The Coroner, page 18
31
The late afternoon October sun spread a glow across the sky as Emily coasted her Nissan Leaf a quarter mile from the trailer park and pulled into a turnout alongside the road. She parked and hoofed her way toward the entrance to the trailer park where Tim Hart lived.
The trailer park only boasted a hundred or so trailers, each with an ample half-acre yard that allowed a certain amount of privacy Emily hadn’t expected from such a place. Within a few minutes, Emily had located Tim’s address, spray-painted in hunter orange on a rusted mailbox. The yard was overgrown in thigh-high weeds. Fifty-five-gallon barrels and an old wooden rowboat sat like misplaced chess pieces along the front and side of the trailer. Tim’s pickup truck was parked cock-eyed in the gravel driveway. Inside she could hear a TV blasting.
She snuck up on Tim’s trailer from behind and then realized she hadn’t exactly formulated a foolproof plan. She paused to think carefully about how to execute her next steps.
First, she needed to get a lay of the area. A game show blaring from a television inside hid the sound of her footsteps as she crept up to the bottom corner of a curtainless window that looked into the living room.
Peering in, she was surprised at what she saw. Tim’s place was tidy, a throwback to the 1970s. His walls were plastered in silver-framed rock posters, floor to ceiling. The vintage olive shag carpet matched the black vinyl furniture and orange lamps. A lava lamp gurgled on an end table. Tim had actually taken a great deal of pride in his interior decorating. It was an eye-catching, eclectic combo of early attic vintage, which, if featured on Pinterest, would receive thousands of re-posts, she was certain. Was this the home of a drug dealer?
From her purview she could see that Tim was not in the living room. Nor in the kitchen just a few feet away. And that was all the view she had of the inside. Emily watched and listened for a few minutes. Then she moved to the other half of the trailer, where the bedrooms were situated. She jacked herself up on the ledge of the home to look into the smaller bedroom, which she found dark and empty. She slipped over to the master bedroom window and again propped herself up to see in the window. The blinds were closed, so Emily did her best to squint through the bent metal slats. There was a small light on in the bedroom, but from what she could scan, it also appeared to be empty.
Strange. Tim’s truck was here. The TV and lights were on. Where was Tim? Maybe he had stepped out to run down to the gas station for cigarettes or a snack? Maybe visiting a neighbor? Maybe he was watching her right now from another trailer? She had to act quickly.
Pacing toward the front of the trailer, Emily headed for the front door. She noticed it was cracked open and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her gently, but not latching it. Her eyes were drawn to horse and rider magazines fanned out neatly on the coffee table. She immediately started to search for evidence of drugs. She looked under couch cushions and in the bookcase. She lifted the top of an ottoman, which only yielded a folded pile of hand-crocheted afghans, also vintage treasures. This guy was impeccable. Sure wouldn’t have guessed it from the weed-thickened yard. But still no drug evidence.
She scanned the kitchen. Two brown leather objects shoved under the table grabbed her attention. She moved closer. It was then Emily recognized she was looking at a pair of boots. The exact pair from Julie Dobson’s GoPro video. The attacker’s boots. Emily drew in a sharp breath. She whipped out her camera and snapped several shots of the evidence until she heard a thud from the back of the trailer.
Emily froze. Should she run? Hide? What if he came out and attacked her? What if he held her hostage? She instinctively pressed 911. And then immediately regretted it. She ended the call. How on earth was she going to explain why she had trespassed on Tim’s property? If he found her now, he could legally attack her, claim self-defense, and she would find herself going to jail. But what if he did attack her and she couldn’t hold him back? Wasn’t a trespassing charge worth her safety and maybe her life? Pride got the better of her, and she resolved to choose a different option.
Emily’s eyes darted across the kitchen countertop, her sights finding a large butcher knife. She paused for a moment. She should go. Leave right now. She had ample evidence to match her pics of his boots with Julie’s video. Certainly that would establish probable cause. Nick could take it from there. She turned to head out, when a noise from the rear of the trailer stopped her. A moan. A gasp. A gurgle. Emily was familiar with this sound. It was common in patients who were about to die.
