Last Licks

Dr. Gavrik could only shake her head. “Do you know what they call strokes now, Mr. Barnstable? ‘Brain attacks.’ Like a heart attack, a person can seem perfectly healthy, even record a healthy electrocardiogram, and then go home to a fatal episode.”

Ollie slowly nodded. “That’s what happened to my father.”

“It can be a terrible surprise, happening without warning.” The doctor spread her hands in a “what can I say?” gesture. “Mr. Scatterwell, though, had some warning. He already had a stroke. And although I can understand you’re upset, I cannot stand here and let you suggest that this facility let him die.”

“I’m not suggesting that at all.” But if Ollie intended that as an olive branch, he undid that with his next words. “I think someone killed him.”

That got a sputtered chorus of “Mr. Barnstable!” from the three authority figures in the room—plus an “Ollie!” from Sunny.

Mike, though, stayed silent. “It sort of makes sense,” he finally said. “Gardner was a guy who traveled all over creation raising hell. And now, the first time he’s stuck in one place, it’s lights out for him.”

Dr. Gavrik appealed to the tall stranger. “Really, Dr. Reese, do we need to listen to this?”

So this is Hank Reese, Gardner’s boyhood friend in high places. Sunny gave the man a long, hard look. He doesn’t seem so broken up that his good buddy is dead. More like embarrassed, I’d say.

Ollie, however, had given up on the older and wiser heads in the room. He turned to Sunny. “So here it is. They’re trying to tell me that a patient kicking off in this joint is something that happens at least once a week and twice on Thursdays. Maybe that’s so in the wards where they keep the old crocks. Didn’t Gardner mention that the mortality rate was high here?”

Dr. Reese drew himself up to his considerable height. “I beg your pardon?”

“Apparently his nephew Alfred found the data somewhere on the Internet,” Sunny explained.

“But this is the rehab ward, where the people expect to get better and go home. How often do you have people popping off in here?”

Reese had to fumble for an answer. “We’ve had several patients who had to be returned to hospitals for various reasons.”

“And how many in this ward died in the middle of the night?” Ollie demanded, then shook his head at the lack of an answer. “That’s what I thought. When it happens in the bed next to mine, I want to know why.” He turned to Sunny. “And I want you to find out.”

“Me?” Sunny had to wonder if Ollie weren’t having an anesthesia flashback. “What makes you think—”

“It’s not the first time, is it? I’ve seen you figure out who killed those other folks,” Ollie pointed out. “Just do what you did with them.”

Sunny really didn’t like where Ollie was going here. “I didn’t have much of a choice in those cases.” Yes, she’d been involved in a few police investigations, but it had been a question of self-defense basically—protecting people she was close to from being accused of crimes they hadn’t committed.

“You work for me.” Ollie’s implication was clear. Either she agreed to play detective, or she wouldn’t work for him anymore—not a good thing in an awfully tight job market. Once again, she wasn’t getting much of a choice.

“Let me get his straight.” Mike suddenly spoke up. “You want my daughter to do the sheriff’s job.”

“I don’t think we have grounds here for an official police investigation,” Sheriff Nesbit said, stung. “Or even a reason for the medical examiner to proceed.”

Dr. Gavrik nodded forcefully. “Mr. Scatterwell had a preexisting condition and was already under my care. The cause of death is obvious. Any doctor would feel justified in signing a death certificate in such a situation.”

“So you’re just going to sweep everything under the rug and ignore what happened?” From the tone of Mike’s voice, this story was just going to grow—and it wasn’t going to make Frank Nesbit look very good.

“I’m not saying that,” Nesbit hurriedly replied. “In fact, I’d be willing to detail Constable Price to assist Ms. Coolidge in determining the circumstances of Mr. Scatterwell’s death.”

Sunny opened her mouth to object that everyone seemed to take it for granted that she’d whip out her magnifying glass and start looking for clues. But then she shut it with the feeling that she’d somehow gotten stuck on a train zooming off, already leaving the station of normal rationality behind. How else could she explain her boss threatening her job if she didn’t start snooping? And to tell the truth, she felt that little flutter deep inside, a reporter’s gut feeling that she might be on to something—although she had no idea exactly what that something might be. And there was the added appeal that she’d be dong it with Will.