Scared Stiff (8 page)
He considers my answer and nods. “You’re right. Everyone has secrets. Just when you think you know someone . . .” His voice trails off and we exchange knowing glances. Erik, like everyone else who works at the hospital, is well aware of my recent history with David and it seems that the destruction of our respective marriages has created an odd sort of bond between us.
“So tell me your thoughts,” I say again. “Why would anyone kill Shannon?”
Erik shakes his head and stares miserably at his feet. “I wish I knew. The only person I can think of is this shrink she was dating. He strikes me as a shady character but I realize I’m biased.”
I nod thoughtfully, acknowledging his prejudice. “What is it about him that you don’t like, other than the obvious?”
Erik shrugs. “He’s got veiled eyes. You know what I mean, the kind of eyes that always look like they’re hiding something. And he never answers a question directly. Instead he always asks another question.”
This doesn’t surprise me and I’m not sure I agree with Erik’s assessment. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors in general are trained to answer questions with questions. It’s a standard tool taught in Psych 101. What Erik is interpreting as veiled eyes may simply be Nelson’s attempt to look objective and impassive when others are talking to him.
“How long had Shannon been dating him?”
“A couple months, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did she share any thoughts about him with you?”
He looks sheepish. “We didn’t discuss him much. I admit I had a tendency to get rather, um, emotional whenever the topic arose.”
“Understandable,” I say. Then I quickly shift gears on him. “Shannon was shot with a .38 and Detective Hurley says you own one.”
Erik nods. “They came early yesterday morning and tore my place apart looking for it and any other evidence.”
“Did they find any?”
“How could they? I didn’t do this, Mattie.”
“So where is the gun?”
“I left it with Shannon.” He pauses and lets forth a pained, ironic laugh. “I figured she could use it for protection since she was living alone. She said she was afraid of the stupid thing and would never touch it, but I left it with her just the same and suggested that she get some lessons on how to use it.”
“Do you know where she kept it?”
“Last time I saw it, it was in the spare bedroom closet.”
“When did you last see it there?”
His brow furrows as he thinks. “I’m not sure. Several weeks ago, I think. I came by to pick up some of my clothes and I saw the box in its usual spot up on the shelf.” He pauses a moment and then asks, “Do you know the time of death yet?”
“It looks like she was killed around eight P.M., give or take a couple of hours.”
Erik’s shoulders sag and I know he comprehends the significance of this finding. “It doesn’t look good for me, does it?” he says, looking utterly miserable.
“There’s no hard evidence pointing to you. Everything is circumstantial and it’s still pretty early in the investigation.”
His expression brightens for a second, but it’s short-lived because the door to our room opens and I turn to see Hurley standing there with a couple of uniform cops.
“Erik Tolliver,” Hurley says, “you are under arrest for the murder of Shannon Tolliver. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . .”
As Hurley recites his Miranda warning, the two cops approach Erik, who willingly succumbs to being handcuffed. He mutters an acknowledgment of his rights when asked, then allows the officers to steer him from the room. I watch as he’s paraded through the ER, looking ashamed, humiliated, and completely without hope. The ER staff and patients watch in silence, but I can tell they are all mentally rehearsing their respective recital of the events for later.
My heart goes out to Erik and, as the cops lead him out the doors toward a waiting patrol car, I give Hurley a dirty look. “That was tacky. Couldn’t you have done this somewhere other than his place of work? And aren’t you being a bit premature?”
“Not at all,” he answers. I expect him to look smug but seeing the effect Erik’s arrest has had on me, he looks sympathetic instead. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I think he means it.
But it doesn’t change the facts, and after seeing the pathetic look of dejection on Erik’s face, I’m more motivated than ever to get to the truth.
