Chapter 11

Monday, July 8

Things changed on Monday.

I came in at seven, to check on Denny and Sue in the bakery, and they were doing fine. I helped out for a little while, as we had yet to bring in someone to fill Denny’s old slot.

I asked Denny if he was having any trouble getting up early and he told me that he’d talked to Dr. Bartkowiak about it. Doc B suggested he take the pills when he got off work or no later than three in the afternoon.

The routine time for taking most anti-psychotics was after supper or in the evening before retiring. In that way, the immediate and strongest sedative effect would coincide with a normal sleep period. For our clients, the instructions on the medication bottle’s label usually specified supper time as the recommended time, and Denny would probably not have changed the schedule on his own. Doc B had been enthusiastic about our proposal to hire Denny, and he called him in for a conference to discuss the efficacy of his meds regimen and to change the recommended time for taking it.

I love it when a plan comes together.

The rest of the workday was fairly routine: me trying to get my work done while dealing with the usual daily dose of problems and demands that kept drawing me away from that routine work.

My management philosophy was fairly simple. You carefully hire good people who know how to do the job, then do your best to shelter them from all the bullshit that comes down the pike, and just stay out of their way. I espoused the notion of “management by walking around,” an approach described in Peter’s and Waterman’s book, In Search of Excellence. Every few days I’d visit one or two of the staff, usually on some pretext:

“Hey, did you see that article on...?”

Or, “Do you know anyplace in town that carries...?”

Or, “What did you think of that fried cornmeal mush?”

Then I’ll just chat for a few minutes, usually from the doorway but, if they had something they wanted to talk about, I’d sit down for a longer conversation. Then I’d be on my way, no muss, no fuss.

I’d also use those little visits to float new ideas for the program. I learned to avoid bringing a new idea to a group at a meeting, like our weekly case staffings. One naysayer can sour the idea for everybody, because the basic motive in gatherings of do-gooders is that we don’t want anyone to have their feelings hurt. Well, except for the boss. He or she can pound salt. (What does that mean, anyway, to pound salt? I’ve googled it to death and I’ve found nothing very convincing.)

I was at lunch with Greta and Liz, when Denny approached our table in the company of a thirty-ish woman. The family resemblance was obvious.

I stood and said, “If you’re not Denny’s daughter, then you must be his little sister.”

She turned to Denny. “You’re right, little brother, he is a bullshitter.”

Then she turned back to me, “I’m Judy Kelly, and you must be Gary,” as she offered her hand.

I shook it, saying, “By their fruits you shall know them.” She laughed. You’ve got to love a woman who even laughs at your bible quotes.

I introduced her to Greta and Liz, and invited Denny and his sister to join us. I borrowed a chair from another table for Denny, then offered to get them coffee or a cold drink.

“Full up,” Judy said, holding a hand at a level just below her eyes. “I just wanted to tell you how pleased we were that Gary was hired as a regular worker in the bakery. Mom and Dad are so relieved.”

I said, “Oh, no, that’s a misunderstanding.” She looked worried. “Denny wasn’t hired to work in the bakery. He was hired as a mental health technician, based on his bachelor’s degree and his major in psychology. As a mental health professional, he’s a member of the clinical team. His job is providing support for our clients in rehabilitation settings, like the bakery, and sometimes in other programs. Next Saturday, he’s sponsoring our weekly movie night, though it’s actually in the afternoon.”

Smiling even broader at the news of her brother’s status, she offered, “Then wouldn’t it be a movie matinee?”

I smacked my forehead. “Matinee. How could we have missed that? Movie Matinee. It’s even alliterative.” I shrugged. “Too late now. It took us over a year to get everyone on board for Movie Night. If we change the name, we’ll lose half the folks who show up now.”

“Maybe try Movie Matinee Night.”

I gave her a dirty look. “Did you just come here just to make me look stupid? Trust me, that job’s already taken.” I hooked a thumb toward Greta and said, “She even has a coach,” nodding toward Liz.

Greta said, “Ignore him. He flirts with every woman he sees.”

Liz said, “That’s not really fair, Greta. He flirts with everyone, even men.”

