Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries)

by Ryan, Annelise

  Trisha makes a pointed look at the file cabinet and the open top drawer. “I doubt your warrant includes the confidential papers related to the facility.”

  Hurley hesitates with his comeback just long enough for me to know she’s right. But when he finally answers, it seems like a good one. “We have reason to believe there might be some irregularities in the admissions and discharges of some residents here, so I’m looking for files that will help us determine that.”

  “What sort of irregularities?” Trisha asks.

  “Cherry picking the admissions to create a favorable payor mix, for one. And there is reason to think someone might have been expediting the deaths of certain patients whose care became something of a financial burden.”

  Trisha arches her eyebrows at this. “That’s a very serious accusation, Detective.”

  “It’s not an accusation yet. It’s only supposition at this point.”

  “Then I fail to see what relevance it has to your murder investigation.”

  “The relevance is that most of the patients in this place seem convinced that such shenanigans have been going on. And as such, they all have motive.”

  “Shenanigans?” Trisha says with a little laugh. “What a quaint word.” She glances back at her trio of henchmen. “I do love these small-town folk, don’t you?” She turns back to Hurley with a tolerant smile like one might use on an idiot cousin who’s just said he thinks the earth is flat. “I believe any recent deaths that have occurred here are a matter of public record and as such you have no need to go through the facility’s private files to find that information. Beyond that, if there is any specific information you want regarding the admission policies and procedures, or how those policies were applied to specific patients, you need only ask me for the information and I will provide it. Beyond that, you have no business going through our records.”

  Hurley’s face muscles are twitching like the legs on my pithed frog in high school biology class. He’s pissed, and at the moment he is also apparently at a loss for words. I’m guessing that’s because the only ones he has in mind are not fit for polite company. Not that Trisha Collins would be considered polite in anyone’s book. Miss Manners she ain’t.

  Trisha takes advantage of Hurley’s stormy silence and says, “I believe you mentioned that you’ve already conducted the majority of the patient room searches and spoken with a number of the residents here. Have you come up with any suspects?”

  “As a matter of fact we have several suspects,” Hurley says, his jaw tight. “But at this point all we have on any of them is supposition, motive, and circumstantial evidence. I’m waiting on the results of certain tests from Mr. Chase’s autopsy, and in the meantime our investigation is ongoing. It’s quite possible that our suspect list will grow once we’ve had an opportunity to talk to your employees. In fact, I’m fairly certain it will.”

  I know this last comment is referring to the missing coffee. The likelihood that it was a patient who was able to sneak back here during the brief time that the administrative wing was unguarded is slight. But the fact that we have several suspects is news to me. Outside of the fact that the majority of the residents disliked Chase and believed he might have been bumping off troublesome patients, the only real suspect we’ve turned up so far is Frank Dudley.

  “May I ask how Mr. Chase was killed?” Trisha says.

  “You can ask anything you want but I’m not obligated to divulge the facts of my investigation to you,” Hurley says, finally scoring a hit.

  A long, awkward silence follows during which Trisha and Hurley stare one another down. The other three lawyers watch, intrigued, shifting in place nervously, waiting to see who’s going to win this war of wills.

  As entertaining as this battle of wits has been, I’m tired and my stomach is starting to feel a little queasy again. In the interest of moving things along, I decide to break things up. “Tick tock,” I say, rubbing my hands together eagerly. “Which employee should we talk to first?”

  Trisha breaks eye contact with Hurley, triggering a collective sigh in the room. That’s quickly followed by a series of sharp inhalations as Trisha shifts her flinty glare to me. “And who, might I ask, are you?” she says in a snippy, condescending tone.

  Despite the fact that she’s only about five feet two inches tall and probably weighs as much as my right leg, I can tell Trisha Collins is the type of woman who likes to throw her weight around. But when it comes to throwing weight around, I clearly have her outmatched. I decide to accept the challenge and step up right in front of her, forcing her to look up to me. My boobs are practically in her face.

  “My name is Mattie Winston, and I’m the medicolegal death investigator with the medical examiner’s office.” I unclip my newly reacquired badge from the waist of my pants and flash it in her face. “Sorry, I don’t have any business cards with me. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a really long day for all of us and we’d like to get on with things.”

  Trisha doesn’t say anything as I look down my nose at her.

  After several seconds, I realize that even though I may have rendered her temporarily speechless, she is not going to back down in front of her coworkers. In the interest of moving things along I turn away from her and say, “Hurley, what employee would you like to talk to first?”

  Hurley takes out the little notebook he always carries with him and flips it open. “Let’s start with the evening charge nurse and work our way down the pecking order. I believe that would be Regan Simmons. Do you think you can track her down and bring her to the dining room, Mattie?”

  “I sure can.”

  “Good.” He turns back to Trisha. “Once again, I am telling you and your posse to leave this wing and be careful not to touch anything on your way out. If I have to tell you again, I will arrest all of you on an obstruction of justice charge.”

  Trisha scoffs at that. “That rap would never stick.”

