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10
I didn't recognize Richard Stokes when he came up to the pharmacy window the next afternoon. This balding man of thirty-five or so, in a forest green and white rugby shirt bore little resemblance to the conservatively dressed mourner at the funeral. He rapped on the counter even though he could see I was right there.
"In the electronic age," he said pompously, "I guess you can see everyone's prescriptions right away."
"You mean fill them right away?"
"No, I need a list."
Usually they wanted lists of all their prescriptions at income tax time, not in August. I was about to make sure that's what he really wanted when he was joined by a mousey-looking woman.
"Miss," she said in a hesitant voice. "My husband has to have a record of every one of his father's and stepmother's prescriptions."
Maybe it was the association of father and stepmother, but now I recognized Richard and Nancy Stokes. This is turning into farce instead of tragedy, I thought grimly. Who's going to ask for the printout next? Let's see, Harry had a daughter and there's her fiancé. Soon we'll get the maid and the milkman.
"Sorry, I've already given that record to the police." I don't know why I said that. Probably just tired of the pushed-around feeling.
"Don't tell me the police are finally going to do something," Richard Stokes said.
Almost simultaneously, his wife's expression showed traces of fear. "Now see what you've done," she shrieked at him.
"Will you stop it?" he said to her through clenched teeth.
"You always say that. Why don't you stop it?" She was crying now and pulled a wad of yellow tissues from her purse to dab her eyes.
"Wait for me outside," he said.
Like a child, she wailed, "It's too hot to wait outside." But then she turned and walked awkwardly away from the pharmacy. I didn't know what to do or say, so I busied myself at the computer, trying to act as though I hadn't witnessed the miserable scene.
"Are you getting me the records? That's for Harry Stokes and Betsy Stokes."
"Prescription records are confidential."
"I know that," he said. "But I told you they're for my father and stepmother."
"Then they have to request the records."
"Don't be stupid. My father is dead."
Just what I needed, some customer abuse. That's when I get very polite; that's when I get so polite, it's almost insulting. "Sir, we have a firm policy not to release such information." I articulated each word clearly as though I were speaking to someone with weak English skills.
"I'm getting the store manager," he said and moved quickly away.
Great, I thought. The customer is always right, so how is my manager going to get around this one?
I tried to concentrate on answering the phone and taking care of patients at the window while I waited to see what would happen. Meanwhile, I thought about pharmacy law: was it specific on the subject or would I have to explain the ethics of the situation to my manager and hope he'd support me. He was usually good about supporting us, but I worried just the same.
Richard Stokes returned alone about fifteen minutes later. He spoke now with the voice of reason. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said. "Father died last week and I'm sure you realize how upset we are."
"Yes, of course," I said, trying to sound reasonable in return but determined not to release confidential information.
"Well, his death was unexpected. You probably know that he had a few minor ailments."
Although I hadn't heard diabetes and high blood pressure called minor ailments before, I tried to keep an interested but noncommittal expression.
"Now we need the records to see what Dad was taking."
"Can't you just look at his prescription bottles?"
He hesitated. "Look, I see you're good at keeping confidences, so I'll tell you the problem. Dad remarried last year, and we can't ... I mean his wife won't ... That is, we don't want to disturb her when she's grieving."
"Oh, I see."
"I knew you'd understand. And we need her prescriptions because ... well, she's so distraught that we're afraid she might ... you know, do something foolish."
Either the family was unaware of Betsy's pregnancy or he thought I didn't know. I must have looked skeptical at his last statement, because he finished lamely, "It happens, you know."
I wasn't going to let him off that easily. "What happens?" I asked.
He put his face right up to the window, assuming a solemn expression. "Suicide," he whispered.
"You can't mean that. She's a young woman with her whole life ahead of her." I watched him as I tossed the platitude. He looked angry again and I was prepared for more nasty comments, but he controlled himself.
"All of us are concerned about her. She doesn't eat or sleep, and she never leaves the house."
That's a good story, I thought, but aloud I matched his serious tone. "I'm really surprised to hear that." I paused for effect. "Her father doesn't seem to worry about suicide."
