Free The Euthanist by Alex Dolan Page B

because she’ll be expecting an injection anyway.”
    “And I won’t overlap with her real nurse.”
    “I called her regular nurse and canceled for today.”
    “You can do that?”
    “I should be able to. I’m paying for it.”
    Helena lived on Urbano Drive, which looped in a giant ellipse. Some of the guys I rode with in the department were amateur history buffs, and one of them told me Urbano Drive used to be the Ingleside Racetrack. When the track turned into residential housing, people raced their cars until the city installed street humps and roundabouts. Now the street was a stretch of road no one really wanted to live on and no one really wanted to develop. The homes were rashly constructed white stucco buildings, what my dad would have called gingerbread houses.
    We stopped along the curb and Leland pointed to a building. His sister’s house shared a similar anonymity as the ranch house in Clayton, which made me doubt whether any of this was on the level.
    “Your sister’s in there?”
    “She’ll be in the living room. She doesn’t use the bed much anymore.” Leland lost his sense of play. He turned somber, almost fearful.
    I wanted to clarify about her condition, so I asked, “How delusional is she?”
    “She forgets who I am. She forgets where she is. She might ask about a guy named Walter. I think he was some crush she had as a teenager.”
    “Was she ever married?”
    “She has an ex-husband. It didn’t end well, and now she doesn’t even remember the guy. They didn’t have kids.”
    I tried to think about what I would say to her. Because Leland didn’t allow me to wear a more theatrical costume, I looked more like myself. And that meant I felt more unsure of what role I should play. My job flowed so much easier in disguise.
    “Does she have guns?”
    Leland snorted, “No. Why?”
    “I don’t want to be shot as an intruder.”
    “Pretty white girls don’t get shot.”
    “They do when people with guns are delusional and a stranger comes into their homes.”
    “She doesn’t own a gun.” He pointed to the glove compartment. “And you’ll be using what’s in there.”
    We hadn’t discussed this. Inside the glove compartment, a black leather case snuggled against his electronic toll sensor. Flat and long, the right size for a necklace, it revealed a preloaded hypodermic needle.
    “What is this?”‘ The syringe was much larger than mine. A cook could baste meats with it. “Are we dueling with needles?”
    “Do I honestly have to explain it?”
    “We covered every inkling, and you never mentioned this.”
    He said, “It slipped my mind. Sometimes the most obvious things do.”
    “I have my own tools. And I don’t know what’s in this.”
    “First of all, your syringe is broken. We crushed it when we scuffled.”
    “I remembered. I packed extra supplies.” I raised my satchel, restuffed and fully packed with my usual gear.
    “You’ll use this needle and only this needle. My sister’s a big woman. I needed to size the dose appropriately. Did you ever hear about Tookie Williams?”
    The name was vaguely familiar, but I didn’t want to entertain this strand of conversation. “He was a gang leader. Who gives a crap?”
    “He cofounded the Crips. But for the purposes of this story, he was a bodybuilder on death row. Big guy—used to lift down at Venice Beach. When it came time for him to get the needle, they screwed up the dose, because they didn’t account for his size. The nurse botched it a few different ways, actually. He woke up in the middle and died in agony. I don’t want that happening to my sister.”
    “You don’t think I would have considered that?”
    “I’ve had more time to consider it. That’s the right dose.”
    “What’s in here?”
    He frowned to tell me it was none of my business. “Saline solution.” When I registered that he was being a wise-ass, he said, “It’s sodium thiopental, same as you use. The same thing you gave Maxine Jook. And