Don't Go

by Lisa Scottoline

  “I don’t usually have a discussion like this with a surviving spouse, but if you feel it’s appropriate, I will.”

  “I do. Please, I’m a doctor.”

  Scott pursed his lips. “The knife wound was about a quarter-inch deep, but approximately five inches in length. We sutured it closed with a baseball stitch, sealed it with PERMASEAL, then added a layer of cotton web roll towel.”

  “Why do you do that, the towel?”

  Scott frowned, plainly uncomfortable. “To prevent leakage of embalming fluid or staining of her garment.”

  Mike swallowed hard. “She was exsanguinated when she came in, right?”

  “Yes, but as you may know, exsanguination sufficient to cause death is incomplete. Unlike doctors like yourself, who measure blood in liters, we speak in terms of blood weight, and your wife had three pounds of blood when she came to us.” Scott gestured at the coffin, but Mike didn’t look over. “Your wife is lying in repose, and since the wound was interior, we positioned her arm against the body, so the sleeve of the dress would hide the towel.”

  Mike thought of the white dress, then oddly, the underwear. “I’m sorry that we didn’t give you any, uh, underwear.”

  “That was no problem. We keep a supply of fresh packs in that event. Now, if you have no other questions, I’ll give you some privacy. Again, my deepest condolences.” Scott left the room silently.

  Mike walked over to a chair, sat down, braced himself, then made a conscious effort to raise his eyes to the casket. At the sight, his chest tightened with anguish, and tears came to his eyes. He heard a gasping sob and realized it came from him. He covered his mouth, holding in whatever he could. Crying, shouting, emotion. He looked at Chloe’s body, making himself see her.

  Her face was an inanimate mask of the memory he’d just had, a mannequin of herself. Her hair had been brushed in soft waves, her eyes were closed, and her eyelids lightly lined. Her lovely mouth was a glossy pink and curved into a sweet, natural smile, evidence of the mortician’s skill. She had on the white dress and brown shoes he’d picked out this morning. Profound sadness swept over him, and he hung his head, slumping in the chair.

  He had no idea how long he sat that way, collapsed. The envelope sat in his lap, and he opened it, mechanically. Inside was a white paper, and he pulled it out. It read DEATH CERTIFICATE, and he scanned the information: Decedent, Chloe Voulette. Sex, F. Date of Death, December 15. Age, 32. Date of Birth, July 13. Marital Status, Married. Surviving Spouse, Michael Scanlon. It sickened him to see his own name on Chloe’s death certificate. He felt horrified to be a Surviving Spouse.

  He read the Time of Death, between 5:30 P.M. and 6:00 P.M., and realized that he had been asleep when she died, half a world away. He didn’t wake up the moment she passed, like in the movies. He didn’t know she was gone. He didn’t even know she drank vodka. He didn’t know anything, anymore.

  He slid the certificate into the envelope and took out Chloe’s phone. It was a BlackBerry, and it was turned off. He pressed the ON button, and the phone came to life. The photo on her home screen caught him by the throat. It was of him, and he remembered the day she had taken it, a Sunday afternoon in early June, a week before his deployment. He’d been working in the yard with his shirt off while Chloe sat in the sun and Emily slept in her carryall, in the shade. Mike hadn’t realized Chloe was taking his picture until he happened to look up and ask her.

  What are you doing?

  What’s it look like I’m doing? Chloe snapped the photo. You’re hot, for a Dad. Nice smile, nice shoulders, nice abs. And that butt, break me off a piece of that!

  Stop it, lady. I’m married.

  Who cares? I’m more fun than your wife.

  I bet you are, but I love my wife.

  Mike looked at himself in the photo, because he was looking at her, with love. Chloe always said he was handsome, but he thought he looked regular, like a million other guys, straight nose, long face, brown hair, brown eyes. He didn’t know she had made him her backdrop photo, because when he left for Afghanistan, it was the baby. It touched him so deeply that she’d switched the photo, consciously choosing his picture, as if it were proof that she loved him, above all.

