Free Poison by Jon Wells Page B

business long enough, you read people. Cliff Elliot always insisted on seeing beneficiaries in person to read the
tea leaves, to act as a human lie detector, listening to their tone of voice, observing whether facial lines crinkled with emotion or stayed smooth in a forced cool. He would show up 30 minutes early for an appointment, or unannounced. Truth comes best off the cuff. “Terribly sorry,” he would say. “Just a tad early, I’m afraid.” Under different circumstances, in another life, he could have worked for Scotland Yard. The gentleman investigator, the Velvet Hammer.
    Most of his cases were for accidental death. A man dies in a car accident. For the purposes of the life insurance claim, however, did he die as a result of the crash, or might he have had a heart attack in the car just before it? He needed autopsy and coroner’s reports to find out. Sometimes he followed the tracks of police investigators who went before him. Sometimes he led the police. There was the Burlington man years back who made a claim after saying his wife was stabbed by thugs in a parking lot. In due course the man skipped off to Las Vegas. Elliot came calling about the claim, asked questions, gathered medical records, chatted with travel agents, police. Ultimately, the man was jailed for homicide.
    There was another case—an East Indian woman filed a claim for her husband’s death, saying he was kidnapped during a visit to India and killed. Elliot showed up at her house, asked to see travel documents and phone records in order to put the husband in India and confirm his disappearance. He told the wife, in his polite way: “I will contact the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. Perhaps they have some information on the case.” She got cold feet. Miraculously, the husband showed up in Canada shortly afterwards. Turns out he escaped his captors and survived. Imagine that! The insurance claim was withdrawn and Elliot phoned the police. He stood to gain little from extra work chasing people who were out to cheat the system. It was simply part of who he was.
    Elliot spent about 20 minutes in Dhillon’s house. Then he left with signatures on several documents. His verdict? Dhillon knew more about the death than he let on. Life insurance claims are void for a suicide if they happen within the first two years of the policy. Had Parvesh taken her own life by overdose? Died of an allergic reaction? Whatever it was, Dhillon knew something,
but was not telling. Elliot got back in his Tempo and drove to Hamilton General Hospital to order records concerning the death of Parvesh Dhillon. He also requested coroner’s records and those of Parvesh’s family doctor.
    When the hospital records came back three weeks later they offered little help. The cause of her death was listed as anoxic brain damage—lack of oxygen to the brain—but the root cause was unknown. The hospital drug screen showed Parvesh had not died from street drugs. The reporting coroner had not ordered toxicology tests in Toronto. The law did not require them. Elliot wanted to dig deeper. He called Primerica, the company that had insured Parvesh Dhillon’s life. Would they like him to look into the case further, or were they content to pay Mr. Dhillon?
    “The reports say we don’t know how she died,” he said. “She could have taken bottled Aspirin or something for all we know. It hasn’t been checked, and for some reason the coroner didn’t order additional toxicology.” The voice on the line agreed that it sounded a little unusual, but by the end of the summer, Primerica had the documents ready to process Dhillon’s claim. The company decided not to pursue any further investigation. Her husband could receive his $200,000.
    Cliff Elliot had more than a dozen other cases on the go, plenty else to keep him occupied, and retirement loomed. But he was not pleased. It just didn’t feel right. After getting the word from Primerica that Dhillon’s check was being