Mayhem, Mystery and Murder Page 5

  “Of course, now we’ve checked on the insurance. Double indemnity, as you might guess. And she managed to get a cashier’s check pronto, which she of course immediately cashed. Then, on top of that, she cleaned up when she sold the business. We’ve got half the station on the phones checking airlines, credit card companies, the local banks—all the usual. So far, we know she has a passport. The best guess is that she’s long gone to some country where we have no extradition treaty.”

  ***

  The following week Nolan found a Kitts-Nevis postcard in her inbox.

  Dear Sergeant,

  I expected you would eventually check with Joe, so I wasn’t surprised when I called him and he told me you’d been by. I’m just passing through here, so I’ll be long gone by the time you get this card. I did want to tell you that I’ve never had a brassiere snap loose on me in my whole life—not even after the enhancement.

  Best to you and your partner,

  Marianne S.

  DUPLICATE COPIES

  Lieutenant Turlow Jackson peered into Lieutenant Leola Van Damm’s office before rapping lightly on the doorjamb. The blonde police lieutenant looked up from her paperwork and asked, “What’s up?”

  “I could use some help. Can I get you to take a look at a couple of sets of fingerprints?”

  Van Damm was new in the precinct and was causing the turning of more than one male head at the station. So far, there were no indications anyone else was getting anywhere, so Jackson had whipped up his courage to try his luck—ostensibly in the line of duty. He was hoping her attitudes on race were at least as liberal as current PD policies–that she approved of affirmative action and that the approval carried over to personal relationships.

  “Sure.” She pushed aside the papers and held out a hand.

  From a manila folder, Jackson removed two glossy sheets, passed them across to her and settled down in one of the chairs.

  Van Damm scanned the sheets briefly, looked over at Jackson and said, “They look identical to me, but I’m no expert.”

  “They are identical. And that’s the problem. What are the chances those are the prints of two different individuals?”

  “Well, if I remember correctly what the fingerprint expert in the last refresher session said, the chances of an identical fingerprint in two different individuals are about one in the number of atoms in the universe. And, let me see, you have three in this set, so the chances of three such matches would raise that figure to the third power.”

  Jackson grinned, “I’m not sure what that number would be, but it sounds like I’d better look for a different explanation.”

  “There are a lot of other possibilities. Could be it’s the same individual. After all, mix-ups have been known to occur, even with fingerprints.”

  “I’ve checked, both with the FBI and with the original source of the prints. Everyone has gone over the record and it seems so unlikely as to not be worth considering, especially since the owner of the original set has been dead for almost two years.”

  “Maybe the second set is an old one, left over from when he was alive. I take it that was a gun you got the three prints from?”

  “Right. And that’s the problem. The gun comes from a botched-up burglary. The homeowner took one in the chest, but it sounds like he’s going to make it. Since the room was dark, he can’t identify the burglar, who dropped the gun and ran. What with the gun having just been fired, and the fact prints that old would show their age, we have to write off that possibility. And there’s one other thing. The registration number on the gun indicates it was manufactured less than eight months ago.

  “How about lifted and transferred prints? I haven’t kept up with what’s going on in the field, but I suppose the lab crew would spot that right off.”

  “Maybe not right off, but they’ve verified these. They insist the prints came direct from whoever fired the gun.”

  “How about a dead man firing the gun?”

  Jackson looked puzzled.

  Van Damm’s smile was his reward. She went on, “The British back a century or so ago used to pay pensions to retired Far East soldiers. Since most of the soldiers were illiterate, the checks needed only a thumbprint as endorsement. You can guess what happened.”

  The puzzled look faded as he filled in. “When the old boys kicked off, the relatives would cut off and save the thumbs.”

  “You’ve got it. Except I’m sure your lab crew could tell the difference between fingerprints from a dead hand and a live one. Forensics has come a long way in the last hundred years. Besides, that would call for firing the gun, then wiping it clean, then using the dead man’s hand. Let’s write that explanation off, too.”

