“I’m looking out for my partner. Doing my job.”
She twined her arms around herself. “Have you been going home with me? Where have you been? What have you seen?”
He stood up and went around to the front of his desk. “I apologize if you feel violated.”
“Don’t do it anymore. Please.”
His eyes went to her computer. “Need some help?”
“No,” she snapped. Then in a softer tone: “No, thank you.”
“Would you work more efficiently if I left for the day?”
She knew how much he enjoyed getting back into the job, but he was rattling the hell out of her. “Would you mind?” she asked.
“I have other things I can do,” he said.
“Thank you.” She returned to her typing. A minute later she glanced toward his desk, and he was gone. She exhaled with relief and got back to her research.
Abandoning her usual government databases, Bernadette started surfing the Internet. A Google search using the words Luke VonHader turned up screen after screen listing awards, research projects, and articles in professional journals. They all involved the doctor’s stellar career, and she’d read enough about that. She wanted to get to his family life. She tried using the brothers’ names together, and one article came up: a brief story that had run in a neighborhood newspaper about a donation they’d made to a health care facility, Sunny Park Nursing Home.
She remembered Matthew’s comment during the morose, drunken dinner conversation about dead parents.
At least they never had to be in a nursing home.
So why did they dump so much money there? The article didn’t say. She tried plugging in just the last name—VonHader—and the name of the nursing home. In addition to the donation story, one other Web offering came up. It was the page from an electronic memory book maintained by St. Paul’s daily newspaper, the Pioneer Press. The entries—mostly from nursing home workers expressing their regret for the family’s loss—were about someone named Ruth.
Ruth. That was the name painted on Matthew’s boat.
Bernadette read the entries carefully.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I was Ruth’s night aide for ten years. Even though she couldn’t thank anyone herself, I know she appreciated everything we tried to do to make her time at Sunny Park enjoyable. Be comforted knowing she is now resting peacefully with the angels.
—Respectfully, Cecelia O.
Ruth was a beautiful soul who suffered silently for so many years. She has surely earned her place in heaven. I will include her and all of you in my prayers.
—From the Rev. Stephen Whitrockner, nursing home chaplain
I am truly sorry for your loss. Ruth must have been a lovely girl when she was a teenager. You could still see that beauty in her face, especially in her pretty eyes. I will keep her family in my thoughts as you struggle to get through what must be a difficult time. All my sympathies.
—Tamara, the first-floor medication nurse
“Depressing as hell,” Bernadette muttered. She was grateful to arrive at the final entry, a brief one that gave her pause:
Still waters.
—Love, C.A.
Who was C.A., and was that water reference a coincidence? She filed the question away.
The deceased had to be an elderly relative of the VonHader boys. An aunt or a grandmother. None of the entries indicated when Ruth had died.
A return to government databases didn’t come up with a death record for a Ruth VonHader, but that didn’t surprise her. There were hiccups in the system. How many dead people were still receiving Social Security checks? She couldn’t find anything else in those databases about this Ruth. Still, there had to be a paid obituary notice containing this matriarch’s story. She went to the Pioneer Press Web site and dove into its electronic archives.
There it was, a life summarized in two lines:
VonHader, Ruth A. Died at Sunny Park Nursing Home, St. Paul.
Private services and interment.
No age, survivors, day of death, or cause was listed. From the date of the archived obituary, however, she could surmise the month of death—and it made Bernadette’s heart race. The woman had died that April, the same month bodies started turning up in the Mississippi River.
To find out more about Ruth VonHader’s life, Bernadette would start with her place of death. She couldn’t find a Web site for Sunny Park Nursing Home, so she turned to the phone book. The facility was in St. Paul just off Lexington Parkway, a major road that crossed Summit Avenue—the street where the doctor lived.
She picked up the phone and told Garcia what she’d uncovered and said that she was going to visit the place where the woman had died.
“I guess you don’t need someone covering your back at a nursing home,” he said. “How is your back?”
“Good,” she said, lying.
“I’ve got some news on the news front,” he said. “Cops are holding a press conference in time for the six o’clock broadcasts. They’re going to issue a description. They aren’t releasing the name of Klein’s neighbor, but they’re going to say someone saw her with a fellow the night she was murdered.”
“Well, they couldn’t sit on it forever. We’ll see what this does.”
“Call me,” he said, and hung up.
IMPATIENTLY NAVIGATING around other vehicles, Bernadette plowed her Ranger down Wabasha Street through the heart of downtown. It was the start of the lunchtime rush hour, and the streets were congested with cars and trucks and delivery vans. As she sat in traffic, she thought about the woman who’d been put to rest some six months earlier. What was it about her life and death that could have driven someone to commit murder?
Chapter 32
ON THE OUTSIDE, there was little sunny or Parklike about Sunny Park Nursing Home. It was a flat-roofed, one-story brick building pocked with foggy windows. Overgrown juniper bushes and massive pine trees had taken over the front lawn, leaving little room for grass. Expecting the pattern of neglect to continue, Bernadette braced herself for the odor of urine and feces as she entered.
Once inside, she was surprised to smell nothing more ominous than roast beef and mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, she felt squeamish about touching anything in the place and pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers. She saw no one stationed at the reception desk. A guest book was open and a basket of visitor badges sat next to it, but she didn’t bother with either.
Past the desk, the hallway divided into a T. Glancing to her left, she saw a short corridor that led to a door labeled “Memory Care Unit.” That would be locked tight. She hung a right and went down a hall that spilled out into an airy, open room. The carpeted floor was dotted with plush couches and chairs, and the walls were covered with striped paper in calming shades of cream and taupe. At one end of the long space was a massive lighted aquarium teeming with tropical fish, and at the other end was a large-screen television set tuned to The Andy Griffith Show. The room had everything but seniors.
“May I help you?”
“Where did everyone go?” asked Bernadette, turning to address the woman at her elbow.
“To the dining room for lunch,” said the woman, a husky brunette stuffed into tight slacks and a tight sweater. Her plastic name tag identified her as Hannah.
Bernadette nodded. “Smells good.”
“Do you need help finding someone?”
“I’m trying to nail down a place for my mom,” said Bernadette, unbuttoning her trench coat. “I’ve been told good things about Sunny Park.”