I had spent thirteen years remembering Richard's death as a sequence of ordinary horrors.
The sound from the bathroom.
My bare feet against the hallway floor.
Richard sitting against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest.
The telephone slipping in my fingers while I called 911.
His skin turning gray.
The paramedic moving me aside.
The hospital doctor using the phrase massive cardiac event.
Now every remembered second seemed contaminated by a question.
How had Robert Kane known?
Thomas drove me home.
Neither of us spoke until we reached the gate.
Evelyn's car was already in my driveway.
She opened the front door before I reached it.
One look at my face and she stopped asking questions.
She simply put her arms around me.
I let her.
Later, after Thomas explained what David had said, Evelyn asked the question I had been avoiding.
"Could Kane have known Richard was sick before Richard himself knew?"
Thomas answered.
"Possibly."
"How?"
"If someone had called him."
I looked at the clock.
"Richard woke me around five-forty that morning."
The memory came slowly.
"He said he felt strange."
"Chest pain?"
"Not then."
"He was sweating?"
"Yes."
"Nauseous?"
"I think so."
"What did you do?"
"I told him we should go to the hospital."
"What did he say?"
I could hear Richard's voice.
Don't fuss, Maggie. Give me ten minutes.
"He refused."
"When did he go to the bathroom?"
"About six."
"And you called 911 at 6:17."
"Yes."
Thomas wrote the times down.
"Did Richard make any calls?"
"I don't know."
"Check old telephone records."
Thirteen years was a long time.
But Thomas had already learned not to assume old records were gone.
The landline provider could not promise anything.
Our cellular carrier was more useful.
Richard had used a mobile phone.
Archived billing statements existed in old estate files.
Mercer had copies.
At 5:51 the morning Richard died, Richard placed a call.
Not to Kane.
Not to Mercer.
To Michael.
Duration: four minutes, twelve seconds.
My stomach tightened.
"Michael knew Dad was sick."
"Maybe," Thomas said.
"He called him."
"That establishes contact, not content."
I knew.
Evidence.
Always evidence.
At 5:58, Michael called another number.
Robert Kane.
Duration: two minutes.
Kane called David at 6:03.
The sequence sat on the table like a row of dominoes.
Richard to Michael.
Michael to Kane.
Kane to David.
Then me to 911.
"Michael told Kane," I said.
Thomas did not disagree.
"But why ask David about an ambulance?"
"Maybe Kane assumed Richard's condition would worsen."
"Or knew it would."
Thomas looked at me carefully.
"Don't outrun the evidence."
I hated him for saying it.
Then I loved him for saying it.
Because I needed somebody who would not feed my fear simply because it was dramatic.
Detective Ruiz called that afternoon.
She wanted Richard's complete medical records.
I signed the authorization.
His cardiologist had retired, but the practice still held archived files.
The records arrived the following morning.
Richard had significant coronary artery disease.
That was not new.
But one note surprised me.
His cardiologist had prescribed nitroglycerin tablets to use during chest pain.
I remembered the little brown bottle.
Richard kept it in the bathroom cabinet.
"Was it there that morning?" Thomas asked.
"I don't remember."
I tried.
Richard on the bathroom floor.
Cabinet door open.
A glass near the sink.
Something orange beside it?
No.
Memory was not a photograph.
I refused to manufacture clarity.
"I don't know."
The autopsy question came next.
There had been none.
His death had appeared natural.
Known cardiac disease.
No trauma.
No reason for suspicion.
A toxicology panel had not been performed.
My chest tightened.
"So we'll never know."
"Not necessarily."
"He's buried, Thomas."
He said nothing.
I looked at him.
"No."
"I haven't suggested anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking that exhumation exists as an investigative option."
"No."
The word came immediately.
Richard had been buried beside his parents.
I imagined strangers opening the grave.
I couldn't.
Not yet.
Ruiz did not push.
Instead, she investigated the medication.
The pharmacy records showed Richard filled nitroglycerin twelve days before his death.
Thirty tablets.
The bottle recovered with his personal effects after death contained twenty-eight.
Two used or missing.
Nothing unusual.
Then the pharmacist found another prescription.
A beta blocker.
Richard had taken it for years.
The refill history was regular.
But five days before his death, someone requested an early refill.
"Who?" I asked.
The pharmacy could not tell.
The request had been made by telephone.
It was never picked up.
"Why request it?"
"Maybe Richard lost his medication," Thomas said.
"He didn't."
