Amy pulled herself away from the computer screen. It was addictive, this dipping into all these strangers’ lives, wondering where they might be, if they were even still alive. Some of them, she got a very strong feeling, had probably not survived the night of their disappearance. For all of them the end of the story might never be written. How horrible for the families.
It made her all the more determined to track down their John Doe. Even though his end was awful, at least his family would know what happened, could bury him, weep over him and lay him, and all their worries, to rest. Hopefully finding out who he was would help them figure out who his killer had been.
She found Claire at her desk, staring at some report but not really reading it, her eyes unfocused, her hand tapping an odd, nervous rhythm.
“Hey, Claire,” Amy said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
Claire looked up with a ready smile, but Amy was surprised to see how tired she looked. The skin around her eyes looked bruised. She was wearing no make-up, not that she ever wore a lot. For the first time since Amy had worked with her, Claire looked vulnerable and raw.
“They say he’s going to live,” Claire told her.
Amy knew she was talking about Chet Baldwin.
“Glad to hear it. That’s good news.”
Claire shook her head. “You don’t really know Chet, do you? I hope you’re right—that it’s good news. It’s always hard to know when someone wants to die what kind of favor you’re doing them by bringing them back.”
Amy didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t really thought about suicide that much. She just knew what her job was.
“I just wanted to tell you how it’s going with our John Doe. I checked the Wisconsin Missing Persons database and didn’t see anyone who resembled our guy. But if the medical examiner’s right about the date of death, he might not even be reported missing yet.”
“You know, Amy, I want you to run with this one. You’ve been working with me for a couple years now and I think you’re ready to take this one on. I’ll be here if you need me, but I need to focus on this case.”
“Really?” Amy felt pleasure and fear shoot through her system, kind of like the way she felt about skydiving, which she’d never done but thought about doing. “You think I’m ready?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“Can I ask you one more question? What if this guy’s from Minnesota? Is he still considered in our jurisdiction?”
Claire gave her a half smile. “Depends on where he died.”
C
laire walked down the hallway, hearing the hollowness of her own footsteps, and smelling the ammonia in the air, the constant scent of hospitals. She wasn’t one of those people who hated hospitals. She found them rather calming and reassuring, maybe because of a pleasant stay she had spent recovering from pneumonia when she was twelve. While being provided with all the chocolate milk she could drink, she read ten books in four days and thought she was in heaven.
She peeked into Chet’s room and saw him asleep in the all-white bed, his head turned toward the window, his mouth ajar. His body was sprawled on the bed as if he’d been tossed there. Even from across the room she could see the ligature marks on his neck.
Earlier that morning a doctor had called and said Chet would survive the suicide attempt, but they weren’t sure in what shape he would be, slight possibility of brain damage, a good chance of serious trauma to his esophagus.
Sympathy for him flooded Claire, but she pushed that feeling away. Unfortunately it was followed by guilt. She should have kept a closer eye on him. Her relationship with Chet had always been a little problematic. Rich so admired him—the
good farmer, the great hunter, the county official. Claire had always felt like he was a bit of a bragger and also a bit corny.
While she could tell that Chet adored Anne, he did it in such a sappy way that she found it slightly offensive. Which strengthened her sense that he might have killed her. With Chet, Claire had always thought that he was pretty controlling and if Anne had done something wrong, he might have gone off on her. Claire had certainly never thought that Chet would try to kill himself, because of how highly he thought of himself. That was her mistake.
She hadn’t officially put him on a suicide watch, which would have involved a more constant surveillance, instead of the hourly checking by the guards. On some level she had to admit she had failed Chet. What was she going to tell Rich?
Claire needed more information on Chet’s current status, especially on the possible brain trauma. She walked over to the nurse’s station and looked up at the board: Chet’s nurse was Jennifer. A dark-haired woman at the desk was filling out reports and didn’t even look up when Claire cleared her throat.
“Excuse me. Are you Jennifer?” Claire asked.
“I think she’s back in the break room.” The woman pointed to a small room behind the desk, still without looking up.
