Hospicetality
Introduction
This entry took third place in the Grif Stockley Mystery Award contest at the 2002 Arkansas Writers’ Conference (AWC). The theme for his prize was, “Short story, suspense; 2,500 word limit.”
I’m a fan of Grif Stockley, a popular Little Rock mystery writer. To place in his contest was a very big deal for me. In fact, I met him several months before the conference at a local function where he volunteered, and introduced myself and told him I would win his contest. He wished me luck.
Hospicetality also received an honorable mention in ByLine magazine’s New Talent Short Story competition in May 2002. The title to the piece then was The Hospice Death.
As I stated elsewhere, an honorable mention in ByLine is a major accomplishment, in my judgment, for a writer. The winner for this award lived in California. Second place went to someone in Wisconsin, and third place was Arkansas’s very own, Dorothy Hatfield from Beebe—a friend of mine. In fact, Dorothy and I have fun competing at local conferences to see who can win the most awards.
More recently, this story won an honorable mention in the Short Story contest sponsored by the Cleburne County Writers’ Guild at the 2004 White County Creative Writers’ Conference. The theme was, “Short story—any genre. 2000-word maximum.”
At the 2002 and 2003 Ozark Creative Writers’ Conferences, I entered Hospicetality in competitions that asked for the first few chapters of a novel. With some formatting changes, I tried to make the story appear to be a novel. This is another technique I use to recycle some of my stories into future contests. I also entered it in a competition at the 2004 AWC.
In my position with the Arkansas Department of Health, I work with funeral directors, hospice nurses, and coroners. The idea for this entry evolved from a possible hospice death scenario. I asked several hospice nurses to review it so that I was not unfair to them and their profession. These RNs have a great reputation in Arkansas and I did not want to give the reader the wrong impression. With a few changes they agreed that I had a believable story.
Hospicetality
Deputy Andrews answered the ringing phone, “Sheriff’s office … a hospice death? I’m on my way.”
Standing and adjusting his Stetson, he glanced over at another deputy. “Old man Rivers died out on County Road 30. Do me a favor and call the coroner—ask him to meet me, please?”
“Will do,” the deputy said. “I’m sure he’ll love me waking him at 3:15 in the a.m.”
“He ran for the job, he knew what he was getting into.”
Ten minutes later Andrews pulled off the paved highway and onto a gravel road. He knew he had twenty more minutes to drive. Anything to get me out of the office, he thought.
At six foot and two hundred pounds, he was above average height and weight. In his late thirties, he knew he no longer possessed the speed and agility that once made him the high school football star.
A full moon lit the ArkansasOzarkMountain countryside. The rural county was several hours from a city of any size. Not much happened in Jasper except minor offenses and the occasional death from old age.
His patrol car left a dust trail on the winding road. It had not rained in weeks and the hot night air felt like the middle of day. Ahead, he saw the decaying home of Mack Rivers. The man had moved to the area forty years ago, but not much was known about him except that he lived like a hermit in the backwoods. Acquaintances brought him supplies since he never drove.
A rusty station wagon was parked on the grassy driveway and Andrews could see a light in what looked to be the kitchen.
The woods crept up to the edge of the yard. Reaching for the front door he stopped as it was jerked open to reveal a heavy-set woman in jeans and a sweat top. “Took’ya long enough,” she said. Her lungs heaved breathily. He noticed a name tag that read “Glenmere, R.N.”
“I was notified thirty minutes ago and it’s a thirty minute drive,” Andrews responded.
“Is the coroner coming?” she asked sternly.
“He’s been called. Where’s the body?”
“Follow me.”
The house had few rooms. Mildew grew along the bottom of the kitchen wall and the wallpaper had water-stains from a leaky roof. Trash was piled in a corner and Andrew’s boots stuck to the floor as he walked across it.
The living room was dark except for the weak light shining from the kitchen. He could make out the shape of a few pieces of furniture and what looked like cigarette burns in the carpet.
