The dying five, p.1
The Dying Five, page 1
THE DYING FIVE
A Hospice Heroes Mystery
Volume 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE DYING FIVE
First edition. February 15, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Jennifer Wright-Berryman.
ISBN: 979-8215992395
Written by Jennifer Wright-Berryman.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part I | Meet The Dying Five
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part II | TD5 Is on The Case
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part III | The Traps
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Part IV | Not Again
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Part V | Justice
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
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About the Author
I dedicate this book to my family. The love and encouragement of Travis, Daniela, Trevor, and Karen helped me over the fear of doing something new.
Part I
Meet The Dying Five
Don’t be afraid, don’t overthink,
You wonder, often, will my corpse stink?
It’s okay, love, just be aware,
You’re going to die,
You’re over halfway there.
-Pammy Sharpe, TD5, 2002
Chapter One
Eric Graham didn’t die immediately.
The first shot was an explosive crack, like a tree branch giving way to a lightning bolt. From the back seat of the Uber where Eric had been sitting seconds ago, Shana turned and saw her boss collapse on his front stoop. She screamed at the driver to stop and toppled out of the car. Her stiletto heel plunged into the sewer grate and her ankle rolled. Shana hobbled over to Eric, adrenaline masking the pain in her ankle. It took her two attempts to call 911, as her trembling fingers kept missing the buttons. The second bullet took out the condo porch light, plummeting them into darkness. She peered into the night. Frantic from the gunshots, some people were running and yelling, while a few stood at a distance with their phones in front of their faces, the lights from their cameras momentarily blinding her. Someone was shouting, but she couldn’t hear them over the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears.
“Eric! I’m here!” Shana’s mind was swirling chaos. She crouched beside him, scanning for where the bullet had entered. Eric was holding his ribs, so Shana navigated her fingertips lightly across his chest to his midsection. “Hold on Eric, hold on for me. Help is coming. Hurry, my boss has been shot!” Shana shouted into the phone. “Please send someone! I don’t know what to do!” She gave them her location and let her phone slip from her hand to the porch. She tried to slow down her breathing and center her mind, like her Pop Pop had taught her to do in a crisis. He had been a paramedic for twenty-five years and had told her many stories about gunshot victims. Put pressure on the wound. Keep them from bleeding out. Shana placed her hand over Eric’s and pressed down firmly. Steadying her knees on the steps, she unwrapped her scarf with her other hand, crumpled it into a ball and placed it over his wound. She put as much pressure as she could muster on the area. Blood soaked through the scarf, and she felt a warm, gooey sensation seep through her fingers.
Two good Samaritans ran over and shined their phone lights on Shana. She adjusted the placement of the wadded-up scarf over Eric’s bullet wound and reapplied pressure. Shana pleaded to Eric’s half-mast eyelids, begging him to hang on. Eric eyes were glazed, and his breathing became sporadic. He placed his free hand, tremoring and covered in blood, on Shana’s cheek, pulling her face toward his. “He...” Eric coughed. Shana leaned in closer. “He...knows...everything.” Eric’s voice was like curdled milk. Shana told him to save his energy, don’t try to speak, but something told her he needed her to hear him.
“Who knows? What are you trying to tell me, Eric?” Shana saw blood trickling from his mouth. Eric coughed weakly to clear his throat. Blood spewed from his lips into her hair. She leaned in even closer, putting her ear next to his mouth. She strained to hear his words.
“Go...to...office,” Eric’s eyes were fluttering, fighting to stay conscious. “Get laptop.” Eric’s eyes rolled back. He was gone.
Chapter Two
New Leader Welcome Note
Hello, new leader, and welcome.
Whew. That first chapter was fun to write. If you’re wondering, Shana said her new Valentino stilettos didn’t make it through the ordeal. Her ankle’s okay, though. I suppose that’s more important.
Eric Graham’s murder wasn’t difficult for The Dying Five to solve, but there were reasons for that. We had a ghost in the machine. TD5 was the machine, and the ghost was lurking about, right in front of our collective faces. Many people dismiss hospice patients as weak and sick, but I’m here to tell you, they should not be underestimated. The source of their strength is the will to do something fantastic before the life clock strikes midnight. I can attest to their power. And after this story, you will too.
I am the current leader of The Dying Five (2015-present), our secret sleuth hospice group. According to the TD5 history book (in our safety deposit box, bank to remain unnamed) and my memory of reading it years ago, TD5 has been around since 1996. That’s the year I had hoped Clinton was getting kicked to the curb (and I’m a Democrat). But alas, no. We had four more years of that mule.
I digress. I’m writing this to tell you about the crimes we solved, not spew political insults. You’ll be the next in charge, and it’s my job to prepare you.
