Death Grip

by Elaine Viets

She was wearing a bulky tan turnout jacket and pants with reflective yellow stripes. From what I could tell, she was blonde, compact and tough.

  ‘I’m Heather Fowler,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘I’m a new hire.’

  With her help, we quickly turned over the body. This side would be easy. A six-inch cut-like defect on the back of the decedent’s bare neck and a blood spot that measured twenty-seven by thirty-one inches.

  I thanked the firefighter and complimented her on how skillfully she’d turned the muscular body.

  ‘You’re strong,’ I said.

  ‘I have to be to get hired on in this department,’ she said. ‘Some days I’m hauling ninety-five pounds of gear. I used to be a paramedic.’

  ‘Can you answer two questions about Chad, the driver?’

  Heather glanced at her colleagues and said, ‘I’ve got a minute or so before we take off.’

  ‘Chad said he couldn’t move his legs. Is he going to be totally paralyzed?’ I asked.

  I thought she might have shrugged inside the heavy turnout coat. ‘I don’t know. I’m no doctor. It could be he was just in shock and there’s nothing seriously wrong.

  ‘I do know if he did have an injury it wasn’t high up on the spine, around C5 or above, or he wouldn’t have been able to breathe or talk to that paramedic. So I doubt he’ll be a quadriplegic. That’s some good news.

  ‘Since Chad was able to talk, I think the injury might have been in his mid-back. He’ll probably be able to move his arms and hands. If he turns out to be a paraplegic – his legs may not work. But there’s hope. He can use a wheelchair and even drive a car that has hand controls.’

  After this accident, I wondered if Chad would ever want to drive again.

  Heather was still talking. ‘I’ve seen other people with his type of injury learn to walk with braces. So if he really is injured, his future’s not totally bleak. But he is looking at years of hard work.’ She checked her watch and then glanced over at the truck. ‘What’s your second question? We’re about to head out.’

  ‘You were there when the paramedic asked Chad what caused the accident. Chad said, “Mom caused this.” Then you fired up the Jaws of Life and I couldn’t hear his answer. Did you hear it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘His mother had texted him: “Make sure you come home for dinner tonight. It’s important!” She texted that message three times and he didn’t answer. When she sent the fourth demand, it had 666 at the end.’

  ‘The mark of the Beast?’ I said. ‘Why’s a nice Forest Mom using satanic symbolism?’

  ‘In this case, 666 had nothing to do with the devil. On an alpha-numeric keypad 666 spells ‘MOM.’ Sometimes, it’s code for “Answer this instant or you’re grounded till you graduate from college.”’

  ‘So he was reading that furious message from his mother—’ I said.

  ‘And went straight to the Devil,’ Heather said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  After that horrific death investigation, I had to inform Jared Dunning’s family that their golden boy was dead. Detective Greiman begged off, as usual. He always found an excuse to avoid an unpleasant job. Right now, I wanted to be around him as little as possible.

  I was glad that Bill Sherman, one of the uniforms, went with me for the notification. He was a lean, seasoned cop in his late thirties, just starting to go gray at the temples. A little age looked good on him.

  The Dunning home was ten minutes away and Bill followed me there. The Dunnings made their money in shoes in the nineteenth century, and through wise investments, it continued to grow. Their mansion seemed to symbolize the family. Most of the Forest grandees lived in extravagant mansions – fanciful French chateaus and Romanesque castles. The Dunnings lived in a redbrick Georgian mansion, notable for its austere beauty.

  Bill and I parked in the graveled circle out front.

  A housekeeper, a stout older woman in a white uniform, answered the door, and I asked to speak to Mrs Dunning.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No,’ I told the housekeeper, ‘we do not, but it’s important.’ Bill and I introduced ourselves and showed our credentials. The woman’s face turned pale. She led us into a small side parlor and hurried up the staircase.

  The room was an afterthought, meant for tradespeople and unwanted visitors. It had four green upholstered chairs and a carved oak table with spring flowers in a vase. On the walls were more than a dozen photos of Jared, from newborn to toddler to football hero. If there were other children, I saw no evidence of them.

  Bill looked at the photos of the triumphant boy. ‘I hate this part of the job,’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Me, too,’ I said. ‘This news will ruin this poor woman’s life.’