The bedroom was the last room except for a small bath. An unscented candle’s flame wavered in a light breeze that blew through an open window.
“Here he is,” she said.
Ignoring the nurse, he walked toward the bed where Mr. Rivers lay. A tray with a partially eaten sandwich had been left on a chest-of-drawers. Flies circled about the food.
“Do you always check on your patients at 3:00 a.m.?”
“Sometimes.”
Andrews felt the deceased’s arm and it seemed cold—but what did he know. “When did you last see him?”
“This evening around six o’ clock.”
“And you went home and came back?”
“Yes.”
“What was he in hospice for?”
“Cancer.”
He looked at the deceased and wondered what type of cancer. Mack Rivers didn’t have that chronic look of someone eaten alive by the big “C”. He was pale and thin, but not like the living skeletons that Andrews had seen in other cases.
They heard a car drive up outside and returned to the kitchen. When the deputy sheriff peered through a small window he realized he didn’t know the slender man climbing the front steps. Opening the door, Andrews asked, “May I help you?”
“I’m the deputy coroner,” he said. “Bob Strayhorn. The coroner’s on vacation in Europe.”
“He is? I didn’t know.”
“He appointed me last year. I help whenever he asks.”
Before entering the house, he took time to lean over the steps and spit a stream of chew toward the ground.
Strayhorn followed them as they returned to the bedroom. Andrews reviewed the medicine bottles and jotted down several prescriptions. He then looked at Mack Rivers again. Stepping closer, he noticed a dark bruise the size of a baseball behind one ear. “Did he fall out of bed?”
“Not that I know of,” the nurse said. She never made eye contact, which irritated him.
Andrews reached down and felt the head. When he glanced at his fingers he noticed red. “This looks like blood.”
Strayhorn leaned over to examine the body. “He may have fallen, but from what I see in the records, I’d say he died of natural causes.”
“Wouldn’t it be appropriate to let the medical examiner look?”
“Let me think about it.”
Taking a few more seconds to look around, Andrews said, “I’ve seen all I need to.”
“We can take care of it,” Strayhorn said.
Working different hours came with the job, and a week later Andrews found himself on dayshift. While leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on a desk, he perused the local weekly. When he turned to the obituaries and read about Mack Rivers he swung his feet to the floor and hammered the paper on the desktop. Cremated! he thought. And the same day as his death?
The article stated that the only funeral home in town handled the service. He called and talked with the director.
Knowing each other from high school, they exchanged the latest gossip. Andrews then asked, “You handled Mack Rivers’ funeral, right?”
“Yes,” Mr. Booker said.
“A cremation?”
“Yeah … why?”
“I saw blood behind his ear. Strayhorn said he would probably refer the body to the M.E.’s office.”
“Well … uh…. I was just going by what I was told. The death certificate showed he died of natural causes—according to Strayhorn. The nurse had Power of Attorney and a joint account … she was the informant. She said Rivers wanted to be cremated. We do it all the time. I think he was one of those rich recluses.”
“Does Strayhorn work for the coroner?”
“Yes.”
“What’s a nurse doing with a Power of Attorney?”
“Apparently Mack Rivers has an estranged son. He attacked him a while back … or that’s what Ms. Glenmere told me when I arranged the service. She said the son had pulled a knife last year and was arrested. I believe a restraining order was issued. My wife’s sister is an R.N. She said most hospice organizations would frown on someone in their employment having Power of Attorney.”
“Thank you,” Andrews said.
When they hung up he punched several keys on his computer and waited for a response. Sure enough, last year Kevin Rivers had been arrested for pulling a knife on his father. It appeared Mack Rivers had no other surviving family. Andrews’ fingers worked the keyboard and he found that Kevin’s address was listed in Missouri, an hour’s drive away.
While contemplating the situation, he wondered why the deputy coroner had not referred the case to the medical examiner. It was frustrating. Anyone could be elected coroner in Arkansas … despite having little or no medical training. In fact, the only requirement was that he attend a demonstration on how to draw blood.
