Uncle and Ants

by Marc Jedel

  “We’ll go see your mom today. You only need to share my guest room for a few more days.” I hope. I reached out to pat her back.

  She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “That’s Skye’s room.”

  Sigh. Time for a tactical retreat. I stood and called out, “Girls, go get ready for school and I’ll get your breakfast ready.”

  When we sat down for breakfast, Skye asked, “When can we see Mom?”

  Both girls quieted as they looked for my answer.

  “I’ll find out today. I’ll go see her before work. We’ll go after school.”

  The girls brightened at the thought and ate their cereal.

  “I made you peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.”

  “Again?” asked Skye.

  “With Nutella?” Megan hoped.

  I shook my head. “But I added an apple.” This didn’t impress them either. “I’ll have some groceries delivered. Just tell my phone what you want to be added to the grocery list.” I showed them how to do it by adding bread and more milk to the list. “You can add Nutella or whatever else you want.”

  Megan grabbed my phone and said, “Add Nutella to the grocery list.”

  I took advantage of the momentum. “Grab your lunches and backpacks and let’s head out. I’ll text Raj and tell him I’ll be a little late today.”

  “Who’s Raj?” asked Megan.

  “My co-worker.”

  “That’s his nickname. What’s it short for?” asked Skye.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows his full name. We all just call him Raj.”

  “Very PC, Uncle Marty,” said Megan.

  “What do you mean, ‘PC’? Do you even know what that means?” I said.

  “Do you think I’m four?” Megan tilted her head to the side and threw me a baby face.

  “No, I don’t think you’re four.” I imitated her sarcastic whine and head tilt. Very adult of me. “But how old are you?”

  “Geez, Uncle Marty,” said Megan. Skye just gave me another eye roll and walked down the hallway. Perhaps she needed to visit the eye doctor.

  When I got to the hospital, I went straight to the fifth floor without checking the display to avoid unnecessary frustration. Right off the elevator on the fifth floor, a cop stood in the lobby and, for some reason, wanted to see my I.D.

  Twice in as many days, cops have scrutinized my credentials. I was happy to see that Sergeant Jackson must have called in some extra security to protect Laney.

  The cop added, “You looking for a luau?”

  I didn’t answer. Like that was the first time I’d ever heard that line. Years ago, Steve Jobs popularized the concept of wearing the same style of clothes every day. Not having to select and worry about matching clothes every morning simplified an engineer’s life. This allowed us to focus on creating genius products. Well, for me at least, it kept me from making major fashion faux pas. I’ve found it better to ignore skeptics’ comments than explain my clothing each time.

  The hallway with Laney’s room was empty, but a cluster of cops, nurses, and doctors milled around on the other side past the elevators. Compared to yesterday, this felt like rush hour at the hospital, on a Tuesday morning. “What’s going on?” I asked the cop, who wore a different uniform from Sergeant Jackson’s yesterday. He didn’t wear it near as well.

  He ignored me and asked again. “Sir, can I please see your I.D.?”

  I complied without further questions. Holding my driver’s license in one hand, he consulted a list. He handed it back and nodded to me that I could proceed.

  Wow, I’d passed. I’ve never been on an A-list before. I’ve gone to nightclubs where the bouncers have a list of who’s allowed in and only let in a few fancy-dressed people at a time. Ok, I’ve walked by such nightclubs in the past and seen this in action. Sucked that my sister had to get hospitalized with me listed as next of kin before I made it onto an approved list.

  As I’d hoped, Laney’s name now appeared on the sign outside her room, next to the number 518. I felt better. It wasn’t my software, but I still felt better that it was working. Nurse Ruth, from yesterday, was walking past quickly. I stopped her, gesturing toward the other hallway with all the people. “What’s going on?”

  Her eyes lit up as she responded, “Oh, it’s terrible. A patient died before dawn.”

  Her reaction puzzled me. People dying don’t usually make someone excited. “What’s all the fuss?” It was hours later. Why would police show up when a patient dies in a hospital?

