"What exactly are we looking for?" Warrick asked as they unpacked their equipment.
Catherine's eyes roamed around the room, stopping briefly on the body, then moving on. She prided herself on her ability to make the first read of a crime scene an important one. But she could only shake her head. "Warrick-I haven't a clue…."
"I hate when that happens."
With a sigh, Catherine said, "We better gather everything we can. Now that we know that this was a murder."
Warrick's head reared back. "We do?"
"Suuuure," Catherine said. "It was on Barnaby Jones! Or was that Quincy…?"
Shaking his head, smiling one-sidedly, Warrick got out his camera, pulled the sheet back, and began shooting pictures. Catherine started by taking electrostatic print lifts from the tile floor. Truth was, half the hospital had been in and out of here since Vivian Elliot had died; but if there was a killer, that person's shoe prints would be among the many, and Catherine hoped they (and the computer) would be able to sort them all out.
After he finished photographing the body, Warrick moved on and took shots of every piece of equipment, every machine, every piece of furniture in the room. Catherine bent at the plastic biohazard dump and pulled out the liner bag, marking it as evidence. When they finished, Catherine had a pile of maybe fifteen evidence bags and Warrick had shot at least six rolls of twenty-four exposure film.
And yet not a single thing had jumped out at either of them as saying, This is a crime…I am significant….
David and his coroner's crew removed the body, while Catherine and Warrick took most everything else. When they departed, the bed had been stripped bare, including the pillows, and the metal stand that had held two different IV bags was empty. The biohazard dump was also empty, the closet too, and in separate containers at the bottom of one of the bags, Catherine had even collected the remnants of Vivian Elliot's last breakfast left on a tray that apparently had been shifted into the bathroom when the recovering woman had gone code blue.
Alice Deams peeked out a doorway as Catherine strode down the corridor with the last of her grisly booty.
"Was I right?" Alice asked, eyes wide behind thick lenses. "Is it murder?"
"We don't know," Catherine said, pasting on a pleasant smile. "Why would you even think that?"
"Oh! All the hubbub!" Alice said, as she moved into the hall, closer now, more confidential. "Besides…it isn't like we haven't noticed that more of us are passing away than usual."
Catherine's eyes tightened, but she kept her voice casual. "You think so?"
"Oh, my, yes. They're dropping like flies around this joint!"
A little stunned by Alice's no doubt TV-driven phrasing, Catherine managed to ask, "How long have you lived here?"
Alice shrugged; within the heavy sweater, her arms were folded. "Going on ten years."
"You have family that visits you?"
She beamed and nodded and withdrew a snapshot from a sweater pocket, holding it up so Catherine (whose hands were full) could see it plainly.
Alice said, "I carry this with me all the time-my son, daughter-in-law, and their boy and girl."
"Do they visit often?"
"Once or twice a week. They take me to the market-sometimes even out to a movie."
Catherine nodded. "It's good to have good kids…. You say, in ten years, you've never seen deaths bunched this closely together?"
"Not really…. The Gossip Club sends flowers to everybody's funeral. You know, we take up a collection, get everybody to sign a card. Our flower budget this month is already twice normal and there's still a week and a half to go in the month! The last few months have been hard, too."
"How so?"
"You get used to people dying in a place like this-in a way. But, still…. May I tell you something that will sound…awful?"
"Uh…sure. Go right ahead."
Alice moved closer; she smelled like medication. "When you live at a nursing home…and don't kid yourself, honey, this is a nursing home…and you see one or two people pass…you kind of sigh a sigh of relief, and think…whew. Odds are, not gonna be me this month."
"But lately…"
"Lately? All bets are off, kiddo."
Catherine drew in a breath. Then she said, "Alice, we're going to look into this-but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
Alice Deams trundled off down the hall, but she didn't look convinced; maybe that rerun of an old TV show was haunting her-more likely, it was seeing David show up with his coroner's wagon a little too often.
Catherine kept telling herself that four elderly people dying in one such facility was not unusual. The heat was at dangerous levels and, even though Sunny Day was air-conditioned, somehow that might be a factor.
Later, as Catherine moved down the hall with her gear, Vega came out of Whiting's office and approached her. He did not look like a happy man.
"No good diagnosis from the doc?"
"The guy's such a basket case over this," Vega said, shaking his head, "he might as well be one of the patients."
"What's his problem?"
"The usual-all he can see is lawsuits, malpractice insurance, and a bunch of really, really bad news happening on his watch."
"Can he live through one more question?"
They knocked at Whiting's office door and were again admitted. Within they found the frazzled physician sitting behind his desk, head in his hands. He barely looked up as they came in.
"Doctor Whiting," Catherine said, leaning a hand against the desk, not bothering to sit. "Mrs. Elliot had a visitor, another woman, who stopped by this morning right before Mrs. Elliot died. Is there any way of finding out the identity of the visitor?"
Whiting shook his head. "Other than our guard gate, we don't have sign-in books or video security or anything. We spend the money we make on the residents, and maintaining a top facility."
"Wouldn't security be part of that?"
"We have security locks on the doors, but that's about it. If Mrs. Elliot buzzed the woman in, or if one of the other residents simply opened the door for her, the visitor would be inside, and we'd have no way of knowing it."
"Isn't that a little risky, Doctor?"
"I don't really see how."
"If your patients are being murdered…you may. Thank you for your cooperation."
Whiting was staring into space as Catherine and Vega left his office.
Back in the corridor, Catherine asked the detective, "What do you think?"
"I think David better hurry up and get that damn autopsy done." Vega locked his eyes on Catherine's. "The other three residents who died this month? All were without families, too."
"All?"
"Not so much as a long lost cousin."
"Sam, that still doesn't prove foul play…."
"Well, we'd better find out from Vivian Elliot's remains, because we sure won't ever know with the other three."
"Why not?"
"As part of a cost-cutting measure here at Sunny Day, all three were cremated. No family to have an opinion, much less a service."
"Four people in a month? It's not that weird."
"Catherine, you were investigating that room for quite some time. That gave Dr. Whiting and me time to go over the records. Four this month, three last month, three the month before that, two each in May, April, and March, three in February, three in January-David isn't the only coroner making pickups, you know. That's a grand total of twenty-two deaths in less than eight months."
He opened the door and held it for her as she walked out into the heat. After the air conditioning, it was something of a shock. She braced herself for another.