The cop shrugged. “Near as I recall. We also talked to Dr. Fraelich, the doctor who was treating her. She confirmed that Jo Lynn had been prescribed antidepressants since her operation two years ago.”
“Oh! Here we go,” the district attorney said. “Yes, ‘killed herself.’ Exact words.” He pushed the sheet across the table.
“What kind of operation did she have?” Rhonda asked the sheriff.
Deke looked at the mayor. She wore a concerned expression that was very convincing.
“Uh, female problems,” Roy said. “A hysterectomy.”
“I see,” Rhonda said.
Deke glanced at the reverend, then back to Rhonda. Both these women knew that Jo had had an abortion a month before the hysterectomy, and Dr. Fraelich had helped with both procedures. Rhonda was fishing to find out what Fraelich had told the police.
The sheriff said, “Hormonal adjustment is how the doctor put it. She said it was perfectly normal in women to experience periods of depression after the operation.”
Deke said, “She’d stopped taking those pills months ago.”
“You know this for a fact?” the sheriff said.
“Maybe that was the problem: She’d stopped taking them,” Downer said. “Anyway, we’ll have the drug report this week and we’ll know if there was anything in her system.”
The sheriff said, “We know she was distraught. Her daughters said she’d been upset that night. Crying and whatnot.”
“Upset about what?” the reverend asked.
“They didn’t know.”
Downer said, “I got the impression it was just general weeping. Something she did a lot, evidently. If these kinds of hormonal problems affect menopausal women, who knows what affect it would have on a, a woman in Ms. Whitehall’s condition?”
The reverend leaned back in her chair. “What condition would that be?”
“I think he means the beta condition,” Rhonda said.
“No!” Downer said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. It’s just, I mean, even normal women-”
Rhonda raised her black-penciled eyebrows. “Yes, Roy?”
The DA stopped himself before he began sputtering. He’d learned at least one thing since the Sherilyn Manus case, then.
“I think we’re done here,” he said. “If we learn anything new, of course we’ll call you.” He started closing down the laptop. The sheriff stood, hands at his sides.
The reverend said, “The ruling, then, is that this was a suicide?”
“That’s what the coroner’s report says,” Downer said. “I can’t see any reason to overrule it.”
“What about the note?” Deke asked.
“Pardon?” Downer said.
“If it was a suicide, you’d think there’d be a note.”
“Not always,” the sheriff said. “Sometimes it’s impulsive.”
“Did you check her laptop?” Deke asked.
Downer looked up. “The laptop… yes.” He looked at the sheriff.
“We don’t have a computer listed on the report,” the cop said. “And I didn’t see one.”
“It was a Mac,” Deke said. “A little white one with a fish bumper sticker on it. She used it all the time.”
“It’s probably in the house, then. Of course we’ll look at it.”
As they left the conference room Rhonda took his arm and let the reverend walk out ahead of them.
“What’s that look about?” she asked. “You’ve got your Chief face on.”
“I don’t know,” Deke said. “The laptop. Plus Dr. Fraelich didn’t tell them-”
“Shush. Your voice carries like a foghorn. Tell you what: Why don’t we stop back at my office. I’d like to talk to you about some things.”
“I’ve got some errands to run,” he said. “Up in Knoxville.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, as if she knew exactly where he was going. Maybe she did. It was near impossible to keep a secret from Rhonda. And if she knew a secret, she never let you forget it. “I’ll just nab you when you get back, then.”
They passed the cop Deke had seen on the way in. The man watched them as they crossed the lobby. Deke ignored him.
When they were outside Deke said, “Nab me about what?”
“Paxton’s going to sign the papers for his daddy.”
She looked at him, waiting. She wanted to know if Deke was going to fight her on this.
“P.K. has to make up his own mind,” he said.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “Once I showed him the Home-”
“Either way,” Deke said firmly. “Either way, it’s his own decision. If he backs out, he backs out.”
“Well of course, honey.” She patted his arm. Her lipstick smile was unwavering. “You enjoy yourself in Knoxville, now.”
University Hospital was a maze of hallways like one of those haunted houses thrown together by the Jaycees every Halloween. Except he was the monster. When people caught sight of him they jerked in surprise and looked away. Deke resisted the urge to yell,
He followed the signs to the elevators. Not that he was going to take one. The carriage might be able to take his weight, but he’d have to squat on the floor to fit. He found the stairwell door next to the elevators and ducked inside.
The fertility clinic was on the eighth floor. The two women at the front desk greeted him by name. How was traffic? How’s Donna doing? Deke and Donna had been coming here twice a month for two years, and the staff was still trying hard to be as pleasant as could be.
“Sorry I’m late,” Deke said. “I had to ask three different women to get a sample.”
The youngest woman blinked at him, not sure if he was joking, then decided that he must be. “Oh, you,” she said. She whisked the bag off to the back of the lab. The other woman took a key ring from the wall and said, “I think the room is free.”
“Sure hope so,” Deke said. “Hate to walk in on somebody.”
She led him down the hall and unlocked a room. At the door she handed him a cup and lid that was a lot like the one Donna had filled, as well as a plastic, insulated sack to put it in. “Okay then!” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Well, he thought. Here we are again. Ready for romance?
The room contained a stand-alone wardrobe on wheels, a brown plaid couch, a coffee table, and a reading lamp. A door led to a small room with a toilet and shower. The drapes were closed, but bright sunlight peeled the edges.
He turned on the lamp, opened the wardrobe. Three of the shelves were piled high with magazines. He knew from past explorations that most of them were Playboys, some of them nearly a decade old. The kind of porn women would buy. A few Hustlers hid in the mix, probably left behind by clients who couldn’t get inspired by the vanilla stuff.
On previous visits he’d tried looking through the magazines. All the girls looked like marshmallow-and-toothpick manikins: bulbous heads on spindly necks, massive doughy breasts, claw-hands tipped with red fingernails. And those mouths, Jesus Christ. Lips like red rubber suction cups, and tiny pink tongues lapping over sharp white teeth. The girl-on-girl pictorials were almost too much to bear.
On the floor of the wardrobe were a stack of hand towels and an industrial-sized bottle of sanitary gel, the same stuff they rubbed on Donna’s belly during sonograms. He took the bottle and one of the towels back to the couch, set it on the coffee table. Then he reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded envelope.
Like everything else in the argo world, what didn’t exist you had to make yourself. Donna had been happy to do her part. She’d even gone to buy the digital camera and the printer that made little Polaroid-sized pictures. He removed the pictures from the envelope and laid them out like he was dealing solitaire.
He laughed to himself. Solitaire. That was the game, all right.
