Death With Dignity

by E B Corbin

  “That’s another thing,” the detective said. “Why are you here? I checked with Nike, their human relations department never heard of you.”

  Sam gave Henry a small kick, hoping the detective didn’t notice. “I’m afraid that was my idea. I thought it sounded like a good reason to be here. Actually, we’re here because it’s far away from the East Coast and my father. We couldn’t go much further without ending up in the Pacific Ocean.”

  James Munroe raised his eyebrows, again. “Uh-huh.”

  Henry squeezed Sam’s hand. “Lieutenant, Sam’s had a bad day. She can’t take much more of your questions right now. We don’t know anything about your murder. We’re just trying to live our lives and stay together.”

  “It’s Detective,” Munroe corrected him as he stood. “And I’ll leave you two for now. I’ll mention your problem with the black van to our patrols in the area, but I can’t guarantee they’ll be able to keep an eye out all the time.”

  “We appreciate that.” Henry stood to usher the policeman to the door.

  James Munroe snorted like an angry bull. “Just don’t leave town. I’m sure I’ll have more questions.”

  Henry and Sam nodded in unison.

  When Henry closed the door behind the detective, he swung around to face Sam. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Relief swept over Sam, causing her to start to giggle. Henry wondered if his boss had lost her marbles.

  She tried to get her amusement and relief under control by taking deep breaths. “I . . . don’t . . . think . . . he . . . believes us,” she finally managed to force the words out.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Henry wanted to shake her.

  Sam sniffed. “I told him my father had connections and wanted to commit me to keep me away from you.”

  “What?”

  “He thought my father was some sort of Mob boss.” Sam hiccupped from trying to control her laughter.

  “Jesus Christ, Sam. You should have told him the truth. He might have been willing to keep it to himself. Now he’s going to check you out thoroughly. The chances are good that an Oregon police department looking into Sam Turner will get back to Jules, if not your father.”

  Sam sobered as much as she could. Whatever those two goons used to knock her out must still be in her system. She couldn’t control her delight that the stodgy old detective was gone. She smiled, despite Henry’s unwarranted reprimand. “I know. I’ll explain who we are the next time.”

  “The next time might be too late.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “You’re right. I’m not making excuses, but that damned man woke me up and it took a while to clear my head. By the time I was semi-alert, I’d already made up the crazy story. I couldn’t figure out how to get out of it.”

  “Tell him the truth,” Henry said. “At least that way he might leave us alone.”

  Sam leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. She knew making up the story for James Munroe had been a mistake, but she wasn’t ready to admit it to Henry. “I need some coffee,” she moaned.

  Henry wanted to tell her to get it herself but remembered he was only an employee in time to bite back the retort. He moved to the kitchen, shaking his head.

  While Henry made the coffee, Sam took a shower and dressed in her most official-looking outfit—black slacks, a white blouse and black blazer. She dug out the waist holster from her days in the FBI and tucked her .44 into it. Since she hadn’t had it with her when those two goons grabbed her, she figured it was not the culprit in tracking them and she felt reassured with the Smith & Wesson close at hand.

  When she came out, Henry had finished attaching a slide-bolt lock to the entrance door and was untying the skillet from their homemade security system. She sipped at the mug of coffee waiting on the counter. “So now we have four locks. Do you think that’s enough?”

  Henry ignored her sarcasm. “At least we can sleep tonight without worrying about master codes and keys.”

  She gulped the remainder of her coffee and reached for her coat. “We’d best get moving.”

  Henry put away the pots and pans and swiped his hands together. “Don’t you think we should wait until tomorrow? I’d hate for you to start giggling in the middle of a conversation.”

  She fought the smile that wanted to break out at the mere mention of her giggles, and swatted Henry’s arm instead. “I’ll be fine.”

  Henry paused to scan his consciousness for any hint of danger. He noticed a hushed buzzing, not loud enough to be a concern—yet. With reluctance, he grabbed the car fob and followed Sam.

  Julie was on the phone when they passed her in the lobby. She gave Henry a tiny smile and wave.

  He lifted his hand in return, all the while keeping alert for any change to the sound in his head. It wasn’t until they were pulling out of the garage that the buzzing began to grow. Not loud enough to signify imminent danger, but enough to make him uncomfortable. “Shit,” he muttered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sam eyed the side of his face as he steered into traffic. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sounded like something. Why’d you say ‘shit’?”

  “Rush hour traffic,” Henry lied.

  She sat back, pretending to accept his explanation, when a giggle threatened to erupt. Hard as she tried to keep it inside, a smile broke out.

  Henry glanced at her. “You’re still wonky.”

  “Only a little.”

  “We should wait to talk to people until you can control yourself.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be as formal as I can be.”

  “That’s what bothers me.” Henry glanced in the rearview mirror to make certain a black van was not in sight, even though his warning system remained stable at a low buzz. “What did you tell that detective before I got there?”

  “Nothing important. He wanted to know why I wasn’t listed as a passenger on the flight manifest.”

  They pulled up to a line of cars waiting at a red light and he turned to her. “What do you mean, you weren’t listed? You were sitting right next to me, first class and all.”

