“I don’t know,” Connie said.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Irene said, clearly exasperated. She took out her cell phone. “I’ll call Bernie and let him tell you.”
“No no, that won’t be necessary,” Connie said, sitting back down. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Come on,” Irene said, tugging at my shirtsleeve. “Let’s go.”
We headed down the hallway to our left, past some offices, a large cafeteria-style dining room filled with empty tables, some public restrooms, an activity room, and a therapy room. At the intersection of the next hallway was a nurse’s station that wrapped around the corner of the intersection. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Irene.
“Most of the nurses are either on break or in the wing that runs off the end of the hall down there,” she said, nodding straight ahead. “That’s where the bedbound patients are, and some of them have to be fed. This wing is for the walkers and wheelers. Those are the folks that can get around on their own either on foot or with a wheelchair. There are a lot of Alzheimer’s patients and other types of senile dementia in the mix. Physically, they are in decent shape, but mentally, they require a living situation where they can be monitored more closely. You can tell which ones they are because they all have ankle alarms on, like they’re some housebound prisoner. That’s so the current administration can keep an eye on them, but still cut back on staffing.”
The rooms we passed were all set up with the same basic layout of hospital-type furniture: adjustable beds, over-bed tables, bedside cabinets, and handicapped-friendly bathrooms with plenty of grab bars. Each room also had plenty of personal items, things that belonged to the individual patients, tiny touches intended to make the room seem more like home. It didn’t work. The place reeked with the sad scent of institution.
We passed a staff break room where I saw another woman in a white uniform and two nursing assistants—identifiable by their youth, their colorful scrubs, and their ID tags—sitting around a table drinking coffees and sodas.
“After lunch is afternoon free time,” Irene said. “That’s when everyone gets herded into the TV room to watch a soap opera, or work on a jigsaw puzzle so the staff can take a break.”
We reached the end of the hallway and entered a large dayroom with two big-screen TVs—one at each end—and French doors that led to an outside garden and patio area. There were a couple dozen residents here: some in wheelchairs, some seated at one of the four circular tables in the room, and some standing around conversing.
I also saw a group of people out in the garden area. Despite the unusually warm weather, which typically will have a lot of hearty Wisconsinites running around outside with nothing more than long-sleeved shirts on, here in the land of old-age metabolisms and thin skin, the dress was a bit warmer. There was a faint haze hovering above the heads of the people outside and when I saw thin contrails of smoke circling upward, I realize they weren’t out there just to enjoy the weather; they were smoking.
Everyone in the dayroom turned to stare at us as we entered and the murmur of conversation quickly faded into an uncomfortable silence. I saw Bjorn sitting at the end of a couch, his expression forlorn, and I scanned the room looking for the dead person. Everyone looked alive, though over in one corner there was a drooling guy in a wheelchair who gave me a moment’s pause.
“Look at the cute dog,” said a lady working on a jigsaw puzzle. “Come here, boy.”
Hoover looked up at me as if he was asking permission, so I reached down and unhooked his leash. He padded over to the woman who had called him.
“What’s she doing here?” grumbled a man who was glaring at me. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and suspenders to hold up his blue jeans, the waist of which was riding just beneath a huge girth of gut. He was standing against the wall, holding on to a walker that had a drop-down seat. “She works with the cops, doesn’t she?”
“She’s okay,” Irene said. “She’s smart. She’ll be able to figure this out and she’ll know what to do so we can decide how to present this to the cops.”
Whoa! “Um, present what to the cops, Irene?” I asked, my stomach churning nervously. “What exactly is going on here?”
“Might as well show her,” an elderly woman in a wheelchair said. She had a terrible palsy that made her look like one of those bobble-head dolls.
“Come on.” Irene headed for the door that led outside. “I don’t want to go past that desk Nazi again, so I’m taking you in through a back door.”
I handed the leash off to a man who was also sitting at the puzzle table and, after getting assurances from him and others that they would keep an eye on Hoover, I followed Irene.
