Garnier House

By Randal Bablitz

John Atwood is a successful attorney and a good father. Everything seems to be lining up for him professionally when he has a serious stroke.
John survives but suffers a serious deficit in motor function, including his ability to speak. During his hospitalization, his home life falls apart. At Garnier House, John is thrown into the Canadian long term care system where there is no shortage of extraordinary and humorous characters. John finds himself in the middle of a multiple homicide investigation that is focused on finding out who is euthanizing ailing residents. The Police are slowly closing in on the killer. John struggles with the dilemma of either withholding information or reporting his own findings to the Police.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randal Bablitz
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986870828

Randal Bablitz

Randal Bablitz was born in Edmonton, Alberta. He served in the Canadian Army with Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry and the Army Medical Services. In his retirement, Randy paints and writes.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dr. Paul Riopel was hunched over the nursing station desk, reading the chart of one of his most troubled patients. Madame Ginette Marois weighed in at a gaunt forty-four kilograms. The doctor had just returned from her room. He added his notes to the substantial chart. The old woman was a bloodied and pitiful mess. She had scratched her forearms, legs and face until they bled. Her remaining scraggly gray hair was clotted with blood. Clumps of matted hair lay on the floor around her bed where she had thrown them down, some with tags of scalp attached. Suicidal, it warned across the first page of her chart. Madame Marois was determined and everyone knew that she wanted to die.

Riopel had shaken his head in disbelief when he surveyed the old woman’s room. Garlic mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, remnants from her evening meal, had been squashed flat under the feet of the medical team members who had come to her rescue. A strange starchy, blood-laced odor filled the room. In good time, one of Housekeeping’s night staff would come to try to bring some order to the site of Madame Marois’ latest suicide attempt.

He knew the Marois family well. It had been depleted by time. Both of her sisters and her husband were gone. The nephews and nieces were far away and didn’t care about Aunt Ginette. And her loving, caring son, Cedric the chain smoker, had finally died of lung cancer in April. Two months later, her older boy, Gilbert, had her declared incompetent. Dr. Riopel saw that she had been transferred to the lockdown unit shortly thereafter. The poor woman had been caged like an animal without hope or love. To Riopel, it was no surprise that she felt there was nothing to live for. Madame Marois was aware of her situation, but she had fallen into a deep depression for which there was no suitable medication. Riopel and others had tried various things. She really did not have Alzheimer’s disease, or any other form of dementia. She just wanted to leave this life behind.

Dr. Riopel saw what was happening due to limited staffing and every bed being filled. It was difficult for even the most diligent of workers to get around to all of the patients. The required level of care for each patient often seemed to be more intense than was expected at the time of admission. The patients weren’t getting younger. There were just not enough hours in the day for staff to do what they needed to do for each of the patients. Nursing staff told Riopel that Madame Marois needed much closer supervision. Or, perhaps, what was required was an easier way out of her earthbound predicament.

Even though she was on the fourth-floor lockdown unit at Garnier House, the staff had, once again, failed to prevent her from injuring herself. It wasn’t really their fault exclusively. They had to work within the rules imposed on them by provincial legislation. The use of chemical and physical restraints was extremely restrictive. Dr. Riopel was unhappy that the chemical restraint, or heavy sedation, was not working effectively. But he wasn’t surprised. If only the ward staff could be more consistent in ensuring she received her medication, in the correct dose, at the appropriate times. But there were some staff members on the floor who just didn’t give a damn about the crazy old lady. She was frequently on a delirious roller-coaster ride, due to the careless application of her medication over time.

She had thrown a most frightening fit, earlier in the day, right in the dining room during the lunch hour. Riopel was mortified when he heard the story. The other residents, those patients on the ward who were able and allowed to go to the dining room, were really upset, even terrorized, by the banshee-like behavior. A number of the residents were quite fragile, while others were easily agitated. Madame Marois had taken a table knife and tried to cut her own throat. Luckily, for the staff at least, the blade was about as dull as it could possibly be, and one of the Personal Support Workers, or PSWs, had been standing right behind the old woman when the suicide attempt occurred. But given her frame of mind and the fact that her skin was as thin as paper, the kitchen utensil might have done the trick.

