Killing In The Name Of

*There's no suicide on the page, but the story is about euthanasia and Alzheimer's and could be triggering to some readers.*

"Could you state your name for me?" Agent Brad Radcliffe spoke in a professional tone. He'd been brought into this case as a special investigator for the FBI. The details of which crossed several states, and thus made it his jurisdiction. He didn't want to be here though. Brad had been on vacation when the call came in from The Agency. He was the one that was closest and they said he could tack on another day of vacation if he would only go and interview the person of interest.

The man he was sitting across from was of average height and weight. He was 72 years old according to the file Brad had been given. He had thick white hair and wore glasses. The green button down he was wearing had the sleeves rolled up and it was tucked into a pair of faded jeans.

“Dr. Jemison Westbrook.” the man crossed his legs, showing his coffee colored loafers as he did so. His voice was smooth and deep. He sat caddy-corner to the smooth metal table in the interrogation room.

“Uh, Dr. Westbrook,” Agent Radcliffe flipped through the file folder on the table, “do you know why you’re here?”

Dr. Westbrook looked around the stark room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he put a good effort into checking his surroundings. The light smell of stale coffee and cheap cologne hinted at the officer that had been in the room before Agent Radcliffe.

“To be honest, Mr…” he paused and held a wrinkling hand up. Dr. Westbrook had long dexterous fingers, like a pianist or a surgeon.

“Agent Radcliffe,” he said shortly.

“And your attire, Agent Radcliffe?” His voice rose in question.

Brad looked down at his graphic tee and cargo shorts. An FBI badge hung from his neck and flip flops were on his feet.

“I was on vacation,” he said in a tired voice.

“I see.”

“And what are you doing here, Dr. Westbrook.”

“Seeing a friend.” he smiled warmly.

“Right.” Agent Radcliffe put a checkmark next to the notes he’d been given. "What do you do for a living, Doctor.”

“Oh, I’m retired. I mostly go on road trips and see the country.”

“Have you been to Montana in the last year?”

“I have.”

“And California.”

“Yes.”

“Washington state?”

“Mmhmm.” the doctor nodded.

“And what state are we in now?”

“Florida.” The doctor's face was kind and patient.

“You must have a lot of friends.” Agent Radcliffe sat back.

“You could say that.” the doctor looked down and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile though. Agent Radcliffe squinted as he studied the doctor’s weathered face. This wasn’t getting anywhere. Agent Radcliffe decided a more direct approach was needed.

“Why did you kill Margaret Blythe?”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve got messages and communications from Ms. Blythe to you. In these messages,” Agent Radcliffe began spreading out texts and emails that had been printed on paper, “you planned out how you were going to kill her.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, Agent Radcliffe.”

“You were also seen leaving the Blythe home the morning of June 28th. Shortly thereafter the victim was found unresponsive by her daughter and the police were called. She died before emergency personnel could revive her.”

“It’s true that Maggie and I had been talking about euthanasia, but tell me,” the doctor leaned forward, “did I ever explicitly tell her to kill herself.”

Agent Radcliffe had already read through most of the file and he hadn’t found any instance where the doctor had instructed Margaret Blythe to kill herself.

“Let me also ask you this,” Dr. Westbrook folded his hands, “How old was Maggie at the time of her death.”

Agent Radcliffe looked at the paperwork. “She was 67.”

“Did you know she’d been diagnosed with and been suffering from early onset Alzheimer's, Agent Radcliffe?”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at Dr. Westbrook.” Agent Radcliffe had known about the diagnosis. It was in the file he’d gotten on the victim, but he was fishing and hoping to get a confession out of Dr. Westbrook.

Dr. Westbrook sighed and hung his head. His shoulders slumped. “How can I tell you this? Do you have a family, Agent Radcliffe?”

“I’m not going to tell you that doctor.”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s say you do have a family and let’s say you are diagnosed with the same illness.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know what Alzheimer's does, Agent Radcliffe?”

“I know it affects the brain, but I’m not sure after that.”

“You’re lucky then. It’s a horrible ailment that steals the mind and memory of its victims. It leaves behind a husk of the person that had once been there and provides only precious moments of lucidity. Enough moments to make you believe they could come back, but they never do.” emotion had slipped into the doctor's voice and he was struggling to keep his words from shaking.

“So you killed Margaret Blythe because she had Alzheimer's.”

“You know, people don’t die from Alzheimer's. They die from complications of Alzheimer's. My wife had a long bout with the disease before she died, then she contracted pneumonia and died again.”

“What do you mean?” Agent Radcliffe had been asking the earlier questions to make sure that Dr. Westbrook had a sound mind, but now he wasn’t sure.

“Alzheimer's had already taken everything from her that had made her the person she was. In the end she died believing we’d never met before. That our 42 years of marriage had never happened. That our children were just nice strangers that came to take care of her.” his eyes misted over and the doctor wiped away a tear before continuing. “If you were in the same situation, paying thousands a month to take care of a loved one that was no longer the person you knew, who you were watching shrivel away day by day, would you want to end it or let them suffer longer? Which is the right decision?”

Agent Radcliffe shook his head. “I’m not in that situation, but if I was I’d like to think I’d want to live.”

“Even if living, meant suffering every day?”

“I’m not justifying your ego, Dr. Westbrook. You’re playing God and now you’ve messed up. The other states you were in before allowed this type of thing, but Florida doesn’t.” Agent Radcliffe was tired. He’d been called off his vacation to handle this and he wasn’t going to get baited into an argument over the morality of killing another person.

“I guess we’re on different sides of the aisle then, Agent Radcliffe.”

He left the doctor after that. There wasn’t any use questioning him. The doctor had been coached by a very good attorney, apparently. Agent Radcliffe drove in the dark back to the beach house he’d rented for his family. He kissed his wife when he came in and went to check on the girls.

His 6 year old and 4 year old were sleeping soundly. He watched their chests rhythmically rise and fall. Would he want to put them through the same thing Margaret Blythe’s family had been through?

A hand lightly touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong, hun.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I just wanted to see the girls.”

“Rough day at the office?”

Agent Radcliffe grimaced. “You could say that.”