“Have a seat,” he said, indicating two matching upholstered chairs arranged on either side of a small side table. His manner was relaxed, pleasant, friendly, curiously impersonal. “I take it you’re here about Tom’s death.” He reached over and opened the drawer, pulling out a flat manila folder containing a five-page report. “I ran a copy of the autopsy report in case you’re interested.”
I took the folder. “Thanks. I thought I might have to talk you into this.”
He smiled. “It’s public record. I could have popped it in the mail and saved you a trip if Selma’d asked for it sooner.”
“Tom’s death was classified as a coroner’s case?”
“Of necessity,” he said. “You know he died out on Highway 395 with no witnesses and probably not much warning. He hadn’t seen his doctor in close to a year. We figured it was his heart, but you never really know about these things until the post. Could have been an aneurysm. Anyway, Calvin Burkey did the autopsy. He’s the forensic pathologist for Nota and Mono counties. Couple of us in attendance. Nothing remarkable showed up. No surprises, nothing unexpected. Tom died of a massive acute myocardial infarction due to severe arteriosclerosis. You’ll see it. It’s all there. Sections of the coronary artery confirmed ninety-five percent to one hundred percent occlusion. Sixty-three years old. Really, it’s amazing he lasted as long as he did.”
“Nothing else came to light?”
“In the way of abnormalities? Nope. Liver, gallbladder, spleen, kidneys were all unremarkable. Lungs looked bad. He’d been smoking all his life, but there was no indication of invasive disease. He’d eaten recently.
According to our report, he’d stopped off at a cafe for a bite of supper. No pills or capsules in his digestive system and the toxin report was clear. What makes you ask?”
“Selma said he’d been losing weight. I wondered if he knew something he wasn’t telling her.”
“No ma’am. No cancer, if that’s what you mean. No tumors, no blood clots, and no hemorrhaging, aside from the myocardium,” he said. “Doc said there were signs of a minor heart attack sometime in the past.”
I thought about it. “So maybe he knew his days were numbered. That would give him reason to brood.”
“Could be,” he said. “Tom wasn’t in the peak of health, I can assure you of that. The absence of pathology doesn’t necessarily mean you feel all that good. I knew him for years and never heard him complain, but he was sixty pounds overweight. Smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, just to cover both clichés. He was a hell of an investigator, I can tell you that. What’s Selma’s worry?”
“It’s hard to say. I think she feels he was holding out on her, keeping secrets of some kind. She didn’t press him for answers so now it’s unfinished business and it bothers her a lot.”
“And she has no idea what it was?”
“It might not be anything, which is where I come in. Do you have any theories?”
“I don’t think you’ll turn up anything scandalous. Tom was churchgoing, a good soul. Well liked, well thought-of in the community, generous with his time. If he had any faults, I’d have to say he was straitlaced, too rigid. He saw the world in terms of all black or all white with not a lot in between. I guess he could see the gray, but he never knew what to do with it. He didn’t believe in bending the rules, though I’ve seen him do it from time to time. He was a real straight-ahead guy, but that’s good in my opinion. We could use a few more like him. We’re going to miss him around here.”
“Did you spend any time with him in the past few weeks?”
“Nothing to speak of. Mostly, I saw him in the context of his job. Not surprisingly, the county sheriff’s department and the coroner’s office are just like that,” he said, crossing his fingers. “I’d run into him around town. Played pool with him once. Sucked back a few beers. Bunch of us did a weekend fishing trip last fall, but it’s not like we laid around at night baring our souls. Fellow you ought to talk to is his partner, Rafe.”
“Selma mentioned him. What’s his last name?”
“LaMott.”
I sat in the rental car in the Kirchner Sons parking lot, leafing through Tom Newquist’s autopsy report, his death certificate spelling out the particulars of his passing. Age, date of birth, Social Security number, and his usual address; the place and cause of his death and the disposition of his remains. He’d arrived at Nota County Hospital ER as a DOA, autopsied a day later, buried the day after that. On paper, his progression to the grave seemed all too swift, but in truth, once death occurs, the human body is just a big piece of meat quickly going sour. There was something flat and abrupt in the details … Tom Newquist deceased … his life neatly packaged; beginning, middle, and end. Under the death certificate was a copy of a hand-scrawled note that I gathered had been written by the CHP officer who found him in his truck.
At appx 21 50 2/3 Ambulance call to roadside 7.2 mi. out Hiway 395. Subj in pick-up, removed to side of road. CRP started @ 22 00. EMT from Nota Lake taking over @ appx. 22 15. Subj DOA on arrival at Nota Lake ER. Coroner notified.
The notation was signed “J. Tennyson.” The autopsy report followed; three typewritten pages detailing the facts as Trey Kirchner had indicated.
I’d been hoping the explanation was obvious, that Tom Newquist was caught in the grip of some terminal disease, his preoccupation as simple as an intimation of his mortality. This was not the case. If Selma’s perceptions were correct and he was brooding about something, the subject wasn’t an immediate threat to his health or well-being. It was always possible he’d been experiencing heart problems-angina pain, arrhythmia, shortness of breath on exertion. If so, he might have been weighing the severity of his symptoms against the consequences of consulting his physician. Tom Newquist might have seen enough death to view the process philosophically. He might have been more fearful of medical intervention than the possibility of dying.
I set the folder on the seat beside me and started the car. I wasn’t sure where to go next, but I suspected the logical move would be to talk to Tom’s partner, Rafer LaMott. I checked my map of Nota Lake and spotted the sheriff’s substation, which was part of the Civic Center on Benoit about six blocks west. The sun had been climbing through a thin layer of clouds. The air was chilly, but there was something lovely about the light. Along the main thoroughfare, the buildings were constructed of stucco and wood with corrugated metal roofs: gas stations, a drugstore, a sporting goods shop, and hair salon. Rimming the town was the untouched beauty of distant mountains. The digital thermometer on the bank sign showed that it was 42 degrees.
I parked across the street from the Nota Lake Civic Center, which also included the police station, the county courthouse, and assorted community services. The complex of administrative offices was housed in a building that had once been an elementary school. I know this because the words “Nota Lake Grammar School” were carved in block letters on the architrave. I could have sworn I could still see the faint imprint of construction paper witches and pumpkins where they’d been affixed to the windows with cellophane tape, the ghosts of Halloweens past. Personally, I hated grade school, having been cursed with a curious combination of timidity and rebellion. School was a minefield of unwritten rules that everyone but me seemed to sense and accept. My parents had died in a car crash when I was five, so school felt like a continuation of the same villainy and betrayal. I was inclined to upchuck without provocation, which didn’t endear me to the Janitor or classmates sitting in my vicinity. I can still remember the sensation of recently erupted hot juices collecting in my lap while students on either side of me flocked away in distaste. Far from experiencing shame, I felt a sly satisfaction, the power of the victim wreaking digestive revenge. I’d be sent down to the school nurse where I could lie on a cot until my Aunt Gin came to fetch me. Often at lunchtime … (before I learned to barf at will) … I’d beg to go home, swearing to look both ways when I was crossing the street, promising not to talk to strangers even if they offered sweets. My teachers rebuffed every plaintive request, so I was doomed to remain; fearful and anxious, undersized, fighting back tears. By the time I was eight, I learned to quit asking. I simply left when it suited me and suffered the consequences later. What were they going to do, shoot me down in cold blood?