As the current leader, it’s my duty to add to the history book, which to date has been dry and drab. I’m supposed to update it each year, but honestly, I’ve been busy. Or I’ve put it off. So here I am, trying to reconstruct seven years of stories. For the moment, I’m only focused on our recent caper. If I get that down, I’ll feel good enough about it. I’ve got a brain tumor and might be on my way out the celestial door myself, so time is of the essence. Don’t feel sorry for me, please. Sympathy isn’t my jam.
New leader, you are the one who will take the reins and the rules dictate you must read the history in its entirety. No cutting corners or skipping to the good parts. I’ve tried to make this a story worth reading, and I hope you’ll be entertained. You want the story with some color, not just words on a page, right? Perhaps someday, when the world has imploded and all that is left are bunkers and bank vaults and safety deposit boxes, someone will come across this story, and if so, I want them to enjoy it.
Did I mention I have a brain tumor? I guess that made us The Dying Six, really, but I’m not about to reprint all those t-shirts. Kidding. We don’t have t-shirts. I do wonder, though, if we had a t-shirt, what kind of graphic would we use on the front. A woman with a walker wielding a knife? Nah. We’re not a violent bunch, don’t want to misrepresent. Maybe a group of five people with walkers, nasal cannulas, and oxygen tanks donning Sherlock Holmes-style deerstalker caps and pipes? Mary would love that image.
I’m not sure I’ll have enough time to finish my chapters of the history book, so I’ve taken some liberties. The current members of TD5 have told their own part of the story via phone recordings (in between naps and home visits), notes, and verbal accounts, which I’ve also recorded. I’ve organized their parts with my own recounting in the chapters that follow. The problem is, TD5 rules do not allow us to digitize the history book. So here I am with transcribed audio files, weaving a story, and sweating this timeline. My doc says my condition is slow-going, but I know how this dying thing works- it’s unpredictable. Once I have all this typed up, I must print it off, destroy anything saved on my computer (I might just destroy the computer) and lock it up in the safety deposit box, giving my copy of the key to The Columbarium. The Columbarium, you ask? I’ll fill you in on that later, new leader. Don’t worry, you’ll be well-informed by the end. Read on.
Disclaimer: I’m not a detective, or police, or military, or anything special in terms of crime-solving. I’m a social worker at Courseview Hospice. Social workers are not solely kiddie-getters from bad homes, I’ll have you know. I’m an expert in mental health and caring for the dying, and this made me uniquely qualified to be the leader of a small group of stressed-out dying folks with a mission to solve murders. Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. I was in more of a supporting actress role. We don’t just catch criminals, though. I don’t want you thinking this is one of the millions of crime stories out there. Okay, maybe this one is. It felt like one in a million to me, the way things went. I never would have figured it out by myself, I tell you.
I think I hear a helicopter, I mean my wife, Rachel, coming up the stairs. I suppose it’s time for my medications and a healthy smoothie. She makes the best smoothies, if you like kale and spinach and all that junk slightly masked by mango and pineapple.
“Callie!” She’s yelling for me from the bottom of the stairs. I’m going to ignore her. I consider jumping up and shutting my office door or pretending I’m asleep at my desk. No time for that now, she’s stomping up the steps for dramatic effect. “Callie O’Malley!” Yes, you heard that right. My name is Callie O’Malley. My folks were twisted. I have an older sister named Sally. If there was another sibling, I’m certain they would have been named Valley or Dalley.
Okay, new leader, I hope this story tells you all you ever, or never, wanted to know about TD5. It was a doozie, this case, not for the faint of heart. If you consider yourself the brave sort, you’re all set. If you...
“CALLIE ANN O’MALLEY ARE YOU STILL ON YOUR COMPUTER?” Gotta go.
Chapter Three
The Situation Room
The Dying Five were gathered in The Situation Room. TD5 1999-2000 formally deemed our meeting place “The Situation Room”, the spy-esque lair (initially just a spare room at the hospice center) where they solved their first crime. A few years later, TD5 rented space with funds from The Columbarium. The secret location was tucked into a nondescript business park with mostly abandoned storefronts. In the 90s, TD5 was run by the founder, Dr. Candice “Happy” Hapwell. Happy was an innovative, palliative care physician who’d gone rogue with ways to help dying people live their last months, or in some cases, years, to the fullest. It began as a variation of Make-A-Wish, but for adults. Happy would take people skydiving or on a safari. The program’s motto, “You’re not dead yet, let’s have an adventure” was embroidered on a tapestry hanging in the support group room at Courseview Hospice. Some of those early members Happy had helped, before TD5 became a group of sleuths and community activists, were so grateful for Happy’s program they started a trust to fund it for decades to come. They called it The Columbarium.
