Living together was born of necessity.
Jim's divorce became final a year after my own. Losing his home, furniture, children, dog, and life's savings, he became a destitute refugee who, on a cold, damp February night with a cheap suitcase in each hand arrived at my door wordlessly pleading for a night's shelter.
I led him to my large study with its warm, bright fire and handed him a brandy. Dropping his suitcases, drinking the brandy in one swallow he stared deep into the fire's red flames and murmured, "This is good. This is damn good."
We had been together for over ten years ... two, forty-year-old men, teaching at the same South Jersey College, sharing expenses, sharing experiences, but most of all sharing friendship and companionship since we were similar in those things that are necessary for people to live together, yet sufficiently different to escape mutual boredom.
Most winter weekday nights found us in own easy chairs facing a fireplace, comfortably watching the fire's lively dancing red fingers. The walnut paneled walls held shelves stacked with read and reread favorite books. A red, white and orange oriental rug covered the floor while the room's lighting was versatile: bright enough for reading, subdued enough for thinking, dim enough for dozing, but always allowing the room's corners and nooks to rest in soft quiet shadows.
It was a cold winter night, a freezing sleet noisily tapping fingertips against the windows, the fire blazing just beyond our feet as Jim and I enjoyed a quiet Monday night unwinding with the evening papers. Jim was resting in his leather easy chair, feet atop an ottoman, and I was in my favorite brown tweed recliner.
Finishing the local news section Jim sat up and, observing the section I was reading, pompously commented that my persistent perusal of obituaries indicated a sick morbidity of personality. As my habit, I was reading the obituary section much to Jim's annoyance. With that comment he got up and on his way to the kitchen asked if I wanted a coffee refill. Nodding "yes" I began to read William Connors' obituary.
"Still at it," Jim said putting down a coffee cup and a saucer ringed with chocolate chip cookies on my side table. With his tea he carried a tall poker chip stack of Oreos back to his chair. Sinking deep into his chair's soft leather he alternately watched the fire's playful antics, sipped tea and licked the Oreos' cream.
Turning to Jim I picked up on his comment. "You may think obituaries are boring and morbid, but I'd like to argue the point. Obituaries are the average person's biography, the world's last words about a person's life, the final summation of a person's accomplishments, all encapsulated in a couple of paragraphs."
"Bah, who would want to read about a bunch of stiffs?" was Jim's retort.
This from a man who immersed himself in the scandalous, sexual misbehaviors of Hollywood personalities and then would try to maintain his superiority by prefacing each piece of gossip with "Do you believe the garbage they print?" or "Do they really believe people read this trash?"
I continued, "You'd be surprised at how much is revealed in an obituary. Take this poor fellow I've just been reading about, William Connors, dead at the age of 53. The poor man didn't come close to seeing his first social security check. Died in a VA hospital in Philadelphia. Usually they print where a person died and then print the places where he lived, the important geographic markers of a person's life." For Mr. Connors, he was born in Morris, Delaware and is formerly of Gloucester City and Oak Valley all in South Jersey. Didn't move about much. Only twice after leaving home.
"Here let me read to you his obituary, the summation of his 53 years on earth:"
Born in Morris, Delaware and formerly of Gloucester City and Oak Valley, New Jersey, he worked at O'Pierre's Restaurant in Pennsville. Mr. Connors previously owned Bill's Bookstore in Pitman and was also employed as a printer. He was a US Army veteran and served in Germany from 1962-63. Surviving are three brothers, Richard of Allen, Pennsylvania, Joseph of California and Gerald of Texas and a sister, Claire O'Brien of Oak Valley. A memorial Mass will be held 10:30 a.m. on Tuesday in Saint Margaret's Church in Pennsville. Friends may call at 10:15 a.m. in the Church. Burial will be in the new St. Joseph's Cemetery, Oak Valley.
Between sips of tea and licks of Oreo cream centers Jim mumbled something that sounded like, "So what".
Undaunted I said, "He was a US Army vet serving from 1962 -1963 in Germany". Doing a little mental calculation I had him about twenty five when serving in Germany. Out loud I told Jim, "Too old to be a draftee and with no mention of college it is asafe assumption that he enlisted for a four year tour in the Army at about twenty and to get him to re-enlist the Army gave him a two year tour in Germany. I'd be tempted to conclude he was a career Army man except the obituary fails to mention either his retirement from the service, or more significantly his honorable discharge. For some reason he never put in the requisite twenty or so years for a pension. Gives you cause to pause."
