The fat woman was dead all right. As dead as anyone could make her, anyway. And someone had made her dead. Very dead.
Dr. Barney Ostrowski rose from beside the body with a groan earned through years of odd-hour, preliminary examinations of premature, violent deaths. He looked at the nearby senior detective. “She’s been dead only a couple of hours at most. Strangled. That seems apparent at this point, Chet.” The doctor looked back at the deceased as if studying something, waiting for an answer. After a brief pause, he turned and continued, walking around the body as he spoke. “But not a certainty. The autopsy will tell me more.” His voice was hollow and without energy.
“She’s been dead only a couple of hours at most. Strangled. That seems apparent at this point, Chet.”
“Yeah, Doc. Even in this light, you can see the ligature marks,” Detective Chet Wadford agreed. He watched the medical examiner rub his overworked eyes. Ostrowski’s nose-heavy, chin-shy face reflected years of hard work and unshakeable knowledge. Those attributes had earned him the respect of law enforcement and prosecutors, and the reverence, yet dread of defense attorneys trying to poke holes in the state’s case. Dr. Ostrowski cared about the truth a deceased’s body could speak to him after their demise. If those facts pointed to their cause of death and their killer, so be it. If they did not, then it was simply the way it was. While reasonable minds could disagree on the meaning or interpretation of a finding, he didn’t truck with anyone trying to distort the truth of a matter for unwarranted gain. It mattered not to him their position in the issue.
He’d become something of an instant legend in some circles when dealing with a particularly nasty, arrogant, and argumentative defense attorney in a trial much earlier in his career. During his cross-examination of Dr. Ostrowski, the attorney was trying to undermine the medical examiner’s experience and asked him how many autopsies he had performed on dead people. Ostrowski responded by telling him all his autopsies had been on dead people. The courtroom had erupted in laughter at the obvious answer to an ineptly put question. Law enforcement held great respect for their medical examiner. We will miss him when he’s gone, Wadford thought. One of a kind.
The doctor looked to the junior detective, Jim Carter, standing on the other side of the woman’s body and making notes in a small, flip notebook. His speech suddenly drew fresh life. “You’re looking for a guy around six feet tall, with dirty blond hair, and driving an old Chevy Nova.”
“No shit, doctor?” The rookie detective, wide-eyed, was writing furiously. Carter’s face was like an impatient sponge waiting to glean any tidbit tossed out by the more learned. Wadford smiled as he flipped his notebook closed and looked from Carter back to the medical examiner.
After an appropriate pause to allow Carter time to finish writing, Ostrowski continued. “And he ate a large spaghetti dinner just before he killed her.”
The rookie stopped writing and stared at Ostrowski. “Are you sure about that, doctor?”
“Nah. It’s just that Sherlock Holmes and those television and paperback cops and forensic pathologists seem to make such massive leaps of logic and detection. So I thought I’d inject a little conjecture of my own into your investigation.” His fatigued face broke into a broad grin.
Wadford laughed quietly as Carter tore the page out of his notepad. Carter wasn’t sure whether he should show his disgust, this being only his third day in the homicide unit and his first murder case. So he merely stuffed the paper into his coat pocket in silence and smiled sheepishly.
The good doctor is unique, all right, Wadford thought. Ostrowski had slowed since he’d started his treatments for the cancer ravaging his body, but his sense of humor was as keen as ever. He was a tough old bird who just wouldn’t or couldn’t give up his daily routine. Having lost his wife a decade or so ago, the job seemed to keep Ostrowski going, despite his catastrophic setback. Wadford believed he was like an old workhorse, ready for the harness, eager for the bell, even when it suffered from a painful leg injury.
Carter attempted to regain his lost dignity by bringing the investigation back to ground. “Her name was Esther Williams, according to the identification found in the purse next to the body.”
Ostrowski gingerly eased up next to Wadford. “Esther Williams? Really? Well, that explains the tan lines,” the doctor trumpeted. His voice reflected a renewed enthusiasm for the moment.
Carter’s expression was uncomprehending. The name meant nothing to him. He glanced at the fully clothed victim. “What ‘tan lines,’ doctor?” Carter was more cautious now.
