I got into my car, its vinyl seat stiff with cold, and cranked over the sluggish engine. The heater would kick in about the time I pulled into my driveway.
I sighed and headed out, letting my mind wander. Where it finally snagged, however, wasn’t on Gail, or Shawna Davis, or even on Junior Chambers saving Brattleboro’s fat from the fire.
What I couldn’t get out of my mind was the death of Milo Douglas.
Sammie Martens was waiting for me at the Municipal Building’s rear entrance when I returned later that morning. She was so wired up she was shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Why didn’t you call me last night?”
“Didn’t need to. And I wanted you fresh for this morning.”
“I could’ve done both. You know that.”
“Yes, and you would’ve been beating the hell out of the coffee machine by noon.” I stopped halfway down the hall and faced her. “Don’t start taking being my number two too seriously, Sammie. You’re still part of a team. Ron was standing around-I used him, and he was all I needed till this morning. Next time, maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get no sleep and chase down a bunch of scumbags all night. Okay?”
She nodded slightly. “You’re right. I was out of line.”
I smiled at the straight-Army line and continued through the squad room door, pausing at Harriet Fritter’s desk. “Could you get me the file on Milo Douglas?” I asked her. “An untimely death a couple of days ago.”
Harriet nodded without comment. I continued toward my office, finishing my mini-lecture to Sammie. “You weren’t out of line-you were overly enthusiastic. That’s not bad-it just needs tempering, for your own sake. So how are things with our guests?”
Sammie outlined the interviews with Patty’s business partners. She also detailed what they’d been able to corroborate of Patty’s story from Robbie Messier, and of Patty’s current habits from Frank Bertin. By the time she’d finished, though, we both knew that apart from a minor drug bust, we still had nothing useful concerning the fate of Shawna Davis.
“Anyone call in about the ‘do-you-know-this-woman’ article?”
She shook her head.
“All right. I guess all we can do for the moment is finish up the paperwork on Patty and hand it over to Jack Derby. But make sure everything’s especially neat and tidy, okay? I don’t want that creep walking because of something we did.”
Harriet appeared in my doorway as Sammie left and handed me a thin folder. After a few minutes of reading, I picked up the telephone and dialed the hospital’s emergency room, requesting nurse Elizabeth Pace, a friend of several years’ standing.
“What can I do for you, Joe?” she asked after we’d exchanged greetings.
“I gather you folks recently treated a bum named Milo Douglas for a heart condition.”
“That’s right. George Capullo was asking about him. Is there a problem with how he died?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered honestly. “I just wanted to tie up a couple of loose ends. The doctor’s name on Milo’s pill bottle was Jefferies-is he still on the ER shift?”
“He’s here right now-want to talk to him?”
A soft, bland voice came on the line a moment later. “Dr. Jefferies. How may I help you?”
I identified myself and then asked, “Do you remember a patient named Milo Douglas? He was a bum you prescribed some heart medicine for.”
There was a slight pause. “Right. Nurse Pace just handed me his chart. Mild supra ventricular arrhythmias. I put him on the smallest dosage of Inderal available-ten milligrams. I see there’s a note he died recently. Is something wrong?”
I sympathized with his implied misgivings. “Not that I know of. I do have some questions, though. Our witnesses reported he had a seizure just before he collapsed. Would that be consistent with his condition?”
“A grand mal seizure?”
I consulted the file before me. “Those words weren’t used, but that’s the implication. The quote here says, ‘He flopped around like crazy.’”
“What were the Medical Examiner’s conclusions?” Jefferies asked cautiously.
“He hedged his bets-said ‘natural causes.’”
Jefferies thought for a few seconds before admitting, “He may be right, given Mr. Douglas’s personal habits. But if you’re asking if death was due to the heart condition I treated him for, then I’d have serious doubts. It wasn’t that severe. And certainly the grand mal seizure would have had nothing to do with it-that had to have been from another cause entirely. Looking at the chart, by the way, I see I did a pretty thorough medical history at the time I examined him. Mr. Douglas was no pillar of sound health, but there’s nothing that would indicate any grand mal seizure activity. It might’ve been alcohol-related, and misinterpreted by your witnesses. I take it they were people who shared his lifestyle?”
I smiled at the diplomacy. “Yes, they were, and that’s a distinct possibility. They may’ve been more scared than accurate.”
My curiosity further stimulated, I hung up on Dr. Jefferies and punched the intercom button. Harriet Fritter picked up immediately. “Which funeral home handled the untimely that George took care of a couple of nights ago?”
“Guillaume’s,” she answered without hesitation. Harriet was what the computer was supposed to be for our squad-the fastest source of information available. I hadn’t the slightest idea how old she was-although she was a grandmother several times over-but I knew when she left us eventually, it would be the equivalent of a major system meltdown.
I called Guillaume’s, found out they still had Milo Douglas on the premises, and retrieved my coat.
In Brattleboro, funeral homes were employed by the town on a rotational basis. The procedure followed clear and simple guidelines-once the funeral home took possession, an extensive search for next of kin was conducted while the death certificate was reviewed by the Medical Examiner’s office in Burlington. Then the body was disposed of in a respectful, inexpensive fashion-all in a few days at most.
The catch was often in finding the next of kin. The state allocated $850 for the disposal of each body, which for a simple cremation wasn’t too bad. Embalming and burial cost more and took longer, however, and the state insisted that if no relatives were found, this was the route the funeral home had to take. Guillaume’s had informed me on the phone that such was to be Milo’s fate.
As with many businesses in Brattleboro, Guillaume’s was located in a converted turn-of-the-century residence-this one a true architectural gem, located on one of the town’s main drags. Heavily Victorian, replete with an excess of multihued gingerbread along with the requisite corner turret, the house had long made me ponder the connection between the exterior’s pristine appearance-and the efforts made inside to make its clientele look their best.
I parked by the side, climbed the broad porch steps, and entered a huge, thick-carpeted entrance hall-dark, wood-paneled, with stained-glass windows and gleaming brass fixtures. I knew it was meant to both comfort and impress, but it just made me feel self-conscious to be alive. I was relieved when a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit appeared almost immediately through a door beneath the sweeping staircase. His name, much to his chagrin, was Conrad Blessing.
“Joe,” he said with a wide smile. “Good to see you again.” We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries while he led me back the way he had come. His lack of stilted, unctuous manners reminded me that cops weren’t the only ones instantly stereotyped by their profession.
“I take it you’re having second thoughts about Mr. Douglas’s demise,” Blessing said, opening the door. The hallway we entered was white-painted, brightly lit, and as functionally stark as the lobby had been theatrically overstuffed.
“Nothing that solid. I just used to know Milo.”
Blessing’s voice dropped to a more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry. Were you friends?”
I laughed. “Hardly-the man was a pure opportunist. I used him as a source now and then.”