Approaching from behind, the heavyset PSW had no difficulty in seizing tiny Madame Marois and controlling her efforts to cut and stab herself. Another worker managed to get the knife out of the screaming senior’s grasp.

Through all of this, she had continued to shriek, Let me die! Let me die!

Two of the older patients had had to be sent back to their rooms for some oxygen therapy. It was too much excitement for this place. It was sure as hell too much for Dr. Riopel.

They finally dragged the little woman off to her room. Riopel arrived minutes later, pockets heavy and white coat streaming as he charged up the hallway. It took another five minutes before her pitiful begging for someone, anyone, to help her die subsided under a heavy blanket of narcotics. Riopel supervised as her neck injury was gently bandaged.

Six hours after the noontime sedation, she was waking up peacefully. The evening shift Ward Nurse had tried to get some food into the old woman. The chart indicated to Riopel that the nurse was concerned that Madame Marois was getting dehydrated. Notations reported that the howling and thrashing had resumed in her room. Madame Marois was like a demon, tearing at her own flesh and then at the staff. Riopel had seen this behavior himself before, and it scared the hell out of him. The food and drink were flung aside. Trapped in the restrictive perimeter of the bed rails, Madame Marois did what damage she could to end her life in her own bed. But again, her efforts were arrested with both chemical and physical restraints. This time, she had badly injured her right eye. The soft tissue was swollen from blood within. The bloated eyelids were slammed shut. Dr. Riopel had ordered the physical restraints, at least temporarily. The heavy leather strap restraints were buckled in place around those tiny wrists, a waffling answer to a situation for which there would be no happy ending. Dr. Riopel had also ordered a consult with the eye doctor to assess the eye and treat it accordingly. In the morning, Madame Marois would be transported by ambulance over to the General Hospital for her appointment.

Once things had again calmed down, there was a second round of bandaging for her eye, face and arms, which took up another hour of care. Dr. Riopel, exhausted and distressed by the day’s tribulations, finally went home to his family for a late supper.

The Registered Practical Nurse, RPN for short, had come by at 2200 hours to give the old woman another injection. Her good eye remained open, wild and full of fury. But moments after the injection, she was higher than a kite.

The patients were all bunked down on the ward; most nights were fairly quiet. All thanks to the wonders of chemistry. Shortly before 2300 hours, a lone person, carrying a medium-sized sports bag, quietly slipped down the darkened hallway of the fourth-floor lockdown unit and entered Madame Marois’ room. The old woman was deep in her narcotic sleep. A clear plastic hose was taped to her neck so that the open end was up behind her ear. Madame Marois hardly noticed the heavy plastic bag being slipped over her head. Cool gas spilled from the end of the hose and started to fill the plastic bag. When the lighter helium had pushed all of the breathable air downward and out of the bag, strong hands cinched up the slack around her neck. The bag was close to Madame Marois’ face. It bulged slightly with the pressure of the helium that was coming up from the small tank in the sports bag. The old woman’s body stirred only slightly in the natural struggle for life, as she was so heavily sedated. After two minutes, the visitor reached down and closed the valve on the tank.

There was a whisper: "Dors, Ginette. Vas voir ton Cedric." Sleep, Ginette. Go be with your Cedric. The plastic exit bag was gently removed and stuffed into the black nylon sports bag. Seconds later, the plastic hose was coiled and stowed.

With a practiced hand, the killer brushed the lid of the uninjured eye to close it. The sign of the cross was slowly carved in the air over Madame Marois. Before leaving, the killer opened the nightstand top drawer and removed a small jewelry box. The killer went to the doorway, looked carefully up the hallway, and then made for the security door at the end of the lockdown unit corridor.

Chapter 2

On Thursday morning, John Atwood stepped down into his attached double garage. His nicely polished oxford just missed the scattered remains of the previous evening’s salmon. The garage stank of rotten fish. Melissa, his wife, had obviously dropped the white kitchen catcher just inside the garage door rather than placing it in the plastic bin. John controlled the urge to go back into the house and give her a blast. Maybe she should come out here and get the week’s garbage out to the curb by herself. He slapped the garage door opener with the palm of his hand to get some fresh air circulating. His headache didn’t help matters.

