Dead in the Water

by Annelise Ryan

  “So was Mr. Wyzinski a suspect at this time?”

  “He was considered a person of interest,” I say, using the term the police use until something more can be determined.

  “And can you tell me what happened when you arrived at the defendant’s house?”

  I nod, sorting my thoughts out to make sure I say everything I need to say. “We . . . Detective Richmond and I walked up to the front door and Detective Richmond knocked. We waited, but there was no answer. After a minute or so, Detective Richmond knocked again. And again there was no answer.”

  “Did you leave at this point?”

  “We did not. There was a car parked in front of the house and Detective Richmond determined it belonged to Mr. Wyzinski. Since the address was out in the country and the closest house was two miles down the road, we figured Wyzinski was probably around, maybe somewhere else on the property. So we headed for the back of the house.”

  “What did you see at the back of the house?”

  “There was another entrance, a back door, and there was also an old barn about fifty feet behind the house.”

  “What did you and Detective Richmond do next?”

  “We climbed the steps to the back door and knocked on it.”

  “Did anyone answer?”

  “No, but this door had glass in the upper half and Detective Richmond looked inside.”

  “What did he see?”

  “Objection!”

  Beckwith raises his hand in a conciliatory gesture before Mackey can voice the reason behind her objection and rewords the question. “Did you also look through the window in the back door?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A man prostrate . . .” I hear Beckwith’s voice in my head reminding me to keep my terms simple and aimed at the layperson, and amend my answer. “There was a man lying face down on the kitchen floor.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I reached down and tried the knob to see if the door was unlocked.”

  “Was it?”

  I nod.

  “Please state your answer for the record,” Beckwith prompts.

  “Sorry. Yes, it was unlocked.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I opened the door, went inside, and knelt down next to the man on the floor. I felt along his neck for a pulse.”

  “Did you find one?”

  I nod, then quickly say, “Yes, I did. But it was very faint, thready, and irregular. I shook him then, and he mumbled, but it wasn’t anything intelligible.”

  “What was Detective Richmond doing at this point?”

  “He was calling for an ambulance and checking to see if anyone else was in the house.”

  “Were there other things you noticed about the man on the floor?”

  “Yes, his skin was very cool to the touch, and he was diaph—” I catch myself and do a quick mental conversion. “He was very sweaty.”

  “Is the man you saw on the kitchen floor that day here in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes, it was the defendant.” I point. “Mr. Tomas Wyzinski.”

  “Objection!” Mackey says, shooting out of her seat, her tone one of impatient disbelief. “The witness had no way of knowing at the time if the man on the floor was my client or someone else.”

  “Actually, I did have a way,” I say before anyone else can respond. “Detective Richmond showed me a DMV picture of Mr. Wyzinski prior to our arrival. The man on the floor fit that picture. Though to be honest, knowing who he was wouldn’t have changed what I did in any way.”

  “Your Honor . . . ,” Mackey says in a strained tone.

  “Overruled,” Judge Kupper thunders.

  Mackey drops back into her seat with a pout, and after watching her do this, Beckwith turns to me with a little smile. “Ms. Winston, would you please share with the court some of the thoughts going through your mind when you found this man on the floor and how those thoughts led to what happened next?”

  “Of course,” I say. “The prescription we found at the body dump site was for insulin and the man on the floor was displaying classic signs of insulin shock—decreased alertness, sweating, and cold, clammy skin. When I rolled him onto his back, his shirt hiked up, and I could see tiny pinpoint bruises on his abdomen. I knew from my years of nursing that those were injection marks. The abdomen is the preferred site for insulin shots in most diabetics. Given all of that, it was a pretty safe assumption the man on the floor was the same one whose name was on that prescription, particularly since he was the owner of record for the house we were in.”

  Mackey looks apoplectic, like she wants to object, but she doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m talking as fast as I can to get it all out, or because what I’m saying isn’t objectionable—at least from a legal standpoint. Maybe it’s both.

  Beckwith nods solemnly and then says, “Just to clarify things, did you at any point verify the identity of the man on the floor in any other way?”

  “We did. Detective Richmond removed a wallet from the man’s pants pocket and the ID inside belonged to Tomas Wyzinski. But as I said before, his identity wasn’t an issue at the time and wouldn’t have changed what I did next.”

  Mackey is frowning now, her forehead heavily creased, her mouth turned down at the corners.

  Beckwith has the barest hint of a smile on his face as he asks his next question. “What did you do next?”

  “Well, the treatment for insulin shock is sugar in some form. If a diabetic is completely unconscious and unresponsive, some form of injectable sugar is preferred to ensure they don’t choke. But if they have some level of alertness and appear to be able to swallow, then some juice, like orange juice, preferably with a spoonful of sugar thrown in, is a good option. Hard candies can work, too, but they are slower acting and more likely to be a choking hazard. Mr. Wyzinski wasn’t alert enough to walk, or talk sensibly, but he was mumbling and he wasn’t drooling, meaning he was able to swallow his own secretions. So I got up and went to the refrigerator in search of some juice to give to him.”