We wound around the enclosed garden area to the right and slipped through a gate in the six-foot-high fence surrounding the back area. “Normally this gate is locked on the other side with a simple slide bolt, but I unlocked it earlier,” Irene explained, closing the gate behind us but leaving the bolt lock open.
She headed for a door, stuck a key in the lock, and led me inside. Based on the layout of the building, I guessed that we were at the back end of the administrative wing. This was confirmed once we paused to let our eyes adjust after the bright sunlight outside. Just ahead to my left was an open door to an office, and I eventually made out other offices with closed doors that were marked EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT, VICE PRESIDENT, CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER, VOLUNTEER DIRECTOR, and NURSING DIRECTOR.
“Are you glad to be back with Izzy?” Irene asked me as she started down the hallway.
We passed an open office, which was quite spacious. The sign on the door said PRESIDENT.
“I am.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
Irene stopped so suddenly I almost ran into her. She turned and stared at me, eyeing my hair with what I can only describe as a look of disgust. “Barbara says you haven’t been in lately. You know that keeping up your appearance is important to your state of mind and your mental health, don’t you?” She palmed a sadly thin curl of hair beneath her ear, pressing it into place. “Take it from someone who works hard at it, your appearance is everything.”
It was hard to take her too seriously given that I have dust bunnies at home with more hair than she has on her whole head. Her comments about mental health made me wonder if she knew things about me that she shouldn’t, but I decided I was just being paranoid and wondered what Dr. Naggy would make of that whole train of thought.
“I’ve been busy,” I said in my defense. “And my mental health is just fine, thank you.”
“Humph.”
“Where is the dead person?” I asked impatiently. We had passed all the offices and were nearly at the end of the hallway. All I could see up ahead were restrooms, a small copy and mail room, and the doorway that led to the reception area at the front of the building.
“He’s in here,” Irene said.
I was only mildly surprised when she strolled into the men’s restroom. I sensed early on that this whole situation was going to be weird and this proved me right. I followed her in, and stopped short when I saw the dead man slumped on the floor by the sink. His bald head was wedged between the wall and cabinet, his blue eyes wide and staring out of a face the color of a ripe plum. His legs were splayed, but his arms were bent and his hands were frozen into clawlike shapes that were resting on his chest. There was a white powder of some sort sprinkled on his face, and inside his mouth, which was gaping open, I saw a large, white mass. He was of average height, reasonably well built, and looked to be in his mid-to late forties rather than in his golden years, so I was pretty sure he wasn’t a resident of the place. He looked vaguely familiar, but the white powder all over his face made it hard for me to figure it out. Out of habit, I squatted beside him to probe for a carotid pulse. It was a stupid move, one born of years working at the hospital. It was unnecessary for two reasons: one, this guy was clearly dead, and two, the ac
t of squatting made my body scream out in pain when I used muscles that were still in shock after last night. Once the agony abated and I got a closer look at the victim’s face, it hit me who he was.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Is this Bernie Chase?”
“It sure is,” Irene said.
Bernard Chase was the current CEO and owner of the Twilight Home. He bought it six or seven years ago when the guy who used to own it died and his family put the place up for sale as part of the estate settlement.
“What the hell happened to him?” I asked Irene.
“That’s the problem,” Irene said. “Nobody knows for sure, except maybe Bjorn, and he isn’t telling . . . if he remembers.”
I pulled my hand back from Bernie’s neck and wiped it on my pants. “Do you think that stuff on his face is cocaine?”
“Pretty sure it’s not,” Irene said, and then she pointed toward Bernie’s feet. Hiding under one of his pant legs was an empty plastic container that once contained isolyser powder, a substance that when sprinkled on anything wet, quickly turns the liquid into a solid. It’s used to make it easier to clean up hazardous spills, or solidify body fluids that are being disposed of. The thought of someone ingesting or inhaling the stuff as it appeared Bernie had done, made my skin crawl, though the sensation might have also been my muscles staging a mini coup. I imagined how it must have felt for him, as all the fluid in his mouth, throat, lungs, and stomach expanded into a hard solid mass, making it impossible for him to breathe, compressing the blood supply in his neck. I prayed that the latter caused a quick loss of consciousness for him, because it was simply too horrifying to imagine anyone dying slowly that way.
