Working Stiff mwm-1

by Annelise Ryan

  Today, however, the room fails to comfort me, even as I sink down into the cushiony softness of the couch. I watch Sid close the door, and the minute he turns toward me and I see the sad, resigned expression on his face, I know everything David told me is true.

  “I take it you’ve spoken to David,” he says, wasting no time.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you hate me as a result?”

  “Hate you?” I ponder the question. “No, Sid. I don’t hate you,” I say honestly. “But I think it’s time you were straight with me.” It is a notably poor choice of words, but since Sid doesn’t seem to catch the pun, I quickly push ahead. “Right now I have good reason to think that you are involved somehow in the murders of two people—Karen Owenby and Mike Halverson.”

  Sid opens his mouth to say something but then he freezes without uttering a sound. He stares at me for several moments, looking first confused, then stricken. “Murder?” he says finally, swallowing hard. “Mike was murdered?”

  I nod.

  “But I heard it was deemed a suicide.” He looks frighteningly pale and I start to entertain a new scenario, one in which he drops dead of a heart attack.

  “Someone tried to make it look that way,” I tell him. “But they didn’t do a good enough job. There’s no doubt he was murdered.”

  He staggers and grabs at a bookshelf to steady himself. This is no act—that he is surprised by my revelation is obvious. But what I’m not sure of is the reason for his surprise. Did he truly not know that Mike was murdered? Or is he simply shocked to learn that someone figured out the truth?

  Slowly he makes his way to the chair and collapses into it. He leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He stays that way for several moments, and when he finally straightens up and looks at me, his expression is horribly sad.

  “I never thought I could be as happy as I was with Mike,” he says. “I wasn’t even looking for a relationship. I was trying to put that whole lifestyle behind me. But then Karen Owenby approached me a year or so ago about this medical equipment company she said she’d invested in. I got curious and went by the place to check it out and that’s when I met Mike.”

  “Sid, I—”

  “We kept it very hush-hush at first, of course,” Sid goes on, ignoring me as he loses himself in his memories. He has this beatific little smile on his face that is both touching and pathetic. “We never met here in town at all. We only went to the Grizzly or to other towns where no one knew either of us. When I found out that Karen was actually Mike’s sister, I knew then that our secret wouldn’t last forever. But by the time she found out about us, I’d already decided I didn’t care anymore. I was tired of living a lie.”

  “Did Mike tell you he was HIV positive?”

  Sid nods. “He was very honest with me, and I with him. In my younger years I wasn’t always as careful as I should have been. And then a little over a year ago I started noticing some changes in my health: weight loss, muscle wasting, weakness, frequent colds…all the signs were there. I told Mike when I met him that I suspected I was not only HIV positive but might have AIDS.” He pauses a moment and tears well in his eyes.

  “Have you been tested?”

  He shakes his head. “I know I should have been but I didn’t want to give up operating yet. I’ve always been very, very careful. I double glove and I’ve never had any nicks or punctures during a procedure so I’m certain I haven’t exposed any patients.”

  “But you didn’t tell them, either, did you? The patients you worked on have a right to know, Sid.”

  “I didn’t tell them because I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell. That’s why I didn’t want to get tested, plausible deniability in case everything came out somewhere down the road. Maybe it was wrong but I thought I could….” His voice breaks and it takes him a moment to collect himself.

  “Anyway,” he continues after clearing his throat, “once David confronted us at the Grizzly, I told Mike we might have to move, to start over somewhere else. But Mike knew how much I loved my work and didn’t believe me when I told him I could walk away from it. He broke it off, said he never wanted to see me again.”

  He buries his face in his hands. “Oh, God,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way, Mattie. I loved Mike. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Oh my God. He did do it. I want to cry. “Sid—”

  He turns his back to me. “Please, Mattie. I need some time alone. I need to think.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. A surge of compassion makes me get up and walk over to him. “I’m sorry, Sid,” I whisper, settling my hand on his shoulder. My apology is an all-encompassing one that covers the way I feel about what he has done as well as what I will now have to do.

