Dead Ringer

by Annelise Ryan

  Todd looks impressed. “You’ve done your homework,” he says. “Anyway, she’d been there a while before she was found, so there was decomp. Llewellyn was all about letting me do the dirty work in that case.”

  “And who had control of the evidence, once it left the scene?”

  “The bodies come under the direction of Noah and the docs working with him, but everything else falls to Llewellyn or the cops,” he says. “Our hospital lab set up an area designated for running some crime scene samples, so I have access to a few things. The rest get sent to Madison. We have copies of the reports here and, of course, I have my own case notes.”

  “That’s what I’d like to see first,” I say, and he looks flattered.

  “Most of them are right there,” he says, pointing to a file folder icon on the computer screen. “There are a lot of them, so you might want to get comfortable.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Nearly three hours later, I’m exhausted from reading and sorting through the files, and I have printed off a small stack of pages.

  Todd’s help proves invaluable, as he not only provides timelines and explanations for some of the files and documents, but he serves as something of a Guy Friday for me. He primes Izzy and me with food and drink: cookies, coffee, and water.

  Izzy’s face lights up at the sight of the cookies. I smile as he takes two of them and mumbles something about sticking to his diet, only to steal a third and fourth cookie from the plate ten minutes later. He doesn’t get to cheat often, so I don’t begrudge him this one. Dom has done a phenomenal job of watching Izzy’s diet since the heart attack, at times to Izzy’s dismay. Mine, too, since I used to share meals with them often.

  Izzy has finished watching the autopsy videos, and Todd and I are going through the last folder, which somewhat ironically contains information on the first of the murders, when Hurley calls me.

  “Hi, Hurley, how are things going on your end?”

  “Not well.”

  I hear traffic noises in the background. “Are you in your truck?”

  “I am. I’m headed for you and the hospital. I hope the folks on your end have been more helpful than mine were. Some people aren’t taking too well to the idea that they might have convicted and imprisoned an innocent man.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, smiling at Todd. “You met Mr. Llewellyn.”

  “What a gasbag he is,” Hurley mutters.

  “I’d have to agree with you there, and apparently he’s been something of an obstacle for Dr. Larson and his team, too. But as it turns out, Todd and Dr. Larson have been very helpful. Todd even fed and watered us.”

  “And the poison should take effect any moment now,” Todd says in a mock-wicked voice, wagging his fingers in a menacing manner and winking. Izzy shoots him a stern look, but the corners of his mouth are crinkling. Morgue humor.

  “Are you about done?” Hurley asks.

  “We are. Your timing is perfect.”

  “Well, at least something is going right,” Hurley says. “Can you meet me by the front entrance?”

  “Sure. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be there.”

  I disconnect the call and relay the information to Izzy and Todd.

  “I need to use a bathroom,” Izzy says. “Is there one close by?”

  “Sure,” Todd says, “go down this hall and turn right. Halfway down on your right is a bathroom.”

  “Got it,” Izzy says, and off he goes.

  I turn to Todd with a smile. “Listen, there’s something I need to say to you before Izzy comes back.”

  His eyebrows arch suggestively. “Have you had a change of heart?” he says teasingly.

  “A ‘change of heart’?”

  “You’re regretting the fact that you turned me down when we were at the conference, aren’t you?” There is a comical tone to his voice that makes it hard to tell if he’s being serious or not.

  “Turned you down?” I say, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I invited you back to my room that night in the bar?” he says.

  I gape at him, clueless.

  “At the forensic conference?” he adds, prompting my memory.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember that,” I tell him. “Though I have to admit, my memory of that night is a bit hazy. I overindulged on the alcohol.”

  Todd chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. I was only inviting you up for a cup of coffee anyway, nothing nefarious. Just thought I’d tease you a little, since you said you wanted to talk to me before Izzy came back.”

