Lucky Stiff (34 page)

“Maybe,” Hurley says, looking deep in thought. “But what about that head injury Donald had? Nothing in this note explains that.”

“No, but I think I can. We know from the lack of bleeding in the tissue that the injury occurred post-mortem. I think it happened while Charlotte was trying to dispose of the body. Donald was a big guy, and even with Hannah helping, he had to have been a handful because he was deadweight. Literally. My guess is they dropped him.”

Hurley nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense,” he says. “Let’s run it past Izzy and make sure everything is in keeping with the autopsy evidence. Then I guess we’ll need to pay Charlotte another visit.” He starts to turn away, but I grab his arm and pull him back.

“Wait, what are you planning to do?”

“What do you mean? I just told you what I’m going to do.”

“I mean, what are you going to do to Charlotte? She’s had a pretty rough time of it already, and the fact that we discovered this isn’t going to make her happy. But I don’t want to compound that by arresting her for what she did. Those kids need her, now more than ever.”

Hurley looks askance at me. “Are you saying you think we should just let her get away with it? She’s committed at least two felonies I can think of, and I’m sure I can come up with more.”

“I know, but I just hate to see that family torn up any more than it already is. Isn’t there some way we can minimize the aftermath?”

Hurley stares at me for several long seconds, and then says, “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

He lets out an exasperated breath. “I need a drink.”

“I think you’ve had plenty already,” I say, but he ignores me, flags down the bartender, and orders a beer.

“You want anything?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “I’ll try to get hold of Izzy while you do more damage to your liver.”

I limp my way through the crowd and step outside, where there is less noise interference. I take out my cell and dial Izzy’s number. He answers on the third ring.

“Hey,” I say, “I think we’ve had a bit of a break regarding the Strommen case.” I tell him about the paper, the contents of the note that was written, and my theory about Donald Strommen’s death.

“It all makes sense,” Izzy says when I’m done. “Though it’s too bad the note wasn’t recognized and handled as evidence right away. Have you told Hurley yet?”

“I just did. He’s here with me now.”

“Where is here?”

“We’re at the Nowhere bar. But don’t worry, the only one getting snockered is Hurley.”

“Should I ask?”

“Probably not.”

“So what’s Hurley plan to do now?”

“That’s still a bit up in the air at the moment.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Then I guess just keep me posted.”

“Will do.” I end the call and head back inside. My ankle is swelling more with each passing minute, and the pain is increasing as well. I need to get Hurley out of here and back home so I can get off my feet. I find him standing where I left him; half of his beer is gone already.

Someone has put money in the jukebox and loud music is adding to the cacophony of voices, making it hard to hear. I get up close to Hurley’s ear and say, “I just got off the phone with Izzy, and he agrees with our interpretation of things.”

We do a little head jog that puts Hurley’s lips at my ear. “We can’t just ignore this, Winston,” he says.

“I know. But why don’t we go home and sleep on it. Then we can regroup in the morning and discuss what to do.”

Hurley shakes his head, takes a swig of his beer, and then leans into my ear again. “I know you’re not going to give up,” he says. “You’re too damn stubborn.” He punctuates the comment with an attempt at a laugh, but it comes out as a belch, instead. “Shit, sorry,” he says. “That’s what happens when you have a gut full of booze.”

His words, and the boozy smell of his breath, turn on a lightbulb in my head. And in a series of mental flashes, I recall the smell of my barfy seatmate on the plane, and the lingering odor of alcohol when I cleaned up Hurley’s car. My eyes grow huge and I grab Hurley by the shoulders. “That’s it!” I say loudly. “That’s what was bothering me!”

Hurley looks confused. “My belching?”

“No, no, not that. The smell of alcohol. Or, rather, the lack thereof.”

Hurley shakes his head as if he’s trying to rattle something loose.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing him by the arm. “We need to get out of here.”

We manage to get to the car, despite the fact that neither of us is walking very well. I start the engine to warm us up and try to call Izzy back on my cell. It flips over to voice mail and I leave a message for him to meet us at the office ASAP.

“Where are we going?” Hurley asks as I pull out of the lot.