“We need to call the police,” I told Irene.
“Not yet. Something isn’t right here and I don’t want Bjorn getting into trouble for something he didn’t do.”
“Why do you think Bjorn had anything to do with this?”
“Because he was in here with Bernard. He came in after lunch to empty his catheter bag and he had that powder stuff with him. Even with those newfangled bags you got him, he often has trouble emptying them, so he carries that powder with him all the time, ever since you showed him how well it cleans up urine spills.”
I grimaced, recalling how I’d done just that the first time Bjorn taxied me. His leg bag was bulging with urine and while he was showing me how hard it was for him to manage the drainage valve, he emptied the bag all over the floor of his cab. Since we were at the hospital at the time, I ran inside and grabbed some of the isolyser powder to help me clean up the urine.
“Even if Bjorn had the powder, why would he kill Bernard? Or anyone, for that matter?”
“Because he wanted him dead,” Irene said matter-of-factly. “Everyone here wanted Bernard dead. And frankly, no one will be sorry he is.”
I felt like I’d just walked into the Twilight Zone and just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any more bizarre, Irene delivered her coup de grâce.
“Bernard Chase needed to die. He’s been killing off patients ever since he bought the place.”
Chapter 4
That’s how I came to be squatting in a men’s room with a dead guy who has just been declared a serial killer. I stare at Irene, completely at a loss for words.
“It’s true,” she says. “At first we thought we were imagining things, but once we started watching more closely, it became clear. When someone here has a setback and becomes bedbound, they die within weeks. Their daily cost of upkeep erodes Bernie’s bottom line, so he gets rid of them. Didn’t you notice how many of the patients here are up and about? The wing he has reserved for the bedridden patients only has twenty beds in it and there are sixty beds in the whole place. Those twenty beds are his breaking point to make money.”
Now that she is pointing it out to me, it does strike me as odd. Most nursing homes are filled with bedridden patients. Still, murder is a big leap from manipulating a patient population. “What evidence do you have that he’s been killing people?” I ask her.
“Unfortunately it’s just a gut feeling at this point. I’ve had my boys look for clues when patients from here come to our funeral home, but short of doing a full autopsy, we haven’t been able to come up with anything. Bernard probably changed his methods each time to keep anyone from getting suspicious. You know, smother one person with a pillow, poison someone else . . . that sort of thing.”
I’m starting to think Irene might need Dr. Maggie’s services for her paranoid delusions. It’s not that unusual for people to die from one or more of the many complications that can come from being immobile or bedbound, not to mention the effects of whatever accident or illness got them that way in the first place. “Have you told anyone?”
“I told the police chief, Greg Hanson. I thought I had him convinced at one point, but he was only humoring me. He thinks I’m some dotty old lady like his alcoholic grandmother. I may have myself a tiny tipple now and then, but I’m nowhere near old lady Hanson’s level of consumption. Hell, that woman was such a drunk, when we cremated her it took two days for the fire to go out.”
I frown. I have to agree with Greg Hanson. Irene sounds dotty and paranoid. “And you think Bjorn killed Bernie by pouring that powder down his throat?” The skepticism is clear in my tone.
Irene rolls her eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Good Lord, girl, have you been listening to anything I‘ve been saying? We think Bernie is killing people. Bjorn wouldn’t want that to go on. He was in here with Bernie. And that”—she points to Bernie’s face—“is Bjorn’s powder stuff.”