  “I wasn’t listed as Sam Turner. I used an alternate ID.” Before she could control it, she let out a tiny giggle.

  “Stop it!” Henry exhaled a long breath before he continued. “What do you mean? An alternate ID.”

  “You remember those DSS agents we met in Pennsylvania?”

  Henry gave a cautious nod. “Yeah, a little. I didn’t pay much attention to them. What do Diplomatic Security agents have to do with anything?”

  “About a week after one of the agents was shot, that blonde female agent contacted me.”

  “Tiffany?”

  Sam giggled. “So you do remember her.”

  “I didn’t like her.”

  “Whatever,” Sam said with a grin on her face. “She was quite attractive. Anyway, one of their responsibilities is protecting the integrity of US passports and entry visa documents. They uncovered a couple of phony passports that were so good they were virtually undetectable from the real thing.”

  “Then how did they discover them?”

  “They found them on a couple of Irish guys who were arrested for another reason.” She watched a mother struggle with a toddler who wanted to cross the street by himself. “Turns out a talented guy in Ireland had a lucrative business. Both Interpol and the State Department knew who he was but they had no proof. The fakes were so good, they couldn’t pinpoint the people who had used his services and couldn’t persuade anyone to turn him in or testify.”

  Henry watched the road ahead and behind. “Of course not. They wanted to remain incognito, or else why get a phony passport in the first place.”

  “Exactly. The good guys needed to send someone in undercover to use his services but Interpol insisted it would be entrapment if they did. The State Department disagreed. So Tiffany,” she emphasized the name, “asked me to do it for them.”

  A car tried to make a left turn from
the right hand lane, cutting in front of them. Henry slammed on the brakes and swerved to avert a collision. “Dammit!”

  Sam giggled again.

  “Would you stop that? It’s getting annoying.”

  “Sorry, I can’t seem to help myself.”

  Henry gripped the steering wheel as if they were on a sailboat in the middle of a gale. “Go on—I take it you agreed.”

  “Sure. I knew I could always use a fake ID.”

  “How were you able to keep the documents? I would think they’d need them for proof.” Henry swung around a car that had stopped in their lane to pick up a woman waiting at the curb.

  Sam grabbed the handle above the door as centrifugal force knocked her head sideways, but thought better than to remark on his driving. “It turns out that this guy, Keenan O’Toole, died in a car wreck a week after I received my ID. They confiscated his equipment and there was no need for a trial. In the mess that followed, the DSS seemed to forget about my papers. I saw no need to remind them.”

  “So you have a passport, as well as a driver’s license, in some phony name.”

  Sam nodded. “Sure do. And a social security card, too, if I ever need one.”

  “What happens when someone at DSS realizes their mistake?”

  “I don’t think they will. I know how federal agencies work. When something is wrapped up, it’s done. Filed away in some dark room somewhere and never looked at again.” Sam chuckled. “And I have a foolproof alternate ID.”

  “It’s not funny if you get caught,” Henry admonished. “Munroe was able to uncover your ploy.”

  She snorted. “That was a fluke. It won’t happen again. Besides, if we buy a car, it will be irrelevant. I won’t need to use the driver’s license to get on a plane.”

  Henry pulled into a tiny parking area next to St. Mary Magdalen Roman Catholic Church. As the engine died, he turned to Sam. “What are you going to ask the priest?”

  “To forgive my sins?” She put a hand to her mouth as a chuckle slipped out.

  “If you don’t pull yourself together, we’re not going in there.” Henry pointed to the tiny house next to the church.

  Sam closed her eyes, opened them, then took in a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Even though doubts filled his mind, Henry helped her from the car. A porch light switched on as they knocked. Unnecessary since the sun remained high on the horizon, Sam frowned at it and found it funny at the same time. Before she could point it out to Henry, a female voice cheeped from inside. “It’s open.”

  A diminutive woman sat at a huge desk to the right of the door. Unlike the steel helmets usually found on women of her age, the curls in her gray hair danced a jig as her head darted from Sam to Henry. “How can I help you?”

  Henry spoke up, afraid Sam would start giggling again. “We’d like to speak to Father Black, please.”

  The woman’s thin lips formed a hard line. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but we need to talk to him.”

  Disapproval shone from her faded azure eyes. “If this is about marriage counseling, I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment—and come back another time.”

  “It’s about Mary Margaret Bledsoe,” Sam said as she elbowed Henry into silence.

  “Oh, that poor woman. Such a shame.” The curls bounced once more as the gatekeeper shook her head from side to side. “She used to be quite active in the Ladies Guild and CCD, you know. We were so sorry to learn about her illness. She stopped attending mass about two years ago when it became too difficult for her to manage the steps.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “We understand that Father Black visited her on the day she died.”

  The older woman took umbrage at Henry’s words. “You can’t think that Father had anything to do with that? Why, he would never . . .”

  “We just have a few questions,” Sam said. “He might help us to better understand what happened that day. I can assure you, we don’t think he had anything to do with her death.”

  The woman licked her lips. “Poor Norman. He loved her so.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t see how he could bring himself to end the existence of anyone, let alone the love of his life. Norman was devastated when Mary Margaret fell sick.”

