Working Stiff (12 page)

“It hasn't been easy,” I admit. “But I'm holding my own.”

“I bet you are,” he says with a smile. “You're a survivor.”

“Thanks, Lar. Listen, I could use a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need some info from the file on the Owenby case.” I see him wince and quickly add, “It's for Izzy, for our investigation.”

“You should really talk to Hurley,” Larry says, shaking his head. “It's his case and he tends to be a bit, uh, territorial about such things.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking fast. “How about if I just ask you a few questions and see if I can get what I need that way?”

He considers this a moment, then says, “Okay. Fire away.”

“What can you tell me about Karen Owenby's roommate?”

“Not a whole lot. Her name is Susan McNally and she works as a teller at Community Bank.”

“She's the one who found Karen, right?”

Larry nods. “She was out on a date and returned to find Karen already dead on the living room floor. She was pretty hysterical. We had the paramedics take her over to the ER.”

“Did anyone question her first?”

“A little, but she didn't know much. Frankly, she was in too much shock to be of much use to us. I understand Hurley interviewed her later on.”

I'd love to know what Hurley found out, but judging from what I've seen of him so far, I suspect he won't be too willing to share. I make a mental note to track down Susan McNally and talk with her myself.

“About the only thing worthwhile we got out of the roomy,” Larry goes on, “is that she and Karen were both pretty fanatical about locking their doors. Given that there was no sign of a forced entry, it's certainly possible, maybe even likely that Karen knew her killer.”

Another nail in David's coffin.
“One other thing, Larry. Hurley told me there is an eyewitness who saw David leaving Karen's house on the night of the murder around the time she was killed. Was it the roommate?”

“Actually, we don't know who the eyewitness is.”

“What?”

“Hurley isn't being totally up-front with you. We're not sure there even is an eyewitness. All we have is an anonymous woman who called to say she saw a man leaving Karen's house between eleven and twelve that night. She identified him as David, said she was a patient of his and that's how she recognized him. But she didn't leave her name and the call was placed from a public phone, so we have no way of knowing who she is.”

I'm beginning to see what a master manipulator Hurley is. “Thanks, Larry. You've been a huge help.”

“Glad to be of assistance. Anything, anytime. You know that.”

“You're too sweet.”

He blushes and his eyes sparkle. “Hey, listen. Why don't we get together some night for dinner or something? Catch up on old times.”

The invitation sounds innocent enough, but given my history with Larry, I figure it's better to play it safe. “I'm not much for socializing just yet, Larry. It's too soon. I've got too much going on, too much to digest.”

He stares at me and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “Please tell me you're not seriously thinking about getting back with David,” he says.

“I don't know what I'm thinking.”

“You know that Owenby woman was pregnant, don't you?” The pain I feel at his words must show on my face because he immediately slaps himself on the side of the head. “Oh, Christ, Mattie. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. I'm such a jerk. I didn't mean to throw it in your face like that. Besides, it was a stupid question. Of course you know. You work at the ME's office.”

“Yes, we know about the pregnancy,” I tell him. “But we don't know who the father is yet. It's possible that Karen was sleeping with more than one person.” My defense of David sounds feeble, even to my own highly subjective ears. Why am I trying so hard to hang on, grasping at so many straws? Why can't I just let David go?

“Well,” Larry says, chucking a finger under my chin, “I can see you're pretty ambivalent about all this. I just hope everything turns out the way you want it to, Mattie.”

“Thanks.” I lean over and kiss his cheek, then give him a wan smile. “Now, if I can just figure out what it is that I want, everything will be right with the world.”

Larry laughs. “If only it were that simple.”

T
he next morning, I call Lucien first thing and learn that David spent the night in jail and is, in fact, still there, pending his bail hearing, which is scheduled for ten o'clock. The charge, as Lucien predicted, is obstruction of justice. But he suspects the cops will later drop that charge so they can pursue a bigger one, like first-degree murder.