I turned to them and retorted, “To-may-to, to-mah-to. You say flirting, I say being friendly.”

Judy said, “Everyone’s at each other’s throats. My work here is done.”

I laughed. “You’re a nurse practitioner, aren’t you? You should come work for us.”

“You have an opening?”

“Uh, well, Denny’s old job in the bakery still needs to be filled.”

Denny said, “I thought we were going to have Barney take it.”

I said, “Yeah, that’s probably a better idea. If you and your sister worked together in the bakery, we’d probably have to hire armed security to protect the Center.”

Judy laughed, but Denny’s abstract thinking remained dulled, by both the illness and his medications, so he took it more-or-less at face value.

Except for things like slapstick and puns, which appeal to what’s called concrete thinking, most humor depends on abstract thinking, being able to make associations that are not as obvious as, say, Dick Van Dyke tripping over the ottoman in that old sitcom’s opening credits. That’s pure slapstick, sometimes called physical comedy.

Van Dyke’s pratfall would be in contrast to Henny Youngman’s classic one-liner, “Take my wife -- please.” At face value, there’s nothing funny about the statement. But Youngman crafted a surprise twist to a standard comic introduction, and peppered that twist with an unexpected plea that took it in a different direction than what we might have expected. But all of that is synthesized in the brain of the person hearing it. It’s abstracted from the listener’s own experience and the development and use of the brain’s frontal lobe, where fine discrimination and judgment occurs, among other mature constructs.

The frontal lobe does not reach full development usually until the mid-twenties. That’s why putting a sixteen year old on trial as an adult is such a travesty. No matter what he did or how big he is, he acted with the brain of a child. I don’t mean to say that all should be forgiven and forgotten when he turns eighteen; that’s equally as stupid. But I am saying that our outrage doesn’t change the facts of human development. Children are children. Period. No prosecutor, judge, nor jury can change that. Trying a child as an adult is criminal in itself.

Excuse me while I dismount my soap box.

Judy Kelly said, “Seriously. I’m looking to get out of Spokane. And you guys don’t have a state income tax.”

“No,” Liz said, “but they sales tax every other damn thing.”

“Groceries?” Judy asked.

“Well, no, not groceries,” Liz admitted.

“Doctors appointments?”

“Not yet. But they tax barber and hairstylist services.”

“Pharmaceuticals?”

“No, not pharmaceuticals, either. But they do tax horseshoes and saddle blankets. Can you believe that? They actually tax horseshoes and saddle blankets and tack in general.”

We all just looked at her. “What?” she said.

I said, “First world problem.”

“Go to hell, Gary.” Then she laughed. “So you’re saying some of my tax burden is not universal?”

“Not for the last hundred and twenty years or so.”

“Says the guy who goes camping,” she made air quotes, “with a color television and a microwave oven.”

“Guilty,” I said. “What’s fun about sleeping on the ground? They even have to pay Marines to do it.”

Greta said to Judy, “You should talk to Emily Iverson. She’s a friend of ours who’s a nurse practitioner in a private group practice. Gary works with her on an Alzheimer’s program. What’s your number? I’ll send you Emily’s number.” Greta reached into her jeans pocket for her phone, holding up her phone display with her number showing...

After she tapped in the number on her phone, Judy asked, “Is this like a casual dress day? I noticed most staff are wearing jeans.”

I chuckled. “Welcome to the boondocks. This is how we always dress. Sometimes we’ll have a “Big City” day, where everyone dresses like they do over in Kingston, or Seattle, or Portland. Then the bakery has steak on the menu, or maybe shrimp, on Big City days.”

Denny said, “I think we should have both, next time. We could call it surf and turf.”

I said, “That’s a good idea, as long as we have the sign-up sheets in advance. Better yet, let’s make them pledge sheets.”

“Why?”

“That way, if they don’t show up, we can still go after them for the money.”

He smiled. “Yeah, okay. Phil and Jimmy do that. I mean, Phil used to.”

Greta said, “There, now you have Emily’s number and mine.”

“But not Gary’s?” Judy grinned.

“There’s too many women have his number, already. Which reminds me, when you call Emily, better tell her that I told you to call, not Gary.”