Jim said, "You'd pause. Normal people would pass on to the comics section."
Ignoring him I continued. "Did he leave the Army or did the Army leave him, and if its the later, why? Next in the obituary is his more recent employment. Now this is very interesting...Jim where are you going."
"More cookies."
"Hate to ask, but since you're up could you throw another log on the fire."
"Next time it's your turn. Remember I built the fire."
We had every job fairly divided and Jim tended to look upon these divisions as binding legal contracts that should never be abrogated.
Reseated he slipped off his slippers allowing the fire's warmth to get at his soles. Then he twisted the top of an Oreo and inspected the cream.
"As I was saying, there are some suggestive things in Connors' obituary."
He indulged me with a tepid "What?"
"Let me read this part about his employment. He worked as a cook at the O'Pierre Restaurant and formerly owned Bill's Book Store and finally was employed as a printer."
"Suggestive of what?"
"Well...Cook, Book Store Owner...it's not what you'd call a normal career tandem. To be a cook even in a modest restaurant like O'Pierre's implies experience, experience most likely gained in the Army. Mr. Bill Connors was a career cook in the Army and was discharged honorably or not before retirement age.
"The book store suggests a different personality, a person who likes, reads, and wishes to surround himself with books. Since the town his bookstore was located in is not particularly upscale, in fact the reverse, he apparently operated one of those sad little used paperback trading stores. Still it shows a reflective introverted personality."
"What about the printing business?" Jim asked.
"Oh, probably just a small neighborhood office supply and printing company where Lilliputian businesses have stationary and business cards printed by the gross. Notice the printing business is included almost as an afterthought. Obituaries usually list the deceased employment either by length of service, or from the more distinguished to the least, or in chronological order. The Army service was first, then cook, bookstore and printing. I'd say its chronological first to last. Left the Army for whatever reason, worked as a cook, same as his Army job. Then a mid-life change. To cater to his literary sensibilities he opens a book store only to have it fail. Finally he seeks employment in an allied field, a printing shop.
"Now, the list of surviving relatives has a very interesting omission; there is no mention of a wife or children. Three brothers and a sister, two living in the South Jersey area, the others in Texas and California.
Jim argued, "Maybe his wife predeceased him."
"Two points argue against that. It would be against the mortality tables' probability for both husband and wife to die before the age of 53 and second, the absence of any surviving children also argues against a wife.
"Remember, what is omitted often has more significance than what is mentioned. Negative facts are never stated in obituaries.
"As far as Services, it states a Memorial Mass at St. Bridget's at 10:30 a.m. preceded by a brief viewing at 10:15. Note that besides the Mass and cursory prior fifteen minutes Viewing there's no mention of any Services or Viewing at the funeral home. Probably a closed casket affair. Despite three brothers and a sister with their attendant wives, children, aunts, uncles and friends, all they are allowing is just fifteen minutes to pay their respects.
"Here's another interesting fact. The day of the death is Sunday and with the funeral tomorrow morning, Tuesday, the brothers in Texas and California will hardly have time to fly in for the burial. With no viewing at the funeral home and the rush to bury him there would appear to be a problem with the deceased. In my opinion all of this means only one thing. Mr. Connors was homosexual and died of AIDS."
I have to confess enjoying Jim's dumbfounded expression. "How the hell do you arrive at that conclusion?"
"Well, first the inexplicable omission of his Honorable Discharge from the Service suggests a problem which forced him to leave with a less than honorable discharge. That would happen if they found out he was homosexual. Also suggestive is the shift in mid-life to the sedentary retiring life of a book store owner, then after its failure, menial work in printing. Why not seek employment as a chef after his store failed? Was there something wrong with him that precluded a return to that profession? Something like HIV positive? Now he dies at a VA Hospital. Granted it is cheaper than a private hospital but they treat AIDS cases which many hospitals do not. Finally, the omission of a public viewing, the unseemly rush to bury him even to the extent of possibly denying an opportunity for his brothers in Texas and California to pay their last respects. Then there was his lack of marriage and children and his early demise. From all of this I deduce AIDS."
