by Elaine Viets
Bitter? That was odd. I wasn’t a tea drinker, but chamomile wasn’t bitter. It tasted like old sweat socks to me.
Shirley was still talking. ‘After Mother finished her tea, I helped her to the bathroom – she’s a little unsteady – and back into bed. She wanted to watch the TV in her room, so I made sure she was comfortable, then closed the drapes, checked that the back door and basement door were locked, turned off the living room lights, and went home.
‘This morning, I stopped by at six o’clock to make Mother breakfast before I went to work – I do intakes at the hospital – and I found Mother on the floor of her bedroom. She appeared to have had some kind of stroke. I called 911, but the paramedics were unable to revive her.’ Shirley suddenly turned angry. ‘They looked at her and left her on the bedroom floor! I demand to know why!’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Jace said. ‘You tried to cut off your mother’s finger, but you’re worried she didn’t get proper treatment?’
‘I have the right to know!’ Shirley said.
‘Here’s what happened,’ Jace said. ‘Your mother had been dead for hours – maybe as many as seven or eight. The paramedics found signs of livor mortis on her back, buttocks and the backs of her legs. That means the blood had pooled in her body after her heart stopped pumping it, and it stained her skin purple in those areas. There was also significant rigor mortis, which means her body was rigid. She was dead and there was nothing they could do about it. They called her doctor and corralled her drugs, then called me. When did you remove your mother’s ring?’ Jace asked.
‘After I called my sister,’ Shirley said, ‘I told the paramedics I wanted to be alone with my mother.’
‘And they thought you were a grieving daughter,’ Jace said. ‘Instead you tried to saw off your own mother’s finger. Didn’t the paramedics tell you not to disturb the body?’
‘I didn’t! I left her right where she was.’
‘Except you cut off her finger with a steak knife,’ Jace said.
‘She had arthritis,’ Shirley said. ‘It was hard to get my ring off over her knuckles. And I didn’t cut her finger off. But I did help myself to what was rightfully mine.’ Her voice defiant, oozing injured innocence like pus from an infected wound.
‘Mother wanted me to have that ring. And things disappear at times like these. After Great-Aunt Ethel died of a stroke, we never did find the ruby pendant she always wore. The family thought the morgue attendants stole it, but we couldn’t prove it. Besides, Mother was gone. I couldn’t hurt her. No one can hurt her. Not any more.’
‘You had no business disturbing the scene. Now, I’d like that ring, Ms Davis,’ Jace said, his voice dangerously low. ‘I’ll put it in evidence for safe keeping, but you must hand it over.’
‘What if I call my lawyer?’ Shirley said, suddenly sounding bold. She had her hands on both hips, challenging Jace.
‘Fine with me,’ he said. ‘You can tell the lawyer that I’m arresting you for abuse of a corpse. You skinned your mother’s finger to get that ring.’
I shuddered when Jace said that. It was unprofessional, but I couldn’t help it. Shirley was so greedy she’d cut the hand that fed her.
Jace held out his hand, and Shirley reluctantly put the ring in his palm. I’m no jewelry expert, but it was a fair-sized pear-shaped diamond in a rose gold setting, with smaller square-cut diamonds on the band. The sparkle in the morning sun was blinding, and light danced across the lawn.
‘Angela,’ he said, ‘will you photograph this ring and put it in an evidence bag, please?’
I got out my point-and-shoot camera that I use for death investigations (it takes better photos than my cell phone) and photographed the ring from several angles, then noted that it had been taken from the decedent’s finger. I was grateful I didn’t see any shreds of skin on the ring.
Technically, the ring should have accompanied the body to the medical examiner’s office, but I made an exception in this case. Jace wanted that ring for leverage.
‘May I go now?’ Shirley asked.
‘No, you may not,’ Jace said. He still sounded angry. ‘When the evidence tech gets here, she’s going to fingerprint you and take a DNA sample. And I’m sure Ms Richman has questions for you. She’s a Chouteau County Death Investigator.’
Shirley looked like she was about to object, but Jace said, ‘I wouldn’t say anything if I were you. Not unless you want to face those “abuse of a corpse” charges. How would SOS feel if one of their employees was arrested for that – mutilating her own mother?
