Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  ‘What a difference a day makes,’ was her somber comment. ‘He seems happy at least.’

  ‘He does, and now he’s dead.’ Lil looked at Ada, her eyes bright, her spiky silver hair squished down on one side. ‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing a lobotomy couldn’t fix.’

  ‘Do you mind checking on them?’ Lil asked, referring to her mother, Alice and Aaron over in Ada’s condo.

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You know, sleeping dogs and all that. Quite a Scrabble game,’ she commented.

  ‘I thought it was brilliant,’ Lil said, referring to last night’s somewhat bizarre events.

  ‘If nothing else, it helped Mom. That woman likes nothing better than trouncing me at Scrabble.’

  ‘I still don’t think all those interrogatives count. I mean really? “Er, hm, uh”; I don’t think so.’

  ‘Rose Rimmelman knows her two-letter words.’

  ‘I think she cheats. And exactly how much of the Yiddish-English dictionary is acceptable?’

  ‘Apparently a lot,’ Ada said, ‘at least according to the Oxford Unabridged. What a night . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t boring,’ Lil said, feeling pulled. It was clear Ada wanted to rehash the events of yesterday, but she had to get back into her cave-like office and finish the column. Priorities, Lil, it’s not like you’re either Woodward or Bernstein. And the Grenville Sentinel . . . not quite The Washington Post.

  Sensing something, Ada asked, ‘You get your column done?’

  ‘In the middle of doing something on Saturday’s flea market.’

  ‘You going to use that one?’ Looking at the picture of the ebullient, but now dead, Dr Trask still on the screen.

  ‘Absolutely not, and if that scared-of-his-own-shadow editor of mine found out . . . not worth it. I like doing this too much.’ Ada was smiling. ‘What?’

  ‘Go get your piece finished,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  ‘God, I love you.’ They smooched, but while she’d clearly given Lil permission to hole up and get her work done, something gave her pause. ‘We never asked: “How long?”’

  Ada shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That nurse last night, Kyle.’ Her fluffy column seemed increasingly unimportant. ‘We never asked him how long until he’d get Alice settled somewhere else.’

  ‘We kind of did,’ she said. ‘It was early going, but I think you’d already had a good bit of whiskey.’

  ‘I must have,’ Lil admitted, realizing portions of last night were wrapped in a boozy haze. ‘I’m not an alcoholic . . . I promise.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Isn’t denial the number one symptom?’

  ‘So what did he say?’ Lil asked, ignoring her jab and recalling the tall and handsome, albeit exhausted, dark-haired man – Kyle Sullivan – who’d come over, ostensibly to pick up Alice. It had been around eight, he’d called first, thanking them effusively for keeping her safe and getting directions to their place. When he’d shown up, the wild west Scrabble tournament was in full swing, the five of them around Ada’s dining room table, swiveling her de luxe edition of the game, while sipping exceedingly good single malt from Bradley’s vast collection of Christmas and give-the-doctor-a-thank-you presents they’d amassed over the years. Neither Bradley nor Lil were big Scotch drinkers, but somehow there must be an etiquette book instructing people to bring their local GP a good bottle of single malt at the holidays, or following the birth of a baby or after setting a son’s broken arm in the middle of the night, or covering for a drunken night of debauchery where you needed a bit of patching up before facing the wife . . . or husband. Regardless, Lil had a closet filled with cases of the stuff, including some truly stellar bottles of Bowmore, Balmore and the old standby – Glenfiddich.

  ‘You really don’t remember?’ Ada asked. ‘Is this like an alcoholic black out? Do I need to find a program for you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lil said, ‘I remember him showing up . . .’

  It all came back. Yes, she’d had a couple . . . OK, maybe a few. She was excited about having finished the piece on the fire, and wondered if they’d actually run it. She was also feeling weird about how giddy it had her – people were dead, and she was experiencing a writer’s rush. ‘He said he was going to take her to his condo.’

  ‘Right, and then you asked how he was going to look after her. Clearly Alice has at least a moderate degree of Alzheimer’s.’

  Lil remembered Ada putting a mug of tea in Kyle Sullivan’s hands, and settling him in a chair next to his grandmother and Rose, who were playing as a team. Admittedly Alice’s Alzheimer’s restricted her participation to the occasional – ‘Can I go home?’ and the eerie, ‘Where’s Johnny?’ But she had seemed to enjoy herself. To his right was Aaron and then Ada and she was across the table.

  Kyle had smelled of smoke and his blue scrubs were filthy at the bottoms. Rose had told them how he’d gone back into the burning building to check on residents, and how he’d asked her to stay with his grandmother and get her out.

