Death by Rx

By T. A. Olsinski

MYSTERY Global warming in the Antarctic releases a new animal species. A chemical derived from its tissue seems to allow humans to live indefinitely. After Dahl Pharmaceuticals initiates developing the drug, young employees start to die under suspicious circumstances.

Sally wants to protect the reputation of her eponymous company but also scrutinize the death of her nephew, who works at Dahl. Seeking the truth behind one death exposes a global financial conspiracy intent to control the healthcare of the United States.

Harry thought he had it all, a baby boomer with pensions. Despite a life framed by violence, he retires to watch the waves in Maine until his former lover invades his cottage and changes his life forever. Sally persuades him to work together in an adventure that solves murders and restrains control over human immortality.

Death by RX exposes the machinations of individuals and the illicit global drug trade with the potential impact on mankind. This is an exciting mystery set in business about goals as disparate as the medicines managed. The story beyond the headlines shows how a couple can compete against conglomerates. They pursue the truth to stop a killer and save a new discovery to improve healthcare for the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449015701

T. A. Olsinski

T.A. Olsinski has combined several careers: neighborhood pharmacist, magazine business columnist, newspaper health writer, brand marketer, sales leader, and novelist. Born in New York City, he now resides in Indiana and North Carolina with his wife. After raising three children they now live with two cats. The web page for T.A. Olsinski is tomcombooks.com

Book preview

Death by RX

T. A. Olsinski

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2009 T. A. Olsinski. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/23/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-1570-1 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-1568-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-1569-5 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009910641

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Author contact: [e-mail]

ThomasCommunications, LLC

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Website: tomcombooks.com

Front Cover Design by StefanieK

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

For Mary Ann

I have imagined that some would not be pleased…within an immortality of bliss.

Edgar A. Poe

The glory of fortitude does not rest only on the strength of one’s body or of one’s arms, but rather on the courage of the mind.

St. Ambrose of Milan

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CHAPTER ONE

On a dark morning Sally Dahl enters the back seat of the limo and inhales the leather aroma. She sips fresh coffee from a gold rimmed cup as the driver takes her to Dahl Pharmaceuticals headquarters. She hates every Monday morning but this one starts with a gloomy Indianapolis sky.

Sally peruses the tall building in a powerful business. A drug can cure anything and kill anyone. Sally will miss her role here in the powerful medicine making machine that delivers pharmaceuticals to the world. In a month this eponymous business will disappear in a merger, unless her derailment plan succeeds.

Sally folds the Wall Street Journal and turns off NPR. The limo door opens in front of the massive brass corporate doors and she rushes inside.

Employee heads lower in cubicles to create the allusion of work.

Good morning, Mrs. Dahl, says the administrative assistant when Sally sweeps past him and enters her twelfth floor corner office.

Her assistant says: Francelle called from New York to say she sent you an urgent e-mail.

Thanks. Confirm a conference room for the board call at nine and confirm lunch with the non-profit team in the business dining room. Eleven thirty is better than twelve today, says Sally. She tosses her coat on the chair and then sits in the swivel chair at her desk.

While she awaits the computer warm up, Sally Dahl glances at the only personal items in the room, photos of her late husband Robert and her favorite nephew Dudley. She senses annoyance that her closest living relative didn’t bother to return her messages over the weekend.

The screen lightens and her eyes follow the red lined e-mails scrolling before her. One message with attachment carries an urgent tag. Sally clicks on the e-mail and reads with a sense of horror. She punches a number on her cell speed dial but receives no response. She rises from her chair, grabs her coat for the cool spring morning, and sprints from the room.

She tells her assistant: Call my driver and tell him to meet me at the lobby door immediately-

Certainly, but the nine o’clock conference….

Sally ignores the words.

Now, Sally shouts over her shoulder.

Down on the elevator to the lobby she races to the arriving limo. She sits in the back, but this time uncharacteristically barks orders.

Go faster William…please, she says. Panic pervades her tone. Her hands spread electricity to her pounding heart.

