“Was that why she was on OxyContin?” I asked.
“Yes, though I didn’t know how much. She also took antidepressants. Time is the only cure, and when you’re in your eighties, you don’t have a lot of that.”
There was no easy way to ask the next question. “OxyContin’s an opioid. Do you think your mother became addicted?”
Rose sighed. “I don’t know. We talked on the phone several times a week. None of the medicine was helping as much as she wanted. I’d ask Dad the questions I hesitated to put to Mom.” Tears filled her eyes. “It’s hard when you’re a thousand miles away. Maybe if I’d been here.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Lieutenant Spring motioned to the sofa. “I know talking about this can be difficult.”
“No. I want to show you something.” Rose led us through the dining room to the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and exposed a cluster of pill bottles. “Because most of her medicine had to be taken with food, Dad moved them out here.”
A small mortar and pestle sat between the pills and plastic containers of individual servings of applesauce like a kid would take in his lunchbox.
“May I?” I reached in before Rose could answer and retrieved the mortar bowl. Residue of white and yellow powder lay on the bottom. “Why did she grind her pills?”
“Size. About a month ago, Mom’s doctor put her on potassium for her heart.” Rose selected a bottle, uncapped the top and handed the bottle to me. The pale yellow pills inside looked large enough to choke a horse. “My father started grinding them up and mixing them with the applesauce.”
“Just the potassium?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he found it easier to give her all the medicine that way.”
Spring gnawed on his lower lip and said nothing. He and I realized what must have happened. Mitch Kowalski had ground up his wife’s OxyContin and destroyed the time-release coatings. By his own hand, he had given her the overdose.
“But that wasn’t what I wanted to show you.” Rose grabbed another bottle from the shelf. “I found this right before you got here. It was hidden behind some glasses in the other corner.”
She handed the bottle to me and I looked at the label. The bottle was for an OxyContin prescription. The refill authorization had expired six months ago, but there were plenty of pills left.
“Had she stopped taking OxyContin for a while?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. I was checking these right before you arrived.”
I opened the top and tapped a few pills into my palm. Then I studied the label again. The prescription called for thirty pills of twenty milligrams each. The ones in my hand were stamped eighty. I showed them to Spring. He had to draw the same conclusion. Mitch Kowalski might have ground up the pills, but Artie Lincoln provided the lethal dose.
“They don’t match the prescription,” Rose said. “I think the pharmacy screwed up.”
I put the pills back in the bottle. “I’m afraid not. Your father tracked down and tried to shoot a man who delivered medicine to your mother. I think that man was supplementing her with more pills than her doctor would prescribe. She kept them in this old bottle.”
“My mother was buying drugs illegally?”
“She was in a lot of pain.” Spring pulled the computer image of Artie Lincoln from the envelope. “Do you recognize this man?”
Rose looked at the picture for several seconds. “No. Who is he?”
“Mrs. Spiegel told us he brought your mother medicine.” Spring pointed at the bottle in my hand. “I think this is the medicine because it’s a much higher dosage.”
“And then my father found out?”
Spring nodded. “We’re not sure how. Maybe Mrs. Spiegel mentioned it to him after your mother died.”
“And my father tracked him down.”
Neither Spring nor I said anything.
“How would he have known this man was in Gainesboro?”
“Did your mother or your father pay the bills?” I asked.
“My mother. She’d worked as a part-time bookkeeper back in Aliquippa.”
“Do you happen to know where she kept the credit card statements?”
Rose looked puzzled. “I guess the writing desk in their bedroom.”
She left the kitchen and we followed her down a short hall to the master bedroom. A small desk was tucked in the far corner of the room. Papers and envelopes were neatly stacked on its surface.
I saw several envelopes that looked like they contained bills. “I’m looking for the statement from their Wachovia card.”
Rose picked up a few of the envelopes encircled by a rubber band. “The last few months are together.” She pulled the top envelope free and handed it to me.