  His thumb scrolled over to the phone log, where he noticed the last call she’d received was from Danielle. He felt a pang when he saw that it came in on 12/15, the day she had died, at 4:28 P.M. Chloe couldn’t have answered the call, near death. He pressed Call Voicemail, then through to hear the message. Danielle’s voice was incongruously cheery, and she said: “Hey honey, hope you’re having a nice day. Emily and I are having a wonderful time at the mall. Just wondering if you wanted Chinese or Thai for dinner. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll surprise you. See you at five o’clock. Love you, honey.”

  Mike pressed END, agonized. He wished he had been there to save Chloe’s life, but he wasn’t even on the same continent, and Danielle was at the mall with Emily, happy and shopping, while Chloe lay bleeding to death. Then he realized something. Chloe had died between five thirty and six, and Danielle was due home at five. So Danielle must have come home late, by an hour. If she hadn’t been late, Chloe would still be alive. If she hadn’t stopped for takeout, Chloe would still be alive. There were a million what-ifs, and his what-if was the worst of all.

  Mike couldn’t take it anymore. He set the phone down, rose, crossed to the casket, and knelt stiffly on the cushioned pad. He gazed at Chloe’s body, breathing in the air around her, Febreezed rather than perfumed. His eyes found the towel covering her wound, a faint outline through her dress, but he didn’t have the heart to look closer. He wasn’t her doctor, he was her husband.

  And now, her Surviving Spouse.

  He placed his hands over hers, but they felt hard and so cold that his grief swallowed him up.

  Mike put his head down, and cried his heart out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mike slumped behind the wheel of Bob’s Mercedes, sitting in traffic on Lancaster Avenue. Exhaust floated between the cars in chalky plumes, and the dashboard clock read 5:45 P.M., as if to plague him. Less than a week ago tonight, at about this time, his wife was dying, which only raised more what-ifs. What if it hadn’t been the holidays, a Sunday, what if, what if, what if?

  The light turned green, and Mike cruised forward, then came to another stop, preoccupied. He’d driven this trip so many times after he’d picked up Thai takeout. Chloe liked the vegetarian red curry, with brown rice. He found himself wondering whether Danielle had picked up Thai food or Chinese that night. Thai would have gotten her home on time, but Chinese not.

  Mike fed the car some gas, then braked again. Up ahead he spotted a white-and-gold Wilberg Police cruiser, stuck in the same traffic. There had to be an official report about Chloe’s death. Suddenly his cell phone rang, and he dug in his jacket and retrieved it. The display read BOB RIDGEWAY, and he pressed ANSWER. “Hi, Bob.”

  “Mike, how you doing? I just called the funeral home, and they said you left.”

  “Yeah, I’m stuck in traffic.”

  “How was it? Does she look okay? The guy there, Scott, said she looked good.”

  “She looks fine” was all Mike could say.

  “Did you like the casket?”

  “Yes, Bob, thanks. Everything is all good.”

  “What time do you think you’ll be home? Danielle wants to know, she’s making dinner.”

  “I may be late, so don’t wait.” Mike hit the gas and traveled half a block until he had to brake again. “I’m thinking of stopping by the police station.”

  “Why?”

  “To see what their file looks like, on Chloe.”

  “Really?” Bob’s tone turned disapproving. “Why do you want to put yourself through that?”

  “I’m curious, I guess.” Mike didn’t know how to explain. More wanting to know everything.

  “There’s no point to it, Mike. What’re you gonna find out from the cops? Come home. Hold on, Danielle’s saying something.” B
ob must’ve covered the phone with his hand because Mike couldn’t make out what they were saying, though he could hear some back-and-forth between Bob and Danielle. “Mike, Danielle says, please come straight home. Dinner’s almost ready, and the baby’s awake. Danielle says you could spend time with her.”

  But Mike had his eye on the cruiser, which was turning left, toward the station.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mike walked up the pathway to the Wilberg police station, in a historic house that was typical of Chester County, long and narrow with white clapboard siding, a double-wide entrance door, and shutters painted a black enamel. Its front porch was lined with all-white holiday lights, and its roof covered with snow, as austere and lovely as if painted by Andrew Wyeth, whose family farm was only ten minutes south.