The long limo races through the near empty streets of Indianapolis, Indiana. Time works as the enemy when in a hurry. Red lights appear more often. Her mind considers optional outcomes from the e-mail. Are they mere words from the weekend blues? Was the attachment a farewell preamble to self destruction? Perhaps the message is some cruel joke? Is this philosophical verbiage from too much weed? None of these options fit the sender.

She flips open her cell phone to look for any missed calls or text messages. She finds a text from Francelle to check the e-mail. But no replies exist from Dudley. Why doesn’t Dudley reply? She hits redial of her earlier call to no avail.

This car can go faster.

Skip some lights, William. This is an emergency.

Sally taps her fingers rhythmically on the arm rest. The limo accelerates through the pre-dawn downtown streets of Indianapolis. They turn from the brick business buildings onto a residential side street and approach the destination house. Sally peers from the rear window like the passenger on an amusement park submarine ride viewing the remains of a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea. A crisp air permeates the gray skyline.

A nightmare presents on the street before Sally Dahl. Red and white flashing lights from two police cars reflect on the yellow crime scene tape that stretches across the townhouse entry. Two uniform city policemen stand on the periphery smoking and talking. One looks like he isn’t shaving yet. The other presents like he has seen too many horrific scenes.

Messy.

Yeah, newbie it is that, but no doubt of the outcome. Took his head nearly off. You never know what’s going on inside somebody’s head.

He was some squint who worked up the street?

Yeah…so I hear. That place, who knows what crazy crap goes on behind those walls, huh? It’s like its own little kingdom. This guy could be the first of many stiffs with this merger thing. No more green monster and maybe more deaths.

The cop exhales the cigarette smoke and nods toward the distant neon green logo sign that penetrates the pre-dawn darkness, identifying the corporate headquarters of Dahl Pharmaceuticals.

The shiny black limo pulls up and stops behind the mist wet blue police cars. The driver jumps out to open the rear door and a middle-age woman steps out. The cops look at each other and share an admiring opinion of her shapely legs as she exits.

Sally Dahl marches straight at the two cops. They drop their smokes to the street pavement and stand as if at attention to authority.

I need to enter that house, she says.

Sorry, ma’am…this is a crime scene. No one can enter…you are?

I am Mrs. Sally Dahl. Who is in charge here? What’s happened? My nephew lives here.

Well we are in control of the crime scene, ma’am. Your nephew wouldn’t be a…Mr. Dudley…O’Connell?

Yes, I received a disturbing e-mail at work this morning and…what’s happened here?

Well ma’am we took the call from a co-worker of Mr. O’Connell. Something about a concerning e-mail she received from Mr. O’Connell…and so we were the first responders and checked it out and…I’m sorry, ma’am…to inform you that…well there has been a crime here - a suicide….

Sally’s arms drop to her side.

No. It’s not Dudley. What are you saying? He’s dead? Dudley’s dead? Are you sure it’s him?

The older cop speaks to her.

Well, that’s not our job, Mrs. Dahl. But this is his townhouse. The Coroner is in there now...we have to investigate any traumatic death….the detective in charge will be finished soon and will contact you for further identification…if you are the next of kin and all….

If it is Dudley, then yes I am. This is some mistake. Suicide? No, impossible. That cannot be true and I’m not going anywhere. I want to see him. Who’s in charge?

Detective Johnson, he will be right out. The rookie cop chimes in a higher pitch.

The veteran cop looks at his inexperienced colleague and shakes his head in reproach.

Sally Dahl looks at the two dark uniforms and walks away to temporarily escape the morning winds. The lighted back seat of her limo attracts her like a moth. She begins a series of urgent phone calls like a stockbroker contacting clients during a market panic. Between calls she shakes her head to reprimand herself for not contacting Dudley this weekend.

The police officers enter her name into the security log of the scene. They vividly recall the self-inflicted carnage inside the townhouse that no one should have to witness.

Nothing this woman could do will change anything. Their inaccurate assessment matches that of the dead man inside the townhouse who thought he had learned the secret to immortality.