Chapter 12
A
fter saying my good-byes to the ER crew, I head for my car, knowing what I have to do next but dreading it. Erik is going to need a lawyer, a good one, and I know one of the best: my brother-in-law, Lucien. Unfortunately, being a good lawyer doesn’t require charm, finesse, or good taste, and Lucien is a shining example of this fact. He behaves like a sexist pig and lacks any sense of tact or political correctness. He is famous, or perhaps infamous, for his free use of words like
poontang, diddlywhacker,
and
rib bumpers.
Once, at a party David and I had, Lucien vocalized his fondness for women who cater to fast-food restaurants because, “we are what we eat and that means they’re all fast, cheap, and easy.”
fter saying my good-byes to the ER crew, I head for my car, knowing what I have to do next but dreading it. Erik is going to need a lawyer, a good one, and I know one of the best: my brother-in-law, Lucien. Unfortunately, being a good lawyer doesn’t require charm, finesse, or good taste, and Lucien is a shining example of this fact. He behaves like a sexist pig and lacks any sense of tact or political correctness. He is famous, or perhaps infamous, for his free use of words like
poontang, diddlywhacker,
and
rib bumpers.
Once, at a party David and I had, Lucien vocalized his fondness for women who cater to fast-food restaurants because, “we are what we eat and that means they’re all fast, cheap, and easy.”
I’ve never understood what my sister, Desi, sees in Lucien, though as far as I can tell he is a faithful and loving husband despite his belief that developing a hard-on is a form of personal growth. He is also a wonderful father to his daughter, Erika, and his son, Ethan, who despite some odd idiosyncrasies are both bright, sweet kids. Twelve-year-old Erika seems to have inherited her father’s flair for attention-getting behavior, a trait she exhibits through her appearance rather than her speech. Her clothes are typically dark, mismatched, and oversized, and her hair color changes on a regular basis, ranging from raven black to hot pink. Ethan, who just turned ten, is brilliant but far less outgoing and flamboyant. Desi calls him her mini nerd. He prefers to hole up in his room alone much of the time, though that might be because no one else wants to go in there. The kid is enthralled with bugs of all kinds and his room holds a creepy but fascinating collection.
As I dial Lucien’s office number and listen to the phone ring on the other end, part of me hopes he won’t be available. Talking to him is an exercise in extreme patience that I’m not sure I’m up for today. But as luck would have it, he’s not only in, he answers his own phone.
“Lucien, it’s Mattie.”
“Well, hello, Sweet Cheeks! What goodly deed did I do to warrant a call from you?” In my mind I think it’s more the other way around—what horrible thing did I do to deserve the punishment of having to talk to him? “If you’re calling to thank me for that picture thing, there’s no need. It’s all in the family, so to speak.” He lets forth with a salacious chuckle.
The picture thing he’s referring to is a shot of me standing bare-chested next to Joey, a gigantic hulk of a man who despite being a little slow in some areas has a savant ability when it comes to computers and programming. Joey also fancies himself something of a superhero and even dresses the part by wearing a skintight, red hero suit—complete with cape—under his regular clothes. How I came to be standing bare-chested next to Joey is a story in itself, one that nearly rivals the infamous nipple incident. Unfortunately, it was Alison who took the picture, and in an effort to keep her from publishing it in the local paper, I had Lucien serve her with an injunction. In the process, he got a copy of the picture. I shudder to think what he’s been doing with it since then.
Still, as trying as Lucien can be, he’s a successful criminal defense lawyer who, more often than not, wins his cases. I’ve long held the belief that he wins by embarrassing, harassing, or simply talking his opponents to death. However unbecoming his behavior might be, it’s effective. Bracing myself, I tell him why I’m calling.
“No, it’s not that. I’m calling to ask a favor.”
“Let me guess. You’re starting to feel a bit pent up with your new single life and you want me to fix you up with somebody, right? Can do, Babycakes. With those headlights of yours you should be able to snag a great bosom buddy, if you know what I mean.” In my mind’s eye I can see him wiggling his eyebrows. “And you’re smart to get right to it while you still have them on high beams, if you get my drift.”
