“Why does it matter?” Erik asks. “Where are you going with all of this?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to say just yet,” He gives me a look of exasperation so I try to explain myself more. “It’s for your own good, Erik. If I tell you what I’m thinking and I’m wrong, it will get your hopes up for nothing. And if I’m right, telling you too soon could compromise the investigation. But it might also exonerate you. So I’m asking you to sit tight, be patient, and trust me on this one.”
He makes a sweeping gesture around the inside of his cell. “It’s not like I have much choice.”
“I promise you that as soon as I have anything solid, I’ll let both you and Lucien know, okay?”
He studies me through the bars of his cell, seeming to weigh my trustworthiness. Apparently I pass muster because he sighs, nods, and says, “Okay, Mattie. My fate is in your hands.”
I should feel relieved to hear him say this, but I’m frightened instead. The weight of this investigation is beginning to press hard on me, and Erik’s fate is a responsibility I’m not sure I want.
Before I have time to consider it further, I hear a familiar voice coming down the hall, one that prompts me to prepare for a hasty exit. Seconds later Lucien enters the room accompanied by a uniformed officer and Bjorn.
At first glance Lucien appears to be a normal, decent-looking guy. He has an average build, strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes, and wears suits, button-down shirts, and ties when he’s working. But his clothes always have that slightly rumpled, slept-in look, and often as not the colors he wears clash violently. His hair, which is just wavy enough to be a bit unruly, is usually slicked back with a ton of greasy gel that makes it look perpetually wet. It all works together to lend him an air of slick sleaziness, an image he manages to reinforce every time he opens his mouth.
The officer gestures toward Bjorn, whose hands and face are smeared with chocolate. “Does he belong to you?”
“He does,” I say, taking Bjorn by the arm and steering him toward a chair. I grab some tissues from a box on the desk and start trying to clean off the chocolate. From the corner of my eye I see Lucien watching me with
that
grin, the one that means something crass is coming, so I brace myself.
“Aw, Sweet Cheeks,” he says to me in a pathetic tone. “I know you’re probably yearning for a churning now that David’s out of the picture, but this guy’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
“I’m not dating him,” I say, adding a mental
you moron
tag to the statement. “Bjorn is a cabdriver, and since my car was totaled the other day, he’s driving me around until I can find a replacement.”
Bjorn doesn’t help the situation when he adds his own two cents, which turns out to be more like a halfpenny. “We worked out a deal,” he explains. “I take her where she needs to go and she takes care of the tube in my peter.”
Silence fills the room and Bjorn senses that he might have said something dicey. He tries to remedy the situation but only makes it worse. “She handles my sac when it gets too full and I need to drain my tube.”
“Hey, Sweet Cheeks, you can handle my sac anytime you want.”
“Nice, Lucien. Are you forgetting about your wife, who also happens to be my sister?”
“Of course not. We can include her, too. I’m always up for a threesome.”
The uniform snorts a laugh at that one and even Erik manages a smile. I’m about to snap off another comeback but I bite it back, realizing it’s a waste of time. I know from past experience that Lucien has no shame. And while he talks a good talk, as far as I know that’s all he does. Someday I’m going to take him up on one of his challenges just to see what happens. But for now, I think the wisest course is to ignore him.
“Come on, Bjorn,” I say, walking over and hooking my arm through his. “Let’s get going.”
“Where to now?” he asks as we head out of the police station.
“I want to make a quick stop at the hospital, to order you those other bags I was talking about.” That’s only part of the reason I want to go there but Bjorn has no need to know the other. “After that I need to go to Smithville, but if you don’t mind lending me your car I can drop you off at the cab office and you can spend the afternoon driving around some real customers for a change.”
He shrugs and says, “A trip to Smithville sounds like fun. I don’t get out of town much anymore.” I start to protest but before I can get a word out he adds, “Besides, what about my bag? You said you’d keep me empty all day.”
I sigh, wondering why his forgetfulness never includes this promise. “Okay, Smithville it is then, right after the hospital.”
There’s a brief moment of awkwardness when Bjorn and I both head for the driver’s side door of his car, but I acquiesce and move to the passenger side. As he climbs in behind the wheel and shuts the door he says, “When we get to the hospital I think I’ll head for the cafeteria while you order your stuff. I’m kind of hungry.”