  “They’re searching the room, 512.”

  “The old lady?”

  Nurse Ruth gave an odd, almost eager smirk. “Yes. It’s so sad.” Her words didn’t match her body language as she seemed almost giddy about the news.

  I felt a chill run down my spine. It was creepy that the woman in the room with Laney’s name on it died. I double-checked and pointed down the hallway. “Room 512?”

  “Yes. It’s terrible. Everyone’s still shaken.” Nurse Ruth’s hands both quivered as her eyes gleamed.

  The discrepancy between her reactions and words confused me so I pointed to Laney’s room. I needed confirmation, even if from this odd nurse. “My sister, Laney Tran. Is she okay?”

  Nurse Ruth stepped into Laney’s room and beckoned me to follow her. Laney was asleep on the bed. From across the room, she took a quick look at Laney’s monitors before walking back to whisper, “Yes. She’s fine. We’ve checked on everyone since … we discovered her. It’s been such an unusual day.” Her cheeks flushed.

  I followed her out of the room in a daze. Didn’t nurses encounter dead people on a regular basis? This shouldn’t be so unusual for her. Feeling my stomach churn, I asked, “When did they fix the signs for the patient names?”

  “What?” She furrowed her brow as she tried to process my new question.

  I pointed to her name on the sign next to room 518.

  Nurse Ruth followed my gesture but got distracted again by the noise down the hallway. She didn’t look at me as she answered, “I don’t know. Maybe when IT started work at eight o’clock? What’s that got to do with the murder?”

  My head jerked back. “What? What murder?”

  Finally looking straight at me, Nurse Ruth said, “The old lady in room 512 was killed sometime last night. We think she was suffocated. We found blood from her mouth and nose on a pillow on the floor.”

  I hyperventilated a little while I considered her words. At least now I better understood the nurse’s odd behavior. An adrenaline junkie, her normal routine at the hospital bored her. She couldn’t mask her excitement about having something different and dangerous happen. Dead people didn’t surprise a nurse, but murder was a whole new story.

  Nurse Ruth watched the hubbub down the hallway with eager anticipation. She ran her fingers through her hair to collect a few strays in a hair clip. “Do you think that good looking cop from yesterday will show up too?”

  “I, uh, I have no idea.” My sister could have been murdered last night. I wasn’t focused on helping Nurse Ruth find a date.

  “Sorry, I have to go.” She didn’t glance at me before striding off to join the crowd on the other side of the floor.

  If anything, the hubbub had grown outside room 512. Perhaps Laney’s nurse wasn’t the only bored person in the hospital. I poked my head back into Laney’s room only to find that she was still asleep. I hurried over to room 512. Winding my way through the tittering medical staff, I approached a cop who stood outside the door looking at a small tablet. “Excuse me. Is the officer here from yesterday? Sergeant Mace Jackson?”

  The cop eyed me. “That’s quite a name.” He scratched his head before continuing, “I don’t know anyone by that name in the Los Gatos P.D. You sure you’re not thinking of a movie?”

  Everyone’s a comedian. “No. He was investigating an unusual accident in San Jose that my sister was in. Her name was on this door yesterday, but —”

  The cop interrupted me, “Sir, you’
ll need to talk to San Jose police to follow-up on her accident. We’re pretty busy here.” He looked down at his tablet again.

  “Yes, I know. I’m worried whoever killed the old lady made a mistake and was really trying to kill my sister.”

  The cop’s head swiveled up as he eyed me again, this time with suspicion. “What do you know about this?”

  “No. Nothing. Not me. I mean the signs were wrong yesterday. Maybe it was just another accident or maybe the software wasn’t working right. It’s fixed now. But first Sunshine hit the ice cream truck, then the drone, and now this,” I babbled nervously.

  The cop squinted at me. “Huh?”

  “The nurse told me they only fixed the signs at eight o’clock this morning.” I emphasized the time.

  “So? What do signs have to do with anything?”

