This is part of the Brejcha Personal and Disability Resource Site. Welcome to:
©1998 F. Alexander Brejcha
(Originally published in the July/August 1998 issue of We, a magazine for persons with disabilities, their families and friends [a large, glossy, commercial magazine that straddles mainstream and disability lifestyles beautifully], I am posting it here as it is a story balancing a copings vs a non-coping person - both with M.S. in a wheelchair. It is part of a collection of some of my short stories and novelettes [2/3 previously published and 1/3 original] titled People First! currently under review by a major New York publisher [each story has a main character with a different disability involved in exciting or challenging things]. Warning: unlike most of my work, this is not a 'happy' or 'inspiring' story, but a 'cautionary' story written after consulting a surgeon at the hospital where I work [see my note at the end - after reading it!].)
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As Lieutenant Marsden wheeled himself into the depressingly small L-shaped living-room of the studio apartment, he scanned the room critically. He skipped past the slumped body in a wheelchair on purpose. First he wanted to 'read' the place. Ithad been a hunch on Captain Stewart's part to send him down here, since he shared disabilities with the decedent and had been trying for a break from administrative duties..
Murder scenes were always depressing, but this one definitely ranked near the bottom. Small curtain-less windows on the left looked out on a nearby bare brick wall of a warehouse, and a slightly larger window, straight ahead, was blocked by a tattered and stained roll-down blind. Surrounding him were bare and cracked plaster walls, painted an uneven slate-grey. The only decoration was a single calendar -- a month behind -- that hung on the wall to the right of the door. It showed a verdant Alpine meadow with majestic mountains forming a spectacular backdrop.
In a nook on the right side of the long leg of the L, partly hidden by partially shut louvered doors, he glimpsed a small Pullman kitchen. He wheeled over and pulled open the doors to reveal a tiny two-burner stove, a sink -- full of dirty dishes -- and a small under-the-counter refrigerator. In front of the kitchen area, under the window, was a twin bed that obviously doubled as a couch as there was a coffee table in front of it. But the bed was unmade, with a deep-blue comforter carelessly pulled up over it. By the foot of the bed, he saw a number of exercise weights on the floor, the dust on them obvious even from where he sat.
Considering that the decedent was also in a wheelchair, he backed into the short leg of the L to peer curiously into the bathroom that completed the rectangle of the apartment. The regular-sized doorframe was extensively scuffed and barely wide enough for a wheelchair. Inside, he saw familiar support-rails attached to the toilet, and a transfer bench just like his, sitting in the tub, extending out over the side so that someone could transfer onto it from a wheelchair and use the hand-held shower that hung from a hook on the wall. On the vanity was a plastic mug, in need of washing, with a toothbrush sticking out of it; a pump soap container; a comb with a number of broken teeth, and several medicine bottles. He scraped his way into the bathroom to get a closer look at the worn medicine labels. Keflex, Lioresal and Percodan. An antibiotic, an antispasmodic medication, and a narcotic pain reliever. The latter puzzled him a bit. He also had Multiple Sclerosis, and he had never had pain severe enough to require anything as strong as Percodan. He made a mental note to have the M.E. check it, and then backed out. Like the kitchen and the rest of the apartment, the bathroom needed a good cleaning.
Only the desk and twin three-drawer file-cabinets that took up the wall opposite the bathroom looked neat and uncluttered. As if they were not being used. The dresser next to them was piled with clothes, and a couple of drawers hung open.
He turned to face the living area again, eyes still avoiding the body that waited for him.
Sagging bookshelves lined the wall to the right of the door and extended around towards the bed. Actually, they were boards on milk crates. But they held a generous number of books. Most were carefully alphabetized and categorized paperbacks, only a few out of place. He rolled closer and leaned forward. He saw mainly murder mysteries and science fiction, but there was an isolated section that seemed to be more general fiction, and then another with "reference" books. Mostly popular writers on UFO's, psychics, self-therapy and such, but also a few heavier books -- in weight and substance. Gray's Anatomy, Dorland's Medical Dictionary, Robbin's Pathology, Harrison's Textbook of Medicine, and a nursing trauma manual. Had Kinniard been a hypochondriac arming himself with background? Marsden wondered. Increased interest in medicine was not unusual under the circumstances, but this was getting a little esoteric.
