Read Online Death Without Company by Craig Johnson - Free Book Online Page B

watched as his glasses revealed the multiple folds that did their best to hide the glint in his hazel eyes. I took my mug and glanced down at the pale, ghostly green numbers tattooed on the inside of his right arm where he had rolled up his sleeves. “Good.”
    “How is the shoulder?”
    I took a sip, and it tasted like kelp. “Good.”
    He continued to examine me. “Hands look good; how is the ear?” I turned slightly and took off my hat so that he could see for himself. “Looks good.” He continued to study me. “You’ve grown a beard?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t like it.”
    “Nobody does.”
    I broached the subject of Mari Baroja. He seemed genuinely moved by her death and stared at the faded print of the carpet. I studied the side of his face; his eyes were sharp with a little too much to contain. A thumb and forefinger came up, pushed the glasses onto his forehead and pressed into the sockets, rubbing emotion away. His features were strong, and it was like watching a roman emperor at the fall; I should be so lucky at that age. I waited a respectful amount of time. “Did you know her well, Isaac?” He didn’t respond, so I asked again.
    He didn’t move, the fingers still in his eyes. “She was not a happy woman. I think she had many disappointments in her life.” He took the hand away, readjusted his glasses, and turned to look at me through the imperfect world of the lenses.
    “Can you give me some idea as to the cause of death?”
    I waited as his eyes went back to the floor, then to me. “Walter, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
    “No.”
    “Why are you so interested in this woman’s death?”
    That set me back. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
    He actually reached out and patted my knee. “Even with the beard, you are a very young man.”
    I was flattered, I think, but still didn’t know what to make of his response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “She was an old woman who was tired of living.”
    “Are you telling me that this was a suicide?”
    His eyes sparked hard for a moment. “No, that is not what I am telling you.” He withdrew his hand; the skin was transparent, and I watched as the blue and red protruded in the fists at his lap. “I think she was tired and gave up.”
    “You knew her pretty well?”
    “She was my patient for more than half a century.”
    I took a sip of the tea out of habit and immediately regretted it. “What can you tell me about the scars?” He looked at me blankly. “The ones on her back?”
    He raised his head and nodded. “She was involved in an automobile accident a number of years ago.”
    “An automobile accident?”
    “Yes.”
    “The scars couldn’t have been the result of some form of abuse?”
    He turned and looked at me again, the picture of questioning disbelief. “What would lead you to think that?”
    “The Yellowstone County Medical Examiner.”
    His eyes widened. “You sent her to Billings?”
    “No, he’s here. His name is Bill McDermott, and he’s over at Memorial.”
    “Walter, it was Mrs. Baroja’s expressed desire that there be nothing done to her remains other than what was legally required.”
    “Well, it’s gotten a little complicated.”
    “Who did you say was doing the autopsy?”
    I sat the tea down on the magazines stacked at the table behind me. “New fellow by the name of Bill McDermott. He’s a licensed ME.” I waited for a moment. “So, you and Mrs. Baroja discussed the possibility of her death?”
    He seemed less excitable now. “I discuss the possibility with all my patients. I try to be truthful with them, no matter what the circumstance.”
    I leaned in. “Isaac, it sounds like you had a lot more responsibilities than that of family practitioner. Is there something you want to say to me?”
    I waited as he took a deep breath and noticed, not for the first time, how small the man was. “I lied to you just now.”
    “Yep, I know.” He looked at me again. “It’s something I’m pretty