Again, his face darkened in anger and I hastily excused myself to help another customer. When I turned back to Richard Stokes, he was ready with another tactic.
"I see you're too clever for me, so I'll have to tell you the truth, distasteful as it is to wash our dirty linen in public."
He would definitely win any cliché contest. I answered two phone calls and then waited to see what he'd say this time. He looked around to make sure no other customers were nearby.
"My wife and I, and my sister as well, believe my father was either driven to suicide or murdered."
As though this were news to me, I gave an appropriate gasp. It must have seemed realistic enough to him, for he continued. "My father was in perfect health. Yes, I know, he had diabetes and high blood pressure, but that's all the more reason why he should have lived to a ripe old age."
Definitely a cliché artist, but I listened patiently while he described a study that was supposed to show "people in our level of society" with such diseases lived longer because they sought medical care earlier and more frequently than the average person. "And my father took care of himself. He never missed taking his medications."
"Yes, he seemed careful about his health," I said.
"So, now you understand why we want the prescription records."
He's so transparent, I reflected. If Harry Stokes had been murdered, this is one person who couldn't have done it. He had plenty of guile, but his words and body language were overdone.
The pharmacy was quiet for the moment, so I decided to play, too. "No. I really don't understand."
Now he was exasperated. "Look here, miss," he started to say and caught himself. The voice of reason returned. "It's simple. We think Father's death wasn't from natural causes."
"Yes ...?"
"So we think he took something or was given something that killed him." He folded his arms and tried for a sincere look this time. "Now you know. I can't say it any clearer."
Sure you can, I thought. You can come right out and say you think his wife was responsible for his death. By asking for her prescriptions, you intimated it anyhow.
"And you've already told the police about your suspicions."
Another glare was his only response.
"I guess that's why Detective Moreway came in for the records yesterday." I tried to sound as if the thought had just struck me. My acting skills probably were no better than his, but I left him no choice.
"Yes. I suppose so."
"Well, in that case, the information is in good hands." I worded all my comments to support my original insinuation that the records were no longer in my possession. It didn't work.
"Don't you still have copies in the computer?"
We had circled to the original impasse. When three more prescriptions came in, I turned away hoping Richard Stokes would give up and leave, but he waited until I was free again. "I'm sure you want to see justice done," he said this time.
Yes, and no news is good news and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, I said to myself. "That's exactly why I cooperated with the Scottsdale Police Department." I couldn't resist it: "The ball's in their court, now."
"Naturally, I have complete faith in the authorities," he said.
"In that case ..."
"Let me finish, miss. You probably don't know this, but the Stokeses are an old Arizona family. We come from pioneer stock, self-reliant folks, and I'm not waiting for the police to find out who's responsible for my father's death."
"That's strange. I understood you were the one who brought the police into this in the first place."
Now I'd done it. The rage he'd been trying to control burst like water spurting from a garden hose. "You think you're clever," he shouted. "All you ladies with careers are the same. Do you think they fire lady engineers? No, I'm the one who got axed, but the ladies kept their jobs." He glared at me so threateningly that I drew back in alarm. "Pardon me, the women. The women don't have to worry every time there's a layoff. They're needed to keep the government off the company's back."
I waited for him to run down, but he seemed to be venting the accumulated hatred of years. Although I'd had abusive customers before, this general condemnation of female professionals was something new. I thought I understood what was driving him, but I didn't know what to do. Customers came to the window, heard him shouting, and edged away. I had to calm him.
"Mr. Stokes," I said. He didn't seem to hear me but kept shouting, repeating himself without winding down. "I'm trying to help you."
Finally, he stopped shouting and looked directly at me. "You're not helping; you're part of the problem."
I wondered whether it had all been an act. If he were really so disturbed, would he be back to clichés again? "Mr. Stokes, last night I spent two hours at police headquarters going over the prescription records of your father, Betsy Stokes, and ... others. I suggest you see Detective Moreway and discuss all of this with him."
His expression became even more filled with hatred. If he had a weapon, I was sure he'd use it, and I prepared to drop to the Mexican tile floor behind the prescription counter. "Maybe we've been suspecting the wrong person," he said. "After all, you have more access to poisons than anyone else."
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