Next to the shelves, in a box on the floor, was an untidy stack of pamphlets and newsletters on Multiple Sclerosis, as well as several medical supply catalogs. And on the opposite end of the shelf from the medical books, were a few compact disks and a row of cassette tapes, neatly labeled and arranged. The disks and tapes were mainly jazz and some jazz fusion, leavened with a a little light rock on one end.
Curious, he looked for a stereo and finally found it. A good-sized "ghetto blaster" was plugged into one wall in a corner, a light showing on top. It was a fancy unit with four speakers, a compact disk player, a tape deck and a radio. It even had microphone inputs for mixing in sounds and everything. Marsden looked around and caught the eye of one of the lab people, pointing to the radio.
"Dusted?"
As he got an affirmative nod, he bent down and looked at it. The selector was set to Tape, with the volume cranked up to almost maximum. Carefully he popped the tape compartment open and pulled out the chromium dioxide tape it held. The recording tab was still in place, and he scanned the cramped writing on the label, deciphering the abbreviations. The tape held a selection of classical overtures: On one side was Beethoven's Egmont, which he loved, and Mendelsohn's Midsummer Night's Dream which was another favorite of his. The other side began with Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture, which he had always found to be too boomy for his tastes. He didn't have a good enough stereo to make the cannons sound like cannons, even if his neighbors would have put up with it! The way Tchaikovsky had blended bells and cannons and a full orchestra into an overpowering mix was guaranteed to overload a stereo and neighbors' patience. Closing out the side was Hector Berlioz's Le Corsaire, which Marsden could take or leave -- preferably leave. He slipped the tape back in the player. He knew which side he would have played: not the side Kinniard was playing, that was for sure.
Straightening up, he continued examining the improvised book case.
On the top shelf, next to a heavy crumpled-up dark-brown sweater that looked to have been carelessly tossed onto the shelf, were a number of dusty trophies -- for track and field. Both high school and college, mostly for quarter mile or mile runs. All bore the decedent's name -- Jack Kinniard -- and the most recent one was only three years old. Kinniard's M.S. must have developed very rapidly!
Then, turning, he finally looked at Kinniard's body. It was time.
Mentally, he reviewed the facts as one of the uniforms had given them to him when he first came on the scene.
The victim was Jack Kinniard; age twenty-six, and a high school track star, who had earned an athletic scholarship to a minor college. Very intelligent, but hyperactive and unable to focus on any particular area of study. That bit of information was courtesy of one of the neighbors who knew Kinniard reasonably well. He had been a fanatic about keeping in shape. He would get up at the crack of dawn to run, regardless of the weather. Then he had started having coordination problems, and had been diagnosed with M.S. His condition had advanced very rapidly, putting him in a wheelchair in less than two years. Twice as fast as Marsden's own condition had developed. Luckily Kinniard had been able to continue in his part-time job as a telephone operator, and even get some more hours. And equally fortunate, his apartment building was accessible. But he had withdrawn from his friends and neighbors as his condition progressed, and had gradually isolated himself. A sad way to end up: alone and almost unmourned.
Marsden studied the body.
Kinniard was slumped to the right side in the wheelchair, one arm hanging over the side, fingers curled up and just brushing the threadbare brown carpet. The other arm lay curled in his lap, one hand and the sleeve of his pale yellow shirt soaked in blood from the wound to the right side of the upper abdomen, about six inches below the nipple. Powder burns were visible around the hole in the shirt. His light grey slacks were also stained with blood, but there had been surprisingly little bleeding, and Marsden marvelled at the body's neat appearance. So at odds with the apartment. The pants were sharply creased, the shirt spotless -- well, almost -- and the black hair was neatly trimmed and styled. Almost like he had been about to go out somewhere.
He shook his head, adding the disparity to his mental file cabinet as he looked over the medical examiner, who was waiting patiently for the lab-team to finish.