The thin plastic bag had been easy pickings for Melissa’s big Persian cat. Sasha, that furry, oversized fleabag, had probably slipped into the garage when Melissa dropped the bag out the door. Fish vertebrae, bones, and other food were scattered across the floor. John looked around for the cursed cat. And there it was, crouched, at the end of a trail of greasy paw prints across the hood of his Mercedes. It glared at him insolently. The white cat didn’t budge as the cool morning breeze swirled into the garage. John picked up a corn broom and took a careful swing at the goddamned feline. He didn’t want to scratch the car. The beast dodged the blow at the last second and escaped out the big garage door.

John grumbled to himself as he cleaned up the mess. He tried not to contaminate his suit or shoes with fish as he loaded the waste into a black garbage bag. The smell wouldn’t go over too well in his client’s boardroom. John rolled the big green bin out to the curb and then returned to climb into his car.

John and Melissa lived in a large hundred-and-fifty-year-old house near the center of the city, in the Glebe. The house had been spruced up over the years and was very modern inside. The neighbors were predominantly professionals, or folks who had somehow fallen into money. Enough to buy one of the old oversized and overpriced brick homes in the prestigious Golden Triangle, as the real estate folks called it. Melissa had found the property and closed the deal. Really, at that price, she had stolen the house. It was spectacular and situated in a great location. John could almost throw a rock into the famous Rideau Canal from his front porch. In the winter, it was the ten-kilometer-long skating rink that they could easily walk to, wearing blade guards on their skates. It had been a great spot for them to raise their kids.

He finally started on his road trip from Ottawa to Montreal, pulling out into his street and then heading for the ramp up onto Highway 417. The meeting with one of his firm’s multinational corporate clients was booked for ten a.m. He had carefully hung his suit coat in the back, placed his coffee in the cup holder. After a fitful night’s sleep, he hoped his third cup of coffee would help keep him awake. John was comfortable with flying. Lord knew he collected enough travel miles on overseas flights. But for trips to Montreal, only two hundred kilometers east, he would always drive.

John didn’t mind the trip. The solitude was relaxing and allowed some time for introspection, planning, and some of his type of music. He would listen to reggae, preferably Bob Marley, or some classic rock, maybe Lynyrd Skynyrd, at a reasonable volume. It wasn’t that pounding alternative rock crap that his son and daughter always blasted in the basement or upstairs. The volume was even lower today because of his low-grade migraine. At least, that was what the doctor at the urgent care clinic had called it.

Near Hawkesbury, the Bluetooth rang. It was just after eight a.m. He checked the display. He answered Melissa coolly. Morning.

Hi. I’m just leaving for the office. I’m in a rush. Did you see Sasha? Melissa was a real estate agent; a very successful one at that. Of course, what man wouldn’t buy his real estate from Melissa? She was efficient, attractive, and knew how to lay it on thick. And she wasn’t above flirting, or even screwing her way into a sale.

John turned down the stereo. Sasha who?

Sasha, my cat. You know, the white cat that lives here with us.

The tone really pissed him off.

You mean the cat that tore into the garbage bag you left on the floor in the garage last night? The same cat I had to clean up after, again? No, I haven’t seen him.

Her, Melissa corrected him.

Whatever. He tried not to sound too pissed off.

Did you hurt her?

No. But he wished he had.

Did you see her?

Not since it ran out of the garage. That would get her going.

Now Melissa would be pissed off that her indoor cat might wander off or maybe even tangle with some of the local street cats.

You’re such an asshole. The way she said it made it much more derogatory. Melissa was smooth with her clients, but such a witch around the house.

I get that a lot at the office. Have a nice day, Melissa. Knock ’em dead. He pushed the button to hang up. Dead, he thought. Yeah, dead would be a good look for her, too.

Just after he crossed the long and bumpy bridge over the southern edge of Lac des Deux Montagnes, his phone rang. A quick glance at the display showed him it was David, a senior partner in the firm who headed the family law section, and John’s closest friend. They had been working together for more than twenty years. It was David who had convinced John to join the firm.

Hello, David.

Hi. Where are you now?

John had a quick look around. By Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue. So? Did you get it?

I sent the revised package to your email. You can download it when you get to their office. The changes are only six pages long, so you should have time to go through it before the meeting. Nothing shocking. The valuation has gone up slightly, based on last week’s assessment. That should make the client happy. The deal looks even better now.

