Dead in the Water

by Annelise Ryan

  I sit up, wiping more of the sleep from my eyes and realize my son is stark naked from the waist down. He has removed his nighttime pull-up and the reason he has done so becomes glaringly apparent. His butt and legs are covered with poop, some of it dry, most of it not.

  “Oh, no, Matthew,” I say, snatching him up, though my efforts are for naught. There are already smears of poo all over the bedspread and sheets. Hurley props himself up on his elbows and squeezes his eyes closed before trying to focus. Hence the smell hits him before the sight does.

  “Oh, crap,” he says, scooting his body away from us.

  I burst out laughing. “A very apt remark,” I say, hauling Matthew out of the bed. I carry Matthew down the hall and into the bathroom, holding him at arm’s length. He reaches out with a poop-covered finger and points at my face.

  “Mama nose,” he observes, and I thank my lucky stars he hasn’t inherited my freakishly long arms, at least not yet. Otherwise I’d have a poopy finger up my nose.

  I set Matthew on the floor and grab some washcloths from the linen closet. Then I plug the sink, squirt in some body soap, and fill it with warm water. Matthew makes a mad dash out of the bathroom and I curse under my breath as I turn to chase him. I don’t have to; a second later, Hurley walks in, carrying him in the same extended, biohazard hold I’d used moments before.

  “I caught this prisoner trying to make an escape,” Hurley says as Matthew giggles hysterically and wriggles in his father’s hands.

  Fifteen minutes later, we have our son clean, dressed, and ready for breakfast.

  “I’ll feed him,” Hurley says. “You get yourself ready and then we can switch off.”

  “Thanks.” I head back to our bedroom, strip off the bedspread and the sheets, and toss them into a laundry basket. Then I go into the master bathroom, strip myself down, and hop in the shower.

  Half an hour later, I’m dressed and ready for the day, carrying an overflowing laundry basket downstairs, since the washer and dryer are in the basement. I poke my head into the kitchen and find Hurley and Matthew seated at the table eating scrambled eggs and toast. Hoover, as usual, is parked under the table and he thumps his tail loudly when he sees me. However, he doesn’t move.

  “Want me to fix some for you?” Hurley offers.

  “Sure, thanks,” I say, opening the basement door as the warm, buttery smell of the toast makes my stomach gurgle. “I’ll be right back. I need to go throw these bed linens into the washer.”

  The laundry pile on the floor in front of the washer reminds me of how far behind I am on the laundry duties. I decide to leave a note for Emily, offering her additional credits for her funny-money fund if she’ll run a load or two for me today. I toss the sheets and bedspread in, set the cycle for sanitize, and head back upstairs.

  Hurley has finished my eggs and he scoops them onto a plate that already has two pieces of buttered toast on it. “Here you go, my love,” he says, setting the plate on the table next to a cup of hot, steaming coffee topped off with a dollop of heavy cream—just the way I like it.

  “You’re a keeper,” I say, giving him a kiss before I settle in.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  The rest of our morning time at home is relatively uneventful, and Matthew and I are out the door headed for my sister’s house a little before seven-thirty. Desi looks surprisingly awake for the hour—her eyes bright, her skin smooth—though her hair has a major case of bedhead.

  “Good morning, cutie pie,” Desi says, taking Matthew from my arms. My son goes readily, shoving a finger in Desi’s ear and saying “ear.” Matthew has never shown much in the way of separation anxiety. He likes everyone he meets—a trait that scares me a little—and is typically on his best behavior around others. His meltdowns are kept in reserve for his father and me.

  I follow Desi into the kitchen with Matthew’s diaper bag and carrier. Lucien is there, briefcase in one hand, cup of coffee in the other.

  “Morning, Mattiekins,” he says, waving his coffee mug at me. “Gotta run.” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and disappears.

  “He seems busy,” I say to Desi.

  She smiles. “He is. Business has been picking up for him. Things are turning around.”