  We heard hurried footsteps and both of us shut up. A tall, dignified, fifty-something woman rushed into the room. She wore flats and a blue striped shirtwaist. White as paper and trembling, she said, ‘I’m Natalie Dunning. Who is it? My husband? My son? My daughter? My grandson?’

  I knew better than to beat around the bush. I delivered the blow quickly. ‘It’s your son,’ I said. ‘Jared. He was in a traffic accident. He died.’

  ‘Noooooooo!’ She started to totter. Bill and I grabbed her and helped her sit down. Mrs Dunning rocked back and forth and howled like her heart had been torn apart. I ran out of the room, and found the housekeeper pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands.

  ‘Mrs Dunning needs help,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Flynn,’ she said. ‘Susan Flynn.’

  ‘I had to give Mrs Dunning bad news. Her son was killed in a car accident.’

  ‘Jared?’ Mrs Flynn’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That lovely boy is gone?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She wiped away her tears with her apron and said, ‘What should I do?’

  ‘She needs hot tea or coffee,’ I said.

  ‘For that news, Ms Richman, she needs brandy.’

  Susan Flynn quickly searched a cabinet, pulled out a bottle and a glass and followed me to the parlor. There she poured a stiff shot and said, ‘Mrs Dunning! Natalie! Here, you must drink this. You’ve had a shock.’

  ‘My boy’s dead!’ she cried. ‘I want to die, too.’

  ‘Where is Mr Dunning?’ I asked.

  ‘In Frankfort,’ the housekeeper said, raising her voice to be heard over Natalie’s cries of distress. ‘He’s expected home tonight and there’s no way to reach him right now.’

  ‘She needs her family,’ I said. ‘Can her daughter come now?’

  ‘Alison should be home. I’ll call her right now.’ Susan Flynn rushed out of the room.

  Natalie Dunning had swallowed the hefty shot of brandy. She was slightly calmer and a bit woozy, but she’d recovered enough to ask questions. Each one seemed torn from her heart.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, still trembling.

  ‘Your son was in a car accident with his friend, Chad Du Pres.’

  ‘Wh-where did it happen?’ she stammered.

  ‘On Gravois.’

  ‘Who was driving?’

  ‘Chad.’

  ‘Did Chad survive?’ She was rocking back and forth again.

  ‘Yes, but he’s badly injured.’

  ‘Good! I wish he was dead. I hope he dies, too!’ Natalie’s eyes narrowed with fury. ‘I never did like that boy. Smug and entitled, like all the Du Pres. He drove too fast. Raced that car all over the Forest, terrorizing the neighbors! I didn’t want my Jared with him, but they were on the same team. And his father said it was good to know the Du Pres family. Said it would help his future. Ha! What future? The Du Pres family stole it! They killed my boy!’

  She was crying now and furious. Rage contorted her features. She stood up, took both hands and tore open her blue-striped shirtwaist dress down to her waist. Buttons popped and flew across the room, revealing a modest full slip, trimmed in lace.

  For a moment, I was frozen with shock. Then I said, ‘Mrs Dunnin
g, stop, please!’

  She shrieked louder, and started tearing at her carefully coiffed gray hair. Stiff with spray, it stood up in hanks. ‘I don’t want to stop! My boy is dead! He’s dead.’

  She howled and began beating her head on the wall. Bill grabbed her, trying to keep her away from the wall so she’d stop hurting herself. She bit his hand.

  ‘Ow!’ he cried.

  Natalie broke out of his arms, ran to the wall of pictures, picked out a big, silver-framed photo of her son in his football uniform, and smashed it against the wall. The glass shattered. She found a pointed shard about eight inches long. Before Bill or I could stop her, Natalie plunged the glass dagger into her left wrist. That skin is surprisingly tough, but she succeeded in slicing her wrist. Blood spurted down her arm.

  ‘He’s dead, he’s dead, and I want to die, too!’ she shouted.

  Bill wrestled the glass shard away from her and yelled, ‘Angela! Call 911. Get an ambulance.’

  I quickly punched in the call and the operator promised to send an ambulance right away.

  I called for the housekeeper and Susan Flynn came running back in. ‘Natalie’s bleeding! What did you do?’ she cried.

