Chapter 11 - Dr. Kline
Dr. Samuel Kline was sixty-eight and semi-retired.
He had treated Edward for hypertension, chronic pain, respiratory complications, and the ordinary medical problems that came with age.
Edward trusted him.
Which made the death certificate terrifying.
Bell contacted Kline immediately.
The physician arrived at the hospital voluntarily.
He looked shaken before he even saw the document.
“That is not mine.”
Bell placed the photographed certificate in front of him.
“Your name is on it.”
“My name is printed on it. That is not the same thing.”
Kline put on his glasses.
The form contained his license number.
His office address.
Even a scanned version of his signature.
Nia watched his face.
“Who could access your signature?”
“My office.”
“Vincent?”
Kline looked at her.
“He requested medical records twice.”
“For what?”
“He claimed Edward was updating insurance.”
Edward’s eyes hardened.
Kline continued.
“I refused to release anything without authorization.”
“Did he have authorization?”
“He produced one later.”
Nia already knew.
“Forged.”
Kline looked sick.
“I thought Edward signed it.”
The room went quiet.
Kline looked toward his patient.
“Edward…”
Edward selected words.
“Not your fault yet.”
Kline blinked.
The phrase was so typically Edward that Nia almost laughed.
Not forgiveness.
Not blame.
Evidence first.
Bell asked, “Was your digital signature stored electronically?”
“Yes.”
“Securely?”
“I believed so.”
“When did you last use it?”
Kline hesitated.
“Yesterday.”
Bell leaned forward.
“Yesterday?”
“For a routine insurance form.”
“On what device?”
“My office desktop.”
Investigators soon learned the desktop had been remotely accessed three weeks earlier.
The intrusion lasted six minutes.
Long enough to copy files.
Long enough to steal a signature.
Long enough to make a fake death certificate look credible.
But the intrusion originated from a commercial VPN.
No direct link to Vincent.
Yet.
Nia looked at Kline.
“Did Vincent ever ask about Dad’s life expectancy?”
Kline became uncomfortable.
“People ask physicians that.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Edward’s cerebral palsy did not itself mean he was dying.”
Edward looked satisfied.
Kline continued.
“I told him Edward had health risks but no terminal diagnosis.”
Nia closed her eyes.
Vincent had needed a death that looked plausible.
An elderly disabled man.
Home care.
A quiet family.
A private funeral.
He had counted on prejudice doing part of the work.
People saw severe disability and assumed fragility.
They heard difficult speech and assumed diminished capacity.
They saw an old man in a coffin and assumed death.
Claire had not.
That difference saved Edward’s life.
Later, Nia found Claire in the hospital cafeteria.
She had come to provide another statement.
Nia sat across from her.
“Can I ask you something?”
Claire nodded.
“Why did you notice?”
Claire understood the question.
“Because dead people don’t track movement with their eyes.”
“That simple?”
“Sometimes.”
Claire stirred her coffee.
“But I also learned a long time ago not to let families hurry me.”
“Why?”
Claire looked toward the window.
“My father died when I was twenty-seven.”
Nia waited.
“The nursing home called us before a doctor had examined him. He was dead, but the confusion around the process was awful. I became obsessive about procedure after that.”
Nia smiled faintly.
“Your obsession saved my father.”
“It helped.”
Nia studied her.
“Vincent is going to blame you.”
“I know.”
“He already says you misunderstood.”
“I expected that.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
Claire considered the question.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised Nia.
Claire continued.
“Courage isn’t the absence of professional consequences. My funeral home has already received anonymous complaints.”
“What complaints?”
“That you entered my father’s home improperly?”
“Among other things.”
Nia stared.
Someone was trying to discredit Claire.
Not physically silence her.
Destroy her credibility.
Vincent’s preferred weapon.
Paper.
Email.
Records.
Bell joined them minutes later.
He carried another folder.
“We traced the coffin.”
Claire straightened.
“To whom?”
“A warehouse outside New Haven.”
“Who rented it?”
Bell opened the receipt.
Nia read the name.
Nia Harrington.
Her home address.
Her email.
Her credit card.
She stared at the page.
“That card is mine.”
Bell nodded.
“Did you make this purchase?”
“No.”
“Who had access to the card?”
Nia already knew.
“My husband.”
Bell turned the receipt over.
“There’s security footage.”
Nia looked at him.
Bell’s expression was grim.
“Vincent did not pick up the coffin.”
“Then who did?”
Bell placed a still image on the table.
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Graham Vale.
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