‘Sit here,’ Jace said, ‘while we go talk to your sister.’
I rolled my DI case over to the drive, and leaned against a patrol car while Jace talked to the other sister.
Ellen’s eyes were red from weeping, but she’d smoothed her hair and straightened her wrinkled skirt. She had three broken fingernails and blood trickled down her knee.
‘When’s the last time you saw your mother?’ Jace asked.
‘This morning,’ Ellen said. ‘She was dead on the floor of her bedroom and her ring finger was nearly hacked off. With a steak knife!’ She burst into tears.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Jace said. ‘I need to know when you last saw your mother alive.’
‘Yesterday,’ Ellen said. ‘I brought Mother her favorite chocolates – Godiva. Shirley had taken Mother to the doctor, Dr Carmen Bartlett. Dr Bartlett said that Mother was in good health for her age. If she took her medicine she could live for years. She’d also read the neurologist’s report and said Mother was slipping mentally, and we should seriously consider putting her in a memory care unit. I told Shirley I would look for a real estate agent to sell the house, so we could afford Mother’s care.’
‘Did you have power of attorney?’ Jace asked.
‘No, Shirley did. She handled the day-to-day care.’
‘Did your mother have any savings?’ Jace asked.
Ellen shook her head. ‘Just Social Security and an insurance policy from our father’s death. Mother used that money to buy Shirley the house down the street, so Shirley could take care of her. My husband has MS, and I work full-time. I can’t visit as often as I would like.’
Suddenly, Ellen’s eyes looked like shards of dirty ice. ‘Mother bought her that house!’ she repeated. ‘That’s why she wanted me to have the ring. Our father gave that to Mother on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. She never took it off.’
She turned and gave Shirley a look that should have seared her fair skin. ‘Until my own sister hacked up Mother’s hand to steal her jewelry.’
SEVENTEEN
I looked at Shirley, the caretaker daughter, a pretty brunette who’d taken a steak knife to her dead mother’s arthritic finger for that sparkling ring. She looked ordinary in the best sense of the word, but there was something off about her mother’s death. I didn’t believe Mrs Davis had died suddenly of a stroke, and I’d been at a lot of older people’s unattended deaths. I hoped Katie got the autopsy – she was always thorough.
The sun was beating down on the metal lawn table, and my black DI suit was hot. I’d put my long brown hair in a ponytail. Sweat was running down my forehead. Shirley also seemed to be feeling the heat. She brushed her dark hair off her forehead, and revealed the bruise from her sister.
I called up the ‘Death Scene Investigation Form’ on my iPad. Jace gave me the decedent’s name – Ruby Randall Davis – the case number, and the time Mrs Davis was pronounced dead.
‘Ready?’ said Jace.
Shirley had calmed down enough to give me most of her mother’s demographic data for the DI form. With Jace glowering at her, I think she was afraid to say no.
Shirley said her mother was seventy-seven, wore soft contact lenses and used reading glasses. Mrs Davis was small and underweight.
‘Mother was five feet tall and weighed eighty-nine pounds,’ Shirley said. ‘But don’t let her small size fool you. Ruby was one tough woman. Ten years ago, Mother had stage three breast cancer, and
needed a double mastectomy, radiation and chemo. She bounced back, but she wasn’t quite the same after Father died two years ago.
‘After his death, she starting failing rapidly. She needed a walker outside the house. At home, Mother got around with a cane. She took medication for arthritis, hypertension and adult-onset asthma.
‘All the things that happen when you get old,’ Shirley said, and her shrug dismissed her mother’s ills. That was another false note.
‘Lately, Mother had memory issues. She left a pot of tomato soup on the stove and nearly burned down the house. The fire department had to put it out. That’s why I checked on her every morning and night. I wanted to make sure everything was turned off and she didn’t hurt herself. Ellen came in the afternoons, when she could. She behaved badly this morning, but I’m sure it was just stress due to our mother’s death.’
I wasn’t sure at all. I suspected that Ellen and Shirley had a long, unhappy history. And I kept hearing those false notes.
