write.
“Nielsen,” the medical examiner replied. “Dr. Frederick Nielsen. He’s been dead a day or two, from the looks of things.”
“And the smell,” Al added. “What about this receptionist? Who’s she?”
“Rush. Said her name is Debi Rush.” Doc Baker spelled out the receptionist’s first name. Al and I both wrote it down.
Just then a pair of crime-scene investigators bustled into the room. Bill Foster tackled Baker. “Hey, Doc, are you guys just about done so we can get started?”
“You bet. Give us a couple of minutes to get him packed up and out of here. Then the place is all yours.”
Baker summoned two of his waiting technicians to remove the body. I didn’t envy them their odious task. I motioned to Al. “What say we get out of here and go talk to the receptionist?”
Big Al Lindstrom leaped at my suggestion. He was just as anxious as I was to get away from the gagging stench. Grateful to breathe fresh air again, we retreated through the swinging door and hurried back down the hallway.
A uniformed police officer had pulled the plug and drained the reporters out of the waiting room. Arms crossed, he had taken up a position in front of the door. Except for the patrolman and Nancy Gresham, busily stowing her gear, the reception area was empty.
There was no longer any sound coming from beyond the closed door. I walked up to it and knocked.
“Who is it?” The woman’s answering voice sounded strained and weak.
“Detectives Beaumont and Lindstrom with the Seattle Police Department, Miss Rush,” I replied. “May we come in?”
The door opened slowly, tentatively. A buxom young brunette in a rumpled white uniform stood before us. Her eyes and nose were red from weeping. Streaks of makeup muddied her pale cheeks.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Homicide detectives,” I answered. “We’re going to have to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
Debi Rush swayed dangerously like a tree buffeted by a strong wind. She clutched desperately at the doorknob for support. I caught her and helped her into a chair beside a pristine rosewood desk. For a few moments, she sat there with her face buried in her hands while violent shudders shook her entire body.
“It’s all my fault,” she whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s my fault,” she repeated. “I never should have left them alone.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Nielsen and that carpet installer. They were arguing when I left.”
“About what?”
“He was late.”
“Who was late?”
“The installer was. He was supposed to be here by the time our last patient left at ten-thirty Saturday morning, but he wasn’t. Dr. Fred hated to be kept waiting. He was furious.
When the installer still didn’t show by twelve, I offered to stay late, but Dr. Fred wouldn’t hear of it. He said no, that I should go on home and he would wait. The guy came then, just as I was packing up to leave.“
“This carpet installer,” Big Al interjected. “What was his name?”
“Larry Martin. I wrote it down in the appointment book. He’s from Damm Fine Carpets over on the other side of Queen Anne Hill. Down by the Fremont Bridge.”
I nodded. “I know where that is,” I said. “Go on.”
“Dr. Fred lit into him. Said he had things to do, appointments to keep, that he couldn’t afford to be kept waiting. He said he was going to call the carpet store and see to it that the installer was fired. And all the while the installer kept apologizing. He claimed that his first job that morning had run him late and that he was sorry.” Debi Rush broke off abruptly.
“Go on,” I urged.
“That’s all,” she said.
“What do you mean, that’s all?”
“That’s all I heard. I left after that.”
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“Home,” she answered dully.
But something in her manner had changed, ever so slightly, enough so that it caught my attention. Her answer had come just a hair too quickly.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
“Over on Eastlake.” she said, giving us the address. “It’s cheap,” she continued. “But it’s the best we can do on my salary.”
“We?”
“My husband and I. Tom’s in the dental school at the University of Washington. Just two more years and he’ll be done. Then he’ll work and I’ll stay home.”
“You’re helping him through school?”
Debi Rush smiled wanly and nodded. “Getting my PHT,” she said. “Putting Hubby Through.”
The tenor of her answer bothered me. It was pat and meant to be cute, but it was out of place on the lips of someone who had just been crying the way Debi Rush had been. And it bugged me that she felt obliged to explain it to us. It’s an old joke, one that’s been around longer than I have.
“So you’re actually
Mrs.
Rush, then?“
She nodded.
“What happened this morning, Mrs. Rush?”
Faint color had crept back into her cheeks, but now it faded suddenly. “It was awful,” she answered.
“Tell us about it. When did you get here?”
“Five to eight. The time I always do unless the bus runs late. That was one of the things Dr. Fred insisted on. Be here on time or early. Don’t be late.”
“The office opened at eight?”
“Yes, although we usually didn’t start booking patients until eight-thirty. The lights were on when I got here, but the door was locked. I assumed Dr. Fred must have come in and then gone back out for some reason.”
“You didn’t look in the back room?”
“No. I had plenty of work to do out here.”
“And you didn’t go down the hall?”
Debi Rush shook her head. “I started calling to confirm today’s appointments. Then, just before the first patient was due, I went in to set up the tray.”
“What time was that?”
“Twenty-five after eight. Around then, I guess.”
“And that’s when you found him?”
“God, it was awful! All that blood! I couldn’t believe it. I mean, he was so alive the last time I saw him.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I called 911.”
“Right then?”
“I don’t remember. It must have been right then.”
“Our records show that the call came in at five to nine a half hour later.”
Debi Rush looked at me in seeming disbelief. “A half hour? Really? Maybe I was in shock,” she offered. “Or maybe I fainted or something. I don’t remember. The first thing I do remember is the aid car showing up.”
A two-toned bell chimed, telling us someone had entered the outer office. A moment later the uniformed officer knocked on the door. “Mrs. Rush, your husband is here.”
“I asked him to come pick me up,” Debi Rush told us. “I couldn’t stand riding home on the bus, not today. Not after what’s happened. Are we almost finished?”