CHAPTER TWO

In Maine the solitary man hobbles along the shoulder of the narrow blacktop road that borders the beach. Beyond the black rocks waves crash to interrupt the tan sandy silence of the morning. An endless azure background surrounds the aquatic action. To protect against the salty sprays of mist the man lowers the brim of his faded Cubs baseball cap. From the distance his walk and demeanor seem like that of an older man. Up close his fitness and close-cropped brown hair belie his actual age as just past fifty. He used to be six feet tall before calcium loss and the impact of life wore him down.

The Atlantic Ocean spray spots his cap like sprinkling water on a parched plant. Continual gusts of wind pepper his face with saltwater. Harry Powell winces at the sharp pain in his right knee. He restrains a wince about his legacy of dissolved cartilage from football. He strides toward his small ocean front cottage on this cool spring morning. Under his arm he carries the Portland Press Herald. Local stories dominate global news references, yet afford him a minor connection to the busier world of his past. He also carries the baggage from his early warrior years.

Residents of Higgins Beach, Maine awaken to initiate annual house spruce-up after the harsh winter and before visiting summer crowds jam the beach and clog the narrow roads. Harry prefers spring and autumn here because the winter freezes breath and the short summer attracts too many shouting interlopers.

Harry recalls Maine’s past with wilderness like Alaska and more residents like lobstermen and the hearty souls from Arcadia. Few visiting tourists would brave the extremes of weather back then. In that world he could afford to buy his tiny beaten beachfront cottage. Along with increasing property values, the natural beauty near the ocean attracts tourists. They crowd waterfronts and swarm outlet malls like hornets at a picnic.

This part of Maine abandoned that wilderness. Harry abandoned his past. Today Harry appreciates that he has a good life: a valuable home and a pension. A baby-boomers dream realized.

Higgins Beach is a small collection of what were once simple beach cottages just south of Portland Maine. Now the area evolves from that postcard-like locale of small cottages for summer visitors, to expand into year round homes. New residents add dormers for bedrooms and convert garages into living rooms.

Harry slows his gait and turns the corner of Ocean Avenue. His view engulfs the sunny panoramic Atlantic. He breathes deeply to incorporate the vast saltiness into his soul. He watches the cascade of ocean waves arrive on shore in an endless parade. The primordial pull of the waves attract man back to his evolutionary roots. The consistent yet layered sound relaxes Harry. The sun reflects like a field of diamonds atop the glistening water. Harry sees a pop top float on the shore.

Gray swooping gulls land on the sand to peck for morsels deposited every second by the immortal waves. Sand changes with every tide yet remains omnipresent. People are like these grains with names that change but sustain predictable redundant actions forever.

Here in Maine ends the map of America, where many retirees flock to end their days in this idyllic setting. Twenty foot splashes crash the scattered rocks that perforate the beach like daggers at either end. Tales of abandoned pirate ships sunk from these jutting, hidden rocks add to the allure of the area. Locals sometimes share tales of ghosts with visitors. But there are no buried treasures here for baby boomers like Harry. The outside world treasure ships and bustling commerce belongs in the past and fade like the morning fog. Time progresses for Harry Powell to rest, his players life complete. He deploys the solitary walk to escape his personal ghosts. Several careers abandoned over the decades of his life. Now he watches waves.

Two taut teenagers toss a pink Frisbee on the beach. The girl in the white bikini tosses the bright plastic over the boys head and it lands near Harry as he walks past. He bends over with a muted grunt at the strain to retrieve it. Harry smells sunscreen and testosterone.

I’ve got it man, explains the young man when he grabs the pink plastic sphere.

Really, I can still throw it! Harry says against the wind. He tries to make his statement not sound like a plea to enter the game and impress the young lady.

Don’t want you to hurt yourself, pops! shouts the young man. He backpedals to the girl and flips the Frisbee to her. His oversize sheer swimwear blows around his muscular body. They laugh and run toward the waves.

