The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club

by David Staats

  A voice sounded through the door. “Come in.”

  He opened the door. The feather-light weight of a hollow-core door gave him less resistance than he had expected, so that it flew open. Directly in front of him, some twelve or so feet distant, sat a man at a wooden desk. On the desk was a blotter and to the side of the blotter a book which was closed. The man smiled and repeated, “Come in.”

  Wright was careful to fully close the door behind him, and paused to assess where he should sit. The office was large and neat, almost Spartan in simplicity. In an expanse of gold-colored shag carpeting were arranged a desk, two chairs, and a recliner. One chair, a wooden chair after the manner of a captain’s chair, stood in front of the desk. The recliner, upholstered in cordovan leather, and looking like it had cost many thousands of dollars, was off to the left. Facing the recliner was another captain’s chair.

  While he had been hesitating, the man, who presumably was the psychiatrist, got up and came around his desk. His dress was as neat and orderly as the office. He wore a white shirt with windowpane checks, and plain blue tie. Wright figured the guy might last twenty seconds with him in the ring.

  The psychiatrist extended his open palm toward the recliner and said, “Please take a seat,” while he moved to the captain’s chair facing the recliner.

  “Well, I’m not …” began Wright.

  The psychiatrist paused at the captain’s chair, resting his right hand on the arm rest before he sat. “Please,” he said, “I want you to be comfortable.” His manner was persuasive enough that Wright went to the recliner and sat. The leather felt luxurious and the back of the recliner fell back to just the right angle. He was comfortable.

  “I’m not here to be a patient,” said Wright. He noticed several framed diplomas and certificates on the wall behind the desk.

  “I understand,” said the psychiatrist, having taken his seat.

  “You’re doctor Sadsbury?” said Wright, just to be sure.

  “I am, yes.” The psychiatrist stared at him steadily with an expression that seemed to indicate that he was prepared to meet any kind of strange behavior with equanimity. “How can I help you?”

  “What I need is – can you make a diagnosis of a dead man?”

  The psychiatrist continued to stare steadily. His expression betrayed no surprise, nor condemnation, nor approval. At length, he said, with the slightest of smiles, “This is not for yourself? We’re not talking about suicide here?”

  “No and yes,” said Wright, happy of the opportunity to give a confusing answer, and by that means to unsettle the psychiatrist, and maybe take more control of the conversation. Having paused long enough to make his laconic answer appear strange, he explained, “It’s not about me, and it is about suicide.” The psychiatrist would have to be puzzled by this statement, and taking advantage of the opening this gave him, Wright seized the initiative. “I am an investigator for the Fidelicity Life Insurance Company. Recently a man purchased a three million dollar life insurance policy, and just a week later, is found dead. Our policy has a suicide clause, if death is by suicide within one year after the purchase of the policy, no death benefit is payable. My investigation has shown – I conclude that this man committed suicide. What I have is a set of facts and what I am wondering if you can confirm with a professional diagnosis perhaps a tendency to suicide or maybe even … a diagnosis of suicide itself.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the psychiatrist. He blinked several times and sat for a moment with his left hand to his face. “Perhaps … it would be better if we sat over at my desk,” he suggested.

  Having reconvened their conference at the psychiatrist’s desk in a much more businesslike manner, Wright laid out his case. “Based on that information, do you think it is likely that Hargrave committed suicide?” asked Wright.

  The doctor answered crisply and confidently. “It is problematic to make a diagnosis without interviewing the patient and administering tests which in the professional judgment of the psychiatrist are appropriate for any neuroses or disorders which the initial presentation of the patient may indicate. Without an interview and testing, very problematic.”

  “Yes. I am sure you are correct, doctor. But in this case, a determination of whether the man committed suicide has to be made, is going to be made. Wouldn’t that determination likely be more accurate if professional expertise were brought to bear?”

  “You make a good point.”

  “Undoubtedly, the persons who are going to want to collect from the insurance company will have an expert witness. It would be unfair if we couldn’t also have one.”

  “I see your dilemma. But clinical data, the data on which a professional opinion could be based?” The psychiatrist spread his hands.

