Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) (17 page)

“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.”

S
ince 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?”

“They are looking into the other areas of your investigative efforts,” Trisha says in vague lawyer-speak.

Since I’m pretty sure Trisha isn’t going to elaborate any more than that, I shrug it off and do the basic introductions. “This is Regan Simmons, the evening charge nurse. Regan, this is Detective Steve Hurley with the Sorenson Police Department and Trisha Collins, one of the Twilight Home lawyers.”

“Regan, please have a seat,” Hurley says, gesturing to a chair across the table from him. “I would like to ask you a few questions regarding your boss’s murder.”

Trisha jumps in with her own set of instructions. “Ms. Simmons, you should understand that my presence here is to represent the facility. I am not your personal lawyer, nor am I here to protect your individual rights or interests. If you desire to have counsel present for yourself you will need to let Detective Hurley know that and obtain a lawyer. If you opt to move ahead at this time with any questions the detective might have, I would ask that any questions regarding the administrative aspects of the hospital be answered only by myself, one of my colleagues, or one of the board members. You may address questions about day-to-day functions you perform in the course of your duties. And of course, patient confidentiality is to be maintained at all times. Do you understand?”

Regan nods and then looks at Hurley. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s up to you. You are not under arrest and I’m not doing any sort of official interrogation at this point. We intend to speak to all the staff members as part of a general information gathering and you are the first. If you aren’t guilty, you don’t have anything to be concerned about. If at some point you reveal information that I think makes you a suspect, I will read you your rights.”

“Why did you pick me first?” Regan asks. She looks nervous, and at the moment, I’m the only one in the room who fully understands why.

“No particular reason,” Hurley says. “We had to wait for the lawyers to arrive, and when they did, I decided to start with the person or persons currently in charge and work my way down the pecking order. That’s all.”

“So I’m not a suspect at this point?” she asks.

“That’s correct,” Hurley says. “It’s my understanding that you work the evening shift from four to midnight and that you are typically the person in charge of the facility once the administrative people have left for the day. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are there any other nurses on duty with you?”

“Nurses? You mean registered nurses or LPNs?”

“Yes.”

“I typically work with a staff of just nursing assistants.”

“Who in the building has access to the patients’ medications?”

“Once the administrative people leave, I’m the only one who has that access. Our medications are kept in a locked room at the nurse’s station and there is one set of keys that is passed from nurse to nurse at the change of shift.”

“I see,” Hurley says. “Do any of the patients ever have access to, or administer their own medications?”

“They’re not supposed to, but it’s happened from time to time. Well-meaning family members sometimes bring things in, or the patients themselves will visit an urgent care clinic outside of their regular one during a day leave and get a doctor to prescribe something that they then fill and bring back with them. For some, it’s a matter of wanting to maintain a level of control over their own health management, for others, it’s a fear of embarrassment, or a desire to be secretive about their true health condition. It’s a dangerous practice because even simple over-the-counter medications like acetaminophen can cause problems serious enough to be life threatening if we don’t know someone is taking them.”

“How well did you know Mr. Chase?” Hurley asks, switching gears.

I watch Regan closely as she answers. Her face remains impassive, but I notice she is fiddling with her wedding ring.

“I knew him to say hello to him when I saw him.” There is the faintest quaver to her voice, so subtle that it could just be her normal manner of speech. “Our hours tend to run opposite one another so I didn’t see him that often. Usually it was at the start of my shift, when he was leaving for the day.”

“So he was a basic Monday through Friday, nine-to-five kind of guy?”

Regan shrugs. “I guess so.”

“You never saw him here in the evenings or on the weekends?”

“Maybe once in a while. Several of the administrative people have come in during off hours at times. It may be more often than I’m aware of because that administrative wing is locked in the evenings and on weekends. I imagine anyone coming in during those hours would use the back outside entrance since it’s closer to the employee parking lot.”

“Are you aware of anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Chase?” Hurley continues.

Regan lets out a nervous little giggle. “Well, there is that silly rumor the patients bounce around from time to time.”