Fool Proof

As I approached the front door of the condominium apartment, I noticed the door was ajar. I shouted, “ Mr. McGuire? Are you in? It’s Scott Bailey.” There was no answer. I opened the door, and stepped into the hall leading to the living room. There in the middle of the room, slumped over, was McGuire. His arms were outstretched. A rope tied to each wrist was attached to opposing doors of the room. His head was covered with a plastic bag. His face was blue. He appeared to have suffocated himself. Each rope was tied in a loop so when he slipped his hands into each one and pulled there would be no way to take the plastic bag from his head nor take the loop off his wrist. There was a note on the table addressed to the police. I knew not to touch it. However it was easy to unfold with the tip of my ballpoint pen.
“To whom it may concern, I am dying from AIDS and do not want my family to see me slowly waste away. I have left my will in the refrigerator with the rest of my important papers. Tell my sister it is better this way. I am sorry if I have hurt her.” It was signed “Ervin McGuire”
I had talked with McGuire only 30 minutes earlier. This was strange behavior for someone expecting company. I noted there was the copy of the “Final Exit” lying on the coffee table with a tract inside. I opened to the place marked. It was a religious tract on suicide stamped with a local Episcopal Church address.
I had met McGuire only last week. The Country Side Life Insurance Company had called me. “Scott we need you to do a standard checkup for us on a Mr. Ervin McGuire. He has applied for a very large increase on his life coverage and we need you to pay him a visit and check his back ground and medical records to see if there is anything that may look like an insurance fraud,” said Bill Crowell owner of the company.
“No problem, Bill. I’ll check on it right away,” I said. Getting involved with a new case was just what I needed, after being on vacation with my daughter the past week. We had been on an ocean cruise to the Caribbean, but now it was back to work for both of us. After my divorce 10 years ago, I started Hollywood Insurance Investigation and Security and I have not regretted my choice. Finding out about people’s lives and seeing how they live is fascinating. The standard form came over the fax, with the address and details of Mr. McGuire’s history. I had learned that just because I was asked to check out a client for Bill, did not mean he believed he was a crook. It was just good business and being careful with the company’s money.
McGuire lived in an upscale private apartment complex on the water, called The Village By the Sea, Building F, Apartment 36 in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. The guard showed me where McGuire’s apartment was. The apartment was located on the ground floor. The outside door was made of very expensive wood like all the other doors. I rang the doorbell.
The door opened and a short, skinny, bald man, about forty, stood at the door. He said, “You must be from the insurance company.”
“Yes sir. I am Scot Bailey from the Country Side Life Insurance Company.”
“Come in,” he said as he led me through a small hallway into the living room. There was a room to the left, which appeared to be a bathroom, and to the right there was another room, which was the bedroom. There was a sliding double glass door at the other end of the room that was partly covered by curtains. It showed the view of a small patio that led to the outside canal wall, where boats were tied up. The couch and chairs were all brown leather. On the wall behind the couch, hung a large painting of a scene of a flying egret. There were several other paintings of various birds, which told me he liked birds and collected paintings. These were not the cheap prints one might find at a discount store.
“Have a seat. Can I fix you a drink?” he said as he stood there.
“No thanks,” I said smiling politely. “Why have you decided to up your policy, Mr. McGuire?” I asked. I noted a book on the coffee table with the title “Final Exit.” That doesn’t look good, I thought.
“Don’t tell me you people don’t like more money,” he laughed.
“No Sir, but it is a sizeable amount. Two million dollars is a lot of money.”
“Yes it is,” he said. “Well I have a lot of debts and I have a sister that is my only family. She never married. She’s not poor you understand but she has not done as well as I have. She is the proverbial librarian. Literally, she works for the local library. If something should ever happen to me, I would like for her to be taken care of in style. She is my little sister and I’m sure it would be quite a surprise for her. If something should happen to her, then I would like for the remaining amount after debts are paid to go to the local Episcopal Church.
“Very well then. Let’s get started,” I said as I handed him the disclosure forms. “You realize we must check things out.”
“I expected no less from Bill Crowell. He has been a big help to me in planning my estate over the years and in placing my investments,” he said.
“ I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what do you think of that book?” I said pointing at the copy of “Final Exit.”
“ Oh, that,“ he said. “Well that belongs to a friend who was visiting and left it here. I think he thought I might be interested in reading it. It is a little too gruesome for my reading.”
As I got into the car, I called the office. “Sally, get me an appointment with Dr. Phillip Pack ASAP, will you?” Sally Fenton was a good secretary. She had been my secretary since the company began. I persuaded her to leave the Sheriff’s Department when I retired from the road patrol ten years ago.
She called back a few minutes later. “Got you an appointment this afternoon at one p.m. I told him you were willing to wait but you would not take much time,” she said.
