The Lady in Black by Frank J. Infusino Jr

Author:Frank J. Infusino Jr. [infusino, frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: First Edition Design Publishing
Published: 2021-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Lopez and Magliore

Still reeling from Angela’s rejection, and my suspicion about her drug abuse, I receive a phone call from my partner requesting to meet at South Shore Hospital. She skips the details; assures me it’s related to our investigation of Mike Dimick’s murder. I smile. I’m such a regular at the hospital, I should request a private room.

The young female receptionist directs me to the third floor. When I step off the elevator, four people are standing outside a room midway down the hall. One is Terry Lopez. The others include a woman EMT, a uniformed Marshfield officer and a man I don’t recognize. He turns out to be Brett Kilgore, a teacher at Bridge Hill Academy and one of the chaperones on the ill-fated school field trip to Fort Warren.

“Fill me in,” I ask, directing my question to Lopez.

“Eleanor Kilgore overdosed on these,” she says, and holds up a baggie containing a blue tablet labeled oxycodone similar to those we found at Mike Dimick’s condo and in Dakota Johnson’s dorm room.

Counterfeit. Dangerous.

I study Brett Kilgore who hasn’t moved or spoken since I arrived. His face is ashen, head bowed, hands clasped in front.

I place a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Kilgore. I’m Lieutenant Magliore, state police. You’ve met my partner here. We’d like to speak with you.”

Kilgore tilts his head toward me, in shock, his eyes expressionless. He doesn’t move or acknowledge me.

“We need to talk with you sir,” I stress.

His head snaps back, eyes shift to my hand on his shoulder.

“Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. Eleanor? Is she okay?” he asks.

Lopez cuts in. “She had a close call, but the doctors are confident she will recover. She’s resting now.”

“Let’s find some coffee sir,” I suggest. “There’s a visitor’s lounge at the end of the hall.”

The lounge is hospital basic; tiled counter with a coffee pot, couch with aluminum legs and multicolored cushions, three straight backed gray plastic chairs, a wooden rack on the floor in one corner holding outdated magazines.

Kilgore sits on the couch. Lopez and I pull up two chairs facing him.

“I’m sorry about Eleanor, Mr. Kilgore,” I say. “We suspect her overdose is connected to Mike Dimick’s murder.”

“What? How?” He stammers, swaying backward as if punched.

“We believe Mike Dimick provided the pills your wife took. We think he was dealing drugs at Bridge Hill; to kids as well as faculty.”

“Kids. My God.”

“We don’t have time to be sensitive or diplomatic, Mr. Kilgore. Lives are at risk. Please tell us what you know.”

He leans forward, placing his arms on his thighs, keeps his voice low, rubbing moisture from his eyes. He tells a shocking story. One that would be a terrible blow to the reputation of Bridge Hill Academy if it became public; reminiscent of “Peyton Place,” if you’re old enough to remember the book, movie, and TV drama depicting a sexually depraved community.

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