Ostrowski shook his head and released most of the air in his lungs. “‘Pearls before swine,’” he muttered to the detective by his side.
“More likely the ‘youth and inexperience’ of your ‘opponent.’ And imagine you quoting from the New Testament, Doc.” Wadford kept his voice at a conspiratorial level.
The doctor smiled and looked askew at his companion. “Probably more surprising than you paraphrasing your favorite President, Chet.”
Wadford smiled as an early morning drizzle started falling, producing a small course of water running from the brim of his fedora. The headgear identified him as one of the “Hat Squad,” as everyone referred to the Homicide Division. “You finished with your examination, Doc?”
“Yeah, Chet. You guys can finish up. And then they can go ahead and take her to the morgue. I’ll get more ‘into’ the examination later this morning.” The weariness had returned to his voice as he paused, inclined his head, and looked at the body once more. He seemed to be still seeking a response to a query bouncing around in his head. The doctor then turned to walk to his car. As he turned, Wadford patted his shoulder. The pat was the kind one man gave another, simultaneously showing respect for the man and his knowledge and admiration for a lifetime’s job well done. That feeling was heartfelt for Chet’s part. He was only one of a few people in the county’s law-enforcement community who knew of Ostrowski’s condition. Having known and worked closely with Dr. Ostrowski for a long time, it was tough to watch him fade.
The weariness had returned to his voice as he paused, inclined his head, and looked at the body once more.
In their early days together, before the ME’s Office had the luxury of having investigators assigned, the medical examiner always came to the murder scene. Nowadays, the ME’s investigator normally showed up and wrote a descriptive account of the scene to be included in the postmortem report. But Ostrowski usually appeared, even in his weakened condition. He always said he’d write a book someday relating his experiences and didn’t want to miss a good story by not coming to the site.
“Doc, any idea what time you’ll do the autopsy? I’ll need to be there as usual.”
“Let’s say 10:00 this morning, Chet,” Ostrowski called over his shoulder in the detective’s direction. As he shuffled up the slight incline toward his car, gravel crunching beneath his feet, the doctor questioned his continued devotion to going to these crime scenes. His responding to murder scenes was a matter of habit by now, but the exertion was wearing on him. The simultaneous fragility and resilience of the human body he saw during a postmortem examine continued to fascinate him after all these years. But the crime scene was always the most interesting aspect of his occupation.
Ostrowski chuckled. He recognized the irony of his application of the term “fragility and resilience” to the bodies of those departed while ignoring it in his own circumstances. Maybe this would be his last trek to the place where a poor soul had been suddenly and violently ripped from among the living. Ostrowski sighed. Homo homini lupus.
Ostrowski realized, without a murder victim and the accompanying crime scene to occupy his mind, the severe pain which racked his body was bearing down on him again. He leaned inside his car and retrieved one of the pain medications prescribed for people in his advanced stage of cancer. As he stood beside the car, he lifted his face to the sky and tried to take in a mouthful of the light rain to wash the pill down. The effort had little effect. The pill felt stuck in his throat. Great, he thought, a lot of good it’ll do me there. He sighed again, this time more deeply, as he got in his car and drove away.
* * *
At ten minutes before ten o’clock, Detective Wadford appeared in the Medical Examiner’s Office, sweeping off his fedora as he entered. Dr. Ostrowski was with another “patient,” he was told. ME Office’s humor. After a few minutes, they directed Wadford to the “examining room.” Dr. Ostrowski was still washing his hands and lower arms after the last procedure when the detective opened the door. Ostrowski looked even more haggard than he had at the scene where Williams’ body had been found. His countenance stunned Wadford, even though he knew of the doctor’s condition.
