“No, not unusual. Luminux is our antianxiety and mood-control drug of choice here at the Center. It was just approved by the FDA. We were very glad to learn that, yes? Cardiac patients can take it without fear of aggravating their heart problems.”
“Who makes it?”
He pulled a thick book off his shelf and read through it. “Montrose Pharmaceuticals in Paramus, New Jersey.”
Tal wrote this down. “Doctor,” he asked, “did you have another patient here…Don Benson?”
“I’m not knowing the name but I know very little of the patients here, as I was saying to you, yes?” He nodded out the window through which they could hear the sound of construction — the new CSC facility that was taking all his time, Tal assumed. Dehoeven typed on the computer keyboard. “No, we are not having any patients named Benson.”
“In the past?”
“This is for the year, going back.” A nod at the screen. “Why is it you are asking?”
Tal tapped the questionnaire. “Statistics.” He put the paper away, rose and shook the doctor’s hand. He was directed to the nurse’s office, four doors up the hall from Dehoeven’s.
Claire McCaffrey was about his age, with wavy brunette hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had a freckled, pretty face — girl next door — but seemed haggard.
“You’re the one Dr. Dehoeven called about? Officer—?”
“Simms. But call me Tal.”
“I go by Mac,” she said. She extended her hand and a charm bracelet jangled on her right wrist as he gripped her strong fingers. He noticed a small gold ring in the shape of an ancient coin on her right hand. There was no jewelry at all on her left. “Mac,” he reflected. A Celtic theme today, recalling Margaret, Dr. Sheldon’s somber step dancer.
She motioned him to sit. Her office was spacious — a desk and a sitting area with a couch and two armchairs around a coffee table. It seemed more lived-in than her boss’s, he noted, comfortable. The decor was soothing — crystals, glass globes and reproductions of Native American artifacts, plants and fresh flowers, posters and paintings of seashores and deserts and forests.
“This is about Sam Whitley, right?” she asked in a troubled monotone.
“That’s right. And his wife.”
She nodded, distraught. “I was up all night about it. Oh, it’s so sad. I couldn’t believe it.” Her voice faded.
“I just have a few questions. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, go ahead.”
“Did you see them the day they died?” Tal asked.
“Yes, I did. We had our regular appointment.”
“What exactly did you do for them?”
“What we do with most patients. Making sure they’re on a heart-friendly diet, helping with insurance forms, making sure their medication’s working, arranging for help in doing heavy work around the house…Is there some problem? I mean, official problem?”
Looking into her troubled eyes, he chose not to use the excuse of the questionnaire as a front. “It was unusual, their deaths. They didn’t fit the standard profile of most suicides. Did they say anything that’d suggest they were thinking about killing themselves?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “I would’ve intervened. Naturally.”
“But?” He sensed there was something more she wanted to say.
She looked down at her desk, organized some papers, closed a folder.
“It’s just…See there was one thing. I spent the last couple of days going over what they said to me, looking for clues. And I remember they said how much they’d enjoyed working with me.”
“That was odd?”
“It was the way they put it. It was the past tense, you know. Not ‘enjoy working with me.’ It was enjoyed working with me. It didn’t strike me as odd or anything at the time. But now we know…” A sigh. “I should’ve listened to what they were saying.”
Recrimination. Like the couples’ lawyers, like the doctors. Nurse McCaffrey would probably live with these deaths for a long, long time.
Perhaps forever…
“Did you know,” he asked, “they just bought a book about suicide? Making the Final Journey.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said, frowning.
Behind her desk Nurse McCaffrey — Mac — had a picture of an older couple with their arms around each other, two snapshots of big, goofy black Labs and one picture of her with the dogs. No snaps of boyfriends or husbands — or girlfriends. In Westbrook County, married or cohabitating couples comprised 74 % of the adult population, widows 7 %, widowers 2 % and unmarried/divorced/noncohabitating were 17 %. Of that latter category only 4 % were between the ages of 28 and 35.
He and Mac had at least one thing in common; they were both members of the Four Percent Club.
She glanced at her watch and he focused on her again. “They were taking Luminux, right?”
She nodded. “It’s a good antianxiety drug. We make sure the patients have it available and take it if they have a panic attack or’re depressed.”
“Both Sam and his wife had as unusually large amount in their bloodstreams when they died.”
“Really?”
“We’re trying to find what happened to the prescription, the bottle. We couldn’t find it at their house.”
“They had it the other day, I know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. I don’t know how much they had left on the prescription. Maybe it was gone and they threw the bottle out.”
Raw data, Tal thought. Wondering what to make of these facts. Was he asking the right questions? Greg LaTour would know.
But LaTour was not here. The mathematician was on his own. He asked, “Did the Whitleys ever mention Don and Patsy Benson?”
“Benson?”
“In Greeley.”
“Well, no. I’ve never heard of them.”
Tal asked, “Had anybody else been to the house that day?”
“I don’t know. We were alone when I was there.”
“And you left when?”
“At four. A little before.”
“You sure of the time?”
“Yep. I know because I was listening to my favorite radio program in the car on my way home. The Opera Hour on NPR.” A sad laugh. “It was highlights from Madame Butterfly.”
“Isn’t that about the Japanese woman who…” His voice faded.
“Kills herself.” Mac looked up at a poster of the Grand Tetons, then one of the surf in Hawaii. “My whole life’s been devoted to prolonging people’s lives. This just shattered me, hearing about Sam and Liz.” She seemed close to tears then controlled herself. “I was talking to Dr. Dehoeven. He just came over here from Holland. They look at death differently over there. Euthanasia and suicide are a lot more acceptable…He heard about Sam and Liz, their deaths, and kind of shrugged. Like it wasn’t any big deal. But I can’t get them out of my mind.”
Silence for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at her watch again. “I’ve got a new patient to meet. But if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” She rose, then paused. “Are you…what are you exactly? A homicide detective?”
He laughed. “Actually, I’m a mathematician.”
“A—”
But before he could explain his curious pedigree his pager went off, a sound Tal was so unaccustomed to that he dropped his briefcase then knocked several files off the nurse’s desk as he bent to retrieve it. Thinking: Good job, Simms, way to impress a fellow member of the Westbrook County Four Percent Club.
“He’s in there and I couldn’t get him out. I’m spitting nails, boss.”
In a flash of panic Tal thought that Shellee, fuming as she pointed at his office, was referring to the sheriff himself, who’d descended from the top floor of the county building to fire Tal personally for the 2124 call.