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"Could be any number of reasons," Dr. Wang Leek said. "In some cases, the woman is physically incapable of lovemaking. Or emotionally can't perform. Or they could be acting out a bedroom fantasy. Until we get the results from the medical examiner and medical records on Mrs. Turnip, it's all speculation." Brokoli turned to Jalapeno. "Pedro, let's go see a man about a body." * * *
The Medical Examiner was, in point of fact, female. Her name was Gloria del Salade, and Brokoli was smitten with her. He knew she was beautiful, but there was something else, something about the way she smelled. Even after spending all day in the cooler with the stiffs, she smelled like . . . . Compost, he thought. She was alluring. Flirty, smart, good with a gun. Everything he wanted in a woman. Just like mom, only doable. "Detective Brokoli?" a voice called. "Are you with us?" Brokoli snapped out of his reverie, again adjusting his long coat to cover for his awakenedness. "Yeah, yeah. What were you saying?" "Mrs. Turnip, Maddie, was suffering from an affliction called atrophic vaginitis." "Sounds like a sex toy." "But it's not. It's an inflammation of the vagina due to thinning or shrinking tissues, along with a decrease in lubrication. Her records indicate she was being treated by gynecologist Dr. Harvey Ruebarb, but hadn't been showing signs of improvement. She'd been suffering for a long time, and probably felt that it was her wifely duty to help Eddie find some relief." "Yeah, her diary notes that they hadn't been intimate in over two months. Anything else?" "Nothing unusual. Cause of death in Carrotino and Eddie, gunshot wounds. The slicing took place post-mortem. Maddie was skewered, severing her spine. She likely died just moments after being stuck." "Okay. Thanks, Dr. del Salade." She threw him a little wink. "Any time, Detective." She pushed the drawer shut, closing the door on Maddie Turnip's body. Brokoli and Jalapeno stood in the hallway, an unusual silence holding court over them. "Hey, Len, whaddaya say we go see this doctor, Ruebarb." "Whatcha thinking?" "Well, nothing really. But maybe we can learn more about this condition and the treatment. Find out some more stuff to help the investigation." * * *
As it turned out, Dr. Ruebarb was available, but only for a few minutes. His treatment for Mrs. Turnip was the same as it was for all of his atrophic vaginitis patients: estrogen replacement and creams. Nothing out of the ordinary. No, he didn't have an alibi for the night of the killing. He'd finished his shift at the hospital and had gone home to bed, alone. "Sorry, Detectives, but I must leave you." He raised his considerable bulk from his chair, and lurched his way out the door. He stopped and said, "Good day. Nurse Lima will show you out." "Well, that was productive, huh, Len?" "More than you think, Pedro." "How so?" "Didn't you notice? He never met our eyes. Not once. He showed no emotion when we told him of her death. And he stuttered when discussing her treatment. There's something else going on here." Brokoli stood, pulled his pen from his pocket, and dropped it. He bent down to pick it up, but "accidentally" kicked it under the desk. "Gotta get my pen." Brokoli walked around the desk. His pen was on the floor right in front of him, but it was the computer monitor he wanted. Sure enough, the e-mail program was open. Brokoli picked up his pen, and immediately dropped it again. It clicked the mouse, bringing up the "Deleted Items" folder. Brokoli counted to himself, then said, "Seventeen emails in the last week from Mrs. Turnip." "Seventeen?" "Yep." "That seems excessive." "Yes. It does." Brokoli dropped his pen again. The most recent e-mail, dated four days ago, opened. He read it aloud: "Harvey, "It
has to end. I cannot continue this, this . . . façade any
longer. I will no longer be a patient of your practice, and I
will no longer be your lover. It is over. |