Read Online A Circle of Wives by Alice Laplante - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Laplante
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5.0. The victim’s were 10. Now that can happen with a heart attack. Or the high potassium caused the cardiac dysrhythmia. It could go either way.”
“What’s that—hyperkalemia?”
“Excess potassium.”
“So the pathologist thinks . . . what, exactly?”
“That our good doctor suffered a heart attack. That he banged his head on the corner of the dresser going down, but that what ultimately killed him was the heart attack.”
I shake my head. I feel like I’m being run around in circles.
“Yet you believe the inquest will be wrongful death?”
“Yes,” says Jake, a little impatiently. “Remember the bruises? The needle mark? Here . . .” and he pulls out of the file some photographs. This time I see what he was talking about that day in the Westin. The puncture. Very distinct.
“High amounts of potassium in the system can actually cause cardiac dysrhythmia as well as being a side effect of it. My guess is that the coroner will want a full investigation.”
I nod. “So you’re saying he could have been injected with potassium? And that the high levels in his body may have caused the heart attack. Not the reverse.”
“Maybe. Why not. Could have, perhaps, who knows?” says Jake, shrugging. “That’s what the inquest will try to determine.”
I pick up copies of the paperwork he printed out for me and start reading.
Most of the language is unintelligible. Myocardial infarction. Rigor mortis, livor mortis, skin slippage, malodor . I grasp on to phrases I can understand. Forehead trauma. Contusions on arms and neck. Wrongful death not ruled out.
“What about fingerprints in the room?” he asks.
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Nothing. Not even the usual partials you’d expect from a hotel room.”
“How about other evidence?” asks Jake. “Did he have anything on his person that was unusual? Anything in the room that was out of place?”
“In his pockets were his cell phone and wallet. Most of his clothes were still folded in the suitcase. Interestingly enough, they were all brand new—still had tags on them. What he was wearing also seemed new—hardly worn. There was a pair of pajamas still in the packaging on the bed, and a new toothbrush and fresh tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Otherwise, the room was as clean as a whistle.”
“Which of course is suspect. You’d expect fingerprints all over the place—his, previous guests’, and the staff’s.” Jake pauses. “Anything not there that you’d expect to be?” he asks.
This stops me short. I hadn’t considered it that way.
“Let me think,” I say.
“Razor?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. There was a new razor and an unopened package of blades in his suitcase.”
“Comb? Brush?”
“Just a comb, in the bathroom.”
“Car keys? I assume he drove to the Westin?”
“Yes. His keys were on the dresser,” I say.
“How about his house keys? Were they on the same ring?”
I have to stop to think about that one. “It was a big bunch of keys,” I say finally. “But wouldn’t that bust him? He wouldn’t have keys to all three of his houses on the same key ring. Or would he?”
“He probably had other keys as well—keys to his clinic, keys to various rooms at the clinic, keys to his office on campus . . . having one or two others probably wouldn’t make much difference unless someone was looking for trouble,” says Jake.
Something nags at me while he talks on. What else would I possess if I’d checked into a hotel room? Clothes, check. Toiletries, check. Wallet, cell phone, and keys, check. But there should be something else . . .
“What about the room key?” I ask.
“What?” asks Jake.
“I don’t recall seeing a room key in the evidence bags. I’ll have to double-check of course. It’s not that I was looking for it.”
“It’s probably there,” says Jake. “He had his key to get into the room. It was probably such an obvious thing that you didn’t register it.”
“But it doesn’t hurt
“What’s that—hyperkalemia?”
“Excess potassium.”
“So the pathologist thinks . . . what, exactly?”
“That our good doctor suffered a heart attack. That he banged his head on the corner of the dresser going down, but that what ultimately killed him was the heart attack.”
I shake my head. I feel like I’m being run around in circles.
“Yet you believe the inquest will be wrongful death?”
“Yes,” says Jake, a little impatiently. “Remember the bruises? The needle mark? Here . . .” and he pulls out of the file some photographs. This time I see what he was talking about that day in the Westin. The puncture. Very distinct.
“High amounts of potassium in the system can actually cause cardiac dysrhythmia as well as being a side effect of it. My guess is that the coroner will want a full investigation.”
I nod. “So you’re saying he could have been injected with potassium? And that the high levels in his body may have caused the heart attack. Not the reverse.”
“Maybe. Why not. Could have, perhaps, who knows?” says Jake, shrugging. “That’s what the inquest will try to determine.”
I pick up copies of the paperwork he printed out for me and start reading.
Most of the language is unintelligible. Myocardial infarction. Rigor mortis, livor mortis, skin slippage, malodor . I grasp on to phrases I can understand. Forehead trauma. Contusions on arms and neck. Wrongful death not ruled out.
“What about fingerprints in the room?” he asks.
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Nothing. Not even the usual partials you’d expect from a hotel room.”
“How about other evidence?” asks Jake. “Did he have anything on his person that was unusual? Anything in the room that was out of place?”
“In his pockets were his cell phone and wallet. Most of his clothes were still folded in the suitcase. Interestingly enough, they were all brand new—still had tags on them. What he was wearing also seemed new—hardly worn. There was a pair of pajamas still in the packaging on the bed, and a new toothbrush and fresh tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Otherwise, the room was as clean as a whistle.”
“Which of course is suspect. You’d expect fingerprints all over the place—his, previous guests’, and the staff’s.” Jake pauses. “Anything not there that you’d expect to be?” he asks.
This stops me short. I hadn’t considered it that way.
“Let me think,” I say.
“Razor?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. There was a new razor and an unopened package of blades in his suitcase.”
“Comb? Brush?”
“Just a comb, in the bathroom.”
“Car keys? I assume he drove to the Westin?”
“Yes. His keys were on the dresser,” I say.
“How about his house keys? Were they on the same ring?”
I have to stop to think about that one. “It was a big bunch of keys,” I say finally. “But wouldn’t that bust him? He wouldn’t have keys to all three of his houses on the same key ring. Or would he?”
“He probably had other keys as well—keys to his clinic, keys to various rooms at the clinic, keys to his office on campus . . . having one or two others probably wouldn’t make much difference unless someone was looking for trouble,” says Jake.
Something nags at me while he talks on. What else would I possess if I’d checked into a hotel room? Clothes, check. Toiletries, check. Wallet, cell phone, and keys, check. But there should be something else . . .
“What about the room key?” I ask.
“What?” asks Jake.
“I don’t recall seeing a room key in the evidence bags. I’ll have to double-check of course. It’s not that I was looking for it.”
“It’s probably there,” says Jake. “He had his key to get into the room. It was probably such an obvious thing that you didn’t register it.”
“But it doesn’t hurt
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