  “Got any other explanations?”

  “Sure. I can think of three more, offhand.”

  There was a pause, and Jackson waited as Van Damm held his gaze. “Possibility number one,” she said, “you’re shitting me.”

  The remark was so unexpected Jackson sat back in his chair as though he had been hit. Recovering, he asked, “Remember the figure you cited for the chances these prints are from two different individuals?”

  She nodded.

  “Well the chances of my shitting you are slightly worse than that.”

  Van Damm laughed and said. “OK. I believe you. Now what are the chance someone’s shitting you?”

  It was Jackson’s turn to laugh. “No one’s about to do that in a criminal assault case. Besides, I was the one who picked up the gun, and I followed it through the lab examination.”

  “I’m about out of explanations. Just one left.”

  “I can guess. The dead man isn’t dead.”

  “Right.”

  “I checked that out as soon as I saw the duplicate prints. I even interviewed the sergeant who took them. The suspect, name of Antonio Belli, was going to be charged with murder after shooting it out with a rival gang member. They both lost. The other guy was already dead, and the suspect was well on the way. His death certificate was signed that same morning. Granted the hospital was a madhouse, even more then it is these days, it’s hard to see how there could be a mix-up with a corpse being wrongly identified.”

  “Sounds like all this was nearby.”

  “It was. At Holyoke, just a half-dozen blocks from here.”

  Van Damm stood up, slipped on her jacket and said, “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Let’s go talk to some administrators and nurses and doctors. And let’s look up the old records. What was that famous saying of Sherlock Holmes? ‘When…’”

  “‘When the probable explanations have been eliminated, then one must settle for the improbable.’ I’m not sure that’s exactly right, and I doubt it was Holmes who said it, but I’m with you.”

  “Whatever.” The remark was accompanied by that very nice smile.

  It was obvious Dilbert Comadorn, Holyoke’s Managing Director, was annoyed by the visit from the police.

  Jackson had led off the questioning and received only the most unsatisfactory of answers. Surreptitiously, Van Damm tapped Jackson on his arm and broke in. Smiling sweetly she asked, “Would it be possible for your secretary to run down the records on Antonio Belli? I know it would be an inconvenience, but the circumstances surrounding his death are being reinvestigated, so we would like to know who was in attendance at the time of his death. Any help you could give us would be very much appreciated.”

  Comadorn’s stern, no-nonsense expression faded, and there was even the trace of a smile on a face that seemed unused to smiling. “Well. Since the patient is deceased, there should be no privacy problems. I think I can manage to get those records for you. If you care to, you can wait in the outer office while my secretary does the necessary research, once you’ve given her all the details. And do help yourself to coffee while you’re there.” With that, he rose and ushered them out, placing a friendly hand on Van Damm’s shoulder as he did so.

  Jackson could hardly wait to dispatch the secretary in search of the records, pour coff
ee for the two of them and settle into one of the cloth-covered chairs of the outer office before saying, sotto voce, “Asshole.”

  Van Damm grinned. “My Dad used to say sweet talk and snake oil was the best way to screw a cat. You know, I never hesitate to make use of the fact I’m a woman.”

  “So I see. But I guess I can’t fault you too much for it. I slip into jive talk when I’m working with informants in the ghetto. It pays to be black there, and to act black—but he’s still an asshole.”

  The records arrived before they finished their coffee. The secretary hovered nearby waiting for the return of the documents while Jackson took notes. The ward was number six, the nurse on duty at the time of the death was Maria Colson, the physician in attendance who had signed the death certificate was Dr. Indira Rashkinar.

  Fortunately, from the officers’ viewpoint, both the nurse and doctor were still employed at the hospital, and Dr. Rashkinar was in fact on duty at the moment. After also taking a few notes and thanking the secretary for the records—Van Damm made it a point to ask her to pass the thank-yous along to the Managing Director—the officers took off to find their first interviewee.

