“Ah-huh. Well, Vivian, I want you to leave this facility before there are any more bag-a-whats-its. Today.”
Mother un-reclined the chair, then sat forward. “I’ll make you a deal, Sheriff.... I’ll leave by sundown, first stage out, if I can sit in during your interrogation of the staff. You are going to round them up now, aren’t you?”
Insert sheriff sighing here. “. . . Yes.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
He studied her. Something happened in his chest that was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “All right,” he said.
Really? That was unusual.
“And I get to ask a few questions,” Mother pushed.
“One question.”
“One question that can have two parts. And Brandy and Sushi get to come, too.”
“No questions from Brandy,” Rudder said.
I didn’t know why Mother wanted me there, but Sushi might have been able to sniff out and identify their second visitor last night.
I assured Rudder, “Neither Sushi nor I will ask any questions with any parts.”
His lips formed a thin line for a moment. “Okay, but Vivian has to verbally promise to leave here today.”
The sheriff had once fallen for Mother’s nodding-only ploy, which she later attributed to a condition called “essential head tremor.”
Mother verbally promised.
Soon we three had gathered in a cheerfully decorated room used for family birthday parties and reunions—polished wood floor, pale yellow walls, hanging floral pictures, and a bank of windows that offered a picturesque view of the countryside. The beige sofa with end tables and matching lamps, kitchenette, and large oval-shaped modern oak dining table with six chairs made for a welcoming area.
Rudder sat at one end of the table, Mother at the other, and the first interviewee, Mr. Burnett, was between them, his back to the door. I was on the couch, with Sushi on my lap, and she was having no reaction to the manager; but the scent of aftershave wafted toward me, which I hadn’t recalled smelling on him before. I didn’t even know they still sold Hai Karate.
The interview got off to a bumpy start.
“What’s she doing here?” Burnett demanded, glaring at Mother.
“I’m giving Mrs. Borne the opportunity to see how I conduct my interviews,” Rudder replied. “She may be our next sheriff, after all.”
That pleased Mother, and she smiled and nodded regally.
“Heaven help us,” Burnett muttered.
Rudder said, “We’ll keep this informal, Mr. Burnett.” Which meant no recording device; but the sheriff did produce a little pad and pen. “And as brief as possible.”
“Thank you,” the manager said. “I have a lot to do, in the aftermath of this tragedy, as you might imagine.”
“When was the last time you saw Wanda Mercer?” the sheriff asked.
Burnett put a hand to his chin. “Well, let me think.... A little before six yesterday evening, I believe. I stopped up on the second floor to make sure everything was all right before I left.”
“How did she seem?”
Burnett shrugged. “Fine.”
“Not upset?”
“Didn’t appear to be. But I did see her talking, outside, with our janitor, Blake Ferrell, about four o’clock. I was in with Mrs. Borne after Joan had examined her and just happened to glance out the window.”
“Were they arguing?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I just caught a glimpse of them. I don’t keep track of my staff’s relationships. There’s no antifraternization policy. My only interest in my people is that they’re doing their jobs properly.”
And cheaply.
The sheriff asked, “Did you know if Wanda was taking a painkiller—prescribed, I mean?”
“Not that I was aware of.”
“Did you suspect she might be on one?”
“No. Not that I’d have any reason to.”
“Tell me about your narcotics here.”
Burnett’s voice turned defensive. “What do you mean? We take the standard precautions.”
“Be specific, sir. Who’s allowed to handle the pills? Who keeps track of them? What checks and balances are in place to keep controlled substances from being misused?”
Burnett’s sigh came all the way up from his toes. “Only Joan and Wanda are . . . were . . . allowed to handle all medications. Joan dispenses them. Wanda would take them around to the patients. Joan compiles a weekly report of what is used and what is not, which I sign and send to regulators.”
Mother asked, “What do you do with medication that is not used?”
Uh-oh. That was her one question and it wasn’t a two-parter.
Mother, realizing her blunder, added quickly, “And how often do you do what it is that you do with them?”
Huh?
Burnett’s eyes shifted to her. “Unused medication is destroyed, since we can’t get a refund from the supplier for it. And that happens quite often . . . when a doctor changes a patient’s medication, or the patient is released before taking it all—you see, we aren’t allowed to send medication home with them. And, naturally, when someone passes away and no longer needs it, disposal is automatic.”
Rudder asked, “How is the medication disposed of?”
Burnett’s eyes bounced back to the sheriff. “Nothing elaborate, I assure you. Frankly, usually . . . the toilet is involved.”
When Mother and Rudder exchanged surprised looks, the manager rushed to add, “Always with two people present. Usually Joan and Wanda, but sometimes one of them and myself. Of course we keep records of every pill that we, er . . . flush.”
Not much of a check and balance, if the two people at any given time had mischief on their minds.
Burnett sat forward, both arms on the table. “Look, Sheriff, we’re doing the best we can here, hampered by increasing regulations, and being understaffed—most of the employees work long hours, often double shifts. Is there room for improvement? Of course! When isn’t there?”
“Improvements,” Rudder said dryly, “like replacing your out-of-commission security cam system?”