Marsden caught David Chen's eye and waved the M.E. over. "What's the word, Dave?"
"Homicide," Chen was quick to reply. "Though sloppy. Single, small caliber bullet, probably a .22. Entry wound only, so if it isn't too badly chewed up, I should have a slug for you in a few hours. From the powder burns, he was shot at extreme close range, the gun almost touching the abdomen. Shouldn't take too much to do a post, I'll have a definite cause on your desk tomorrow."
Marsden thanked him and turned as he heard himself being hailed.
"Phil, what are you doing down here?" a deep voice boomed from the doorway. "Get bored with your desk?" Mike Collins, one of the detectives from the ninth district, was just coming in from interviewing neighbors in the hallway, and he greeted Marsden with a wide smile that brightened his ebony features.
"Nah, new policy," Marsden grinned. "The Chief wants more senior presence in the field periodically to check on you guys. Make sure--"
"'We do not slack up and thus fail to give the maximum effort for the taxpayers money'" Collins sonorously repeated the by now memorized words from speech after speech. "Spare me!" The young detective's precise and educated tone seemed at odds with the football player's body and battered face, but the combination was a good weapon to put suspects off balance.
Collins had been promoted to detectives at the ninth district six months earlier, and Marsden had developed a strong respect for the African-American detective who had spent his teen years as a gang member. The accidental shooting of his sister in a gang-fight had turned him around, though, and he had eventually found himself working for the very people he had hated for years.
It had been a fortunate career move, as he had excellent instincts.
The mutual battling of adversity he shared with Marsden had also helped forge a bond between them. Mike had had the demons of his gang-past to exorcise, and Marsden had been forced to deal with late-developing M.S. that had gradually paralyzed him from the waist down. He had gone out on disability for a while, sinking into a self-pity that had almost destroyed his marriage and his life, but finally it had dawned on him what he was in danger of losing, and he had snapped back. And with th A.D.A. and an exemplary record, he had been brought back on the force in a modified capacity.
Looking around, he realized how lucky he had been. He could have easily wound up this way. It gave him an uneasy kinship with Kinniard that made him determined to solve this murder, and he was glad Collins would be working with him.
He looked up at his friend.
"So, what's your 'read', Mike?"
Collins looked a little uncertain. "Cold-blooded shooter, but like Dave said, strangely sloppy."
"In what way?"
"The site. If it would have been a head shot, I would have called it a professional hit, even with such a small caliber gun. We've found no prints or clues, and no one saw the shooter. Witnesses heard the shot but no one was seen leaving the scene."
"Motive?"
"Still working on it, but we did find an insurance policy in a dresser drawer. Five hundred thousand--"
"How much?" Marsden was staring.
"Half a million. I know, that doesn't come cheap."
"Who's the beneficiary?"
"A Mrs. Mary Kinniard, his mother," Collins responded sourly, "or his wife. We have to check. But he doesn't seem to be married. No ring, no mark of a ring, no wedding pictures. No pictures of any women, in fact. Or letters." He shrugged. But we'll see. Maybe mom's real spry and hard up for cash..." he saw Marsden's expression. "Sorry Phil. You're right. Poor taste. It's just that something doesn't sit right. It was a pro hit, but it wasn't... and." He ground to a halt and threw up his hands. "I don't know. It doesn't feel 'right' in here," he jabbed a rock-hard belly with a thumb the size of a hammer-head.
Marsden ran his fingers through his hair to scratch the back of his head. "I know what you mean. Well, let's wait till we get the M.E.'s report." He turned to one of the uniforms at the door. "I want this place sealed and under guard, in case we have to come back." He turned back to Collins. "I'm not sure we're done with this place."
* * *
The next morning, as promised, Dave Chen dropped off his report on Kinniard's autopsy.
The bullet had entered around the level of the eighth rib, fragmenting slightly to tear up the spleen. The cause of death had been from internal bleeding.