  ‘Mrs Dunning tried to kill herself,’ I said. ‘I’ve called 911 for an ambulance. Is her doctor Carmen Bartlett?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Doc Bartlett took care of most of the Forest, and I had her on speed dial. Her efficient receptionist got her on the phone right away. I told the doctor the story and said an ambulance was on the way and would take Mrs Dunning to SOS.

  ‘That poor woman,’ Carmen Bartlett said. ‘Jared was her whole life. I’m finishing up here at the office. I’ll meet her at the emergency room.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. Carmen was a rare doctor – the kind who cared about her patients.

  ‘Is Mr Dunning home?’ she asked. ‘He travels a lot for business.’

  ‘He’ll get in from Frankfort sometime tonight,’ I said. ‘But her daughter is on her way over here.’

  ‘Send her to the ER. She can help me work out a treatment plan for her mother.’

  I could hear sirens. Flashing lights strobed the room. The ambulance was here. By this time, Natalie was in one of the chairs, weeping. Grief seemed to roll through her body in waves. I met the paramedics outside. There were two – large, muscular men with buzzed hair and oddly boyish faces – and told them what happened. I also asked them to check Officer Sherman’s hand. They wheeled in a stretcher.

  Inside, the two men filled the small parlor. One checked Bill’s hand, then cleaned, disinfected and bandaged it. ‘Have you had a tetanus shot recently?’ he asked.

  ‘I got a booster shot a year ago,’ Bill said.

  ‘Human bites are nasty. I’ll give you a script for an antibiotic, just to be safe. Keep this wound clean, and if it shows any sign of infection, don’t fool around. Go to the ER. I’ve cleaned and bandaged the glass cut, too. It’s not deep enough for stitches. It should be OK, but if it’s not, you know the drill.’

  The other paramedic was ready to roll Mrs Dunning out on the stretcher. She was crying hard and didn’t seem aware of what was going on.

  I shut the front door and turned to Bill. ‘Whew. Are you OK?’

  He looked at his bandaged hand. ‘I’m fine, but I never thought I’d get chomped by a rich lady. This job is full of surprises.’

  Susan Flynn brought in a wastebasket, dustpan and broom, and began sweeping up the larger pieces of broken glass on the floor. Her eyes were red from weeping.

  ‘Poor Mrs Dunning,’ she said. ‘She loved that boy so much. She devoted her life to him. He was a good boy, too. She didn’t want him running around with that Chad Du Pres – that boy has too much money and not enough guidance from his parents, and it shows. He was driving too fast in that new car of his. The police stopped him, but they never gave that boy a ticket. He was a Du Pres!

  ‘Every time Mrs Dunning tried to lay down the law and make her son stay away from Chad, her husband would say that the Du Pres were an important family and they could help Jared.’

  She was sweeping up the glass with quick, angry strokes of the broom. I picked up the photo of Jared, who was holding a huge gold trophy aloft, and carefully pulled the remaining pieces of glass out of the frame and dropped them in the wastebasket.

  ‘Where should I put this?’ I asked.

  ‘In the hall closet,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it to the framers later.’

  The front doorbell rang and a young woman burst in. She looked like a slightly older version of her brother, with long blonde hair. ‘Where’s Mother, Mrs Flynn?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? You said you’d tell me when I got here.’

  She glared at me and Bill. ‘And why are the police and this woman in here?’

  I introduced myself and Bill and said, ‘I have bad news. Please sit down.’

  Alison sat and said, ‘OK. Enough! Tell me.’

  ‘Your brother is dead. He was killed in a car accident.’

  ‘Jared? Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no! That can’t be!’ She was crying now. Through her tears she said, ‘Was my little brother running around with that Chad Du Pres?’

  ‘Chad was driving the car,’ I said. ‘He’s in the hospital with serious injuries.’

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  ‘She was very upset and she’s been taken to SOS. Dr Bartlett is with her.’

  Alison stood up. ‘I’ll go there right now. This is all Daddy’s fault. I tried to tell him that Jared shouldn’t be in a car with that Chad. That boy was racing all over the Forest, terrorizing everyone. But Daddy wouldn’t listen!’

  She ran out the door.