Peeking into the room Claire saw a young tow-headed woman sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. Claire asked if she was Jennifer. At the sight of Claire’s uniform, the young woman pushed herself up as if she had been caught at something, said she was Jennifer, and asked how she could help.
“I’m here about Chet Baldwin. Can you give me an update on his prognosis?” As Claire heard herself using the lingo, she
wondered if she had been watching too many medical shows on TV.
“Pretty good considering. You’re the first person to check on him, poor guy. Are you related to him?” the girl asked.
“Haven’t you been told about him?”
Jennifer gave her a quizzical look. “No, I came on an hour ago. Betty rushed out of here to do something and didn’t tell me much, just his status. But I did read over the doctor’s notes.”
“No, I’m not related to him. His wife—” here Claire stopped, thinking about the scene in their house last night. “She’s recently deceased. I’m not sure who else he has in his family. I know they had no children.”
Jennifer held up her cup. “Coffee?”
Claire said, “That’d be great. Long night last night.”
“I hear you. I’m working a double shift, came over from another floor.” Jennifer poured her a cup and Claire took it gratefully.
“Dr. Ramstad thinks he’s going to be okay. But he did a number on his larynx and he’s going to have a very sore throat. I think they want to do an endoscopy on him later this afternoon, just to be sure there’s no permanent damage. When I first got here, he was awake for a while, quiet but coherent—knew his name, knew what day it was, expressed his contempt of our current president—but he’s been sleeping the last hour. So doesn’t look like he has any significant brain damage. Exactly what happened to him?”
“He attempted suicide. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, Betty told me that. And there was some mention of it in his chart. Is he dangerous?”
“I think only to himself. But please keep a close eye on him. When will he be released?”
“Right now he’s sedated. Dr. Ramstad wants to keep him in overnight. Just to watch him. I’m sure they’ll want to do a psych evaluation. I suppose he might be able to leave tomorrow if they think he’s stable enough.”
“This gets rather tricky. We need to bring him in for questioning as soon as he’s able.” Claire gave the nurse her number. “I’ll check back in later today, but I want to know when he’s ready to leave.”
“For sure. I’ll make sure to pass on this information.” The nurse looked toward his room. “He seems like a nice man.”
Claire realized she had to be clearer with this nurse. “Why don’t you call us when he becomes more lucid and we’ll send over a man to stand guard outside his door. Just in case.” Then she couldn’t stop herself from saying the next words. “But he is a nice man.”
* * *
“Then I threw up,” Claire looked a little nauseous, just at the thought. “Over the side of the boat. I mean it was gross, this big bloated body stunk to high heavens and all, but still, I haven’t thrown up in years.”
Bridget watched her sister Claire. Even though she saw Claire often, every few days since moving to Fort St. Antoine, she suddenly noticed that her sister looked older: dark patches under her eyes, an actual sweep of gray growing up from her temple into her dark brown hair, and a hunching of her shoulders.
Claire had called Bridget at the pharmacy where she worked in Wabasha and asked if they could have lunch. They had met at the Sunshine Diner and were halfway through their bowls of chili.
Claire continued, “So I’m worried. I mean, I haven’t had my period in nearly seven weeks, I threw up, I’ve turned into a bitch, I feel weird. What if I’m pregnant? Oh my god, Bridget, what would I do?”
“Calm down. Let me ask you a few questions. Are you sleeping okay?” Bridget asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything? Not bad, but I’m doing this weird three o’clock in the morning—bong—wide awake routine. Can’t go back to sleep. Toss and turn for an hour or two.”
“How’s your body thermostat these days?” Bridget continued her questions. “Hot? Sweaty?”
“Yeah, this weather seems to be really getting to me. Like right now, I’m drenched in sweat.”
“Well, I know I don’t need to tell you this, but you absolutely need to take a pregnancy test. However, what I’m thinking is it might be menopause.”
Claire wiped her hand across her face as if she could wipe this possibility away. “You think? It crossed my mind, but I’m only forty-five. Mom didn’t go into menopause until her mid fifties.”
