by Ritu Sethi
After wiping his feet, he stepped inside. A fire crackled in the living room and sent soft, buoyant arms of light onto the foyer wall, the shadows of the flames like people dancing. It was the kind of room that you curled up in to nurse a burgundy and contemplate existence, or disappear into a leather-bound volume.
“You held something back about your patient today, didn’t you? I have to know.”
“Why don’t you come inside, Chief Inspector?”
She poured his red into a crystal flute with a steady, slender hand. A linked chain comprised of varying shades of pink and yellow gold slid from her wrist down her angled hand, sounding a gentle clang as the metal hit the side of the bottle. Setting the bottle on the sideboard, she passed him the glass. The long stem was hard to grasp, and her eyes fell to his hand. He could see her physician mind processing and diagnosing: median nerve problem, some atrophy, probably operable?
“Go ahead and ask,” Gray said. “I wouldn’t want to deprive a physician of medical curiosity.”
Jemma’s eyes flicked up to his; she smiled, turned, and sat on the sofa, inviting him to take the matching red and white chintz armchair opposite. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Is Holly well enough to be interviewed?” he asked.
“Soon.”
“As I said earlier, she isn’t merely a victim,” Gray said. “She’s also a suspect, one willing to shield a murderer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Jemma crossed and uncrossed her legs, slowly. But the movement wasn’t deliberately provocative. She was buying time, plain and simple. “If someone were hiding something about their past,” she said, “it could impact your investigation?”
“Possibly. I couldn’t say without knowing what was concealed.”
She stared past him and sipped her wine. Two candles flicked on a small piano against the far wall, the flames seemingly swaying to Chopin. Gray sat back and relaxed, not wanting to pressure her. A full minute passed before she spoke.
“Did you know,” she said, “that medical charts contain a list of the medications the patient was taking prior to admission?”
“You’re referring to Holly’s admission after her attack?”
“I’m speaking generally.”
“What I could use are specifics, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.” Gray was quick on the uptake. “The information I need is in her chart? In the list of medications?”
“I have no idea what you need. And as long as you access it legally, I’ve told you nothing confidential.”
“Understood.” He gulped the rest of his wine and thanked her for her time.
Sadly, she didn’t seem sorry in the slightest to see him go.
Getting access to Holly’s private medical information would be no problem since she’d made herself as a suspect by cleaning the spilled blood at HealSo.
He flew down the porch steps on renewed legs and made his way along Pearson Avenue, around the corner to Martin, and then onto Leeson.
The night lay still, his steps sounding hollow and distant to his ears. Gray called Doug on his cell to make the necessary arrangements. He wanted to see that file tonight. If anyone could manage that, the junior detective could.
Fifty-year-old maples towered overhead, shrouding the houses and keeping them safe from the city’s rapidly changing terrain. Patches of clear sky peeked through the clouds, but the calm wouldn’t last. A storm was brewing. He could smell it, feel it in his bones.
Within the hour, Gray sat at the nurse’s station at Westborough with Holly’s chart before him. He considered getting Seymour to look at it but decided to read it himself first.
Much of the terminology seemed straightforward. Holly had visited the hospital with a urinary tract infection two years previously and visited the hospital several times for tension migraines that required opioid therapy. He paid particular attention to the list of medications. It wasn’t until he got to the night of Holly’s attack that he saw it: instructions stating the patient’s Esovin had to be continued, despite the risks.
Gray didn’t understand. He needed Dr. Seymour’s expertise after all. He dialed his cell, and it turned out the pathologist was already home but didn’t mind having company – especially when that involved discussing a murder case.
Printing out the relevant pages and placing the file under his arm, Gray drove towards the doctor’s home for an impromptu consult.
Seymour met him at the door and led him into his overcrowded and musty study, eager to help Gray as always.
Was the medication necessary? Gray asked.
Yes, they were...but...
They? Multiple pills?