  But the blame from that terrible accident lingered.

  Chad blamed his mother for texting him and insisting on an answer.

  Alison blamed her father. And Mrs Dunning blamed her husband.

  Both families would be maimed forever.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I’d been hoping to sleep late the next morning, after that hideous death investigation. Instead, I was awakened at seven o’clock by a call from Katie.

  ‘Angela, I need you at my office at seven-thirty,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Now?’ I said, still sleep-stupid.

  ‘Yes, now. Shower, throw on some clothes, and get over here. I’ll have breakfast and some decent coffee.’

  I yawned, still too dazed to focus.

  ‘Angela!’ Katie shouted. ‘I need you at this meeting. Are you coming?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  I longed to go back to bed and snuggle under the covers, but I couldn’t. Katie was telling me in code that we needed to meet with Jace.

  I stood up – a real achievement in my bone-tired state – stretched and headed for the shower.

  Yesterday had taken a lot out of me.

  After that nightmarish death investigation, Officer Bill Sherman and I had that emotionally wrenching Dunning family notification. It was nearly four p.m. by the time I got home from that. I threw on my riding clothes – an elegant name for a pair of ancient jeans and a disreputable shirt. I loaded up with carrots and peppermints and headed to the Du Pres barn for horse therapy. American Hero listened patiently to my troubles, and sagely agreed with me. I rode the horse for two hours until my muscles ached, but this time from exercise, not tension.

  At home last night, I threw my DI suit along with a load of darks into the washer. Dinner was my usual default meal, scrambled eggs and toast. After dinner, I took a long, hot shower, put the freshly washed clothes in the dryer, and fell into bed. My mattress felt like cobblestones, and I tossed and turned until four in the morning, when I fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Now Katie’s call dragged me out of bed. After a cold shower shocked me awake, I switched to warm, soothing water. Then I pulled my damp hair into a ponytail, put on another black DI suit and sensible shoes.

  Outside, spring had turned the trees the tender yellow green I only saw early in the year. The tu
lips along my walk were a fiery blaze – red, yellow, orange. Behind them were the purple blooms of my mother’s wild phlox. She went into the woods with a shovel and dug them up herself years ago. They prospered in captivity.

  My sun-warmed skin felt good. The sky was china blue. In short, it was another perfect spring day, and I was headed to the morgue.

  I made it to Katie’s office at 7:28 a.m. She’d turned her desk into a buffet, with a big tray of fresh fruit, a basket of muffins and bagels, whipped cream cheese, and two giant boxes of fresh hot coffee. Next to the coffee were two mugs. One read I See Dead People and the other had a Sherlock Holmes skeleton with an earflap traveling cap and calabash pipe.

  ‘Tasteful,’ I said, choosing the Dead People mug and pouring myself a cup.

  ‘Gifts from a staffer who’s leaving,’ she said. ‘Feel free to break your cup or steal it.’

  Katie looked exhausted this morning – pale, and her brown hair was spiky and unruly. I wondered if she’d had a bad night, too.

  I filled a paper plate with berries and melon chunks and topped it with a blueberry muffin.

  ‘I see you caught the fatal accident with the football stars,’ Katie said.

  I didn’t want to talk about that case any more, but I wanted a lecture on my love life even less.

  So I said, ‘Yeah, it was a bad one. We needed the Jaws of Life to free both of them. The Du Pres kid may wind up a paraplegic and the Dunning kid is dead. I had to inform the family, and Bill Sherman went with me. Dunning’s mother bit Bill and collapsed from shock and was taken to SOS.’

  ‘I heard it was a real shit-show,’ Katie said. ‘It got worse later last night. Old man Dunning called Evarts at home and demanded all the paperwork from the autopsy ASAP. He says he’s going to sue Henry Du Pres and “get his last nickel.”’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Stephen Dunning gets home from a long trip to Europe and all he can think about is suing the De Pres family? With his only son dead and his wife in the hospital from a nervous collapse? Now that’s cold.’

  ‘He’s so cold, his words freeze in the air,’ Katie said.

  I laughed, except it wasn’t funny. Stephen Dunning had already sacrificed his son for his social ambitions, insisting Jared ride with a kid who drove like a maniac. Now he was trying to profit from his son’s death.