Marissa Brezlaw was lying face down, legs stretched out behind her, as she strained to push her head and left arm under the old lady’s bed. In that awkward position she didn’t hear anyone come into the room. The voice, however, was familiar — and annoying.
“What’s the matter, drop a quarter?”
Marissa’s first instinct was to reply with an even better smart crack. Her second was to put on a moral superiority hat and say something about the crudity of making jokes at the bedside of a corpse. She did neither. Instead Marissa continued to wriggle farther under the bed until she got her fingers around an empty pill bottle.
“Must be a whole dollar,” the voice added. “You’re really trying.”
Once again, Marissa successfully swallowed the words on the edge of her tongue but embarrassed herself nevertheless by tangling one foot in the old lady’s walker and knocking it over as she rolled to get out from under the bed. In the same movement she bumped her head on the bed rail and then, to compound things, inhaled a dust bunny so that the first thing she did when she stood up was heave out a mighty sneeze.
Freddy Lockeron held out a tissue. “They also serve who only stand and wait,” he said.
“Milton.” Marissa recognized the line but immediately regretted giving Freddy another opportunity. “Yes, John Milton, from ‘On His Blindness’.”
She was going to say “1652” but not only was she unsure of the year Milton wrote his famous poem, she knew from experience that these little contests with Freddy were unwinnable. Instead she turned professional.
“Melformin,” she said, wiping a thin trace of dust off the label on the pill bottle. “This is you!” she added, peering a little more closely. “So that’s why you’re here.”
“Type 2 diabetes,” Freddy said, responding to her professional approach. “I put her on about a year ago when it became obvious that diet control wasn’t doing the job any more. She was 76 — er, 77 — so that makes her 78 now. The arthritis was getting pretty bad too, especially lately.”
Marissa turned to look once more at the body on the bed. The old lady’s white hair made an aura against the dark green pillow. She’d been dead long enough now so that the final stages of rigor mortis were passing and her thin body had relaxed so that underneath the duvet it was almost unnoticeable.
“How long has she been your patient?” Marissa asked.
“Since we — since I opened practice here. That’s what — 15 years now?”
Marissa didn’t miss the “we.” She and Freddy had come to Carberville at the same time, both recent medical school graduates, both opening a first practice. They had made a few desultory attempts at dating in the first year and Freddy had got quite interested but Marissa never got past the first steps. After she’d made it clear the relationship was going nowhere they’d gone through a period of barely being civil to each other, not a productive situation in a town with only three doctors. It was Marissa who made the effort to turn the relationship into one of polite professionalism, in part, although she would only admit it to herself in her darkest moments, because she never ever came out on top in their frequent verbal face-offs.
“The melformin,” Marissa put the bottle into her briefcase. “You increase the dosage recently?”
Freddy reddened. “I did exactly what you would do! And what anybody else would do! Different dosage levels over several months until it seemed right. And yes, she needed a step-up about a week ago. In fact, she was scheduled for blood work tomorrow.”
“Freddy, I’m not …”
“And before you ask, I’m perfectly aware of that kidney study about the possible dangers of melformin. And you know, and I know that you know, it’s not conclusive and it hasn’t been replicated. In fact ...”
“Freddy! Freddy!” Marissa held up her hands in a braking motion. She knew his sensitivity had deeper roots than questions about his choice of medication. Two years before, Carberville’s long-time coroner had retired and, unbeknownst to each other, they had both applied for the job. Though she admitted it would have stung if Freddy had won over her, she also knew that she would eventually have grown past it. But she was the coroner now. Freddy never quite got over losing out and never would.
Marissa took a long, deep breath, forcing herself to appear more casual than she felt. “Freddy, I really doubt that the medication has anything to do with Mrs. Panadopolos’s death. I really do. The autopsy will tell us yea or nay, but right now ...”
“You’re going to do an autopsy?”
Once again, Marissa drew out an extended breath. “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll grant you that first consideration with an old lady who has diabetes would be that she simply died of natural causes. Maybe diabetic coma — after all, she’s late 70s. And it’s only ...”
“You’re going to do an autopsy on an old lady, 78 years old, who’s got diabetes and lives alone and dies in her bed?”
“The police are going to ask for one anyway, Freddy, so I’m not going to wait. You can see for yourself there’s something very wrong with this whole scene.”
“You’re going to call the police in?”
“Yes.”
“Because you think there’s been a crime here?”
“Yes.”
“Then shouldn’t you have put gloves on to pick up the pill bottle? And put it in an evidence bag?”
It was Marissa’s turn to redden. Freddy never missed a chance to score points.
Why does Marissa believe there is evidence of a crime here?