Ostrowski stood at a sink in an ill-fitting scrub smock, scouring as if going into open-heart surgery. “Give me a second, detective.” He smiled, “Don’t want to spread any infections between ‘patients.’” More morgue humor. The doctor never stopped. “Our next contestant will be right with us. I believe she’s just down the hall in the ‘green room.’” As if on cue, the doors from the cold storage room burst open, and a morgue assistant wheeled the late Mrs. Williams in. When the deceased was in position on the autopsy slab and Dr. Ostrowski felt sufficiently sanitized, he stood by the table and adjusted the recording microphone above the table. As the doors were closing behind the attendant on his way out, the medical examiner declared a loud “thank you,” referring to him as “Igor.”
While he checked the instruments and read over a document on a clipboard, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Now, madam, please tell our viewing audience your full name, what you did for a living, and, finally, if you know, who did this to you.” Despite his fragile appearance, Ostrowski was in rare form today. Wadford assumed he had taken some medication to bolster himself. After a brief pause, Ostrowski continued, still addressing his bone-tired voice to the dearly departed, “I have it on good authority your name was Mrs. Esther Williams. Uh, probably still is, I suppose. Since you seem a bit shy about talking, we’ll just dig into the matter and try to determine the answer to the last question, if within the realm of medical science.”
Despite his fragile appearance, Ostrowski was in rare form today.
With this, Dr. Ostrowski turned on the recorder and began his legitimate examination. As usual, he began with his external observations of the dead woman, including her weight, height and any identifying marks, such as scars and tattoos. He located an appendectomy scar and an old one of unknown origin on her left leg. There was a small rose tattooed on the back of her left shoulder. Again he noted for his report the ligature marks around the neck and the corresponding petechial hemorrhaging in and around Mrs. Williams’ eyes.
After the preliminary matters of the external examination, Ostrowski began his internal exam, observing the weight and general condition of the various organs. The doctor opened her skull and examined the deceased’s brain. He pronounced it “unremarkable,” indicating there were no abnormalities present. Wadford smiled at the irony of this procedure. Absent some medical anomaly, a forensic pathologist would make the same finding of even Einstein’s brain.
As he proceeded with the internal exam, Ostrowski muttered to himself regarding his observations. The detective often wondered how anyone transcribing the proceedings could ever make sense of the autopsy recordings. After completing the rest of the internal exam, Ostrowski returned to the woman’s dissected stomach. He pointed with an instrument and called it to Wadford’s attention. The detective saw the trace of a thick, green, mortar-like material in the stomach. Despite the years of attending these procedures, Wadford often, as now, saw the thing being indicated but didn’t know exactly what he was seeing. Ostrowski wiped perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his scrub gown and looked to Wadford. “Did you notice the disruption of the soil around the body, Chet?”
“Yeah. I did, Doc. I assumed it resulted from the struggle between Mrs. Williams here and her attacker during the strangulation.” When no response was forthcoming, Wadford prodded. “Right?” Ostrowski appeared distracted as the detective stared at his face, seeking confirmation. “Do you have something else in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know to an absolute certainty, detective. The ligature marks threw me off initially. But finding this material in her stomach gives me pause to wonder. I could be wrong, but a lab analysis should tell us for certain. I’ll send off the stomach contents, along with bile, liver, blood, and kidney samples for testing.” Ostrowski seemed to be thinking aloud as he continued, “The lab tests will tell me for certain whether I’m correct. Those specimens will show the highest concentrations, if it’s present.” The doctor paused, sighing wearily, staring hard at the detective.
“First, Chet, we had the scrapes on the ground. Then there was the marked postmortem rigidity despite the relatively brief postmortem interval, which I attribute to violent muscle contractions. And now we find this green matter in her stomach contents. I suspect someone poisoned the dear lady with strychnine, and then, having second thoughts, strangled her to throw us off the trail. The killer probably hoped, seeing the ligature marks, we’d jump to the easiest conclusion and not look for any other attack on her person or another likely cause of death. A cause of death, I might add, which might lead us to his or her door. People can be very sneaky about their method of doing away with another and then hope it gets past a postmortem exam.” Ostrowski gave Wadford a knowing smile and added, “It happens occasionally, you know.”
“I suspect someone poisoned the dear lady with strychnine ….”
Chet Wadford returned the smile. Yes, he did know.