Emily summoned her courage, grabbed the butcher knife, clutched it at her shoulder, and inched toward the first bedroom. The door was wide open, and the room was dark, but empty. She nudged her way to the next door. Nothing in the house stirred except for the tinny sound of a cheesy local car commercial. She drew in a breath and dared to glance into the next doorway, the bathroom. With a quick bob of her head around the doorframe, she got a blurred view of Tim’s form slumped onto the floor in front of the toilet. Her heart thumped wildly through her rib cage. She waited a few minutes, listening intently. Tim wasn’t stirring.
She bobbed her head back in, this time taking a slightly longer look, enough to see that Tim was lying on his side, motionless, foaming at the mouth. She felt awkward and frightened at the same time. She pulled her head back into the hall.
“Tim?” she called out. No answer.
“Tim!” Still nothing. She poked her head back in. Tim had not moved. His eyes were open, glassy and unresponsive.
“Tim? Can you hear me?” No response.
Emily’s doctor instincts kicked in. Tim wasn’t a threat. He was dying.
Emily crawled into the bathroom and pressed her first two fingers to his wrist to find a pulse. Just to be on the safe side, she held the knife ready with her other hand. A weak pulse palpitated below the skin’s surface. Tim’s shallow breath told Emily he was hanging on. Emily dropped the knife, grabbed him by the shoulders, and rolled him onto his back to open his windpipe. As she did this, a small, plastic bag fell from his left hand and clued her in to his condition. She found a syringe tucked under his right thigh. He had overdosed.
Emily pulled out her phone and dialed 911. When dispatch answered, she gave them the address, Tim’s condition, and her full name. There was no way around it. As a physician, she couldn’t abandon her patient. As acting medical examiner, she couldn’t risk damaging Julie’s investigation. And as a human being, she couldn’t ignore the dignity of another life, even if that life belonged to a murderer.
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Emily stabilized Tim and waited for the ambulance. It arrived and the paramedics took over. The police appeared right on their heels and wanted to question Emily, who was standing in the yard, watching Tim being lifted into the ambulance.
“No questions right now,” she told them. “I’ll answer them at the station. In the meantime, you need to search Tim’s trailer for ketamine from Premiere.”
Seconds later, Nick’s pickup barreled up. He got out and stormed over to Emily with a surly look. He and Emily drew away from the officers so they could speak privately.
“What are you doing?” Nick could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“I know. I know it looks bad,” she started. “But this was a matter of public safety.”
“How do you figure?” Nick asked.
“Can we discuss this later?”
“No, I think we better tackle that now. I’m actually dying to know how you made Tim’s acquaintance,” said Nick with a smidge of sarcasm.
“Medical examiner outranks sheriff in these kinds of matters,” Emily said.
“What kind of matters?”
“Public safety. Tim is a dangerous drug dealer and—”
“Are you crazy? You could’ve been killed!”
Emily pulled up the photos from her phone. “It was worth it. Look. I found these in Tim’s kitchen.”
Nick studied them, “The boots from the video. Are you sure they’re the same ones?”
“They’re right inside. Go take a look for yourself,” she said.
“This is exigent circumstance enough for me,” said Nick. “We’re going in there.” He motioned to the other officers.
“Can I go in?” Emily asked.
“Are you kidding me? You stay right out here and don’t move.”
“Don’t I get so much as a thank-you?” she said with an impish grin that deflected Nick’s frustrated look. Emily’s curiosity and stubbornness carved a path around almost anything that was in her way.
“I think I’ll hold off on the praise and gratitude until this all pans out,” he said as he headed into Tim’s trailer.
“Oh, it will,” said Emily, smiling as she crossed her arms and rested up against Nick’s truck.
