going to change. You can change with them, or you can get left behind. That’s your choice. The days of an elected coroner running the show in this area is coming to an end. You don’t have to like it, but you’re going to have to face it.”

  Llewellyn stutters some more and turns even redder. I’d wager his blood pressure along about now is in the high-risk-of-stroke category. I glance at my watch to mark the time, so I can report the onset of symptoms to the ER staff if it happens. But in the next second, I realize that if it’s going to happen, it won’t be in front of me. Llewellyn spins around and storms out of the office, firing one last “You haven’t heard the last of me!” shot over his shoulder.

  “Wow,” Tod
d says, grinning. “You two are scary awesome.”

  I shrug and smile at him. Izzy simply sits back in the chair behind Larson’s desk and puts his headphones back on.

  “That Llewellyn guy is a real jerk,” Todd goes on. “When I go out on death calls, no easy task, since he somehow manages to keep me from being notified half the time, he does his best to keep me out of the loop. He lets Dr. Larson examine the bodies, but not much else, and whenever I try to do any scene investigation, he keeps telling me I don’t have the proper authority or training. Several of the cops are on his side, too. It’s one of those good-ole-boy networks around here at times.”

  “That has to be frustrating,” I say.

  “It is,” Todd agrees with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “I can argue the training aspect. I’ve gone through all the necessary training to become a medicolegal death investigator for the state and I worked in the ME’s office in Milwaukee for several years before coming here. But the question of authority remains unclear for now. The governor approved the program Dr. Larson is in, and the intent is to do away with the coroner system in this area, but it hasn’t been legislated yet, in part because Dr. Larson hasn’t finished his residency. That means I’m stuck in a kind of legal limbo for now.”

  “How involved were you in the Ulrich case?”

  “I was at every scene and assisted with each of the autopsies. Llewellyn was always at the scenes, too, so I took my own photos, did my own drawings, and kept rigorous notes about each setting, the surrounding area, the people present, and the processes that took place.”

  “Were you involved in any sampling at the scenes?”

  Todd gives me an ironic smile. “Only one of them. The victim that was found in the woods across from the cemetery.”

  I nod. “Linda Elwood.”