Free Fire Season by Jon Loomis Page B

that.”
    Branstool looked up, pale eyes behind round horn-rimmed glasses. “April of 2007, she bit Mr. Hastings.”
    â€œHe cheats at Monopoly,” Coffin said. “Not that that would justify biting, of course.”
    â€œJune of 2007, she refused to speak for almost an entire month.”
    â€œShe was upset about the food.”
    â€œAugust of 2008 she repeatedly ran naked through the main hall.”
    â€œShe was hot.”
    â€œMay of 2009, she left the facility without permission on nine occasions.”
    â€œShe had a boyfriend. They wanted some privacy.”
    â€œShe routinely uses abusive language toward our caregivers. She was barred by the other patients from our weekly game of charades for making obscene gestures. She refuses all medication—”
    â€œLook,” Coffin said. “She’s difficult. I get it. She has Alzheimer’s. That’s why she’s here.”
    â€œBut none of it rises to this level of seriousness, Detective. None of it seriously endangered our residents and staff—not until today.”
    â€œSo you’re kicking her out,” Coffin said. He flexed his arm. The nurse who’d drawn his blood had done a good job—he’d hardly felt the needle going in, but now the square of gauze she’d pasted over the wound with a Band-Aid was beginning to itch.
    â€œRelocating,” the patient’s advocate said. “To a facility in Sandwich that’s better equipped to care for someone with her degree of dementia. We’ve already been in touch with them, and they have a bed available.”
    â€œSo, what,” Coffin said, “they’ll shoot her full of Thorazine and strap her to a wheelchair all day?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Detective,” Branstool said. His suit was muted beige, his tie a pale, watery green strip of raw silk. “As Ms. Haskell says, we’re just not equipped to care for her here. She’s crossed the line from being difficult, as you say, to being a real danger to herself and others. The rules are very clear—there’s nothing I can do.”
    Coffin looked at Ms. Haskell. She was plump, but her face was quite pretty. She seemed very young. “Could I have a word alone with Dr. Branstool?”
    Ms. Haskell’s eyebrows went up. “Well…”
    â€œIt’s all right, Ms. Haskell,” Dr. Branstool said. “Detective Coffin and I are old friends.” He laughed a weak, dry laugh. Outside, dark clouds herded slowly in from the west. A line of starlings pecked among the gravestones, the cemetery grass was silver green and shaggy in the slanted light.
    When the door had closed behind Ms. Haskell, Coffin leaned forward and propped his elbows on the conference table. “Where did my mother get the matches?”
    Dr. Branstool’s eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Something about the way their lenses caught the light made Coffin wonder, not for the first time, whether they were flat glass—worn purely for effect. “We’re looking into that,” he said. “We think one of the orderlies may have mislaid his lighter.”
    â€œIf a patient has dementia,” Coffin said, “and a nursing home operator leaves lighters lying around, who’s liable if the patient sets the place on fire? I’m just curious.”
    Dr. Branstool smiled weakly. “Detective,” he said. “Really now. If we’re going to be legalistic about this, I think Valley View wins that battle hands-down. It states clearly in our residential contract that any action by the patient that endangers or injures staff or residents will result in his or her immediate removal from the premises. We’ve been more than tolerant, Detective—mainly out of deference to you. But now, as I say, she has crossed the line into genuinely dangerous behavior. She has to go.”
    Coffin frowned. “How soon?”
    â€œThe facility in