The Situation Room could use a little sprucing up, I thought, as I took TD5 attendance. The space smelled of bathroom spray, the kind that covered up instead of eliminating the hint of what had just happened on the toilet. I should bring some candles and open some windows. TD5 kept everything shut up tight for privacy, and the rank of stale air was going to force me to do something risky- gasp! I’ll throw open the sash and expose us to the world, as if anyone was watching. I returned my thoughts to my attendance sheet. Charles Jackson, Mary Sams, Stephen Capernella, and Talia Gearheart were all accounted for.
Charles seemed agitated. Droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead and danced down his dark skin. His face glistened from the wetness, and his eyes were red as if he’d not slept in days. He was tapping his folded newspaper on his knee. Normally, it would be open on his lap and he’d be furiously completing his daily crossword. Charles looked at me expectantly, as if ready to make an announcement. He twitched with impatience, unusual for Charles, and I wondered if his pain might be worsening. I was surprised Marj, his wife, let him come to the meeting if he was this uncomfortable. Marj tried to keep Charles on a short leash, but he often won those battles. I wrote myself a reminder to check his chart and talk with the nurse.
Mary was chatting to herself, trying to decide which John Grisham case she was going to present to the group that day. Mary was dainty on the outside, shy of five feet tall, and less than a hundred pounds. Her slight appearance was Mary’s best misdirection; she was dynamite in a small package. When we didn’t have any crimes to solve, Mary would present cases from her favorite suspense and thriller novels, and we’d try to guess whodunit to keep our skills sharp. TD5 went along with it, but most took a snooze while Mary described the red herrings with grand detail. Mary had read every Agatha Christie novel ten times, had seen every episode of Perry Mason five times; all things sleuthing were the content of Mary’s delusional thinking. Mary believed she was John Grisham’s aunt, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s great niece, and Agatha Christie’s childhood neighbor and best friend. None of it was true as far as I knew. Mary had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 21. She was in college studying literature when the intrusive voices and distorted thoughts began. Now, Mary was a 68-year-old woman who appeared ten years older from the wear and tear of life and end-stage COPD.
Our newest member, Shelly Perkins, hadn’t yet arrived and I wondered if she’d decided to opt out, which might be a wise choice. TD5 seemed to be more of a social club lately instead of a secret society of crime-fighters and problem-solvers. Frankly, we were bored.
Charles upended our boredom and revealed the source of his agitation, which I had incorrectly assumed was pain from his liver disease. “My granddaughter, Shana, has gotten herself into quite a pickle and needs our help.” Charles was fighting back tears while holding his distended middle, trying not to sob. Charles was a good-natured person, always trying to lift people up, especially his fellow dying friends. He was typically the group jokester, but there was no jovial entertainment from Charles today. It was clear he was now the one who needed lifting.
Before Charles could continue, one of the three Situation Room computer monitors displayed a pleasantly plump woman in a bright yellow pantsuit shuffling toward the door with the aid of her walker. Shelly opted in, as it turned out. She was attempting to enter the door code while balancing on her walker. Charles furrowed his brow quizzically, and it occurred to me I’d not mentioned to the rest of the members we’d be expecting someone new.
I shifted my gaze to Stephen (never to be called Steve), nodding toward the door. He begrudgingly got up and let Shelly in. Stephen was the fittest of TD5, lean and seemingly healthy. He was only “half hospice” because he took dialysis, which was considered a treatment. He paid out of pocket for it. He was a tech tycoon, having developed world-renown hacking and anti-hacking software, and could afford it. This wasn’t usually allowed, someone admitted to hospice while on treatment, but Stephen pled his case with the administrators. He was sure his kidneys would fully collapse soon enough, he’d said, and he was only taking some dialysis for comfort. I knew Stephen needed somewhere to belong and people to connect with, so I advocated for him. I also knew he’d make an excellent spy.
Stephen opened the door, and I assisted Shelly into one of the recliners, positioning her walker within reach. We all studied Shelly, watching her eyes move across the room, examining her surroundings: three computer screens with live video feed from the exterior cameras, modern and comfortable decor, three pieces of art from The Columbarium members’ personal collections, and a kiosk of medical equipment. She smiled and looked at the others. “What in the heck am I getting myself into here?”
Mary scooted to the edge of her recliner, began to respond, but before she could get a word out, Charles cleared his throat loudly to call everyone to attention. “You’ve all heard me talk about my granddaughter, Shana. Well, her boss was murdered two nights ago. And she was there when it happened.” Charles shifted in his recliner to find a comfortable position. “The police questioned her as a suspect. She was very upset.” Shelly’s eyes grew wide, and her lower lip curled open. Mary hooted with excitement.