When I get to work, Izzy and I spend half an hour at the conference table sipping coffee and speculating about both Karen Owenby's identity and David's degree of guilt. Then we tackle our one autopsy of the day: a forty-eight-year-old man killed in a head-on collision with a semi. The police think the dead man might have been drunk because witnesses said his car weaved across two lanes of traffic before hitting the truck.

The impact of the collision broke nearly every bone in the man's body, leaving him oddly deformed, his shape compressed by the tons of steel that closed in on him. I take some comfort in the idea that his death was most likely instantaneous and hope he
was
drunk, at least enough to have numbed him to the horror of his impending doom. But that hope is dashed when the man's blood alcohol level comes back as zero.

Then Izzy discovers evidence of a massive coronary thrombosis and a lack of blood in many areas of the body, which means the guy had a massive heart attack and was most likely dead before he ever hit the truck.

It is a little after eleven and we are just finishing up the autopsy when a woman pokes her head into the room. She looks like a flower child right out of the sixties: straight black hair, big floppy hat, calf-length peasant dress, sandals, and a string of love beads that hang to her navel. “Hi there!” she says. “You must be Mattie.”

“I am.”

“I'm Cass. I work here part-time. Answer phones, file, that sort of thing.”

“Nice to meet you, Cass.”

“I have a message for you. Lucien called and said to tell you that your husband is out on bail.”

“Good. I think. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. And Arnie said he'd like both of you to come up to his office when you're done here. He has some information for you.”

“Will do, Cass,” says Izzy. “Thanks.”

“Well, that wasn't so bad,” I say once Cass is gone. “Arnie made it sound as if meeting Cass would be a strange experience.”

Izzy chuckles. “It is, but you'll get used to it.”

“What's to get used to? She seems just fine to me.”

“Wait until the next time you meet her. Then you'll understand.”

We clean up and head for Arnie's office. I can tell from the look on Arnie's face that he is excited about something.

“I have a tentative ID for the Owenby woman,” he says. “I tracked down a hospital in Kentucky where the real Karen Owenby used to work. Seems there was an operating room assistant named Sharon Carver who worked at the same hospital and who gave notice a few days after Owenby's death. Then Carver just disappeared from the face of the earth. There's no further work history, no bank accounts, no nothing.

“However, someone claiming to be Karen Owenby and using her nursing license was hired as an OR nurse in a Chicago hospital two months after the real Owenby's death. According to personnel records at the Chicago hospital, the work history that the fake Owenby provided conveniently excluded any employment during the period that the real Owenby worked at the Kentucky hospital. During an interview, the applicant apparently explained the gap in employment by saying that she took some time off to help a sick family member.”

“Good work, Arnie,” Izzy says.

“Thanks.”

“How did you figure it out?” I ask him.

“I just assumed that the person who stole Karen Owenby's identity had to be both someone who knew her and someone who had a working knowledge of an OR. I backtracked from the reference information the hospital here had on file for Owenby and noticed a gap of several years. Using the information from the death certificate for the real Karen Owenby, which listed her place of death as Ashland, Kentucky, I started calling area hospitals. Sure enough, I found one where she'd worked.

“So I asked the hospital if they had any employees who quit or were fired around the time of Owenby's death and they came up with two names: a man and a woman. The woman was Sharon Carver and she worked as an aide in the OR, which also happened to be where Karen Owenby worked. So I had the hospital scan and e-mail me a picture of the Carver woman from her personnel file. Had them send one of Owenby, too. Check it out.”

He turns to his computer and pulls up two photos side by side. I look over Izzy's shoulder and sure enough, the woman labeled as Sharon Carver looks exactly like the woman we knew as Karen Owenby but with lighter hair. The real Karen Owenby was quite pretty, I note, her features delicate and refined looking.

“How soon before we can verify?” Izzy asks.

