Her hair had been tidied up and it lay flat against her head. Puller reached out and touched several of the white strands. They felt bristly, harsh. He took his hand back. He had seen many dead bodies in various states of decay, many far worse than his aunt’s condition. But she had been family. He had sat on this woman’s knee, listened to her stories, eaten her cooking. She had helped him learn the alphabet, come to love books, let him play in her house, make noise at all hours. But she also had instilled in him discipline, purpose, and loyalty.
His old man had earned the three stars, but his older sister could very well have done the same, Puller thought, if she’d been given the chance.
He estimated her height. About five-nine. She had seemed like a giant to him when he was a boy. Age had probably shrunken her as it had her brother. But she was still tall for a woman, as her brother was for a man. He had not seen her in a long time. He had not really regretted that in adulthood, as there were many other things to occupy his time. Like fighting wars. And finding killers.
But now he did regret it, losing that connection with a woman who had meant so much to him growing up. And now it was too late to do anything about it.
And if he had kept in touch with her would she be lying here on a slab? Maybe she would have contacted him sooner, let him know directly of her concerns.
You can only play the guilt card so much, John. The fact is I couldn’t have saved her, no matter how much I might have wanted to.
But maybe I can avenge her, if she was murdered. No, I will avenge her.
He examined her remains in a more professional manner. This included a meticulous probing of her head. It didn’t take long to find it. An abrasion, a bruise really, over her right ear. It was covered by her hair, but clearly visible when he lifted the strands out of the way.
Her scalp had been cut open and her facial skin pulled down during the autopsy to provide access to the brain. He knew this from the sutures on the back of her head. Puller also knew that a Stryker saw had been used to open her cranium so the brain could be taken out, examined, and weighed. A Y-incision had opened her chest. He could see a few of the sutures resulting from this. All major organs contained therein would have received this same processing and scrutiny.
Puller looked back at the abrasion. A blunt force trauma possibly inflicted by a third party, or it could be from where she had fallen and hit her head on the stone border of the fountain. There was a small cut, but he doubted it would have bled much. It was not in the area of the scalp, which had a superhighway of small blood vessels, all of which bled like a bitch from even a small slicing of the skin. He had seen one possible blood mark on the stone surround. But any blood that might have leached into the water would have quickly dissolved.
The ME must have concluded that the bruising had been caused by the fall and impact with the stone. Blunt force trauma, particularly to the head, almost always led to a finding of death by homicide, but apparently not in this case.
He wondered why.
Bullock had said that the official cause of death was asphyxiation. Naturally that could occur from many things, such as diseases like emphysema or illnesses such as pneumonia or accidents like drowning. Criminally, death by asphyxiation only could be caused by three things, Puller knew.
They were: strangulation, drowning caused by another party, and smothering.
He gazed closely at her neck, looking for any signs of ligature marks. But the skin there was unblemished. And there was no venous engorgement-enlarged veins that would occur around the injury site due to the pressure and constriction of the blood vessels. When you squeezed something, it swelled.
The other indicator of strangulation was not something Puller could see: an enlarged heart, particularly the right ventricle. He checked her lips for cyanosis, a blue discoloration around the lips that occurred with strangulation. There was no sign.
Next he lifted the sheet and checked her hands. There was no evidence of cyanosis on her fingertips. And there were no defensive wounds or marks. If someone had attacked her, it did not seem that she had fought back. If she had been immobilized quickly she might not have had the opportunity to do so.
He next checked her eyes and the area around them for petechial hemorrhaging, pinpoint reddish spots caused by the pressure on blood vessels. He found none.
So smothering and strangulation were probably out. That left drowning, which was what the ME had cited as her cause of death. But was it an accident, or did she have help?
Drowning had a number of different stages and left some forensic residue. When a person found himself in trouble in the water he typically panicked and flailed about, using up precious energy and causing lost buoyancy, resulting in the person going under. Then the person inhaled more water, which increased the panic level. They would hold their breath. Then pink foam would be exhaled when they had to take a breath and took in even more water. Respiratory arrest would ensue, and then would come the final battle, a few quick breaths to find air, and then it was over.
Is that what happened, Aunt Betsy? thought Puller.
If she had hit her head and been knocked unconscious before going into the water she would not have felt any panic. But if she had been conscious, but unable to lift her head out of the water because she was either too weak or disoriented, or because someone was holding her head under, it would have been a terrifying way to die.
It would have been like waterboarding, only with the finale tacked on.
He glanced at the doorway behind which Brown was waiting. He wanted to do a complete examination of his aunt’s body, but if Brown walked in and found the sheet off and Puller poking and prying around the woman’s naked body, things might get a little weird. And Puller might find his butt in a jail cell accused of all sorts of perverse behavior.
He would just have to take it as faith that his octogenarian aunt had not been raped. But he did slide the sheet partially off her and performed a cursory examination of her arms and legs. At the base of her right calf he found another bruise, maybe from her fall. If so, that supported the theory of an accident. He put the sheet back and looked down at her.