Sadly, I did. But despite the fact that any moron would get one of Lucien’s crass innuendos, he clarifies.
“You’re no spring chicken, anymore, Mattie. With tatas the size of yours, it won’t be long before you’ll have to pierce your belly button so you’ve got something you can hook your bra onto.” His comment makes me straighten up and pull my shoulders back. “Dally too long and you’ll be well beyond your freshness date. I’m only telling you this, Sweet Cheeks, because you’re family and I want you to be happy.”
I mentally calculate the odds of anyone Lucien would fix me up with making me happy and figure I’d be better off strutting my stuff on the streets.
“So give me some guidelines,” he goes on. “Are you looking for a serious commitment kind of thing, or just a fuck buddy?”
“I’m fine in that regard, Lucien, but thanks.”
“You sure? ’Cause I got a friend who’s also going through a divorce and he’s been answering the bone-a-phone so much lately he’s about worn his johnson out. “
“Yes, Lucien. I’m sure.” I barely take a breath before my next sentence, not wanting to give him another chance to pursue his current line of thinking. “I’m calling because I want to know if you’ll consider representing someone who I don’t think can afford your usual fees.”
“You want me to do a pro bono thing?”
“Well, discounted rather than totally free, but yes.”
“Who, and what’s the rap?”
I fill him in on the case against Erik, sharing what I know, which to be honest, isn’t much.
“You think this guy is innocent?” Lucien asks me.
“I do, but I don’t have anything concrete to base it on right now,” I admit. “I need to look into some things.”
“Are there any other suspects?”
“Nothing definite yet, but there’s a boyfriend I need to talk to, some new shrink here in town.”
Lucien groans. I know from past conversations with him that he doesn’t like shrinks of any kind. I suspect it’s because he’s had dealings with them in the past and been told things he didn’t want to hear, giving him a prejudice I’m hoping will work in my favor for now.
“Okay,” Lucien says. “Because you’re family I’ll talk to the guy and look at the case against him, but I’m not making any promises yet.”
“That’s fine. Let me know what you think after you do.”
“Will do, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Thanks, Lucien.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he cautions. “I’m not promising to take the case, and even if I do, you don’t know what I might ask for as a return favor.”
The possibilities are frightening.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I say warily.
“Oh, yes,” Lucien says, as I suppress a shudder. “I’m sure we can.”
Chapter 13
I
stop at home long enough to check on my kitten, Rubbish. He is glad to see me and mews cutely as he runs figure eights around my feet, darn near tripping me up. After a few minutes of kitty nuzzling, I get a call on my cell from the office. It’s Cass, our receptionist/file clerk/secretary. As an amateur thespian, Cass likes to dress up and play her roles on a 24-7 basis. As a result, in the month or so I’ve worked there I’ve seen her come to work dressed as a sixties-era hippie, Little Orphan Annie, a pregnant yuppie mom, an old woman, and a Goth queen. Her makeup, hair, clothing, and body language are usually so well done that if it wasn’t for her voice, I wouldn’t know it was Cass most of the time. She’s good enough with accents that even the voice isn’t a guarantee. I wonder what she looks like today.
stop at home long enough to check on my kitten, Rubbish. He is glad to see me and mews cutely as he runs figure eights around my feet, darn near tripping me up. After a few minutes of kitty nuzzling, I get a call on my cell from the office. It’s Cass, our receptionist/file clerk/secretary. As an amateur thespian, Cass likes to dress up and play her roles on a 24-7 basis. As a result, in the month or so I’ve worked there I’ve seen her come to work dressed as a sixties-era hippie, Little Orphan Annie, a pregnant yuppie mom, an old woman, and a Goth queen. Her makeup, hair, clothing, and body language are usually so well done that if it wasn’t for her voice, I wouldn’t know it was Cass most of the time. She’s good enough with accents that even the voice isn’t a guarantee. I wonder what she looks like today.