"Not bad," Jim begrudgingly admitted. "But you can be totally wrong. That obituary could also describe an opposite type of man ... a man who chased women and liquor ... vices that eventually got him into trouble and discharged from the Army. His intellectual abilities and ambition made his humble station as a cook intolerable so he opened the book store which, when it failed, led to more and more drinking. In a word, he died a lush from cirrhosis of the liver."
I couldn't argue. Jim's explanation fit the obituary data. I graciously conceded, "In either case his was a tragic life if you read between the lines of his obituary."
"Didn't know there were humorous and happy obituaries," Jim retorted. Getting up to help himself to a little after-dinner brandy Jim stopped over the open newspaper and pointed at another obituary headline. "I stand corrected. ÃÃThereÄÄ is an obituary that can make a lot of people happy."
The headline read "Arnold Nicholson, Pennsville Tax Official Dies in Florida."
Sipping the brandy Jim handed me and enjoying the warm pleasure I glanced at the obituary and read it aloud for Jim's benefit.
Arnold Nicholson, 73, life long resident of Pennsville died Sunday night in Live Oak, Florida at the Live Oak Hospital. Born in Pennsville, he was a retired farmer. He was the tax collector for Pennsville Township and custodian of the Township school funds. Arnold was a member of the United Methodist Church of Pennsville. Mr. Nicholson was Vice President of Farmers Federal Bank of Pennsville. He was also the director of the South Jersey Farmer's Auction. Member of the Free and Accepted Masons and member of the Excelsior Consistory of Cherry Hill, Mr. Nicholson belonged to the Crescent Shrine Temple of Lakewood. He was active in Republican politics in the South Jersey Area for most of his life. Surviving are a son, William of California, a daughter, Harriet White of Pennsville, a wife Rose and stepson Harry Todd of Live Oak Florida. Funeral services were at 9 a.m. at the Live Oak Funeral Home. Graveside service will be at 10 a.m. at the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Pennsville.
After another sip of brandy I began to analyze his obituary. "Well, Arnold Nicholson died at 73. Not an overly ripe age but one can't complain about it to his Maker. Life-long resident of Pennsville, New Jersey but died in Live Oak, Florida at the Live Oak Hospital. Obviously he died while visiting someone or taking a vacation.
"He was wealthy. It says he was a farmer but with land around here worth up to $35,000 an acre that's like saying Donald Trump runs a 'Bed and Board Inn'. Besides being a farmer and tax collector he is listed as the custodian of the county's school funds. Bet he deposited those funds at the Farmers Bank of Pennsville where he happened to be the Vice-President of the Board of Directors."
"He was Vice-President of the bank?"
"Not only that but to underline his prominent position in the community, he was also a director of the South Jersey Farmers Auction, a member of the Free and Accepted Masons and a member of the Excelsior Consistory of Cherry Hill, whatever that is. Finally, he belonged to the Crescent Shrine Temple of Lakewood.
"From this list it's obvious that the late Mr. Nicholson was well connected, having his hands in many gourmet pies."
Running my eyes down the obituary I noted, "Here is something interesting about the relatives left behind. Surviving are: a son, William of California; a daughter, Harriet White of Pennsville; a wife, Rose; and a stepson, Harry Todd of Live Oak, Florida.
"This Rose is a second wife whose previous name was Todd."
"Or third, fourth or tenth, my God Ed, give it a rest. You're passing morbid and reaching boring."
I snapped, "I'm just pointing out how much a careful reading of an obituary can reveal about that person's life."
I continued my deductions. "Now what is significant is the order his relatives are mentioned. First his natural children, then the second Mrs. Nicholson and her son. As the wife and her son were in Florida we may safely assume that the children, probably the daughter, arranged for the obituary in our paper and therefore is responsible for the placing of the wife and her son last. One suspects either or both of two things. Mr. Nicholson's children did not like the second wife and/or the marriage was recent. Perhaps the Florida trip was a honeymoon.
As her son, Mr. Todd, lived in Live Oak, Florida they could've been on their way to Florida for a vacation or a honeymoon and decided to stop off and visit her son. If the marriage was recent and this was their honeymoon they might be visiting Harry Todd to introduce him to his new stepfather."
"I can buy into that," Jim begrudgingly admitted then qualified, "But I can't see a 73-year-old on his honeymoon."