What could he do about it anyway? The body was cremated so there went any evidence. A gut feeling tugged at his soul. He called the county sheriff in Missouri and left a message.
He then called the deceased’s doctor and discovered the physician did not recall placing Mr. Rivers in hospice care, but promised to review the medical charts and call him back.
Finally he called Bob Strayhorn. “Why didn’t you refer the body to the medical examiner in Little Rock?”
“Mack Rivers died of cancer.”
“There was blood … and you said you would.”
“I said I would make a decision.”
Andrews hesitantly thanked the deputy coroner and hung up. I’m spinning my wheels.
Several days lapsed. The deputy sheriff sat at his desk thinking about the upcoming weekend.
Glancing down he saw his note that the doctor was supposed to have called him back regarding Mack Rivers. Frustrated he hadn’t heard from him, he decided to drive out and visit the physician in his office. Teach him to ignore a lawman.
Giving an intimidating glare, he demanded that the nurse tell Dr. Tilly he wanted to speak with him. The nurse led Andrews to the doctor’s office.
“Sorry I didn’t get back with you,” Dr. Tilly said. “I’m very busy.”
“So am I.”
“Again, I apologize.” Opening the office door, Dr. Tilly yelled, “Nurse Townsend … please bring me Mack Rivers’ file.”
Five minutes later the nurse handed him a folder thrown haphazardly together. “Let’s see,” he said. “Aha, here we go. It appears I had signed the paperwork placing him in hospice.”
“For cancer?”
“Correct.”
“Does the hospice nurse have access to your records?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
Back at the office Andrews had a note to contact the sheriff in Missouri.
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. “We arrested Kevin Rivers two weeks ago in Kansas City.”
“Thank you.”
Staring out the windowwatching the cars pass, Andrews remembered the notes he took the night Rivers died. Along the margin he had jotted down the names of several prescriptions lying on a table by the bed.
Rod Beasley was Andrews’ pharmacist. The deputy gave him a call. “What is Morphine generally used for?”
Beasley paused for a moment, and then said, “Basically it’s for pain.”
“Could it be used to sedate someone and take advantage of him?”
“Someone on medication like that can be swayed to do most anything. They wouldn’t be thinking clearly.”
Andrews next called the hospice agency where Glenmere was employed. “You’re right,” the administrator said. “She shouldn’t have had legal rights to Mack Rivers’ finances—it’s against our policy. That’s why she’s no longer employed with us. But technically as long as she has the legal documentation, I don’t believe she’s broken the law.”
Maybe I’m making something out of nothing? Andrews closed the small folder he created and filed it as inactive.
Humidity can sap one’s will on a hot sunny day in the Ozarks, and Andrews fell asleep in a hammock under an oak tree in his backyard. It had been some time since his last Saturday off, so he decided to make the most of it.
Time to hit the liquor store, he thought after waking. The Cardinals played on ESPN and he and some friends were going to enjoy the afternoon. The trip for beer would take an hour since he lived in a dry district.
The warehouse materialized in a clearing of trees as Andrews made the curve and slowed his vehicle. Signs advertising alcohol immediately appeared as he crossed the county-line. He pulled his vehicle into the first open spot of the filled parking lot.
As he exited, he glimpsed the profile of a familiar face. She had climbed into a new Ford Explorer. Shielding himself as the vehicle passed, Andrews saw through the windshield Nurse Glenmere driving—and Bob Strayhorn tipping a beer in the passenger seat! What the hell? I’m checking this out.
Lagging behind, he tailed them through the wavy mountain roads until they turned onto a logging trail that disappeared into the murky woods. Andrews waited for the dust to clear before following.
Ten minutes later he stopped by an opening along the mountain ridge where the trees had been cleared. He watched as the two climbed from the vehicle and strolled up the front porch of an immaculate new home overlooking a river valley.
We do it all the time, that was what Mr. Booker from the funeral home said. Were these a series of coincidences, or had the two pulled off the perfect crime?