Harry knows they see him as an ancient outsider. He continues his walk and passes a young woman pushing her baby in a stroller. Harry smiles hello and continues walking. His mother would say at every funeral upon seeing babies: one going and one coming. Harry accepts that he must be the one now going.

Over the dunes he walks down the small hill toward his abode. Harry considers his cottage on Shipwreck Lane as a ramshackle former garage. Here he finds gold at the end of the rainbow, his pirate treasure. He bought the cottage as a refuge to escape the intensity of life. His small family enjoyed the beach, while he arrested pirates on the streets in Chicago. Beachfront Maine was once like an oasis for his young bride and their child and a respite from his police work. Now no wife survives the rocky waves of life, and the child is off to distant emotional shores with a child of her own.

Harry observes the well-worn cedar roof which withstands years of freeze. The front entry frays yet retain solidity, like the resident. Most days in Maine a fire burns in the blackened fireplace. The fires inside him diminish every year and the embers grow colder. Today begins the spring season and no fire burns.

After Harry enters, he peruses the one main room as a work in perpetual progress. Two constantly climbing cats knock papers and magazines off the tables.

Hello girls, he addresses the two cats.

Harry adjusts the angle of a photo sitting within the bookcase that contains a young woman holding a child in colorful red attire. Another frame displays a sepia photo of a young man in a military uniform sitting next to a stern older couple. His parents were serious about parenthood and life. Harry buried many who loved him and left behind others who cared. Sporadic room décor includes a colorless photo of a pensive Marilyn Monroe. This brilliant natural location in nature contrasts with the black and white photo. Old baseball cards sit in a shoebox inside a drawer next to some tarnished medals and faded ribbons.

Cobwebs grace the corners and there are no coasters or arm rest covers in the room. He places his oversize cup on the table next to the chair, and the feline with black feet crawls between his legs and meows for affection. He bends to scratch behind her ears and he benefits from her facial satisfaction.

You’re a good girl, he coaxes her. He never feels alone.

With all that Harry has, why isn’t he satisfied like this cat? Maybe he needs someone to rub behind his ears.

He gathers up the papers from the floor as part of the cycle of roles with the two cats: they knock things off and he picks them up. During all his working years, his dream is to live on the beach. The downsizing cuts that push him out early of his final job do him a favor. He achieves his goals yet hollowness permeates his gut. Maybe dreams aren’t meant to come true. Or his goals were not his dreams.

Harry flops down in his recliner with his usual ooommmpphh. He recalls a doctor saying that noise comes from every older male patient she treats and betrays their age and aching joints like a cacophonic tribute to long term ambulatory survival. His hand instinctively confirms the duct tape repair remains in place on the chair.

The joint pains seem to expand their impact on him. What did they used to say – too old to cry and too young to die?

The blinking red light from the answering machine draws his attention. Like a lighthouse beacon, the ancient tool signals his need to check messages. He recalls his hatred of intrusions in his time without the control from this device. Inanimate messages are preferable to mundane dialogs that add no value. The robotic electronic voice politely informs him that he has four new messages. He pushes a button to initiate the future.

Harry, this is Mike at Ace Hardware…the Philips head piece for your Stanley is in. Pick it up anytime, a beep.

Mr. Powell? This is Kris at the Portland Library. The book The Power Years you had on hold is in and you have three days to pick up. Thank you, another annoying beep.

Dad, hello? Oh…this is the machine. Well hey; I was just calling to see how you were doing. Nothing is new here. Call if you get the chance. Laura says Hi to Pa Pa.

Harry looks across the room at the photo on the mantel of Laura with her mom, his daughter. The child looks just like her late grandmother; omnipresent genes that skip a generation. He should be closer to them, and doesn’t know why he isn’t. The little girl is a cutie with so much ahead of her in life. A grandchild extends his immortality another generation with genes passing ostensibly forever. Is procreation just a selfish act to live longer?

Harry recalls Chapin singing about a cat in the cradle. He reviews this room where one cat sleeps curled up near the window and the other rests quietly on his lap. The beep becomes standard when the fourth and final message plays. Harry doesn’t realize the impact such a message would eventually have on the lives of so many.