  “So am I,” he says. “God, so am I.” He looks up at me, his expression pleading, his eyes bright with the sheen of tears. “Tell me you believe me, Mattie. Tell me you believe that I never meant to hurt anyone.”

  “I believe you, Sid,” I say through a sheen of my own tears. My heart feels as if it is being minced into tiny pieces.

  “I never thought it would come to this,” Sid whispers. Then he holds his hand up as if he is warding off an evil spirit and turns away from me. “Please leave, Mattie. Go. I need to be alone. Please just go.”

  I don’t see as how I have any choice, but I can’t just leave. I realize, too late, that coming here alone was a mistake. I should have called Hurley and let him handle it. Feeling helpless, I look around the room, unsure of what to do next. Will Sid try to run? Have I blown the whole case because of my own stupid naïveté and some misguided notion about my friendship with Sid—a man I thought I’d known but who has proven to be as unpredictable and secretive as David? Maybe more so?

  Then I remember my cell phone. I can step out of the house and call Hurley from my car, then drive out to the end of Sid’s drive and wait there until Hurley arrives. That way, if Sid tries to run, he won’t get far. Concern for my own safety never enters my mind. Despite what Sid has done, I can’t make myself believe he would ever hurt me.

  I step out into the hallway, quietly closing the door to the den. The aromas of garlic and basil waft toward me and I remember that Gina is in the kitchen. I briefly debate going to her to talk about all that has happened but I’m not sure how much she knows, and if she is unaware of Sid’s alternate lifestyle, I sure as hell don’t want to be the one to tell her. Watching Sid start to self-destruct has been torture enough for one day. I can only imagine how Gina is going to react. And given her popularity, I know that if the media gets wind of the story, they’ll have a heyday. Gina and Sid will both be publicly crucified.

  I hear Gina moving about in the kitchen and duck toward the front door, suddenly afraid of having to face her. I ease the door open, step through, and am about to ease it closed again when I hear a loud bang from within the house. I pause and look back down the hallway, my hand on the doorknob, my mind already screaming in denial.

  Gina appears at the other end of the hall, sees me, and cocks her head to one side, her face wearing a puzzled expression. I watch as her eyes flit toward the door to Sid’s den, then back to me. It seems like an eternity that we stand there just staring at one another, yet I know it is mere seconds, a meager breath of time wherein we both cling desperately to our doubts and denial, feeble as they are. For I know what that sound was. I don’t want to know, but I do.

  And judging from the look on Gina’s face, she knows, too. As she stares at me, I think I see something else there as well: accusation and blame. Much as I would like to shrug it off, I can’t. She is right. I try to offer her an apology with my eyes but all I can feel coming through is the terrible weight of my guilt.

  Gina shifts her gaze back to the den door and slowly walks toward it. She looks like a zombie operating off of some ancient instinct that is pulling her toward a fate she neither wants nor understands. I don’t want it either; I don’t want her
to go there, to look in the den and make it all real. For a brief moment I seriously consider running down the hall and tackling her to the floor. Anything to stop her. But she keeps on going and I keep on watching. As she opens the door and looks inside, I hold my breath.

  She rushes into the room and my hope surges. When nothing happens for several seconds, I slowly start moving back toward the den, still clinging to my denial even as an all-too-familiar scent reaches my nostrils. I hear a faint thump and something about it makes my nurse’s training kick in. Shaking off my daze, I hurry the last few steps toward the room, thinking, hoping, it might not be too late.

  Chapter 33

  It is definitely too late. Sid’s body sits on that lovely butter-soft couch, his head hanging forward, a growing pool of blood gathering in his lap. The back of the couch and part of the wall behind it is painted in red gore. Sid’s right hand lays open, palm up. Beside it is a revolver.