Yes. Three, in fact, the pathologist said. The other two were called Finasteride and Spironolactone.
Meaning? Was Holly Bradley sick or something?
Seymour took his time explaining.
CHAPTER 12
April 2, 6 pm
JIMMY TREMBLED, scrunched in the fetal position on his white sofa. If he could sink further into the familiar gold weaved cushions, he would. Inside, the apartment was hot, stifling. Outside, the wind whistled, and dusk fell on the quad of triplexes just off of rue Saint Denis, where the pedestrian crush of professionals, hipsters, and tourists never stopped.
Usually, he liked the city’s smog and croissant-scented hustle and bustle. The area retained enough grunge to temper the tide of gentrification so that vibrant boulangeries lay side by side with decrepit coin laundromats. But today, he felt safer behind his locked door.
A loud pounding shattered the quiet. He leaped up with his feet together, and his fists clenched, waiting for the knocking to stop; when it didn’t, he glanced through the peephole and exhaled, then opened the door an inch.
The visitor forced it the rest of the way and let in a cold draft. It chilled Jimmy’s bare feet. He dug his toes into the small shag rug, and avoided the blazing eyes, instead focusing on the central fountain, hedges, and cherry blossoms of the outside quad behind his visitor.
The unwelcome guest entered the living room. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“The wisdom of keeping your mouth shut.”
Eyes followed Jimmy across the room before taking the worn cushioned chair. Jimmy returned to his spot on the sofa, knees pressed together, shoulders hunched. He looked down at the white fabric with its delicate woven gold pattern. Mom gave him this old sofa from home when he’d moved out a year ago. It brought back memories of running home for lunch every day and eating baloney sandwiches while she cooked in the kitchen.
The guest leaned back, unsmiling. “You’re leaving HealSo?”
“Y—yes.”
The reproachful eyes watched him, making his face burn. “Bad idea, Jimmy.”
Wanting to get distance, he sprang up and scurried behind the kitchen counter, craving something hot. He’d make himself a cappuccino, even though the caffeine would probably keep him up. He compacted the grounds with the tamper. It took five seconds for the first drops to dribble into a ramekin underneath and scent the air with hazelnut and cardamom – all done with precision and neatness. Still, he wiped down the machine and counter several times, never convinced it was clean enough.
“I’ve seen something,” the guest said.
“What?”
The guest told him.
Jimmy’s shoulders tightened. The container of milk shook in his hand. He suspected the same thing, but he wasn’t going to admit it out loud. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll remain at HealSo. And stay under the radar.”
His knees shook while he frothed the milk, and he thought of shared mornings with Mom: sitting at the breakfast table in their modest condo, listening to the chirping of the sparrows, and the melodic rush of the nearby river. He’d begun making her coffee at the age of eight; if only he were sitting across from her now. Why hadn’t he taken a bus home
instead of coming back here?
The coffee tasted bitter and sour. Jimmy gulped down the rest as though it were chocolate milk. The guest approached him and planted two fists on the counter and spoke, the flushed face inches away from his. “You’d better keep your mouth shut.”
“And be blamed? Everything I programmed has my initials stamped all over it. I said at the time, we can’t do this.” Jimmy’s voice cracked; a frog lodged in his throat. “No one listened.”
“You’re not thinking straight.”
“If I get blamed, I’m taking everyone down with me.”
“What do you mean?” The guest’s voice was soft, too soft. Jimmy blinked. His breath caught in his lungs, and his fingertips felt numb.
“I… I mean, I’ve set things in motion, that’s all. If they blame me, everyone’ll know the truth.”
Hard eyes bored into his. Jimmy’s heart hammered in his chest, pounding against his ribs. Words spluttered out. “I won't tell you! You think I’m stupid. I have to take care of myself. And... and, I’m not going to prison for any of you.”
“What have you done?”
Jimmy leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you kill to know?”