  Something about Kyle had pulled at Lil’s heart. The way his deeply set brown eyes had looked at Alice, so clearly devoted to her. The caring in his voice, whenever he spoke to her. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about his heroics throughout the day, which she’d pulled out of him, as Ada got him to eat a turkey sandwich. ‘She’ll stay with me,’ he’d said, his long fingers blackened with soot as he took hungry bites. ‘Before we moved here, she was with me. I’ll call an agency in the morning and get a live-in, until I can figure out what makes sense.’

  ‘Don’t they need you back at Nillewaug?’ Lil had asked.

  He’d looked at her, something haunted in his expression. ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like right now. Everyone is so scared, there’s no way any of the residents can return to the main building so we’re looking at six hundred people, many of them with special needs and complex medical issues who are essentially homeless. The scope is unreal . . . I feel guilty even leaving for a couple hours.’ He’d seemed on the verge of tears, his voice choked. ‘There are nearly forty residents we’ve not been able to find.’

  When Lil had filed her article late in the afternoon she’d been aware, via Hank Morgan, that a number of residents were unaccounted for. He’d assured her it had to do with the unprecedented scale of the disaster. By late morning, Brantsville Hospital’s emergency room had closed and patients had to be diverted to hospitals in the adjoining towns. Hank had been hazy about exact numbers. ‘Maybe a couple dozen still unaccounted,’ he’d said. But this . . .

  ‘Forty?’

  Kyle had nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure they’re mostly fine . . . But no one was keeping track of where people were being sent. I have the list of all the residents and their emergency contacts; I’ve been trying to account for everyone . . . There’s no one really in charge.’

  ‘How can that be?’ Ada had asked.

  ‘You know that Delia Preston died in the fire.’

  Ada had nodded. ‘But there have to be other administrators . . . a second in command?’

  ‘There is – the director of nursing – and she’s on two weeks’ holiday in Barbados for her honeymoon,’ Kyle had said. ‘I tried her cell, but either they don’t get service there or she turned it off.’

  ‘What about the owners?’ Lil had asked, knowing a little about the corporate structure of Nillewaug from when it first had opened and for the very brief time Bradley had been their medical director.

  ‘Good question. I’ve been trying to reach Jim Warren since five this morning. And not a word. And to be honest, I’ve been so caught up in just trying to account for people, call in any staff I could . . . I don’t have the authority to do any of this stuff. I was the nurse on charge last night . . . I finally got through to this Wallace Doyle guy – the Chief Financial Officer – who told me to contact Jim Warren. He started to give me this whole story about how he just managed the finances . . . Like I care about that? And I don’t get it
, because I know he was there at the fire. The guy must weigh over three-hundred pounds; he’s hard to miss.’ He shook his head. ‘Everyone keeps looking to me like I know what’s going on . . . I really don’t.’

  ‘It’s OK, man.’ Aaron had placed a hand on Kyle’s back, as the nurse’s jaw clenched.

  ‘I should have seen something, smelled smoke, something . . .’ he’d said, struggling to maintain composure. ‘And why didn’t the alarms go off?’

  Alice, sensing her grandson’s distress, kissed him on the cheek. ‘Are we going home, Johnny?’

  He’d smiled at her, the bond between them so affectionate. ‘Soon,’ he’d said, smoothing back her recently shampooed shoulder-length cherry-red hair.

  To which Ada had replied, ‘She can stay here. She has to.’

  ‘That’s kind, but I’ll figure this out.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ada had said. ‘Look, we’ve got plenty of space, she’ll stay in my condo with Rose and Aaron. It’s safe here, and during the day Lil and I can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Lil had agreed. ‘We both know what to do . . . I cared for my mom for years, and Ada’s Harry had severe dementia by the end.’ She’d made eye contact with Kyle. ‘Let us do this.’

  Reluctantly, he’d agreed, and then his cell rang. Shaking his head he’d pulled it out, and, getting up from the table, had commented, ‘It’s my sister . . . Hello, Kelly.’ He’d stepped away and the game resumed half-heartedly as Ada had watched him. Her heart bled for the man who was being tested by circumstances beyond anyone’s control. His conversation on the phone apparently not helping things. Not quite catching his words she’d focused on his lips, and could discern phrases – ‘I can’t . . . I’m doing my best . . . No, absolutely not.’ And then his voice had raised in anger, and they’d all heard. ‘Remember the last time you took Alice. Absolutely not!’ His frustration had been obvious, as he looked back at the Scrabble game and caught Ada’s gaze. Alice had turned at the sound of his voice. ‘Are we going home?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he’d said into the receiver, ‘you want to talk to her, you think this is something you can handle?’ His tone shifted and, stifling his anger, he’d called to Alice, ‘Alice, Kelly wants to talk with you.’