  Gina is sitting in the chair where Sid was moments before, staring at her husband, her face curiously blank. I move closer to Sid and see that while the wound in his head isn’t nearly as severe as Mike Halverson’s was, his situation is no less grave. I can see bits of gray matter clinging to both his skull and the wall behind him.

  I stare at Sid’s chest and see he isn’t breathing. I don’t bother to check for a pulse because I know that surviving a head wound such as this is nigh onto impossible.

  I turn back to Gina and find her staring at me, her eyes searching mine with begging appeal. I shake my head and feel my heart clench as the light of hope in her eyes extinguishes itself.

  “I’m sorry, Gina. So sorry.”

  She says nothing, does nothing. Her lifeless expression frightens me.

  “We need to call the police,” I say gently.

  She nods then, mechanically.

  I look over at the phone on Sid’s desk and start to reach for it. But then I remember what I’ve learned about crime scene preservation and how I managed to mess up the two I’ve been to so far.

  “Come on, Gina,” I say, urging her gently. “Let’s wait somewhere else.”

  I take her elbow and she rises from her chair like a robot. As she shuffles forward, one foot catches itself along the edge of the rug and she nearly falls. I hold her arm tight as she disentangles her foot and lets the rug fall back down against the chair legs. Then I steer her gently out into the hall and we enter the living room, where she sinks into a chair.

  I move back out into the hallway, pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket, flip it open, and punch in 9-1-1. Gina does nothing. She just sits there, not crying, not moving, staring empty-eyed off into space. I fear she is in shock and worry that she might try to do something desperate herself.

  My anxiety isn’t relieved any when my call goes through and I recognize the voice on the other end. It is Jeannie, the same woman who answered when I called about Mike Halverson.

  “9-1-1 operator. Do you have an emergency?”

  “Jeannie?”

  “Yes, this is Jeannie. Do you have an emergency?”

  “Kind of,” I say, realizing that this sort of call is getting uncomfortably close to becoming a habit. I move away from Gina and lower my voice. “I have a death here. A suicide. He shot himself in the head.”

  There is the briefest of pauses, then, “Mattie? Is that you?”

  “It is.”

  “And you really have another dead man?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you know who this one is?”

  “Yes, it’s Sidney Carrigan. Dr. Sidney Carrigan.”

  I hear Jeannie gasp, which isn’t surprising. Pretty much everyone in the county knows the Carrigans. But she recovers quickly. “Give me the address.”

  I do so.

  “Okay, I’m dispatching police and rescue now. They should be there in five minutes or less.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you okay, Mattie?”

  “I’m pretty shook up, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. We’ll keep talking until someone arrives.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” I am impressed. Jeannie is getting better at this pretty fast.

  “Um, how dead is this one?” she asks me.

  “Very.”

  “No point in making any rescue attempts?”

  “Nope.”

  “For my records, can you describe the extent of the wounds?”

  I do so, trying to be as sterile as I can when describing the grimmer parts, keeping a wary eye on Gina the whole time. She still hasn’t moved.

  “Is anyone else there?” Jeannie asks.

  “Yes, Sid’s wife, Gina.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “As okay as you might expect, I guess. She may be a bit shocky.” Off in the distance, I hear a siren.

  “Officer Childs should be pulling up any second now, Mattie,” Jeannie says.

  Ah, Brian again. That is good, I suppose. “Thanks, Jeannie. You did really good this time.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”

  Out the front door, which is still open, I see a squad car pull up. “Brian just arrived,” I inform Jeannie. “So I’ll let you go.”

  “Okay. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

  “I will, Jeannie. You, too.”

  I meet Brian at the front door so Gina won’t be able to hear me and quickly fill him in on the highlights: Sid’s affair with Mike Halverson, their HIV status, David’s ultimatum to Sidney, and then finally, my visit, ending with the sound of the gunshot. I also let him know that I am unsure how much of this Gina knows. Brian asks me to wait and heads inside. After a quick look around the den, he steps across the hall to the living room and focuses on Gina.