* * *
Inside Tim’s trailer, one officer recovered the boots from the kitchen while another searched the living room, small bedroom, and bath. Nick took Tim’s bedroom. It didn’t take long before he uncovered bags of pills neatly lining the dresser drawers under the folded clothes. He collected and recorded them, sealing them into several evidence bags. He continued his search of the closet, the mattress, under the bed, and behind furniture. Nick even checked underneath the carpet, which was fraying away from the walls. Nothing.
The last place Nick searched was Tim’s nightstand. On it was a nasal spray bottle, whose labeling had long worn off. From the wear, Nick could tell the bottle had been repurposed several times. He knew it was a popular trick to fill spray bottles with a liquid ketamine mixture. Effortless to inhale. Quick to penetrate the system. Easy to hide. Nick suspected this was what Tim had sold Julie and David. And he had a good hunch that this was the bottle from the stable.
He added the spray to his evidence bag and then began looking through the single drawer on the nightstand. He lifted out a few porn magazines, pens, old tissues, and a pocketknife. He thought he had emptied the drawer, when an object from the back glimmered as it caught the light. Nick pulled the drawer out to the end of its rail. A piece of silver jewelry was coiled up in the shadowed corner. Nick immediately recognized three charms: a horseshoe, a horse, and a heart.
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Coming out of Tim’s trailer post-investigation, Nick politely thanked Emily and reassured her he could take things from there. Emily felt a bit snubbed but remained justified in her actions. Nick told her in a stern voice they would talk about this “little incident” later. Emily brushed him off. She didn’t regret what she had done. If she hadn’t arrived when she had, Tim would have been dead. And now Nick had his prime suspect.
When Emily arrived at the Pennington Inn, she was too tired for dinner. She slid into her sweats and a T-shirt, feeling assured Julie’s killer was behind bars.
She texted Nick two words: You’re welcome.
She fell asleep waiting for his response. It was the soundest sleep she had gotten since she had arrived in Freeport.
The next morning, Emily awoke, freshened, to a voicemail from her father. He was being released at nine AM. She dressed and was out the door by eight so she could stop at Brown’s for a fresh cinnamon roll.
“You look rested,” Delia said, handing over the warm pastry.
“I am. I slept great. I feel great. And we found Julie’s killer,” she said, grinning as Delia steamed a small pitcher of milk and added it to a double shot of espresso for Emily’s latte.
“Yes, I heard.”
“You did?” Emily took a sip of her drink and burnt her tongue.
“Everyone heard.”
“How?”
“Doll, I was at the barbeque last night. Where were you?”
Emily’s mouth dropped open and her stomach sank. “Oh my gosh. I completely forgot.”
“Well, there’s always the next one. But I suppose you’ll be back in Chicago by then.”
Emily slumped into a seat at one of the café tables. “I’m so bummed. He’s going to think I purposefully ditched him.”
“Maybe it’s better you didn’t show. He was pretty mad about what you did.”
“He was? Is that all over Freeport too?”
“No. He pulled me aside and told me.”
“Oh. And? What did you say?”
“I listened.” Delia wiped off the steamer nozzle and polished it until it gleamed.
“Delia, I was within my rights as acting medical examiner to—”
“I know, doll. That’s not why he was mad.”
Emily was puzzled. “He thinks I went over his head on this.”
“No. You don’t understand. You put yourself in grave danger.”
“But it all worked out. I’m fine. And Nick got his suspect.”
“You’re missing the point, Em.” Delia looked up as the front door chimes rang and the door opened, bringing in her next set of customers. “Good morning. What can I get for you?”
Emily suddenly lost her appetite. She rose from the table, leaving her pastry untouched. She took her coffee cup and waved a quick goodbye to Delia.
“I’ve gotta go. My dad’s being released this morning.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Delia, tossing Emily a concerned glance as she headed toward the door. “And think about what I said.”