  “Perhaps not,” Hurley says, “but I’d still be able to lock you up long enough to get you out from under my feet. And you know how slow things can move in these cute little towns.”

  I swear I see sparks flying out of Trisha’s ears. After another brief face-off with Hurley, she spins around and corrals her team out of the room, down the hall, and into the main front hallway. Hurley and I follow and watch as Trisha and her honchos enter and stake out a table in the dining room and then form a huddle, speaking in low voices. For all I know they may be plotting our demise.

  I tell Hurley I’ll be back in a jiff and then I head for the main reception desk. I walk up to Anne and introduce myself.

  “I know who you are. We all know who you guys are,” Anne says with a frown.

  “I apologize for not signing in with you before, but the detective and I had signed in earlier. We had to leave in a hurry and we never signed out. Technically we were still on the books. I forgot about the young girl who came back with us. She wasn’t here earlier so I’ll sign her in now. Do you want me to sign my dog in, too?”

  Anne thinks about this a moment and then shakes her head. “Is that girl who came with you some kind of cop, too?” she asks, looking doubtful.

  I shake my head and smile to get her to relax. “No, she’s not. She’s Detective Hurley’s daughter. I’m not a cop, either. I’m with the medical examiner’s office. I just assist the cops with their investigation.”

  “Some investigation,” she says sourly. “It looks like everyone is a suspect.”

  “It does seem that way at first, but all we’re really doing is gathering information. We like to talk to everyone who has any remote connection to the victim even if there’s nothing obvious that would seem of interest. Sometimes we find answers in places where we least expect to. You’d be surprised at some of the little tidbits of information that come in handy.”

  “You mean like Mr. Chase’s girlfriend?”

  Whoa! “Mr. Chase had a girlfriend?”

  Anne bites her lip. “Crap. No one told you guys y
et?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “We’re only beginning to talk to the employees.”

  “Most of the residents know, too. It’s not like they were very good at hiding it.”

  “They who? Who was Mr. Chase seeing?”

  Anne bites her lip and shakes her head. She leans back in her seat, physically and mentally withdrawing from me. “I shouldn’t have said anything. We’re supposed to wait for the lawyers before we talk to any of you cops. I could lose my job.”

  “I told you, I’m not a cop. I’m an assistant investigator with the medical examiner’s office. I’m just here to help the cops out.” This isn’t the whole truth, but I’m counting on Anne not to know that.

  “So anything I say to you now won’t be part of my official statement?”

  “Not unless you say it again later when there’s a cop present. I promise that if you tell me who Bernard’s girlfriend is, it will stay between us.”

  Anne looks hesitant, but she leans forward and glances both ways along the hall. I’m guessing it’s to make sure no one else is within hearing distance.

  Finally she caves. “It’s Regan Simmons,” she whispers, “the evening charge nurse.”

  Chapter 18

  Since Regan Simmons is the person Hurley wanted me to bring to him, this bit of information segues well with my plans. “Do you know where Regan is right now?” I ask Anne.

  “She’s over in the D wing passing meds.”

  I thank her and turn to head that way, but she stops me. “Are you going to tell her I told you about her and Mr. Chase?” Anne looks genuinely frightened at the prospect.

  “I don’t see any reason to tell anyone who gave me the information. From what you’ve told me, other members of the staff and many of the residents know, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There will be plenty of likely culprits.”

  She nods, but she’s gnawing at her thumbnail and still looks frightened.

  “Trust me, you’ll be fine.” I reach over and give her arm a reassuring squeeze, then head for the D wing, leaving her there to fret about her future.

  It’s my first time in this part of the building and I can’t help but notice that the smell of stale urine that permeates the air seems to grow stronger as I get closer to the D wing. When I turn the corner into the D hallway, I see a woman I presume is Regan Simmons standing beside a medication cart at the far end of the wing. She’s wearing a white uniform, which I’m guessing pegs her as either an LPN or an RN. While a lot of places these days allow their professionals to wear various forms of scrubs, I know that Dorothy is old school when it comes to dress codes. It was one of the things she and Molinaro butted heads over back in the day, so it comes as no surprise to me that she makes her nurses wear white uniforms.

  The woman turns and watches me approach, sizing me up, her expression impassive. She is reasonably attractive with dark red hair pulled back into a twist, green eyes, and finely freckled skin. Her lips are full, her nose is pert, and her build is slender. I peg her to be around my age, somewhere in her thirties. As I get closer, I can see from her name tag that she is, indeed, Regan Simmons and an RN.

  “Hi, I’m Mattie Winston, with the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Yes, I know you. Hard not to if you read the paper.”

  She’s right about that. Thanks to Alison Miller, Sorenson’s star reporter and photographer, and at one time my competition for Hurley, I’ve been the main feature in the local paper several times over the past six months, and not in a good way. The only reason Alison isn’t here now is because an aunt of hers passed away and she’s out of town visiting the family.

  “I’m here with the police helping with the investigation into Bernard Chase’s murder. Detective Hurley and I would like to speak to you.”

  “We’re supposed to wait for the lawyers to get here.”

  “They’re here. They will be present.”