I continued my ruminations. "If they were on a vacation or honeymoon in Florida, they would fly to a resort and the stepson would visit them. That would be the respectful thing to do."
Jim interrupted, "Well he died at Live Oaks, they were on a vacation, rented a car and drove over to see the son. He got sick and died. The trip, the change in climate, the honeymoon excitement was too much for him."
"Good point," I graciously conceded, seeing that Jim was getting involved in my obituary game.
The fire's deep purple embers were radiating warmth with little flame. It was my turn to add a log and as I was curious about something I pulled myself out of the recliner. After placing a couple of oak logs atop the embers I looked up Live Oak in an Atlas.
"Your supposition does not hold up, Jim. Live Oak is in the Florida Panhandle, 100 miles distance from Tallahassee, Jacksonville, and Gainesville. Few people on a vacation or honeymoon would want to fly to any of those towns, rent a car, and drive 2 hours to visit some place called Live Oak, especially a rich, 73-year-old, tax collector, and bank director on his honeymoon."
Passing the Atlas over to Jim I pointed out that the town is near absolutely no attractions, aquatic or not.
I said, "You don't drop off at a little town like Live Oaks for a visit. You go there for a specific purpose, in this case to visit the stepson. Yet I can't see Nicholson, at his age and social position wanting to make such an inconvenient trip to see the second wife's son unless he was pressed very hard by the second Mrs. Nicholson."
Jim laughed, "Ed, the way you say 'the second Mrs. Nicholson', you'd think you were scripting a 40's Hollywood murder mystery."
"Well the more you think about it the more you can't help wondering what he was doing in Live Oak.
"Look Jim, it's reported he died in Live Oak on Sunday night. The funeral services were on Monday morning at a Live Oak funeral parlor. There will be a graveside Service 10 a.m. Tuesday at the Cloud of Heaven Cemetery in Pennsville, New Jersey. Sunday he dies ... Monday morning funeral services are held in Florida, and that afternoon he's shipped North to be planted Tuesday morning with no funeral services here. Mr. Nicholson's remains are sliding into terra firma in record speed, even faster than poor Connor's. We can safely assume that his natural children were unable to attend the Florida funeral services. The point is why have the Services there in the first place? Normal familial considerations would dictate that the body would be shipped back to New Jersey and on Tuesday and Wednesday there would be a public viewing and then on Thursday have the burial. Remember he has a son in California who would need time to fly in to pay his respects. As it is now the family will just have a grave side service to pay their respect."
Jim is grinning now, enjoying the game, he interrupts, "He died of cancer and his dying request was for a quick and private internment."
"What about the public? For a man so well connected politically, socially, and with so many club memberships there would be pressure to have an extensive public viewing and services.
"Also the idea that he died of some slow, painful, wasteful disease can't stand up against Live Oak. The illness that took our Mr. Nicholson had to be sudden. Suffering from the last stages of cancer you don't run down to Live Oak to see a stepson before dying. To visit Live Oak he had to be in relative good health. So he must have died suddenly.
"Not only that but I think we can conclude the second Mrs. Nicholson was a recent addition, first by the way she was listed after the children and secondly there would be no reason for him to visit Live Oak except if the new bride's son was hostile to his mother's remarriage. At the wife's insistence they travel to Live Oak to achieve a reconciliation and win the step son's acceptance of the marriage."
"Seems reasonable," Jim acknowledged between noisy sips and loud sniffs of brandy.
"Another thing," I continued, "the bride is young relative to the groom's 73 years and Live Oak tells us that."
"How can you possibly get the bride's age from the fact that the groom, living in New Jersey died in Live Oak Florida?"
"If the son was a minor he'd be living with the mother. But living on his own in Live Oaks he must be older than eighteen and less than thirty. If he were older it would be reasonable to expect him to visit the step father. Also if the son were say forty-five and the mother, say seventy, she wouldn't be so concerned over any estrangement that she'd drag her old bones and her elderly husband down to Live Oak. I doubt at that age she'd give a dam what her forty-five-year old son thought. If we take the son's present age at say twenty-five, and assume she gave birth at twenty-five, she'd be around fifty or twenty-plus years Nicholson's junior. If the son is twenty and she gave birth at 22, she could be our age. I myself feel she is about forty-five.
