Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  I’m about to get up from my seat and pace, figuring it will at least work off some of my nervous energy, when the courtroom door opens and the court officer says, “Ms. Winston, they’re ready for you.”

  It’s not my first time inside a courtroom, but it is my first time doing anything other than observing. At least I’m here as a witness, not as a defendant or claimant, so I don’t have to worry about my future, but it’s nerve-racking walking down the aisle and feeling the stares of everyone on me. I’m afraid of stumbling before I get to the witness-box, or doing something stupid and embarrassing when I do get there, like stuttering, or stammering, or laughing at an inappropriate moment . . . something I do a lot. My nerves tend to express themselves through laughter, and I’m not talking about some tittering, sniggering, cover-your-mouth-and-hide-it kind of giggle. I’m talking about all-out, belly-shaking guffaws. This quirk has kept me from attending a lot of funerals. People don’t take kindly to having this ceremonious ritual marked by the sound of a sitcom laugh track. Oddly enough, the only nerve-racking events that make me cry are weddings. Though perhaps it’s not so odd in my case, given my marital history.

  As I approach the witness stand, I glance at the defendant, a thirty-three-year-old man named Tomas “Please just call me ‘Tommy’” Wyzinski, who is on trial for killing his girlfriend. He is dressed much better today than any other time I’ve seen him, but his skin is the pasty color of someone who hasn’t seen the sun in a while, and his longish hair is slicked back from his face with so much product it looks like the plastic hair on a Ken doll. He doesn’t look at me, which is just as well. His eyes creep me out.

  I shift my focus to the woman standing in front of the witness stand. I know she’s there to swear me in, but suddenly I can’t remember for the life of me if I’m supposed to stop before I get into the witness-box or climb straight into it. Then I see her offer the Bible on one extended hand and I stop in front of the witness-box.

  “Please place your left hand on the Bible and raise your right hand,” the woman instructs. For a moment, my brain is so frozen with nervous tension I can’t remember which hand is which. I make a couple of tentative jabs, take a deep breath to center myself, and then do as she instructed.

  “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you shall give in this matter shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.” Two of the scariest words in the English language. As the woman turns away, I climb the step into the witness-box and take a seat. Roger Beckwith gets up and walks to a lectern centered between his table and the defense’s.

  “Good morning, Ms. Winston,” he says with a warm smile. I return the greeting after making a funny movement with my lips because they’re sticking to my dry teeth. “Can you please state for the court your occupation and where you work?”

  “Sure. I’m a medico-legal death investigator working out of the medical examiner’s office in Sorenson, Wisconsin. I work under the auspices of Dr. Izthak Rybarceski and in conjunction with the Sorenson police when necessary.”

  “How long have you had this position?”

  “For three years.”

  “And what exactly is it you do in the course of your job?”

  “I assist Dr. Rybarceski with autopsies and I investigate the means, locations, situations, and circumstances surrounding any suspicious deaths.”

  Beckwith makes a somber face that he aims at the jury. “Sounds like difficult, complicated work. It must be hard dealing with death and dying all the time like that, day in and day out.”

  My nerves relax a little. So far, everything is going the way Beckwith said it would, right down to his comment about my job, which is to provide me with an opening to pontificate on how much I love my work and how dedicated I am to it. I’m supposed to do this in a way that makes me seem friendly and approachable, yet professional. Beckwith’s exact words to me were “try to come across to the jury as professional and dedicated, but not macabre or weird.” So I practiced in front of my mirror all week, stating how much I enjoyed my work, how satisfying it was, and how those of us in the medical examiner’s office have to step in and be the voices of the dead . . . all of it done with various vocal tones and facial expressions that made me seem maniacal and scary one minute and Valiumed to the gills the next. After three days of practice, I felt I had achieved the perfect mix of professionalism and normalcy so that my fascination and daily work with the dead didn’t sound like I was someone who kept their mummified mother in a closet somewhere.

  I prepare to deliver my well-rehearsed lines, but before I can, the defense attorney—a petite, blond woman named Joan Mackey, who bears a striking resemblance to the murder victim in this case—interrupts.

  “Objection,” she says in a rote tone of voice as if she’s bored. “There is no question there. And the defense is willing to stipulate to Ms. Winston’s current job title and experience.”

  The judge says, “Sustained,” sounding as bored as Joan Mackey, an unusually tame response for him.

  I’m a little perturbed—after all my practice, I’m going to be bummed if I can’t recite my job-loving mantra—but one look at Judge Wesley Kupper makes me swallow my own objection.