From witness interviews, the time of the shot had been pretty well worked out to be around 8:30 p.m., but the body had not been found until after 10 p.m. because no one had known where the shot had come from. In pinpointing the time of death, Dave had noted some conflicting findings on his report. From the injuries and temperature, his estimate had initially put the time of death between 9 and 10 p.m., but the injuries should not have killed him that quickly. The only reason for the discrepancy that Chen had come up with, was that, in a normal, healthy person, the type and degree of injuries suffered by Kinniard would have meant that it should have taken at least a couple of hours for him to die. But then the coroner had revised the estimate because Kinniard was suffering from an advanced case of M.S. which would have weakened him.
Marsden filed the findings mentally, wondering also why Kinniard hadn't called for help after the assailant had left, since he had been alive for quite some time. But Chen's explanation was that Kinniard had probably been in shock. Possibly unconscious, or in a state close enough to it that he would have been unable to help himself.
Then Marsden pulled out the file that Collins had delivered before going out to do some interviews. The file was on the Kinniard family, with pictures from driver's licenses. Opening it, he saw that Mary Kinniard was indeed the decedent's mother. A lady so sweet, according to Collins, that the thought of her killing anyone, or even taking out a hit, was absolutely preposterous. She was a slim, fiftyish woman with black hair like Jack, slowly turning grey. Attractive in an undramatic sort of way, but with a tired smile. No wonder! All the expenses for Jack had drained her resources badly because he had had no insurance, and she was barely making ends meet. She was a widow, Jack's father having been killed in Vietnam, and the benefits she received didn't go far.
And then there were the two other Kinniards.
First there was Michael, who was year older than Jack. He worked as a stock clerk in a book store while studying to be a Physician's Assistant. A source of books before the M.S. tore the family apart? Marsden wondered. Michael had apparently used to come up and visit a lot, up to two years earlier, around the time Jack's M.S. started getting bad. Even borrowed the apartment sometimes since he had a roommate. He was a heavy-set man with chunky metal-rimmed glasses, apparently photo-grey since they looked almost like sunglasses, activated by the flash from the camera. He had one prior arrest, for drunk and disorderly, a couple of years earlier. Arrested at a bar in Jack's neighborhood.
Then there was Jack's sister, Theresa, who was two years younger than Jack. She was in school studying music, and was also a regular visitor. She and Jack had been very close, before his had M.S. progressed and he had shut everyone out. She was very pretty, with long pale blond hair, and a face that took after her mother's. She had one prior arrest, for illegal possession of narcotics. She had been caught with a small vial of cocaine when stopped for a traffic violation.
But both Michael and Theresa had distanced themselves from Jack and their mother because they felt that, as Jack's M.S. progressed, their mother had focused totally on him and had shut the two of them out. In initial interviews with Collins, they had said that they had pulled back from both Jack and their mother, because she had become oblivious to any requests for help from them. Not quite fair, Marsden knew, seeing from Collins' notes that their mother really couldn't afford to help them since she was helping pay for medical supplies and experimental treatments for Jack. Michael and Theresa had also mentioned that their mother was dating some man they had never even been introduced to, though Jack had been out to dinner with them. Another source of friction, there.
Collins had tapped that page and nodded, not needing to say anything. Marsden saw what he meant. If one was very cynically minded, and if Michael and Theresa knew about the insurance, it wouldn't take much to imagine one, or both, of them planning to kill Jack, wait for mom to get the money, and then arrange an accident for mom before she could get serious with the man she was seeing. Or, they might just wait for the shock of Jack's death to do her in -- she had a bad heart. Of course, that was assuming that the rift in the Kinniard family was serious enough to spawn thoughts of murder.
But as he sat there shuffling pages, he felt the return of the same nagging unease he had experienced before. He considered the contrast between the neatly organized music and books and the sloppiness of the apartment. And he thought about the insurance policy. He looked through the autopsy report again, and then reached for the phone and called Chen. It took a while, but finally he got the M.E. on the phone.
"I've got a question for you, Dave. Did you do a paraffin test on Kinniard's hands?"
Chen chuckled. "Suspicious, aren't you? I thought of that too. I wasn't sure how he would have been able to dispose of the gun, even assuming he could have handled the shock of shooting himself, but I did check his hands. And no. No gunpowder residue."