“Sharon Carver has no prints on file,” Arnie explains. “And I haven't found any family yet. She listed parents as the next of kin on her job application at the hospital in Kentucky, but apparently the names, address, and phone number she gave for them were fake. No one at the hospital seems to know much about her. Apparently she only worked there for a few months. I've got some inquiries out to dentists in the area to see if we can find anyone she might have gone to. Other than that, I'm not sure where to go.”

Izzy says, “The application Carver filled out at the Kentucky hospital. They still have it?”

Arnie nods.

“Give this information to Hurley and see if he can get that application and check it for finger or palm prints. If we can match one up with the woman in our morgue, it won't be proof positive, but it certainly adds to the slate.”

“Will do,” Arnie says.

“The thing I don't get is why,” I say. “Why did this woman impersonate a nurse and take over her identity?”

Arnie shrugs.

Izzy says, “Drugs maybe?” He looks at me. “Do you know if there were any incidents of drug diversion at Mercy during the past few years? Maybe she was copping and selling on the street.”

“I know there was a problem back about four years ago, but they caught the nurse who was behind that one and fired her. Sent her away for rehab, I think. And she wasn't selling, just using.” I shake my head as I think. “I really doubt that Karen was involved in anything like that. She worked there for six years. If she was diverting drugs, someone would have tapped her by now.”

“You're probably right,” Arnie says. “But just to be on the safe side, I'll have Hurley check and see if there were any suspected drug problems at the Kentucky hospital around the time Carver was working there.”

“Another possibility,” Izzy says, “is money. After all, Carver was only an aide and they don't pull down much of a salary. So maybe she just wanted the higher pay that an RN gets. She paid attention while working as an aide in the OR, picking up tips, lingo, and techniques. Then, when the opportunity arose, she passed herself off as an RN by using the dead woman's name, license, and work history.”

“How'd she come about a work history if she didn't use the Kentucky hospital?” I ask.

Arnie says, “Simple enough if you think about it. Mentions of prior places could have come out in conversation. Plus, there might have been info in the obituary. Or Carver could have attended the funeral and subtly pumped family or friends for information about past jobs. Once you get a hospital name, it's simple enough to call the personnel department and say you're checking a reference. Most places won't tell you much without written permission from the employee, but they will give you dates of employment and often the area where the employee worked. That's all you really need for a job application.”

Amazing. Not only was Karen Owenby not really Karen Owenby, she wasn't really a nurse. Molinaro was going to shit a brick when she found out.

“You know, there's something else we need to consider,” I say, recalling my talk with Deborah the night before. I tell them what Deborah said about Karen's investment scheme involving doctors. “I have no idea what it might be,” I tell them. “I wasn't aware of anything going on while I was working there, but I might not have been in the loop. Maybe we can find out more at the dedication tonight.”

“We can certainly give it a shot,” Izzy says.

“Which reminds me. Can I leave a little early today? I still have to find a dress to wear.”

“Sure, if things stay quiet,” Izzy says. “Just promise me you won't try to do anything textured and pouffy again. That dress you wore to the mayor's ball last fall made you look like a giant puffer fish.”

Reload.

 

By the time I leave work I have just under three hours to find the perfect, non-pouffy dress and make myself presentable. Both of these tasks carry the threat of being overwhelming, if not impossible, although the latter is going to be less so thanks to Barbara's magical ministrations.

I hate shopping for clothes. Most women love it and treat me like a traitor to my gender simply because I loathe it. But then, most of those women are blessed with something close to a normal body whereas I am short-waisted, have arms like a baboon, and have thighs that rub together so tightly, I sound like a belt sander when I wear corduroy pants.

If I find a dress that's long enough for my body overall, the waist is usually somewhere around my hips. When I try to wear long sleeves, they often end up being three-quarter length instead. Tight-fitting or slim-line skirts bunch up at the thighs and make my ass look huge, whereas snug-fitting slacks tend to make me look like I'm heading out to the riding range in my jodhpurs. I have pretty decent cleavage with any bra but hesitate to wear the type of neckline that will show it off. The last time I did that, I was picking crumbs out of there most of the night.