***
An hour later, Jimmy sat alone at the two-person dining room table, contemplating his next move. Contrary to what he’d said, he hadn’t done anything yet. But the manila envelope crackled in his hand – sealed, the address written, the appropriate postage affixed. All that remained was to mail it. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Mom in person, hated telling her at all.
Envelope in hand, he left the apartment and sprinted to the corner mailbox. Rue St. Denis was better in the morning when the street was still and empty. Now, it felt wild: the sidewalks crowded under Victorian street lamps, the lit-up bistros, shops, and brasseries cluttered together as far as the eye could see.
He slipped the letter into the slot, unsure of his decision, but desperately needing to do something, anything. Then, a thought came to mind: what about his Mom's safety? Always his savior, who would protect her?
Hurrying back to the apartment, he locked the door behind him, sat down at the table, and pulled up two trembling knees to his chest. Chief Inspector James might be able to help. He’d know what to do and how to protect both Mom and himself.
He dialed the SPVM police station on rue Saint Urbain and left a message for Gray with the officer at the precinct. It would be a relief to unload all he knew onto the police.
Yet a nagging restlessness remained. He needed to keep himself occupied while he waited for the call, but a pain in his stomach made him dismiss most of the activities that came to mind, including eating or playing the spaceship video game Kate rolled her eyes at. He straightened a few books on the shelf before returning to the table when the tug in his belly suddenly morphed into a knife-like stab.
Without warning, he retched. Coffee-laden vomit poured out of his mouth onto the dining table, the clumpy liquid puddling and snaking its way over the edge until it spilled onto the pine floor.
Two more excruciating knife stabs followed. The retching assailed him in spasms even though there was nothing left to come out until something red and scary did. Blood spluttered out like bursts from an old tap. The blood mixed with the vomit, the red and the brown now flowing freely together.
He watched in horror as the viscous blood coalesced with the thinner coffee on the table top. Some long-forgotten memory of a childhood science experiment was ignited involving two immiscible liquids being mixed...
The retching stopped, but the stabbing pain in his stomach continued – and Jimmy knew that he was in terrible trouble.
He had to reach the phone by the side table. He stood up quickly, too quickly, and his vision blurred. Arms forward, legs like lead, he moved gingerly towards the object – but his foot caught, causing him to trip.
Jimmy fell face forward onto the sofa. Tears rolled down his cheeks; his nose ran.
He was alone. She wasn’t there to help him. It had never happened before – this time, she wasn’t there. He clawed to the cordless phone and dialed 911.
After several rings, the dispatcher answered, and when she did, she spoke frustratingly slowly, wanted him to repeat what he’d said, which was impossible because the retching came back.
“S’il vous plaît. Again, Monsieur. Are you alright?”
“I’m...ah...ahh.” He gasped and fought to form words over the weeping. Where was it coming from? Was there a child crying outside? Then, he realized that the noise was his.
“Monsieur. Tell me what’s wrong? Is there anyone with you?”
“I’m throwing up blood. Send help.” The few words sucked up his strength.
“We’re sending an ambulance to your house now. Is there anyone there with you?”
“No. Alone...ah..ahhh!” Jimmy screamed in pain. Something inside him ripped. More blood poured out of his mouth, no longer needing any retching, and the crimson fluid stained, somewhat artistically, the gold threaded pattern of his mother’s white sofa. He watched, dissociated, as the fluid scuttled along the embroidered valleys before soaking into the fabric.
“Mom,” he mouthed, but only a whisper came out between the gurgles. The ambulance was on its way. They would take him to the hospital, and he would see her. Everything would be okay when he saw her.
But what if he didn’t? What if he never saw her again? The envelope. He had to tell her to destroy it. He had to undo what he’d done.
The dispatcher on the other end continued, asking him questions he heard from a distance, from the far end of a tunnel. The ambulance was on its way, she said. He should unlock the door. If only he could make it there without passing out.
