The Bitterest Pill

Sixty-two

A gaunt white woman in green scrubs and running shoes opened the door.

“How may I help you?” she asked, an impatient look on her face.

“Is Dr. Wexler available?”

“Who’s asking?”

Jesse was quick on the uptake. There were times when talk was best, but there were times when showing a shield helped cut through all the bullshit. This was one of those times. He flashed his shield in the woman’s face and quickly put it away.

“Let me ask you this again,” he said, giving her his best fish-eyed stare. “Is the doctor available?”

She twisted up her lips and shrugged, said, “He’s inside the house, Detective, but he’s not here.”

Jesse wasn’t in the mood. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for games?”

“Alzheimer’s,” she said. “Come have a look for yourself.”

Jesse followed the nurse into the house. The place had that peculiar odor that wasn’t quite home and wasn’t quite hospital but a little bit of both. It was the scent of pine, ammonia, and human decay mixed up with cooking smells like fried onions, burnt coffee, and eggs.

“He’s in there,” the nurse said, pointing at a door near the kitchen. “The stairs are blocked off. He’s taken a few falls when he gets confused and wanders. He’s safer this way.”

Jesse asked, “What’s your name?”

“Millie.”

She was testing Jesse’s patience. “Millie what?”

“Millie Lutz. I’m an RN and the family pays me and a few other nurses to watch the doctor.”

“If his Alzheimer’s is that bad, shouldn’t he be in assisted living?”

“Above my paygrade, Detective.”

Jesse walked into the room off the kitchen. Sitting in a brown leather recliner was a hunched, bald-headed man with a freckled scalp. He was dressed in expensive blue pajamas and slippers. He was staring out the window and didn’t seem to notice Jesse had come into the room. Next to the recliner was a hospital bed. In front of the bed was a wide-screen TV on a stand. Jesse moved around by the window so that the doctor could not help but notice there was someone standing there. Only he didn’t seem to notice. Dr. Wexler wore an expression that Jesse had seen many times before on the faces of those suffering from severe dementia. It was what he thought of as a sad, confused smile. Jesse could only imagine what could produce such an expression and had no desire to ever find out. As he had once confided to Molly, he preferred cancer to Alzheimer’s.

“Dr. Wexler,” he said.

The old man blinked, but that was his only concession to Jesse’s presence. The nurse had been correct. The doctor was in the house, but he wasn’t home. Jesse put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure why he did it. This time, Wexler turned his head and looked up at Jesse. Unfortunately, his expression was unchanged. Jesse stayed with him a few moments and then left.

“I told you,” Nurse Lutz said when Jesse stepped out of the room.

“Do you know if Dr. Wexler’s medical license is still active?”

She blew air through her lips and made a sarcastic face. “As if it mattered.”

Jesse thought about giving her a hard time about her attitude, but he thanked her for her time instead.

“There a bathroom I can use?” he asked.

“Sure. Down the hall, past his study, on the right.”

Jesse wasn’t really interested in the bathroom. He was curious to have a quick look around. When he walked by the study, he noticed prescription pads on the desk. When he passed the study again on his way back from the bathroom, the pads were gone. But again, this wasn’t his jurisdiction, and all he had at the moment were suppositions. They were strong ones, but knowing something in your guts didn’t stand up in court. On the way out, he stopped to deliver a message to Nurse Lutz.

“When your bosses ask who was here, tell them Jesse Stone.”

He left without bothering to wait for her denial.

Nurse Lutz watched out the front window and waited a few moments after Jesse pulled out of the driveway to punch in Mr. Sarkassian’s number.