  All pretense of playing had dropped as Alice bounded up from the table and let Kyle hold the receiver to her ear. To Ada it looked a bit like a child playing as Alice smiled broadly and yelled into the small cell phone. Curiously, she did remember her granddaughter’s name – ‘Hi, Kelly, are we going home?’ Her smile never dropped as her granddaughter said something back to which Alice had replied, ‘Are we going home?’ A bit more unheard conversation from Kelly followed by Alice: ‘Are we going home?’ and Kyle took back the phone and had encouraged his grandmother back to the game table.

  He’d turned his back and whatever he’d next said to his sister, none of the others could hear, other than: ‘Satisfied?’

  After he’d hung up, his jaw was clenched, and he let a slow stream of air through his mouth. ‘I love my sister,’ he’d said to no one in particular. ‘But she just doesn’t get it.’

  He’d brought Alice’s medications in from his car, apologized that she had no clothes, and then left. Ada had made him promise to at least try and get a few hours sleep before returning to Nillewaug. But as he’d pulled away, she’d turned to Lil and said, ‘He’s going right back there.’

  ‘Of course,’ she’d said, ‘I’d put money on it.’

  It had been a very strange night, and now, as Lil looked at Ada in her Prussian blue robe, her eyes bright in the morning light, she said, ‘I don’t remember him saying how long he needed us to keep Alice.’

  Ada sipped her tea. ‘As long as it takes, Lil. You know that. Now get your piece finished.’

  EIGHT

  Detective Perez needed sleep, and she knew it. Her thoughts raced dangerously fast, and it was all she could do to keep from snapping at the excited and well-intended Jamie who’d earlier delivered the latest salvo of bad news, and what had them now being buzzed through looming outer gates at the low-security Federal Correctional Facility in Danbury. ‘He’s in federal custody,’ Jamie had said an hour and a half earlier after having been given the task of contacting Attorney James Warren, the CEO and president of the for-profit Raven’s Flight, LLC that owned Nillewaug.

  Jamie, who was driving and apparently needed no sleep, followed the blue-and-white signs toward the weathered brick administration building. During the half hour drive from Nillewaug, Mattie had been furiously trying to figure what Attorney James Warren was doing in federal custody, while fielding Jamie’s non-stop questions. ‘If the Feds are involved does that mean they take over?’ she’d asked.

  ‘It depends, but probably.’

  ‘Why would they be involved?’

  ‘No idea, just drive.’ She stared at the on-board computer. Sadly, she had full access to the state databases, but limited ability to anything related to inmates in federal custody. This was exactly the kind of thing that post-9/11 Homeland Security was supposed to address, and never had. Unable to even get the names of the arresting agents, all she had to go on was the limited information on the Internet inmate finder – conspiracy to commit fraud (multiple counts). There was no mention of bond, and it appeared he’d not even gone before a judge yet. What exactly had Mr Warren done? And does it have anything to do with this? Murder, likely arson and now . . . why is he here?

  The one break she’d caught was knowing the assistant warden at Danbury, whom she’d called just as he was showing up for work. He’d told her that the prisoner was waiting for his attorney and refusing to say a word. She was welcome to be present for the interrogation, but early indications were not hopeful. She’d asked to speak with the arresting agents, and was told he’d do what he could, but they were holed up trying to prep for what would likely be a lengthy interrogation. Her frustration was palpable, but she knew to tread lightly. What did they suspect James Warren had done, and, if they’d just arrested him, how much of this had to do with the fire, or the murder . . . or murders?

  She felt rattled and torn, like shouldn’t she still be at Nillewaug? All being handled, she thought, picturing the swarms of detectives and crime-scene technicians who’d replaced the earlier ambulances and firefighters. Lots of grunt work, getting statements from residents and employees, then the locals who’d seen the fire, or thought they knew something. Attempting to protect the crime scene and the obvious source of the fire, that horrible apartment. And then Preston’s office, any evidence of what had happened badly compromised by the fire, the firefighters and quite possibly whoever had pushed dead Delia out the window. Let it go, she told herself, knowing her desire to stay in control was pointless.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ Jamie said, as they parked the car in one of the visitor spots. ‘I thought it was only for women.’

  ‘Used to be and still is mostly, but for white-collar investigations they keep men here pre-trial. After sentencing it’s a different story.’

  ‘The country club,’ Jamie said, referring to the prison’s long-time reputation of being a nice play to stay if you have to do time.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jim Warren, in an orange jump suit, his face covered with salt-and-pepper stubble, said nothing, his gray eyes fixed on the steel table in front of him. His hands manacled as his attorney – Craig Windham, the best money could buy and sharp as a pin in his five-thousand-dollar charcoal suit, blinding white shirt and Italian silk tie – deflected questions from the two federal agents who sat across from them in the dingy interrogation room.