"Summarizing what we have deduced from the obituary ... a wealthy Mr. Nicholson recently married to a woman twenty-plus years his junior dies suddenly while visiting a troublesome stepson a thousand miles away from his relatives and friends and is now being buried with suspicious haste."
Once said out loud it became real to me, but to Jim it was still just a parlor game.
"What about his children flying down to Live Oaks and attending the funeral service on Monday then accompanying the body back to New Jersey. Now that is a possibility."
"The time is not right. Nicholson dies Sunday night. The obituary doesn't indicate the time so let's say nine as an approximate time. The children couldn't have been notified `till ten or eleven. To arrange air transportation in the middle of a Sunday night after the shock of hearing about the death of their recently married father is not reasonable. Even it it could be done, I can't see the children frantically rushing about to make a morning funeral service in Florida that could just as well be held on Tuesday or later in New Jersey. Any rational person must be curious about the unseemly and unnecessary haste."
Getting the phone book I looked up the daughter's phone number.
Jim expostulated, "You're not going to call the daughter. She just lost her father."
"Relax. Marriages and deaths bring family and friends together under one roof. The daughter won't be the one answering the phone."
Alas, I got the daughter on the second ring. Assuming the identity of an airline official I requested the payment of $50 still due on an early Monday morning flight to Florida. Her voice transmitted sufficient outrage to convince me of the veracity of her denials. None of her family traveled to Florida. Shifting my ground I said that the name on the ticket was William Nicholson from California to New Jersey with a stop over in Florida. She told me her brother arrived from California on a direct flight to Philadelphia International Airport without any stopovers. Profusely apologizing I said I must have the wrong Nicholson and hung up. Grinning over my brandy I told Jim, "score one for me," and celebrated by finishing the glass. "No one went to Florida. There was no reason for the service to be held at Live Oak. It should have been held in New Jersey. Everything looks very suspicious the closer you read between the lines."
"That's why. You're looking at it too closely, allowing little irregularities to develop into large, sinister fissures."
Brushing aside his observation, I put in a directory assisted call to the Live Oak Memorial Hospital asking for the emergency room. Assuming the identity of a Mr. Kelly of the Kelly Funeral Home I requested the time of death of a Mr. Harold Nicholson admitted to their emergency room on Sunday evening. A New Jersey death certificate had to be completed and without that information burial arrangements would have to be delayed.
An officious but helpful woman told me to hold on. Motioning my empty glass to Jim he fed it as well as the fire. After a worrisome delay she came back informing me that "Mr. Arnold Nicholson was admitted Sunday evening at 8:37 p.m. DOA. He did not die at our hospital." She inferred no one ever died at her hospital and if they did it was their own fault.
In a cold conversation-ending voice she said that if a New Jersey death certificate needs the exact time of death I should call the Live Oaks Police Department. Unasked she gave me the number and hung up on my profuse thanks.
I told Jim but he just shrugged and poked the fire. I tried to poke Jim. "Why was the death listed as occurring at the hospital with no mention of the police or where he actually died?"
Jim's suggested answer was valid and pedestrian. "Hit by a car, died at the scene. Rather than put in the obituary that he died in some street's gutter, it was easier and cleaner to just say he died at the hospital."
"One way to find out is to call the Live Oak Police."
Though it was after nine I got through to a Sergeant James McKenna, who courteously answered all of "Mr. Kelly's" inquiries.
Though first to arrive in answer to the 911 emergency call, he could not give me the exact time of death but the paramedics arriving immediately after at 7:45 informed him he was dead so Mr. Kelly could list the time of death at 7:45 p.m. and not be too incorrect.
Hearing he was one of the officers at the scene I assumed the air of a fellow professional in the tragic business of death and asked, "Since the family is having a closed casket service, I suppose there had been extensive facial damage."
"Can't say for certain seeing about his face as he was lying face down when we arrived but you can't fall down a full flight of stairs head first, land smack on your face, and not have extensive facial injuries."
Like Jim, I had assumed an auto accident or a heart attack, not an in-home mishap. I took a guess. "That was at Mr. Todd's home, Mrs. Nicholson's son."
