Working Stiff mwm-1

by Annelise Ryan

  Then Izzy discovers evidence of a massive coronary thrombosis and a lack of blood in many areas of the body, which means the guy had a massive heart attack and was most likely dead before he ever hit the truck.

  It is a little after eleven and we are just finishing up the autopsy when a woman pokes her head into the room. She looks like a flower child right out of the sixties: straight black hair, big floppy hat, calf-length peasant dress, sandals, and a string of love beads that hang to her navel. “Hi there!” she says. “You must be Mattie.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Cass. I work here part-time. Answer phones, file, that sort of thing.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cass.”

  “I have a message for you. Lucien called and said to tell you that your husband is out on bail.”

  “Good. I think. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And Arnie said he’d like both of you to come up to his office when you’re done here. He has some information for you.”

  “Will do, Cass,” says Izzy. “Thanks.”

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” I say once Cass is gone. “Arnie made it sound as if meeting Cass would be a strange experience.”

  Izzy chuckles. “It is, but you’ll get used to it.”

  “What’s to get used to? She seems just fine to me.”

  “Wait until the next time you meet her. Then you’ll understand.”

  We clean up and head for Arnie’s office. I can tell from the look on Arnie’s face that he is excited about something.

  “I have a tentative ID for the Owenby woman,” he says. “I tracked down a hospital in Kentucky where the real Karen Owenby used to work. Seems there was an operating room assistant named Sharon Carver who worked at the same hospital and who gave notice a few days after Owenby’s death. Then Carver just disappeared from the face of the earth. There’s no further work history, no bank accounts, no nothing.

  “However, someone claiming to be Karen Owenby and using her nursing license was hired as an OR nurse in a Chicago hospital two months after the real Owenby’s death. According to personnel records at the Chicago hospital, the work history that the fake Owenby provided conveniently excluded any employment during the period that the real Owenby worked at the Kentucky hospital. During an interview, the applicant apparently explained the gap in employment by saying that she took some time off to help a sick family member.”

  “Good work, Arnie,” Izzy says.

  “Thanks.”

  “How did you figure it out?” I ask him.

  “I just assumed that the person who stole Karen Owenby’s identity had to be both someone who knew her and someone who had a working knowledge of an OR. I backtracked from the reference information the hospital here had on file for Owenby and noticed a gap of several years. Using the information from the death certificate for the real Karen Owenby, which listed her place of death as Ashland, Kentucky, I started calling area hospitals. Sure enough, I found one where she’d worked.

  “So I asked the hospital if they had any employees who quit or were fired around the time of Owenby’s death and they came up with two names: a man and a woman. The woman was Sharon Carver and she worked as an aide in the OR, which also happened to be where Karen Owenby worked. So I had the hospital scan and e-mail me a picture of the Carver woman from her personnel file. Had them send one of Owenby, too. Check it out.”

  He turns to his computer and pulls up two photos side by side. I look over Izzy’s shoulder and sure enough, the woman labeled as Sharon Carver looks exactly like the woman we knew as Karen Owenby but with lighter hair. The real Karen Owenby was quite pretty, I note, her features delicate and refined looking.

  “How soon before we can verify?” Izzy asks.

  “Sharon Carver has no prints on file,” Arnie explains. “And I haven’t found any family yet. She listed parents as the next of kin on her job application at the hospital in Kentucky, but apparently the names, address, and phone number she gave for them were fake. No one at the hospital seems to know much about her. Apparently she only worked there for a few months. I’ve got some inquiries out to dentists in the area to see if we can find anyone she might have gone to. Other than that, I’m not sure where to go.”

  Izzy says, “The application Carver filled out at the Kentucky hospital. They still have it?”

  Arnie nods.

  “Give this information to Hurley and see if he can get that application and check it for finger or palm prints. If we can match one up with the woman in our morgue, it won’t be proof positive, but it certainly adds to the slate.”

  “Will do,” Arnie says.

  “The thing I don’t get is why,” I say. “Why did this woman impersonate a nurse and take over her identity?”