  “Good. It’s been a while since I’ve asked how things are going with the two of you. Is everything still okay?”

  “We’re making slow and steady progress.”

  “Great,” I say, but with little enthusiasm. “Glad to hear it.”

  Desi doesn’t miss the dullness in my voice. “What’s up?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Is it this thing with Hal?”

  “That’s part of it, plus last night I told Hurley about my father.” I shared the news of my father with Desi a year ago, making her swear she’d keep it to herself. As far as I know, she has.

  “Oh. How did it go?”

  “Better than I could have hoped. Hurley is fine with it . . . well, not fine with it, but fine with me.”

  “Of course he is. That man loves you.”

  “I know.”

  There is a moment of silence before Desi says, “Why the glum tone?”

  I take a long, slow breath. “It’s my father. I feel . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Torn?” Desi suggests, and I nod. “Understandable. You’re curious about him and at the same time you’re afraid of what he might be. You want him in your life as a father and you’re mad as hell at him for not being in your life as a father.”

  Tears well in my eyes and I blink them away, staring at my sister in awe. “You nailed it,” I tell her. “If he really did kill someone, a cop no less, how can I possibly let him into my life? And yet . . .”

  “You want to.”

  I nod, slowly, miserably. I feel so conflicted. “Hurley wants to talk with Mom about him, see what she knows, what she’s been hiding all these years.”

  Desi frowns, shakes her head, and then gives me a sardonic half-smile. “You don’t think she’ll actually tell you anything, do you?”

  “I don’t, but I know Hurley won’t be happy until we try.”

  “You know,” Desi says, assuming the same expression she had twenty years ago when she suggested we sneak out to Misty Scallon’s party by climbing out our bedroom windows, “there might be another way to get some information.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “Spill.”

  “Remember when you and David went to the Keys the year Mom moved into her current house? It was the year you got married, I think. Anyway, Lucien and I helped her with the move, and she had this old chest up in the attic, which she had us put in the basement of the new place. I asked her what was in it because it looked like it had been kicking around for years—the lock and hinges were rusted, the wood was worn, and it had some leather trim on it that was torn, faded, and missing in spots. Mom said it was just some old memories, personal stuff she might want to look at one day. I tried to push the issue to get her to be more specific, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

  She pauses, flashes me a guilty smile, and then focuses her attention on Matthew. “My curiosity got the better of me so I decided to sneak a peek,” she says, smiling at Matthew and bouncing him up and down on her hip.

  I know the reason she won’t look at me is because she’s about to confess to something she’s ashamed about. Unlike me, Desi is a basically good and honest person who suffers immense guilt over the tiniest of crimes, though it doesn’t stop her from committing them. And she’s a horrible liar, something I used to my advantage a lot when we were growing up.

  “It had a padlock on it,” she continues, “but it was rusted and kind of small, so I thought maybe I could pick it with a bent bobby pin or paper clip, the way I used to do with your diary.” She still isn’t looking at me, but I roll my eyes at her anyway. “So I went up into the attic and tried, but all I managed to do was break off part of a paper clip inside the lock. And then I couldn’t get the piece of paper clip out. For all I know, it’s still
stuck in there because I’ve never heard anything from Mom about the lock being screwed up or tampered with, and I know I asked enough questions about that chest for her to suspect me if she discovered the lock was messed up.”

  “Interesting,” I tell her, my mind already calculating what it will take to get a peek inside that chest. “I’ll look into it.” I glance at my watch. “I have to get going. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  I thank Desi again for her willingness to watch my son at a moment’s notice, drive to my office, park in the underground garage, and head upstairs. I carry the box with Hal’s office files into the library and set it on my desk. Then I go in search of Otto. He’s in Izzy’s office, sitting behind Izzy’s desk, writing on a pad with Izzy’s pen. Though I’m glad Otto is not only able to step in on short notice, but stay for a while to fill the gap, seeing him here in a spot that’s always been Izzy’s, using Izzy’s things, saddens me. I feel a funny twinge in my chest, a reminder of just how fragile life can be and how it can change in the blink of an eye.