I head for the only women's clothing store in town that has ever managed to provide me with passable stuff. Located just off Main Street, it is owned by a fifty-something German woman named Olga who is both tall and wide. Consequently, she carries a good assortment of clothing to fit women who possess either trait…or someone like me, who possesses both of them.

The first thing Olga digs up for me is a cocktail dress that fits snug to the waist and then flares out around the hips where the material is gathered in ruffled layers. It is sleeveless and has one halter type strap to hold it up. The color is a safe shade of beige and the flare of the skirt camouflages my thighs and hips—the same hips that David once told me were “obviously made for childbearing,” a comment that led to a weeklong case of no-nookie disease.

The dress looks fabulous on the hanger and I am excited as I carry it into the dressing room and slip it on. A quick glance in the mirror doesn't make me gag, so I step out, my expression hopeful. I do a twirl as Olga casts her critical gaze upon me. Two seconds later she gives me a thumbs-down.

“What?” I whine. “What's wrong with it?
I
like it.”

“Fine, wear it if you want,” Olga says, her German accent turning every
w
into a
v
. “But it makes you look like a cauliflower.”

I take off the beige dress and try on two pink ones, a hideous salmon-colored thing, and a teal-colored sheath that makes my skin itch. I'm getting cranky when Olga tosses yet another specimen over the dressing room door, this one in a shade of pale, silvery blue. I hold it up to my face and see that the color is very striking against my skin and hair, magnifying the blue of my eyes. I start to pull the dress on over my head when I notice the back of it.

“Olga, have you lost your mind?” I yell over the dressing room door.

“What's the matter? You don't like the dress?”

“It has a bow on the ass, Olga. A really big bow. I'm not wearing any dress that has a bow on the ass.”

“Come out here and let me see,” Olga says.

I pull the dress on, my jaw set in determination as I take a quick glance in the mirror at my profile. The bow makes my butt look bigger than Minnesota and it's a shame because, from the front the dress looks great—shapely, but not snug. The style is a good one that hides most of my natural flaws. Disappointed, I step out of the dressing room and stand sideways in front of Olga with a What'd-I-tell-ya? look on my face.

Olga turns me around, fiddles with my butt for a second, and says, “You are right. No butt bow.”

I sigh and glance at my watch. I've already used up nearly two hours of my time and I'm about to ask Olga what else she has when she snaps her fingers. “Gone, like that,” she says. “I take the bow off.”

“I'm pretty pushed for time, Olga. This thing starts at six.”

“Give me five minutes. I just need to open the seam, take the bow off, and close it back up. You can't spare five minutes?”

I glance at my watch again, and then take another look in the mirror. Other than the bow, the dress is perfect. I glance at the price tag. High, but within range. “Okay,” I say. “But hurry.”

“You know, I have a nice shawl that would go great with that dress,” Olga says. “Do you have a wrap of any sort?”

I don't and ten minutes later Olga has a big smile on her face, I am $278 poorer, and there are only forty minutes left before I am supposed to meet Izzy. When I realize I don't have any shoes to wear with the dress, Olga takes pity on me and loans me a pair of hers, which are half a size too small but look great. I hurry home, dress, and do a quick fix to my hair, all of it under the watchful eyes of Rubbish, who circles in and out between my feet, nuzzling my legs and mewing.

Izzy, who hates being late, shows up as I'm starting my makeup. “You about ready?” he asks.

“Not quite. I need a couple more minutes.”

He sighs and stands in the bathroom doorway watching me, trying to be patient, but tapping his foot and glancing at his watch every few seconds. Rubbish, who is sitting at my feet, suddenly gets up and opens the bathroom cabinet with one paw. He climbs inside, letting the door shut behind him. At the sound of the
thump-ump,
I laugh and say, “I see you've finally mastered it.”