  “Tell me what you want. I’ll get it. We do have the one unavoidable fact which certainly indicates that suicide is a possibility, and that is that the man is dead.”

  Wright led the psychiatrist on to explain what kind of things might indicate suicidal tendencies, and Wright took careful notes in his neat hand of printing. He was particularly interested in what kind of statements or messages a mercenary suicide might leave to the loved ones he was trying to make rich.

  Believing that he had reached a satisfactory understanding with Dr. Sadsbury – he was convinced that the facial expressions of the doctor, his gestures and tone of voice, all indicated a clear understanding of and willingness to abide by the requirements of the engagement – Wright wrote out a retainer check of two thousand dollars. It made him feel powerful to be able to draw on the exchequer of the insurance company, although this was a power he was careful not to abuse, lest he should lose it. He laid the check on the doctor's desk with a prissy gesture indicative of great self-satisfaction. He rose from his seat, extended his hand to the doctor, who likewise rose, and smiling slyly shook it. Wright went out of the doctor’s lair.

  Outside, large, heavy, dark clouds had rolled in from the west, were still rolling in, their under surfaces roiling and moiling. A gust of wind hit him, mussing his hair. The air carried a wild freshness, presaging a violent storm that would cleanse the atmosphere. He filled his lungs with the exhilarating air, and this, plus the success he had just achieved in retaining the psychiatric expert, made his thoughts expansive. He imagined how, when he had “made it,” he might support a symphony orchestra in the town that he would adopt as home; maybe …

  A small car with weathered red paint swerved into the driveway, its shot shocks making it bounce as it went over the uneven joint between roadway and driveway, its broken grille and four-bolted, black wheels, naked of wheel covers, giving it a menacing appearance. Thumping, deafeningly loud rap music came from the car like a physical projectile, hitting Wright’s chest and eardrums equally hard. The tires screeched as the car turned into the parking space next to Wright’s car and stopped abruptly. The driver’s side door popped open and a huge, slovenly dressed man emerged, exhaling a cloud of smoke and flicking with his middle finger a mostly smoked cigarette. The small white object with a tiny red glow and a small smoke trail arcked into the lawn.

  Wright’s symphony orchestra vanished like a puff of smoke in a windstorm. First things first: he had to make a lot of money.

  Chapter 9. The experience of Wisdom

  “Come on. We’ll go over and talk to Lt. Wisdom,” said Mr. Dure.

  “What a great name for a policeman!” I said.

  “He’s the homicide detective on the Canterbury police force,” said Mr. Dure. “When the police open an investigation into the case, I want you to draft a Motion to Stay. It looks like the end of the case for us. If the police get a conviction for murder, then Mrs. Hargrave’s negligence suit obviously must fail. So, the case should be stayed – and then we win.”

  Outside, it was sunny and warm, border-line hot. We were waiting for traffic to clear so that we could cross the street. Mr. Dure was talking about the case in public, but it was true that no one was near us and the traffic noise would drown out whate
ver we were saying anyway. I usually cross the street only at crosswalks because if a car should suddenly appear or be going faster than I thought it was, I can’t scamper out of the way on account of my leg. But, here I was getting ready to jaywalk – already being corrupted by my first legal job. I was standing to Mr. Dure’s left. Court Street was a one-way street and the traffic was coming from our left. Mr. Dure slipped behind me and now stood to my left and there was a gap in the traffic and we scooted across the street. I was slightly slow, but he walked so that he stayed just to my left the whole time.

  “If it should turn out that Vanessa Hargrave is the one who did it,” he said as we came up on the sidewalk, “not only would she lose her lawsuit, but she would be barred from inheriting and our client might even get a larger share of the estate.” We went into the Justice Center.

  The Justice Center building was so new and modern, it was a shock to see the old, beat-up furniture in Lt. Wisdom’s office. He sat at an old, gray metal desk in an old, wooden chair with arms and slats at the back. The wheels squeaked when he stood up to greet us. It wasn’t a very cheerful greeting. “Counsellor,” was all he said in response to Mr. Dure’s “Hello, Lieutenant.” He nodded to me when Mr. Dure introduced me. He was about an inch or two shorter than me. We sat in old wooden chairs that looked like the lieutenant’s except they didn’t have wheels.