  “This used to say my sister’s name.” I pointed to the door sign.

  He turned and looked at the door sign, which now read “H. Nguyen.” His forehead creased. “What’s your sister’s name?”

  “It’s Laney Tran.”

  His expression turned skeptical. “You’re Vietnamese?”

  “No. I’m not. She’s not either.” I continued babbling, “She married a Vietnamese guy.”

  “Oh. And she’s in her late seventies?” he asked, still doubtful.

  “No —” I started.

  The cop interrupted me. “Look, I’m sorry your sister was in an accident, but this is a murder investigation —”

  The noise from a large crowd of people pouring out of the cramped quarters of an elevator caused us both to swivel our heads toward the lobby. The activity resembled the unloading of a clown car. An extended family with multiple generations had all come to visit their hospitalized loved one. I’d heard of families that stuck together, but this defied description. The group bowled over the helpless officer in the lobby who tried to stop them. Three gossiping older ladies in front didn’t even notice him as they walked down the hallway toward us.

  The cop shot me a quick, impatient glance as his next issue sped closer. “Talk to San Jose police. I’m sure they can help.” He turned his head and barked a command into the room.

  “But do you think her murder is related to my sister?” I waved in the general direction of the room with the dead woman in it.

  Undaunted, but preparing for the oncoming wave, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “I’m sorry, but I’m very busy. If you think of something else, give me a call.”

  As the cop stepped away from me, I found myself with a second police officer’s business card in two days. Maybe I win a prize if I collect a whole set.

  The cop planted himself in the middle of the hallway and held up both hands. “Excuse me,” he said with his policeman’s bellow. The voice of authority worked as the crowd stopped.

  I stepped to the side and slid back past the crowd to head to the elevator.

  The cop paused for breath, then continued in a softer tone. “You can’t go into this room right now. I’m very sorry to have to tell you like this, but Mrs. Nguyen is dead. There are suspicious circumstances and we have to collect evidence from the room.”

  The news hit with an almost physical impact as a short-lived stillness descended on the crowd. The silence broke as I took a few quick steps to the elevator. The noise and chaos grew as more hospital staff and officers engaged and tried to calm the family.

  A slight, thin young woman at the back of the crowd stepped clear of the fray and stood near me as I waited for the elevator. She looked about the age of my kids, perhaps in college. “Did you come to see my Auntie too?”

  “No. My sister.” I decided not to explain the whole room mix-up situation and finished with a weak, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Looking at the crowd, the young woman sighed. “They weren’t all supposed to come today anyway. My mother messed up and sent the WhatsApp message to the entire family instead of just the smaller group.”

  Her reaction confused me. “You don’t seem too upset by the news?” I edged away in case she turned out to have more worrisome tendencies.

  Without looking at me, she responded, “Oh, yeah. It’s terrible she died this way. But she had terminal cancer. She was going into hospice care later today.”

  I felt relieved she’d revealed herself as merely a self-absorbed youth and stopped checking her for psychopathic indicators. I should try not to assume the worst in people. It might serve me better than letting my imagination run wild.

  The murder, however, wasn’t part of my imagination. Someone had killed this young woman’s Auntie in a room with Laney’s name on the door.

  Sergeant Jackson needed to hear about the murder. He needed to do something to solve this and protect Laney. Another outburst from the crowd made me turn to look. I’d have to call him from the lobby.

  The elevator was taking forever. I jabbed at the button again.

  I stood watching the crowd. Amidst the noise and chaos, I smelled something new. The elevator had opened and a man in his late thirties stepped out, holding several bags of takeout food. He stopped as he took in the scene. If he were smart, he’d turn and flee. The food smelled terrific and terrible both at the same time.

  The young woman turned from her ringside spot as she smelled the newcomer as well. “That’s my cousin with lunch.” She spoke to him in rapid Vietnamese.