The Wachovia statement covered the billing period ending last week. Seven charges were listed for two cards. Evidently the Kowalskis each carried one. One purchase at the CVS and two Exxon gas charges were on one card; three ATM withdrawals of two hundred dollars and one for five hundred dollars were on the other. The final withdrawal had been in Gainesboro on May 29th, twelve days before the shooting. Mitch Kowalski had gotten the bill and known right where to go.
“Did your mother use an ATM?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. She rarely went out these last few months.”
“Can I see some of the other statements?”
Rose handed me all of them. Each had three or four ATM withdrawals on one of the cards. I could see how Lucy Kowalski had paid for her extra OxyContin. Mitch Kowalski must have also understood what his wife had been doing. And he’d found someone whom he could hold responsible for his wife’s death. Someone to relieve his guilt. Someone he had to bring to justice himself because he couldn’t admit to anyone that he’d pulverized the more potent OxyContin and killed his own wife.
“Did anyone investigate Lucy Kowalski’s death?” I asked the question as innocently as I could, not wanting to sound accusatory. I still wasn’t sure how Lieutenant Spring felt about my dual roles as novice detective and undertaker.
Spring stirred the ice in his scotch with his forefinger. I nursed a club soda with Rose’s Lime. We’d stopped at a forgettable bar about a mile from the airport to kill twenty minutes before I checked in for my flight. A back booth gave us needless privacy because other than the bartender, we were the only people in the place.
Spring licked his finger. “Investigate? Yes, if you mean talked to her attending physician and a few people who knew her. Mitch Kowalski was genuinely distraught, and we could find no motive that suggested why after fifty-five years of marriage he’d want to do her in.” He sipped his drink and then stared into the glass. “You’d be surprised at the number of Lucy Kowalskis who die down here. They’re on some prescription for pain and get their meds confused, or just don’t want to fight life anymore.”
“How many are buying extra pills?”
“That’s a problem. A dirty little secret no one wants to pry into. Who’s going to throw Grandma in the slammer?” Spring grabbed a fistful of peanuts from the bowl between us and popped them into his mouth.
“So a guy like Artie Lincoln can deal OxyContin with little chance of being busted?”
Spring nodded as he chewed, and then washed the peanuts down with a healthy swallow of scotch. “Lincoln’s clients aren’t the kind to cause him trouble. If he’s not greedy, he can have a steady income as long as he can get enough product to deliver. Look at Lucy. She probably let him carry her debit card.”
“Maybe he didn’t know she’d died.”
“Or he tried to squeeze in a few extra withdrawals. Five hundred’s usually the daily max.”
My trip to Florida was generating more questions than answers. “But I’m no closer to identifying the girl in the hospital than before I came here. How do she and Lincoln tie together?”
“Hillbilly heroin,” Spring muttered.
“What?”
His face glowed red. “Sorry. Didn’t mean nothing by it. I’ve got a friend in the DEA. Th
at’s what he calls OxyContin.”
“Hillbilly heroin.” I shook my head. “Haven’t heard that insult before.”
Spring squirmed. “He said it’s because the first known reports of OxyContin abuse came from Appalachia. Isolated places with high unemployment and a large elderly population. But it’s spread all over now.”
I laughed and let him off the hook. “Relax. I’m one of those mountaineers who sell only moonshine.”
Spring changed the subject. “My DEA friend might know this Artie Lincoln. Sometimes they’ll watch the little fish for a while to track the supplier.”
I didn’t want to lose Spring’s initial thought. “But why’d you say hillbilly heroin when I mentioned the girl?”
He shrugged. “She might have been a local up there. Sex ranks right behind money when it comes to getting drugs. Lincoln could have picked her up.”
“Then why’d she have the debit card and the five hundred dollars?”
Spring drained his drink and thought a moment. “Maybe she stole it from him.”
“She’d have to know the pin number.”
