Cyanide Suicide

Writing became a passion for Mel Goldberg after a high school production of a play he wrote. He taught writing and literature at high schools and community colleges in Illinois and Arizona. During Mel's tenure at Stanground College in Cambridgeshire, England, as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher, he published poetry in English literary journals. His poetry and stories have appeared in Anthology, Amelia, Midstream, Acumen and Cruel World. His story, "Hero," appeared online in September's Mocha Memoirs. Mel's book of poetry and photography, The Cyclic Path, is not yet on the bookshelves. However, his first novel, Choices, may become available within his lifetime.

Dominic Tintor picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone, and began dialing.

“You aren’t really going to do it, are you Dom?” His wife, Elizabeth, shook her head.

“Do what? I just want to get that stupid half brother of mine out here. If he’s here, I can get him to sign the quit claim.”

“He ain’t entitled to nothing. He don’t know nothing about it, and I want to keep it that way.”

“But it doesn’t seem right, Dom. What’re you going to do if he refuses?”

“Well, things were going crazy at the restaurant. I wanted to come, but I just couldn’t get away. The restaurant business is like that. How is Frank?

“That’s one of the things I was afraid of. I remember how crazy your grandfather Anthony got when my mother died. That’s why I called you instead of your father. Him and me, we need to patch things up. I’d like him to fly out here for a couple of weeks. The slow season is starting. Not too many tourists come to Phoenix for the summer, and I can take some time off. I just hired a new cook, and he seems to know his stuff. Tell you what, I’ll pay for his ticket. I just had a great two months, and your dad and me, well, we need to talk face to face.”

“Great idea. Thanks for the offer. I been bothered that you two seem to be on the outs.”

“Me, too. So I decided, what the hell, I’ll make the first move. Me and Liz, we’d love to have him here for a while. Let me know as soon as possible.”

Dominick Tintor hung up, and turned to his wife. “Maybe that will work. A free trip away from Chicago.”

“I’ll tell you what’s right. It’s right that he gets nothing after the shit he put me through because I shortened my name. The way he carried on, you’d a thought I stabbed his mother. Just because we had the same father? I’m the one who took care of the old man when he was dying. Frank was too busy in Chicago with that fancy wife of his and her family.”

Frank Junior conference-called his two brothers. “I need your help to talk Papa into flying to Phoenix.”

“Uncle Dominick. Actually, I think he lives in Scottsdale. I’m worried about Papa. Living alone in that brownstone in Wrigleyville. That’s not good.”

“Well, you’re a cop. Can’t you do anything? Send a patrol by or something?”

“I see him as much as I can, but it’s hard with three kids and Jeanne working. I just made sergeant, and I got a lot more pressure. What about you? You don’t teach eight hours a day.”

“You’re not the only one with a family, Frankie. I saw Papa last week, and I’m worried, too. Hey, Vince. You part of this family? Say something.”

“I talked to Papa yesterday. He don’t sound good. But what’s he gonna do in Phoenix, for crissakes?” asked Vincent.

“Don’t start, Frankie. You know why I’m here. Now that I’m off probation, I got nothing in Chicago. I’m better off here.”

“Yeah. Things haven’t been so good between them,” said Edward. “That’s a good idea.”

“I think Uncle Dom wants to patch things up. He feels bad he didn’t come to Mom’s funeral. In fact,” Frankie continued, “he called me the other day to say he’d even pay for the plane fare. He and Papa were pretty close when they were younger.”

“Like you did? You’re breaking his heart by staying up there in Milwaukee.”

“C’mon, Ed. I had to get away from the neighborhood, or I’d end up in the slammer for good. I got a good job here, and. . .”

“Can it, you two. I know Papa’s got plenty of vacation time. It’d be good for him.”

“He won’t use Mom’s insurance money,” said Ed. “He won’t even let me invest it for him. I think he pretends it’s not there. And you know he won’t let Uncle Dom buy the ticket for him. If we’re going to get him to go, we ought to buy the ticket for him.”