Burnett swallowed. “Our budget just hasn’t allowed.”
“Is the staff ever tested for drug use?” Rudder asked.
“Since it’s not required in this state, no.”
“You have your own pharmacy here?”
Burnett sat back, folding his arms against his chest. “No. We’re not a large enough facility, nor associated with a hospital that does have its own supply. Our medications come from LTCs—Long Term Care pharmacies—that deliver our orders on a daily basis. There are two major LTCs, but we can’t afford to pay for their medications, which are actually higher than most local retail pharmacies. So we use one of the smaller outfits that offer cheaper products.”
And if those pills were inferior, that might account for Mrs. Goldstein’s claim that her pain pills hadn’t been effective.
Mother ignored her one-question rule, but kept up the two-part aspect. “What is your policy on hiring ex-cons, Mr. Burnett? And do you have any employed here?”
Rudder must have liked the questions—both parts—because he didn’t even give Mother a reproving glance.
But the manager looked at her coolly. “My policy is not to hire them. And as far as I know, no one on my staff is an ex-convict.”
Rudder jumped back in. “Then you didn’t know your janitor, Blake Ferrell, has a record?”
“Certainly not! I ask for that information on the employment form, and he marked ‘no.’”
Rudder’s frown seemed skeptical. “And you didn’t bother to check him out?”
“Mr. Ferrell came with a good reference from someone I know and trust, so no, I didn’t check it out. We are a small, private facility in a small town, as you may have noticed.”
The manager’s defensiveness waved a red flag.
Rudder’s next question came from left field: “What were your movements the morning of the explos
ion, Mr. Burnett?”
The man unfolded his arms. “What? I thought we were done with that.”
Mother sat forward, probably thinking the same thing I was: Why was the sheriff revisiting the accident? Unless he believed it wasn’t an accident, after all.
Rudder waited for an answer.
“To my best recollection,” Burnett said, voice softer now, “I was in my office all morning, except to use the bathroom and get a cup of coffee from the staff lounge.”
Mother broke in. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the argument you had with Harriet.”
Burnett glared at her. “Who told you that?”
Rudder asked sharply, “Is it true?”
“. . . Yes. Yes, I did pay Harriet a visit. I’d forgotten. It was a big nothing.”
“At what time?” Rudder asked.
“About nine or so. You can check with . . . oh, no, you can’t. I was going to say Wanda. She saw me. She was making her rounds of the apartments with morning medication, which is from eight to nine.”
“Why did you pay Mrs. Douglas a visit?”
“I wanted to check Harriet’s smoke alarm to make sure she hadn’t removed the batteries.”
Rudder’s frown was thoughtful, not accusative. “Because you knew she smoked inside around her tank?”
Burnett sighed. “I did not know. Not for certain. But I suspected as much. And I found that the batteries had been removed.” He paused, then went on. “But there was no argument, not really. I may have raised my voice a little when I made it clear she would have to leave Sunny Meadow if that happened again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burnett,” Rudder said. “I believe that’s all for the time being. Would you please ask Joan Lindle to come in?”
The manager stood. “I’ll fetch her.”
After the door closed, the sheriff looked sideways at Mother. “Holding out on me, Vivian?”
“I’d say you were holding out on me, Sheriff,” she responded archly, “regarding Mr. Ferrell’s police record. As for the argument between Burnett and Harriet . . . I only heard about it yesterday morning from Mrs. Goldstein. Now what gives?”
Rudder studied her. “Let’s just say I have a reason to revisit the explosion.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“Yep.”
She folded her arms. “Then perhaps I won’t share with you what I know about Harriet’s reputation as a troublemaker and whistle-blower at this oh so fine facility.”
But she just had, hadn’t she?
A knock came at the door. The head nurse, her working garb hanging loose on her thin figure, entered.
Rudder stood in a gentlemanly fashion.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, and waved Joan to the chair Burnett had just vacated.
Only when she’d settled did he sit.
Mother and I got a glance from the nurse, but no verbal reaction to our presence. Sushi, on my lap, remained calm.
Joan said, “There’s no one on the floor except Mr. Burnett, so if there’s an emergency, I’ll have to leave.”
“Understood,” Rudder said. “When was the last time you saw Nurse Mercer yesterday?”
“Just before I went off-duty at seven.”
The sheriff jotted a note on his little pad.
“And how did she seem?” he asked.
Joan hesitated before answering. “I think Wanda had been crying.”
“Do you know why?”
“I didn’t pry. I figured if she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.”
As he had with Burnett, Rudder asked Joan if she had any knowledge, or suspicion, that Wanda had been taking a controlled substance, prescribed or otherwise.
“I did not,” the nurse replied pointedly. “And if Wanda had been taking what you term ‘otherwise,’ she certainly didn’t get it from here. I keep a very tight rein on all controlled substances.” Her eyes went to Mother. “For example, I know that Mrs. Borne refused pain medication yesterday morning, and the pills were returned to the dispensary and duly recorded.”
Mother flinched a little, which I guessed was a reaction to a trap not sprung.
The nurse continued, eyes back on Rudder. “The person you want to talk to about Wanda is Blake Ferrell. He knows her better than anyone. They were something of . . . an item.”