He looks away from the family photo at the bookshelves filled with books, the widest being a collection of Poe. The genius wrote so much in such a brief life. Harry wonders if such a person who dies with great accomplishments but little happiness truly achieves success. But talent and reputation creates immortality.

Harry? Oh, yes. Harry. This is Sally, Sally Dahl, again. I left you a message yesterday with my cell number that I was coming. Well, I am here in Maine. I do need to see you about something important, personal and urgent, Harry. I called before and I will stop by your place tomorrow, probably in the late morning. I hate these old machines. This is Sally, a final beep.

He tries to remember an earlier call. He recalls the message yesterday about her coming here today. He meant to call her back. Why does he forget such items so often lately? Now she is actually here in Higgins Beach? Sally Dahl? Decades long gone. Why is she all the way up here in Maine? What could she so urgently need from him, especially at this late stage of their lives?

Harry rises to organize the scattered old newspapers and magazines into a single pile on the table. A joint twinge causes his thoughts to drift to a time long ago in his life when youth and vitality dominated and he endured not a single achy joint. A time when anything seemed possible, when he exuded strength and quickness. A time before wars, murders and betrayals wore him down. A brief time shared with Sally Dahl. He strains to recall their forgotten dreams.

A cat meows and interrupts his tidying efforts. The white-footed feline sister stretches tall like a prairie dog and stares out the small window next to the front door. She meows louder. Does anyone ever hear of a watch-cat? But he knows for certain that someone nears his front door.

The cool breeze drifts through the partially open rear windows with sea smells that send a shiver through his spine. There comes a low-key rapping at his front door. It is the sound of the tapping he now hears and nothing more.

Harry looks around the cottage and accepts with disdain the disarray. His large strong hand brushes across his trim cut hair. Harry thanks the forewarning cat and opens the front door. A wisp of salt air precedes his view of the guest from the past. She stands before him: Sally Dahl.

Harry feels thrown back in time like in Alice in Wonderland. Sally stands there and smiles at him. She doesn’t look much different to Harry than when they knew each other well. A vision of her face at twenty years old blends into her face today, fuller with sparse wrinkles but essentially the same.

Sally wears a sleeveless black mock turtle neck top and khaki cargo shorts. Her strawberry blonde hair shines in the late morning sunshine. White tennis shoes without socks end the shapely legs. A sweater rests atop the expensive leather bag she grips in her left hand. She leans forward to assist her cheerful eyes evaluation of him. She is trim but full-figured as they used to say. Sally looks like a mature catalog model. She stands almost a foot shorter than Harry but her athletic stance makes it seem less. Maybe he is shrinking and she is growing. More likely she works Pilates and he works Pilsners.

From the bright sun her free right hand shades her eyes. She speaks first.

Harry. Is that you, Harry?

Yes…I think I am still me…just more of me…sorry, Sally….Please come in…

Harry brushes his tee shirt and steps out of the doorway. She enters. One cat immediately slinks around Sally’s legs and meows. Sally bends over to scratch the ears and as if on cue one cat runs off and the other approaches to roll on her back and invite a belly rub.

They are very cute, Harry. What are their names?

This one is Olivia and the one who ran off is Elaine-

"Olivia? I like a mystery to find the source. I know you must like Law and Order SVU, Harry. But Elaine, oh yes, Seinfeld?"

Two sisters from the rescue shelter, so I needed two female names. I never was too creative, as you know-

Friendly felines, she says.

An awkward silence now exists, when third party references fade and dialogue needs to fill the vacuum.

Please have a seat….I didn’t get a chance to straighten up after your call, says Harry.

Thank you. She sits down in his favorite chair and looks about. Harry regrets the repairs done with duct tape on his chair. He never anticipated guests sitting in it.

Harry stands before her and shifts on his legs in an awkward manner. He asks whether she wants something to drink, but she declines. On the battered grey ottoman he sits and wiggles his misshaped toes in his worn Birkenstocks.

She gestures to the ocean.