OK, David. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.

David replied, Drive carefully. And close it, John. It’s a helluva way to start off this quarter. Cheers. The line went dead.

John hit the speed dial number for Helen.

She answered on the second ring. Are you in Montreal yet?

No. Still in the West End.

Helen made that cooing sound he loved to hear. That’s too bad. We could have had some breakfast, you know.

Yeah. That would have been great. Just too damned busy. And tonight I have to scoot right back. John could almost smell her perfume through the phone. You dressed?

I hope so. I’m walking down Atwater Street.

John chuckled. "Now there’s an image. You, walking down Atwater, au naturel."

Hold that thought. I’ll see you soon. I love you.

When she said those words, it was like she held his heart in her hand. She wasn’t really the other woman. Helen was the only woman, hands down.

I love you too. Soon we’ll sort this out. Bye.

He disconnected and checked the speedometer. Somehow, he had dropped down to eighty kilometers an hour. Not a good thing to do on a Montreal highway.

The day of meetings went very well. John’s corporate clients seemed to be content with his contribution to closing the deal. The transatlantic merger would all be concluded in a few days. It was just paperwork now, and then final payment for the firm’s services. The client’s team lead had tried to maintain his stern facade throughout the whole process. But John knew they were genuinely happy, trying not to giggle in delight, and very impressed with how smoothly things had gone.

John had a knack for understanding his clients’ needs. He was good at reading people’s faces. The tactics, misdirection and lies of lawyers, clients, defendants, and prosecutors were easily deciphered. The only person he couldn’t read that well, at least initially, was his wife. But that had improved with practice and experience. In the last few years, he had gained a deeper appreciation for the meanings of words like deceit, adultery, debauchery, greed, and treachery. Soon, in a couple of months, maybe, all of that nonsense would be behind him.

John escaped the office tower after five p.m. and headed for his car. Now he had to deal with Montreal’s kamikaze-style rush-hour traffic across elevated highways that looked as if they were ready to fall down at any moment. Steel mesh had been stretched across the underside of some of the decaying overpasses, bolted in place to prevent damage from spalling concrete to vehicles passing below.

In the elevator down to street level, he had caught himself taking in deep breaths and sighing with fatigue. That particular evening, for the return trip from Montreal, he was concerned about how he would deal with his worsening headache. He tossed his suit coat into the backseat, on top of his briefcase.

Driving west toward the sunset, he tried to push back his weariness. He really just wanted to get home and climb into bed. In the morning, he would sleep late. The hell with work, he thought to himself. Today was enough for the firm. He had to look after himself.

He scratched at his afternoon beard, loosened the blue-and-gold-striped tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes ached. His salt-and-pepper hair was messed up, but he was glad to still have it. In a couple of weeks, he was heading down to the Bahamas for a well-earned break. That little sailing vacation with the guys would set him right as rain.

He drove on toward the colorful pink, orange and gray clouds that stretched across the sky. Looking to the north, he could see angry, dark clouds lurking over the Laurentian range. He had been on this road thousands of times over the last thirty years, since he started university. He had attended McGill University, where he had completed a Bachelor of Science and then his degree in law. His parents had given up so much to see him through university; he never forgot that, even though they were both gone now. His hometown was Arnprior, to the west of Ottawa. Yes, he knew every curve of this road.

John rubbed at his temple, although it was pointless. He didn’t like being sick. He golfed regularly and tried to stay muscular and lean. He jogged, played tennis, and was obsessed with his predominantly fruit and vegetable diet. He had some trouble with hypertension, and he did his best to make sure his blood pressure was more or less under control. But right now, he was fed up with his goddamned headache.

The occasional flash of lightning to the north made him wonder why anyone would live over there in Quebec, with the constant clouds and rain that seemed to roll down the north side of the Ottawa River every summer. It was a nasty storm over there. He was relieved that he didn’t have to drive through that shit, at least not yet.

He listened to his reggae on the stereo and kept the E-Series rolling at ten kilometers an hour over the speed limit. He was having some quiet time for himself in the right-hand lane. Despite the daylong meeting and the fact that he had not eaten since the early morning, he tried to convince himself that he was OK. It had been three days now with the headache. On the second day he had gone in to the clinic. The doctor had listened to him patiently, did a cursory examination by checking his eyes, ears and blood pressure, and then prescribed some migraine medication. The doctor told him that if it persisted for two more days, he should come back in and they would do some tests. What a waste of bloody time that was.