  “And what did you find in the refrigerator?” Beckwith asks, and I swear the corners of his mouth are twitching in an effort not to smile.

  This time my answer garners plenty of gasps, both from the jury and the others in the courtroom. “I found a woman’s head.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “A woman’s head?” Beckwith says with mild revulsion once the gasps have died down. He glances at the jury members with a horrified expression. “Was this an actual human head?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And it was in the refrigerator?”

  “Objection,” Mackey says, sounding a little defeated. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Kupper says. “Move along, Mr. Beckwith.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Beckwith says, looking genuinely apologetic even though I’m certain he’s not. “Ms. Winston, was this head you saw in the refrigerator in plain sight?”

  “Yes. It was on a shelf at eye level, right in the front. There was plastic wrap around it, but it was clear and I could easily see the facial features through the plastic.”

  “And what did you do once you found the head?”

  “I called Detective Richmond over to the refrigerator and showed it to him. We both donned gloves, and after shooting some pictures of the inside of the refrigerator, we removed the head so we could get a better look at it.”

  Beckwith walks over to his table, picks up a picture, and shows it to me. It’s a shot of the head, wrapped up like some forgotten leftover, lying sideways on the refrigerator shelf. “Is this one of the pictures you took?”

  “It is.” He then parades it in front of the jury members, all of whom look aghast. “Ms. Winston, can you walk us through the process you went through to retain this head as evidence?”

  I do so, citing all the steps in the process of bagging the head at the scene, transporting it to the medical examiner’s
office with it always in my presence in order to assure the chain of evidence, and then processing it into the department.

  “Was the head eventually identified as belonging to someone?” Beckwith asks when I’m done.

  “Yes. Initially Izzy . . . Dr. Rybarceski confirmed through photographs and dental records, and later with DNA, that the head belonged to the body we found, that of Marla Weber.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions at this time.”

  I swallow hard, preparing myself for Ms. Mackey’s onslaught. Beckwith had warned me the cross-examination could be brutal, and that the attorneys often try to rattle opposing witnesses by obfuscating the facts until the witness either becomes confused or sounds as if they are contradicting themselves.

  “Ms. Winston,” Mackey says, approaching me with the fakest-looking smile I’ve seen in a long time. She is wearing a formfitting, tailored suit with sensible pumps, and her hair and makeup are impeccable. Her resemblance to the victim, Marla Weber, is striking and a bit unsettling, making me wonder if she was chosen to defend Wyzinski precisely for this reason. The firm she works for is a big, high-powered one out of Milwaukee—Wyzinski’s very well-to-do family is from there—and there are plenty of other, more seasoned attorneys who could have done the job. But I can see how the subliminal message delivered by having a woman who looks like the victim working with, smiling with, consulting with, and acting unafraid with the suspected killer might prove valuable.

  Mackey walks up to the podium, studying the lined tablet she has in her hands. “Ms. Winston, you told the court this man you saw on the kitchen floor of the house appeared to be in insulin shock.” At this point, she looks up at me, pinning me with her steely gaze. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then how is it you’re able to diagnose this condition?”

  “Insulin shock is a common problem for diabetics and I saw it dozens of times when I worked in the ER. It’s something we are trained to respond to quickly, with or without a physician present.”

  “I see,” Mackey says, sounding like she doesn’t see at all. “Isn’t it standard, however, to first check the blood sugar on the patient using a finger prick and a blood glucose meter before treating them?”

  “Yes, if the meter is available.”

  “Was there a meter at Mr. Wyzinski’s house?”

  “Not that we saw in the kitchen.”

  “Did you look for one?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did you ask Detective Richmond to look for one?”

  “I did not.” I’m tempted to try to explain my rationale, but I hold back. Beckwith told me to stick to basic “yes” and “no” answers whenever possible and to resist the urge to pontificate or expound further.

  “I see,” Mackey says. She gives the jury a pointed look while I work at keeping my face impassive. “So you came to this diagnosis of insulin shock based on the man’s physical condition, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So his cool, clammy skin and his altered mental state were the symptoms you based your decision on?”

  “In part, yes. He also—”

  “Yes, yes, you said the prescription you found near, not at, but near the body dump site was for insulin, so you assumed the man on the floor was the person the prescription was written for, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say, a bit hesitantly, trying to parse out her every word to make sure she isn’t tricking me into saying something I don’t mean.

  “So with no proof whatsoever of who the man on the floor was, you immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was Tomas Wyzinski and therefore a diabetic in insulin shock.”

  “Objection,” Beckwith says. “Is there a question in there?” He states this in a smug tone, I suspect, to point out to Mackey that he’s using her prior objection against her.

  Before Judge Kupper can respond, Mackey holds up her hand and says, “Ms. Winston, are there other conditions that present with the same symptoms you observed in this man you found on the floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you give me some examples?”

  “Well, essentially any condition that causes a drop in the blood pressure or heart rate, or any sort of shock, can cause those symptoms.”