"Yes, the Nicholson's had arrived that day. He came out of the upstairs bathroom and was going down to join the others when he tripped on the stairs' frayed carpeting. I surmised that Mr. Nicholson was a well-to-do gentleman, not used to dark hallways and worn, torn carpeting."
"Your supposition is correct. Mr. Nicholson was very wealthy, very, very wealthy."
I dipped each "very" deep into accusatory sentiment. Continuing I pressed for more information, "The accident sounds like a case of negligence and there may be possible financial liability. Does the stepson rent or own the residence?"
The Sergeant's voice, less amiable, more officious and questioning, hooking even direct answers with question marks, "Neither. The building has been abandoned and condemned for some years, though transients continue to use it."
"Oh ... ," and I stretched it out till he amplified.
"Mr. Todd is not exactly a member of the working community. He and his companion, a Miss Howell, are currently in a court-mandated drug rehabilitation program."
"How old is Mrs. Nicholson's son?"
"Twenty-two."
"I haven't met the widow yet but I've heard she is in her late forties."
"Early forties."
I gave a thumbs up sign to Jim and said to Florida, "It was hard on the widow just married, seeing her husband fall to his death."
"She was pretty well broken-up about the accident. Dr. Harris, the attending physician, had to give her a sedative to calm her down."
"A pretty woman for her age?"
"She's an average looking woman, a little overweight with gray hair...a very nice woman. Look, it doesn't take a genius to see where you are going with this and there is no place to go. The body is in Jersey, the stepson and his girlfriend have disappeared, the wife is out of state, and there is a death certificate on file listing 'accidental' as the cause of death. Look Mr. Kelly I feel you have been requested to ask all these questions by Mr. Nicholson's blood children, who may be suspicion about the widow and her son. As you say, Nicholson was wealthy and people can harbor nasty thoughts when there's a large inheritance to be divided."
Thanking him for his help I quickly ended the conversation.
After relating the corpus of the conversation to Jim he tried to salvage his innocent theory by pointing out the drabness of the widow. Having picturing a forty-year-old brash, bleached blonde, with bosom supplements, wearing tight clothes and heavy makeup, an everyday forty year old woman was an awkward ill fitting piece for my mosaic.
If being dower, dumpy, and drab cost her the main role in my drama her son's role was definitely upgraded given his down and out status. Mixed up with drugs and its attendant criminal nomadic lifestyle more than made up for his disappointingly normal mother.
I told Jim that if the son were living in an abandoned building while undergoing drug treatment we could safely conclude the mother was not well off before she married Nicholson or she would have provided him with a better habitat especially while he was in a drug treatment program. Also, she and Nicholson were definitely newlyweds for the same reason. If she were Mrs.Nicholson for any length of time she would have secured her son a better home and a more expensive program.
To clarify matters two more telephone calls had to be made. The first to Live Oak Funeral Home listed in the obituary as handling the Florida arrangements. As Funeral Director Kelly I delicately indicated to Mr. Dryfuss, Assistant Director of Live Oak Funeral Home my concern over who would be responsible for the funeral expenses. That a Harry Todd signed the contract but on reflection I was worried about his financial solvency.
Mr. Dryfuss was very circumspect yet with unmistakable clarity informed me that they had insisted on the widow signing all contracts. Lamenting over the funeral's haste I asked how long they were given to prepare the body. They were busy all Sunday night what with picking him up and then preparing him for Monday morning's services.
The next call was to Dr. Harris again in the role of Kelly, the funeral director who now was searching for the medical cause of death for the New Jersey Internment Certificate, given the relatives had misplaced the original death certificate during the remain's rapid transit to New Jersey. If the Doctor would verbally verify what the widow and her son had told me I would risk filling out the 'Certificate of Internment' and not hold up the burial. Mentioning that he was just finishing up his evening hours the doctor said he would be glad to help me and then proceeded to spout medical jargon to which I just grunted, "yeah, yeah, yeah" like I was writing it down. It all came down to death due to massive trauma to and a massive hemorrhage in the brain as a result of a fall.
To see if he had any reservations about Nicholson's death I sounded uncertain. "Inspecting the deceased prior to the viewing and there was something that troubled me. I was wondering if..."
"You're referring to that massive fracture of the deceased skull's left rear quadrant. You couldn't see the damage, being hidden by his hair, but I noticed it when I turned him over. Glad for the widow, not having to see the cranium caved in like that. That bothered me when I saw it till the man's son told me he had fallen on his way up the stairs."
