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After a call to Mr. X, Beverly found out that the body of Reginald Forsythe had been taken to the Southeastern Vermont Regional Hospital instead of the usual UV Medical Center, due to a sprinkler mishap in their forensics lab. Perfect. Closer and easier.
For this role, she’d chosen a short, layered wig of light-ash-brown-and-silver to go with her very sensible navy dress and equally sensible black flats. She ducked inside the hospital bathroom for a quick mirror check. The fake “Dr. Liz Smith” ID tag she’d cooked up thanks to materials from an office supply store looked pretty good. And the stethoscope and white lab coat she’d bought from a return trip to the costume store were a nice touch.
As she headed back down the main hallway, she had an anxious moment when a hospital visitor stopped her and asked, “Doctor, my brother was brought here after a car crash. They said he broke his clavicle. Can you tell me anything?”
Beverly put on her best professional face. “You’ll have to speak with the Information Desk in the lobby.”
When the woman scrunched up her face in misery, Beverly quickly added, “They’ll tell you where he is and when you can visit. And don’t worry too much about a broken collarbone. They usually take one to two months to heal and may require some physical therapy. But he should be fine.”
The woman’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, doctor. I’m so grateful.”
Beverly watched her go and wondered what the woman would think if she knew Beverly’s entire collarbone knowledge came from having a friend break one back in college. Hopefully, the brother really would be okay.
She hopped in the elevator and took it down one level to a floor with labs and offices. She’d looked up the hospital layout on the internet, so she knew where her target was located. Sure enough, she spied a door with the lettering, Regional Medical Examiner. Bingo.
As she walked slowly past, she saw a woman in the office in front of the computer on the desk, tapping on the keyboard. Now, if Beverly could just think of a way to get the woman out of the office quickly without her first signing out of that computer. Fire alarm? No, too disruptive to patients. A false intercom page? Pretty risky.
When a man in green scrubs strode down the hall and grabbed the doorknob of the office, Beverly looked around, thinking fast. An unattended portable medical workstation might work. She was in luck—there was even some paperwork lying on top.
She grabbed one of the papers and pretended to scan it as scrubs-man punched in a code, opened the CME’s office, and called inside, “Lynda, you got a moment? We’ve got a new arrival in the morgue I’d like you to take a look at.”
Beverly waited until both scrubs-man and Lynda had their backs to her and were deep in conversation heading down the hall. She grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves off the workstation cart and then approached the office door.
Had her powers of observation been good enough to get the right code? She kept one eye on the hallway while trying the combination she hoped she’d seen scrubs-man use, and by some miracle, it worked.
Once inside, Beverly hurried to sit at the computer and check the screen—still logged in. She grabbed a pen and paper to write down the name on the screen currently on display, then typed in “Forsythe” into the search box. Would they have even started the autopsy yet, important person or no?
Things seemed to be coming up Beverly because she found an entry for Reginald Forsythe and clicked over to that file. In the notes box, it had a “stat” code with the comment, “Vermont CME says to prioritize. Police investigation.” VIP investigation priority, more likely. But maybe that meant the autopsy was underway?
She looked at the Summary of Clinical History. Death by “complications of blunt force injuries of the head and sharp force.” Also, there was a linear incised wound to the flexor aspect of the “mid-right forearm, smooth edges, down to, but not through deep fascia.” She hadn’t noticed that when she was at Reggie Forsythe’s house, but that would be consistent with a defensive act, throwing his arm to deflect the blows.
The report also included some other preliminary calculations that made her eyes glaze over. Something about kinetic energy associated with a moving object equal to one-half the mass of that object multiplied by the velocity of the object squared. The weapon was apparently the candelabra she’d seen, and the force and angle estimates were “consistent with someone about six feet and one-eighty pounds.”
That would clear her, wouldn’t it? No, that likely wouldn’t matter. They’d say she stood on a stool or something and was on steroids. This had all been a colossal waste of effort.