  “Okay, just let me finish passing my medications. I have two patients left and I’m behind schedule because of all this stuff that’s going on.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait.”

  Her expression grows pinched, and I’m guessing she doesn’t like the idea of me standing by waiting and watching, but she doesn’t object. She goes about her job, opening a drawer in the cart with a name that corresponds to the medication administration record she has in front of her. She removes several pills, checks them against the paper schedule, and places the pills in a mortar, where she grinds them into small pieces with a pestle. Then she dumps the pieces into a plastic medicine cup and carries it into the room on her right.

  I follow her and see a body curled up in the bed in a fetal position. The blankets hide all but the body’s shape and the person’s head. Based on the hair I can see, I assume it’s a woman.

  “Caroline, I have your medications.” Regan walks over and burrows under the covers with one hand, extracting Caroline’s arm. She looks at the armband there, and then puts the arm back down on the bed. I’m guessing this gesture is done for my benefit. Technically, it’s standard procedure to always check the ID band on a patient before administering a medication, but in a setting such as this one, the nurses rarely do so once they get to know the patients.

  Regan sets the medication on the nightstand, and reaches over and pushes a button on the rail that raises the upper part of the bed. Caroline’s body slowly rises, her eyes darting about. One side of her face, the downward side, is slack, her lower eyelid drooping, the corner of her mouth trailing a long line of drool.

  “Stroke?” I ask.

  Regan nods. “She had a massive hemorrhagic stroke at the age of forty-eight. It left her with total right-sided paralysis and severe expressive aphasia. She can’t talk, can’t walk, can’t move much on her own, and has no control of her bowels or bladder, but she is aware and understands what’s going on.”

  Caroline’s eyes shift from Regan to me and I am struck with the horror of the woman’s situation. She is trapped inside her traitor of a body, unable to function, unable to communicate, unable to have any independence. Or dignity, I imagine, and at such a young age. For one second, the idea of helping someone like Caroline out of this world doesn’t seem like such a horrible thing to do. But the decision should be Caroline’s alone. Doing it because Caroline wants to be released from this hellish life she has is one thing. Doing it because her care is too expensive is another. Maybe Caroline has a reason to live, even a life as horrific as the one she has now.

  As if she read my thought, Regan says, “Caroline has four kids, ages ten to seventeen. They visit her quite often.”

  There it is, I think, a reason to live. But how awful it must be for her and her family. Caroline’s eyes are still on me, watching my face, gauging my reaction. It makes me uncomfortable, but my nursing background kicks in to help. I place a hand on Caroline’s shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. “My name is Mattie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Caroline. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances. And I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  Caroline blinks at me and finally turns her gaze away. It’s all I can do not to sigh with relief. I can’t imagine being in her situation, with a quality of life that must suck on the best of days. I’m sure it’s the love she feels for her family that keeps her going, her desire to see her kids grow up.

  I watch as Regan turns back the covers and lifts Caroline’s gown to get access to a feeding tube snaking out of Caroline’s stomach. She uses a large syringe and some water to force the pill fragments down the tube.

  When she is done, Regan flushes the feeding tube and clamps it off. Caroline’s arms and legs are severely retracted, frozen into bent positions that make her fetal posturing permanent. It also makes what comes next a little easier for one person to do. Regan grabs the draw sheet beneath Caroline’s withered body and with a practiced tug-and-flip maneuver, turns her tortured body over onto its other side. She then adjusts the pads and pillows to minimize the pressure
on Caroline’s bony prominences, giving Caroline a back rub in the process.

  When we’re done, I follow Regan back out into the hall and she tells me about the next patient before we go in, letting me know that he is blind and a triple amputee: both legs just above the knee, and his left arm just below the elbow. All of this is the result of years of poorly controlled and managed diabetes. His name is Charles Dresden and Regan announces herself as she passes through the door since Charles isn’t able to see her. At least he is out of bed. He’s strapped into what amounts to a highchair for adults, a giant chair with a tray that folds down over the front of it. Parked nearby is a Hoyer lift, a mechanical device used to move patients from a bed to a chair and back again without hurting them or the staff. It’s a good thing to have in this case since Charles is a huge man even without most of his limbs.

  Charles takes his meds—there are a lot of them in the cup, somewhere around ten different pills—and asks when someone can come and put him back to bed. Regan explains that the staff is a little off schedule because of the mishap but that someone will be in soon.

  I’m struck by Regan’s use of the word mishap to refer to Bernie’s murder. It makes me wonder if the staff has told all of the patients what has happened, or if they’re trying to whitewash things for some of them. The truth is sure to get to everyone sooner or later. Enough of the patients know already and they’re bound to gossip. That’s one of the reasons it’s so important to interview people as soon as possible. The hearsay and gossip often colors people’s memories and they start remembering things they never actually experienced.

  When we are done with Charles, I follow Regan to the intersection by the nurse’s station and watch as she parks the medication cart in a locked room at the back of it. Then I lead her over to the dining room, where we find Hurley seated at a table with Trisha Collins.

  As I approach the table I ask, “Where did the rest of your crew go?”