Chapter 6 - The Paper Trail
The regional hospital in Northport smelled of floor stripper and industrial chamomile.
It was two-forty in the morning. Emily was in room 314, hooked to an IV line of saline and dextrose, with a secondary drip of potassium to counter the electrolyte crash caused by thirty-six hours without clean water. Her ankles were bandaged where the rough concrete had abraded the skin down to the dermis. A nurse had washed the grease from her hair, and she was sleeping now—a deep, unmedicated sleep, her breathing long and regular under the stiff hospital linen.
I sat in the corner armchair, the vinyl cold against my shoulder blades. My notebook was open on my knees.
Frank Miller came through the door carrying two paper cups of coffee that smelled like scorched beans. He set one on the bedside table and handed the other to me.
"Chen found the stamp," he said, dropping into the second chair. It groaned under his weight.
"Where?"
"In Patricia’s vanity case. Under three layers of silk scarves. It wasn't her brother’s seal, either. It was a forged duplicate of a county registrar’s stamp from Albany. Daniel had it cut in a shop in Queens two weeks ago. We found the receipt in his glove compartment."
"Amateur," I murmured, staring into the dark surface of the coffee.
"They always are when they think they’re the smartest person in the room," Frank said. "He had a schedule typed out on his iPad. Margaret, it was... clinical. Step one: isolation. Step two: medication. Step three: execution of the revocable transfer. Step four: admission to the Cedar Crest facility under a voluntary committal signature."
"Voluntary," I repeated. The word tasted like tin.
"He told the intake director Emily had an acute psychotic break following the anniversary of Arthur's death. He had two forged letters from a Dr. Robert Vance—using your late husband’s surname to make it look like a family physician."
"Arthur’s brother died in nineteen eighty-four," I said. "He was a veterinarian."
"Daniel didn't check the state medical registry," Frank said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "He just pulled names from the obituary archives. He thought because it was thirty years old, nobody would look."
"I look," I said.
Frank let out a short, tired breath that might have been a laugh if we hadn't been sitting three feet from an IV stand. "I know you look, Margaret. That’s why I brought Chen out tonight instead of calling the desk."
He pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and laid it on my lap.
Inside was the silver chain Daniel had worn around his neck, and hanging from it, the platinum ring.
*Non omnis moriar.*
"The state police have Patricia at the barracks," Frank said. "She started singing before they even got her into the processing room. Blamed the whole thing on Daniel. Said he threatened to cut her out of the family trust if she didn't help him manage Emily. She’s already given up the password to his encrypted drive."
"Will the state attorney prosecute?"
"Margaret," Frank said, looking at me directly, his face lined with the deep, permanent fatigue of forty years on the road. "He tried to poison an archivist’s daughter on property held by an estate you’ve audited every year since Arthur died. The DA would have to be suicidal to drop this. We’ve got kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, assault with a deadly weapon, forgery, and grand larceny."
He stood up, his slicker rustling in the quiet room.
"Go home and get some dry clothes," he said. "She’s not going anywhere. The door has a guard until morning."
"No," I said. "I’ll stay."
"You haven't slept in twenty-four hours."
May you like
"I slept thirty years while that boy was growing up to be what he is," I said, closing my notebook and tucking the pencil into the spiral binding. "I have plenty of time to sleep when the trial starts."
***
