Requiem for Moses

Chapter Twenty-Eight

At the Green apartment when Tully and Mangiapane arrived were Father Koesler, David Green, Dr. Garnet Fox, Judith Green and her fiance, Bill Gray. Introductions were unnecessary.

Green’s son and daughter, as well as Gray, appeared to be exhausted. And little wonder: A great deal had happened in less than a week.

Fox was packing instruments into a black bag. He looked up and smiled as the two officers entered. “This is, indeed, an occasion to be remembered. Seldom does a Homicide lieutenant make a routine call like this. Overkill?”

“With Dr. Green,” Tully responded, “maybe overkill is impossible. What is it, Doc?”

“Well,” Fox said, “it is for certain that Moses Green has expired.”

“All the bases were touched this time,” Bill Gray explained. “About an hour ago, Margie called Dave, and he got in touch with us. Margie sounded like she was on her last legs. So we told her we’d take over.”

“We called Dr. Fox,” Dave continued. “Then we called the police. I guess they got in touch with you, Lieutenant.”

Tully nodded. “I assume Mrs. Green is resting.”

“I gave her something to help her sleep. She’s in her bedroom”

“And the doctor?”

“In the next room,” Fox said. “I’ll take you in.” He led Tully, Mangiapane, and Koesler into a guest room that had been converted into a replica of a hospital room.

On the bed, with a white sheet covering all but his head, was Moses Green. He certainly seemed dead. But, then, everyone had been through that before.

They stood at the bedside. No one spoke.

Tully could not help thinking of Green’s effect on so many people. He’d done his best-or worst-to ruin the lives of at least six people, counting his wife. And, in all probability, he was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people.

There were, perhaps, few people of whom it could be said that the world was a better place without them. Dr. Moses Green was such a person.

“So what do you think, Doctor?” Tully asked.

“Overdose,” Fox said definitively.

“What?”

“Morphine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty certain. I’ve talked with your Inspector … Koznicki, is it? He has requested an immediate autopsy. And Dr. Moellmann has agreed. But they’ll find that it was morphine.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The signs correspond. But, mostly, I gave him a prescription for a month’s supply when I saw him last Tuesday. It’s gone. Totally used up.”

“Didn’t you say after last Monday’s apparent death that Green told you he didn’t want to live like this?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you give him a month’s supply of morphine?”

“The doctor was in excruciating pain, man! Morphine could alleviate that pain. Good God, if he was determined to commit suicide, there are so many ways. And, as a physician, he would know them all.”

“And last Monday?” Tully pressed. “What was it last Monday? More morphine?”

Fox hesitated. “We’ll never know for certain. There are those who do not … will not … dismiss the possibility of a miracle.”

Tully snorted. “Come on, Doc. You’re the closest thing to a scientist we’ve got in this room. You don’t mean to tell me that you believe in miracles!”

“Oh, but I do, Lieutenant. You should read some of the studies done about the curative power of prayer. Blind studies and experiments!

“But, to be frank, I suspect last Monday’s episode was another overdose, possibly with morphine. I don’t know and I will never know.” Fox shook his head regretfully. “I didn’t examine him. But if it was an overdose earlier this week, it proved insufficient to cause death. But, under this hypothesis, it was sufficient to cause a coma.”

After a moment of thought, Fox looked at Father Koesler. “How about you, Father? Your opinion on a miracle the first time around?”

“What?” Koesler’s thoughts had been miles away. Much of his consciousness was absorbed in prayer. Mostly, he prayed that God, in just but merciful judgment, might find in Moses Green’s life some redeeming feature. It seemed that only God could.

Dr. Fox’s question brought him back to the moment. “A miracle? Oh, I don’t think so,” Koesler said. “From the beginning, those who thought Dr. Green’s ‘return to life’ was a miracle bore the burden of proof. I don’t know what happened to the doctor last Monday, but no one has come close to demonstrating that it was a miracle.”

A sudden commotion in the adjoining room invited their attention. Tully led the way back to the living room, where they found Sergeant Angie Moore and a group of police technicians. Since David Green seemed to be the ranking family representative, Moore served him the warrant.

“What’s this? Your being here isn’t enough? You got to have a warrant too?” David was not happy.

“This is an investigation into the cause of death,” Tully said. “This time we want no slipups on anybody’s part.” To the gathered technicians, he said, “Make sure you dust the container for the morphine. And find Green’s checkbook.”

With a half smile, David said, “About the pills, I think you’ll find everybody’s prints on that bottle.”

“What?”

“When we got here, Mother was distraught. She showed us the bottle. And when she suggested that Father must’ve taken all the pills, we all checked the container. So you should find the prints of Father, Mother, Judy, Bill, and me … that’s if you get any clear prints after so many of us handled it. Sorry. But we weren’t thinking very clearly. Anyway, it seemed so obvious that Dad had finally ended it all that we didn’t give any thought to the fact that we were mucking about with evidence.”