  I stare at him, horrified that I was even more drunk than I remember that night at the conference. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for breaking your confidence from that night at the conference, after what you told me in the bar about the Ulrich case. I never mentioned or shared it with anyone else until now, and likely never would have shared it if it hadn’t been for our murder victim turning up with the same exact MO.” I give him an apologetic smile.

  “It’s okay,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Dr. Larson’s great to work with, and I don’t think he’ll be too upset. It’s not like the information ended up all over the Internet or something like that. I sensed that you were someone I could trust, and since you didn’t tell anyone else about it until your case turned up, it proves I was right.”

  “You’re not mad at me, then?”

  “Heck no, though I am upset to think we might have convicted an innocent man.” His expression turns uncomfortably troubled.

  “Believe me, I know how you feel. I testified against a man recently and my testimony helped convict him. Then I found out later that he was innocent. Though in my own defense, the evidence was rather damning. I mean, he had the dead woman’s head in his refrigerator.”

  Todd laughs. “I think anyone would make assumptions based on that evidence.” He lifts the stack of papers that I intended to take with me and puts them in an empty box. Izzy appears a moment later, and Todd picks up the box and leads us back to the elevator and up to the first floor.

  When we reach the main lobby, I see Hurley parked and idling just past the front door. Izzy and I thank Todd for his help and head outside, where I discover I have missed a gorgeously beautiful and warm spring day while trapped in the dusty, dingy basement of the hospital. I stash my box of papers on the floor of the backseat on the passenger side, and then close my eyes and briefly turn my face to the sun, letting its warmth wash over me before I climb into the truck.

  Todd waves good-bye and I waggle a few fingers in his direction in return. As soon as Izzy is in the truck, Hurley takes off, gunning the gas a little harder than is necessary.

  Once we’re on the road again, Hurley says, “Did you guys find any smoking guns that you know of?”

  “Nothing obvious on my end,” I say. “But there are several things I didn’t look at thoroughly. I want to go over it all again.”

  “There wasn’t anything with the autopsies that jumped out at me,” Izzy says. “How did things go on your end?”

  “Not much of any use other than the fact that the locals aren’t taking too well to the idea that they might have convicted the wrong man.”

  “It is an election year for them,” Izzy says pointedly.

  “They’d see a killer go free and an innocent man go to prison rather than lose an election?” I say, appalled. “Where is their sense of justice?”

  “Hiding behind their ambition and egos,” Hurley mutters.

  “Well, we got what we came for,” Izzy says from the backseat. “Although, I’m not sure what good it will do. Based on what I’ve heard and seen, I fully understand why Ulrich was convicted.”

  Hurley sighs. “I’m with you there. What little I was able to review in the police files and evidence was damning, no doubt about it.”

  “So, where does that leave us with our case?” I ask. My question is met with silence and I wonder if the men thought it was rhetorical. To clarify, I try a different approach. “We can’t prove Ulrich is innoce
nt unless we can prove someone else is guilty,” I say. “How can we do that?”

  Hurley says, “We work our case, look at the evidence, and try to figure out who killed our victim. Maybe it is a copycat killing. Yes, the evidence regarding those flower petals wasn’t known publicly, but like Hamilton said, it wasn’t a state secret, either. Enough people knew about them that it might have gotten out. If so, we need to prove that. If not, we need to disprove it.”

  “This doesn’t feel like a copycat,” I say. “Why do it in a completely different jurisdiction and risk having it go unnoticed? Don’t most copycats want attention?” I shake my head and sigh. “It feels wrong to me.”

  This time my questions are rhetorical, because the three of us are well acquainted with this kind of stuff and I know we don’t have answers to any of it yet. Our discussion dies off; we are lost in our thoughts on the subject, lulled by the hum of tires on pavement and the warmth of the late-afternoon sun. The whole copycat theory doesn’t sit well with me, but I’m not an expert on these types of things. Fortunately, I know someone who is, someone I need to have a chat with on other, more personal matters.