The Mercedes rolled along, leaving the kilometers behind. John squinted through the haze of his headache. He called Melissa on her cell phone.

He was about to disconnect the Bluetooth when she finally answered. Hi, is that you?

John thought it was a stupid comment, as she had call display and she always checked it before answering. Yeah. I’m on my way, but I’m behind schedule.

Melissa made a poor attempt at sounding interested. Oh, really? OK. I’m on the run between clients. And the kids won’t be home until later. I put some nice meat pies in the fridge and some roasted vegetables. Can you heat them up?

He was not surprised that he would eat alone. No problem.

John didn’t bother asking what time she would be home, but she told him anyway. I have a client at seven, in Kanata. So I should be back around nine. Can you feed Sasha?

The word warfarin passed through his mind. Fine. See you then. He hung up and muttered aloud, Jesus Christ, beseeching a higher power to intervene. He thought Melissa would be enough to give any man a perpetual migraine. Getting married, yes, he had chosen well. But things change. He shook his head to put it out of his mind and then turned his full attention back to the road.

John pressed onward for ten minutes and then decided to call Monique, his assistant, to see if everything was in order at the office.

After the first ring, she picked up and answered, Hi, John. Where are you?

Driving. I’m near Hudson. We finished a little late.

Be careful on that bloody road. How’s the headache?

John smiled. Now here was a young woman who cared about other people. No hell. I’m going to—

She finished his sentence. You’re going to an appointment with Dr. Watters, at eight thirty in the morning. I pushed the Fleming deposition back to next week so there’s no pressure to get back to the office. And Helen Baxter called. I think she wants to see you. She’ll be in town over the weekend and will have her clubs.

The usual deception plan, John guessed. It would be a short round of golf, dinner, and then a long round of lovemaking at her hotel.

John felt a little better when he thought about Helen. Really?

Helen had been one of the interns at the firm a couple of years back. She was about ten years older than most of her peers, as she had decided to go to law school after her husband was killed in a helicopter crash. He had been a good husband, a successful geologist, but a very unlucky helicopter passenger. Of the three passengers and two crewmembers, he was the only fatality. Helen had decided to put some of the insurance money toward a good end by improving her education. While she was at the firm, John had been attracted to her, but remained resolute in his policy of not fraternizing with interns.

John was thirteen years her senior, but to Helen, that didn’t matter. She had kept her distance, as John wanted it that way. Once she left the firm for a position in an office in Montreal, it seemed that the possibility of a romantic relationship had faded. However, in December, only seven months ago, they had bumped into one another at a restaurant and started communicating again. It was about four months now that they had been meeting for dinner, discreet social events, and what John thought was astonishing sex.

Monique wasn’t stupid. She knew about John’s wife and the state of their marriage. Yes, John. Really. And I think you should see her. She’s a sweetie.

Is that so?

John, life is too short for this silliness. You figure it out. Want me to book a tee-off time and then let her know?

Please. And let David know that the client is prepared to sign off on the contract. So he can start that rolling in the morning. John popped a piece of gum into his mouth. Maybe that would help him keep sharp.

David is here. I’ll walk down right now and let him know.

Monique, you’re the best.

Yes I am. Just remember that when it comes time for my raise, you cheap old screw. You’re a great lawyer, John. But you have to fix your life.

Thanks, Dr. Ruth. I’ll call you tomorrow after I go to the clinic. Bye.

Drive carefully! She hung up.

John renewed his focus on the road. It wasn’t easy. Over the next half hour, his left eye would try to close or start twitching. The pain was occasionally sharpened, severely. He had self-medicated himself with Tylenol, but even with the largest dose that he dared to take while driving, the pain persisted.

John had just passed the Cornwall turnoff when the pain suddenly spiked. His vision started to blur, his stomach was turning, and he felt the urge to vomit. He shook his head and blinked, trying to clear his field of view. He took his foot off the gas pedal. His vision narrowed, he felt really nauseated, and suddenly everything went black.

Chapter 3

When John woke up, it took some time for him to get his bearings. He heard a door