“Thanks Sal. I’ll buy dinner,” I said. She laughed as I hung up.
Like most doctors who like to work close to their patents, the doctor’s office was located near the hospital in Plantation, Florida. Plantation was an outer suburb of Lauderdale, on the southwestern side of the county.
I handed the disclosure release form to the nurse and asked that the medical file of Mr. McGuire be sent to the insurance company. After an hour wait I finally got to see the doctor.
“Well Mr. Bailey, how can I help you,” he asked.
“One of your patients, Mr. McGuire, has asked us to insure him for an extra two million dollars, and we need to know if he is currently suffering from any terminal illnesses.
“Well, not at this time. He has tested positive for HIV, but there are no signs of any disease at this time. You do realize that being tested positive does not mean he has AIDS. It just means he has the potential to get it. He could go for years and die from some other disease not even related to it.”
“So at this time you, would give him a clean bill of health,” I asked.
“Yes, as his doctor I would have to say that,” he said.
“ What about his life style? Would you say it was a risky life style?” I asked.
“ Well I discussed safe sex if that is what you are referring to. Since he was HIV positive, I warned him that if he contracted AIDS he could give it to someone and not know it. If his situation changed and he came down with AIDS he would not have any warning. I recommended that he keep a close check on changes in his blood by having frequent blood tests.
After leaving the doctor’s office, I went back to my office. I had my secretary call all the local funeral companies in the phone book. It is surprising what people will tell you over the phone if they are approached in the right way. McGuire had contacted the Ocean by the Sea Cremation Society. The waiting room was more like a home than a waiting room. No doubt, it was the intent of the owner to make one feel relaxed. There was a large black leather Davis couch on one side of the room with several matching chairs on the other side. Sunlight reflected from the mirror hanging over the mantel, making a golden glint bounce from the face of the old-fashioned antique mantel clock ticking away. Two glossy red old-fashioned gas pumps like the ones used in the early 1900’s, stood like sentinels, one on each sides of the mantel. On the wall hung an old weathered window frame with multi-colored pane of glass of red, blue, yellow, and green. A large growth of fox ferns were coming out of an old Royal Typewriter that sat on a table in front of the window. An old horse collar hung on the wall that led up the royal blue carpet covered stairs to the upper loft, where several employees were taking phone calls and typing at their computer stations. A young woman in her twenties sat at a desk at the end of the room in front of a closed door. She had long black hair and spoke with a southern accent. The nameplate at her desk read “Nancy Pulman.”
“Can I help you?“ she asked.
“My name is Scot Bailey from Country Side Life Insurance Company. I’d like to speak with the owner if I may,” I said.
She picked up the phone and said, “Mr. Franks, there is a gentleman here to see you sir. Yes sir.” She hung up the phone and said, “Right through that door Mr. Bailey.”
“Thank you Ms. Pulman.” I walked to the door and stepped into the next room.
“Come in Mr. Bailey,” said the man coming out from behind a large wooden desk. “I’m Justin Franks. How may I help you?”
“Our company is checking on Mr. Ervin McGuire, who has asked us to increase his coverage. Has Mr. McGuire mentioned anything to you about his health failing or being terminally ill?”
“Well, I don’t know Mr. McGuire personally. You see one of our pre-need representatives went to his home to do the paperwork.” He spoke into the intercom on his desk, “Ms. Pulman bring me Mr. Ervin McGuire’s file.” A few moments lapsed and she came in with a file. She handed it to him and turned to leave. “Wait just a moment Ms. Pulman,” he said looking through the file. “Ask Roger Page to come in please.” She left and he handed the file to Bailey. It contained the standard information sheet used in the industry for filling out death certificates, the permission to cremate order, the contract, a copy of the receipt, and a photocopy of the check. There was the signature of Ervin McGuire and Dave Royer as the person to receive the ashes. The company representative was Roger Page.
“You sent for me sir,” came a voice at the door.
“Yes, Mr. Page. This is Mr. Bailey from The Country Side Life Insurance Co. He would like to ask you some questions about Mr. McGuire you wrote up this week,” said Franks.
Page was dressed in a blue blazer with a white shirt and light blue tie to match his trousers. “Why, is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Not that we know of. This is just routine. When clients increase a policy to a large sum of money we always check it out,” I said. “Tell me about the sale. How did he contact you?”
“Well he actually did not contact me. His neighbor made the appointment for us to see him,” he said.
“I noticed that Mr. McGuire did not appoint anyone from his family to take charge of the ashes. He asks a Mr. Royer. Who is that?” I asked.