  Arnie shrugs.

  Izzy says, “Drugs maybe?” He looks at me. “Do you know if there were any incidents of drug diversion at Mercy during the past few years? Maybe she was copping and selling on the street.”

  “I know there was a problem back about four years ago, but they caught the nurse who was behind that one and fired her. Sent her away for rehab, I think. And she wasn’t selling, just using.” I shake my head as I think. “I really doubt that Karen was involved in anything like that. She worked there for six years. If she was diverting drugs, someone would have tapped her by now.”

  “You’re probably right,” Arnie says. “But just to be on the safe side, I’ll have Hurley check and see if there were any suspected drug problems at the Kentucky hospital around the time Carver was working there.”

  “Another possibility,” Izzy says, “is money. After all, Carver was only an aide and they don’t pull down much of a salary. So maybe she just wanted the higher pay that an RN gets. She paid attention while working as an aide in the OR, picking up tips, lingo, and techniques. Then, when the opportunity arose, she passed herself off as an RN by using the dead woman’s name, license, and work history.”

  “How’d she come about a work history if she didn’t use the Kentucky hospital?” I ask.

  Arnie says, “Simple enough if you think about it. Mentions of prior places could have come out in conversation. Plus, there might have been info in the obituary. Or Carver could have attended the funeral and subtly pumped family or friends for information about past jobs. Once you get a hospital name, it’s simple enough to call the personnel department and say you’re checking a reference. Most places won’t tell you much without written permission from the employee, but they will give you dates of employment and often the area where the employee worked. That’s all you really need for a job application.”

  Amazing. Not only was Karen Owenby not really Karen Owenby, she wasn’t really a nurse. Molinaro was going to shit a brick when she found out.

  “You know, there’s something else we need to consider,” I say, recalling my talk with Deborah the night before. I tell them what Deborah said about Karen’s investment scheme involving doctors. “I have no idea what it might be,” I tell them. “I wasn’t aware of anything going on while I was working there, but I might not have been in the loop. Maybe we can find out more at the dedication tonight.”

  “We can certainly give it a shot,” Izzy says.

  “Which reminds me. Can I leave a little early today? I still have to find a dress to wear.”

  “Sure, if things stay quiet,” Izzy says. “Just promise me you won’t try to do anything textured and pouffy again. That dress you wore to the mayor’s ball last fall made you look like a giant puffer fish.”

  Reload.

  By the time I leave work I have just under three hours to find the perfect, non-pouffy dress and make myself presentable. Both of these tasks carry the threat of being overwhelming, if not impossible, although the latter is going to be less so thanks to Barbara’s magical ministrations.

  I hate shopping for clothes. Most women love it and treat me like a traitor to my gender simply because I loathe it. But then, most of those women are blessed with something close to a normal body whereas I
am short-waisted, have arms like a baboon, and have thighs that rub together so tightly, I sound like a belt sander when I wear corduroy pants.

  If I find a dress that’s long enough for my body overall, the waist is usually somewhere around my hips. When I try to wear long sleeves, they often end up being three-quarter length instead. Tight-fitting or slim-line skirts bunch up at the thighs and make my ass look huge, whereas snug-fitting slacks tend to make me look like I’m heading out to the riding range in my jodhpurs. I have pretty decent cleavage with any bra but hesitate to wear the type of neckline that will show it off. The last time I did that, I was picking crumbs out of there most of the night.

  I head for the only women’s clothing store in town that has ever managed to provide me with passable stuff. Located just off Main Street, it is owned by a fifty-something German woman named Olga who is both tall and wide. Consequently, she carries a good assortment of clothing to fit women who possess either trait…or someone like me, who possesses both of them.

  The first thing Olga digs up for me is a cocktail dress that fits snug to the waist and then flares out around the hips where the material is gathered in ruffled layers. It is sleeveless and has one halter type strap to hold it up. The color is a safe shade of beige and the flare of the skirt camouflages my thighs and hips—the same hips that David once told me were “obviously made for childbearing,” a comment that led to a weeklong case of no-nookie disease.