“Well, I won’t be able to help much. I’m barely making ends meet as it is. Let Dominick pay for it. He offered.”

“I can handle my debts, don’t you worry. I just don’t have any extra right now.”

Edward and Frankie bought the ticket and presented it to their father. Surprisingly, Frank agreed to fly to Phoenix, even though it was August, and the temperature there averaged 106 degrees.

“I haven’t seen Dominick for almost three years, not since your grandfather’s funeral and he shortened his name to Tintor. What the hell kind of a thing was that to do. What, he’s ashamed of the family? Ashamed to be Italian? When we were kids, we were like real brothers, even though we only saw each other a few times a year.”

“Papa, don’t go on about it. It was years ago. Let it go. Lots of people change their names, but it doesn’t change the person.”

“Maybe you’re right, Eddie. Maybe it’s time to fix things up. You say he called and offered to pay my way?”

“We knew. That’s why me and Eddie got you the ticket. It’s an August Christmas present.”

Five days later, Frank Tintorelli was dead. When his three sons were informed, they all flew to Phoenix.

Scottsdale Detective Aaron Guerevich was called in on the case, along with his good friend and forensic pathologist, Ann Berendt. As Guerevich questioned Tintor, Ann examined the scene. After the photographers finished, the ambulance took away the body.

“We’re half brothers. Same father, different mothers. After they separated, Frank stayed in Chicago with his mother. Anthony, my father, came out to Phoenix. That’s where I was born.”

“Actually, they didn’t. He never could get a divorce from his first wife. The Catholic thing.”

“I really don’t know. I needed to do some shopping and Frank, because of the heat, decided to stay at the house. When I came back, about three hours later, I found Frank slumped in the chair with that bottle in his hand. At first I thought he was sleeping. Then I noticed the front of his pants was all wet, and I smelled shit. Then I bent down and I smelled the bottle. That’s when I called 911.”

“We’ll have to run some tests, but that bitter-almond smell is cyanide for sure,” said Ann. “Mr. Tintor, why do you have cyanide in the house?”

“I was having trouble with field mice, and I was going to use it on bait in the traps. A couple of drops on a piece of bacon, I figured, would do the trick.”

“Yeah. and like I said, I called 911, and the ambulance got here in less than five minutes. Then the police and you showed up. I didn’t touch a thing. I watch all the police shows on TV, and one thing I learned is don’t touch nothing.”

“She’s still at work. She works Saturdays at the beauty salon. She don’t know nothing about this, yet.

“Sure looks like a suicide,” Guerevich said. “But did he have a reason to take his life?”

“He’s been really depressed since his wife died of cancer last year, but you need to talk to his sons. I called them in Chicago. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

After leaving the building, Aaron looked at Ann. “You ready for a late lunch? I’m starved.”

“Well, you seemed satisfied the other night. I swear, if I ate half of what you eat, I’d be an elephant. I can’t understand how you stay so thin.”

“Good genes, I guess. “Anyway, there’s a new deli that opened at Fashion Square.”

“You and your pastrami and hot dogs. Do you know there’s a world of different cuisines out there?”

“Yeah, but that’s for tomorrow. Besides, I haven’t had a kosher hot dog in weeks.”

When they were seated, Guerevich took a sip of his cola and shook his head. “This one beats all. The two brothers. . .”

“Right. Half-brothers. They don’t see each other for three years. Then one flies all the way from Chicago to Phoenix and kills himself in his half-brother’s house. Doesn’t make sense.”

“To me either. People who are depressed usually take their lives at home. They don’t come 2,000 miles and then do it.”

“Well, the cyanide was there, and maybe that gave him the opportunity. We need to talk to his kids tomorrow.”

“I need to get back to the office,“ said Ann. “The new computer filing system is killing me.”

“I’ll probably be stuck there until seven. What do you have in mind? I don’t think I’ll want any dinner.”

