Darla Paulsen showed up at the hospital ninety minutes later.
She came through the emergency room doors in pink scrubs from the dental office where she worked as a receptionist. She was in her late thirties, with long blond hair and a lot of eyeliner and a big leather purse. She went straight to the front desk.
“I’m Josephine Marsh’s caregiver,” she said loudly. “I have her power of attorney. I want to see her right now, and I want to know who authorized taking her out of her home.”
I walked over from the family waiting room where Eli was sitting with a caseworker named Nadia Ferreira from DHS.
“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m Officer Dunham. I authorized it.”
She turned around and looked me up and down.
“She has dementia,” Darla said. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Whatever that kid told you, he lies. He’s got behavioral problems. We’ve been dealing with it for months.”
“The doctors are evaluating Mrs. Marsh right now,” I said. “So far, they tell me she knows exactly where she is, exactly what year it is and exactly who the president is. She asked the nurse for her reading glasses so she could check her own chart.”
Darla’s mouth tightened.
“I have power of attorney,” she said again. She dug into her purse and pulled out a folded document. She practically threw it at me. “Read it. I make the decisions for her. Not you.”
I unfolded it.
It was a durable power of attorney for finances and health care, Oregon form, naming Darla Paulsen as agent for Josephine Marsh. It was dated the previous September. Josephine’s signature was at the bottom, shaky and slanting. It had been notarized.
The notary’s name was Richard A. Paulsen.
I looked up at Darla.
“Rick notarized this?”
“He’s a licensed notary,” she said, lifting her chin. “He got his commission last summer.”
“He notarized a power of attorney giving his own girlfriend control of an eighty-six-year-old woman’s money and medical care?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Ma’am,” I said quietly. “I’m going to hang on to this. And I’m going to need you to sit down over there and wait for a detective.”
“You can’t keep me from my own family!”
“She’s not your family,” said a voice behind us.
We both turned around.
A tall, thin man in a black work hoodie was standing in the doorway of the ER. He had a lanyard around his neck with an Amazon badge on it. His eyes were red and wild. He looked like he’d driven here faster than he should have.
He looked exactly like an older version of Eli.
“Curtis Marsh,” he said, holding out a shaking hand to me. “I’m Eli’s dad. Josie’s my grandmother. A cop came to my house and woke me up and told me…” He stopped. His face crumpled. “They told me there was a lock on her door. On the outside.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
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