  The dress looks fabulous on the hanger and I am excited as I carry it into the dressing room and slip it on. A quick glance in the mirror doesn’t make me gag, so I step out, my expression hopeful. I do a twirl as Olga casts her critical gaze upon me. Two seconds later she gives me a thumbs-down.

  “What?” I whine. “What’s wrong with it? I like it.”

  “Fine, wear it if you want,” Olga says, her German accent turning every w into a v. “But it makes you look like a cauliflower.”

  I take off the beige dress and try on two pink ones, a hideous salmon-colored thing, and a teal-colored sheath that makes my skin itch. I’m getting cranky when Olga tosses yet another specimen over the dressing room door, this one in a shade of pale, silvery blue. I hold it up to my face and see that the color is very striking against my skin and hair, magnifying the blue of my eyes. I start to pull the dress on over my head when I notice the back of it.

  “Olga, have you lost your mind?” I yell over the dressing room door.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like the dress?”

  “It has a bow on the ass, Olga. A really big bow. I’m not wearing any dress that has a bow on the ass.”

  “Come out here and let me see,” Olga says.

  I pull the dress on, my jaw set in determination as I take a quick glance in the mirror at my profile. The bow makes my butt look bigger than Minnesota and it’s a shame because, from the front the dress looks great—shapely, but not snug. The style is a good one that hides most of my natural flaws. Disappointed, I step out of the dressing room and stand sideways in front of Olga with a What’d-I-tell-ya? look on my face.

  Olga turns me around, fiddles with my butt for a second, and says, “You are right. No butt bow.”

  I sigh and glance at my watch. I’ve already used up nearly two hours of my time and I’m about to ask Olga what else she has when she snaps her fingers. “Gone, like that,” she says. “I take the bow off.”

  “I’m pretty pushed for time, Olga. This thing starts at six.”

  “Give me five minutes. I just need to open the seam, take the bow off, and close it back up. You can’t spare five minutes?”

  I glance at my watch again, and then take another look in the mirror. Other than the bow, the dress is perfect. I glance at the price tag. High, but within range. “Okay,” I say. “But hurry.”

  “You know, I have a nice shawl that would go great with that dress,” Olga says. “Do you have a wrap of any sort?”

  I don’t and ten minutes later Olga has a big smile on her face, I am $278 poorer, and there are only forty minutes left before I am supposed to meet Izzy. When I realize I don’t have any shoes to wear with the dress, Olga takes pity on me and loans me a pair of hers, which are half a size too small but look great. I hurry home, dress, and do a quick fix to my hair, all of it under the watchful eyes of Rubbish, who circles in and out between my feet, nuzzling my legs and mewing.

  Izzy, who hates being late, shows up as I’m starting my makeup. “You about ready?” he asks.

  “Not quite. I need a couple more minutes.”

  He sighs and stands in the bathroom doorway watching me, trying to be patient, but tapping his foot and glancing at his watch every few seconds. Rubbish, who is sitting at my feet, suddenly gets up and opens the bathroom cabinet with one paw. He climbs inside, letting the door shut behind him. At the sound of the thump-ump, I laugh and say, “I see you’ve finally mastered it.”

  “Mastered what?” Izzy asks.

  “I was talking to the cat. He likes to play in this cabinet. See?” I reach down, swing open the door, and apparently scare the hell out of Rubbish, who runs out of the cabinet and leaps for my arms. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make it past my knees, where he sinks his claws in and starts to climb. By the time I pry him loose I have two flaming red scratches and several trickles of blood on my leg, as well as a pair of panty hose that resemble a railroad switching yard.

  “Well, that’s just great,” Izzy says. “Hurry up and change, please.”

  I reach up under my dress and yank the panty hose down to my knees. “I don’t have any other hose here, Izzy. We’ll have to stop somewhere.” I kick off my shoes and peel the hose the rest of the way off. Then I toss them to Rubbish, who immediately attacks and kills them.