Mother asked, “Didn’t you take Harriet a new oxygen tank the morning of the accident? And wasn’t that Wanda’s job?”
Joan asked Rudder, “Do I have to answer that? What official standing does this person have?”
“None,” Rudder admitted. “And if you prefer, I could ask.”
She drew a breath in, let it out, and said to the sheriff, “Yes, I took Harriet a new tank. She’d let her old one run out completely, and Wanda was busy organizing the medication cart. Hardly an unusual circumstance.”
“What time was this?” Rudder asked.
“Around seven-thirty. It took me about five minutes to set the tank up, and then I left with the used one. Look, I thought you wanted to know about Wanda.”
“I do.”
“Then please stop wasting my time,” the nurse snapped. “Ask Blake—I told you before: he and Wanda were intimate. And frankly, I made a point of staying out of their drama.”
Rudder thought about that, then smiled faintly. “Thank you, Nurse Lindle. Would you mind finding Mr. Ferrell for me?”
Indicating with a bob of her head, she said, “He’s out in the hall.”
The nurse pushed back her chair, its legs screeching on the wooden floor.
Mother had no time to confab with Rudder before the door reopened and Ferrell entered, wearing a plaid shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. His face seemed drawn, troubled.
Sushi immediately had a reaction to the janitor, perking her ears, twitching her nose. Was he last night’s mysterious intruder? Or was her interest due to the smell coming from the fast-food sack he held in one hand?
“I hope,” Rudder said cordially, “I’m not taking you away from your duties.”
“It’s my lunch break,” Blake replied. “Would it be all right if I ate while we talk?”
“No problem,” Rudder said.
Awesome!
Rudder gestured to the open chair. “Have a seat.”
The janitor did, placing the sack on the table.
“You must be upset about Miss Mercer,” Rudder said. “I understand you two were dating.”
Blake nodded, then dipped a hand into the sack and withdrew a french fry, which he popped into his mouth. Sorrow apparently had not dulled his need for fuel.
“Was the relationship serious?”
The janitor chewed, then swallowed. “Was at first. She moved into my apartment downtown for a while, several years ago . . . but, well, we fought a lot and Wanda thought she’d be better off in her own place. After that, it was better, but we’ve always had kinda an on-again-off-again thing.”
“I see. What about yesterday—was it on or off?”
“On, I guess, till her break at four. That’s when we went outside and I told her we were through for good. I was just fed up with her moods.”
“How did she take it?”
Blake shrugged. “She yelled a little, but, then, she always does. Did. Not any different than in the past.”
“But in the past,” Rudder said, “you’d never said you were through for good?”
“I guess.”
“And that was the last time yesterday that you saw her?”
The janitor nodded, his hand going back into the sack for another fry.
“Mr. Ferrell, have you heard that the cause of Miss Mercer’s death was an overdose?”
“I heard.”
“Do you know if Wanda was taking any pain medication?”
“She was using something,” Blake said with a shrug. “For her back, she said, from lifting patients in and out of beds.”
“Do you know where she got the pills?”
Another shrug. “I assumed they were prescribed by a doctor.
”
“Do you think she could have taken an accidental overdose?”
He paused mid-fry before answering. “That was my first thought. See, whatever she was using didn’t seem to be doing her much good, and she would take more and more, so, yeah, it could’ve been accidental.”
“Could it have been intentional?”
The janitor’s body stiffened. “What, suicide? Hell, I hope not. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
Assuming he had one.
Mother raised her hand as if sitting in back, in school. “I’d like to ask the young man something, if he doesn’t mind.”
Blake looked her way, chewing. “Go for it.”
“What was your stint in the county jail for? And how long were you incarcerated there?”
Mother’s two-parter seemed to blindside him, and he stammered, “I, uh . . . I, uh . . .”
“Come, come now,” Mother cajoled. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of—I’ve spent time in the ol’ hoosegow myself. Just ask the sheriff.”
Rudder affirmed that. “She’s right. You’re not the only ex-con here, Mr. Ferrell.”
The sheriff was omitting the fact that Mother’s record had been expunged.
Blake shifted in his chair. “Okay. Six months for theft.”
Mother kept going. “Did Mr. Burnett know about your record when he hired you? Or did you lie on your application?”
Rudder seemed not to care that Mother had taken over the interview.
“I mean, yeah, I lied on my application. So what? Sometimes you have to, to get anywhere. Anyway, I could tell Burnett was desperate to fill the job and probably wouldn’t check.”
“Now then, dear,” Mother went on, “I want you to think back to the morning of the explosion.”
Rudder was actually leaning back in his chair, arms folded, smiling gently.
The janitor frowned. “. . . Okay.”
“What time did you collect the trash from the apartment of Mrs. Douglas?”
Mother no longer saw a necessity now for a two-part question.
Blake frowned. “Well, I don’t know exactly. Sometime between ten and eleven. I used to do the apartments from nine to ten, but changed it, ’cause Wanda would be finishing her route just as I was starting, and she always wanted to talk, and I didn’t want to get in bad with Burnett.”
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