He drew out his phone and used the embedded camera to take pictures of his aunt’s covered body from various angles. Not exactly up to crime scene protocol standards, but he had to work with what he had.
He could learn no more here, but Puller found himself unable to look away from his aunt, unable to leave her just yet.
It had long been a family rule that Puller men did not cry under any circumstances. Puller always had adhered to that rule when fighting in the Middle East, where he’d had the opportunity to weep over dozens of lost comrades in arms. Yet he had broken the cardinal rule back in West Virginia when he’d watched someone he’d grown close to die. Maybe it was a sign of weakness. Or maybe it was a sign of his becoming less of a machine and more of a human.
At this point he didn’t know which.
As he continued to stare down at his aunt, he felt the creep of moistness around his eyes. But he did not allow it to build. There might be time to grieve later. Right now he had to figure out what had happened to Betsy. Until he had conclusive proof that said otherwise, the letter she had sent had convinced Puller that her death was not an accident.
His aunt had been murdered.
He left the dead behind and walked back to the living.
But he would not forget her. And he would not fail her in death, as perhaps he had in life.
CHAPTER 16
Puller got the name of the medical examiner, Louise Timmins, from Carl Brown, and then left Bailey’s Funeral Home. As soon as he stepped outside the heat and humidity hit him like a DU round from an Abrams tank. After the frigid interior of the funeral home it was quite a shock. He took a breath, shrugged it off, and kept moving.
He had a number of leads to run down. First, the medical examiner, where he hoped he could get a copy of the final autopsy report. Second, he had to try to track down whether his aunt had
a lawyer and whether there was a last will and testament. And he had to talk to her neighbors, in particular the one who had identified her body. The neighbors in fact might know the name of Betsy’s lawyer, if she had one. And the methodical way his aunt had led her life told Puller that she probably did.
He put the address of the medical examiner into his GPS and found it would take him past his aunt’s house. He put the Corvette in gear and drove off. He liked the way the car rode, although getting his tall body in and out of the low-slung vehicle was proving to be more difficult than he had thought.
Maybe I’m just getting old.
Twenty minutes later he pulled the car to a stop at the curb across from Betsy’s house. He took a few moments to look up and down the street for Hooper and Landry lurking but saw no sign of them. He unwound his long legs and got out. As he did so he saw a short, big-bellied man walk by on the other side of the street. He had a tiny dog on a long leash. It looked like a round ball of flesh with fuzzy cowlicks all over, riding on twigs masquerading as legs.
When the man headed to the house next door to Betsy’s, Puller hurried across the street and caught up to him as he was putting his key in the lock.
The man turned and looked startled. Puller could understand that, but there was something more in the man’s features.
Real fear.
Well, Puller was a big guy and a stranger and he had busted in on the man’s personal space. But Puller thought he knew why the guy seemed to be shivering in ninety-plus-degree heat.
He was the one who called the cops on me.
Puller whipped out his cred pack and showed his ID card and badge. “I’m with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division,” he said, and the man immediately stopped shaking. “My aunt was Betsy Simon. I was told of her death and came down to check into things.”
The man’s face showed his full level of relief. “Oh my goodness. Then you’re John Puller Jr. She talked about you all the time. Called you Little Johnny. Pretty ironic considering your size.”
The innocuous comments deepened the guilt Puller was still feeling. “That’s right. Her death was quite a shock.”
“It was to me too. I found her body. It really was awful.” He looked down at the dog that sat quietly next to its master. “This is Sadie. Sadie, say hello to Mr. Puller.”
Sadie gave a little yap and lifted her right paw.
Puller smiled, bent down, and shook it.
“I’m Stanley Fitzsimmons,” said the man. “But my friends call me Cookie.”
“Why’s that?”
“I used to be in the bakery business. Desserts specifically.” He pointed to his belly. “And as you can see, I sampled everything I made. Would you like to come in? It’s the hottest part of the day and neither Sadie nor I are really heat people. I only had her out because she had to use the bathroom and I needed a bit of exercise too.”
“If you’re not a heat person, why move to Florida? I’m assuming you came from somewhere else.”
“I did. Michigan, Upper Peninsula. After fifty years of nine-foot snowdrifts and half of each year spent seemingly in darkness and with temperatures in the teens, I’m less of a cold person than I am a heat person. And the spring, fall, and winter are spectacular here. Three out of four ain’t bad. I’ve got some fresh lemonade. I have my own lemon tree. And I can answer any questions you might have.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
CHAPTER 17
Cookie took Sadie off her leash and the tiny dog immediately went to her water bowl and lapped at it for what seemed a very long time. Cookie bustled around the kitchen, getting out glasses and little plates. Puller watched as a pitcher of lemonade appeared along with a platter of cookies, pastries, and other assorted goodies.
Puller looked around the house. It was expensively decorated, with heavy, solid furnishings, all with a Caribbean theme, window treatments that were sturdy enough to keep out the afternoon light and heat, and carpet that your feet sank into.