You have a great view here. You look good and rested Harry. How are you? Sally leans forward. She feels honored to be in this man’s presence despite the tattered surroundings.

I’m alive and I survive. Doing well, getting acclimated to Maine and my final phase of life....

Oh Harry, you are way too young to… retire. Her smile outshines the distant lighthouse.

She looks at him and he realizes just how youthful she remains after all this time.

I’m not retired, just not working. How are you doing Sally? I was sorry to hear your husband-

Passed, yes he did. Poor Robert, what can you say? His passing was a sad loss, way too soon, a young man only sixty-four. But the business keeps me busy, you know. You can’t think about sad events too much. Just stay busy and you stay young.

Harry laughs at her reference to youth.

Young passed a long time ago, Sally…For me.

And you Harry: are you married? Any children?

No wife. A daughter. I live alone.

Their sharing is like the strategy of heavyweight boxers in the early rounds. Neither participant acts too aggressively for fear of risking a personal premature negative conclusion, like a knockout.

Never a patient man, Harry finally interjects:

Maine is a long way from Indianapolis-

And what am I doing here? she replies. Just like the Radar O’Reilly character from the TV show M*A*S*H he once her accused her of being like, since she could finish most of his sentences.

He opens his hands and leans toward her with a rare smile that creates creases in his tanned rugged complexion. Harry looks down at his exposed toes on the sandals and wonders when all his nails became so disjointed.

Well, it’s personal Harry. My nephew, Dudley O’Connell, my sister’s boy was murdered, she speaks with a cracking voice. She removes a crumpled tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes.

I’m sorry to hear that Sally…are you sure I can’t get you a drink, some wine perhaps…

He wants to escape her emotions, so he walks toward the kitchen.

Well, it’s early in the day for me, but I’m sure it’s later somewhere in the world. OK, thanks.

He pours a full glass of Cabernet for her without even asking what she drinks these days. He looks in the refrigerator at the pile of amber bottles of his favorite low carbohydrate beer. He removes one bottle of chilled Amstel with his other hand. Dudley O’Connell. Harry’s memory fades each year. When he sees a face he sometimes conjures the link history, but a name no longer solicits facts in his memory. He could once recall a rap sheet of arrests on only the last name of some crook.

Harry rejoins her in the living room. The cats settle like lionesses on the window ledges to watch the strutting gulls taunt them from the beach.

You know Harry, I feel like the old pulp novels damsel in distress coming to a private eye for help.

He hands her the red wine in the proper glass that hasn’t seen use in decades. Her pink nails hold the glass tightly.

Well, Sally you ain’t no mere damsel, that’s for sure… you’re a corporate big shot…and I sure ain’t no gumshoe, as they used to say...I’m just an old guy by the sea watching the waves come in....And unlike those old film noir classics that were so dark, this place has all the sun and-

Brightness you could ask for in the world. Thanks for the wine Harry. I appreciate that you remember my preference.

You never forget certain aspects of life.

As she sips her wine, he looks at the dazzle from the turbulent waves in the distance.

I saw him Harry. His face was blown away. Just a big hole remained. It was horrible. I don’t want to think about it. She drinks the wine.

I am sorry. He worked at Dahl?

"You know he loved Indianapolis. It was the only place he wanted to live. Yes he worked at Dahl, but it’s different in the business now, Harry. Everything is more complicated. Dahl Pharmaceuticals will disappear with that awful merger with giant Royal in New York City and Costello in Chicago. I wish this deal would be derailed, and things would remain the way they used to be. We have a strong new drug pipeline but no true global reach. And to thrive today the name of the game is being international, hence the merger proceeds. But that’s not the company my grandfather founded. He wanted to stay local. I grew up under that big green Dahl sign in Indianapolis. Seeing the name disappear after all these generations is difficult to accept."

Harry interrupts her reflections and gets to the point:

Your nephew, I can’t seem to picture Dudley….

