“I don’t know,” Izzy says. “It sounds like a lot of overwrought paranoia to me. I think we’ll be looking for something that isn’t there.”
“But what does it hurt to look?” Arnie argues.
I think Izzy senses that Arnie is too excited to let the matter go, so he tries changing the subject. “How did it go with Bernard’s wife? Did you get a sense that she might have wanted him dead?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll miss him. They were in the process of splitting up from what she told us. But Hurley doesn’t think she would have killed him and I’m inclined to agree with him. The woman is a bit of a whack job, but she doesn’t strike me as a killer.”
“If you’re right, that narrows it down to a few dozen patients and employees as suspects,” Izzy jokes. “It sounds like you’re going to have a busy weekend.”
“I don’t mind.” Truth is, I’m delighted. I’m hoping that staying busy will help keep my mind off the casino. “It will probably be a late night tonight and an early start tomorrow. Do you want me to check in with you tomorrow morning before I hook up with Hurley?”
“I wouldn’t mind an update,” Izzy says. “But it doesn’t have to be in the morning. If you hit on something big let me know, otherwise just check in with me at some point tomorrow. At this point, the main focus has to be on the investigation and narrowing down suspects, so the best use of your time will be to assist Hurley in the investigation.”
I wonder if he would still feel that way if he knew what Hurley and I had just done in the men’s room. I promise myself to be stronger, and to draw a line with Hurley. But first I have to figure out a way to keep him from ever touching me again, because that touch does evil things to me.
Izzy throws Arnie a bone. “Arnie, you can assist Mattie and Hurley if you want. Given the amount of work that’s involved with this case, and the fact that Jonas’s last allergy attack was so severe he’s still in the hospital, I imagine the police could use some help with the evidence collection, searches, and interviews.”
“Seriously?” Arnie says, his eyes big with excitement.
“Why not?” Izzy says. “If you want, I can start the tox screen for you and process our samples here. It’s been awhile, but I think I remember how to do it. That way you can spend some time in the field.”
“Thanks, Izzy.” Arnie looks over at me. “If it’s okay with you, Mattie.”
“Of course it is. I’m happy to have you.”
“Just keep track of your hours for comp time,” Izzy tells us.
Arnie and I mumble agreements even though we know the whole comp time thing is a joke. Our positions are salaried, based on an eight-to-five schedule with an hour taken out for lunch. We get paid for eight hours a day, forty hours a week, no matter how many hours we work. Because we have to put in call time and frequently end up working in the evenings, the middle of the night, or on the weekends, we are supposed to keep track of these off hours and then compensate for them by taking time off during our regular eight-hour day. The theory is that we never end up working more than those paid forty hours. The reality is we always seem to end up working way more than those forty hours and our schedules rarely resemble that eight-to-five ideal. Trying to make up comp time is a Sisyphean task. When I quit my job two months ago, I had almost a hundred hours of comp time banked, and I’d only been on the job for three months. I imagine Arnie and Izzy would both have thousands of comp time hours if it wasn’t for the fact that it resets to zero every year. It wouldn’t be too bad if we could cash that comp time in somehow, but it’s a use-it-or-lose-it proposition.
It’s easy to see how the time builds up. I started back at my job on Thursday so I’ve been at it for three days. I put in my eight hours on Thursday and Friday, and by the time the weekend is over, I will probably have twelve to sixteen more hours of time in. If I can find a way to use it during the week and work some short days, or even take a whole day off, it would help. But that rarely happens. There’s always something that needs to be done: autopsies, results follow-ups, investigations, research, studying, and paperwork . . . tons and tons of paperwork.
Still, a day off during the week would allow me to hit up the casino, assuming I wasn’t on call. Dr. Maggie pops into my head with a tsk-tsk, and I can see her writing addict on that damned notepad of hers. I mentally gag her and tie her down, a process that apparently puts a smile on my face.
“What’s so funny?” Izzy asks me.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just so happy to be back on the job.”
Chapter 13
The police station is only a block away from the ME’s office, so it doesn’t take me very long to walk there. I find Hurley seated in the station’s conference room, which does double duty as an interrogation room, albeit a cushier one than you’d expect to find in most police stations. In the room with him is Junior Feller, Bob Richmond, another detective named Larry Johnson, and three officers who are typically uniform cops but are currently in street clothes. I guess they were enticed with the promise of overtime and came in on their time off to help with the investigation.
As I enter the room, Hurley greets me with a smile. “Pull up a chair, Mattie. I just finished sharing the results of the autopsy and we’re planning what our next steps should be.”
Hurley’s phone rings and as he answers it I walk to the end of the table and pull out a chair. A tiny moan escapes me as I drop into it, triggered by my still screaming muscles.
Bob Richmond is seated next to me and he leans over to whisper in my ear. “A little sore?”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I whisper back. “I feel like I spent a day getting tossed around inside a cement mixer.”
“It was like that for me at first, too. But it gets easier over time if you keep at it.”