I asked if he saw the body at the hospital, or at the site of the accident.
"Both," he answered. "Examined him at the Todd house, then accompanied the body to the hospital. The police were already there when I arrived at the scene with the hospital ambulance crew. Looked down at his face and knew there was nothing to do but close his eyes and give what comfort I could to the distraught widow." He started to get gossipy going into mundane lamentations over home accidents, reminiscing over tragedies he's seen over the years, so I pulled him up short but not before I found out that Todd and his `wife' had just recently become his patients along with the self serving comment that they were very lucky given he was semi-retired and not taking on many new patients.
I told Jim that the doctor is some old gossipy geezer the son had previously picked to be the doctor of record when Nicholson fell. Not only did he sign the certificate but readily overlooked an important discrepancy. The initial report to the police was Nicholson fell forward on his way down from the bathroom accounting for the body being found face down at the bottom of the stairs. Then to explain the horrible damage to the left rear of the man's skull, Todd told the doctor he fell backwards on his way up the stairs and to fit the physical evidence turned the body over between the time the police saw it and the doctor examined it then he deliberately lied to each.
"In the excitement and confusion of a fatal accident it is easy to make mistakes but not that kind. You're at the bottom of the stairs watching Nicholson. Either you see his back going up the stairs, he trips, hands spray out and he comes down hard on his back, damaging the back of his head or, he's facing you, your eyes see his eyes. You see the trip and you see the hands going forward to break the fall.
"Now if he fell forward how did the back of his head get crushed and if he fell backwards why did the police the first on the scene find him laying face down. There is one possible that fits the injury and the position of the body. As Nicholson was at the head of the stairs preparatory to stepping down, Todd stepped out of the shadows, a bat in his hand and with one swing at Nicholson's head, send his life flying into eternity and his body falling down the stairs. That explains the body being face down when the police arrived, and why the physical damage was done to the back of the head. Probably Todd and his girlfriend only realized the discrepancy after the police arrived and quickly turned the body over before the doctor arrived. If anyone said anything, they could say they were trying to see if he were alive"
Jim, no longer frowning disapproval at me, asked if I were going to the police with my deductions. "You've got to be kidding. I'd be sued...down to my underwear. Yet I can't let that slime get away with an easy murder. An old retired man has an accident in the house, a semi-retired fool of a doctor signs the death certificate, a quick burial and his suspicious death is separated by over a thousand miles from the victim's family and friends who might ask awkward questions. The police and doctor know the death but do not know the victim. The people who know the victim do not know the death. After a quick burial the widow and her dopey son walk away with the entire estate.
Jim commented, "The more you think about it, how smooth it all went for them, you've got to wonder how many rich old geezers they killed."
I told Jim that there is only one thing a public spirited citizen can do in today's litigious America, write anonymous letters and make anonymous telephone calls. Writing to the Live Oak and Pennsville Police Departments as well as the State Police of Florida and New Jersey and the FBI given state lines had been crossed, I outlined what I believed happened. The next part was more difficult but to spur on the authorities we needed an angry outraged family, particularly an angry rich family who sees a large inheritance going outside the family. Calling the daughter and reporting myself as Todd's friend, I told her that while sharing drugs Todd told me he had killed her father. Needless to say she went hysterical. Finally to put some pressure on the guilty and possibly elicit some illicit reaction, I called the widow at Nicholson's New Jersey home and in the most threatening omniscient voice told her what she and her son had done and I was forwarding evidence of their guilt to the police. I can report truthfully that after a prolonged silence the phone went dead. An ensuing investigation did reveal that Mrs. Nicholson had four previous husbands, all of whom died from accidents about the home.
During the subsequent investigation, Holly, the girlfriend, accepted immunity and turned State's witness. She told about Nicholson's murder. Given her drug history and the fact that the son and his mother's version of the `accident' was being supported by an adamant Dr. Harris, the prognosis for a conviction is not good. NMM This story appeared in New Mystery Magazine II#1, available from New Mystery Magazine, 175 Fifth Avenue Suite #2001, NYC 10010-7709. Single copy is $9 plus $3 S&H order now! Copyright 1989-96 New Mystery All Rights Reserved. -----------------------------------------------------------------