“Mr. Royer is his neighbor. Sometimes people prefer for someone other than family to take care of receiving the ashes. Some people cannot handle the idea of a person being cremated and being carried around in a small box. You would be surprised how some people act. I once had a lady pass out when she opened her father’s urn and saw the ashes. On another occasion a lady took out the ashes and scattered them on the lawn like fertilizer. You can never tell how people will react,” he explained.
“Well Mr. Page you have given me quite an education. I have a lot to think about. Thank you for your help, and you too, Mr. Franks.”
I made an appointment to see McGuire’s sister, Cindy McGuire, the next morning. When I entered the Library, she was waiting at her office door watching the desk clerks processing library books. She saw me as I approached. She was in her mid thirties. Her figure reminded me of Olive Oil in the comics, except for her dirty blond hair that curled around her cheeks. She wore a blue dress with a white border around the sleeves, neck, and hemline. Her black round glasses accentuated her round face. She actually would be nice looking if she lost those glasses and put on a pair of jeans, I thought.
“Miss McGuire?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Bailey?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you for seeing me.”
As she closed the door, she motioned for me to come in and sit down.” Well what can I do for you?” she said.
“Miss McGuire, I represent the Country Side Life Insurance Company. Your brother has asked us to increase his policy, and we are making a routine check on his health. Has he mentioned anything to you about his health?” I asked.
“No, but with his new life style it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. Our parents would roll over in their graves if they knew what he has become. He even left our church and started attending that other bunch,” she said.
“What do you mean, wouldn’t surprise you, and what bunch are you referring to?” I asked.
“Why, Ervin was raised Catholic, and he left the church. Our family have been members, all the way back to our European roots. Now he’s gone over to that Episcopal you know what.” She raised her eyebrows. “He calls himself a new man who has come out. It’s that friend of his down the hall who has seduced him. That’s what it is. We used to be so close,” she said wiping a tear from her eye.
“Did you know that he named you as beneficiary to his estate?”
“Why no. I didn’t,” she said. “That’s just like him, closed mouth about everything. He always did like to surprise people. You have made my day Mr. Bailey.”
“Well I don’t think he wanted you to know. I had to find out what you did know. You do understand,” I said.
“Yes, I do. I won’t let on that I know. Maybe there is hope I can get him back in the church again.”
I headed for the car. Family politics, I mused. I never get involved. If I’m going to be successful in business I must stay clear of sex, religion and politics. This profession requires that I keep a blind eye in such matters. These days there are too many sexual harassment suits in court as it is.
After checking in with the office, I headed to the Episcopal Church. The secretary was dressed in a modest looking pantsuit. Her white hair was cut short like most women in there sixties. She led me to the office of the minister. “How do you do. I’m Dr. Lewis, Mr. Bailey, how may I help you?” He extended his hand as he met me at the door.
“Glad to meet you, Doctor. I’m interested in one of your members, Mr. Ervin McGuire. What can you tell me about him?” I asked as I sat down in the chair in front of his desk.
Dr. Lewis sat down in a black leather high back judge’s chair.
“Well, I can tell you Mr. McGuire is a fine man of upstanding character,” he said.
“Has he spoken to you of his health or possible suicide or fear of a terminal disease?” I asked.
“Surely you know it would be a breach of confidence for me to reveal any discussions we might have had along those lines,” he stated.
“Yes, it normally would. However, he has given us a release of information,” I said as I handed him the release form.
“I see,” he said laying the paper on his desk. “Yes, we had some discussion on suicide and disease. He informed me he had tested positive for HIV and wondered what the church’s stand was on suicide. Of course, being a minister we believe all life is sacred and it would be a sin to take one’s life. I gave him a tract to read on the subject. But I must say he had already come to the same conclusion. He indicated that he did not have AIDS, nor was he sick. He had been in a discussion with his significant other about the subject and wanted to be able to answer his view on the subject should things go badly for his health. He also discussed making some preparations for his sister, by writing a will and leaving her his estate. That’s about it. We went to worship, and he went home.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lewis. You have been a big help,” I said.
The next day I made some visits to several bookstores. I wanted to check on this book in McGuire’s apartment. Was he covering up a plan to commit suicide by making it look like someone else gave him the book? Had he been to another doctor and found out he had AIDS and was trying to fool the insurance company by misdirecting me to speak to his personal doctor? There are numerous bookstores in town and it took most of the day to check them all. Most did not have a copy in stock. It was not that popular, but I found a couple of stores that had a copy. Only one had recently made a sale. I asked if they paid by check.
“ I can’t do that sir. It is against company policy,” said the young man with a black hair and deep tan. He was most likely an outdoor person. Probably a college kid working for the summer.
“Tell me kid. Are you going to college?”
“Yeah how’d you know?” he asked.
“Just a wild guess,” I said looking at his varsity college shirt. “How much policy change can I get for $50?” I asked, holding out the money.