People always say that about exercise . . . that it gets easier with time . . . but I’ve not found this to be true. I can’t even begin to understand those exercise junkies who claim some endorphin high that leaves them in a state of panting, sweating ecstasy. First of all, you have to endure pain for the endorphins to kick in, so by my way of figuring I could just sit in a room and pinch myself for thirty minutes and get the same result. And I could do it while watching TV, or eating bonbons, or watching TV and eating bonbons. Second of all, I loathe exercise for the sake of exercise. It’s cruel, especially at a gym where the only machines I’ve ever mastered were always in the vending area.
Hurley ends his call and announces, “We have the search warrants. They’re faxing them as we speak so we’re good to go. Chase’s wife’s alibi clears her until ten or so, so we can’t eliminate her, but I don’t think she did it. We’ll need to search the house at some point, but I want to focus on the nursing home for now. I need a group to conduct the room searches, a group to interview the patients, and a group to interview the staff and board members. I plan on doing the latter and I’ll have Mattie with me, but if whoever is doing the room searches finds any medication of any kind, I want you to let Mattie have a look at it. Okay?”
Everyone at the table nods their understanding.
Hurley looks over at Larry Johnson. “Why don’t you take two of the uniforms and start working on the room searches.”
“Can do,” Larry says.
“Record any ancillary dialogue that takes place during the searches. Make sure you document everything and take as many pictures as you need to. Use your phones, or buy some disposable cameras and turn the receipts in for reimbursement. If you find anything that looks like medication in any of the patient rooms, bag it, tag it, and let Mattie take a look at it.”
Larry nods and addresses two of the uniformed cops at the table. “Connor and Fred, you two can come with me.”
Hurley shifts his attention to Richmond. “Bob, I want you and Junior to start conducting the patient interviews. Mattie and I will help you once we’re finished with the employees and board members. I don’t think they’ll take long.”
“Will do.”
“What about me?” asks Brenda Joiner, the only unassigned uniform cop in the room.
“I need you to start processing the crime scene for evidence. We’ll need to dust for fingerprints in the bathroom where the body was found, in the hallway outside the bathroom, both exits to the hallway, Bernard Chase’s office, and at a minimum the doors to the other offices in that wing. If any of them are unlocked, we’ll need to take a look around inside, too.”
“I thought Jonas was back on board to do that stuff,” Brenda says.
“He will be, but he’s still out on sick leave for now. So we’re going to have to do it.”
“There’s going to be fingerprints all over the place,” Brenda says.
“I expect to find prints from the board members and perhaps some other staff members back there, but I don’t imagine patients go back there often, so if we find any patient prints in the administration area, that will be telling. Of course, it means we will need to print all of the patients.”
Brenda groans.
“Izzy said we can use Arnie to help with evidence collection,” I tell her. “Izzy’s going to run the lab tests himself so Arnie’s free to assist you with this. I’ll help, too, when I can.”
“Junior and Richmond can help in a way, too,” Hurley says, then he turns to Richmond. “You and Junior get a ten set on each patient you guys talk to.”
Richmond nods.
“Does anyone have any questions?” Hurley asks. “Okay then, let’s get to it.”
As everyone gets up and heads out of the room, Hurley turns to me and says, “I should probably take Emily home before we head out. Do you think she’ll be okay at my place by herself?”
“She’s old enough, she seems like a pretty bright girl, and she has a good head on her shoulders. I think she’ll be fine. You can ask her just to make sure she’s comfortable with it, but I don’t see why it would be a problem.”
“I suppose I need to feed her, too,” Hurley says, scratching his head and glancing at his watch again. “Damn, this day has flown by. It’s almost dinnertime already.”
I realize just how complicated his life is likely to be with Kate gone. Having responsibility for another person, particularly a child, demands a whole new way of thinking. And it gives me an idea.
“Tell you what. I promised my sister I would stop by and talk to her sometime tonight. Why don’t you let me take care of Emily? I’ll go get her and take her with me to Desi’s house. I think she and Erika will get along well and she’ll be somewhere safe where she can get a hot cooked meal. When we’re done eating, I’ll drive her to your place and make sure she’s locked in tight before I leave. Then I’ll head over to the nursing home and join you. You can start your interviews and I’ll join you when I get there.”
“But we’re supposed to have someone from your office present. The whole oversight thing, remember?”
“Arnie’s going over there to help. He’s all excited about the possibility of a real conspiracy going on, so I’m sure he’ll be willing to do whatever you need him to. Trust me, he won’t mind.”
Hurley considers this for a moment and then says, “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I like Emily.”
“Yeah, she seems like a great kid.” He smiles, but turns serious again. “I don’t want her to think I’m trying to pawn her off.”
“She won’t. I’ll tell her it was my idea.”
Hurley runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m not used to having someone else to look out for. I’m used to being on my own, and with the crazy hours I’m sometimes forced to work, a kid is not a good fit in my life right now. I shouldn’t have let Kate leave.”
“It’ll work out, Hurley. Trust me. I need a ride back to my place so I can get my car, but after that you can leave Emily with me. I promise I’ll take care of her.”
“I’d love to take you back to your place,” Hurley says, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“I don’t think we have time for that. Besides, we agreed we weren’t going to do that again.”