  “Good morning, Otto. I see you’re at it bright and early.”

  “Felt it was best,” he says, setting down the pen and putting aside whatever form he was working on. The paperwork in this job, even in our current computer age, is never-ending and often daunting. It piles up faster than the dust bunnies under Hurley’s and my bed, and with a dog and two cats, it only takes a day or two for me to have an entire bunny ranch under there.

  “Are you planning to do Tina Carson’s autopsy this morning?”

  He nods and glances at his watch. “I am, just as soon as my traveling assistant gets here. He’s not as punctual as you are, apparently. What have you got planned for the day?”

  “Hurley and I are going to check in with the evidence techs regarding Tina and Hal’s laptops, to see if they found anything of interest there. I went through Hal’s desk last night, including a bunch of files he had in his drawer. I didn’t find anything that looked helpful, but I still have a few more to go through. There’s also a thumb drive the PD’s evidence tech found in Hal’s car. After that, Hurley mentioned hitting up some of the lake marinas to see if we can figure out who else might have been on the lake yesterday, to see if anyone saw or heard anything. And there’s a mysterious man some of the neighbors saw lurking around both victims’ houses. Not sure what follow-up Hurley has in mind for that, but I know it’s on his list.”

  “Sounds like a busy day.”

  “I heard Carolyn Abernathy’s initial tox report came back negative.” Otto nods. “Any ideas about what killed her? We’re concerned we might have missed something because the boyfriend’s history is suspicious and he has skipped town.”

  “I’ve already got Arnie looking into other, less-common toxins, but I don’t know how much time he’ll have to devote to it now that we have Hal and Tina’s case. You know, it’s possible our Ms. Abernathy had an arrhythmia of some sort that simply stopped her heart. It’s rare, but it happens. If that’s the case, we may not find anything that points to a clear-cut cause of death.”

  I accede his point with a nod and a frown. “Except there were all those dead bugs,” I remind him. And then I change the subject. “Did you find anything of interest in Hal’s autopsy?”

  “He had water in his lungs, but I’m not sure yet if it got there pre- or postmortem. I’ve got Arnie looking for diatoms to see if he can tell where Hal was when the water got in there. It’s possible he was still breathing when he went into the water. The neck wound was deep enough to hit both his carotid and his jugular, but the trachea was intact. The wound follows an odd, downward trajectory, making me think two things: there was a significant height difference between Hal and his attacker, and Hal tried to turn away at the last minute.”

  I wince and swallow hard, envisioning Hal’s terrifying last moments, his desperate attempts to stave off the rapidly pumping blood spurting from his neck, his attacker no doubt coming at him again, and Tina . . . Was Tina still on board and alive when all this happened?

  Otto looks at my face and says, “Damn, sorry about that. I shouldn’t have gone into so much detail. I forgot this isn’t just another case for you guys.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Let me know if you find anything with Tina’s autopsy that might help. I’ll have my cell on me if you have any other autopsies come in.” I turn to leave, but Otto calls me back.

  “Mattie?”

  “Yes?”

  “About Hal, I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There are some things about his death we should discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one thing, the possibility his death has something to do with this office. We don’t have any evidence of that yet, but be aware it’s one of the possibilities. Stay safe and be watchful.”

  I nod solemnly. “You may be right,” I say. Then I tell him about the Tomas Wyzinski case, and the calls to and from his brother Lech that we found on Tina’s phone. I end by sharing Hurley’s theory about the calls being research related to Tina’s attempts to write mystery novels.

  “The other thing is Hal’s workload.” Otto makes an apologetic face. “I’ll have the temp who’s coming work on the paperwork and other stuff related to Hal and Tina, but the regular workaday duties still need to be done.”