"Do you remember?"
"I filled his pill organizer."
That was one memory I trusted.
Every Sunday evening.
Richard hated sorting tablets.
I did it while he washed dinner dishes.
"He had enough."
Ruiz requested the pharmacy's archived call notes.
A technician had written:
Daughter requesting medication list and dosage confirmation. States helping father organize prescriptions.
Daughter.
My body went cold.
"Which daughter?"
No name recorded.
Jennifer or Lisa.
I called Lisa with Thomas present.
"Did you ever call Dad's pharmacy before he died?"
"No."
"Think."
"I didn't even know which pharmacy he used."
"Did Jennifer?"
Lisa hesitated.
"Probably."
"Why probably?"
"She helped him with insurance paperwork once."
Thomas asked, "Did Jennifer ever ask you about Richard's medications?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Around the time he died."
My fingers tightened.
"Before or after?"
"Before."
"What did she ask?"
"Whether one of his heart medicines could make him dizzy."
"Why?"
"She said Dad almost fell."
I remembered no fall.
"Did you see him fall?"
"No."
"Did Jennifer?"
"She said she did."
Thomas wrote it down.
We called Jennifer.
She answered on the third ring.
"Mom."
"Did you call Dad's pharmacy five days before he died?"
Silence.
"Why are you asking me this?"
There it was.
Never yes or no when yes or no would do.
"Did you?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
"He was having side effects."
"What side effects?"
"Dizziness."
"Did you see him fall?"
"Almost."
"When?"
"At his office."
"Which office?"
She hesitated.
"Mercer's."
Thomas looked at me.
"Was Kane there?"
"No."
"Did Dad ask you to call the pharmacy?"
"I think so."
"You think?"
"It was thirteen years ago."
"Did you know his dosages?"
"No."
"Did you tell Kane about them?"
Silence.
My heart sank.
"Jennifer."
"He asked what Dad was taking."
"Why?"
"He said he was worried about him."
I closed my eyes.
Robert Kane.
Worried.
"What did you tell him?"
"That Dad took heart medication."
"Names?"
"I might have mentioned one."
"Which?"
"I don't remember."
"Try."
She became defensive.
"I wasn't memorizing medication names."
"Did you send him a photograph?"
No response.
"Jennifer?"
"Maybe."
I felt sick.
"Why would you photograph your father's prescriptions for Robert Kane?"
"He said he knew a cardiologist."
Thomas closed his eyes.
Even Jennifer seemed to hear how bad it sounded once spoken aloud.
"He said Dad shouldn't be driving if he was dizzy."
"So you sent his medication information to the man blackmailing him?"
"I didn't understand everything then."
"You understood Dad didn't trust him."
"Yes."
"That should have been enough."
Jennifer started crying.
I did not comfort her.
"Did Kane ask about nitroglycerin?"
"I don't remember."
"Did he ever ask where Dad kept his medicine?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
My hand went numb.
"What did you say?"
"Bathroom."
"Which bathroom?"
"At home."
Thomas wrote rapidly.
"How would Kane get into my house?"
"I don't know."
"Did you give him a garage remote?"
"No."
"Did you ever give Michael one?"
"Michael already had one."
That was true.
At least years earlier.
"Did Kane ever borrow your car?"
"What?"
"Your Lexus."
"No."
"Did he have access to it?"
"No."
"Did you come here the night before Dad died?"
Jennifer stopped crying.
"Who told you?"
"David Cole."
She swore.
"So yes."
"I came to talk to Dad."
"About what?"
"Michael."
"What about him?"
"Dad was going to report him."
"To police?"
"To federal investigators."
"Why did you care?"
"Because Michael had children."
"So did you."
"Mom."
"What did you ask Dad to do?"
"Give Michael time."
"And?"
"He refused."
"Was he sick?"
"He looked exhausted."
"Did he have chest pain?"
"No."
"Did you give him anything?"
Her voice sharpened.
"No."
"Medication?"
"No."
"Food? Drink?"
"No."
"Did you let Kane into the house?"
"No."
"Did you open the garage remotely after leaving?"
"No."
"Did you tell Kane you had been here?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"When?"
"From my car."
"What did you tell him?"
"That Dad wouldn't change his mind."
I closed my eyes.
Jennifer had left.
Called Kane.
Kane arrived less than an hour later.
"Did you know Kane was coming?"
"No."
That answer sounded immediate.
Maybe true.
Maybe not.
"Did he call you afterward?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Late."