“To my office. I need to take another look at the file on Jack’s autopsy.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember me telling you about the guy I was sitting next to on the plane?”

“Look, I said I was sorry you had to be alone through all of that, but it—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. It’s not important right now.”

Hurley gives me a wounded look.

“What is important is that this guy had a lot to drink. When he started puking into his airsick bag, I could smell the alcohol he’d consumed. It permeated the air. Something about it nudged at my brain, but I couldn’t figure out why at first. The same thing happened when I smelled lingering alcohol fumes in both my car and yours after my . . . indulgence.”

Hurley’s brow furrows as he tries to follow my logic, but our conversation stops because we’ve arrived at the office.

Slowly we make our way inside—Hurley because his step is still a bit unsteady and I because my ankle is killing me. I head for Izzy’s office and dig through the files on his desk until I find Jack’s. Opening it, I thumb through the paperwork, searching for what I need. I find it, read it, and then show it to Hurley.

“This is the report on Jack’s stomach contents.”

Hurley squints as he reads it. “Yeah, so? We already know about the garlic.”

“Never mind what the report says
was
in his stomach. Focus on what isn’t there. That’s what was bothering me—what I
didn’t
smell during the autopsy.”

“I’m not following you,” Hurley says irritably.

“Think about it, Hurley. If Jack drank enough to get his blood level as high as it was, how come there’s no alcohol in his stomach contents?”

Chapter 32

Hurley frowns and rakes a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he says. “I can’t believe we missed that.”

“Missed what?” says a voice behind us.

We both turn around to find Izzy standing there. I hand him the report and say, “Why isn’t there any alcohol in Jack’s stomach contents?”

Izzy frowns, too; then he gives himself a slap on the side of his head. “Oh, hell,” he says. “I knew something was off when we were doing the autopsy, but I never figured out what it was.”

Hurley runs his hand through his hair again, making it stand up like a cockatoo comb. “But the alcohol had to get into his system somehow. Could it have moved into the intestines already?”

I shake my head. “No, he still had food in his stomach, and that would have delayed emptying to some extent. And with his blood alcohol as high as it was, he had to have consumed a large amount that same morning, just prior to his death.”

“Then how did it get into his blood?”

Izzy and I exchange a look. “Intravenously?” I pose.

Hurley looks askance. “You can give that stuff in an IV?”

“Sure,” I tell him. “Years ago they used to use alcohol in an IV to stop premature labor in pregnant women.”

Izzy adds, “And there were some controversial studies done years ago using intravenous ethanol on acutely ill alcoholic patients to forestall dangerous withdrawal symptoms. The right dose of IV alcohol could have rendered Jack stuporous without killing him.”

“Wouldn’t that leave a mark?” Hurley asks.

Izzy nods. “Normally, it would. But remember, Jack’s arms were burned so badly it would be hard or even impossible to find such a mark. I might be able to find some inflammation in the underlying tissue; but other than that, we may be out of luck. I’ll take another look at Jack’s body, but don’t hold your hopes up too high.”

Hurley looks thoughtful and I can tell he’s sussing out the implications. “If this theory is right, and there was an IV involved, would Lisa Warden know how to do it?”

I shrug. “Possibly. Anyone with a medical background might know how. EMTs are often trained to do them. Veterinary assistants can do them. I suppose even a layperson could learn how.” I add this last bit in, because I’m feeling a little defensive of my kind. As a nurse, I don’t want to believe that another person in the medical profession would commit such a heinous act, even though a rogue mercy killer or an occasional adrenaline-seeking psycho who kills patients for the excitement of a code situation crops up in the news now and then.

“I suppose we should take another look at Jack’s body,” Izzy says.

We nod our agreement; and half an hour later, we’re gathered in the autopsy room with Jack’s body laid out on the table. With magnifying glasses, Izzy examines what’s left of Jack’s arms, but he shakes his head after several minutes. “There’s too much damage to the tissue. I can barely find enough to examine, and what I do see is so charred that I’m afraid it’s useless. I’m sorry.”

