Page 123 of Hello, Summer
“That’s a little odd in itself,” Carol said. “But if he was in his late seventies and terminal, yeah, I suppose it could be okay. Was he in hospice?”
“Don’t think so. His wife was keeping him isolated from everybody, including his own son, but that’s another story. Meanwhile, the cops down here have asked the local pharmacy for a list of his medications,” Conley said. “So I’m thinking they’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Which is?” Carol asked.
“Maybe he was impaired when he had the wreck? First off, if he was terminally ill, what’s he doing driving around that time of night? His wife told me his meds gave him insomnia, that he’d wake up in the middle of the night and just drive aimlessly around. She called it ‘chemo brain.’ But I thought if you had end-stage cancer, the docs would really dope you up.”
“Hmm,” Carol said. “You can’t quote me on any of this, okay? I’m not a physician, and I don’t know any of the particulars of this case. All I can give you is general observations. That said, my first thought is that if he’s end stage, he’s probably not doing chemo anymore. His docs are doing palliative care, just trying to keep him comfortable.”
“What kind of drugs does that involve?”
“Maybe a transdermal patch, fentanyl, or buprenorphine. They’re both heavy-duty opioids and commonly used for cancer patients.”
“Wouldn’t those dope him up to the gills?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Long-term users, especially cancer patients, can metabolize the drugs at a different rate. For instance, a dose of fentanyl that would knock you or me on our asses, maybe even be lethal, might not have that same effect on the cancer patient.”
“Huh,” Conley said. “Would he be on any other meds? Something for sleep, for instance?”
“Maybe. But buprenorphine especially can have pretty serious, negative interactions with other drugs and even alcohol.”
“Like what?”
“Dizziness, wooziness, and the biggie. Death.”
“Would all those drugs show up in his body afterward? Even if he was pretty badly burned in the car fire?” Conley asked.
“They should,” Carol said. “But I’m not a pathologist. That’s a question for the medical examiner.”
“I’ve got lots of questions for the medical examiner,” Conley said. “But he’s not too keen on talking to reporters.”
“Whoops! They’re calling my flight. Good luck,” Carol said. “And come see me.”
After sitting at a desk writing all morning, Conley was anxious to get out of the office. She put in a call to Vanessa Robinette, but her call was immediately rolled over to the widow’s voice mail.
“Hi, Vanessa,” she said, trying to sound friendly, even deferential. “I’m working on a story about some last-minute details about the congressman’s service, and I’d appreciate if you’d give me a call back.”
Probably, she thought, Vanessa would return her call when hell froze over. She decided it was time to start knocking on doors.
She stepped inside Grayson’s office.
Grayson was reading a document on her computer screen and looked up. “Rowena’s column is much better. Almost literate. Thanks.”
“I’m headed out for a while,” Conley said. “Gonna go over to Bronson County to see if I can get your friend Merle Goggins to answer some questions. And I might make a couple of other stops too.”
“Speaking of cops, I need you to stop by the Silver Bay PD and pick up the police reports,” Grayson said. “Be good if you could put that together in the morning, since you’ll probably be busy covering the funeral on Saturday.”
“Ugh,” she said. “Can’t Mike cover cops this week? I’m kind of covered up.”
“He’s covered up too,” Grayson said. “No whining, okay?”
The front desk at the Silver Bay Police Department was manned by a light-skinned black woman named Claudette, who had deep dimples and a fondness for nail art. Every time Conley stopped by to pick up copies of incident reports, her nails were different. Today, each nail was painted a bright blue, with tiny yellow smiling sunrays emanating out from each tip.
“Hey, Claudette,” Conley said, bellying up to the front counter. “Love your nails.”
“Oh, hey, Conley,” Claudette said. She fanned her fingers out, admiring them herself. “My girl Sue really outdid herself this week, didn’t she?” Without being asked, she plucked a file folder from a tray on her desk and handed it over. “There’s your reports. I made copies for you.”
“How come you’re so nice to me?”