‘Ellen’s a payroll clerk for a St. Louis car dealership company, and her husband’s sick a lot with MS, so she couldn’t make it to see Mother as often as I did.
‘Mother’s neurologist said she was showing signs of dementia. My sister and I were discussing putting her in a memory care unit. We’d have to sell her house to pay for it, and Mother really didn’t want to move, but after the burned soup episode, we knew we’d have to make a decision soon. At least she got to pass in her own home.’
She sighed dramatically.
There it was – another one. There were more false notes than a grade school band recital.
‘What did your mother have for dinner last night?’ I asked.
‘Mac and cheese – her favorite – a chocolate pudding cup and orange slices.’ Shirley’s brown eyes widened and she tried on a smile, like she was telling a happy story.
‘Does your mother have a will?’ I asked.
The smile vanished. ‘No, she didn’t like lawyers,’ Shirley said. ‘She told us what she wanted to happen to her things: Ellen would get Mother’s house and I’d get the diamond ring.’
‘I was supposed to get that ring!’ Ellen said. The tall blonde sister had quietly made her way across the lawn and stood by the wrought-iron table with her arms crossed. I was afraid she’d start the fight all over again, but Jace barked, ‘Go back and sit down, Ms Tollman, unless you want to go to jail.’
She went, but she gave her sister a murderous glare.
I’d finished questioning Shirley. Sarah ‘Nitpicker’ Byrne, the CSI tech, had arrived. Today, her hair was a vibrant magenta. Sarah took Shirley’s fingerprints and then Ellen’s.
When Nitpicker finished printing the sparring sisters, we both went inside to examine the scene. Jace came with us and left a uniform to watch Ellen and Shirley.
The house was painted pale green with dark green shutters and a dark green door with a polished brass knocker. At the door, we all put on protective booties.
Inside, the house had that strange stillness that settles over a home when the owner is deceased.
We walked straight into a neat living room. The lights were on and the curtains were drawn.
‘Who turned on the lights?’ I asked Jace. Questions like these could help determine time of death and corroborate Shirley’s account.
‘The paramedics,’ Jace said. ‘They also turned on the bedroom and hall lights.’
I put that in my ‘scene information’ form. I added that the weather was warm – seventy-nine degrees. The temperature inside the house was seventy-eight according to the thermostat, and my thermometer agreed. I photographed both of them.
The living room had a green damask couch and matching easy chair, both with see-through plastic covers. I was glad I didn’t have to sit on them on a day like today. Silk flowers brightened the polished coffee table. A plastic runner protected the pale green wall-to-wall carpet. The carefully protected furniture had outlasted its owner.
I photographed the living room. The police would also video it, but my photos would go directly to the medical examiner.
We followed the plastic runner down a narrow hall to the master bedroom, painted pale pink. The bed was on the south wall and it had been slept in – the covers were pulled back on the east side, and the pink flowered spread trailed on the carpet. The two lamps and the overhead light were on and the pink flowered curtains were still drawn.
Ruby Davis was on her back, six feet from the bed, lying face-up on the pink wall-to-wall carpet. Her head was pointing northwest.
‘Did the paramedics move her?’ I asked Jace.
‘Yes. They said they turned her over. That’s when they saw the livor mortis.’
I took multiple photos of the hall and bedroom – wide shot, medium and close ups. These routine actions calmed me. Next, I photographed the deceased.
Ruby was wearing a high-necked blue cotton nightgown. It appeared that she’d had reconstructive surgery after her mastectomy, though I couldn’t remove her gown to check. Her short gray hair was in foam curlers. My stomach turned when I saw Ruby’s wedding ring finger.
‘Holy crap,’ Sarah said. ‘What happened to that poor woman’s finger?’
‘Her loving daughter wanted Mama’s ring,’ Jace said. ‘She sliced the old woman’s finger into hamburger to get it over her arthritic knuckles.’
‘There’s the knife,’ I said. On the floor next to Ruby’s body was an ordinary wooden-handled steak knife, with bits of flesh in the serrated edges.
‘Oh, jeez, there’s some of the woman’s skin still in the knife,’ Nitpicker said. ‘How low can you go?’