Tully snorted in disgust. “Can we talk to Mrs. Green?” he asked Dr. Fox.

“I just looked in on her. She’s sleeping. It wouldn’t be either wise or helpful to try to wake her. She’s under sedation.”

“We should be able to answer your questions, Lieutenant,” David said. “We talked it all out with Mother before Dr. Fox sedated her.”

Tully sighed. “Okay, let’s give it a try. Was anybody with your father all the time today?”

“Mother was. Except for about two hours when she went shopping. It was while she was out that Dad overdosed.”

“Convenient,” Tully said as if to himself. “Did she notify anyone she would be out?”

“Not exactly,” Judith said. “I talked to her-I called her-just before she left. She told me she was going shopping. I was a little surprised that she would leave him alone for so long. I called Dave and asked him if we should come over.”

“And,” David took up the explanation, “I think I very sensibly suggested that we could spend the rest of our lives taking turns sitting with Dad anytime Mother had to go out. So we decided not to come over.”

“You have keys to this apartment?”

David shook his head. “No, but the manager knows us. He lets us in when it’s necessary.”

“Besides,” Koesler said, “the apartment has no dead bolt or any additional locks. When I visited here, Mrs. Green told me they refused to live in fear or make a prison out of their home.”

They all looked at Koesler with some surprise; they had forgotten he was there.

Tully’s brow furrowed. “I see,” he said. “The entire population of the city of Detroit handled the morphine bottle and the same number had access to this apartment.”

“The door never was a serious concern,” David said. “These apartment condos are pretty well filled and active. Not many strangers could get by the average busy corridor. And the doormen filter out the uninvited. Anyway, smart or not, that’s the way Mom and Dad wanted it. And, as far as passing that bottle around … it was just instinctive. We weren’t concerned about ‘evidence.’ Dad had taken his own life. That’s all we were thinking.”

“Is there anything else you want us for just now?” Bill Gray asked. “Judy could really use some rest. And so could I, as well as Dave, I’m sure.”

Tully paused. “Okay, you can leave. But there’s sure to be more questions. Stick around town and stay available.”

They got their coats and prepared to leave. Judy paused and stepped back into the room. “Do you think it would be all right if I looked in on Mother now?”

“Don’t,” Fox said. “She needs this rest. If she can sleep through the noise the police are making, she doesn’t need to be awakened. I’ve asked the police to search her bedroom last.”

After the three left, Fox got his coat. “Look,” he said to Tully, “I don’t know where your investigation will lead you, but I’m listing the cause of death as ‘undetermined.’ And, frankly, I don’t know how you can do otherwise.

“Well, good day, officers.”

Mangiapane approached. “The guys from the M.E.’s office are here. They want to take Green to the morgue.”

“Our guys done with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay”

Mangiapane gave the new arrivals the go-ahead.

“Manj,” Tully said. “When did this day start getting away from us?”

Mangiapane shrugged, and smiled.

“We’ve got a death today that’s a repeat of last Monday,” Tully mused. “Is it murder? It’s so simple, an overdose of morphine. The wife could have done it before or after she went shopping. The kids and/or Bill Gray could have come here once they found out Mrs. Green was going to be gone. Or, like the Orient Express, they all could have done it-taking turns feeding the guy pills. Or, with minimum security, almost anyone could have gotten in and done it.

“Or, was it suicide? The guy told his own doctor he didn’t want to live. You could bet on anyone and be paid even money. All we can do is wait for Moellmann’s report.”

Angie Moore joined them.

“Zoo was wondering when this day got away from us,” Mangiapane said.

“I don’t know about that,” Moore replied. “But I think now is when we can put part of it together again.”

“Whatcha got?” Tully asked.

“Doc Green’s checkbook. Look at this entry.” She showed the stub to both Tully and Mangiapane. The check had been issued to “G.O.B. Inc.” The amount was $10,000.

“Two hits at five grand apiece,” Mangiapane observed. “Somebody didn’t know the price has gone up.”

“Maybe,” Moore added, “Green had never taken out a contract before. And Billy Bob didn’t know the going rate since it was the Good Old Boys’ first contract killing.”

Mangiapane scratched his head. “One more puzzle. Why would a guy who is gonna commit suicide take out a contract on two other people?”

“Good question,” Tully agreed. “Maybe there’s no way to measure how mean, nasty, cruel, and vengeful this guy was. I remember reading about Hitler when the war was lost and Berlin was falling down around his ears. He sent orders to execute political prisoners. I always thought Hitler was a special type of creep, and that I would never see his equal. Maybe now I have.

“But, until the M.E.’s report, I think we’d better follow Doc Fox’s example and label this an undetermined death. That covers a multitude of possibilities.”