Granger's Threat. Teresa Pijoan

I felt it best to call and alert you to this development. I am in the process of calling your sister. Then I shall call the EMT’s to come and see if they can revive him.” Margaret lifted the steaming mug of tea to her lips to blow on the hot tea.

      “Mom, I know dad is dead. I was there, remember? You should call the police, not the EMT’s.”

      “No, Granger, I am calling the EMT’s. I am an elderly woman who does not know how to handle these situations. I still have hope that your father can be resuscitated. Don’t give me any grief. I know what you did.” Margaret hung up the phone to take a sip of her tea. “So, there.”

      The Yellow Pages were opened on the counter beside the kitchen sink. “All right, if you need to call an EMT where-oh-where do you find them?” Margaret flipped through the pages in the front of the phonebook, nothing. She then looked under hospitals. There was nothing there. Margaret closed the book with a sigh and punched in 911.

      “I believe my husband is dead! Please can you send someone right away?” Margaret’s voice was harried and confused. She even gulped a few times for effect.

      “Ma’am, do you feel that you are in danger or anyone in your home is in danger?”

      Margaret smiled. “No, we’re not in danger anymore. I mean my husband has been very ill and now he has stopped breathing! What do I do? I can’t lift him? I don’t know what to do?” Margaret let forth a sob.

      “Ma’am, please stay on the phone. I will call the sheriff’s department for you. The sheriff must declare the emergency. He will notify the paramedics to investigate and photograph the room. What is the location of your home?”

      Margaret explained that her mailing address was different from her house location. She then gave perfect directions to the farm house with the large silver Mercedes out front by the hand carved perfect oak gate that could be opened from the outside using the French made pulley.

      “All right, Ma’am, you appear to have settled down. Would you please give me your phone number in case we get disconnected?”

      “Get disconnected! Why should we be disconnected? Are you planning on hanging up on me while I am in this emotional confusion?”

      “No, Ma’am, no, the sheriff should be arriving shortly. Do you hear the siren?”

      The mug of tea was pressed to Margaret’s lips. She blew into the steaming mug as the sound of sirens wound their way to her home. “Yes, I do hear sirens. Thank you, for your help.”

      A man leaned forward out of the sheriff’s cruiser. He turned sideways to pick up his cowboy hat on the passenger seat. Placing it on his head, he sighed. Deaths were always messy. The clipboard, two way radio, and his felt tipped pen were inventoried to deal with the demise of a local citizen. His polished boots set off his pressed uniform. His belt held his baton and handcuffs. Grabbing the top of the car’s door frame he lifted his six foot four body to stand.

      At the oak gate, no more than eight feet from where he parked, stood a woman of about sixty, smiling. The sheriff shook his head. He held the clip board in his right hand against his hip and walked to her, slamming the driver’s door as he did so. She was still smiling with her lips yet her eyes appeared to be squinting into the cold January morning light. She yelled out at him, “Are you the sheriff?”

      He gently shook his head as he grunted under his breath, “Yes, Ma’am. I am the sheriff’s deputy and I am here to assist you. What appears to be the problem?”

      “Oh!” Flustered by his ignorance she flung open the oak gate smacking him directly in the shoulder. “Oh, I am sorry, sir! My husband appears to have passed away in the night.” She held her eyes wide and her mouth in an ‘O.’

      Rubbing his shoulder, the deputy questioned, “Ma’am, can you direct me to your husband? Then I can call in the paramedics.”

      The woman held her body between him and the front door, which was partially open. “I don’t know who you are, do I?” She put out her hand.

      The Sheriff’s deputy smiled as he reached into his back left pocket to remove his wallet. On his chest was pinned a deputy’s metal with his name stamped in highlighted black. He flipped open his ID and handed it to her. “Ma’am, if you look at my shirt,” his finger pointed to his name tag clearly visible on his jacket, “You see my name, my division, and my rank.”

      “Well, Deputy Sheriff Ignacio Cruz, it wasn’t obvious to me. I don’t usually have involvement with the police. I am a law abiding citizen. Thank you, for showing me your ID. At least it had your picture attached to help me understand who you are.”

      She held the door. The wind was buffeting her hair about and without a jacket or coat the sheriff deputy was sure she must be cold, “Ma’am, perhaps it would be best if we spoke inside. You must certainly be feeling the weather?”

      “Yes, yes.” She pushed the front door open. “Come in, please, come in.”

      She stood aside, allowing him to close the heavy door. “I am sorry. It’s just you’re here and everything appears more surreal. He’s this way down the hall to your right. I will let you go by yourself.” Margaret quietly retreated to the kitchen. She sat down heavily on the bar chair at the high counter. Sipping on her tea, she whispered. “Oh, dear, the drama begins.”

      “Ma’am, excuse me?” The sheriff’s deputy stood in the hall calling out to her. “Ma’am, I have notified the paramedics and they are on their way. Once they establish the scene they will send for the OMI. I’ll just wait out in the cruiser.”

      Margaret hurried into the front hall, “Wait, Sir, please wait. What is an OMI?”

      Sheriff Cruz let his hand remain on the door knob, “The OMI is the Officer of Medical Investigation. We call him the medical examiner. He will work with the paramedics to determine the cause of death.”

      Margaret gasped, “Cause of death?”

      “Yes, Ma’am, it’s important to document the cause of death. Even if the deceased had been ill for a long period of time we need to know the cause of death. The Medical Examiner is the one who will decide exactly how and why the person died.”

      Margaret reached out to take his arm. Sheriff Deputy Ignacio Cruz stepped back from her, “Ma’am, is there something more?”

      Margaret peered up at him through her eyelashes, “Sir, my husband died of natural causes. There is no need for an investigation.”

      Sheriff Cruz lifted his clipboard to bring a divide between them, ‘The M.E. will remove everything with your husband’s body, Ma’am. He will take the tubes, medicines, and all medical information he needs to determine if the death was natural. After he confirms the cause of death, he will sign off on the report.”

      “How do I get a copy of the death certificate?” Margaret stepped back against the bookcase in the hall. Sheriff Cruz pulled open the front door, “Ma’am, I believe your questions would be best answered by the Medical Examiner. His job is to verify the cause of death without a doubt. If he signs off on the case, the report returns to me and I will send it to New Mexico records. They will be the ones who will disperse the death certificate.” He touched the tip of his hat, “Ma’am, I will be outside waiting for the paramedics.”

      He left her standing in the hall as he returned to his sheriff’s cruiser. He sat staring across the fields of dried alfalfa watching the clouds drift lazily to the northeast. Ducks and sand hill cranes flew in their V pattern back and forth across the sky. Blasts of sand plummeted all sides of his cruiser.

      Margaret bit her lip as she paced in the kitchen with the phone pressed against her ear, “Granger, you need to get over here! They are going to search for cause of death. This will be tricky. Granger, please come now. This isn’t feeling good at all. Thank you, sweetheart.” She replaced the phone to sip her tea.

      A grey van bounced down the driveway to park behind the sheriff’s cruiser. The taller fellow, who was driving, blew cigarette