He smiled. “You can get a lot. Let me see what the computer says. He swung the monitor where I could see it. It was Dave Royer. His address was just down from McGuire‘s apartment.
I called a friend down in the credit bureau and found out Dave Royer also was an independent contractor for several funeral companies and was over extended in his credit. I called the Ocean Side Cremation Society and ask for Mr. Page. I was told he was in the field. They gave me his cell phone. “Mr. Page, this is Scot Bailey. We need to talk. Where can I meet you privately?” I said.
He agreed to meet me in Sloppy Bill’s, a fast food restaurant in north Hollywood.
“Mr. Page how much did Mr. Royer pay you to write up Mr. McGuire?” I said, looking him in the eye.
“He didn’t pay me anything,” he said defensively.
“Listen son. If you tell the truth, I can keep your name out of this if you didn’t break any laws. But I think Mr. Royer is working some kind of scam,” I said.
“He told me this guy lived down the hall from him and he would rather give me the sale instead of him. Sometimes people buy a plan, and then they get behind in the payments. If he did, then he would not look bad for coming down on his neighbor for being late. It would be better to come from someone outside of that apartment. If McGuire had a problem with the company, he would not get mad at his neighbor. I swear. That‘s what he told me,” he said. “He works for our company sometimes, and he did not want McGuire to know it was anyone he worked for. He signed the papers as his significant partner and it would be a conflict of interest for the company he worked for. That‘s all I know,” he said.
“Very good, you cleared up a lot kid,”

Now McGuire is dead. For a man who was concerned with his sister being taken care of, it would have made more sense to wait till the investigation was over. Unless someone else did not know an investigation was in progress, I thought. McGuire would not have left the door open. Someone wanted him to be found like this. I took out my cell phone and called 911. “I want to report a murder,” I said. “This is private investigator Scot Bailey. I’m at the residence of Mr. Ervin McGuire at The Village By the Sea, Building F, Apartment 36, ground floor.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” a voice came from the door. It was Dave Royer.
“Mr. Dave Royer, I presume. I might ask you the same question.” I said as I laid my phone on the coffee table. “I found your handiwork,” I said. “ Your murder is one of the sloppiest murders I’ve ever seen. “
“What are you talking about? He was like that when I came in and you know it,” he said defensively.
“Yes, but you were here before, weren’t you? It was you who wrote that suicide note. You wanted his insurance money. He was taking you off his policy, putting his sister in as executor of his estate, and leaving everything to her. A jilted lover. You tried to get him to agree to suicide so you could get his estate when he got sicker. You figured he would get AIDS when he turned out to be HIV positive, but he wasn’t sick and you did not want to wait for him to die. You left that copy of “Final Exit” on the coffee table to make it look like he was afraid of getting sick. It was you that put that tract in as a bookmarker. Too bad you did not read what it said. He believed it was a sin to commit suicide. I’ll even bet that tract has your fingerprints all over it. You see, McGuire switched from being a Catholic to being an Episcopalian, and he had a tract from the church he attended. You picked that tract up yourself and planted it there. I will bet you changed the new will he made and forged his name on it. It is not fool proof you know. You did not know about me being here earlier this week, that I had an appointment to see him and spoke with him just a little over 30 minutes ago. You had opportunity because you live just down the hall, and I’ll bet you have a key to the apartment in you pocket. You did not tell him you worked for the cremation company, did you? You kept that from him. You found out you were cut out of the will, decided to have him killed, destroyed the will, replaced it with a new one, and changed the cremation agreement.
“Yeah I planned it, but you’ll never prove it. It is just your word against mine. There is no evidence to be found. There was only one copy of the will, and I had it. He dumped me and said he was going to give up his gay life style and go back to the church. He was leaving me and taking everything. He had promised me it would be mine. So I decided if he committed suicide, no one would be able to prove otherwise, and I would take over his estate. I still have his first will,” he said smugly.
“That is very clever of you, but you should know there is no plan that is fool proof,” I said, as the police walked in. Picking up the cell phone, I said, “ Did you get all that?”
The 911 operator replied “Yes, Mr. Bailey we got it all on tape,”
His mouth open, Royer looked at me in surprise. The police got the word from dispatch that Royer had confessed to the murder, and they arrested him.
“It will not hold up in court,” Royer said.
“Yes it will. 911 always records their calls and they are admissible in court.” I said smiling.
Royer shook his head. ”It was fool proof,” he said, as the police took him away.
Well McGuire’s sister will at least get his existing inheritance. I know he would be pleased that she would still live in style with inheriting his condo and bank account

Story ID:	4066
Written by:	Donald L. Jones (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Stuart Florida USA
Year:	2008
Person:	Self