“Why’s that?”

Greta, with a sly smile, said, “You don’t want her getting jealous over you.” I colored and Liz laughed.

Liz said, “She does get a little possessive, now and then.”

I said, “Oregon doesn’t have a sales tax, Liz. Why don’t you take your horses there to look at shoes?”

The real trouble started when I left to go home. I’d usually drive the mini motorhome to work when I came in early, so that Greta could have the Accord. The RV is built on a Toyota pickup chassis and is only 21 feet long overall. I knew that there were some late 1950’s sedans that were 18 feet, so this thing wasn’t much longer, and only 7 feet wide. It fit in most parking lot spaces, though I usually parked somewhere that didn’t crowd other vehicles. At the Center, I normally parked at the far end of the lot, which really wasn’t all that far.

But when I came around the back end of the rig, heading for the driver’s side, I saw some liquid, glinting in the afternoon sun, puddled on the pavement beneath the driver’s door. I felt my wallet getting lighter just looking at it. It’s always something, as my Dad used to say.

Up close, it looked to be a fairly clear liquid, but a bit too viscous to be water. I figured it was either brake fluid or power steering fluid. I was hoping it was brake fluid, as I calculated that had a better chance at being the cheaper repair.

I’m not much of a mechanic. Oh, I’d done simple stuff: changed the oil and filters, replaced water pumps, fuel pumps, alternators, belts, and starters. But when it came to working on motorized vehicles, Dad was right: it was always something, meaning, no matter how straightforward the task appeared, there would always be some unexpected hassle that would turn it into a real chore. On a car, that meant that a bolt head would break off, the gasket would be missing from the installation kit, the holes on the replacement part wouldn’t align with the holes where it was to be mounted, always some darn thing. I wonder if my Dad had been a closet Buddhist. In any event, cars had reached a stage of technical development and gadget proliferation that left little that I could do anymore, except change the oil. And the fast, inexpensive service at dedicated shops took the incentive away from even that DIY task.

Not wanting to get down on all fours in whatever the fluid was, I walked around to the front of the truck and got down on my hands and knees, and looked underneath. Sure enough, silhouetted against the sunlit ground beyond, were the two open ends of a brake hose, dangling behind the tire, one of which was slowly dripping the contents of the master cylinder onto the asphalt. And in the spot where the drips hit the pavement, in the deep shadow behind the tire, was the shape of something that might easily be a box cutter. Needless to say, I had a bad feeling about this.

I called Tate. He said he’d be right over, but that I should call Lindsey Turner, too. So I did. Like Tate, she said she’d be right over.

Tate arrived five minutes later and parked next to the RV. Turner pulled in thirty seconds after that, parking behind the rig.

They took turns getting on all fours in the front of the truck, Tate standing back to allow Turner to go first.

She stood up and reached into one of the pockets on her crime scene utility vest and produced a pair of blue latex gloves, or whatever they were made of -- organic, free range, non-GMO, gluten-free, low-fructose, dolphin-safe, recycled plastic, or something. She pulled on the gloves, located an evidence bag in another pocket, and wrote something on it.

I was intrigued by her vest. Though they typically have lots of pockets, fishing vests tended to be shorter, ending about mid-torso, to clear chest waders, I suppose. And this one had a lot more pockets than any hunting or shooting vest I’d seen. So I asked her, “What kind of vest is that? I mean, who uses that type of vest?”

“Photographers,” she said. The image of a photographer laden with cameras, lenses, and myriad small equipment came immediately to mind. I’d probably seen similar vests in National Geographic or on paparazzi chasing some celebrity.

“Clever,” I said.

“One of the crime scene techs in Kingston wore one. I got the idea from her.”

I pointed to a tiny pocket on the front of her left shoulder and asked, “What do you keep in there?”

“Since I’ve been dealing with you, it’s where I carry my cyanide pill.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ve always carried mine in Tupperware.”

Tate had just stood up and he said, “Looks like someone cut your brake hose.”

I said, “Or it broke spontaneously and someone took advantage of it to make me even more paranoid.”

