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Chapter 59: Convenient
Perhaps it was a privilege of being on the FOP's key training list, perhaps Santos's growing influence was finally paying off, or possibly Wenner found Theodore pleasing to the eye.
In any case, after Theodore explained the situation, Wenner didn't make things difficult.
He called Bernie over first to understand the details.
After hearing the full explanation, he nodded in agreement with Bernie's suspicions and told them to investigate quietly. Once they had a solid breakthrough, he would officially file the case.
Bernie was genuinely flattered.
This was taking care of them. In the past, it would have been considered a victory if Wenner hadn't kicked him out of the office entirely.
Leaving Wenner's office, the two men walked toward the parking lot, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
Bernie asked Theodore where they should start their investigation.
"Cynthia Moore," Theodore replied without hesitation.
Bernie pressed further. "How do you plan to approach her? You can't exactly walk up and say we suspect she killed her husband, can you?"
Theodore noticed that Bernie seemed different today, more thoughtful, less brash, and looked at him with mild curiosity.
Bernie's expression was complex, almost troubled. "Let's go find Dr. Martinez first. He's the community doctor. He should know David's medical situation better than anyone."
"Alright, I'll follow your lead."
When they arrived at Dr. Martinez's clinic, they found a mother and her young son waiting in the reception area.
The little boy recognised them immediately. He ran over eagerly, asking for their autographs and giving Theodore an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
"Your performance taking back your soul from Lucifer was cool!" he declared with the breathless excitement only children could muster.
Theodore looked at Bernie, completely bewildered. Bernie, however, had no trouble striking up a conversation with the boy.
Theodore understood immediately, another victim of Star News's sensationalised reporting.
The little boy was practically vibrating with excitement, chattering away and asking Theodore how he could become as powerful as him.
Bernie seemed to anticipate what Theodore might say and quickly intervened.
He told the boy to eat his meals on time, go to bed early, and grow up healthy, then maybe he'd have a chance to learn how to communicate with spirits.
The little boy hung on Bernie's every word, nodding vigorously. He even whispered conspiratorially that he knew they were here to investigate "the devil" and promised he wouldn't tell anyone.
If they needed anything, they could come to him at any time, and he would help them.
Bernie accepted this offer with mock solemnity, treating the child's promise with the gravity it deserved.
The boy's mother approached, offering both apologies and expressions of gratitude for their patience.
Theodore found himself puzzled by how a seven or eight-year-old could be exposed to a media circus like Star News.
He looked at the child's mother with a slightly different expression, wondering about the household that would allow such exposure.
Just then, whether from excitement or something else entirely, the little boy suddenly developed a nosebleed while looking up and chattering to his mother. She quickly hustled him toward the bathroom.
A nurse emerged at that moment, informing them that Dr. Martinez would see them in his office.
Bernie cast a worried glance back toward the bathroom where the boy had disappeared, while Theodore was already following the nurse down the hallway.
Dr. Martinez's office greeted them with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.
The doctor stood at a small counter, working methodically at a hand-crank grinder.
Bernie paused in the doorway, somewhat taken aback.
He'd assumed the doctor was swamped with patients, which would explain why the mother and son had arrived before their appointment time and were waiting outside.
The leisurely coffee preparation suggested otherwise.
While Bernie stood processing this, Theodore had already launched into a quick explanation of their purpose and requested access to David Moore's medical records.
Medical privacy regulations were virtually nonexistent in 1960; the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act was still decades away.
Viewing medical records didn't require legal authorisation, just the doctor's cooperation.
Dr. Martinez called for someone to retrieve the files and offered them cups of freshly brewed espresso, the coffee's bitter aroma filling the small office.
As the two men reviewed the medical records, Dr. Martinez provided clinical commentary on the case.
"He was injured in 1943," the doctor began, his voice carrying the weight of a long, complicated case.
"The derrick collapsed, causing a comminuted fracture of the T10-T11 thoracic vertebrae and complete transection injury to the spinal cord."
"Post-operative infection led to sepsis, which further damaged his neurological function and resulted in complete paralysis of both lower limbs."
Dr. Martinez's tone was heavy with regret and professional frustration.
Theodore looked up from the records. "But he has an eight-year-old son?"
Dr. Martinez shook his head slightly. "Paralysis and complete loss of sexual function are two different medical conditions. He retained the ability to reproduce normally."
The records painted a grim picture. David Moore suffered from severe muscle contractures due to prolonged bed rest and required daily therapeutic massage.
The paralysis led to recurring infections in his hips and sacrococcygeal region.