"He could have been wearing gloves."
"Would have had to be rubber gloves, like dish-washing or surgical gloves. Any others heavy enough to shield the hands would have been to bulky for the trigger guard.
"I'll check the apartment."
"Don't bother. Even if he would have had on gloves, there would have been powder residue on his sleeves, and he couldn't have changed shirts, he was definitely in the shirt he was wearing when--"
"And no residue on the shirt sleeves either, I take it?"
"You got it. Sorry. I thought of it when you mentioned the insurance policy. It has the standard suicide voiding clause, so he would have had to make it look like an accident, or murder. In his condition, faking a convincing accident would be hard since the best kinds involve cars and he didn't have one. Making suicide look like murder would have been good. Except it couldn't have been suicide--"
"What about the Percodan we found? It could have blocked the pain in high doses--"
"Uh uh," Chen stopped him. "Tissue saturation shows that he has been on Percodan for quite some time, and I contacted his doctor to confirm it. He has had a lot of pain associated with spasticity."
"Hmmm," Marsden growled. He had heard that some people did. "Well, just checking options." But he could almost see Chen shaking his head as the M.E. responded.
"Think about it, Phil. Assume that he shot himself. Do you then expect him to do that, and then calmly go out and proceed to somehow dispose of the gun and rubber gloves, and I'm sure the area was already scoured for the gun--"
"Last night, and again today." Marsden cut him off bruskly. "Nothing!"
"Precisely. No, he was murdered, and it's up to you to find whoever did it."
"Yeah, I know, thanks," Marsden commented sourly as he hung up, eyes falling on the page describing Kinniard's brother and sister. Chen was right. There was no easy out on this one.
Out in the squad room he caught a glimpse of a looming figure and yelled out, "Mike, get in here!"
Moments later the doorway was blocked and a large hand was held up to stop Marsden's question. "No alibi for either Theresa or Michael Kinniard. He was home alone watching TV, and she was in her apartment, studying."
Marsden stared into space. "All right, cover both of them and check neighbors, delivery people, anyone who might have seen them. Either going out when they were supposedly in, or who can confirm that they were in between 8:30 and 10."
Collins nodded and went back out to collar a couple of detectives, leaving Marsden staring unseeingly at the file in front of him, juggling mental puzzle-pieces. Then, after a few minutes, he decided. It was time to head back to Jack's apartment.
But as he headed for the door he found his way blocked by Collins' massive body, casually leaning against the wall. "Going somewhere without me, Phil? Like back to the apartment to see what you can find?"
"What about--"
"Taken care of. I've got four detectives hitting both neighborhoods. They don't need me. Besides, I think the answer is back at the apartment too. Both Michael and Theresa had keys, probably." The two men studied each other, thoughts whirling in similar patterns, and almost as one they turned and headed down the hallway to the elevator, virtually blocking the wide corridor as they moved side by side.
* * *
Hours later they turned to each other again. The room seemed undisturbed, but each had subjected his half of the apartment to a literal inch-by-inch inspection. With neither finding anything. Marsden was stopped by the stereo on the floor, a teasing thought moving him to kneel by it and pull out the tape again. Thoughtfully he studied it, eyes flashing to the other tapes on the shelf. He turned. "Hey Mike, what would you say about a guy who has all these jazz, fusion and rock tapes, but only has one classical tape."
The dark-brown face cracked in a grin. "Culturally deprived. Of course he needs to pick up some other music, too. Give James Brown," he growled the name, "a listen." Then the expression turned serious. "What's the tape?" Marsden handed it over and Collins inspected it curiously. "Sorry, I enjoy some classics, but I'm afraid jazz is more my style. Something about this mean something to you?"
Marsden nodded. "Yes, the tape looks to be somewhere near the end of the 1812 Overture."
Collins' face was blank as he shrugged. "Sorry, doesn't mean anything to me. But if you think it's important, play it. Back up just a few seconds, and play it."