“Any of the ATMs up there on video surveillance?”
I saw where he was headed. “Damn. I didn’t ask. If Lincoln knew Lucy had died and her husband would now see the statements, he might not have risked being photographed. Use the girl to get the money.”
“And if they’d been together a couple of days, she might have made an extra withdrawal he didn’t know about.”
Spring looked at his watch and then signaled the bartender for another round. “I’m definitely off-duty.”
I was still nursing my soda. “I’ll check the cash withdrawal times against the bank videos. Do you think that’s why Lincoln went to North Carolina? To use the card where nobody knew him?”
Again, Spring swirled the scotch with his finger. “The Serengeti.”
“Africa?”
“More like Florida and North Carolina.” He stopped talking.
I could tell he enjoyed watching me try to figure out the connection. “Do I have to buy you another drink for the answer?”
Spring laughed. “Nah. Two’s my limit. I’m thinking about this documentary I saw once. How the animals of the Serengeti migrate. Thousands of them. Gazelles, wildebeest, like the whole frigging jungle. I can’t remember if it was because of food or, like salmon, they were going to mate, but what I found fascinating were the predators that migrated with them. They were forced to follow their prey.”
“The snowbirds.”
“Exactly. Our seniors migrate winter and summer, from my neck of the jungle to yours. Artie Lincoln might simply have been following his prey.” He took a gulp of scotch. “You need to find the watering hole up there.”
I laid a twenty on the table to pay for Spring’s drinks. “Shuffleboard.”
“Bright boy. That’s where I’d put my money.” Spring raised his glass. “Of course, I’m only a detective, not an undertaker.”
Chapter Eight
The red light was blinking on my answering machine in the kitchen. My return flight hadn’t arrived in Asheville until after ten-thirty, and by the time I got to the cabin, it was nearly midnight.
On my way home from the airport, I’d checked for messages and had only one from earlier in the afternoon, Uncle Wayne calling to say Mildred Cosgrove had passed away and the family would be at the funeral home the next morning at nine-thirty. This new message had to have been left within the past hour.
I hit the play button. “Barry, it’s Fletcher. I thought you’d be home by now. I was talking to Cindy about the dead girl and wondered if I could take tomorrow off. Call if it’s a problem.”
Fletcher’s request posed more of an inconvenience than a problem. I’d have met with the Cosgroves anyway since they were long-time friends of our family, but I’d hoped the rest of the process could be taken care of by Fletcher and my uncle. Freddy Mott might be available to help, but it was too late to call him tonight.
My curiosity got the better of me and I dialed Fletcher’s cell phone.
He answered after the first ring. “Sorry I called you so late. Guess tomorrow’s not a good day to be away.”
“Did you know we had a death?” I doubted if Uncle Wayne had tried to reach him.
“No.” Fletcher’s voice rose in surprise. “Then I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“Hold on. What’s this about the girl?” I took the cordless phone into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
“Actually it was Cindy’s idea. I dropped by the hospital tonight to visit.”
I jumped in with what should have been my first question. “How is she?”
“A little better. Weak. In pain. But anxious to know what happened.”
Aren’t we all, I thought. “That’s good. Did you see Tommy Lee?”
“No. I tried, but I wasn’t on some approved visitors list. And I’m not exactly a favorite of the hospital staff after the incident with the girl.”
That was predictable. Both Ray Chandler and Judi Perez had looked like they wanted to kill Fletcher in the ICU. I felt sorry for him. “I’m partly responsible for that list. I’ll see that your name is added. We’re trying to keep the media away.”
“I understand. Anyway, I was telling Cindy what we knew about the girl. The tattoos, the body piercings. I told her I didn’t know where you were going to show the pictures. She thought we ought to concentrate on Asheville. She said there’s a significant counter-culture group there, almost a street community, and some of them might know her.”