  Judge Kupper would be an intimidating man even without his position of authority and his wood-cracking hammer. He’s six-and-a-half feet tall, weighs in the neighborhood of three-fifty, has no neck, and speaks in a deep, rumbling voice that sounds like thunder. When he walks into the courtroom with his massive black robe billowing out around him, it’s hard not to compare him to Darth Vader. His blue eyes are pale and icy—when he looks at you, it’s as if he can see right through you—and his head is as bald—and as big—as a bowling ball. Whenever he shifts his position, his large leather chair groans beneath his weight like a house about to be ripped off its moorings.

  “Is there a question in there somewhere, Mr. Beckwith?” Judge Kupper asks in a tired tone. “If not, please move on.”

  “Very well,” Beckwith says. He gives the jury members a tolerant smile and then looks back at me. “Ms. Winston, what did you do before taking your current job?”

  “Objection!” says Mackey with much more enthusiasm than before. “Relevance?”

  “It’s very relevant to the issue in question,” Beckwith says. “Ms. Winston’s background and prior employment directly impacted her actions on the day in question.”

  Mackey shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Overruled,” Judge Kupper says.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Beckwith says, and then he shifts his attention back to me. “Ms. Winston, please tell the court what job you held prior to your position in the medical examiner’s office.”

  “I was . . . technically I still am an RN, a registered nurse. I was employed at the hospital in Sorenson for thirteen years—six in the emergency department and seven in the surgical department.”

  “Thank you,” Beckwith says, scanning the jury members’ faces. Per his pretrial counseling, pointing out that I’m a nurse—one of the most trusted occupations out there—not only helps to make me seem less “creepy,” it also gives my testimony more veracity. In this particular case, it will play another, more significant role as well, one Beckwith is about to get to. “Let’s move on to August fourteenth of last year, the day in question, the day you and Detective Bob Richmond arrived at the home of the defendant, Tommy Wyzinski. Can you tell me why the two of you went to his house?”

  “It started when Detective Richmond and I were called to the scene of a suspicious death that—”

  “Objection!” Mackey hollers. “The characterization of the death as suspicious is inflammatory.”

  Judge Kupper narrows his eyes at Mackey and in a tight-lipped voice says, “Overruled.”

  Beckwith nods and looks back at me. “Just to satisfy everyone’s curiosity here, can you state why this death was determined to be suspicious?”

  “Sure. To begin with, the body was wrappe
d in plastic sheeting and it was found in some woods about a hundred feet from County Road A. We, Detective Richmond and I, felt pretty confident the victim didn’t get there under her own power or wrap herself up prior to dying, because the body had no head, hands, or feet.”

  I’m surprised none of the jury or audience members gasp at this revelation, but there is a lot of uncomfortable stirring and shifting going on.

  “Oh, my,” Beckwith says with an overwrought grimace he makes sure the jury members can see. Then, with a pointed look at the defense table, he adds, “I think we can all agree that qualifies as suspicious.”

  There is a snort from the jury box, whether out of humor or derision I can’t tell. I look over at them and try to determine who the culprit might have been, but everyone is straight-faced and somber looking.

  “Please continue, Ms. Winston.”

  “In examining the remains and other evidence at the scene, we readily determined the victim was a woman. While surveying the scene and the surrounding area, we found a piece of paper in a parking lot that was approximately one hundred feet away from the wooded area where the body was found. It was a prescription for insulin.”

  “And was there a name on that prescription?” Beckwith asks.

  “There was. It was written out to a Tomas Wyzinski.”

  “Was there an address on this prescription?”

  I shake my head. “No, just the name. But fortunately the name is unusual enough that it was easy to do a computer search and find out where Mr. Wyzinski lived.”

  “And that’s how you ended up in Pardeeville, at the defendant’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time of day was it when you arrived at Mr. Wyzinski’s house?”

  “It was a little after ten in the morning.”

  “Why did you go to the defendant’s house?”

  “Given the proximity of the prescription to the scene where the body was found, Mr. Wyzinski was considered a potential witness. The police wanted to find out when he was there and determine if he had seen anything that might be relevant.”

  “So was Mr. Wyzinski a suspect at this time?”

  “He was considered a person of interest,” I say, using the term the police use until something more can be determined.

  “And can you tell me what happened when you arrived at the defendant’s house?”

  I nod, sorting my thoughts out to make sure I say everything I need to say. “We . . . Detective Richmond and I walked up to the front door and Detective Richmond knocked. We waited, but there was no answer. After a minute or so, Detective Richmond knocked again. And again there was no answer.”

  “Did you leave at this point?”

  “We did not. There was a car parked in front of the house and Detective Richmond determined it belonged to Mr. Wyzinski. Since the address was out in the country and the closest house was two miles down the road, we figured Wyzinski was probably around, maybe somewhere else on the property. So we headed for the back of the house.”

  “What did you see at the back of the house?”

  “There was another entrance, a back door, and there was also an old barn about fifty feet behind the house.”