  “Can’t you just go barelegged?” Izzy whines. “We’re already ten minutes late. And none of the clothing stores are going to be open at this hour.”

  “I can’t go to this thing barelegged. It’s October. Not only would I freeze to death, it’s an absolute fashion faux pas.” The freezing part is a minor exaggeration. While it is true that my legs might feel a little cold, panty hose aren’t likely to make a big difference. Besides, my tolerance for cold has always been pretty high. Having a layer of blubber does provide for a few advantages.

  “A fashion faux pas?” Izzy echoes, his tone reeking with irony as he steers me out the door and to his car. “My, my. Aren’t you a regular Martha Stewart.”

  “As if Martha Stewart knows anything about fashion,” I sneer. “She has an entire closet filled with denim shirts.”

  “You’re just jealous. I think she’s an amazing woman,” Izzy taunts.

  “She’s not a woman. She’s an alien life form.”

  “Hey, just because you’re not woman enough.”

  “Oh, puh-lease,” I shoot back. “Just because I don’t spend all day spray-painting pine cones or making hors d’oeuvres out of phyllo dough and cocktail weenies doesn’t mean I’m not a woman. Hell, even Martha doesn’t do that stuff. She has an entire corporation of employees who do it for her. I’m telling you, the woman’s a total fraud. I’d suggest she hang herself, but I don’t think I have the patience to wait for her to grow some hemp so she can make her own rope.”

  I realize we are already halfway to the hospital. “Hey, pull in to the Quik-E-Mart up here, would you?” I say. “I saw a rack of panty hose when I was in there the other day.”

  Izzy hits the brakes so hard that the vehicle behind us, a gray-and-burgundy van, has to swerve onto the shoulder to keep from rear-ending us.

  All the Quik-E-Mart has for panty hose is a generic brand with the world’s biggest lie stamped on the front of the package: ONE SIZE FITS ALL. I pay for them and dash back out to the car.

  Izzy peels out as I kick off my shoes and go through an array of gymnastic contortions trying to get the panty hose on. By the time I’m done, I have an indentation in the middle of my forehead from the button on the glove box, a cramp in my thigh that makes me want to cut my leg off,
and a panty hose waistband that is currently riding somewhere in the region of my pubic bone. I give Izzy a dirty look as he tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress his laughter.

  “You’re a misogynistic creep,” I tell him.

  “Au contraire,” he protests. “I adore women. They are the most entertaining creatures I’ve ever encountered. Just because I don’t want to sleep with them doesn’t mean I don’t like them.”

  When we arrive at the hospital, I manage to squeeze myself out of the car and do a quick tug-pull-wiggle maneuver to get my hose in the best possible position. I stretch the material as far as it will go but as we walk toward the entrance, I can feel them slipping downward as the material contracts back to its normal size. I try minimizing my leg movement as I walk, hoping that might slow their descent.

  Inside the hospital auditorium, a crowd of a hundred or more has already gathered. I hang my shawl on a nearby coat rack and then scan the room, marking my potential targets for the evening.

  Sidney Carrigan and Arthur Henley—the other general surgeons in Sorenson besides David—are huddled in a corner with Joe Weegan, an internist. Cary Snyder, a plastics man who has sucked the thighs and bellies of at least half the women in the snooty neighborhood along Lakeside Drive, is chatting by the punch bowl with Mick Dunn, whose specialty is orthopedics. David is here, too, apparently none the worse from his overnight stay in a jail cell. He looks frighteningly handsome in his dark suit as he laughs at something he’s just heard from Garrett Solange, a neurosurgeon and one of David’s closest friends.

  I recognize other faces, too, doctors whose specialties only occasionally involve surgery, like the OB/GYN and pediatric docs—a couple of whom are women—and the urology guys. I mentally add them to my list of targets, but put them at the bottom. If Karen Owenby had something going on with doctors who worked in the OR, I figure I’ll have a better chance of finding out what it is if I question the “regulars.”