“It wasn’t just tits and ass—I was his soul mate. I bet you didn’t know that, Mrs. Professor. I bet you didn’t know we talked about things up to and including you and your tight-assed WASP attitudes. Let me tell you, he knew a thing or two about you and the church.” Her eyes narrowed. “If people realized how much he told me, there’d be a a lot of nervous people out there.” Sally swayed. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I thought professors talked all the time?” She tilted to one side and stepped back as if she needed distance to focus. “Cat’s got your tongue? Tongue, tongue, didn’t Paul have a great one?” She snorted. “Bet you don’t even know what I mean?” Her eyes blinked in time as she swayed. The muscles around her mouth slackened until her face resembled a half-set bowl of jelly.
Sally’s words pinned Hollis in place like a chloroformed butterfly.
Having made her statement Sally tucked her chin down in her neck, but the protective motion didn’t stop her head from wobbling. She suddenly seemed to become aware of the spectators who had crowded closer. “What the hell are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a woman overcome with grief?”
She redirected her attention to Hollis. “You don’t count—I don’t care about you. I came to say goodbye to Paul.” At the mention of Paul, she straightened her hat, twitched her veil and pulled at her skirt, as if preparing for a royal audience, and staggered toward the coffin.
Sally hung over the coffin for a moment or two before her features imploded. “Paul,” she gasped. Her legs folded and as she crashed to the floor, she overturned a large arrangement of gladioli and lilies. Lying in a pool of water soaking into the maroon patterned carpet amid a welter of flowers, Sally resembled a broken, discarded doll.
In the stunned silence that followed this drama, Simpson and Constable Featherstone hoisted Sally to her feet.
She wasn’t unconscious. Despite her limp, unresponsive body and lolling head, she mumbled and muttered as they propelled her toward the door. Most of the words were indistinguishable but, when she reached the door, she revived and reached for the frame as if to prevent them from removing her. “Poor sod, poor me, poor me. What will I do without him?”
Paul’s visitation over, Rhona drove to headquarters, caught up on paperwork and went home. As usual the first thing she did was listen to her messages.
“Hi sweetie, how’s the case going? I’m still on nights, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Think about Toronto. Love ya.”
The day’s tension evaporated. Zack. How lucky she was to have him. She fell into bed and drifted off to sleep, thinking of Toronto and a new life. She’d find time to call him tomorrow.
Before getting into bed, Rhona had thrown the window wide open. She woke in a freezing bedroom with Opie sleeping on her shoulder and numbing her arm. She pushed him aside and, waiting for sensation to return, marshalled her wits and planned her day.
Was she doing everything according to the book, according to correct police procedure? Silly question—of course she was. Her mind worked in a linear fashion and, if police work was anything, it was linear.
After the usual early morning meeting, where the officers involved in the case summarized their progress, she’d go to her office to sort and prioritize what she had to do. Because she hadn’t believed Dr. Uiska’s explanation for her state of anxiety, she’d contact Dr. Axeworthy and ask the pathologist to provide statistics for her to use when she confronted Dr. Uiska. Or not: perhaps it had been a bona fide story. But, true or not, she’d arrange a second interview with Dr. Uiska.
She should dress conservatively in dark trousers and a neutral shirt. But every morning she fought the urge to reach for more flamboyant clothing. Today, she wanted to pull on high-gloss leather pants moulded to her body, hand tooled cream cowboy boots inset with curlicues of red and black leather, a black suede vest studded with brass stars, a red satin shirt and a bolo tie, but resisted the urge. Statements were for her off-duty hours.
Tucked into her brown pinstripe pantsuit, complete with vest, she softened the effect with a brilliant red silk scarf knotted around her neck.
In her office, she surveyed the pile of paper on her desk. The enormous volume of paperwork required in the police force never daunted her, because she realized the importance of order. From bitter court experiences, she knew why cops had mountains of paperwork. She’d had hot-shot lawyers twist her words until only careful documentation had saved her from total disaster.
She created four piles: “toss”, “file”, “consider later” and “deal with immediately”. After she swept the “toss” stuff in the wastebasket, she plugged in her kettle and brewed a pot of Earl Gray tea. Oversize mug in hand, she phoned the hospital switchboard and was patched through to the path lab.
“Dr. Axeworthy, I have a couple of questions about a colleague of yours.”
“My responsibilities do not involve discussing my colleagues with the police. You have heard of confidentiality?”
“It isn’t a question of confidentiality. Dr. Uiska told me she’d had a number of unexpected deaths in the last few weeks. She claimed these patients should have recovered from surgery and didn’t, and their deaths were classified as negative autopsies. Would you check the records and tell me how many of Uiska’s patients died in the last six weeks compared to the same period last year? I’m particularly interested in the number of deaths you classified as negative autopsies.”
“You’d think we had nothing to do but fill out papers. Our patients may be dead but, like everyone else, we operate under money and time constraints.”
“I’m sure you do. With cutbacks, we’re all understaffed, but I do require the figures very soon. I appreciate it. I’m aware of how busy you are.”
Her second call went to Dr. Uiska’s secretary, who connected her to the doctor. “Dr. Uiska, Rhona Simpson here. I’d like you to come in today. It’s important.”
“Good morning, Detective,” Uiska said, underlining both the abruptness of Rhona’s address and Uiska’s inability or unwillingness to use her name. “I can’t imagine what information you want that I can’t tell you on the phone.”
Rhona’s hand tightened on the receiver. “As I said yesterday, this is a murder investigation. I determine who I interview and when. I must meet you today. You surely don’t, or perhaps you do, want me to employ the heavy guns and insist you postpone whatever you’re doing this morning and see me immediately?”
“My dear woman, it’s not necessary to get upset. If you think this is important, well, of course, being a good and concerned citizen, I am at your command. I can be there by six. It’s not something I like to do, but one of my residents can cover my afternoon rounds.” Uiska implied that for some patients, her absence would mean the difference between life and death and maybe it would. Rhona hoped not.
“I’ll expect you.” Rhona said and stuck her tongue out at the phone before she hung up.
Next she called Tessa Uiska’s husband. “Dr. Yantha, I plan to drop by your office after lunch. I remember you said you left a slot open for emergencies, and I want your professional opinion on something.”
“Two would be best. My two o’clock cancelled.”
With