34
When Emily pulled up to the hospital entrance, she was surprised to find a nurse wheeling her father through the front doors to the pickup curb at eight thirty. Her father sprang from the wheelchair as soon as Emily idled to a stop. His hand was on the door handle as Emily put the car in park. She didn’t even have a chance to get out of the car to help him in before he was angling his body into the front passenger seat. Thankfully, the nurse was close behind, spotting him. She handed Robert the discharge paperwork and shut the door as he grunted a thank-you.
“Good morning, Dad,” Emily started as she pulled away. “How’d you sleep?”
“Horribly. I’m glad to be out of there,” he said. “I heard you had a busy night. Saved a life. Caught a criminal.”
“Something like that.”
“Nick came in here raving mad and told me the whole thing. Thought maybe I could talk some sense into you.”
“And you said …?”
“That it would be a waste of time. You were well within your right to do what you did.”
“Thank you.” Emily felt vindicated in her decision.
“So, how does it feel being back in coroner shoes?” Robert said with a pleased tone.
“Better than I thought it would,” Emily answered. “I’ve guess I’ve kind of enjoyed the challenge. And I’m a little surprised at how quickly it’s all coming back to me.”
“You ever wonder what your life might have looked like if you had stuck around here?” asked her father.
“I never really thought about it.”
“You always talked about wanting to go to U of M for med school. Then returning to help me run the practice and ME office.”
“Those were the ideals of a fifteen-year-old,” Emily said.
“I suppose so,” said Robert with a long sigh that she recognized as an expression of her father’s disappointment. Her cheeks flushed in aggravation.
“Have you thought about who you want to ask to replace you?”
“A little. I have one young man in mind. He’s starting a practice up north of the county. He’s not as bright as you, but I think he’d be a good fit for the community if he’s up for it.”
“Do I know this guy?”
“I don’t think you ever met,” said her father. “His family moved up here after you left.”
Dad measured everything by the time frame defined by before she’d left and after she’d left. As if he was some inculpable innocent bystander. Emily repressed her desire to discuss anything further with him as she drove the rest of the way. When they reached Robert’s home, Emily pulled her car into the driveway and parked as close to the front door as she could. She circled around to the passenger door to help her father out of the car, but he brushed her away. “I’m not an invalid.”
Emily relented and stepped away, gathering his things from the back seat. She glanced across the expanse of his yard. The grass needed mowing, and the bushes and trees were starting to glow with the tinge of fall hues. Leaves blanketed the lawn.
“I called Mike about the yard work. He’s going to work it into his schedule,” said Emily. “He wants to wait a few weeks to make sure all the leaves have fallen.”
“What about the grass in the meantime?” Robert steadied himself and started walking toward the house.
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Emily traipsed behind him, letting him take the lead. “And don’t get any bright ideas about mowing it yourself.”
Robert found the door unlocked. “Cathy must have left it that way when she went to work. She’s prepping for the Dobson funeral this weekend.”
“Yes, it’ll be a big one. She’s got her hands full for sure,” said Emily.
Robert shuffled in to find a fresh apple pie sitting on the kitchen table.
“Will you look at that? Apples are fresh from our trees. Can’t wait to slather a scoop of ice cream on a piece of that pie,” he said and then wistfully added, “Your mother … boy, she could bake a divine pie. Remember?”
“Mm-hmm, my favorite was her peach-blueberry,” said Emily, settling her father into his recliner in the living room. “Want me to bring you a slice?” she asked.
“Yes. Exactly what the mortician ordered,” he said with a wry smile.
Emily sliced up two pieces. She was pretty hungry herself and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a homemade piece of pie. She hadn’t picked up her mother’s baking finesse, and Brandon’s mother wasn’t exactly the Martha Stewart type. Thank goodness Brandon was good in the kitchen.
They sat together in the living room, enjoying Cathy’s apple pie. After a few bites, Robert reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
“Here. This is for you. Cathy wanted me to give it to you. She helped me make it last night.” It was a list in Cathy’s handwriting. Emily read down the paper:
