Page 75 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“About?” I gently untangled my sister’s fist from my hair, and she immediately grabbed another clump.
“You found a dead body last night. Or has that slipped your mind?”
“No, I’m here to talk to you about that. Do you know when you’ll have the autopsy report?” I tried holding my sister lower,so she couldn’t reach my hair. Now she pulled on my sweater, instead.
“The postmortem we’ll have in about a week. The toxicology report should take a month or so. Why?”
“His friends think it might be murder.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I guess it’s easier than thinking he did it to himself.”
A random thought: If I’d died when I overdosed would anyone have thought it was murder, would they have hoped it was murder, so they didn’t have to think about me doing it to myself? Of course, I did make a mistake once. Did Denny make a mistake, or was this what he was planning all along?
“You don’t think it was murder, do you?” I asked.
Looking tired, he sat down and said, “There’d have to be something very weird in the autopsy. But right now? No.”
“Did Brian talk to you about the box of medications Bobbie stole from his father?”
His face told me he had, even as he said, “I can’t talk to you about that.”
“If you want the box, Ronnie Scheck has it.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Don’t get too excited. He knows you’re coming. I doubt there will even be an aspirin in that trailer by the time you get there.” I was about to leave, partly because my sister was squirming so much I thought I might drop her, when I wondered about something.
“Everybody knows what Ronnie’s up to, how come he never gets arrested?”
Lehmann shrugged, then said, “The devil you know… that’s how it was explained to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Did the detective say what we should expect from the autopsy?” Opal asked as we passed through Masons Bay Village.
He had not, but I decided to answer anyway, relying on my extensive viewing ofCSI: Wherever.“The autopsy will probably show evidence of a heart attack. And the toxicology report will show that he was taking methamphetamine, which brought on the heart attack.”
She frowned. “And if it was murder, what will it show?”
“There was no blood, so he wasn’t shot or stabbed. I suppose he could have been strangled. The autopsy might show that his throat was compressed, or his hy-hy-something bone was broken. If he was poisoned by something other than meth it will be in the toxicology report.”
We drove for a bit and she didn’t say anything.
“You knew where this was heading, it’s why you wanted me to find him.”
“Carl wanted to save him.”
“An addict can only save themselves.”
Guess who’s been paying attention at meetings? Me! Not that I really believe any of it. I’m sure there were lots of reasons toquit drugs that weren’t me. For example, I quit Oxy so I could take care of my sister.
I didn’t save myself; she saved me.
We turned into my grandmother’s driveway, and up by the house sat a recent model Honda Civic, silver, with a USC sticker on the back. I had no idea who that was. The only person I knew in the area who’d gone to USC was Edward, and there was no reason for him to show up—and also no reason for him to drive a Honda Civic. Seriously, why waste all that time becoming a doctor if you had to drive a Civic?
Before getting out, I waited a moment for some kind of thank-you. It didn’t come, so I said, “Bye,” and opened the door.