“I wasn’t thinking about dinner. Your place is right around the corner from the office, so to speak.”

The next afternoon, Aaron and Ann met with the three sons. Aaron shook hands with each of them.

“I understand you’re with the Chicago PD, Frank. Want to join in on this one?”

Edward and Vincent agreed with Frank, and confirmed that their father had been depressed over the death of his wife.

“Papa’s been despondent since Mom died six months ago. They been married for almost thirty years,” said Frankie

“Cervical cancer,” said Edward. “A year ago, the cancer went into remission. But it came back, and she just gave up her struggle.”

“Papa sort of withdrew after the funeral,” said Edward. “He put the $100,000 from her insurance policy into the bank and wouldn’t even let me invest it for him.”

“Yeah,” added Vincent. “And he started losing weight. He was down to 190 pounds. He used to weigh about 220.”

“Like you noticed. It did seem to be getting worse,” said Edward. “But not this.”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “I thought Papa was looking forward to seeing Uncle Dominick. Said he wanted to patch things up.”

“Dominick was Papa’s half-brother. Grampa Anthony married Dominick’s mother after he was divorced.”

Guerevich looked at his notebook. “I understood that your mother never gave your father a divorce.”

“It’s true,” said Frankie. “You probably didn’t know it, but Grandpa Anthony never really married Uncle Dominick’s mother.”

“Papa got upset when Uncle Dom shortened his name to Tintor. And then when he didn’t come to Mom’s funeral - well - that really bothered him.”

“Take it easy, Ed,” said Frankie. “We’re all a bit on edge, but let’s not let tempers take over. I don’t think that Papa would do it. Sure, he’s been dejected, but not enough to kill himself.”

“I’m sorry that you three have to go through this. As soon as the coroner makes his final determination, he’ll release the body to you. Do you plan to take him back to Chicago for burial?”

That night Ann told Aaron some surprising news. “I did some checking on the internet when I took a break from filing. According to public documents, when Dominick’s father, Anthony, died three years ago, he owned a 300 acre parcel just outside Prescott, valued at about 7.5 million dollars. The land had been purchased in the 1930s by Dominick’s grandfather, who also happened to be Frank Senior’s grandfather. Dominick, who lives in Scottsdale has been the sole trustee of the estate. Apparently from what the three sons didn’t say, their father never knew about the property.”

“Dominick put the property up for sale, but he can’t sell it without letting Frank Senior know, and that means letting Frank Junior, Edward and Vincent know as well. Frank Senior signed a quit claim to the property last week. Now that he’s dead, Dominick gets the property all to himself.”

“Hard to know. The real estate company says it’s real. Someone in their office notarized it.”

“So Dominick had motive as well as means. Once Frank came to Scottsdale, he had the opportunity. And he played right into Dominick’s hands by being depressed and despondent over his wife’s death.”

“I don’t know yet. All I know is something is wrong, and I want to find out what. This is one I need to sleep on, Ann. You have anything that will tell us something we haven’t thought of.”

“All I have is a text on toxicology and antidotes, but I’ll bring it home.”

That night, as Ann slept with her face buried in a pillow, Aaron mentally reviewed his notes. He stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. Finally, unable to sleep, he went to the kitchen and warmed a cup of the morning’s coffee in the microwave. While it heated, he plugged his laptop into the phone jack and set it on the small table. After taking a sip of overheated coffee, he found a site on the internet that dealt with cyanide poisoning. He clicked on “effects” and read the text.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself. “That’s why he soiled himself. His muscles all went limp.” He walked back into the bedroom. “Ann, wake up.”

“I just realized what was wrong. Call the Scottsdale police while I get dressed. Tell them to arrest Dominick Tintor on suspicion of murder.”

“We know that cyanide kills instantly and the victim looks relaxed and peaceful. You know why?”

“Right. And if all the muscles go limp, any bottle in the victim’s hand will fall to the floor. That is, unless it’s put in his hand after he’s dead.”