“Fine, but you have to promise me you’ll eat some real food this time. No more sweets for now, okay?”
He shoots me a sidelong glance that is a mix of disappointment and calculation. “How about just one tiny dessert after I eat something healthy?” he tries.
I shake my head. “No, Bjorn. You’ve already eaten more sugar today than most people eat in a week. It’s not healthy.” He opens his mouth in preparation for his next protest and I cut him off, delivering my coup de grâce. “Besides, all that sugar makes you pee more so your bag is going to fill up faster.”
He clamps his mouth shut and stares out the windshield for a moment, contemplating. I can tell he’s suspicious about my claim but I also know he isn’t likely to know if it’s true or not. When I see a look of resigned acceptance on his face, I know I’ve won, at least this round.
“Okay,” he says, turning the key. He carefully backs out of his parking space and into a light post. The one advantage of his snail’s pace is that these little fender benders don’t cause too much damage or injury. A definite disadvantage is the road rage he triggers among those forced to share the streets with him. His driving skills, or lack thereof, create pockets of chaos everywhere we go. At least five cars honk angrily at us and I lose count of how many drivers make obscene hand and finger gestures. Bjorn is blessedly oblivious to it all as we crawl our way along.
I, however, am not. I take every glare, every gesture, and every unheard uttering personally. So when we finally pull onto the street where the hospital is located, I breathe a sigh of relief. But when I see the crowd of people and vehicles gathered in front of the building, I realize the chaos has followed us here.
Chapter 28
C
op cars, ambulances, TV vans, and half a dozen miscellaneous vehicles are parked willy-nilly in front of the hospital by the ER entrance. I see uniforms of all types amidst the crowd: cops, hospital security guards, EMTs, and a few generic hospital white coats. There must be close to fifty people milling about and Bjorn is so captivated by the scene that he almost runs over three of them in his efforts to negotiate the bedlam.
As soon as he’s safely parked I take out my cell phone and dial the ER. Fortunately one of my old nursing cronies, Phyllis—aka “Syph”—answers, a coup for me since I know she’ll tell me anything I want to know.
“What’s going on out front of the hospital?” I ask her.
“It’s one of those precious Hallmark family moments,” she says, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Apparently some family got into a tiff about a will and things got physical. Ambulances were called and one of the people involved was transported to the ER. He’s in here and his cereal bowl is a few flakes shy, if you get my drift. A couple of cops are trying to deal with him but the guy’s gone totally off his rocker.
“The rest of the family members are out front, arguing. Rumor has it two of the women got into a hair-pulling contest and an EMT got punched when he tried to break it up. His partner called for backup and that’s when security and the police got involved. We’ve been told none of the injuries are serious but we have no way of knowing since the only patient we’ve seen so far is the Froot Loop in here.”
This scenario sounds disturbingly familiar, and as I scan the crowd of faces my suspicions are confirmed. There, right in the middle of everything, is Aaron Heinrich. Having no desire to get caught in another of the Heinrich family melees, I grab Bjorn’s hand, duck down so I can’t easily be seen, and guide us both along the edges of the crowd. We make our way to a back entrance to the hospital, one that’s mainly used by delivery personnel. It’s locked on the outside but I remember the key punch code needed to open it and, within seconds, Bjorn and I are inside. I send him off toward the cafeteria and then take some back hallways that lead into the patient care area of the ER.
The curtains around bed four are wide open, and standing on top of the stretcher is Easton “Sailor Boy” Heinrich. He’s yelling something at the two cops nearby, one of whom is Larry Johnson. Syph and another nurse are standing off to one side watching the show and I join them.
“Hey, Mets,” Syph says when she sees me. Syph isn’t her real name. Her real name is Phyllis but years ago when I worked in the ER, we got bored one night and gave one another nicknames that were disease related and sounded somewhat similar to our real names. This was our way of poking fun at how we tend to refer to patients by their bed numbers and disorders rather than their names, which is why Easton Heinrich is now known as the Whackadoodle in Bed Four.
Syph nods toward the Whackadoodle. “This is a good one. I haven’t had anything this interesting since your nipple incident. I’m not sure if the guy is crazy or just drunk, but he sure as hell is entertaining.”
The drunk part is obvious from Easton’s bloodshot eyes and the alcohol fumes wafting from his body so strongly I can smell it from where I’m standing. “Is he under arrest?” I ask.
