“Aggressive?” said Milo.
“Just the opposite—passive, spaced-out, slurred speech, trouble focusing. Her motor skills were affected, too. She’d stumble, trip—is that what happened to her? Did she fall and hit her head?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” said Milo.
“Someone did this to her.”
“We don’t know yet, sir.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Witherspoon.
Milo took out his pad. “Who’s the doctor who evaluated her when she bled on the sheets?”
“We use several, all volunteers. I think this time it was Hannah Gold. She’s got an office on Highland. It was only one time, she never established a relationship with Erna. No one did. We could never reach her.”
Witherspoon’s shoulders rose and fell. “God gives and takes away, but there’s plenty we humans do in the interim that affects the journey.”
“What do you know about Ms. Murphy’s family history?”
“Nothing,” said Witherspoon. “She never opened up.”
I said, “Did she have any friends? Connect with any of the other residents?”
“Not that I saw. To be honest, most of the other women were afraid of her. She was large, could come across threatening if you didn’t know.”
“How so?”
“Lurching around,” said Witherspoon. “Mumbling to herself. Seeing things.”
“What did she see?” said Milo.
“She never put it into words, but from the way she behaved—standing there and pointing and moving her lips—you could tell she was frightened. Was seeing something that frightened her. But she wouldn’t accept comfort.”
“So the other women were afraid of her.”
“Maybe I overspoke,” said Witherspoon. “More nervous than afraid. She never caused a problem. Sometimes she’d go off in a corner, get agitated, start mumbling and shaking her fist. When she did that, everyone gave her space. But she never aggressed against anyone. Sometimes she’d punch her own chest, rap her head with her knuckles. Nothing serious, but you can see how that would be scary. A woman of her size.”
“Those lucid periods,” I said. “What made you think she was well educated?”
“Her vocabulary,” said Witherspoon. “The way she used words. I wish I could remember a specific example but I can’t. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
“How long?” said Milo.
“Maybe three, four months.”
“Could you please check your records and be more specific, sir?” said Milo.
“Sorry. The only records we keep are for the government. Tax-exempt status and all that. Shuffling government paper takes up a lot of my time, so I don’t add to my burden.”
“A good vocabulary,” I said.
“It was more than that—good diction. Something about the way she talked could be . . . sophisticated.”
“During her clear periods what did she talk about?”
Witherspoon fingered a cornrow. “Let me ask Diane.” He strode to his desk, punched a phone extension, talked in a low voice, said, “She’ll be right down.”
Diane Petrello was in her sixties, short and stout with clipped gray hair and big, round, tortoiseshell glasses even wider than her face. She wore a pink sweatshirt that said Compassion, a long denim skirt, and sneakers.
When Milo told her about Erna Murphy, she said, “Oh my God,” in a soft, high voice. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he added a few details. As she sat down opposite us and wiped her eyes, Daryl Witherspoon fixed her a cup of tea.
She warmed her hands on the cup, and said, “I hope the poor thing finally finds some peace.”
“Tortured soul,” said Milo.
“Oh, yes,” said Diane Petrello. “Aren’t we all?”
He went over some of the same ground we’d covered with Witherspoon, then repeated my question about Erna Murphy’s lucid periods.
“What she talked about,” said Petrello. “Hmm, I’d say mostly art. She could spend hours looking at pictures in art books. One time, I went out and bought some old art books for her at a thrift shop but when I brought them back, she was gone. She was like that. Restless, wouldn’t stay put. In fact, that was the last time I saw her. She never got to see the books.”
“What kind of art did she like?” said Milo.
“Well . . . I guess I couldn’t tell you. Pretty pictures, I suppose.”