* * *
As in the Sperry case. Several years earlier, Ostrowski completed an autopsy on an unfortunate soul named Sperry, who the attending physician was certain had died of complications from an irregular heartbeat due to clogged arteries. Nevertheless, the resolute Dr. Ostrowski noticed calcium oxalate crystals in the man’s kidneys during the postmortem procedure. Curious about their presence, he sent several urine and blood samples to the state crime laboratory for analysis. The test results from the crime lab toxicologist registered nothing was amiss. Still not satisfied, Ostrowski sent additional samples to a nationally renowned, independent laboratory in Pennsylvania.
In due course, the lab reported to Dr. Ostrowski the presence of high levels of a toxin, ethylene glycol, in the man’s blood and tissues. Ethylene glycol is the principal component of antifreeze, and a substance not naturally found in humans. The doctor surmised either the man in question had somehow come in contact with large amounts of the substance or he had ingested it by some means. Whatever the source, Ostrowski listed the cause of death as antifreeze poisoning. Based on his findings and his report, local law-enforcement authorities launched an immediate investigation.
The lead investigator was Chet Wadford, who learned from the man’s family and friends he had been suffering from nausea and dizziness a day or so before he died. Sperry had also complained of headaches and shortness of breath. Most of the people interviewed had just assumed he was suffering from a severe bout with the flu. They did, that is, until he died. Some suspected foul play at the hands of the winsome widow Sperry. But none had the nerve to voice their suspicions openly, despite the obvious friction recently seen in the Sperry household, until approached by the police. Later, the state crime lab toxicologist in the Sperry case admitted his failure to find the toxin was the consequence of misreading test results.
Some suspected foul play at the hands of the winsome widow Sperry.
Significantly, Wadford’s investigation also revealed Mrs. Sperry’s first husband, with whom she’d lived in another state, had died suddenly several years before her marriage to the unfortunate Mr. Sperry. Spouse number one’s death followed an affliction with a very similar set of symptoms as those encountered by Mr. Sperry. His autopsy in the first case satisfied the attending medical examiner the man had died of some complication related to an enlarged heart, a natural cause. He listed as much in his report. Then the law-enforcement agencies in the two jurisdictions started communicating with each other.
The first pathologist adamantly stood by his initial findings, despite the remarkable similarities in the two cases. Only after the deceased’s family brought pressure to bear did the defensive medical examiner reluctantly order the body exhumed. On further testing, the very embarrassed doctor changed the first victim’s cause of death to antifreeze poisoning. Aside from the presence of ethylene glycol, the common element in both cases was Mrs. Sperry. A spark of avarice which inflamed Mrs. Sperry was the apparent motive.
Wadford attended Mrs. Sperry’s trial for the murder of her first husband. During the proceedings, an expert chemist from the company that supplied the embalming fluids to the funeral home, which had interred the man, testified. He swore their company did not use any substances containing ethylene glycol, thus deflecting the defense’s theory the toxin found resulted from the embalming process.
The funeral director also appeared. He caused quite a titter in the courtroom. He proclaimed, in his devoutly religious region, grieving families considered it an affront their dearly departed required protection from any “heat,” as the use of a coolant implied. Finally, Dr. Ostrowski testified. He explained his experiments with antifreeze demonstrated someone could put it in lime Jell-O or some other food without changing the texture or color, thereby being easily ingested by an unsuspecting victim. Ostrowski’s tenacity had solved not one, but two murders. The judge sent the lovely and talented widow Sperry away to prison for the rest of her somewhat unnatural life. Dr. Ostrowski was something special, all right.
* * *
Ostrowski’s voice dragged Wadford back from his reverie. “Detective, I’d be looking for someone with a motive and involved in pest control or farming or a line of work with access to rat poisons. And I’m not just tossing guesswork into your investigation. I’ll bank on that.”
The doctor’s statement surprised a grateful Wadford. “I’d say you can, Doc. Mr. Williams works for a pest control company. We’ve already contacted him regarding her death. He was on the job at the time. I’m meeting with him later this afternoon. If you’re sending the samples to the lab right away, you won’t complete your report until the results are back, right? I think I’ll play this one close to the vest for now and see what he has to say. We can always spring what we know on him later when we get the test results. I’ll wait. That is, I’ll hold off if he doesn’t act as if he’ll bush bond on us.”
