The Terminal Experiment

“Cathy Hobson.”

“It just sounds like it’s not Cathy Hobson’s year, that’s all. Run of bad luck.”

Sandra nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. Still, do you mind if I come down and look at your notes?”

Chen clucked again. “Of course not, Sandra. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Peter hated funerals. Not because he disliked being around dead people; one couldn’t spend as much time in hospitals as he did without ru

First, there were the hypocrites: the ones who hadn’t seen the dear departed in years, but came out of the woodwork after it was too late to do the deceased any good.

Second, the wailers, the people who became so flamboyantly emotional that they, instead of the deceased, became the center of attention. Peter’s heart did go out to close relatives who were having trouble dealing with the loss of someone they truly loved, but he had no patience for the distant cousins or five-blocks-away neighbors who went to pieces at funerals, until they were surrounded by a crowd of people trying to comfort them, loving every minute.

For his own part, as in all things, Peter tried for a certain stoicism — the stiff upper lip of his British ancestors.

Rod Churchill, vain man that he had been, wanted an open casket. Peter disapproved of those. As a child of seven, he’d gone to the funeral of his mother’s father. Granddad had been known for his large nose. Peter remembered entering the chapel and seeing the coffin at the far end, the upper part open, the only thing visible from that angle being his grandfather’s nose sticking up above the line made by the side of the casket. To this day, whenever he thought of his grandfather, the picture that came to mind first was of the dead man’s proboscis, a lone peak rising into the air.

Peter looked around. The chapel he was in today was paneled in dark wood. The coffin looked expensive. Despite the request for donations to the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Ontario in lieu of flowers, there were many bouquets, and a large horseshoe-shaped affair sent by the teachers Rod had worked with. Must have been from the Phys. Ed. Department — only those guys could be daft enough not to know that horseshoe arrangements meant “good luck,” hardly the appropriate thing to send to a dead man.

Bu

It wasn’t much to go on, thought Sandra Philo. Two deaths. One clearly a murder; the other of indeterminate cause.

But they both had Cathy Hobson in common.

Cathy Hobson, who had slept with the murdered man, Hans Larsen.

Cathy Hobson, daughter of Rod Churchill.

True, Larsen had been involved with many women. True, Churchill had been in his sixties.

Still…

After Sandra had finished her work for the day, she drove to the Churchill house, at Bayview just south of Steeles. It was only five kilometers from 32 Division headquarters — not much of a waste if this turned out to be a wild-goose chase. She parked and went up to the front door. The Churchill family had a FILE sca

“Hello,” said Sandra. “Are you Bu

“Yes.”

Sandra held up her ID. “I’m Alexandria Philo, Metro Police. Can I ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

“The, ah, death of your husband.”

“Goodness,” said Bu

“Thank you — but, before I forget, can I ask whose fingerprints the FILE sca

“Mine and my husband’s,” said Bu

“Anybody else?”

“My daughters. My son-in-law.”

“Cathy Hobson, and — ” Sandra had to think for a moment — “Peter Hobson, is that right?”

“Yes, and my other daughter, Marissa.”

They went inside.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Sandra, smiling sympathetically. “I know this must be a very difficult time for you. But there are a few little questions I’d like to clear up, so we can close the file on your husband.”

“I thought the file was closed,” said Bu

“Almost,” said Sandra. “The medical examiner wasn’t a hundred-percent sure of the cause of death, I’m afraid. He’d marked it down as probably an aneurysm.”

“So I’d been told.” Bu

“Can you tell me if he had any health problems?”

“Rod? Oh, nothing serious. A little arthritis in one hand. Sometimes a little pain in his left leg. Oh, and he’d had a small heart attack three years ago — he took medication for that.”

Probably insignificant. And yet … “Do you still have his heart pills?”

“I suppose they’d still be in the medicine cabinet upstairs.”

“Would you mind showing them to me?” asked Sandra.

Bu

“Which one is his heart pills?” asked Sandra, pointing.

“Both,” Bu

Sandra picked up the bottles. Both had small computer-printed labels stuck to them. One said it contained Cardizone-D, which certainly sounded like a heart drug. The other was labeled Nardil. Both had been prescribed by a Dr. H. Miller. The Nardil bottle had a fluorescent orange label on it: “Warning — severe dietary restrictions.”

“What’s this about dietary restrictions?” asked Sandra.

“Oh, there was a long list of things he wasn’t supposed to eat. We were always very careful about that.”

“But he’d been eating take-out food the night he died, according to the medical examiner.”

“That’s right,” said Bu

“Do you have any idea what he’d ordered?”

“Roast beef, I think.”

“Do you still have the packaging?”

“I threw it out,” said Bu

“Do you mind if I have a look — and can I keep these pill bottles, please?”

“Uh, yes. Of course.”

Sandra slipped the pill bottles into her jacket pocket, then followed her down. The recycling hopper was inside a wicker hamper. Sandra rummaged through it. She soon turned up a small slip of newsprint with Rod’s order from Food Food printed on it.

“May I keep this, as well?” said Sandra.

Bu

Sandra straightened up and put the slip of paper in her pocket. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going through your mind, Detective,” said Bu

“Nothing at all, Mrs. Churchill. Like I said, just loose ends.”