He'd undergone debridement surgery twice, once in 1955 and again in 1958, procedures that had been financially devastating for the family.
Chronic urinary tract infections plagued him as well, an inevitable consequence of long-term catheter use.
"In essence," Dr. Martinez continued with visible sadness.
"David Moore lived in constant agony, probably wishing for death more often than not. His condition was a source of tremendous suffering for his entire family."
The doctor paused, setting down his coffee cup with deliberate care.
"They spent over fifteen hundred dollars annually on medication, nursing care, and rehabilitation, and that didn't even include the cost of his surgeries or hospital stays."
Dr. Martinez sighed deeply. "His death was, in many ways, a merciful release. For him, certainly, but also for his family."
When they asked about the death certificate, Dr. Martinez explained that David Moore had died sometime during the night.
The official cause was asphyxiation.
"David's prolonged immobility had severely compromised his pulmonary function," the doctor explained.
"He already suffered from chronic respiratory failure and required supplemental oxygen intermittently, especially at night."
He leaned back in his chair, his expression weary.
"This type of situation is unfortunately common with patients in his condition. If they call for help and aren't heard, even once, the results can be fatal."
The two investigators requested copies of David Moore's complete medical records and left the clinic, driving through the quiet residential streets toward the Moore house.
Cynthia was home alone when they arrived.
She wore a simple white floral dress that seemed to emphasise her pallor. Her face was drawn and exhausted, her eyes red and swollen as if she'd been crying recently.
When she saw her neighbours at the door, she quickly dabbed at her eyes and invited them inside.
Theodore's first impression of the house was stark poverty.
The place could only be described as having bare walls; there was a pitiful amount of furniture, and the large empty spaces made him wonder if the family was preparing to sell and move.
Cynthia gestured for them to sit on a threadbare sofa and immediately began thanking Bernie.
She was grateful to Mrs. Sullivan for helping with the funeral arrangements and for taking care of her son during that difficult time.
Her boy and Little Sullivan were good friends, she explained, and Mrs. Sullivan had been a godsend, caring for him throughout the funeral proceedings.
Bernie appeared genuinely embarrassed by her gratitude, waving his hands and mumbling awkward deflections.
Theodore tilted his head to observe his partner. The usually gruff German man was blushing scarlet, resembling nothing so much as a cooked crab.
He looked flustered and seemed ready to bolt for the door.
Theodore spoke before Bernie could make his escape. "We're here about your husband, Mrs. Moore. About David."
At the mention of her husband's name, Cynthia's eyes immediately filled with fresh tears.
Theodore oversaw her emotional response before continuing.
"Before coming here, we spoke with Dr. Martinez. He confirmed that David died of asphyxiation."
His voice remained steady, almost clinical in tone. "Why wasn't he able to get oxygen that night?"
Cynthia didn't answer immediately. Instead, she turned away and covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
The silence in the sparse room grew uncomfortable.
Bernie looked around helplessly for tissues but found none in the nearly space.
"David suffered from chronic respiratory failure," Theodore pressed gently but persistently. "He often needed oxygen at night.
You knew this routine; you were accustomed to it. What exactly happened that night? Why wasn't he able to get oxygen in time?"
His tone remained calm, almost detached, a quality that could sound almost cold to grieving ears.
Cynthia turned back to face them, her voice choked with emotion as she explained that she had been utterly exhausted that particular day.
Through her tears, she described her crushing schedule: four different jobs, leaving the house at 4:00 a.m. and not returning until 11:00 p.m.
Between work and caring for their son, she had to help with David's daily hygiene needs and manage all the household tasks.
On a good day, she might get three hours of sleep.
That night, she continued, the exhaustion had finally overwhelmed her. She'd fallen asleep in the bathtub while trying to steal a few minutes of rest.
She hadn't heard David calling for help, and by the time she woke up and checked on him, it was too late.
The more she spoke, the faster her tears fell. By the time she finished her explanation, her face was streaked with moisture, and she could no longer keep up with wiping it away.
She covered her face again and sobbed openly.
Bernie shifted uncomfortably, offering what awkward comfort he could, while Theodore used the opportunity to excuse himself and examine the bathroom.
When he returned a few minutes later, Cynthia was still crying but had regained some measure of composure.
Theodore asked no additional questions. Instead, he caught Bernie's eye and nodded toward the door.
After the two men left, Cynthia closed the door behind them and immediately slid down against it until she was sitting on the floor.
Her careful composure finally broke completely, and she cried with the raw, exhausted grief of someone who had been holding back tears for far too long.
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