  “What did you and Detective Richmond do next?”

  “We climbed the steps to the back door and knocked on it.”

  “Did anyone answer?”

  “No, but this door had glass in the upper half and Detective Richmond looked inside.”

  “What did he see?”

  “Objection!”

  Beckwith raises his hand in a conciliatory gesture before Mackey can voice the reason behind her objection and re-words the question. “Did you also look through the window in the back door?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A man prostrate . . .” I hear Beckwith’s voice in my head reminding me to keep my terms simple and aimed at the layperson, and amend my answer. “There was a man lying face down on the kitchen floor.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I reached down and tried the knob to see if the door was unlocked.”

  “Was it?”

  I nod.

  “Please state your answer for the record,” Beckwith prompts.

  “Sorry. Yes, it was unlocked.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I opened the door, went inside, and knelt down next to the man on the floor. I felt along his neck for a pulse.”

  “Did you find one?”

  I nod, then quickly say, “Yes, I did. But it was very faint, thready, and irregular. I shook him then, and he mumbled, but it wasn’t anything intelligible.”

  “What was Detective Richmond doing at this point?”

  “He was calling for an ambulance and checking to see if anyone else was in the house.”

  “Were there other things you noticed about the man on the floor?”

  “Yes, his skin was very cool to the touch, and he was diaph—” I catch myself and do a quick mental conversion. “He was very sweaty.”

  “Is the man you saw on the kitchen floor that day here in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes, it was the defendant.” I point. “Mr. Tomas Wyzinski.”

  “Objection!” Mackey says, shooting out of her seat, her tone one of impatient disbelief. “The witness had no way of knowing at the time if the man on the floor was my client or someone else.”

  “Actually, I did have a way,” I say before anyone else can respond. “Detective Richmond showed me a DMV picture of Mr. Wyzinski prior to our arrival. The man on the floor fit that picture. Though to be honest, knowing who he was wouldn’t have changed what I did in any way.”

  “Your Honor . . .” Mackey says in a strained tone. “Overruled,” Judge Kupper thunders.

  Mackey drops back into her seat with a pout, and after watching her do this, Beckwith turns to me with a little smile. “Ms. Winston, would you please share with the court some of the thoughts going through your mind when you found this man on the floor and how those thoughts led to what happened next?”

  “Of course,” I say. “The prescription we found at the body dump site was for insulin and the man on the floor was displaying classic signs of insulin shock—decreased alertness, sweating, and cold, clammy skin. When I rolled him onto his back, his shirt hiked up, and I could see tiny pinpoint bruises on his abdomen. I knew from my years of nursing that those were injection marks. The abdomen is the preferred site for insulin shots in most diabetics. Given all of that, it was a pretty safe assumption the man on the floor was the same one whose name was on that prescription, particularly since he was the owner of record for the house we were in.”

  Mackey looks apoplectic, like she wants to object, but she doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m talking as fast as I can to get it all out, or because what I’m saying isn’t objectionable—at least from a legal standpoint. Maybe it’s both.

  Beckwith nods solemnly and then says, “Just to clarify things, did you at any point verify the identity of the man on the floor in any other way?”

  “We did. Detective Richmond removed a wallet from the man’s pants pocket and the ID inside belonged to Tomas Wyzinski. But as I said before, his identity wasn’t an issue at the time and wouldn’t have changed what I did next.”

  Mackey is frowning now, her forehead heavily creased, her mouth turned down at the corners.

  Beckwith has the barest hint of a smile on his face as he asks his next question. “What did you do next?”

  “Well, the treatment for insulin shock is sugar in some form. If a diabetic is completely unconscious and unresponsive, some form of injectable sugar is preferred to ensure they don’t choke. But if they have some level of alertness and appear to be able to swallow, then some juice, like orange juice, preferably with a spoonful of sugar thrown in, is a good option. Hard candies can work, too, but they are slower acting and more likely to be a choking hazard. Mr. Wyzinski wasn’t alert enough to walk, or talk sensibly, but h
e was mumbling and he wasn’t drooling, meaning he was able to swallow his own secretions. So I got up and went to the refrigerator in search of some juice to give to him.”

  “And what did you find in the refrigerator?” Beckwith asks, and I swear the corners of his mouth are twitching in an effort not to smile.

  This time my answer garners plenty of gasps, both from the jury and the others in the courtroom. “I found a woman’s head.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALLYSON K. ABBOTT (aka Beth Amos) is the pseudonym of a mystery and thriller writer who also publishes under the pseudonym Annelise Ryan for her Mattie Winston Mystery series. Allyson works as an emergency room nurse. She lives in a small Wisconsin town with her family and a menagerie of pets. Readers can find her at www.bethamos.com.