"What did he say?"
Jennifer hesitated.
"He said everything had been handled."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Handled how?"
"I asked."
"And?"
"He said Dad finally understood what was at stake."
"Did he mention Dad being ill?"
"No."
"Did he mention medication?"
"No."
"Did you speak to Kane the next morning?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"I don't remember."
Phone records would.
"Why?"
"He called me."
"What did he say?"
Jennifer began crying harder.
"He told me not to go to the house."
My skin went cold.
"When?"
"I don't know. Six-something."
"Before I called you about Dad?"
Silence.
"Jennifer."
"Yes."
Thomas stood.
"What exactly did Kane say?"
She struggled to answer.
"He said, 'Your father had a rough night. Stay away until you hear from your mother.'"
My breath left me.
Kane knew Richard had a rough night.
Before I told anyone.
"Why didn't you ask how he knew?"
"I did."
"And?"
"He said Michael called him."
So back to Michael.
Again.
I called him.
No answer.
Thomas advised me to stop.
"We have phone records. Ruiz can question him."
I put the phone down.
Two hours later, Ruiz came to the house.
She had obtained additional billing records.
At 5:51, Richard called Michael.
At 5:58, Michael called Kane.
At 6:03, Kane called David.
At 6:05, Kane called Jennifer.
Jennifer's memory had been right.
At 6:17, I called 911.
At 6:19, Michael called Richard.
No answer.
At 6:22, Michael called me.
I had not answered because paramedics were arriving.
At 6:27, Michael called Kane again.
Ruiz tapped the page.
"This sequence establishes communication. It does not establish what was said."
"I understand."
She looked almost surprised.
"I'm learning."
Then she placed another record on the table.
"What is that?"
"Richard's medical office fax log."
I stared.
"Why does that matter?"
"Someone requested his cardiac records two weeks before his death."
"Who?"
"The request claimed to come from a consulting physician."
"Name?"
"Dr. Alan Pierce."
Thomas frowned.
"Do you know him?"
"No."
Ruiz did.
"There was no licensed cardiologist by that name at the address listed."
My stomach tightened.
"Fake."
"Apparently."
"Who sent the request?"
"We're tracing it."
"Did the doctor's office release the records?"
"Yes."
"Where were they faxed?"
Ruiz turned the page.
A number.
Thomas recognized the area code.
Mercer did too when we called him.
"That's Kane's old office exchange."
I closed my eyes.
Kane had obtained Richard's medical records.
Before visiting my house.
Before Richard died.
Ruiz remained careful.
"Again, that may establish privacy violations or fraud. It does not establish homicide."
"I know."
But the possibility was no longer something I could pretend did not exist.
That evening, Evelyn stayed with me.
I went into the bathroom where Richard had collapsed.
The room had been renovated since then.
New tile.
New cabinet.
Different paint.
But I still knew where he had sat.
I stood there until Evelyn appeared in the doorway.
"You don't have to solve it tonight."
"I lived thirteen years without knowing there was anything to solve."
She came beside me.
"Maybe there isn't."
I looked at her.
"Would that be easier?"
"Wouldn't it?"
I thought about Richard.
If he had simply died because his damaged heart finally failed, then tragedy remained tragedy.
If another person had accelerated it deliberately, grief became something else.
But I realized there was a third possibility.
Kane could have frightened him.
Threatened him.
Pushed a sick man through a night of unbearable stress.
Morally ugly.
Not necessarily murder.
"I don't know what I want the answer to be."
"You don't get to choose."
"No."
That was the lesson beneath everything.
I could not choose who my children had become.
Could not choose what Richard had hidden.
Could not choose what Kane had done.
Only what I did after knowing.
My phone rang.
Detective Ruiz.
"We found the source of the fake medical-record request."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"It was faxed from a business center."
"Can you identify who used it?"
"We have an archived payment record."
I closed my eyes.
"Name?"
"Michael Harris."
I sat down.
My son had helped Kane obtain his father's medical records.
"What did Michael say?"
"We haven't questioned him yet."
"Why not?"
"Because there's another detail."
"What?"
"The payment card wasn't Michael's."
I waited.
"It belonged to Jennifer."
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: Jennifer’s Card Paid for the Fake Medical Request, but Michael’s Explanation Revealed the Secret Richard Had Been Preparing to Expose
The Night I Came Home From the Hospital Alone, I Finally Noticed What My Children Asked About Instead of Me
Part 14 of 35
