[Lady Justice 06] - Lady Justice and Dr. Death Page 2

  “Changes? What changes?”

  “Well, as you know, Mary has always tried to run a tight ship. If someone screws up, she’ll get in their face, and most of the time the guys would go along, not because they were afraid, but because they didn’t want to get evicted.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  “Now they’re afraid! They’re REALLY afraid. No one really believed that the old gal would use that bat of hers, but after they saw what she did to that guy, they’re all believers --- every last one.

  “She even left the blood on the bat as a reminder.

  “The old hen is ruling the roost and has the roosters by the short hairs.”

  At that moment, Mary’s voice came bellowing from the depths of the Three Trails.

  “Feeney! Get your ass in here and clean this bathroom! I’m not going to tell you again!”

  We thanked Lawrence and hurried inside.

  Mary was standing at the door of bathroom number three.

  “Clean those yellow stains off the wall. I just don’t get it. If all you guys aimed your guns as bad as you aim your peckers, we’d all be speaking German.”

  That was an insight into world history that I hadn’t considered before.

  “Hey, Mary,” I said. “It seems like you’re doing OK.”

  Mary turned, grinned and gave us both a big hug.

  “Ain’t never been better.

  “I’d like to chat, but I got me a crew going and if I don’t stay on ‘em, they slack off.”

  “I understand.”

  Just then, Feeney’s head popped out the door. “We’re outta butt-wipe. Can you get us another roll?”

  “See what I mean,” Mary said. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  Back out on the porch two of the labor pool guys were engrossed in conversation.

  I picked up on a few of their comments and we stopped to listen.

  “Yea, I’m goin’ over to Crystal’s place tonight --- you know --- play a little hide-the-salami.”

  “You gonna practice safe sex, I hope?”

  “Safe sex? Of course it’s safe. I’ve hid it before, and I always found it again.”

  “No, fool! By safe sex, I mean you ARE gonna wear a condom, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think those condoms are all that safe. I had a buddy who was wearing one and got hit by a bus!”

  I grabbed Maggie by her arm and hurried her off the porch.

  I didn’t want to take the chance that what they had was contagious.

  It was still early, so we decided to just drive around for a while.

  We were just passing the new shopping center in the Glover Plan district when Maggie said, “Quick, pull in there.”

  We drove into the parking lot and Maggie pointed to a store.

  “We’re going in there.”

  I looked where she was pointing. It was Cell Phone City.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you need a new phone.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my phone. I dial a number --- it rings --- somebody answers. That’s what a phone is supposed to do.”

  “But the new phones can do so much more,” she protested. “They can text, take pictures, and you can even get on the Internet.”

  “But I don’t want to text! I arrest people who are texting while they’re driving.”

  “You have to learn how to text,” she insisted. “Sometimes I just want to give you a simple message like, ‘bring milk,' but I’m afraid to call in case you’re involved in something important.

  “Now get out of the car!”

  We walked in and were greeted by a twenty-something kid with a Mohawk, an earring and a lip stud.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “We’re looking for a new phone for my husband,” she said.

  He looked at me and grinned. “Follow me.”

  When we arrived at our destination, my mouth dropped open. There must have been sixty different phones to choose from.

  “Are you looking for a 3G or a 4G?” he asked.

  “Do you have one that comes with training wheels?”

  I didn’t think he got it. Kids today just don’t have a sense of humor.

  Seeing that I was a reluctant participant, he and Maggie engaged in a conversation about the virtues of the various phones.

  Finally, Maggie said, “This one is perfect.”

  Mr. Studley turned to me, “May I see your old phone? I can transfer all the data from your old phone to your new one.”

  I handed him my phone.

  “Wow!” he said. “How long have you had this dinosaur?”

  “I’m guessing that I bought it while you were still in grade school,” I replied.

  He didn’t get that one either.

  He hooked the phones up to a bunch of wires, pressed some buttons and in just a few minutes, the life had been sucked out of my trusty phone and transplanted into the new device.

  “Watch this!” he said.

  He pointed the phone at Maggie and said, “Smile.”

  Maggie gave him a sultry grin and he snapped her picture.

  He fiddled with the phone then handed it to me.

  “Dial your wife’s number,” he instructed.

  I dialed and Maggie’s smiling face filled the screen.

  “Now isn’t that just rad?” he said.

  I didn’t know about ‘rad’, but it certainly was ‘cool’.

  “It can do all kinds of stuff,” he said. “It has over 200 apps already loaded and --.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Just show me how to answer the damn thing, send a text and take a picture. That’s about all I can handle in one evening.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we left the store.

  Maggie had drug me, kicking and screaming, into the phone technology of the twenty-first century.

  CHAPTER 2

  Arthur Manning folded the newspaper and sat back in his chair.

  He had just read the obituary of his friend, Roger Beckham.

  The article had read, “Roger passed away in his home after a courageous battle with cancer.”