He hung up. A cloudy blackness closed in, encircling, making his lids heavy. He fought to stay awake, but his head kept slumping back onto the sofa, a dead weight.
He had to call her. More than anything, he needed to hear her voice, needed to hear he’d be okay, that she’d nurse him and take him home where he belonged.
Flashes of that fateful day returned when he’d announced his decision to move out. That as a grown man, he needed independence. He remembered the pensive look on her face, the silent reserve as she’d said little, not wanting to discourage him. She’d been kind and gentle, not reminding him of his Asperger's – it was so mild, after all – all the doctors had said so. He could take care of himself as long as things didn’t get too complicated. But they had, and Jimmy had met people ready to exploit his gifts and his innate vulnerability.
He wanted Mama, just like when at seven when one of his schoolmates beat him with a stick in the schoolyard. The class was learning how to carry when adding two-digit numbers, and he’d been at his desk solving complex algebraic equations. The other kid resented that and attacked Jimmy during recess. Through a screen of trees, the teachers hadn’t heard his wailing for the older boy to stop. His right wrist cracked from fending off the blows, and the bridge of his nose remained crooked to this day.
His mother had stepped in forcefully, admonishing the teachers, the child, the child’s parents, and ultimately taking her complaint to the school board.
Mom had been there countless times for him, the two of them alone in the world. If he was clueless about relationships, she supplied all the emotional ingredients needed to make theirs complete.
Gripping the phone in sticky red hands, Jimmy dialed her number, praying she was home.
She answered immediately. “Hello?” The calm, familiar voice carried across the line.
“Mom?” Jimmy choked. The word came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.
“Jimmy?” his Mom exclaimed. She keyed into his distress instantaneously, always on the alert to protect him. “Jimmy! Where are you? I can barely hear you. Are you sick? Are you at home?”
He choked out a yes. Then he felt wetness suffuse from below, a steady stream of diarrhea soaked his pants, both brown and red dripping down his leg and into his shoes. The pungent smell enveloped the roo
m.
“Oh God, Mom!”
“I’m calling an ambulance right now, Jimmy. Do you hear me? They’ll be right over.”
“Already... called.”
“What’s happened?” She was shouting on the other end. “What can I do? I’m coming right now.”
He managed to choke out a few words and, struggling, began saying what he needed to say, to warn her against what he’d done, against the people who might hurt her.
Then the retching returned. He retched and retched again, in a blind panic that there was no time left to explain the long, complicated situation to her...before she hung up the phone and hurried over to his apartment...before it might be too late...he fought to get out a few words.
“I love you, Mama. I need you, Mama.”
“Jimmy...Jimmy!” his Mother was screaming now. About her boy, her darling boy who had never quite grown up...
“I sent... letter...don’t open it. Don’t do it...mistake...danger...for you.”
“Jimmy... Jimmy! I’m coming over now. Hang on. I’m calling the ambulance again. God! Why aren’t they there?”
“Someone died...may kill you, like me...”
“Who died? Who’s trying to kill you?” his mother asked frantically. “Save your strength. I’m coming, baby. I’m going to hang up the phone, and I’m coming.”
He stared at the door before him. He could hear his mother’s voice, but now, no words came out when he tried to speak. All control over his mouth seemed lost.
There was a hiatus of all thought, of movement, of control. His gaze fixed on the door across the room, his ears registering the loud thumping, the calling of his name.
The phone fell out of his hand and landed on the sofa. He heard his mother’s voice yelling out his name over and over, so loudly that it traveled across the room. She was suffering like an animal in agony, because of him. And for once, he thought first of her, not himself. How hard it would be for her. How he had endangered her by sending her that letter. How she would have to clean up the mess he’d left behind.
A black outline surrounded the image he saw of the door, the blackness widening, the image narrowing – as the wood gave way and uniformed strangers hurried to the sofa that was now more red than white, the gold threaded pattern of flowers and bees covered in congealing blood.