  * * *

  Once we are back in Sorenson, we drop off Izzy at his house and pick up Matthew. Dom is preparing dinner and the smells of garlic, tomato, and yeast make my mouth water. I don’t ask what he’s making; I don’t want to know. It’s hard enough to decline based on the scents alone and I really want to get home, kick off my shoes, and relax.

  Hurley seems to sense my need for calm, because once we are home, he takes charge of Matthew and starts fixing dinner with him. Emily is in the living room watching the reality game show Survivor, and she smiles at me as I drop into one of the chairs—big and overstuffed—letting the soft comfort envelop me. I’ve watched Survivor before, though I haven’t kept up with the current season and have no vested interest in any of the players. I see the show is at the point where the losing team has been determined and the players on that team are all frantically conniving, gossiping, and plotting to throw someone under the bus at the tribal council.

  The basic structure of the show strikes me as genius, the interplay of physical strength, social skills, and simple wit making for an entertaining and addictive program. It is not unlike the way things go down in the business and corporate worlds, and other work environments where one’s ability to make friends, fly under the radar, and occasionally kiss ass can overcome an inability to do the job. I’ve seen it happen and have heard some of my friends bemoan their career paths—or the lack thereof—because they didn’t or couldn’t play the game properly.

  I think about the people involved in the Ulrich case: a district attorney and a coroner whose jobs depend on the voting community liking them, since they are elected into their positions. Their dislike of our probe into the Ulrich case and our suggestion that a mistake might’ve been made is because they don’t want to get voted out at the next tribal council. How far would they go to correct the mistake, assuming one was made? Would they sacrifice someone else’s life, doom a man to a lifetime in prison, simply to protect their own reputations and jobs?

  I don’t want to think so, but one thing my job in the medical examiner’s office has taught me is that humans are capable of amazing cruelty. If Mason Ulrich is innocent, I have a sinking feeling that any chance the man might have at freedom and exoneration lies with Hurley, Izzy, and me. How can we prove he didn’t do it? The only answer is to find the person who did.

  I push out of the chair and head for the front door, stepping outside. The warm evening air is redolent with the fragrant, earthy scents of early spring, which in Wisconsin is typically a hint of floral sweetness and fresh earth overrun with the stench of cow manure.

  My cell phone is in my pants pocket and I take it out and sort through my contacts until I find the one for Maggie Baldwin. Naggy Maggie, as I once called her, is my shrink. Not that I have regular appointments or need psychiatric care, though I’m sure there are days when my husband would beg to differ on that point. I first met Maggie when Izzy made me go to her as a condition of employment back when things between Hurley and me were crazy mixed-up, and my personal life was about as stable as one of Wile E. Coyote’s plans to catch the Road Runner. I balked at the idea, insulted by the implication that I needed such a thing, and worried that maybe I really was crazy. Plus, my opinion of shrinks wasn’t a good one. To me, they were all a bunch of pill-pushing charlatans who charged exorbitant amounts of money to sit and listen to people ramble. The pill-pushing thing turned out to be all too true in a couple of cases, because there were three psychiatrists in the surrounding area who were busted during a recent brushup involving some shady dealings by a Big Pharma company.

  Maggie survived that roundup, and once I got to know her, I realized she wasn’t the monster I thought she was. In fact, I like her. A lot. And I find that her advice—though she doesn’t advise me, she just sits, listens, and guides me to the answers that I’m struggling to get out of my own head—has made my life better. She also provided individual and family counseling to Emily, Hurley, and me back in the early days of Emily living with us. Emily was struggling to adapt to a whopping dose of life changes that hit her all at once. When I look back on that time now, I realize we were all struggling to adapt to those changes that disrupted all of our lives.

  I also call on Maggie for professional consults on occasion, which is what I’m interested in doing now. I want her take on the Ulrich murders and the person behind them. This is something I could do over the phone, but I want to make an appointment with her because I need some personal time with her as well. I’m struggling with this pregnancy news, and things in my life feel a bit catawampus right now, much like they were when I first went to Maggie.