  His mouth dropped open. Stunned, he dropped the bags as he burst out wailing and reached to hug her. Out of instinct, I grabbed the bags before they spilled. But not before some smelly fish sauce spilled out and onto my shoes. Great.

  The young woman looked at me over his shoulder and rolled her eyes.

  A new nurse walked up to me. “You can’t bring that food in here. Please take it off the floor right away.” Instruction delivered, she waded forward into the crowd to tackle the next challenge.

  I put the bags down on the ground. The lessons in etiquette that my mother drilled into me did not include how to insert myself into an escalating family crisis conducted in a foreign language while my sister lay injured in the hospital and I was literally left holding the bag.

  I rode down, alone and worried. Was someone trying to kill my sister? And why?

  The car crash might have been an accident. I could even buy that the drone crash was one too. But I wouldn’t betcha that the accident and drone crash plus the murder of someone in a room marked for Laney on the same night all happened by chance. Yogi Berra, the great baseball player who became almost as well-known for his “Yogi-isms”, once said, “That’s too coincidental to be a coincidence.”

  4

  Tuesday Midday

  In the lobby, I found a quiet corner to call Sergeant Jackson.

  If this wasn’t all just a crazy series of mishaps, I had no idea who might have tried to kill Laney. It could have been someone good with technology like me who tried to get the drone to crash into her. Maybe they’d heard she survived the crash on the news, instead of getting a call from the nurse like me. They could have learned what hospital room Laney was in by checking the directory just like I did.

  I put the pieces together. Either this was all a crazy coincidence or someone like me was trying to murder her, possibly more than once already. I knew I hadn’t done it so that left a valley full of other techies. Or, my imagination was overheating again.

  Sergeant Jackson’s voicemail answered my call on the first ring. I hadn’t prepared a crisp summary of the situation. I left a lengthy, and likely confusing, message for him.

  Perhaps in another lapse in the childhood etiquette lessons from my mother, I’d never practiced crafting a voicemail message to a police officer that someone might have tried to kill my thirty-seven-year-old sister with a rogue drone and had then accidentally killed a terminally ill, elderly Vietnamese woman in a room that had my sister’s name on the door. Or that the elderly woman, who wasn’t my sister, had a really loud and close family in a different city, outside of th
e officer’s jurisdiction, and was in the process of distracting those police from investigating the possible attempted murder of my sister.

  Well, maybe crazy people practice things like that in their head. My aunt worked as a psychologist at a psychiatric hospital. She’d know the diagnosis for people like that. When I was a kid, she’d explain to Laney and me how the brain worked, and how it can go wacky. Too many people already think I’m wacky. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m paranoid. But as they say, just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.

  Or your sister.

  With all the police around Laney’s floor, I decided she was safe for now. As I headed to work, I considered calling 9-1-1. How would I answer the question, “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  On the other hand, I couldn’t just walk away. Crazy as it seemed, someone seemed to be trying to kill Laney. Like a mantra, the words “drone”, “crash” and “murder” echoed in my head. I needed help. And not from my aunt. If Sergeant Jackson wasn’t available, I’d have to get someone else to help me.

  Had Laney gotten into something dangerous? It didn’t seem possible. She was a human resources consultant with a mere handful of clients. New to town, she knew so few people that she’d listed me as the emergency contact for her daughters. That showed a lack of judgment, not dangerous connections.

  Although Laney pissed me off sometimes, I hadn’t wanted to kill her since she threw my car keys down the sewer. On purpose. Of course, we were teenagers and she’d argue that I provoked her by tattling to Mom and Dad about her sneaking out of the house.

  That was twenty plus years ago. Why would someone want to kill her now?

  I set my bag on my desk and dropped with a thud into my chair. In the next cube over, Raj looked up and smiled hello. Raj had moved to the U.S. only a few months ago to start working for Rover. I liked him. Super smart, with degrees in both robotics and computer science, Raj spoke Hindi and some another Indian language I couldn’t remember so English was his third language. His English was great, but without meaning to, Raj was sometimes hysterical as he tried out American idioms on me.