receiving the news. Her three children were all in their teens.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked before pulling away.
Lou nodded. “Just a couple of minutes ago. I came out here from D.C. to see if I could help, but there was really nothing I could do.”
“He was fine when he left home, Lou. He’s been going to meetings and staying sober, and this morning when he left for the office, he was fine.”
“Where are your kids?”
“At my sister Rosalee’s in Chantilly. When the news broke, I had her pick them up at school and take them to her place to keep them away from reporters.”
“Good move. Do you want to go in to see him?”
Carolyn hesitated, and for a moment Lou thought she was going to decline. Then she nodded and took his arm. Her sobbing had already ceased.
The scene in Meacham’s cubicle had largely been cleaned up when they arrived. Nurses had respectfully not pulled a sheet up over his face, although they had left a bandage in place over the bullet hole. Death, as Lou had often encountered it, even violent death, frequently had a calming effect on a patient’s countenance. To some extent, that was the case here.
Carolyn stood motionless for a time, gazing down at the man she had shared a life with for so many years—the interested, interesting caregiver who would never get the chance to see their daughters into womanhood.
“What happens next?” she asked stonily.
Lou felt himself react to her abrupt change in tone. “Now you have to sign some papers with the nurses and John’s body will need to be autopsied,” he said simply.
Carolyn glanced over at him. “Is that really even necessary? Isn’t it obvious how he died?”
“It’s standard practice for all homicides.”
Carolyn shook her head. “Let’s go,” she said, spinning and heading out the door with Lou rushing to keep up.
There were no final caresses, no request for a minute alone, no more tears. It was as if someone had thrown a switch, making Carolyn Meacham aware of the horribleness of her husband’s crime.
Lou gave passing thought to asking what her husband might have meant by the cryptic remark, no witnesses, but this hardly seemed the time.
“I need to pick up my kids and go home,” Carolyn said with no emotion.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I’m fine to drive.”
It was an order, not a statement.
“Well, you may be fine to drive, but you’re not okay to be alone. I’ll ride with you. We can talk in the car. Then, if need be, I can take a cab back here.”
Carolyn made no attempt to talk him out of it.
Outside, the rain had picked up and the fog had thickened. The unseasonable chill persisted. It was Carolyn who first spotted the crowd of reporters lurking about her silver Volvo SUV. Many were using makeshift plastic tarps to shield their equipment from the rain. Lou, headline news himself when the DEA and police descended on his home and arrested him for writing prescriptions for himself, marveled at the resourcefulness of the vultures—how they already knew this particular car belonged to Carolyn Meacham.
As if underscoring his thoughts, their camera lights lit up as soon as he and Carolyn neared. He wondered how long it would take for them to come up with his name. Calls to Filstrup would be sure to follow.
Oh, happy day.
Lou pulled Carolyn close to him, shielding her from the onslaught. Reporters shoved their microphones in her face like mothers trying to force-feed their children, and shouted out questions that became garbled as they clashed with one another in midair. Carolyn was silent ice, her head high, her intelligent green eyes fixed straight ahead. Through the swarm, she somehow managed to get her door unlocked, and then reached across the seat to open Lou’s side. He tossed his rain-dampened jacket into the backseat and quickly climbed in. Carolyn turned the ignition key. The reporters banged on the windows and doors, and stepped aside only when the car began to move.
“Lou?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked before pulling away.
Lou nodded. “Just a couple of minutes ago. I came out here from D.C. to see if I could help, but there was really nothing I could do.”
“He was fine when he left home, Lou. He’s been going to meetings and staying sober, and this morning when he left for the office, he was fine.”
“Where are your kids?”
“At my sister Rosalee’s in Chantilly. When the news broke, I had her pick them up at school and take them to her place to keep them away from reporters.”
“Good move. Do you want to go in to see him?”
Carolyn hesitated, and for a moment Lou thought she was going to decline. Then she nodded and took his arm. Her sobbing had already ceased.
The scene in Meacham’s cubicle had largely been cleaned up when they arrived. Nurses had respectfully not pulled a sheet up over his face, although they had left a bandage in place over the bullet hole. Death, as Lou had often encountered it, even violent death, frequently had a calming effect on a patient’s countenance. To some extent, that was the case here.
Carolyn stood motionless for a time, gazing down at the man she had shared a life with for so many years—the interested, interesting caregiver who would never get the chance to see their daughters into womanhood.
“What happens next?” she asked stonily.
Lou felt himself react to her abrupt change in tone. “Now you have to sign some papers with the nurses and John’s body will need to be autopsied,” he said simply.
Carolyn glanced over at him. “Is that really even necessary? Isn’t it obvious how he died?”
“It’s standard practice for all homicides.”
Carolyn shook her head. “Let’s go,” she said, spinning and heading out the door with Lou rushing to keep up.
There were no final caresses, no request for a minute alone, no more tears. It was as if someone had thrown a switch, making Carolyn Meacham aware of the horribleness of her husband’s crime.
Lou gave passing thought to asking what her husband might have meant by the cryptic remark, no witnesses, but this hardly seemed the time.
“I need to pick up my kids and go home,” Carolyn said with no emotion.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I’m fine to drive.”
It was an order, not a statement.
“Well, you may be fine to drive, but you’re not okay to be alone. I’ll ride with you. We can talk in the car. Then, if need be, I can take a cab back here.”
Carolyn made no attempt to talk him out of it.
Outside, the rain had picked up and the fog had thickened. The unseasonable chill persisted. It was Carolyn who first spotted the crowd of reporters lurking about her silver Volvo SUV. Many were using makeshift plastic tarps to shield their equipment from the rain. Lou, headline news himself when the DEA and police descended on his home and arrested him for writing prescriptions for himself, marveled at the resourcefulness of the vultures—how they already knew this particular car belonged to Carolyn Meacham.
As if underscoring his thoughts, their camera lights lit up as soon as he and Carolyn neared. He wondered how long it would take for them to come up with his name. Calls to Filstrup would be sure to follow.
Oh, happy day.
Lou pulled Carolyn close to him, shielding her from the onslaught. Reporters shoved their microphones in her face like mothers trying to force-feed their children, and shouted out questions that became garbled as they clashed with one another in midair. Carolyn was silent ice, her head high, her intelligent green eyes fixed straight ahead. Through the swarm, she somehow managed to get her door unlocked, and then reached across the seat to open Lou’s side. He tossed his rain-dampened jacket into the backseat and quickly climbed in. Carolyn turned the ignition key. The reporters banged on the windows and doors, and stepped aside only when the car began to move.
“Lou?”
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