  The notice was no different than the thirty-two other notices posted that day.

  He had done it! He had succeeded in meeting death on his own terms.

  For the first time in days, he felt a glimmer of hope as he faced his own mortality.

  Two weeks ago, he had been diagnosed with ALS.

  He had noticed that he was having trouble with his hands, and when the cup of hot coffee slipped from his grip, he scheduled an exam.

  He had expected to be told that he had arthritis, but certainly not the dreaded Lou Gehrig’s disease.

  The doctor had told him that the condition was progressive and irreversible and had given him material to read.

  What he had read sent chills through his body.

  “The disorder causes muscle weakness and atrophy throughout the body caused by degeneration of the upper and lower motor neurons. Unable to function, the muscles weaken and atrophy. Affected individuals may ultimately lose the ability to initiate and control all voluntary movement.”

  Eventually, even the muscles of the rib cage atrophy, making breathing impossible. At that point a tracheostomy would be performed and he could look forward to being kept alive by mechanical ventilation.

  Not if he could help it!

  He had shared the news with his friend, Beckham, and in spite of the warning from Thanatos, Beckham had told him of his plan.

  Now it would be his plan. It was an obvious and logical choice.

  He picked up the phone and made the call.

  Thanatos was angry and disappointed when he hung up the phone.

  Beckham had violated a cardinal rule of the organization; he had told another patient.

  He had made it clear that all referrals were to come from within the organization and that to do otherwise could jeopardize the opportunity for everyone.

  Now here it was.
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  Manning was not a good candidate for their services because his disease was not in its advanced stages, but to deny him and risk being exposed was unacceptable.

  Thanatos had encouraged Manning to wait until the disease progressed, but he was adamantly opposed.

  So, reluctantly, he had agreed.

  He had given Manning the usual instructions to change doctors and make the final preparations for his departure, and a date was set.

  On the appointed night, Thanatos arrived at Manning’s home.

  Everything was in order.

  Manning’s condition had actually progressed faster than was usually expected and that would make his premature death more plausible.

  He assembled the Thanatron machine while Manning loaded his computer disk.

  After giving Manning the instructions for operating the machine and bidding him farewell, he paused by the door and watched as a beautiful array of sunsets and rainbows danced across the screen to Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto.

  His thoughts went back to another he had known who had died of ALS after months of excruciating pain.

  Finally, mercifully, his lungs had filled with pneumonia, bringing him the relief he had sought for so long.

  How, he thought as he watched Manning’s peaceful face, could anyone think that was preferable to this?

  An hour later, when everything had been tidied up, he took a last look at Arthur Manning.

  He knew that to many, he would be considered a cold-blooded killer, but to this man, he had been an angel of mercy.

  Quietly, he closed the door and vanished into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 3

  We had just started our morning patrol when the call came through.

  Another DOA.

  We arrived at the designated address and, as usual, the ambulance and another car were in the driveway.

  The same EMT met us at the door. “Hey, guys,” he said. “We gotta stop meeting like this. People are gonna start talking.”

  “Very funny,” Ox said. “Who is it this time?”

  “Arthur Manning. Sixty-two years old. He’d been diagnosed with ALS --- you know --- the Lou Gehrig thing.

  “His daughter is in there now. Watch your step. She’s a corker.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Lawyer --- never married --- and she’s got her panties in a wad.”

  “About what?”

  “Her old man dying. According to her, he wasn’t that far gone.

  “We looked around and didn’t see anything that looked like foul play.

  “Just giving you a heads-up.”

  “Swell.”

  A tall brunette in a crisp, no-nonsense pantsuit was standing over the body of her father.

  When I extended my hand, introduced us and offered our condolences, I noticed that her eyes were not red and swollen like I was accustomed to seeing in similar situations.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’m Rhonda Manning, Arthur’s only daughter.”

  I noticed that Manning’s fingers were pinched together in an unnatural configuration.

  “I understand that your father was diagnosed with ALS.”

  “That’s true,” she replied. “But that’s also what makes his death so unusual.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “People don’t die of ALS. They die of complications associated with the degeneration and loss of control of muscle tissue. They stop breathing because their chest muscles can’t expand to fill their lungs.

  “Dad just wasn’t that advanced yet. He had lost some control in his hands and his lower body was starting to be affected, but nothing life threatening.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Ox asked.

  “I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Let me take a look around the house while my partner asks you some questions.”

  “Who was Mr. Manning’s doctor?” I asked.

  She pulled an IPod from her purse and scrolled through some screens.

  “Dr. Franken. Here’s his number.”

  “Let me try to reach him,” I said. “When Officer Wilson returns, we’ll talk more.”

  I excused myself and dialed the number she had given me. After several minutes on hold, Dr. Franken came on the line.

  He confirmed that Manning was his patient and that he was being treated for ALS.