  Mike ascended the stairs and went to the door, where a sign read OFFICE HOURS, 9:00 A.M.–4:00 P.M. He wasn’t completely surprised that their small suburban town didn’t have a full-time police force, in this economy. Still, he could see that there was a light on inside, so he opened the door. It led to a carpeted, rectangular reception area with modern chairs, and an open reception window above a ledge held a call bell, like an old-time hotel.

  Mike walked to the window, where we could see a few uniformed policemen stuffing trash into a garbage bag. “Can you help me? My name is Mike Scanlon, I live on Foster Road.”

  “Hold on.” A cop in a dark blue uniform came to the window, smiling in a professional way. He wore a gold badge and a thick utility belt with his service revolver. “I’m Officer Ketrube. We’re not usually open this late, but a few of us got stuck cleaning up after the holiday party. What can I do for you?”

  “My wife Chloe Voulette died last Sunday, in an accident in our home. My sister-in-law found her and called 911. I was wondering if there was a police report.”

  “Of course, my condolences.” Officer Ketrube slid a form from behind him and set it on the ledge. “Just fill this out, and we can get you a copy of the report.”

  “Thank you.” Mike took the form, which read Right-To-Know Request Form.

  “Under Request Submitted By, check the box for In Person. Here’s a pen.” Officer Ketrube passed him a blue ballpoint, and Mike filled out the form.

  “So when there’s a 911 call, you make a report of what happened?”

  “Yes. We call it an incident report or a blotter. It’s a computer-generated form, filled out by the patrol officer who responded to the call. It states generally what took place. Date, time, event, like that.”

  “Here we go.” Mike finished the form and pushed it back across the desk.

  “Thank you. May I see your driver’s license?”

  “Sure.” Mike slid his wallet from his back pocket, extracted his driver’s license and military ID, and handed it over. “Can I wait for the report?”

  “No. It takes five days. My lieutenant reviews all request forms, and by law we don’t have to produce it for five days.”

  “Damn.” Mike didn’t hide his disappointment. “I’m on funeral leave from Afghanistan, and I have to go back. Can’t you help me out? I’d appreciate anything you can do.”

  “Sometimes we can make an exception for emergency circumstances, but that’s up to the lieutenant. Hang tight.” Officer Ketrube left the window, and Mike glanced around. On the wall hung six framed portraits of uniformed police officers, their hands folded in her lap, next to an American flag and the blue flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. In the next minute, Officer Ketrube reappeared at the window, accompanied by an older officer, who wore a suit and tie.

  “Dr. Scanlon, I’m Lieutenant Ashe. My sympathies on the loss of your wife. I understand it’s a difficult situation, with your being home such a short time. My brother’s on his third tour in Iraq. He got stop-lossed.”

  “I know how that goes. They don’t do that to the docs. So what do you think, Lieutenant? Can you help me out with the report?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lieutenant Ashe nodded, with a tight smile. “Given the situation, and your serving our country, I’m not going to make you wait.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “Here we go.” Lieutenant Ashe slid a paper across the counter, and Mike looked down. The top read Incident Report Form, WBT, 12–00746, and all of the blocks were filled in: under Reporting Person/Caller was typed Danielle Voulette Ridgeway, with her birthday, age, race, sex, Social Security number, and driver’s license number. Under Responding Units, it read Vehicle Number 746, Patrol Officers deHill and Gerard. Below that was a short narrative, a few lines that described his nightmare:

  Victim CHLOE VOULETTE, Caucasian female, age 32, resides 637 Foster Road, Wilberg, PA, found at residence, apparently deceased of a single, self-inflicted knife wound to left arm, from household accident. Victim found by DANIELLE RIDGEWAY, relationship to victim, sister. DANIELLE RIDGEWAY called 911 upon arrival and discovery, 6:32 pm. Patrol Officer deHill called coroner, victim pronounced dead on scene, 6:50 pm.

  “This says 911 was called at 6:32 P.M.” Mike thought it seemed strange that Danielle got home that late, especially given the baby’s schedule and the dinner hour, and she hadn’t called Chloe to say she’d be late.