“We did?”
“Yes, we did.”
Hurley sighs. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He’s true to his word, and fifteen minutes later, I have an eager Arnie en route to the Twilight Home, and I’ve called Desi and made arrangements for me and Emily to drop by for dinner, though all I tell Desi about Emily is that she’s the daughter of a friend and that I think she will hit it off with Erika. I feed Hoover and pat him on the head, pour food for and say hi to the cats, who barely acknowledge my existence, and then I’m in my hearse headed back to my office.
Emily is still in the library, but she’s no longer seated at the table. She is standing in front of a skeleton that hangs from a metal frame in the back corner of the library. In one of Emily’s hands is a clipboard with paper on it, in the other a pencil.
At first, I think she is writing something, but as I draw closer I see that she is drawing. A face is emerging on the paper and when I get a good look at it, I’m stunned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m completing this skull. I’m playing with some of that information from the book I was reading and using it to draw a face.”
What Emily doesn’t know is that the skeleton belongs to a woman named Bertha whose husband Herman was a doctor and coroner in the area up until about twenty years ago. They had a child who died of osteogenesis imperfecta, better known as brittle bone disease, and Herman dedicated most of his spare time to researching the disorder. When Bertha was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she donated her body to science so her husband could examine her bones in search of evidence that would indicate an inherited tendency toward the disease. Herman never found any, but he had Bertha’s skeleton wired together and kept it in his office because he said it made him feel close to her. Quite a few people thought it was macabre, but over time people got used to Bertha’s bones hanging around Herman’s office, even to the point of a standing joke that circulated around town. More than once while I was growing up, someone in a café or at the grocery store would give someone else a sly wink, or an elbow in the ribs, and say, “I hear Herman has a boner in his office, thanks to Bertha.”
When Izzy took over the office after Herman retired, Bertha stayed on. In the hallway outside Izzy’s office, where Emily has never been, is a picture of Bertha taken about five years before she died. The reason Emily’s drawing is stunning is because it bears a startling resemblance to that picture. It’s a much younger-looking Bertha, minus the jowls and the gray hair, but the basic facial characteristics are the same.
Emily is focused on what she’s doing and oblivious to my amazement, so I study her face as she draws. She is very focused, her blue eyes—Hurley’s eyes—moving from the skull to the picture, skull to picture, not looking away even when she speaks to me. There is no doubt that Emily takes after her father when it comes to her looks. Kate’s features are delicate and feminine whereas Emily’s features are a bit more there—a patrician nose, a chin that is full and slightly jutting, cheekbones that are high and sharp. It’s Hurley’s face, just a slightly softer, more feminine version.
“You’re staring at me,” she says.
“Sorry.” I look away, embarrassed. “It’s just that you look so much like your father.”
She turns to look at me finally and smiles. “It must have been hard for you having us show up like this.”
I nod and shrug. I can tell she is a smart kid, and I don’t want to bullshit her. “It definitely made for an awkward moment. I’m not sure there’s a good time for something like your arrival to happen, but in terms of my relationship with Hurley it came at a pretty bad time. Though as it turns out, it was probably for the best.”
“Are you sure you and Steve aren’t still serious?”
If doing it like rabbits every time we see each other is serious, then yes, I guess we are. But no one can know that. And it has to
stop.
“I’m sure,” I tell her.
“That’s too bad. You two seem to get along so well.”
You have no idea.
“He and my mom fight all the time. She says that’s the way it was when they first met, too. That’s why they split up.” There’s the tiniest hint of angst in her voice when she says this and I suspect she is angry with her mother for keeping her father from her all these years. There’s a lot she’s missed out on.
It’s a feeling I understand all too well. “My dad left my mom and me when I was only four years old. No warning, no explanation, no return. Just one day gone, never to be seen again.”
“That sucks.” She says this without looking at me, her focus back on her drawing.
“Yes, it kind of did. Sometimes it still does. I often wonder where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s even still alive.” Why he couldn’t love me enough to stick around. “Did you know you had a father out there somewhere?”
She shakes her head. “Mom told me he was dead, that he died in a car accident before I was born. She had a picture of him, and that’s the closest thing to a father I’ve had all these years. It wasn’t until we lost the house that she told me the truth.”
“Do you like him?”
She shrugs. “He’s okay. We’re both adjusting to this new relationship and Steve’s pretty good at giving me time and space to figure things out.”
“Is that what you call him all the time? Steve?”
She smiles, acknowledging her awareness that I’m flipping her own question back at her. “What else would I call him? I wouldn’t feel right calling him Dad. It’s still awkward. We don’t know each other very well and I don’t feel any strong emotion toward him. Basically, he’s nothing more than a sperm donor.”
“Yikes. That’s a bit harsh.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Does your mom still have feelings for him?”
“I don’t know,” Emily says, scrunching her face. “Sometimes I think she still has a thing for him. But other times I think she’s just caught up in memories, recalling whatever attraction brought the two of them together in the beginning. She always said he was the only man she ever loved.”
Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) Page 11