Marsden inserted the tape into the player and hit 'rewind' for a moment, and then 'play'. It was the close of the orchestral crescendo of the last movement, punctuated by the solitary and loud, distorted booming of cannons. Then it faded out into silence before the next piece began. Berlioz's La Corsaire. He hit the stop button and rewound the tape with a careful eye on the counter, stopping it where he started before. For several minutes he hunched where he was, eyes fixed on the boom box, a smile creeping onto his face. Then he looked up and scanned the room, eyes pausing on the top shelf. His smile grew wider. Collins obviously saw his expression, because out of the corner of his eye, Marsden saw the other detective move closer. Again he hit play and the music was replaced by booming thunder. But this time Marsden hit the stop button immediately, cutting off the tape and leaving a single resounding cannon explosion echoing through the tiny room.
A sound startlingly like a gunshot when heard through the inadequate speakers of the boom-box!
Marsden's eyes rose and met Collins'.
Collins' face bore dawning understanding. "It was suicide."
Marsden nodded. "I suspected it in the back of my mind. It just didn't feel like a murder." And there is another clue. The 1812 overture doesn't have single cannon shots like that, but blends the cannons in with a full orchestra and bells.
But this tape is different. Marsden pointed to the microphone inputs. "He did a little creative recording, hidden in the music.
"It was suicide." Marsden went on as he waved around the room. "You saw it too. You just didn't realize it, but you knew. Look at this room. It's a mess. And yet the books and tapes are neat. The box of information there," he pointed to the pamphlets and catalogs, "is unorganized, but the books and records are neatly categorized and alphabetized, except a few out of order. Recent selections probably. All the old is neat, all the new, a mess. His trophies and weights gathering dust."
He paused. Rolling over to the window, he looked out at the bleak wall. "Imagine being a star athlete, and then suddenly loosing that. Going from being a championship runner to a wheelchair in just a short time, and living here, unable to afford moving. It's one thing when you get out, run, keep active, have friends and family. But then suddenly, you're stuck in here, restricted to this one room--"
"He could have gotten out and around--"
"But he didn't!" Marsden spun back to glare up at Collins. "Hell, I didn't! Not for months. It's not that easy. If it hadn't have been for Lily, I might have wound up like this, myself. Whoever his doctor was, apparently didn't see fit to give any counseling, or to refer him anywhere. Kinniard probably saw some overworked resident in a clinic. And it didn't help that the doctor just kept prescribing drugs!" Marsden frowned as he went on.
"So, as things get worse, Kinniard starts thinking more and more about the futility of life. He gets an insurance policy and starts planning the best way to end things. He's very close to his mother since she's been helping him and standing by him, while both his brother and sister have seemed to desert him." He turned his chair around again to look out at the depressing brick facade across the alley.
"This place doesn't help, you know." He turned around. "But to settle things, he has to make it look like murder. So he starts planning. Remember, this is a smart guy we're talking about here. He has time. He can't do it for a while anyway or the policy won't pay. So he works on a plan, and prepares--"
"The medical books!" Collins walked over to the bookshelf. "Anatomy and general medicine--"
Marsden joined his friend and shuffled through the books. "And a trauma training manual, and a pathology book that goes into explicit detail about gunshot wounds. He studied up, found where he could shoot himself so that he would have time to dispose of the gun, gloves, and whatever he used to shield his shirt sleeves. He already had a strong pain-killer, and probably took a good hefty dose before shooting himself, knowing that a background check would show that he'd been using it for a
while --"
"We had the chronology wrong," Collins burst out.
"Exactly."
Collins' brow furrowed in thought. "So he shoots himself somewhere else, maybe with a silencer, and disposes of the gun and such --"
"Probably in a trash-can so a pick-up will take it even further away."
"Right." Collins nodded. "Then comes back here. I'd say your theory was crazy, except we're dealing with a mile runner, here. Someone used to painful endurance tasks. And," he nodded in the direction of the books, "he's a mystery buff, steeped in convoluted plots of mayhem." Collins was nodding slowly, pacing rapidly around the apartment as he pieced together what must have happened. "So he comes back here after he's shot himself... he'd have to conceal the wound somehow," Collins looked around.