  I dial her number, expecting to get her voice mail, because that’s what happens 90 percent of the time, but, to my surprise, she answers.

  “Maggie, it’s Mattie,” I say.

  “I know,” she says.

  Danged caller ID. “Right. Um, I was wondering if you might have an opening anytime soon. There’s a case I really want to bounce off you.”

  “We can do that over the phone, if you want. Though I suspect you know that. I take it you want to discuss more personal things, too?”

  “You know me too well,” I say with a nervous laugh.

  “As luck would have it, I had a patient cancel on me tomorrow. He was my first appointment of the day. It sounds like an hour won’t be enough time for both things, though, so I’m willing to come in early, if you want.”

  “I hate to put you out.”

  “Well, I’m leaving at the end of the day tomorrow for two weeks of vacation, so if you want me, you better grab me now while you can.”

  “Two weeks? I’m jealous. Where are you going?”

  “To Europe . . . Ireland, Great Britain, the Iberian Peninsula, France, and Germany. A whirlwind tour.”

  “Sounds nice.” It does, and I try to imagine what it will be like. Maggie has no kids, no husband, no ties of any sort. She can go and do what she wants. I envy that, to some degree, but I also know Maggie is lonely at times because of her lifestyle, so I’m not sure I’d want to trade places. Much as I’d love to be able to do a two-week tour of some European countries, I love the life I have, even with its limitations. “What time can we meet?”

  “Let’s shoot for seven, if that works for you. The appointment that was canceled was my eight o’clock, so that will give us nearly two hours. Will that do it?”

  “It should. Thanks, Maggie.”

  * * *

  I disconnect the call and then head for the garage. After plugging in the number code for the lock, I duck inside and go to Hurley’s truck. I get the file box from the backseat area and transfer it to my hearse, so I can take it into the office tomorrow. I consider bringing some of it inside and trying to look at it tonight, but I’m too tired. I know the break will do my brain some good. Besides, I need to have some family time.

 
; I go back into the house, entering through the connecting door to the garage, which puts me in the kitchen. I see that Hurley has dinner nearly ready, a thrown-together meal of spaghetti with hot dogs for Matthew—one of his favorite combos—and Italian sausage for the rest of us. Not exactly haute cuisine, and it’s our second night of Italian food, but that’s okay, because it’s my favorite food group.

  Our dinner conversation revolves around Emily’s day, which features her boyfriend, Johnny, a subject that always makes Hurley scowl, and the romantic lives of some of her close girlfriends. Emily is a great storyteller, and she recites her facts with all the drama and angst of a soap opera. Even Matthew is entranced by her tales, even though I’m sure he doesn’t understand half of what she’s talking about. At least I hope he doesn’t.

  While listening to Emily’s stories, I notice that she pushes her food around her plate a lot and doesn’t eat much. When I think back, I realize that she hasn’t been eating with her usual gusto lately.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I ask her at one point, looking pointedly at her plate.

  “I’m trying to drop a few pounds,” she says. “Summer is just around the corner.”

  “You don’t need to lose any weight,” I tell her. She doesn’t. Her build is average, not skinny and not fat. She might have a tiny roll around her middle, but she’s far from being in my condition. I have an entire tire factory going on. And it’s about to get a lot worse.

  “Just a couple of pounds,” she says. “I’ve got my eye on a new bathing suit, so I need to get my beach body. Right?”

  I smile at her. “I don’t think having a beach body means the same thing to me that it does to you, given my line of work.”

  “Oh, right,” she says with a snort.

  Hurley rolls his eyes at me, but I see the corner of his mouth creep up.

  “If you’re going to diet, be sensible about it,” I tell Emily, knowing from personal experience that adolescence and dieting seem to go hand in hand.

  “I will, I promise,” she says, and as if to prove her word, she scoops another bite from her plate and puts it in her mouth.