As I walk through the ER doors, I can feel that familiar surge of excitement thrumming just below my skin. The air here always feels different. Today it sounds and smells different, too. Instead of the typical antiseptic smells, there is a distinct odor of feces in the air, and the low thrum of heart monitors, vital sign machines, and soft-soled shoes has been replaced by the sounds of a woman screaming like a banshee from behind one of the curtains. A nurse sitting behind the desk, a veteran ER warrior of some twenty-plus years named Debbie Hanson, greets me.
“Mattie! Welcome to the madhouse.”
I smile and nod toward the noise. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s a major Code Brown,” Debbie says, lowering her voice. “She’s been on Vicodin for a month without any stool softener and now her bowels are backed up to her eyeballs.”
The screaming reaches a new crescendo and then suddenly stops, replaced by exhausted panting. A moment later, one of the ER techs emerges from behind the screaming woman’s curtain carrying the bucket from a bedside commode. Debbie hops up and walks over to the tech.
“Let me see,” Debbie says.
The tech proffers the bucket and a pungent fecal smell permeates the air.
“Wow,” Debbie says with a look of respect. “I might have to give that one a name and an Apgar score.” She looks over at me. “Want to see?”
“No, thanks.”
Debbie hands the bucket back to the tech and says, “Don’t even try to flush that down the hopper without breaking it up first or we’ll be mopping for the rest of the day.”
The tech nods, makes a face of disgust, and disappears into the dirty utility room carrying her prize. Debbie shakes her head with amazement. “I think that one might have set a record,” she says, stepping back behind the desk and plopping down in front of a computer to make an entry in the patient’s chart. “So what brings you here?” she asks as she types.
“I was hoping to talk to Erik Tolliver about what happened to his wife, Shannon.”
Debbie frowns. “Oh, yeah, I heard about that. Scary stuff.” She pauses and her eyes grow big. “Do you think Erik did it?”
I shrug, not willing to commit one way or the other. “It’s very early in the investigation. I’m still trying to sort through the preliminaries.”
She nods thoughtfully. “How’s the new job going? Do you like it?”
“I do,” I answer honestly. “Like anything new, it has a learning curve and an adjustment period, but so far I’m enjoying it.”
“Good,” Debbie says. “And today your job is a little easier because it just so happens Erik is down here doing a portable in room twelve.”
This is a stroke of luck. “Do you guys have an empty room we can use for a few minutes?”
“Sure. Take the ENT room.”
The ENT room, or ear, nose, and throat room, is one of the few beds in the ER that is contained inside its own room and has a real door as opposed to a giant shower curtain for privacy. Kind of ironic when you consider that it’s typically the only room that doesn’t require the exposure of delicate body parts during treatment.
I stake out room twelve, waiting for Erik, and moments later he emerges, pushing his portable X-ray machine. When he sees me his first impulse is to smile and say hi, but before the word leaves his lips he remembers I’m no longer a coworker, and possibly no longer a friend. His smile fades.
“Hi, Erik,” I say, trying to sound nonthreatening and friendly. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes about Shannon.”
“I’m pretty busy,” he says, pushing his way past me and parking his machine in the hallway.
“Please?”
Something in my voice strikes home because he stops.
“Look, Erik, I’m just trying to figure out the facts here. I’m not making any judgments, I’m just gathering information. I want to find out who did this to Shannon.”
He turns to face me and I see the faint sheen of tears in his eyes. “I didn’t kill her,” he says in a low voice. “But I sure as hell would love to kill the bastard who did.”
“Then talk to me,” I plead. I gesture toward the ENT room and he walks that way, his head hung low. Once we’re inside he sinks into a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
I lean against the wall and give him a minute to collect himself. Then, as gently as possible, I say, “Talk to me Erik. Give me your thoughts on all of this.”
He looks up at me with a surprised expression.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head and smiles. “I was expecting more of a third degree, not a request for my thoughts.”
I shrug. “I figure you knew Shannon better than anyone else and might have some insight into what was going on in her life recently.”
“First tell me honestly. Do you think I did this?” He is watching me closely, no doubt to gauge the sincerity of whatever answer I give him.
“No, I don’t,” I answer without hesitation, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ve known you since grade school and I can’t imagine the guy I know you to be doing something like this. But I’m well aware that people keep secrets, dirty little secrets that hide aspects of their personalities and lifestyles that most people will never know. I’ve been fooled by people who were much closer to me in life than you are, so let me caveat my answer by saying that I’m only about ninety percent sure you didn’t do it.”
He considers my answer and nods. “You’re right. Everyone has secrets. Just when you think you know someone . . .” His voice trails off and we exchange knowing glances. Erik, like everyone else who works at the hospital, is well aware of my recent history with David and it seems that the destruction of our respective marriages has created an odd sort of bond between us.
“So tell me your thoughts,” I say again. “Why would anyone kill Shannon?”
Erik shakes his head and stares miserably at his feet. “I wish I knew. The only person I can think of is this shrink she was dating. He strikes me as a shady character but I realize I’m biased.”
I nod thoughtfully, acknowledging his prejudice. “What is it about him that you don’t like, other than the obvious?”
Erik shrugs. “He’s got veiled eyes. You know what I mean, the kind of eyes that always look like they’re hiding something. And he never answers a question directly. Instead he always asks another question.”
This doesn’t surprise me and I’m not sure I agree with Erik’s assessment. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors in general are trained to answer questions with questions. It’s a standard tool taught in Psych 101. What Erik is interpreting as veiled eyes may simply be Nelson’s attempt to look objective and impassive when others are talking to him.
“How long had Shannon been dating him?”
“A couple months, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did she share any thoughts about him with you?”
He looks sheepish. “We didn’t discuss him much. I admit I had a tendency to get rather, um, emotional whenever the topic arose.”
“Understandable,” I say. Then I quickly shift gears on him. “Shannon was shot with a .38 and Detective Hurley says you own one.”
Erik nods. “They came early yesterday morning and tore my place apart looking for it and any other evidence.”
“Did they find any?”
“How could they? I didn’t do this, Mattie.”
“So where is the gun?”
“I left it with Shannon.” He pauses and lets forth a pained, ironic laugh. “I figured she could use it for protection since she was living alone. She said she was afraid of the stupid thing and would never touch it, but I left it with her just the same and suggested that she get some lessons on how to use it.”