She started to switch the screen back to the patient record that was on the monitor when she arrived, but one extra line in the Forsythe autopsy report stopped her. They’d found needle marks on her grandfather’s arm. A tox screen had been ordered, but who knows how long it would take? She didn’t recall Grammie saying he was diabetic. A drug user, like heroin?
Beverly couldn’t risk taking any longer, so she put everything back as she’d found it and slipped out the door. Just as she was pulling off her gloves to drop in a trash can, she heard scrubs-guy’s voice coming down the hall soon followed by that of the M.E., Lynda. Talk about good timing.
Right before she left the hospital, she stopped by the Information Desk and asked the young staffer, “A man was brought in a while ago with a broken clavicle. A cousin of mine, as it turns out. I understand he’s been moved from ER to a room. Do you have that number?” Beverly didn’t know he was out of the ER, but the man should have been moved by now.
The staffer checked his database. “Room 215.”
“Great, thanks. I’ll check on him later.” Maybe not visit, but perhaps he’d be getting some “anonymous” flowers.
She didn’t want the staffer to dwell too long on why a doctor would need to ask the Information Desk about such things and scurried outside to her waiting rental car, which she’d parked at the farthest corner of the lot—and out of the range of any security cameras.
Could her grandfather have been a heroin user? He hadn’t shown any of the signs when she was at the NAL meeting that day when she’d barely missed bumping into Detective Adam Dutton. Maybe Reggie the Fourth was covering all bases, shooting up his father after bashing his head in so he could blame a drug dealer for the murder.
But if Beverly ended up being tied to the murder scene, she’d given Reggie a much more convenient and a much better patsy for his crime, hadn’t she?
§ § §
Beverly tossed the lab coat, fake ID, and stethoscope in the trunk of the car but kept the wig and added a pair of tinted eyeglasses. Mr. X said her grandfather had one possible friend, a Lowell Steen, and after looking him up, she’d found what she hoped was the right address.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt compelled to see him. Could be partly curiosity to find the one man who got along with Forsythe senior, and maybe it was partly hope that he’d help her case against Reggie.
But when she pulled in front of the address from her GPS, she had half a mind to drive on by. It wasn’t so much the peeling purple paint on the house’s facade as the windows with bars over them and blackout shades behind that. Was her information wrong? Then she noticed a rusted, tilting mailbox that read “teen,” with the initial S in danger of falling off. Maybe the “S” was trying to escape this place? Beverly couldn’t blame it for that.
She couldn’t tell if anyone was home or whether they would answer the door if so, but it opened before she had a chance to press the doorbell. She asked, “Are you Mr. Steen?”
The man looked older than her grandfather, but she’d met plenty of people whose white hair and wrinkles came from hard knocks and not long lives. He pulled out a pair of coke-bottle-thick glasses from the pocket of his blue-stained shirt and looked her up and down. “I don’t know what you’re selling, but I don’t need it.”
“My name is Barbara Beale. I’m with Human Services and Investigations. I’d like to talk to you about your late friend, Reginald Forsythe.”
“Don’t think I’ve heard of your agency—”
“We assist the police department in these cases. To help with the families and friends of the recently deceased.”
“I don’t know anything about any of that. But I haven’t had a visitor other than the mailman in months, and you’re a far sight prettier than he is. You might as well come in and sit for a spell.”
If the house’s exterior and the man’s appearance hinted at “eccentric,” the interior sealed the deal. All the chairs were upholstered in various mismatched and faded colors of paisley fabric—gold, red, turquoise, purple—to match the faded orange paisley curtains. And what was the reason for those curtains if he was using blackout shades?
Every single surface held piles of boxes, magazines and papers, and knickknacks like googly-eyed dolls and vintage hand-painted duck decoys. Many were threatening to topple over any minute. If Lowell Steen wasn’t yet the textbook definition of a hoarder, he was well on his way.
Beverly gingerly sat down on the edge of one seat. When she got a whiff from a container of menthol rub next to a bowl of rotten apples on a table nearby, she wished she’d chosen another one. She’d have to hurry this along if she wanted to keep from chain-sneezing. “Mr. Steen, have you known Reginald Forsythe a long time?”