“I have some work for you, Mattie,” she says when I answer. “Izzy is getting his annual physical and he’s close to being done but needs a little more time. So he wants you and Arnie to go to the site and get things started.”
“Where and what?” I ask.
“It’s two bodies from some kind of car accident.”
Two
bodies? Things were starting to hop here in Sorenson. “Apparently a couple kids looking for an isolated place to smoke some weed found a wreck in the trees off Crawford Road. The bodies are pinned inside the wreckage. Based on the plates and make of the car, the cops think it’s a couple from Illinois who went missing weeks ago.”
Two
bodies? Things were starting to hop here in Sorenson. “Apparently a couple kids looking for an isolated place to smoke some weed found a wreck in the trees off Crawford Road. The bodies are pinned inside the wreckage. Based on the plates and make of the car, the cops think it’s a couple from Illinois who went missing weeks ago.”
“Okay,” I tell her, mentally rearranging my day. This kind of unpredictability might throw some people off but I thrive on it. That’s one of the reasons I was attracted to the ER, where Murphy’s Law always seems to rule. If there is a snowy field surrounded by barbed wire, some drunken yahoo is going to go flying across it on a snowmobile in the middle of the night. If there’s a major trauma case coming in, that’s when the X-ray machine always breaks. If someone mentions how quiet the shift is, you’ll have a Smurf—someone in severe respiratory distress—appear within seconds. And heaven help you if you decide to order food delivered for your shift meal. As soon as the order is placed, everyone in town will flock to the ER. Most ER nurses excel at eating on the run and in some very strange places. I just excel at eating.
“Is Arnie in the office?” I ask Cass.
“He is.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“Will do. And . . . um . . . Mattie?” There’s a short pause before she adds, “There’s one other thing Izzy wanted me to tell you.”
Based on her hesitation, I suspect it won’t be good news. “Go ahead.”
“The car was pretty well hidden in the trees so these bodies have been out there a while, most likely for the whole two weeks they’ve been missing.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. “I see.”
Bodies that are weeks old mean serious decay, and I haven’t yet done a bad decomp. But Izzy, who has referred to such bodies as “bloaters” and “slippers,” has talked about them enough that I know I’m in for a challenge. Rotting bodies don’t look or smell very good, and while I feel pretty comfortable dealing with blood, guts, and ghastly wounds, I’ve never seen or smelled a rotting corpse. This is virgin territory for me.
“Hold on a sec,” Cass says. “Izzy wanted me to call him on his cell and conference with you.”
I wait nervously, wondering just how awful this is going to be. A minute or so goes by and then I hear Izzy’s voice on my phone.
“Mattie, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Cass filled you in on the situation?”
“She did.”
I am about to elaborate when I hear a male voice in the background speaking to Izzy. “Do you want to bend over now or should I wait until you’re done on the phone?” Izzy tells me to hold on a second and I hear his muffled voice as he answers, though I can’t make out any of the words.
“Mattie?” he says, returning to the phone. “I should only be here another half hour or so. You and Arnie snap some photos, get what info you can from the cops, and do your basic scene sketches. But wait until I get there to do anything with the bodies.”
“Okay.”
“This will be your first experience with serious decomp. Are you okay with that?”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him with far more conviction than I feel.
“All right then. Go ahead, but take it slow.” I’m about to ask him another question when I hear him suck in his breath and yelp, “Damn it, Adam! I was talking to her, not you,” followed by the doctor’s hasty apology.
I can’t help but giggle and when Izzy hears me he says, “Knock it off or I’ll start revealing your real name to everyone.”
“My lips are sealed,” I say, suddenly serious. Other than Izzy, no one outside of my family knows my real name. I’ve always assumed my mother was on some really good drugs when she gave it to me. Fortunately, the only place it can be found is on my birth certificate. Mother apparently took pity on me afterward and nicknamed me Mattie. It’s the only name anyone has ever used since.