  “You don’t think he’s capable of mercy killing?” Henry said.

  “Mercy killing!” The woman’s voice turned into a cackle. “There’s no such thing. The fifth commandment states ‘thou shalt not kill’ period. Doesn’t add any ifs, buts, or unlesses, young man.”

  “The state of Oregon has recognized the possibility,” Henry said.

  “Pooh. The state had no right to pass that dumb law.”

  Before Henry could reply, a man stepped out of a doorway opposite the desk. His eyes were scanning a legal pad in his hand. Even though he wore a plaid shirt tucked into black pants, he radiated authority. “Vera, could you type . . . oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we had visitors.”

  “They were just leaving.” Vera held out her fingers and wiggled them for the legal pad. “What do you need?”

  “I, um, I need my sermon for Sunday typed so that I can revise it easier.” The older man passed the yellow pad to Vera then turned and smiled at Sam and Henry. With gray hair cropped short and a ruddy complexion, he had the map of Ireland on his face. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “You’re Father Black?” Henry asked.

  The priest nodded. “Guilty.”

  “We’d like to talk to you for minute about Mary Margaret Bledsoe.”

  A shadow passed across Father Black’s face. “Poor woman. She didn’t deserve to have her life ended that way.”

  Henry glanced at Vera, whose forehead wrinkled in disapproval as she eavesdropped without shame. “Could we talk somewhere in private? We won’t take up much of your time.”

  The priest glanced at his watch. “Confessions start in thirty minutes. I need to change. Can’t show up in a plaid shirt or my parishioners will have a field day. But I can give you a few minutes. Come.”

  Sam and Henry followed the priest through the door he’d just stepped out of and entered a small room. The carpeting was clean but inexpensive, the laminated particleboard desk cluttered. Bookshelves lined the back wall filled with tomes from Fulton J. Sheen, several versions of the catechism of the Catholic Church, a well-worn Bible, and a book titled Building a Bridge: How the Catholic Church and the LGBT Community Can Enter into a Relationship of Respect, Compassion, and Sensitivity.

  Sam had to twist her neck to get the complete title of the last one. From his reading material, Father Black came across as one of the more liberal clerics. Not unusual for Portland, she guessed, but his views might be the antithesis of those held by Vera.

  Father Black gestured them to a small sofa tucked against the wall and pulled up his desk chair to speak to them. “What is it you’d like to discuss about Mary Margaret?”

  Henry stared at the crucifix on the far wall and waited for Sam to speak.

  “When you visited Mary Margaret on that last day, did you notice anything unusual about her?”

  “Only that she was sleeping. She mentioned she’d been having trouble falling asleep when I saw her the week before. I was glad she finally managed to get some rest.”

  “What time did you see her?” Sam asked.

  Father Black glanced at the foot-high statue of the Virgin Mary on the side table next to the sofa. “It was around four, I believe. I remember because I’d set aside thirty minutes for my visit, but since Mary Margaret was sleeping, I didn’t want to disturb her. I prayed silently over her for ten minutes or so, and when I noticed her brother pacing in the hall, I gathered my things to leave.”

  “You never spoke to her, but you’re sure she was alive when you were there?”

  The priest paled. “Oh, my precious Lord, I hope so. I never checked her pulse or anything. I didn’t want to disturb her.”


  “You saw her breathing?”

  “I . . . I’m fairly certain. I couldn’t swear to it, though. You should ask her brother. When I left I cautioned him to not wake her, but I don’t think he paid me any attention.”

  Henry noticed Sam falter in her questioning. He jumped into the conversation with a question he wanted answered since his own feelings were ambivalent on the subject. “What are your thoughts on mercy killing?”

  Father Black cleared his throat. “I was under the impression that Mary Margaret was smothered.”

  Henry nodded when Sam remained silent. “She was, and her husband has been accused of murder, but his defense attorney wants to make it into a mercy killing issue.”

  The priest dropped his gaze to the floor for several moments. When he looked up, his expression was hard to read. “Did you know ‘euthanasia’ means an easy and gentle death in Greek? Isn’t that what we all hope for?”

  Henry’s voice was gruff. “We don’t always get it.”

  “And isn’t that too bad?” Father Black gave his shoulders a small shake, as if to rid himself of a cumbersome thought, then glanced at his watch. “Well, I’m not sure how my thoughts on euthanasia matter . . . and I’m afraid I have to prepare for confessions now.”

  “Just a few more minutes of your time,” Henry said. “Do you think Norman Bledsoe killed his wife”

  The cleric twisted his hands together. “I’ll admit it doesn’t make sense to me, but the police seem to think he did.”

  “What do you think?” Sam wanted to hear his take on the crime.

  “I just . . . I don’t know. I know Norman was completely devastated at his wife’s death. I don’t want to imagine how he could do it but that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  Henry stood and pulled Sam beside him. “We won’t take up any more of your time, Father. Thank you for talking with us.”

  As they turned to leave, the priest called to them. “You asked about my view on mercy killing. Whatever my personal feelings, I will tell you the official Church doctrine. Their view is that euthanasia is a grave violation of the law of God. It is the deliberate and unacceptable killing of a human person.