  “I want to put before you some curious circumstances,” said Mr. Dure.

  “Alright, I’m curious,” said Lt. Wisdom, sitting up straight. He was wearing a short-sleeve, white shirt, and he put his elbows and forearms on the desk. His big, thick, muscular forearms formed a triangle, with his fingers intertwined, as if he were saying, Okay, you got anything good?

  Mr. Dure said, “On July 6, your police responded to a call of an unattended death. A body had been discovered in the sauna at the University Health Club. Your patrol officer secured the scene, took photographs and called the medical examiner. The ME opined myocardial infarction. Your officer took what apparently was the only piece of physical evidence into custody, a champagne bucket, and then released the scene. All quite correct.”

  “Alright,” said the lieutenant.

  “Now it turns out that the decedent had a three million dollar life insurance policy which he had bought only weeks before. It turns out that the decedent’s wife is a beneficiary of that policy to the extent of one million dollars. It turns out that she was present in the health club when the decedent was last seen alive.”

  “Alright.”

  “It turns out that the decedent had been examined by a doctor before the insurance policy would issue, and that his EKG was normal and the doctor pronounced him quite healthy.”

  “Alright.”

  “And it also turns out that according to the incident report prepared by your officer, no fingerprints were found on the champagne bucket which was secured from the scene.”

  “Alright.”

  “Well?” said Dure.

  “What’s your point, counsellor?”

  “It’s odd that no fingerprints were found on the champagne bucket. It’s a smooth metal surface. How could it have gotten into the sauna without someone handling it? Did someone wipe their prints?”

  “Maybe they wore gloves,” said the lieutenant.

  “That would not make the circumstances any less suspicions,” Mr. Dure said. “Why would anyone wear gloves to handle a champagne bucket?”

  “How should I know? Maybe it was cold.”

  “I have no testimony of anyone wearing gloves.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Of course, I’ll defer to your professional judgment, but I see motive, life insurance proceeds of one million dollars, plus I don’t know how much under the decedent’s will. I see opportunity, presence at the scene where the body was found, and among the last persons to see the decedent alive; I see a body, the body of a man declared to be in excellent health a few weeks earlier; and I see a suspicious circumstance in the lack of fingerprints on the only piece of physical evidence found at the scene. Don’t you think at least an investigation ought to be made?”

  “It’s true we don’t have very much to do around here,” said the lieutenant. “But let me try to understand what you’re telling me. Some guy is found dead in a sauna. You’re right, an unaccompanied death is always suspicious to some degree. And now you’re telling me the guy’s wife killed him for insurance money and a champagne bucket with no fingerprints proves it.”

  I could see Mr. Dure roll his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. “You’re a wit, Lieutenant. What I’m telling you, is that in this case, a little more investigation ought to be done than simply taking the medical examiner’s word as gospel.”

  “Well, maybe I could send a detective out to interview the grieving widow. What’s her name?”

  “Hargrave. Vanessa Hargrave.”

  The lieutenant opened the top drawer in his desk, took out a pad of paper and rummaged until he came up with a Bic pen. He made a note. “According to you – I don’t recall seeing the report – an investigation was made, and the ME said heart attack. How old was this guy?”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  “Fifty-eight. And he was in a sauna. Is that right?”

  “That’s correct,” said Dure.

  “You will admit, counsellor, that under those circumstances, a natural heart attack is a possibility?”

  “True. But: Motive. Opportunity. And a very odd circumstance,” Mr. Dure said.

  “And means?” said the lieutenant. “You’re suggesting a homicide. How do you suggest it was done?”

  “I can’t say,” admitted Dure.

  “You said you had no testimony of gloves. What did that mean? Are you investigating this case?”

  “There’s a civil law suit over the death. I’m representing the defendant.”

  “Oh, let me guess: the plaintiff is Vanessa Hargrave?”

  “That’s correct,” said Dure.