While Izzy goes about closing up the body bag and returning Jack to the morgue’s cold storage, Hurley and I step out into the hall and lean against the wall. Hurley closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

“Headache?” I ask.

He nods.

“I’m not surprised. You had quite a bit to drink today. Want some ibuprofen? I have a bottle in my locker and I could use some myself for this damned ankle of mine. It’s killing me.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I have some at home. And I think that’s where we should both go for now. I’ll look into getting search warrants for the nursing agency and Lisa Warden’s apartment and we can start fresh in the morning. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some evidence to support the IV theory. We can head back to the Strommen place then, too, to deal with Charlotte.”

“Okay. Where and when do you want to meet up?”

“It’s going to take me a little while to get the warrants. Why don’t we plan to meet around noon? I’ll come by your office and pick you up. If there’s any change to that, I’ll call you.”

We tell Izzy good night and I drive Hurley back to his house, dropping him off out front. By the time I get back to the cottage, my ankle is swollen beyond recognition and throbbing like a toothache. I let Hoover outside to do his business. When he’s done making yellow snow, I lock the front door and go for some ibuprofen. When I open my medicine cabinet, I see the bottle of Vicodin that was prescribed for me by the doctor in Georgia. Thinking my pain is big enough to warrant the stronger med, I take one. After changing into my jammies, I hobble out to the couch and settle in with the remote in hand, my phone on the end table, a throw over my body, and a pillow beneath my foot.

The next thing I know, my phone is ringing. I start awake and glance at my watch; it’s one in the morning. I grab for the phone, nearly dropping it on the floor.

“Hello?” I answer irritably.

“Mattie, it’s Izzy. We have a call.”

“I thought we were off duty until morning.”

“We were, but the covering coroner already has two other cases at opposite ends of his own county, so he called to see if we could pick up a little earlier than planned.”

Crap
. “Okay, give me five minutes?”

“Meet me at my car.”

The pain medication seems to have helped. But when I toss back my throw and look at my foot, I’m horrified to see that it’s still grossly swollen and the skin around it contains nearly every shade in the visible color spectrum. The bulk of it is blue and purple, but there are also hints of green, yellow, and red. At first, I think I’m going to have to call Izzy back and tell him to go on without me. However, when I give the injured foot a tentative road test, I discover that the Vicodin I took earlier did its job. The foot is still tender and the ankle is a bit wobbly; and while I won’t win any prizes for grace, I can walk on it.

I dress as fast as I can and find Izzy outside with the motor running, waiting for me. I ease into the front seat, wedging myself in behind the dash. At least this way, I can’t see my foot anymore. Despite the fact that the heater outlets are only inches from my face, Izzy’s old car never seems to warm up very well. As a result, a blast of frigid air hits me full on.

“What do we have?” I ask, shivering against the cold and rubbing at my face. My nose itches like crazy, and I assume it’s because of the air blowing at me.

“The cops said it appears to be a drug overdose.”

As soon as Izzy says this, I realize that my itching has less to do with air than it does the Vicodin in my system. And in the interests of professional responsibility, I decide that I better tell Izzy what I took.

“Speaking of drugs, I took a Vicodin a while ago because my ankle was really throbbing.”

“Thanks for telling me. Did it help?”

“It did.” I rub at my nose again.

“Do you feel like you can function okay?”

“I think so. To be honest, I don’t feel much of an effect from it, other than the fact that my ankle feels a smidge better and my face is itching like crazy.”

“Good. When we get to the scene, I’ll do the bulk of the hands-on stuff and you can handle the pictures.”

“Sure, but if you see me do anything stupid, promise me you’ll tell me, okay?”

“I’m not worried. I trust you. You’ve got a good eye and a sharp mind for this work, Mattie. You’re a natural at it. Catching that bit about Jack’s stomach contents was brilliant.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed, about you and Hurley?”

“I have,” I say, thinking that so far my plan for financial independence isn’t going very well. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“You really are good at this job, and I know you don’t want to go back to work at the hospital. But if that’s what it takes to give you and Hurley a chance to see if whatever it is you two have can turn into something bigger, maybe it would be worth it. If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s that life is all too short.
Carpe diem
and all that, you know?”