  He didn’t seem surprised when I said that Manning had died. His response was that people react in different ways to disease and that some bodies succumb more quickly, especially if the individual had lost the will to fight.

  His words were, “Often, when the individual gives up, the body does so as well.”

  He agreed to sign the death certificate.

  I got back to Rhonda Manning just as Ox was returning from his inspection of the house.

  “Ms. Manning,” Ox asked, “was the door locked when you arrived this morning?”

  “Yes, it was. I called, as I do every morning before going to the office. There was no answer, so I drove over. The door was locked and I let myself in with my key --- and found him like this.”

  “I’ve been all around the house,” he said, “and there’s no evidence of forced entry or signs of a struggle.”

  “I just talked with Dr. Franken,” I said. “He confirmed that given your father’s condition, an early death was possible. He’s prepared to sign the death certificate, so we can release the body and you can make your final arrangements.”

  “So that’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you’re going to do?”

  “Ma’am,” Ox said, “there’s no sign of foul play and with the doctor signing off --- there’s really not much more we can do.”

  “Oh, really!” she said indignantly. “Well I disagree. I want a complete autopsy, tox screen and all --- and don’t call me Ma’am!”

  “Yes, M --- uhh --- Ms. Manning. Let us make a call.”

  I went into the kitchen, dialed Captain Short and explained the situation.

  “So the daughter’s name is Rhonda Manning?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Rhonda Manning of Manning and Fitch. They’re high profile defense attorneys. “We’re always knocking heads with them in the courtroom and if our prosecutor doesn’t have his shit together, the guy walks.

  “The last thing we want is to get into a pissing contest with them, so send Mr. Manning to the morgue and I’ll authorize the autopsy.”

  By the time I returned and shared the news, Rhonda Manning was more composed and thanked us for our courtesy.

  We instructed the EMT to transport the body to the morgue and as we were all leaving, I asked Ms. Manning, “By the way, did your father have any final instructions for his interment?”

  “Why, yes. He will be cremated. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” I said.

  Two days later, the captain called Ox and me into his office.

  “Well, it appears that Rhonda Manning may have been right.

  “The initial examination of the body found nothing but a needle mark on the arm, which is consistent for a man undergoing medical treatment.”

  “I’m guessing that the tox screen showed something else,” I said.

  “Exactly. Four ingredients were found in Manning’s bloodstream; a simple saline solution, sodium thiopental which is a sleep inducing barbiturate, pancuronium bromide which is a muscle relaxant and potassium chloride which will stop the heart.”

  “So Manning was poisoned?” Ox asked.

  “Yes and no,” the captain replied. “These chemicals were no doubt the cause of death, but they are also the signature chemicals used in euthanasia.

  “Manning most likely administered the dosage to himself --- with someone’s help.”

  “So you think we’re dealing with a new Dr. Death?” I asked.

  “Who’s Dr. Death?” Ox asked.

  “Dr. Jack Kevorkian,” the captain said. “He was a pathologist who was best known for c
hampioning a terminal patient’s right-to-die by physician assisted suicide.

  “Between 1990 and 1998, he allegedly assisted in the deaths of one hundred and thirty terminally ill patients.”

  “Didn’t he die in prison?” I asked.

  “No. In 1999, he was convicted of second-degree murder and served eight years of a ten-to twenty-five year sentence. In 2007, he was paroled and died four years later.”

  “But his legacy lives on, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “Indeed it does. Euthanasia is still a very hot topic.

  “The majority of Americans are firmly against it --- mostly on religious grounds, but there are thousands who champion the death-with-dignity concept and organizations abound that are fighting for the right to control their own destiny.

  “One of the original groups was called the Hemlock Society, but it evolved into a group called Compassion & Choices. Then there’s the Death With Dignity National Center and several others.”

  “So is euthanasia illegal or not?” Ox asked.

  “It’s legal in only five states, Oregon, Washington, Vermont, New Mexico and Montana, but there are severe restrictions even there.

  “And that brings us to our current situation. It’s definitely against the law in Missouri and it would appear that someone out there is helping terminal patients die.”

  “Doesn’t this fall into the ‘victimless crime’ category?” I asked. “Kind of like prostitution?”

  “That’s not really the point, is it, Walt? If it’s illegal, it’s illegal. We may or may not agree, but it’s our job to enforce the law. We arrest johns and hookers all the time. This is no different.

  “Besides, do you want to be the one to tell Rhonda Manning that someone helped pump the suicide cocktail into her dad and we’re going to look the other way?”

  “I see what you mean. Sorry!”

  “You and Ox brought this thing in, so I’m going to have the two of you look into it.

  “There’s one organization that’s a bit more aggressive in assisting patients. It’s called the Final Exit Network. I’m thinking they, or an offshoot of the group, may have formed in the Kansas City area.

  “It’s going to involve a lot of grunt work, but it has to be done.”