  Dr. Rashkinar—a tall East Indian woman approaching middle age but wearing well—was obviously busy. Even so, she immediately expressed a courtesy that had been noticeably lacking initially in the encounter with the hospital administrator’s office. “You’ll have to excuse me my hazy memory, but we’re crowded, understaffed—and the kind of casualty you described is hardly rare here. Antonio Belli? A gunshot wound to the chest. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  Jackson checked his notes after explaining exactly why they were interested in the former patient. “Arrived in ER at 6:27 on a Friday morning. Dr. Emmet Waterville on duty. Damaged aorta, heavy loss of blood. Five transfusions. Triaged?” He looked at the Doctor.

  “That means they didn’t expect him to make it. Now, I do remember something about him. That was an impossible morning out of a lot of just barely possible ones. There was a bus accident, and we were getting streams of injured. Mostly walking wounded, fortunately. You say Maria Colson was on duty that day? Yes, now I definitely remember what happened. She paged me, since she’d checked for vital signs after the monitor indicated he was dead. She was right, of course. I didn’t have to do a thorough examination, since none was necessary. Once I was sure he was dead, I checked his chart, noted the death and went right back to ER. They needed me more than the dead man did.

  “Incidentally,” the doctor added with considerable emphasis, “Maria is one of our best nurses. Probably our best nurse. I can assure you there are no mix-ups when she’s on duty.”

  After profuse thanks for the information and apologies for interrupting a quite evidently busy schedule, Jackson and Van Damm adjourned to the crowded hospital cafeteria for lunch. They decided to do so after discovering that Maria Colson wouldn’t be coming on until the two pm shift. The coffee was surprisingly good, though the food merely lived up to hospital standards. Jackson worked his way through a passable hamburger while Van Damm picked at a salad.

  “Still think we’re on to a possible explanation?” he asked.

  “From what I’ve seen of this place, I’m ready to believe anything could happen here. We’ve all heard of cases where corpses suddenly sit up in the embalming room?”

  “Sure, but never one that had a hole through his chest.”

  Van Damm agreed.

  Jackson went on. “And, besides, that doctor for sure knows her business. If she says he was dead, I’m ready to bet my pension that he was. And, from what she said, this Maria Colson isn’t the kind of nurse who makes mistakes.”

  “Even so, I’m not giving up until we’ve spoken to her. I won’t give up then, either, without talking to the sergeant who took the prints. Maybe we should run down the attendants who removed the body.”

  “You are thorough.”

  “I’m a crossword puzzle fan. I just hate to leave any blank spaces.”

  Jackson looked gloomy as he finished off the last crumb of his lunch. “This puzzle seems to be all blanks.”

  Maria Colson was a sharp contrast to Dr. Rashkinar, at least in general appearance. Somewhere in her mid-thirties, small, dark, extremely pretty—she was not only cordial but also seemed almost glad to see the two officers, in spite of the dark circles under her eyes indicating long-term fatigue. Turning to one of the other nurses, she told her she would be in the lounge, then invited the lieutenants to follow her as she led the way.

  Even before they sat down, Colson said, “It’s about Antonio, isn’t it?” It was more a statement than a question. “I haven’t slept for the last two nights, and I decided I couldn’t take it any more. I saw what he did to that poor man, and it’s all my fault.”

  Jackson’s voice was soothing as he said, “Please tell us about it. From the beginning.”

  Colson sighed, crossed her hands in front of her on the table where the three were sitting and, almost like a schoolgirl reciting her lesson, she began, “It was one of those really awful days here at the hospital. There had been a bad bus accident, and all the medical personnel who could be spared were working in ER. I was alone in the ward when an attendant brought my brother in on a gurney, and there was a police sergeant along. I was horrified, especially when the sergeant said that Antonio had killed someone. All I could think of was the impact on my mother. Antonio had always been a problem, always in trouble, and I really couldn’t feel terribly sorry for him—even though he’s my brother—but it was what having a killer in the family would mean to my folks, my mother especially.