“Long enough. We had the misfortune of being placed in the same Gestapo primary school.”
“Gestapo?”
“Private school. Felt like a prison. Ruler-wielding nuns like Teutonic terrors in tunics.”
“His parents had money, then?” She realized she didn’t know the first thing about her grandfather’s family. Never bothered to find out.
“In spades. He never saw them much. Private school in fall and spring, military camp in summer. He was an inconvenience.”
“Then it’s good he had a friend like you. A lifelong friend, at that.”
“You could say we’ve been through a lot together. We both enjoyed hockey and a good hard cider. But there were the weddings, divorces, births, deaths . . . and enemies.”
“Enemies?”
He squinted at her. “Who did you say you were with?”
“We’re checking into Forsythe’s frame of mind. To determine if he might have taken his own life.” She had to think fast on that one. Not her best effort, for sure.
“Suicide? The newspapers said murder.”
“The police have to check all angles. Insurance companies, you know.” She hoped her expression was convincing as she waited to see if he’d bought it.
“Bah, insurance people.” Steen took a swig from a glass that held something green. “Rats and snakes, all of them.”
Before she could reply, Steen continued, “Snakes, you wanna see snakes? Come with me.”
He crooked his finger at her, and she followed him into a back room near the kitchen, somewhat against her better judgment. He pointed at three glass aquarium tanks that held several species of snakes. Then he called her attention to one of the most giant snakes she’d ever seen.
Steen said, “Python. Watch.” He went to a cage in the back corner and pulled out something. He tossed a live mouse into the enclosure, which the python promptly gobbled up.
“Reginald and I used to have a little fun naming these mice with people from our enemies list. And then we fed them to the snake.”
After Steen had told her about her grandfather’s childhood, she’d almost felt sorry for him. But now, he was back to being the indecipherable monster who’d bred a junior monster that ended up swallowing his father just like that python with the mouse.
Not a fan of snakes, animal or human, she didn’t want to stay in that room any longer. She whirled around and headed back toward the living room and sat down again, making sure it was farther away from the menthol-and-moldy-apple table.
Steen followed, took another swig of the green concoction, and sat opposite her. Beverly longed to leave this house, but she had to play the part a while longer to avoid suspicion.
She asked, “You would say his state of mind before his death was one of anger since obviously, he had a great deal of anger toward those enemies of his? But not suicidal?”
“I’d sooner expect Reginald to turn into a cross-dresser than go all suicidal. I spoke to him on the phone only last week. He was fine.”
“Did he mention anything about his son, Reggie?”
Steen put down the glass, grabbed a cigarette from a pack, and lit it, taking a long drag. “We never talked about Reggie.”
“I heard he was quite successful.”
“Too successful.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Steen blew a few smoke rings. “Reggie’s always thought he’s top turd on the wheelbarrow. He was the one snake his father couldn’t tame.”
There was nothing funny about the situation, but Steen’s “wheelbarrow” comment might be amusing on any other occasion. And it was spot-on. “Sounds like they argued a great deal, then.”
“He didn’t tell me. But I saw it. I’d say you should be asking about Reggie’s frame of mind more than his father’s.”
Score one for a possible witness to Reggie’s character and a motive in a murder trial. The smell of the room and the psychedelic paisley were getting to her, so she thanked Steen for his “assistance” and fled back to her car.
She’d learned a little more about her grandfather even if it wasn’t altogether flattering. And she’d found someone who could help pin the murder on Reggie, not that Adam Dutton would be interested, coming from her. The same Detective Dutton who was now undoubtedly aware of her grandfather’s murder and hopefully connecting the dots back to Reggie.
Feeling like a failure as both a detective and a treasure hunter, she headed back to the resort to lick her wounds. She was tired, that was all. Hungry, too, as she hadn’t eaten since her half a bran muffin and coffee for breakfast. She’d have a nice dinner, a nice bath, and resume her pursuit of justice tomorrow. Even avenging angels needed a little break now and then.