“Yeah, but she had two kids and a miscarriage. That can push it back. And everyone is different.”
“God, menopause.” A smile broke across Claire’s face and she looked younger. “That would be great. And it would explain everything. I can’t tell you what a relief that would be.”
“Well, first take a pregnancy test just to be sure. Then get your butt to your gynecologist and get checked out. Slight chance it could be a thyroid problem and that’s completely treatable. They can test your hormone level and you’ll know for sure what’s going on.” Even though Bridget knew Claire would not want to hear it, she couldn’t help adding, “You do look tired.”
“It’s been a crappy couple days. First the stinky bloated body, then Chet and everything I told you. You can imagine. And Rich and I aren’t getting along.”
“How long have you two been together now?”
“About seven years.”
“The magic number. That’s when Chuck and I split up. But that doesn’t mean you and Rich will … have problems.” Bridget thought back to her marriage. She saw Chuck every once in a while. He had remarried, a woman who liked cars and beer more than she had. She had to give him credit for being a good father to Rachel. He came and got her at least twice a week and now that she was older, he even kept her overnight sometimes.
“Don’t say that. It’s just that Rich thinks he can go barging into my business, telling me what to do …”
“Big sister,” Bridget shook her head. “You’ve always had to be right about everything. Maybe it’s time you learned to listen.”
“How can you say that?” Claire’s voice rose above the clanking sounds of the coffee shop.
“Because it’s true. And I’m telling you to take a pregnancy test. Come back to the pharmacy with me.”
As little as he wanted to go back to Chet’s farm, Rich knew he had to check on all the animals. Let the horses out to pasture. Feed the dog. Bentley had been Anne’s pride and joy, some kind of Australian herding dog. He wasn’t even sure it was really a breed, but the dog was smart as a whip. Almost pure black, it was a fierce fighter, which made it an excellent dog for watching over the barnyard.
After pulling into the driveway, Rich went right to the barn. No reason to go into the house, plus Claire’d probably have his hide if he befouled her crime scene any more than he already had.
Rich pushed open the door of Chet’s barn. Not sure where the light was, he started to walk across to the horse stalls, when a very low, very deep growl crawled across the floor and rode up his body.
“Bentley?” Rich said, not sure where the sound was coming from. “Is that you, buddy?”
The barn was dark and the dog, as he remembered it, was darker. Rich’s eyes were not yet accustomed to the gloom and he found himself standing in the middle of a mound of hay, turning slowly around, trying to locate the dog before it made any kind of nasty move.
The chainsaw growl stopped.
Rich waited, sucking in a lungful of damp air perfumed with horse manure and field clippings.
He took a step toward the first horse stall and the growl started up, louder than ever. The hair on the back of his hands felt tight, his jaw seized up on him like an old wrench that
needed oil. There was something about that sound that grabbed him in the guts and yanked.
Rich reminded himself he knew how to work with animals—talk to them, don’t let them know you’re afraid—but it might be too late for that. “Hey, buddy, hey, boy, are you hungry?”
Use his name, with a little sharper tone, commanding, not pleading. “Bentley, come.”
The dog’s growl rasped up a notch higher.
Just when Rich was thinking of backing out of the barn he saw Bentley. The dog was between him and the door, fear raising his long black fur on his back, his teeth shining in his huge muzzle.
Rich checked his pockets, nothing. He was hoping he might find an old energy bar, something he could bribe the dog with.
Looking around the barn, he tried to find something he might use against Bentley, not to hurt him, more just to fend him off. He saw a broom leaning in a corner and decided that was the ticket. In the slowest motion he could manage, Rich backed up and put his hand on the broom and slowly brought it around to protect his front.
Bentley was on ready alert, too close to the door for Rich to try to get by him. With broom in hand, he knew he could do what he needed to do.
Incrementally inching around, Rich turned his back on Bentley and leaned on the broom as if he had absolutely nothing on his mind. He relaxed his shoulders, slouched comfortably on the broom handle and hummed a quiet song.
The growling stopped.
Rich kept up his charade of unconcerned farmer, completely ignoring the dark beast by the door.