“Not yet, but I suspect he will be before he’s done.”
Easton screams at the cops, “You want me? Then come and get me, fuckers. I dare you.” He makes a come-on gesture with his hands, waggling his fingers at the cops. Larry shrugs and glances at his partner. They look like they are about to take Easton up on his offer when Easton ups the ante by stripping off his shirt. This gives the cops pause and Larry opts for a little verbal coaxing instead.
“Come on, buddy. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
“I’m not your fucking buddy,” Easton screams, tossing his shirt at the cops and then proceeding to loosen his belt. Seconds later his pants drop down to his ankles and he steps out of them, nearly falling off the stretcher in the process. He kicks them toward the cops and then wiggles his ass like some flaky pole dancer.
Larry and his partner take an involuntary step back as the pants fly at them, and this meager bit of success seems to fuel Easton’s fire. Before I can blink he strips off his boxers and assumes a “ta-da” pose with his arms outstretched overhead.
“Wow,” Syph says. “This guy really is crazy.”
“And very well hung,” observes the other nurse.
Easton hears the comment and thrusts his hips toward Larry. “You want me?” he taunts, shaking his impressive tallywacker at Larry. “Then come and get me, you one-bullet Barney.”
“Hey,” Larry objects, looking wounded. He looks at his partner and they apparently share a silent exchange because the partner nods and starts slowly moving toward the foot of the bed. Easton is flinging his hips from side to side and is so taken with the sight of his own penis whacking against his thighs that he misses this move. Nor does he see Larry remove his Taser from its holster.
“Go!” Larry yells.
This momentarily befuddles Easton who looks up at Larry with an expression of confusion. Meanwhile Larry’s partner makes a quick dash to the other side of the stretcher, arriving mere seconds before Larry fires.
There’s a brief buzzing sound as Easton screams like a girl and crumples. Larry’s partner manages to catch him before he flops onto the floor and moments later, a subdued Easton is curled into a fetal position on the stretcher, crying like a baby.
“God, I miss this place,” I tell Syph.
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “It does have its moments.”
The other nurse moves in and tries to soothe Easton. The cops are more than happy to step back and let the nurse do her thing, but they stay close by just in case. It seems the Taser has taken all the fight out of Easton because he willingly submits to being dressed in a gown and lets the nurse draw some blood and start an IV on him.
“Might as well start an alcohol pool,” Syph says, looking over at me. “You want in?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say, digging in my pocket and coming up with a dollar. “Are you doing
Price Is Right
rules or closest takes it?”
She thinks a minute, then says, “Closest.”
“Okay. I’ll take 389.”
Larry fishes some change out of his pocket and walks it over to Syph. “Put me in. I’ll go for 325.”
Within minutes we have a pool of money totaling eight bucks, hardly enough to get rich off of but that’s not the point. The ability to accurately estimate blood alcohol levels is a prized talent among ER workers and cops, and the esteem of winning goes a lot farther than the money.
While waiting for the blood test results to come back, I relay Bjorn’s predicament to Syph and she manages to find me not only the necessary order form for the new urine leg bags, but a sample of one left behind by a sales rep. Next I explain to her that I’m curious about Shannon’s health history and want to review her medical record. Normally this would be a violation of HIPAA, the law that makes it easier to get your hands on a nuclear weapon than a patient’s chart. But because I’m a deputy coroner and Shannon’s case is one we are investigating, I have a legal right to pull and examine her record.
Pulling a chart
is a term left over from the days of Medical Records departments that stored thousands of paper files documenting a patient’s care. Nowadays everything is on computer and in less than a minute Syph has accessed the information I need and given me control of the computer.
Shannon’s record isn’t a huge one. There are a couple of ER visits: one from a few years ago for vaginal bleeding that turned out to be a miscarriage, and another for a small laceration on her leg that needed a few stitches. There is also the appendectomy from a few months ago that I already know about. Her doctor’s office visits are a bit more interesting. Apparently Shannon was dead set against getting pregnant, fearful it would affect her figure so much that it would shatter her modeling dreams. Yet diet alone was obviously a problem too, since there were multiple requests for diet pills. One thing I don’t find in the record is any mention of IBS.