  “I see. And would the treatment for any of those other conditions lead to you looking in the refrigerator?”

  I don’t answer immediately. My brain runs through several shock scenarios and I try to determine what actions I might take. “No,” I admit eventually, “but—”

  “And these bruises you say you saw on the abdomen of the man on the floor, the bruises you said were injection sites, are there any other drugs besides insulin that might be injected into someone’s abdomen that would cause the same sort of bruises?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Couldn’t the man on the floor have been a relative of Mr. Wyzinski’s? A father, or brother, or cousin? Or perhaps even an acquaintance of some type who happened to resemble Mr. Wyzinski?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But as I said before, Detective Richmond had shown me the DMV photo of Tomas Wyzinski prior to our arrival, and the man on the floor looked like that picture.”

  “Yes, except you said he was pale, and clammy, and appeared to be in shock . . . all of which would alter one’s appearance, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “A little bit, I suppose.”

  “So the man on the floor could have been a relative of some sort with a strong family resemblance?”

  “Objection,” Beckwith says. “Asked and answered. And relevance.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Kupper says. “Ms. Mackey, I think it’s clear Ms. Winston would have responded in the manner she did regardless of who the person on the floor was.”

  Mackey looks perturbed, but she hardly misses a beat. “Ms. Winston, you said Detective Richmond had already called for emergency responders to come to the house. Couldn’t you have waited until they arrived to treat this man on the floor?”

  I have to bite back a smile. Mackey’s stubborn refusal to refer to the man on the floor as Tomas Wyzinski is laughable. “No, ma’am,” I say. “Insulin shock can kill someone in a matter of minutes when it gets to the point it was in this case, and we were out in the country. That area is served by volunteer EMTs, and the response time could have proven fatal.”

  “So because of your previous job as a nurse, you felt you needed to do something for the man on the floor right away in order to save his life, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was the only reason for opening the refrigerator?”

  “Yes.”

  Mackey walks over and picks up the picture Beckwith had shown earlier. “Permission to approach the witness,” she says.

  “Permission granted,” Judge Kupper says.

  She walks up to me and shows me the picture, tapping one part of it. “And when you found this head in there, did you go ahead and reach past it to grab this bottle of orange juice that was behind it?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Well, then, what did you take from the refrigerator to treat Mr. Wyzinski’s life-threatening, time-sensitive condition?”

  “I didn’t remove anything from the fridge,” I admit. “I didn’t want to risk disturbing the evidence.”

  “Really?” Mackey says in a tone of disbelief. “So you entered my client’s house without an invitation and opened his refrigerator—also without an invitation—all supposedly so you could play nurse and treat this life-threatening condition you thought he had, but then you did nothing for him. Is that right?”

  “Well, the—”

  “Yes or no, please, Ms. Winston. Did you at any point do anything to treat the man on the floor?”

  “No.”

  Mackey shakes her head in dismay and lets out a “tsk” for the benefit of the jury. She takes a long moment before asking her next question and I’m not sure if the pause is so she can gather her wits, or rattle mine. But I learned long
ago how to play the silence-is-awkward game. You can cue the crickets all day long and I’m content just to sit back and listen to them.

  “Ms. Winston,” Mackey says finally, “you stated to Mr. Beckwith here that you and Detective Richmond took pictures of the head you say you found in the refrigerator. Don’t you normally shoot video in these situations?”

  “We use video for some things,” I tell her. “In this case, we weren’t approaching Mr. Wyzinski as a suspect, but rather as a person of interest. Had he answered his door and agreed to sit down and chat with us, then we would have used a video camera.”

  “I see,” Mackey says. Clearly this is her standard phrase. “Did you take any pictures before you opened the refrigerator?” I start to answer, but she goes on before I can. “For instance, did you take a picture of the man on the floor from outside the door before you entered the house? Or did you take a picture of him after you entered the house?”

  “No, and no.”

  “Did you take any pictures of the kitchen before you opened the refrigerator?”

  “No.”

  “And these pinpoint bruises you said you saw on the man’s abdomen, did you take any pictures of those?”

  “No.”

  “So basically, we only have your word that the head you took back to your office was found in the refrigerator of Mr. Wyzinski’s house?”

  I hesitate, giving a little sideways nod of my head before answering. “My word and Detective Richmond’s.”

  “No further questions,” Mackey says, spinning on one of her sensible pumps in a quick, dismissive manner and heading back to her table.

  “Redirect, Your Honor?” Beckwith says, rising from his chair.

  The judge grants him permission to ask more questions.

  “Ms. Winston, why didn’t you treat Mr. Wyzinski?”

  “To be honest, I was thrown a little by the discovery of the head and less than a minute later one of the EMTs who was on call arrived at the house. I found out later this particular EMT lives just down the road from the Wyzinski house and on that day he arrived on the scene in his private vehicle. This EMT happens to be a diabetic also, and he had some glucagon—an injectable form of sugar—with him. So he treated Mr. Wyzinski with that.”