  “I examined Antonio, along with the data sent up by ER. They had written him off, and that’s what I told the sergeant who said he still had to at least take his fingerprints—which he did. It was about then I decided I had to do something. I wasn’t sure what, but I had to get rid of the sergeant first. He was happy to leave, since it was obvious Antonio wasn’t going anywhere. After he left, I checked Antonio again. You know, after you’ve been around sick and injured people all these years, you develop some kind of sixth sense—you can tell whether a patient is going to die or not.

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but it does work—maybe not always, but most of the time. So I saw that Antonio would survive. I was sure of it. And that made it even worse. I could see the police and the courts and the prison and what all that would mean to my mother. Well, the something I had to do was obvious. I had to get my brother out of there, but in the meantime there was a whole ward to attend to. That’s when it almost seemed as though God was providing me with the means to protect my family. I found that one of the patients on the ward had died, probably only moments before I discovered that he had. He was a homeless man who’d been in a knife fight.

  “So then it was simply a matter of changing the medical record that’s attached to the front of the bed. The man didn’t look much like Antonio, but I was sure no one would identify either of them. So, with all the confusion of that day and subsequent ones, and switching the records and making some careful revisions in them to have them more or less match the actual injuries, I was sure the changes would go unnoticed. Dr. Rashkinar signed the death certificate almost immediately after she arrived in answer to my page. She had her hands full in ER and didn’t have time for anything more than to ascertain that the patient was indeed dead.

  “The big problem was with my family. They had to accept the substitute as their son for burial purposes. They had to make the arrangements, to have a closed casket, to go to the funeral and to act as though this stranger was their son. Believe me, that wasn’t easy for them or for me. And Antonio was in and out of sedation for days, delirious part of the time. I was terrified of what he might say before I could explain to him his new identity. When he was discharged, I made him swear to never become involved in crime again. And I think he really did manage to, but he was away most of the time, so I can’t be sure.

  “Well, I know the house t
hat was burglarized the other night, since Antonio had worked there as a gardener. I called Antonio when I heard about it on the late news. He tried to hide it, but finally admitted to what he had done. He begged me not to tell the police. I wouldn’t promise. Believe me, I wrestled with my conscience. I have two young children at home, and my husband will be destroyed when he finds out I’ve been protecting a criminal all these years. But I just have to confess. It really is my fault that that man was shot. And maybe there have been others I don’t even know about.”

  Van Damm was almost as surprised by Jackson’s response to the long description as she was at the narrative, itself. After writing down the address of the apartment where Antonio was now living under the name of Stefan Kovic, he said to Colson, “Don’t talk to anyone else but us about this—not even your husband or your folks.”

  Since it was his case, Van Damm saved her comments until they were alone together back in the car, headed toward Antonio’s apartment and after he’d made his call for backup. Before she said anything, she took a hand off the wheel and rearranged the rearview mirror so that she could see his face.

  “O.K. Now what was that all about, back there? Do you mean you aren’t going to turn her in?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “And it sounds as though you’re actually going to try to cover for her.”

  Jackson’s face was expressionless as he said, “Yes.”

  “Look! It isn’t only the hospital that would be concerned about records switching. She could be charged with obstruction of justice and as an accomplice after the fact.”

  “I know. But sometimes you have to do what you know is right.”

  “Right?”

  “Yes. She didn’t act for personal gain. She was trying to protect her family. And if a person should suffer for doing wrong, she’s suffered enough already. It’s going to be bad enough for her mother and father to have a son in prison without having a daughter involved too—to say nothing about what that would do to her own kids and husband. Besides, you heard what the doctor said about her. We need nurses like Maria Colson out on the ward floors—not behind bars. I’m going to do my best to keep her out of jail and on that hospital floor.”