She reaches into her oversize purse and withdraws a small photograph which she hands to him. Harry holds the small photo that looks like a picture taken for a corporate human resources file. He stares at a handsome young man approaching forty. Harry expects someone younger from her boy references. He reviews a handsome face beneath a receding hairline. The young man gives Harry the impression of being serious and friendly. Dudley looks at the camera in a forthright manner. He looks vaguely familiar to Harry.

He looks like you Sally. Does he…what did he do at the company? asks Harry still holding the photo.

Yes, well…he is my sister’s son. My nephew: Dahl blood. You may have met him. He was a pharmacist who worked in areas like polymer chemical research, and new product planning. Dudley loved his work and wouldn’t hear about promotions or anything.

How did he die?

That’s just it Harry, they say he killed himself. But his death doesn’t fit a suicide. I just know that someone in the company has information and they just aren’t talking. Someone killed him and then made his death look like a suicide.

Why?

I have no idea.

The breeze from the partially open window chills her. She sips from her glass and the dry wine warms her tongue.

Exactly what happened…to him I mean? he says.

The police say he sat at home at night alone and put a gun in his mouth. His face-

Take your time.

But that isn’t the way it happened Harry. It doesn’t make sense. And I know every relative of a suicide always makes that claim, but there are too many inconsistencies.

She retains her composure and restrains emotions by interspersing her speech with sips from the red wine. Her eyes bear right and avoid looking at Harry.

My whole life is falling apart Harry. First my husband, and then the company, and now Dudley: all gone.

Her voice cracks to expose emotions. She stands and steps toward the picture window to look out at the beach and escape him seeing her teary eyes.

He asks her: Should I close the window, are you cold?

I’m fine Harry. I’m used to chills around me.

About the death: you mention inconsistencies…such as?

He swallows nearly half the bottle of beer in one gulp.

Well. For one, he wasn’t depressed. He worked that day. People saw him and he was fine. He was engaged in his work, no absenteeism or anything. Plus he was scheduled to run a marathon race that following weekend.

Quite a few suicides display no symptoms. Especially the ones who want to succeed. Was there a suicide note?

"That’s another odd thing. He sent an e-mail to some co-workers over the weekend that implied an end to his life. But nothing really personal, you know; the content was almost metaphysical and nothing handwritten. Who sends an e-mail suicide note and nothing to me? He would have copied me if he wrote that note, Harry. I was his Aunt and only close relative. Instead, I had to learn about his death from an employee who heard about it first."

You weren’t copied on the supposed suicide e-mail?

No, I wasn’t. Which makes no sense for him to miss me, but it would for a killer not aware of our family relationship. The killer probably used a group code Dudley had for work. And the -supposed- farewell message was sent on the company e-mail from home like these young people do so much today. Like I said, I am his only close relative. He kept that quiet, the familial connection to Dahl. He didn’t want people to think he got his job through nepotism; which he didn’t. His dad was an O’Connell and that’s what he went by.

You never changed your name in marriage, Sally?

Oh I used that hyphenated thing when my husband was alive for legal reasons. But in business I remained a Dahl. The visible legacy in the business was crucial.

So you are sure the people at Dahl didn’t know he was your nephew?

No, believe me - they didn’t.

Tell me: just exactly how did you find out…about his…death?

Well, like I said, his e-mail was forwarded to me. He supposedly wrote the note Saturday night and forward delivered to people to arrive for them to read early Monday morning. That’s when I received a copy, but it was too late. He had been dead for two days by then, she pauses to dry the tears before continuing.

Sally says: I tried to reach him over the weekend, I really did Harry. I received no text or calls in reply. I should have gone over to see him. When I received the e-mail Monday morning, I immediately went over to his townhouse. I was far too late. His face - someone wrote that damn e-mail to arrive so people would learn about his death when they returned to work on Monday, well after the fact. They say he sent the final note from his home; but with remote access so easy, who knows for sure?

Maybe he hand wrote something to you separately-

No, Harry. I received nothing. I’m telling you: someone else wrote that e-mail. And that person is the same someone who killed him. They made the scene look like a suicide. I know it Harry. I just know it!

She averts her