Ostrowski nodded. “Chet, if you have the time, let me wash up, and then join me in my office for a short while. I’d like to talk.” He sounded ominous.
“Sure, Doc!” Wadford liked Ostrowski a great deal. Besides, how could he say no to someone who had just seemingly handed him the solution to a murder case? Dr. Ostrowski was already in the process of scrubbing.
* * *
Later, when the pair was comfortably situated in his office, Dr. Ostrowski told Detective Wadford this would be his last case. Genuine sorrow swept over the detective. Not only was he going to miss working with the old reprobate, but this sounded like a final, fatal farewell. Ostrowski was a dear friend and a knowledgeable colleague. Wadford swallowed hard.
Ostrowski, never one for maudlin scenes, quickly pulled open a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Belvedere Vodka and two glasses. “Have a drink with me, Chet?”
The detective started to remind the good doctor he was on duty, but pulled his cell phone from his belt and dialed. “Darla. This is Wadford. Put me on personal leave for the rest of the day. Yeah, something’s come up I really need … no, I want to attend to. Thanks.” As he spoke, he watched Ostrowski set fire to a comforting cigar. “Oh, and Darla? Have Carter call Mr. Henry Williams and reschedule our meeting for first thing tomorrow morning. Carter’ll know who he is. Just tell him as soon as you can, okay? If there’s a problem, you can reach me on my cell. Thanks, kiddo.”
“Yeah, something’s come up I really need … no, I want to attend to.”
Dr. Ostrowski was smiling through his weariness. “Thanks, Chet.” He poured two drinks and shifted one across the desk to the detective. Raising his glass, he proposed, “Na zdrowie!”
Wadford, uncertain of the meaning but nonetheless optimistic about the message, likewise raised his glass in tribute to his friend. “Right back at ya, big guy!”
As the men nursed their drinks, Wadford reached over and picked up the bottle, looking at the label. “Polish vodka. I’ve not tried it before, Doc. Smooth stuff. Any significance to the building?” he asked, indicating the structure on the label.
“That’s the Polish presidential palace. It’s named Belweder, spelled B-e-l-w-e-d-e-r, but pronounced like the name on the bottle, Belvedere. We visited it a number of years ago, before Stella passed.” Ostrowski grew momentarily somber as he mentioned his wife’s name. Wadford couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard him say it. Her death had really hit the doctor hard. After a moment, the older man continued, “Our people were originally from Poland. In fact, my folks came from a tiny village near Zyrardow, a little southwest of Warsaw, where they produce the vodka. Her people were from a town farther north. Lovely country, that. You need to go for a visit sometime, Chet.” He took another sip of his drink and smiled sadly. “Think of me when you do.”
* * *
Dr. Ostrowski was correct on two counts. For one thing, his assessment of Mrs. Williams’ death was spot on. The lab analysis showed someone had gradually been giving the woman strychnine, enough to kill her but not right away. It didn’t take Wadford long to get the story from the “bereaved widower” once the detective confronted him with the evidence. Mr. Williams admitted, in his frenzied thought process, he had tried to “doctor” the scene with strangulation after poisoning his wife. And, second, as Dr. Ostrowski had said, the Williams case was his last. He retired, but came back one last time to testify at Williams’ trial. In the end, Mr. Williams went the way of the widow Sperry. The trial was the last time Wadford saw the doctor outside of a hospice.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Ostrowski died of cancer. A multitude of mourners, including law enforcement, medical professionals and lawyers, both prosecutors and defense attorneys, crowded his memorial service that preceded the Levayah. One man Wadford saw and spoke to at the service was the attorney who’d asked the question of Dr. Ostrowski which produced the laughter in the courtroom those many years earlier. Despite the embarrassment Ostrowski had put on him, the lawyer admitted to Chet he’d secretly remained in awe of the doctor and his abilities over the years.
Doctor Ostrowski was one of a kind, sure enough. ©