Marsden spun to one side intently and reached for the sweater tossed next to the trophies. "Dark brown, so blood stains wouldn't show!" He tossed it to Collins. "Have the lab check for blood."
Collins snagged the sweater out of mid-air and held it to his nose, after looking at it carefully. "You got it! Take it from an ex-gang member, there's blood on this. And I smell gun-powder. He must have used this, first to shield his arms when he shot himself," he hefted the sweater before tossing it back to Marsden. "It's thick enough. And it might have muffled the sound a bit, too. Then he put it on to conceal the wound." He looked at the white tape on the floor thoughtfully. "Then he comes back here, and by now he's probably getting tired, and he's hurting real bad even though he took a heavy dose of pain-killer. My God!" Collins voice was full of undisguised admiration. "Talk about endurance!"
"Wasted endurance," Marsden snapped. "When I think what he could have done with that kind of strength!"
"Yeah," Collins frowned. "Unfortunately he didn't. Instead he forced himself back here. Probably getting real weak by this time, so he doesn't want to waste time putting away the sweater. He probably figures no one will pay it much mind up on the shelf, and just tosses it up there, and cranks up the volume on the tape player and turns it on for a second at around 8:30. He would have already picked the right spot on the tape, so he just lets off the cannon sound, and then cuts the player off again. And then he waits." Collins was staring at the tape lines on the carpet, shaking his head. "He was probably hoping people would come at the sound and find him so he could give a fanciful description of an attacker before loosing consciousness. But no one comes for a long time, not realizing where the sound came from, or not caring --"
"-- and so he dies, alone." Marsden finished up.
The phone suddenly rang, startling both of them, and embarrassed, Marsden wheeled over to answer it, nodding and grunting briefly before hanging up and turning back to Collins.
"Preliminary report from your troops. Both Michael and Theresa can be pretty definitely ruled out. The brother had a pizza delivered, and the girl got a phone call from a neighbor she forgot to mention."
"Well, we ruled out murder, anyway." Collins shrugged. "But it's nice to get confirmation. And mother's boyfriend?"
"Playing bridge with mom at the neighbors."
"So now what?" Collins looked unhappy. "We just destroyed his plan, and lost his mom the insurance claim by proving suicide."
Marsden picked the sweater off his lap and threw it back up on the shelf. "Proved to whom? And what's with 'proved'? A friendly intellectual game of speculation that doesn't conclusively, legally, prove anything." Marsden stressed the words, as he looked around the dismal apartment. "What do you think the odds are of anyone else being twisted enough to figure this out, if we don't push it?"
Collins' nodded slowly, seriously. "Well, now that you mention it..." his voice trailed off and he headed for the door.
Marsden took a last look around, and then followed Collins, suddenly feeling very tired. He had a sudden urge to call Lily, to tell her how much he loved her.
- end -
NOTE: This story was written as a cutionary tale to warn people about succumbing to the MonSter of depression that is a constant danger with any condition like M.S.
When I first conceived of the story, I needed a delayed-action suicide so I could set up the 'crime scene'. So (unable to resist having a little fun), I approached a surgeon at the hospital where I work after he finished the clinical part of his 'breakfast with the interns' morning. I rolled up to him and asked: "Hey 'Frank' (name changed), I want to kill myself, but I want it to take a while to die. I was thinking of a small caliber abdominal gunshot to the spleen."
All the interns stared at me, unwilling to believe what I was asking.
But then 'Frank' nodded sagely, and agreed. "Sounds good. Aim right around the eighth rib..." and then he proceeded to show me how to hold the gun.
Now the interns' outrage turned on the surgeon as they couldn't believe 'Frank' was actually helping me.
Of course, he knew that I was a writer, and was well aware I was messing with his interns, and he knew I knew he would enjoy playing along.
So we both had a little fun teasing a crop of interns getting a little pretentious with their new 'doctor' status.
Lesson: Never let yourself pass up an opportunity to have some fun, and don't get too serious about what we face. Humor IS good medicine!
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