  “Correct.” Lieutenant Ashe tilted his head to read the form. “That time is accurate. That’s the time we received the call in the radio room. Each call gets logged when it comes in. The tape of the calls are at County. If you want to hear the tape, you can fill out another form, but that will take three days and I can’t waive it.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Mike didn’t want to hear Danielle in her worst moment. He hated those 911 recordings, even on TV.

  “Okay, then. Take this.” Lieutenant Ashe slid another form across the counter. “It’s a letter from me, saying your request was formally granted.”

  “Thank you.” Mike folded the papers in thirds and put them in his coat pocket.

  “You’re welcome.” Lieutenant Ashe nodded again. “I’d wish you happy holidays, but I can’t imagine this will be an easy time for you.”

  “No, but thanks, anyway.” Mike forced a smile, left the window, and walked out, wondering if he could find a way to understand why Danielle had been late that night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mike felt the tension as soon as he stepped into the living room. Danielle looked up from a floral needlepoint she’d been stitching, under a high-intensity lamp with a magnifying glass attached to its stem, and Bob glanced over from a wing chair, with his laptop. Its screen cast white squares of light onto his reading glasses, and he’d changed into a blue fleece pullover and jeans. A big TV played a 30 Rock rerun on mute, and the gas fireplace flickered behind smoked glass.

  Mike didn’t know what was wrong. “Hi everybody, sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not late.” Danielle set aside her needlepoint, rose, and came over. She seemed tired, and her lips tilted down at the corners. “So what did the police say?”

  “Nothing really new.” Mike avoided her troubled gaze. “How’s the baby? Did she go to sleep already?”

  “Yes, she went down, sorry. We tried to keep her up, but it’s not good for her, you understand.”

  “Sure, totally.” Mike realized that it was around 7:30 now. “What time does she go to bed?”

  “She eats at five thirty, gets a bath, and is in bed by seven, usually.”

  Mike didn’t understand. It confirmed his sense that Danielle had gotten home oddly late the night Chloe died. He glanced at Bob, who had returned to his laptop. “Hey Bob, how was court, or your conference?”

  “Annoying. The damn case didn’t settle, so I have a ton of work to do.”

  “Too bad.” Mike figured that explained his bad mood. “By the way, the funeral director gave me Chloe’s cell phone. They said you’d left it.”

  “I totally forgot.” Bob didn’t look over. “So you got it, good.”

  “Yeah, no worries.” Mike took off his coat, but his papers fell out of his jacket pocket onto the
rug, and Danielle bent over to pick them up, frowning.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, whoops.” Mike was kicking himself. “It’s the police report. They gave it to me at the station.”

  “Oh no, no.” Danielle flushed as she glanced at the papers, stricken. “I don’t want to see this, please, Mike. Take it away.”

  “Sorry.” Mike felt a wave of guilt at her anguish, and Bob looked over, frowning.

  “What is it the police told you? Anything?”

  “Nothing, really.” Mike lost the will to suck Danielle into his what-if vortex, and she took his arm, gently.

  “No need to apologize, but let’s not talk about this anymore, please. You must be starved.”

  “Thanks.” Mike went with her into the kitchen, where a place setting waited for him, and he sat down.

  “Mike, if you want my advice, this is exhausting and only going to get worse, so you should eat, watch a little TV, and get yourself to bed.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Mike sipped some water, and Danielle went to the stove and ladled rice and beef stew onto a plate, its rich aroma filling the air. She carried the bowl over and set it down.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Mike picked up his fork and tasted a piece of meat, which was probably delicious, but he didn’t feel like eating.

  “I can’t wait until Emily gets old enough for real food. She’s still on baby food, and Chloe makes her own—” Danielle stopped abruptly, her skin flushing. “I mean, made her own baby food. You know, boiling organic vegetables herself, then processing them.”

  “That’s probably the best thing, huh?”

  Bob entered the kitchen, catching the end of the conversation. “Of course it is, and we bought a gourmet food processor. Danielle’s been making baby food by the ton.” He leaned against the cabinet, crossing his arms. “So Mike, what did you decide about whether we should take the baby? Danielle told me that she made you the offer, but you had to think about it.”