He said, “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

Turner, on her belly and reaching under the truck said, “I wonder if just one cyanide pill will be enough.” Then there was the flash of a camera phone.

I said, in my poshest English accent, “I think she’s got it. I think she’s got it.”

Scooting back out, Turner grunted, “It’s plain my pain stems mainly from your brain.”

“By George she’s got it. By George she’s got it.”

Tate said, “West Side Story?”

I said, “You’re probably thinking of East Side Boys and West End Girls.”

He said, “I generally don’t think about boys and Louise doesn’t like me thinking about girls.”

Then Turner spoiled our fun. Sitting on the pavement in front of the truck, she held up the evidence bag, which now held the oily box cutter, and asked, “Have you ever seen this before?”

Shit, I thought. To Turner I said, “Yes, most work days here at the Center, in the middle drawer of my desk. It’s mine.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The orange and blue colors. And on the other side, it says ‘Pierson’s Helpful Hardware, Midland, Texas,’ It was a promotional gift during their grand reopening, oh, seven or eight years ago. We were on vacation, when we happened to get off the highway in Midland to get gas.” In a more reflective tone, I added, “It was the first time I’d ever had barbecued goat. Come to think of it, it was also the last time I had barbecued goat. That’s too bad, I sort’a liked it.”

Tate said, “I have one word for you: attorney.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.”

Turner said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m on written notice from Mister Ostrowski not to question you. He’d just object if I testified to your confession that you like barbecued goat.” Standing, she held up the evidence bag, “Actually, I saw this in your desk drawer when I searched your office.”

“You searched my office?” I squeaked.

“Oops. Did I say that out loud?” she quipped. “Now we have something on each other.”

“What?” I asked. “You perform illegal searches and I like barbecued goat?”

“No,” she said, giving me a you-really-are-a-numbskull look. “I perform illegal searches and you can quote from My Fair Lady.”

“That was bad, Detective. I think it’s time for your medicine,” and I pointed to the tiny pocket on her vest.

After she left, I called down to Stanton’s Service Center. Marty said they’d send someone up to put on a new hose first thing in the morning. Tate offered me a ride home, but I told him that I’d just wait for Greta, who should be along in a few minutes, as it was close to five-thirty. He hung around, anyway, both of us with our rumps resting on the front fenders of our respective vehicles.

“She won’t find any prints on that cutter,” he said. “The smart money says the cutter was wiped clean. Even if it wasn’t, brake fluid is mildly caustic. Any prints would likely be useless if not burned off altogether.”

I nodded. “I figured it was left there deliberately to throw suspicion my way, so the prints were undoubtedly removed beforehand.”

Now he nodded. We both lapsed into silence.

I was befuddled why someone would go through the trouble of singling me out for all this crap. I mean, knocking me out to keep me away from the rifle I could at least understand. But why go to the trouble of framing me for Phil’s murder? And what was the deal with this odd brake hose thing? It looked like something I was supposed to discover, not an accident to happen while I was driving, unless the perpetrator hadn’t counted on the downslope flow of the draining fluid. I couldn’t decide if it was just petty bullshit or part of some inscrutable master plan.

Tate said, “I think I figured out how to answer your objections to my theory about the Nguyen and Caldwell murders.”

“Run it up the flagpole, let’s see if it floats.”

“Two perps,” he said, looking smug.

“Two perps?” I said. “Two perps taking turns killing people with the same rifle?”

“Nope. Two perps, each shooting a different World War Two era firearm.”

“What? Are you just making stuff up now?”

“Au contraire, mon ami,” he said, with a smug expression. “I got a call from that state cop, Zack Poitier. He said the slugs that came out of that tree, one of which likely went through Caldwell, were probably from a Colt 1911, forty five caliber, semi-automatic pistol.”

“Nineteen-eleven? I thought you said World War Two.”

“Nineteen-eleven is the model year.”

“Really? That gun had been around that long?”

“And they’re still makin’ ‘em.”

“That’s more than a hundred years.”

He nodded.

“But what about the different body disposal methods?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m a little weak there. Maybe one perp had a twisted sense of humor, the other didn’t want to get blood in his trunk.”