When I’m done, I close the file and log off the computer. Easton’s blood test is back and his alcohol level is a whopping 426, making me, who had the highest guess of anyone, the prized possessor of eight bucks. After thanking Syph for her help with the chart and gloating for a few minutes over my win, I head down to the cafeteria, where I find Bjorn finishing off the last of a food tray. Despite my cautions, I see that he’s currently working on a piece of strawberry shortcake and still has a slice of peach pie to go.
I settle in with him at the table. “Are you about done here, Bjorn?” I ask, glancing at my watch and then eyeing all the empty plates on his tray. “I have another appointment to get to.”
“Almost,” he says around a mouthful of shortcake.
I’m about to lecture him on his poor diet when I hear voices approaching. A moment later a small crowd of people enters the cafeteria and, much to my dismay, I see that it’s the Heinrich clan, minus Easton of course. Tagging along with them is a uniformed cop named Junior Feller, and Hurley.
Junior steers the Heinrich trio to a nearby empty table and motions for them to sit. Hurley, who saw me the moment he entered the room, approaches our table.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Official business,” I say vaguely. “Are you socializing with the upper crust these days?” I add, gesturing toward the Heinriches.
“Part of our divide and conquer strategy,” he says. “Two of the uniforms inherited Bitsy’s kids and took them down to the police station to get a statement. Junior and I inherited this bunch. Their brother is in the ER.”
“Yes, I saw him,” I say, smiling at the memory.
Over at the Heinrich table, Junior and the two sisters get up and head for the food line. Aaron looks like he intends to follow but then abandons the group and moves over to our table instead.
“Well, hello there, Mattie,” he says to me. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Hoping to avoid getting caught up in the family’s drama I say, “I’m just about to leave.”
Aaron pouts handsomely and says, “Darn. I was hoping to have a little time to chat with you.” He settles into a chair beside me and nods at Bjorn, who has finished his shortcake and is working on his pie.
“I don’t have any more information on the death of your father, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” I tell Aaron.
“Well, I suppose that would have been nice, but that really isn’t my objective. May I ask you a personal question?”
This catches me off guard, and while I want to say no, my sense of politeness won’t let me. But since I can’t quite bring myself to openly invite him into my private life, I simply shrug instead.
“I see you aren’t wearing a wedding ring,” he says. “Does that mean you’re single?”
“Um, yes, sort of,” I say stupidly, squirming uncomfortably in my chair.
Hurley moves around the table and takes a chair next to Bjorn, his expression dark. He glares at Aaron, who appears oblivious.
“Sort of?” Aaron echoes.
“I’m separated and in the process of filing for a divorce.”
“Ah, well, that’s unfortunate for your ex but good news for me. Are you seeing anyone?”
I realize Aaron is flirting with me and apparently Hurley has figured it out as well because he shifts his attention to me and his glare intensifies. Despite the coldness in his stare, I feel myself warming beneath the heat of his gaze.
I hesitate for the briefest of seconds before answering Aaron’s question, my evil side warring with my good side. The evil side wins. “No, I’m not seeing anyone in particular,” I tell him, smiling. I start playing with my hair, wrapping a strand of it around my finger.
“Good,” Aaron says, “That means you can have dinner with me tonight.” His voice is warm and behind his eyes I sense something deliciously dangerous.
I smile and swallow hard, feeling my heart beat faster. A strange warmth courses through my body and centers somewhere between my thighs with a sensation like molten lead. I feel confused, unsure if these strange sensations are the result of Hurley’s stare, Aaron’s flirtation, or a combination of the two.
Before I can summon up a halfway intelligent response to Aaron’s invitation, Hurley jumps in and says, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Aaron and I tear our eyes from one another to give Hurley a questioning look. Hurley stutters a moment, turns a bright shade of red, and then adds, “It would be a conflict of interest, given Mattie’s attachment to the case involving your father.”
It’s a valid point. Score one for Hurley. “Hmm, yes,” I say, unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed. “There is that.”
Aaron looks momentarily distraught, but then he brightens and says, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to hurry up and solve the case then. I’m a patient man. I can wait.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Aaron is a handsome and presumably wealthy man, who seems to have his head on straight, unlike his siblings. I can’t deny some small attraction to him but I’m not sure I’m interested in dating him. Still, I’m amused enough by Hurley’s growing discomfort to leave things open for now.