I shake my head. “I’m not buying it, Irene. For one thing, I don’t think Bjorn has the strength necessary to overpower Bernie and force that powder down his throat. Sure, Bjorn has several inches on Bernie height-wise, but Bjorn also has severe crippling arthritis, fading eyesight, and the reaction time of a snail. I can’t see him besting Bernard in any sort of physical encounter. Two, I don’t think Bjorn has the personality necessary to kill someone. Every time I’ve been with him he’s been sweet, kind, and gentle.”
Irene says nothing, but she looks doubtful.
“What did Bjorn tell you happened in here?”
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know. When he gets stressed his dementia worsens. He doesn’t remember anything about being in this bathroom. It might come back to him later, or it might not.”
“Irene, we need to call the cops now, regardless of what you think Bjorn did or didn’t do. Let them sort it out.”
“Should I get him a lawyer?” Before I can say anything, Irene answers her own question with a vigorous nod that makes her neck crack. “Of course, I should. I need your brother-in-law, Mattie. Can you call him for me? Call him before we call the cops? That way we can ask him what we should do.”
Calling my brother-in-law Lucien is not something I ever look forward to doing. He is crass, obtuse, offensive, and a general pain in the ass. But he’s also a darned good lawyer who happens to be married to my sister Desi, which at least shows he has good taste.
“I suppose it can’t hurt to consult with him,” I say, wondering if it’s true. Talking to Lucien can hurt in so many ways. I grab hold of the sink edge and stand, the pain it triggers nearly making me pass out. When the little floating stars disappear, I take out my cell phone and dial Lucien’s cell, but I get a message saying the number is no longer in service. I start to dial his office, but remember it’s Saturday and decide to call his home instead. It’s not a call I look forward to for reasons other than wanting to avoid Lucien. I haven’t spoken to my sister in weeks.
Desi answers on the second ring.
“Hi Desi, it’s Mattie.”
“Oh my God, Mattie! It’s about time. Are you okay? I’ve been so worried about you. I’ve been by your place a couple times, but you’re never home.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been busy. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“Busy with what? We heard you weren’t working for Izzy anymore.”
“I wasn’t for a while, but I started back with him a few days ago.”
“Oh, good. Mom was worried, too. She even came with me one of the times when I stopped by your place.”
This is surprising news. My mother is not the most caring of parents. She is also a hypochondriac and a germophobe who rarely leaves her house. The fact that she would risk exposure to come to my place is touching . . . and scary. I wonder if she was dressed in a Level Four Biohazard suit.
“I’m sorry I worried you guys,” I say. “I promise to stop by either today or tomorrow and catch you up. Right now, I’m in a bit of a time crunch and I need to talk to Lucien. I’ve got an urgent problem and I need his help.”
There is a long pause, long enough that I start to think the call dropped. “Lucien isn’t here,” Desi says finally in a sad voice. “We’re separated and he’s living at the Sorenson Motel for now.”
“Separated? I didn’t know.”
“How could you? You’ve been impossible to find or talk to for weeks and weeks.”
Guilt washes over me as I realize how selfish I’ve been, too wrapped up in my own misery to realize that other people might be suffering, too. That’s probably what Dr. Naggy Know-it-all wrote down on her little tablet. “I know, Desi. Again, I’m sorry. I was . . . going through some stuff myself. When did this happen? And why?”
“It’s been a couple weeks now. It’s a long story.”
“Are the kids okay?”
Irene folds her arms over her chest and starts tapping a foot.
“Ethan seems to be handling it with his usual indifference to anything that doesn’t have multiple legs or an exoskeleton. But Erika is another story.”
Ethan is ten, soon to turn eleven, and a bug fanatic. He has a collection at home that would give most people a lifetime of nightmares . . . and that’s if you only see the dead, mounted ones. He also has a few live specimens: a tarantula tagged with the incongruous name of Fluffy and a three-inch-long, Madagascar hissing cockroach. Erika is thirteen and struggling with her identity, a battle that has recently left her with a dark, Goth-like appearance and a rather morbid fascination with death.
Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) Page 3