  A rescue squad pulls up and after assuring the techs that I am okay, I direct them inside. Then I collapse on the front stoop, wanting to cry, but too tired and drained to summon up any tears. Instead, I just sit there listening to the wind and welcoming the fading warmth of the sun on my face. Moments later another squad car arrives and right behind it comes Hurley.

  He parks and stares at me through his window for a moment. Then he shakes his head and gets out. “Are you all right?” he asks, stopping in front of me.

  I nod without looking up at him.

  “Okay. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the house and I hear the low murmur of voices. A few minutes later, Hurley comes back outside and settles down beside me on the porch.

  “What a damned mess,” he mumbles. “Can you tell me what the hell is going on here, because Gina doesn’t seem to have a clue. She said you dropped by unannounced and she’s been in the kitchen cooking. Next thing she knows, her husband is lying dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

  “It’s my fault,” I mumble. “I should have known he’d do something stupid like that.”

  Hurley reaches over and cups my chin in his hand, turning my face to look at him. His eyes probe mine for a few seconds, then he brushes my hair back from my face with a touch so gentle, so sweetly tender, that it finally breaks the dam. The tears come and they keep on coming. And coming. And coming. I try to talk, but can’t. Hurley gets up and disappears into the house again, then returns and hands me a wad of tissues. This final act of kindness only makes me cry harder. Finally, he puts an arm over my shoulders and pulls me to him.

  There, cuddled against the solid warmth of his chest with his arms holding me tight and protected, I cry out all my guilt and grief.

  It is several hours before the investigation at the Carrigan residence is finished and Sidney’s body is removed. One of the backup pathologists covering for Izzy comes out to process the scene, and the body is taken to our morgue, where tomorrow, Izzy will do an autopsy. I’ll get Arnie to help him because I don’t think I can bring myself to participate in an autopsy on Sid.

  I am surprised we are even going to bother with an autopsy, since both the cause and the circumstances of death are pretty obvious. But then Hurley reminds
me that suicide is a crime and as such is a coroner’s case. I nod automatically, but then spend several minutes trying to figure out why suicide is a crime. Who can you possibly prosecute?

  I eventually tell Hurley everything I know, filling in those details he is missing, like my trip to the Grizzly. I conclude by relaying the conversation I had with David and my decision to come out and see Sid. Then I recall, as closely as I can, Sid’s comments before he killed himself. I can tell Hurley is pissed at me, but he holds his tongue and keeps his thoughts to himself. Probably because he can see how much my guilt is eating away at me.

  He spends about ten minutes gently questioning Gina about Sid. I listen as she tells him that she has no idea why he would want to kill himself and that she still can’t believe he’s actually done it. I imagine that once she learns the truth, she’ll be devastated.

  When Hurley asks her about the gun Sid used, Gina tells him that Sid always kept a pistol in his lower right desk drawer—according to Sid it was for protection. I start to interrupt at that point because I am certain that Gina is confused. I recall a night several months back when David and I attended a soirée here and ended up in Sid’s den with Sid and two other doctors. Sid collapsed on the couch, half-drunk, laughing, and obviously enjoying himself. He played the dutiful host by asking us if we wanted to sample the thirty-year-old scotch he had in his desk drawer.

  I passed on the offer, since the taste of scotch is about as appealing to me as the idea of drinking antifreeze. But the others accepted and Sid asked me to fetch the bottle for him from the drawer…his bottom right desk drawer, though he was initially confused and said left. When I pulled open the left drawer, all it had in it were dozens of hanging files. I finally found the scotch in the right drawer and I’m certain there wasn’t any gun in there. But then I realize that it doesn’t matter much where the gun was. The simple fact that Sid had it is enough.

  When Hurley finishes questioning Gina, he offers to have one of the officers drive her somewhere. She protests at first, saying she wants to stay in her own home. But when Hurley explains to her that the house will need to be closed up until it is cleared as a crime scene, she gives in and decides to stay with a friend for a few days, until she can figure out what to do.