  “I’ve already thought about that,” I tell him. “I told Hurley last night I expect I’ll have to be working full-time for a while until we can find a replacement for Hal.” The last part of this statement makes me wince. Here I stand, discussing the horrific death of a coworker in a detached, clinical tone that leaves me feeling like a traitor, or a callous, coldhearted human being.

  Otto gives me a sympathetic look and again says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say, and then I leave before I start to cry.

  I head back to my office and settle in at my desk, tackling the remaining files from Hal’s desk drawer. The rest of the files prove as uninteresting as the first ones, until I get to the last one. This one, unlike the others, is labeled with a number only, most likely a case number. All the other files had both numbers and names. When I open it, goose bumps rise on my arms. It’s a file on Tomas Wyzinski.

  The top page of the file is a letter from Lech Wyzinski to Roger Beckwith, the prosecuting attorney in the case. The letter, which is handwritten in scrawling, printed letters, and peppered with spelling and grammatical errors, states that Tomas didn’t kill the woman, and that he was intentionally given an overdose of insulin and left to die.

  It’s a common theme among criminals, the whole I’ve-been-framed excuse. I doubt Roger Beckwith gave the letter much credence, particularly since it doesn’t name the culprit responsible for the supposed frame-up. But why did Hal have a copy of it?

  I look behind the letter and see a page of scribbled notes in what I recognize as Hal’s handwriting.

  There is a phone number and beneath that the phrase Tomas drug screen after arrest? On another line, Hal has written, Find out results of lie detector test. There is one more scribbled note: Prints at Wyzinski house?

  Curious, I place a call to Roger Beckwith’s office and his secretary answers. “Hold on, Ms. Winston,” she says. “He’s just about to leave for court.” She puts the call on hold, and after half a minute or so, Beckwith comes on the line.

  “Hey, Mattie. Great job the other day.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The judge denied the defense’s attempts to exclude the head discovery. The defense is putting on their case now and I expect they’ll be done by day’s end. Not much there for them to defend. It should go to the jury by this evening or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “That’s great,” I say, “but it’s not why I’m calling. Do you know Harold Dawson from my office?”

  “Sure. I know of him. Can’t say we’re close friends or anything, though. Why?”

  “Did you hear on the news that he’s dead?”

  “Dead? God, no! What h
appened?”

  “He was murdered yesterday. He and his girlfriend, though we haven’t released the girl’s name yet.”

  “That’s horrible,” Beckwith says. “I’ve been so focused on this case I haven’t paid much attention to the news. Any idea who did it?”

  “Not yet. That’s why I’m calling. I was going through Hal’s files in his desk and I found one on Tomas Wyzinski. It contains a letter from Tomas’s brother, Lech, claiming his brother was framed.”

  “Oh, yeah, that,” Beckwith says with a dismissive tone. “Standard stuff. I didn’t put much stock in it. More than half the criminals we prosecute try to claim they were framed.”

  “How did Hal get a copy of this letter?”

  “He called me and asked for it. So I made a copy and had it sent to him.”

  “Did he say why he wanted it?”

  “He said it might have something to do with another case he was investigating. He claimed he wanted it to show a pattern of behavior, or something like that.”

  “Did the defense get a copy of the letter?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lech sent one to me, to Tomas’s attorney, to the judge . . . probably sent one to the governor, too, for all I know. All the letters are identical except for the salutation. No one has done anything with them. There isn’t any useful information about who supposedly framed Tomas. And then there’s Lech.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you met the man?”

  “No.”

  “He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Beckwith says with a sneer. “Apparently, he was injured when he was a kid and it resulted in some permanent brain damage. Tomas has been his caretaker for several years. The two of them lived together in that house.”

  “So where is Lech now?” I ask.

  “Still at the house. The Wyzinskis hired a caretaker of some sort who stops by several times a week to clean, do the shopping, and make sure Lech is managing okay.”