Since Gainesboro was a small town and no one had recognized her yet, our likelihood of discovering the girl’s identity here was slim. I’d planned to let the law enforcement departments we contacted in other counties handle the distribution of the girl’s rendering, but I knew that could be inadequate. We were dependent upon the priority each would give, and for some that may be nothing more than posting the picture on a departmental bulletin board.
“Cindy makes a good point. I’ll emphasize that to the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Okay.” Fletcher’s disappointment came through loud and clear.
“What were you thinking?”
“That I should do it myself. I’m the right age. I can dress down and not smell like a cop.” He paused. He must have remembered I’d been and now was once again a law enforcement officer. “I mean the kids might open up to me if I’ve got the right cover story.”
I stood up and paced in front of the fireplace. His idea showed promise. “And you want to do that tomorrow?”
“It can wait. See if the Asheville police turn up anything first. But I want to help.”
I thought for a moment. Fletcher had seen the girl die right in front of him. And some of the hospital staff held the opinion he’d been too zealous with his photography. Fletcher was looking for a way to do something to even the score. And for my investigation, identifying the girl was critical.
I reached my decision. “Listen. Wayne and I can cover tomorrow. But I want to see you before you go to Asheville. There are some things I learned in Florida that might be useful, and I doubt your target group will be out early in the morning.”
“Sure thing.” He sounded ready to come over to my cabin right then.
I looked at my watch. Five after twelve. “Let’s meet at the hospital cafeteria. Seven-thirty. Print some more copies of the pictures you faxed Lieutenant Spring, and we’ll show them to Tommy Lee.”
“No problem. I’ll need them for Asheville anyway.”
No problem. Easy to say. I had the feeling our problems were just beginning.
On Monday morning, the hospital cafeteria served a steady stream of coffee to the caffeine junkies desperate to jump-start their week. I scanned the crowded room, checking to make sure Fletcher hadn’t beaten me there.
“Hey, buddy. Spare some change?”
I turned around and discovered Fletcher sitting at a table just inside the cafeteria�
�s main door. I’d walked right past him.
The preppy attire he normally wore had been replaced by a wardrobe that would have been rejected by Goodwill—an inside-out black tee shirt that had more wrinkles than a year-old prune. A jagged tear ran along the shoulder of one sleeve, exposing part of a dark blue chain inked around his upper arm. The crude tattoo looked real. He’d jelled his razor-cut hair into a hayfield of short brown spikes tipped with yellow, and the stubble on his chin completed the illusion of a young man angry at the world.
The only thing out of place was his big grin.
“Change? I hope you can change back.” I envisioned the faces of Mildred Cosgrove’s relatives when I introduced the latest addition to Clayton and Clayton.
“A little mousse, a little Streaks ‘N Tips. With one shower, my disguise flows down the drain.” Fletcher stood up and pointed to the holes in his threadbare jeans. “Good thing I brought my favorite pair with me.”
I noticed we were getting curious looks from the tables nearby. “Let’s see what Tommy Lee has to say. They’ve probably prodded him awake by now.”
The duty nurse scowled when I said Fletcher would accompany me, and she insisted on leading us to Tommy Lee’s room. We found him picking at the remains of a fruit cup on his breakfast tray.
“Are you okay to receive visitors?” the nurse asked.
Tommy Lee studied Fletcher for a few seconds. “What’d he do to you, son? Assign you the no-frills funerals?”
Fletcher laughed. “You should see the discount casket. I didn’t know Tupperware came so big.”
The nurse relaxed. “I’ll take that as a yes, Mr. President.” She left, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. President,” I said. “Why not go for king?”
Tommy Lee pushed his food tray away. “Ah, that’s something O’Malley started. He tells me I act like President Reagan. Just because Reagan joked to Nancy, ‘Honey, I forgot to duck,’ and asked his surgeons if they were all Republicans, didn’t mean the wound wasn’t serious. O’Malley says I’ve got a lot of damaged tissue that needs to heal and he wants me in here at least another week.”
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 8