“And what happened to the morels?”

“The morels? Who gives a damn,” he said, sounding exasperated.

“I do. It just doesn’t seem right that a bunch of delicious fungus would end up on the table of some murderer. It proves there isn’t a god.”

“What about your Buddha?”

“Buddha? Buddha’s not a god. He’s just some wayback Indian prince who figured out that life sucked and you just needed to just get over it, especially if you were some poor slob.”

“No wonder Buddhism never caught on.”

“At least not in these parts,” I allowed.

People had begun coming out of the buildings, walking to their cars, and driving off. A few shouted greetings. Eventually, Greta, standing by our Accord, called out, “Gary, is something going on?”

I said, “Drive over here, why don’cha.”

Involving Greta took another twenty minutes, and led to her insisting that Tate look under our car for cut brake lines or bombs. We ended up at their house for supper again.

Tuesday, July 9

The next day, a rainy Tuesday, just after lunch, I saw that my favorite 12-inch cast iron skillet had been reduced in price on Amazon, plus it was being offered with a glass lid. I decided to let the bakery keep my old one, with its cast iron lid, and buy a new one for myself.

As I was about to complete the order, Nancy Stoessel, our psychiatric nurse practitioner, walked into my office. Unless someone’s office door was closed, we didn’t stand on much formality about knocking. Usually, a closed door meant you were with a client or a patient, so that was an unofficial Do Not Disturb sign, anyway.

“Ah, Amazon” she said. “At least you’re not playing solitaire.”

“Nah. I only play solitaire for money. Besides, I was shopping for the bakery.”

“Of course you were.”

“Do you have a purpose in bothering me, or can I finish this order and get back to my game of Minesweeper?”

She sat down in one of the side chairs. “Denny said you met his sister, Judy.”

“We talked with her for a bit. She came in with Denny while Greta, Liz, and I were eating lunch. We invited them to join us.”

“Denny said you were being a smartass.”

“I think Denny needs to have his meds adjusted.”

“Huh. That’s what Denny said about you.”

“Minesweeper?” I said, pointing at my vid screen, which still had the Amazon page showing. “It’s a timed game, you know.”

“Em Isely called me this morning, wanted to know if I’d met the sister. I didn’t, though I think Denny introduced her to Doc B. Em said that Judy Isely has been in touch with her, asking about joining their practice. I guess Greta urged her to call.” I almost laughed, and Nancy caught my smile.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. I just remembered some of the conversation we had with her. Maybe I was being a smartass.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “There’s never a maybe about it, Gary, smartass is your default.”

I pointed at the flat screen again and said, “Minesweeper?”

“Yeah, right, you fraud. What did you think of her?”

“I liked her. Even offered her a job.”

“A job? What job?”

“Denny’s old position in the bakery.”

“Would you get serious, you clown.”

“Jeez, calm down. Maybe your meds need to be adjusted.”

“Just tell me what you thought of her, would’ja, please?”

“Okay, okay, as long as you’ve asked sarcastically. From about a twenty-minute, unstructured conversation that included five people, my impression was that she is smart, personable, loves and supports her brother, and gave me the feeling that she is conscientious, but I can’t put my finger on why. The fact that she is on good terms with a brother who all but destroyed their family goes a long way, in my book. And if you keep up with the grumpy act, I may offer her your job.”

“You wish, cream puff.”

“Great. Now I’m hungry.”

She looked at my vid screen again and said, “Oh, you’re replacing the skillet that, uh...”

“Yeah, the one the cops took because it was used to off Phil,” but my thoughts and my voice sort of drifted off toward the end of the sentence.

“What?” she asked.

“Ah, I just thought of something I wanted to check before I bought a new skillet.” That was not exactly the truth.

“Okay. But you think this Judy Kelly is a good egg?”

“Damn. Would you stop with the food metaphors? But to answer your question, yes, on first impression, I liked her, but we didn’t really get into professional stuff.”

She stood up. “See? Was that so hard?”

“Again with an egg reference. Get out of my office.”

Heading out the door, she said, “Okay, boss, have an oatmeal crisp day.” Most of the staff knew of my weakness for that cookie.