I’d seen worse – much worse – as a death investigator, but deliberately disfiguring this harmless old woman hit a nerve. I felt queasy.
Do your job, I told myself. You’re a professional. I bagged the knife. It would go to the ME with the body.
‘Was the ring mentioned in the will?’ Sarah asked.
‘There is no will,’ I said. ‘I suspect most of Mrs Davis’s estate is going to lawyers’ fees.’
There was little blood – Ruby had already been dead – but the thin, fragile old flesh had been brutally chopped. The nails on both hands were unbroken, but the knuckles were swollen to the size of acorns, and the small, fragile fingers had been brutally twisted by the disease.
I took close-up photos of the postmortem injury and noted the cause and that Jace had the disputed diamond ring. That answered the question: ‘When decedent was discovered, were any items removed by family, EMS, etc., prior to the investigator’s arrival? If yes, explain.’
I did, in detail.
Then I described the finger injury in the ‘specific marks of violence on body’ section. I placed a paper bag over the injured left hand and secured it with evidence tape.
Ruby had no bruises, but varicose veins snaked over her pale legs. Her feet were bare and clean. The body was almost completely stiff from rigor mortis. Full rigor often happened about twelve hours after death, though that wasn’t completely reliable.
When I finished examining, measuring and photographing the front of the body, I took a clean white sheet out of a zip-lock bag I carried in my kit, and spread the sheet on the bedroom floor.
Jace and Nitpicker helped me turn the body onto the sheet, so I could examine the back. Thanks to the rigor mortis, the body was difficult to move.
The decedent had soiled her nightgown when her bowels and bladder released. I saw the dark purple-red patches of livor mortis on the backs of her legs and shoulders. I lifted her gown. She also had patches on her buttocks. I photographed and measured the livor.
Finally, I finished my examination of the body.
I continued examining the scene. A pair of white nightstands flanked the bed, and the one on the east side appeared to be the one Ruby used. It held a pair of reading glasses, the TV clicker, a paperback mystery, and a flowered teacup. There was about a spoonful of tea in the bottom of the cup and maybe a quarter-teaspoon slopped in the sauce
r. I used a clean eyedropper to suck up the liquid and deposited it into a Tupperware container for testing.
Directly across from the bed on the north wall was a white mirrored dresser with a pink leather jewelry box, a vase of pink silk flowers, and a small boxy TV.
Next to the dresser, under the wall light switch by the bedroom door, was a nearly new black purse – Kate Spade brand – and a white wicker wastebasket.
‘Is that the decedent’s purse?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Nitpicker said. She opened the purse with her gloved hands and checked the matching black wallet. ‘The ID is for Ellen Tollman,’ she said.
‘There’s an iPhone in a black case in the wastebasket,’ I said.
‘Is it the decedent’s?’ Jace asked.
I photographed the phone inside the basket, then pulled it out. It was on. I swiped the screen, but it needed a password to open.
With that, Mike, the uniform, knocked on the bedroom door. He was a twenty-something cop who looked too young to shave.
‘Detective,’ Mike said. ‘One of the daughters says she dropped her purse near the door in her mother’s bedroom. The blonde, Ellen.’
‘Bring her in,’ Jace said. ‘And both of you put on booties. Make sure the other sister, Shirley, stays outside.’
‘My partner will watch her,’ Mike said.
He was back shortly with Ellen in tow. She’d made some effort to put herself back together. Her blonde hair was smoothed and her jacket was on straight, but the torn collar on her blouse stuck straight out.
‘Is that your black purse on the floor by the wastebasket, Ms Tollman?’ Jace asked. He pointed to the white wicker wastebasket.
‘Yes,’ Ellen said, her voice shaky. ‘And why is Ms Richman holding my cell phone?’
‘I found it in the wastebasket,’ I said.
‘It must have fallen out of my hand,’ she said. ‘I was shocked when I saw Mother.’
‘If it’s yours, open it,’ Jace said. He took the phone from me, and held it out to Ellen. She touched it with her right index finger, and it opened. Jace made her go to the settings to further verify the phone. ‘OK, it’s yours.’ He handed it back to her.