“See you out there, Izzy,” I say, and then I disconnect before I can hear anything else.
Five minutes later I’m at the office, changed into a pair of scrubs, and on my way upstairs to Arnie’s lab. I’m still trying to shake off the mental image of Izzy bent over an exam table getting his where-the-sun-don’t-shine probe, and I’m almost looking forward to the distraction of badly decomposed bodies.
Arnie spends most of his time entrenched in his second-floor lab. Our facilities are well equipped and larger than one might expect to find in a town of this size because the ME’s office covers not just Sorenson, but the entire county, even overlapping into adjacent counties at times. When Izzy took the ME’s position seven years ago, he was pretty aggressive in securing some of the very best and latest equipment for the office. As a result, we now process some of our own evidence whereas in years past it was all sent to Madison, a practice that led to increased expenses and considerable delays. But our machinery capabilities are far greater than our manpower. As our only lab tech, Arnie does on-call time twenty-four-seven and typically puts in sixty-plus hours a week, a situation that is beginning to wear on him. Izzy has hinted that he would like me to take some classes and become certified to work as Arnie’s assistant but he hasn’t pushed it too hard yet, given that I’m still learning what I need to know to function as Izzy’s assistant.
In the meantime, Arnie manages what he can and ships the rest off to the Madison lab. He hates sending anything out and would prefer to keep it all in-house, but as a one-man department, his abilities are limited.
Before coming to work with Izzy, Arnie was as an evidence technician for the L.A. Coroner’s office. I’m not sure why he left there or how he ended up in Podunk, Wisconsin, and when I’ve tried to ask him or Izzy about it, they always skirt around the issue. I suspect it might have something to do with Arnie’s fixation on conspiracy theories. He believes there are eyes in the sky watching our every move, spies circulating among us disguised as homeless people, and that the moon landing was faked but aliens really did crash in Roswell. Despite his paranoia and my suspicion that most of his friends wear aluminum foil hats, I like Arnie.
I find him in his lab, his head bent over a microscope, and he hails me by name without looking up, before I can say a word.
“It creeps me out the way you do that,” I tell him.
He shrugs, switches the magnification on his microscope, and says, “I can tell from the scents and the way people walk. It’s a talent you hone after a while.” He finally looks up at me, squinting as his eyes adjust focus. “What can I do for you?”
“There are a couple of bodies in a car wreck in the woods off Crawford Road, and Izzy wants the two of us to go out and start the preliminaries.”
“Without him?”
“For now. He’ll meet us there as soon as he’s done getting his alien anal probe.”
Arnie’s eyebrows shoot up with interest.
“He’s getting his annual physical,” I explain.
“Ah,” Arnie says. He grimaces and squirms a bit in his seat before pushing back from the table, shrugging off his lab coat, and gathering up his scene kit. “Tell me what you know,” he says.
“The cops think it’s a couple from Illinois who went missing two weeks ago. Apparently the bodies are in an advanced state of decomp.”
Arnie looks intrigued. “I wonder if it’s the Heinrichs.”
“Who?”
“Gerald and Bitsy Heinrich?” he says, looking at me like he can’t believe I don’t know them. “The oil magnate and his trophy wife?”
I shrug and he shakes his head, clearly disappointed. Then he enlightens me.
“Gerald Heinrich is the only child and sole heir of 1940s Chicago oil baron Dietmar Heinrich. Estimates list Gerald’s wealth in the billions. His first wife, Maggie, died from some type of cancer and he remarried a few years ago to a woman named Elizabeth, or Bitsy, Conklin. Bitsy used to be a . . . hmm, how should I say it . . . a specialty dancer.”
“You mean a stripper?”
“That, yes. But rumor had it she went a little farther than that in her heyday, providing private lap dances to certain clients, if you get my drift.”
I did.
“Come ride in the evidence van with me and I’ll fill you in on the rest,” Arnie says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “This promises to be an interesting day.”
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