the room opens and Constance comes in accompanied by another nurse I don’t recognize. “Hey, Mattie. Sorry to keep you waiting but the place has been crazy busy tonight.”
“No problem.”
“This is Karen Alcott,” Constance says, nodding toward the other nurse. “I’m orienting her and I can tell you it’s been a trial by fire tonight. Karen, this is Mattie Winston. She used to work here but these days she’s with the ME’s office.”
“Nice to meet you,” Karen says, looking thoughtful. Then she adds, “Are you the nurse I heard about who was involved with the nipple incident?”
I nod and quickly turn my attention back to Constance. “What can you tell me about Mr. Minniver?”
“Not a whole lot. The EMTs said his daughter found him slumped behind the wheel of his car in his garage. He was already pulseless when they found him and the daughter didn’t do any CPR. By the time he got here he was straight line on the monitor but we worked on him for about twenty minutes anyway, mainly for the daughter’s sake. We’re guessing he developed chest pain or some other serious symptom and tried to drive himself to the hospital but collapsed before he could. His daughter says he has a cardiac history so we’re guessing he had a heart attack.”
“Is his daughter still here?”
Constance nods. “Her name is Patricia Nottingham. I just left her upstairs outside the chapel. She’s making phone calls.”
“I’ll head up there to talk to her.”
“Can I disconnect this stuff and take him to the morgue?” Constance asks, nodding toward the dead man. “We could use the bed.”
“Not yet. There are some things I need to look into. Let me talk to the daughter first.”
Constance sighs. “Okay, let me know.”
I leave the room, grab my notepad and pen, and head for the second floor where the chapel is located. There is only one person outside in the hall, a fiftyish-looking woman who is pacing and talking on a cell phone. I hang back, watching her for a moment. Her face is drawn and tearstained, and her voice is hoarse, though I’m unsure if that’s its natural state or if it became that way from crying. She sees me and seems to sense that I’m waiting on her because she tells the person on the phone, “There’s someone here. Let me call you back.”
I put on my best sympathetic smile and approach her. “Ms. Nottingham? I’m Mattie Winston. I’m with the Medical Examiner’s office.”
“Oh?” she says, looking confused. Then I see dawning on her face and her expression turns grim. She repeats herself, but with a much more serious tone. “Oh.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell her, reciting the standard, wholly inadequate line.
She nods.
“Can we sit down for a minute? I’d like to talk to you about your father.”
Again she nods and after looking around for a chair and finding none in the hallway, she heads toward the chapel. I follow her inside and we settle into the last of three pews on the left side of the room, leaving the two pews in front of us and the three on the right open.
“I understand you were the one who found your father?”
“Yes,” she says, wincing with the memory. “He was in his car, out in the garage.”
“Where in his car was he?”
“Behind the wheel, in the driver’s seat.”
“Were the keys in the ignition?”
“Yes.”
“Was the car running when you found him?”
“No.”
“Was the garage door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but can you describe what he looked like when you found him?”
She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “He was slumped down in the seat. He looked . . . well . . .” Tears well in her eyes and she glances toward the ceiling, trying to regain her composure.
“Was he breathing?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Did you check for a pulse?”
“I did,” she says. “But I couldn’t feel one. I tried to
“No problem.”
“This is Karen Alcott,” Constance says, nodding toward the other nurse. “I’m orienting her and I can tell you it’s been a trial by fire tonight. Karen, this is Mattie Winston. She used to work here but these days she’s with the ME’s office.”
“Nice to meet you,” Karen says, looking thoughtful. Then she adds, “Are you the nurse I heard about who was involved with the nipple incident?”
I nod and quickly turn my attention back to Constance. “What can you tell me about Mr. Minniver?”
“Not a whole lot. The EMTs said his daughter found him slumped behind the wheel of his car in his garage. He was already pulseless when they found him and the daughter didn’t do any CPR. By the time he got here he was straight line on the monitor but we worked on him for about twenty minutes anyway, mainly for the daughter’s sake. We’re guessing he developed chest pain or some other serious symptom and tried to drive himself to the hospital but collapsed before he could. His daughter says he has a cardiac history so we’re guessing he had a heart attack.”
“Is his daughter still here?”
Constance nods. “Her name is Patricia Nottingham. I just left her upstairs outside the chapel. She’s making phone calls.”
“I’ll head up there to talk to her.”
“Can I disconnect this stuff and take him to the morgue?” Constance asks, nodding toward the dead man. “We could use the bed.”
“Not yet. There are some things I need to look into. Let me talk to the daughter first.”
Constance sighs. “Okay, let me know.”
I leave the room, grab my notepad and pen, and head for the second floor where the chapel is located. There is only one person outside in the hall, a fiftyish-looking woman who is pacing and talking on a cell phone. I hang back, watching her for a moment. Her face is drawn and tearstained, and her voice is hoarse, though I’m unsure if that’s its natural state or if it became that way from crying. She sees me and seems to sense that I’m waiting on her because she tells the person on the phone, “There’s someone here. Let me call you back.”
I put on my best sympathetic smile and approach her. “Ms. Nottingham? I’m Mattie Winston. I’m with the Medical Examiner’s office.”
“Oh?” she says, looking confused. Then I see dawning on her face and her expression turns grim. She repeats herself, but with a much more serious tone. “Oh.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell her, reciting the standard, wholly inadequate line.
She nods.
“Can we sit down for a minute? I’d like to talk to you about your father.”
Again she nods and after looking around for a chair and finding none in the hallway, she heads toward the chapel. I follow her inside and we settle into the last of three pews on the left side of the room, leaving the two pews in front of us and the three on the right open.
“I understand you were the one who found your father?”
“Yes,” she says, wincing with the memory. “He was in his car, out in the garage.”
“Where in his car was he?”
“Behind the wheel, in the driver’s seat.”
“Were the keys in the ignition?”
“Yes.”
“Was the car running when you found him?”
“No.”
“Was the garage door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but can you describe what he looked like when you found him?”
She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “He was slumped down in the seat. He looked . . . well . . .” Tears well in her eyes and she glances toward the ceiling, trying to regain her composure.
“Was he breathing?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Did you check for a pulse?”
“I did,” she says. “But I couldn’t feel one. I tried to
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