The lady in charge of the hospice where Paul Russo had worked was a plain-faced middle-aged woman with short gray hair, no makeup, and a prim set to her mouth. She wore a blue skirt with a hem that fell a good two inches below her chunky knees, a short-sleeved white blouse, and she had a small cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. She made DeMarco think of a nun in civilian clothes. Her name was Jane Sealy.
DeMarco explained to Jane that he was trying to find his cousin’s will so he could deal with his estate. At the mention of Paul’s name, Jane crossed herself and then basically told him that Paul had been the saint who walked among us: extremely religious, gave his time and money to charities, loved his fellow man, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and his patients and their families loved him. There was no one better suited, more compassionate, more caring, Jane said, when it came to helping people die.
DeMarco was sure all this was true, but he’d always thought that Paul had been a rather boring, mousy guy. Even as a kid, he hung back, awkward and shy, barely saying a word. DeMarco recalled the one time he had lunch with Paul when Paul first arrived in Washington. His cousin didn’t like sports, nor did he play any. He rarely watched television and didn’t go to many movies. He had no interest in politics whatsoever. So after they had discussed the few relatives they had in common, they had very little to talk about. At one point, Paul told him he was looking for a good congregation to join and asked where DeMarco attended church-and DeMarco lied. He said he didn’t attend any particular church, that on Sunday he just went wherever the mood struck him. The truth was, he only went to church for weddings and funerals. The consequence of all this was that it had been an uncomfortable lunch filled with long periods of silence, and DeMarco was relieved when it was over. But based on everything Paul’s landlord and his boss had said, it sounded as if his cousin had been a good man and DeMarco regretted that he’d never made the effort to know him better.
He asked Jane if he could look through Paul’s desk and his computer to locate a will or the name of Paul’s lawyer, but when he said this Jane told him, quite firmly, that she wouldn’t allow him to do that unless he had some authority, like documentation confirming he was the executor of Paul’s estate. DeMarco pointed out the catch-22: he wouldn’t know if he was the executor of Paul’s estate unless he could find Paul’s will, but he couldn’t find Paul’s will because he couldn’t prove he was the executor of the estate.
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Jane said, “but you’re a complete stranger to me and I can’t let you go pawing through his desk. And anyway,” she added, “the FBI took his computer.”
“They took his computer?”
“Yes.”
“When was the FBI here?” DeMarco asked.
“A couple of hours ago.”
“An agent named Hopper?”
“Yes. He had a warrant and he looked through Paul’s desk. And he took his computer.”
It looked like all this had happened while DeMarco was at Paul’s place.
“Okay,” DeMarco said, “but would you mind looking through Paul’s desk for me? All I’m trying to do is settle his estate.”
“Yes. I have to clean out his desk and if I come across a will or a reference to one, I’ll let you know. But I can tell you that Paul wasn’t the sort of person who did personal business at work, and I doubt if he kept any of his private correspondence here.”
DeMarco was about to leave but said, “Let me ask you something. Did Paul have access to drugs?”
“Of course,” Jane said, and then she explained.
People under a hospice’s care were not given medications to stop them from dying or to even slow down the pace of whatever was killing them. Nonetheless, they had mini-pharmacies in their homes: drugs to help them sleep, to help move their bowels, to help reduce their pain.
“Things like Valium?” DeMarco asked.
“Why are you asking about this?” Jane said.
“Because the FBI thinks Paul may have been stealing meds from his patients and selling them. Didn’t Hopper tell you that?”
“No, and that’s absurd. Paul would never do something like that. He was the most honest person I’ve ever known.”
“So no one-family members, drugstores, doctors-ever complained of drugs being missing or having to refill prescriptions too often?”
“I just told you, no. It’s offensive that you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“I’m not suggesting anything; the FBI’s the one who’s saying that. But what I can’t figure out is why he was at the Iwo Jima Memorial at one in the morning and got shot. And, as much as I hate to say it, dealing drugs is a possibility.”
“No. It’s. Not.”
“Then why do you think he was there at that time of night? I heard once that the park near the memorial was a gay pickup place. Do you think he could have been-I don’t know-sneaking around, trying to meet a lover there?”
“Paul wasn’t in the closet; he didn’t need to sneak around. He wouldn’t have snuck around.”
“Well, maybe he hooked up with some married gay guy and then decided to tell the guy’s wife, and the married guy whacked him to keep him from telling.”
“I think you should leave.”
“Hey, I was just thinking out loud,” DeMarco said defensively. “And I believe you when you say he was a good guy. So who would want to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said, “but something was bothering him last week. He was spending a lot of time with one particular patient and when I stopped by to see how things were going, he was… I don’t know. Different. Subdued. Nervous, like he was worried about something. He was always so upbeat I was surprised.”
“Did he tell you what was bothering him?”
“No.”
“Who was this patient he was taking care of?” DeMarco asked.