Grave Matters

'What happened to senior citizens liking it warm?' Warrick asked with a little eye roll.

The long hallway was a pale institutional green, the overhead lighting fluorescent, the atmosphere sterile and decidedly unhomey-more hospital than hospitable. They walked past oversize, gurney-friendly doors that stood ajar, announcing a corridor where nurses and orderlies moved with joyless efficiency.

'Business must be good,' Catherine said, pausing to note the plastic chart bins attached to the walls just inside.

Catherine could see beyond those double doors into the nearest room, to glimpse a bedridden woman with black-streaked silver hair, impossibly thick glasses, and an oxygen tube in her nose; her skin was the color of wet newspaper.

Across the way, a frail old man with wispy hair, his eyes closed, his countenance peaceful, made Catherine wonder if the old boy was dead or just asleep. Without more evidence, the CSI could not be sure.

Still, it was clear to Catherine that no one down that corridor would likely ever, under his or her own power, walk out of Sunny Day into any day, sunny or otherwise.

Warrick paused, and something flickered across those private, somewhat melancholy features.

'What?' Catherine asked with a gentle smile, as they walked on.

'Just thinking-we see all kinds of people end up all kinds of ways, most of them reeaaal bad.'

'That we do.'

His sigh came up from his toes. 'This?…Is the worst.'

The door with the nameplate 'DR. L. WHITING, CHIEF OF STAFF' was closed, though muffled conversation within confirmed Vega's presence. Catherine knocked and a deep voice bid her to come in.

Catherine entered-there was no reception area-with Warrick just behind her, a formidable mahogany desk facing them. The office, also an institutional green, was less than spacious but not cramped, with a two-seater sofa next to the door, and the wall at left obscured by a credenza-style bookcase of medical tomes and family photos. On the wall at right, a few framed photographs taken on a golf course joined a handful of diplomas to intermingle with filing cabinets and provide this sparsely decorated office with a touch more warmth than a scalpel.

Pen and pad in hand, Vega occupied one of two chairs opposite the desk. The compact, broad-shouldered detective-he might have been a boxer or wrestler before his days on the force-was in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie loose; only the over-the-top heat would inspire such casualness in this tightly wound cop. His black hair cut short, sans sideburns, his eyebrows dark and thick over sharply intelligent brown eyes, Vega had a serious visage that made a lot of his brother officers wonder if the man had had his sense of humor surgically removed.

The two CSIs, however, knew Vega well enough to know that he did on occasion laugh-though seldom at work.

The man across from the detective had a build similar to Vega's, a handsome, even distinguished man of about forty-five in a white lab coat. His hair was the color of desert sand and neatly combed; he had dark blue eyes, high cheekbones, a deep Vegas tan, and the slightly remote expression of so many physicians. The straight, rigid way their host sat indicated he might have a bad back.

Physician, heal thyself,Catherine thought.

'Doctor Whiting,' Vega said, without rising, swivelling toward the CSIs and gesturing with his pen, 'this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown…from our crime lab. Catherine, Warrick-Dr. Larry Whiting.'

The doctor rose stiffly, and Catherine and Warrick leaned past the seated Vega to exchange handshakes with their host.

'Good of you to come,' Whiting said, his tone quiet, serious. He met Catherine's eyes and gestured toward the remaining chair.

'Thank you, Doctor,' Catherine said, and sat next to Vega while Warrick settled his long frame onto the sofa just behind them, sitting forward, any doubleshift tiredness wholly absent from his low-key keen attentiveness.

For a few moments, an awkward silence prevailed.

That happened frequently with CSIs, who often arrived in the middle of a police interview.

Vega decided to catch them up. 'Doctor Whiting came to work today and found…' The detective looked toward the doctor. 'Why don't you tell them what you found, Doctor?'

Whiting took a deep breath. He seemed very much like a man preparing himself to embark on a long, difficult journey.

'I've been here for almost a year,' he said slowly. 'That's not a terribly long time, of course, but I'm in charge of…how should I put it?'

Warrick said, 'The last stop on the line?'

'We are indeed the last stop at Sunny Day-the terminal cases, and those so elderly that constant care is required. My point is that losing a patient is hardly cause for alarm. It is, I'm sorry to say, business as usual. Routine.'

Catherine thought back to her own characterization of this call as a routine one, and wondered if her attitude had really been any better than Warrick's….

'So today, when Vivian Elliot died, and then your assistant coroner, uh, Mr. uh…' He looked to Vega for assistance.

'David Phillips,' Vega said.

'Today, when Mr. Phillips suggested maybe something wasn't right about Vivian's body, well I started thinking back, and wondering….' His eyes went from Catherine to Warrick and finally settled on Vega, as if hoping he would not have to say any more.

'Doctor Whiting,' Catherine said, with a smile that was really a frown, 'with all due respect, sir-you're all over the map here.'

Frustration tweaked the handsome features. 'Well…isn't it obvious?'

Head to one side, Warrick said, 'You're going to have to read us your prescription, doc, if you want us to fill it. We're just not making out what you mean.'

The physician ran a hand through his dry sandy hair and looked at Catherine with a kind of helplessness. 'You're right…. Obviously you're right. And I'm sorry, but this has just become almost…uh…surreal.'

'A patient named Vivian Elliot died today,' Catherine said. 'Why wasn't that business as usual? Routine?'

'But that's just it-Vivian wasn't a typical resident of this ward. She doesn't even…I should say, didn't even…live at Sunny Day.'

Warrick winced in thought. 'How does someone who doesn't reside in this facility end up in your ward?'

'It's not frequent, but a certain number of our patients are not permanent residents. Mrs. Elliot, for example, came to us from St. Anthony's Hospital. She'd been in a serious car crash and was looking forward to a long, slow recovery.'

Warrick said, 'So she was transferred here? For the kind of long-term care you people do day in and day out.'

'Exactly. And I can tell you, she's been doing well, very well!'

'Except,' Warrick said, eyebrows lifting, 'for today's little setback.'

Dr. Whiting whitened. 'Yes…yes. This morning I came in and-before I even got to rounds-she coded.'

Catherine glanced at Vega, then turned back to the doctor. 'Nothing could be done to save her? Don't people 'code' around here, all of the time?'

'Obviously, yes, but…' He shrugged and shook his head. 'She was dead before I even got to the room.'

Warrick said, 'People do die of old age-natural causes.'

Whiting gestured to a file folder on his desk. 'Seventy-one years of age…that's young for Sunny Day. And before the automobile accident, Mrs. Elliot had been in good health and, after time and therapy, was making real progress.'

Still confused, Catherine asked, 'This is tragic, I'm sure, and unusual for your circumstances…but, Doctor-I'm still not sure I see why we were called in.'

Vega turned to Catherine, gesturing with his notepad in hand. 'What do you say we start by talking to David- this is his red flag.'

'Fine,' Catherine said, and patted her knees. 'Where is David?'

Rising, Vega said, 'Let's go for a walk.'