Needle Work: Battery Acid, Heroin, and Double Murder(50)

“That’s all right. Just, when you give Jessie his insulin shot, don’t let him see the color,” Tim had advised.

Otherwise, Jessie wouldn’t let her do it. He’d know from the wrong color that something was up. She capped the syringe and took it home. She intended to do it that night, but Jessie had decided he needed to chill out and had gotten a room at a nearby motel. He’d intended to be there for two nights, but they messed up his reservation and he came home Saturday night. By then, it was too late to give him the injection. It would have to wait till the following morning.

Sunday morning, Jessie was in bed, like he always was, watching TV.

I better do it now, while I have the courage to do it, thought Carol. They were home alone; the kids were out, staying with Jessie’s sister.

Most of the time, she gave Jessie his injection. The only time he did it himself was if he was gone someplace or if he was by himself. Otherwise, she played the dutiful wife.

It really was a tremendous responsibility, Carol had realized soon after they were married. If just one air bubble got into the solution, if she didn’t squeeze all of them out, that bubble would go directly to his heart and he’d throw a coronary.

Air bubble. That was the sort of thing that would show up during an autopsy. She squirted a little of the deadly solution out the top of the needle. She looked at the liquid, cognizant of the heroin coloring the insulin. Both she and Tim knew that heroin would show up during an autopsy toxicology screen. But no one performed an autopsy on a sick fat man with a history of heart disease and stroke who died from a heart attack.

Jessie was watching Sam Donaldson on TV; Sam’s toupee looked like it had been sprayed on; he was prattling on about some bullshit. With the syringe held behind her back, Carol approached the bed.

Where to give it? It was an intramuscular injection, meaning it went in the muscle, not the vein. Some diabetics liked it in the stomach, but Jessie hated it there. It was painful.

The other good place was the top of his leg, in his quadriceps, the muscle that ran across the top of the thigh. Usually, for his morning injection—he took one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one at night—she gave it to him in the leg.

She looked at her watch: 11:00 A.M. Actually, a little late for the injection. Jessie tried to balance it out, to keep his blood sugar level right. But, hey, it had been a busy weekend, what with getting the kids out and going over to Tim’s.

“Turn over,” she said.

That was it! That was how he wouldn’t see it; she’d give him the shot in his ass.

Jessie turned over and Carol pulled his pajama bottom down, exposing buttocks the size of two large hams. She swabbed a little alcohol on his soft skin and plunged the needle in. He didn’t wince. He was used to it.

Slowly, Carol pushed the plunger down. It was like her hand was doing the work and she couldn’t control it. She watched the solution flow from the syringe and into her husband’s body.

When it was done, she pulled the needle out. Out of habit, she cleaned the injection site again with the swab. It never occurred to her that the last thing she had to worry about now was infection. Nor that he wouldn’t be eating, because Carol Giles’s first thought after the injection was to go downstairs and begin making breakfast.

Before she could finish cooking the eggs, he called out to her.

“I don’t feel good,” Jessie said weakly.

She bolted upstairs. He looked really sick.

“I’m so hot,” he said.

Carol went into the bathroom and came back with a washcloth to cool him off. As she was applying it, Jessie began to retch. Quickly she brought the trash can over; Jessie threw up into it. He leaned back, apparently okay; then suddenly, another bout of nausea hit, and he moved his massive bulk to the edge of the bed and put his head in the can again.

What was going on? Carol began to feel paranoid. Tim had said it would work within fifteen minutes; he would go into a coma in fifteen minutes. And there was Jessie, thirty minutes after the injection, alive and throwing up!

Jessie kept retching until there was nothing left to retch. And then he turned and, with the coldest expression she had ever seen, asked:

“What did you give me in my insulin?”

“I didn’t give you anything else,” Carol answered, frightened he might hit her, even more so that she would cave and blurt out the truth. “Just your insulin, that’s all I gave you, just your insulin,” she said as convincingly as she could.

By that time, Jessie was catching his breath in short gasps. He tried getting up. He was fighting for his life but didn’t know it. Carol didn’t know what to do except maybe take him to the hospital. She pulled out some clothes and put them on the bed to dress him.

Yeah, that was it; she’d dress him and take him to the hospital. She had to. Tim was wrong. The stuff wasn’t working like he said it would. Jessie had a chance to live if she got there in time.





Fifteen

Carol put Jessie’s sweater on him and pulled on his pants. She figured to walk him to the car, but as soon as she got his shoes on, he slid off the bed and onto the floor.

Jessie landed between the dresser and the bed. Carol reached down and put her hands under his arms. She tried picking him up. But that was about as futile as anything she had ever done. Jessie outweighed her by over 300 pounds. She had as much chance of moving him as a boulder.