Cookie must have been an awfully good baker.
In one glass cabinet there was a display of a dozen vintage watches. Puller drew closer and examined them.
“Started collecting them years ago,” Cookie said over Puller’s shoulder. “Some are very valuable.”
“Will you ever sell them?”
“My kids can after I’m dead. I like them too much.”
Puller could hear the air conditioner running full out and wondered what a monthly electrical bill would be for this place.
As if in answer to his thoughts Cookie said, “I put solar panels in two years ago. They work wonders. I not only get my electricity for free, I have a surplus that I sell back to the city of Paradise. Not that I need the money, but I won’t turn it down either. And it’s totally green. I’m into that.”
They sat and drank their lemonade. It was tart and cold and had a nice aftertaste. Cookie helped himself to several chocolate fudge bars and urged Puller to try the coconut-filled pastries.
Puller bit into one and came away impressed. “This is really good.”
Cookie flushed with pleasure at his words. “You would think over the years that I’d get sick of baking, but the truth is I love it more than ever. See, now I get to bake for myself and my friends. It’s not a job anymore.”
“Did you bake for Betsy?”
“Oh yes. And for Lloyd when he was alive.” “So you’ve been here a while?”
“Moved in three years after Betsy and Lloyd did. So yes, a good long time.”
He set his glass of lemonade down. “And I want you to know how so very sad I was when she passed. She was a wonderful person, she really was. A good friend to me. Just very caring. And when something needed to be done in the community, you could always count on Betsy to pitch in. And Lloyd too when he was alive.”
“That was how she was wired. Very can-do,” replied Puller.
“She told me a lot about your father, her brother. A three-star. Army legend.”
Puller nodded. “Yeah.” He never liked to talk about his father. “Do you know whether she had a lawyer?”
“Yes, same one I used. His name is Griffin Mason. Everyone calls him Grif. He’s an excellent attorney.”
“Does he handle wills?”
“Every lawyer in Florida handles trusts and estate work,” said Cookie. “Sort of their bread and butter, what with the elderly population.” “You have his contact info?”
Cookie opened the drawer of a built-in desk next to the refrigerator, drew out a business card, and handed it to him.
Puller eyed it briefly and slipped it into his pocket. “So you said you found her body? Can you run me through the details on that?”
Cookie sat back and his plump face assumed a sad expression. Puller could even see tears clustering in the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t get up that early. I’m more of a night owl. And at age seventy-nine, four or five hours a night are plenty for me. At some point down the road I’ll have a lot longer time to sleep. Anyway, I have a little morning routine. I let Sadie out in the backyard while I sit on the back deck and drink my first cup of coffee and read the newspaper. I still get the actual paper, most of the old folks around here do. I’m online a lot and consider myself pretty tech-sawy for an old fart, but I still like to hold the news, as it were.”
“What time was that?”
“About eleven or so. This was several days ago now, you understand. So I was sitting on my deck and I noticed that Betsy’s back door was open. From the deck I could see it over my fence- line. I thought that was odd because as a rule Betsy didn’t really get going until around noon or so. Her osteoporosis had done a real number on her spine. It was getting difficult for her to even get around with her walker. And I knew it was difficult for her to get out of bed.”
“I can see that,” replied Puller. “Did she have a caregiver?”
“Yes. Jane Ryon, lovely girl. She would come three days a week, starting around nine in the morning. She would
do some tidying up around the house and then help Betsy get up, get her clothes on, stuff like that.”
“Why only three days a week?”
“Betsy wanted to retain her independence, I guess. And a full-time caregiver isn’t cheap. And Medicare really doesn’t cover that unless you’re in far worse shape than Betsy was, and even then they don’t cover the entire expense. Betsy never seemed to be hurting for money, but folks of our generation, we’re frugal. Jane also helps me as well. Twice a week.”
“You look pretty independent.”
“She runs errands, takes care of Sadie when I’m gone. She’s a great physical therapist and all those years of baking left me a permanent pretzel, particularly in my hands.”
“You have her contact info?”
Cookie presented him with another business card. “I have hundreds of them. People in Florida pass them out like candy. The elderly are a service industry’s best customers. We all have stuff that we can’t do ourselves anymore, but that still needs doing.”
“Okay, so back to that morning?”
“I walked to the fence between our properties and called out her name. I didn’t get an answer, so I left my backyard, walked over, and knocked on her front door. I didn’t expect her to get up and race to the door if she was in bed, but I thought maybe she might call out. Her bedroom is on the first floor.”
“I know,” said Puller. “Go on.”
“Well, there was no answer at the front door, so I decided to go into her backyard and get into the house that way. I was hoping nothing had happened to her, but in our neighborhood we’ve had people die before and they haven’t been found for some time. At our ages, your ticker can just stop and down you go.”
“I guess that’s true,” said Puller. He kept his gaze on the man, willing him to pick up the pace and get to what he really needed to know.
The Forgotten (john puller) Page 7