  “And you can’t interview her because she is represented by a lawyer, and you want us to do your investigation for you, for free.” The lieutenant threw his pen down. “You guys ….” He looked over at me as if maybe to ascertain whether I too was part of this brotherhood of sleazy lawyers. He tore the top sheet from his pad of paper, crumpled it up, held it for a dramatic moment over the wastebasket, then opened his hand and let it fall. “See you in court sometime, counsellor.”

  Mr. Dure sat very still. I could see that he was debating something in his mind. Finally he said, “Alright, Lieutenant. You had your chance.” He got up and I got up and we left the lieutenant’s office.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about this happening. When Mr. Dure first said that Mr. Hargrave’s death had been a murder, I didn’t fully see how that could be, but really I just took his word for it. Then, when he was talking to the lieutenant, what he said made a lot of sense. But now the lieutenant’s reaction made me wonder again, and also I felt aggrieved over the way he treated Mr. Dure. But Mr. Dure explained things to me better when we got back to the office.

  “Sometimes you get a judge who just isn’t going to listen, it doesn’t matter what you say. That interview with Lt. Wisdom was like that. There was another important fact that I was going to tell him, but it would have been a case of pearls before swine. Often, when you’re arguing in court, you have to put all your argument out even after you see that the judge has no interest, because you need to make a record. But in this case, there was no need to make a record, and I could see that whatever I would say would make no difference.

  “Lt. Wisdom and I have a little bit of an antagonistic relationship because in some past cases I have been pretty rough with him on cross-examination. Sometimes you have to. Nevertheless, as a matter of mental discipline, I went in there with the attitude that he would be a fair-minded police officer dedicated to solving crime and the pursuit of justice. It didn’t work this time, but that doesn’t mean that the approach was wrong.”

  I nodded
. It seemed like there was a lot more to the practice of law than what we saw in the law books at school.

  Mr. Dure went on. “Now, contrary to my expectation, this case is not going to drop off our radar screen while the police find the murderer, but instead, we’re going to have to do it. If we show that Mr. Hargrave was murdered, that means that it was not any negligence on the part of the health club that was responsible for his death. So it’s a valid defense. And fortunately for us, since we have a civil case, we won’t have to prove murder beyond a reasonable doubt, but only to a preponderance of the evidence. Although as a practical matter, we will want to present clear and convincing evidence, just because murder is an outrageous thing, and people will be reluctant to believe it, especially if the police do not want to get involved. So we have our work cut out for us.

  “For one thing, we’re going to have to find out how it was done, what the means were. This will be tricky, because of all the confusing and ambiguous medical evidence. It was cleverly devised, this death in a sauna.”

  “But what if it wasn’t a murder?” I objected. I just had a hard time conceiving of a murder in Canterbury.

  “If it wasn’t a murder, then this case is going to be an expensive and unpredictable battle of medical experts. However, as trivial as it at first may seem, the fact that no fingerprints were found on the champagne bucket is significant. In fact, that’s one thing we have to do: get possession of the bucket and have it forensically examined.

  “We are also going to have to nail down the motive. It will not be sufficient merely to show that Vanessa Hargrave stood to inherit a lot of money and that she was a beneficiary under his life insurance policy. We will have to show that she knew these things. That means that her deposition is going to be critical.”

  Some of this was going over my head. Mr. Dure was jotting things on his legal pad.

  “The young Mrs. Hargrave seems to be a very clever person,” he said. “If she murdered her husband, it is quite brazen of her to bring a negligence suit against the health club. But maybe she figured, a) the murder was perfectly disguised to look like a natural death; b) the medical examiner has already ruled that it was due to a heart attack; and c) no one would ever suspect a murderess to be so brazen as to bring a negligence suit, so that doing so is a way to forestall anyone from getting suspicious. I guess there’s one other thing: perhaps she figured to even get more money from her husband’s death, beyond the life insurance pay out and the inheritance. I’ll bet the fact that the health club has no insurance coverage is going to be a big unpleasant surprise to her. In fact,” he said, “let’s give her that surprise right now.”