Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  Mel’s office was worthy of the gilded age. It oozed masculine comfort, all gleaming hardwoods, buttery leather and shining metals. And yet it was too much, a jumble of costly trinkets that gave the impression of junk.

  “Password?” I asked.

  “Try Commentator, that’s what I use for my computer.”

  A herd of folders filled the screen, one of which was conveniently named morgue.

  “I’ve always hated that name,” Fairley said, breathing down my neck. I wanted to tell her to give me some space, but was trying to play nice since I was here because of her.

  “Morgue? It’s just a name.” The file for 2013 contained eleven folders, from January to November. At random I highlighted January, saw that it had last been opened on January 11.

  “That’s the wrong file.”

  I flinched at Fairley’s shrill voice.

  “I want to get a sense of how Mel organized his material,” I said as my fingers tapped. “That way when I look at November, I’ll be better able to gauge if something is...awry.”

  “You’re so clever.”

  Another flinch as Fairley’s hands squeezed my shoulders.

  Mel’s morgue was stuffed with information—finished articles, rough drafts, sources culled from the internet. As I skimmed the material, I realized that Mel’s real talent was in plagiarism. Most of his purported articles were taken almost verbatim from other sources. The only original investigative piece I found was a breathless exposé on a small group of green-minded Cove dwellers who wanted to install clotheslines. Some journalist!

  But it was time for the big event—I highlighted November. “That’s strange.”

  “What?” Fairley whispered in my ear.

  “This folder was last opened at 1:55 Friday morning.”

  “That’s not unusual. Mel often came in at odd hours to work.”

  “At 1:55 Friday morning Mel Dick was lying in the morgue—the real one.” I opened the folder.

  It was empty.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you had to call the police,” Fairley said. “Anita and Mel are gone—why not let them rest in peace?”

  “The police investigation is still open and, even if it weren’t, Mrs. Breyer hired me to look into her parents’ deaths. Who had keys to the Commentator office?”

  “Only Mel, of course,” she said.

  “So how did you get in?”

  “I only have a key because the other day I asked Anita for hers—I needed to water the plants and retrieve some things.”

  It was a good enough explanation, but I was troubled. I thought about the set of keys found in Mel’s shorts, keys that as far as I knew were still sitting in a box in the evidence room. I expected that Mel would have kept his office keys with him, meaning Anita must have given Fairley a duplicate. In most cases this was no cause for alarm, but given Mel’s deep-rooted suspicion of those around him—including his wife—I thought it odd that Anita had access to the duplicate key.

  “Is there any way to recover the files?” Fairley asked.

  “In theory,” I said. GCSO lacked the resources to retrieve the data, especially with murder off the table. A loud rap told us that CSU had arrived to take the computer into evidence. While Fairley hurried to the door, I realized I hadn’t checked the search history. When I did so I discovered that neither Mel nor the mysterious hacker had deleted the history. A clumsy oversight. I had just copied the last query in the short list when CSU investigators poured inside.

  “What are you doing?” Deputy Berry groused.

  “Waiting for you.” I slipped the notepad into my jacket pocket.

  As CSU techs swarmed the computer, Fairley Sable appeared at my side. “You found something on the computer, didn’t you, Addie? You look as if you’ve just struck gold.”

  I only hoped it wasn’t fool’s gold.

  * * *

  Sheriff Bubba Spooner waved me inside his office. Without preamble I told him about the keys.

  “We now know that somebody tampered with both computers, and since neither the Dick house nor the office had been broken into, the perp must have had keys to both places. So, I’m wondering what keys were found on Mel’s body.”

  “I get it. You think the shooter snagged the keys off of Mel’s body.” Spooner started scribbling. “I’ll get Berry to check it out.”

  “The sooner the better. If Mel still had his office and house keys on him when he died, then I’m wrong and Mel’s big story played no part in his murder. But if those keys are missing...”

  Spooner held up a hand of surrender. “Berry will check out the damn key, and now, what else do you have?”

  I did an exaggerated double take. “What makes you think there’s something else?”

  “You’re an hour early for the autopsy and you could have called about the keys, but mostly it’s the way you look—like a goddamned cat after a canary dinner. So what you got?”

  “It would be quicker if I showed you. Can I use your computer?”

  * * *

  I was late in joining Spooner in the autopsy room. I lagged, obsessively checking my gear, afraid that I’d left some vulnerable part of my body exposed. In my homicide days, it’d been my least favorite part of the job.

  “Dr. Hackle?” I said to the man bent over Mel Dick’s corpse. “I’m Addie Gorsky. Both my client and I appreciate your help.” Too late I saw the warning in Spooner’s eyes.

  The little man peering at Mel Dick’s upper arm slowly straightened to his full height, which in shoes and socks might have measured a full five feet. Brown eyes above the mask met mine.

  “Cut the crap, Miss Gorsky. I’m here as a favor to Otto Rider and nothing else.”

  “Of course,” I said, backing away.

  “He’s a prickly son-of-a-gun,” Spooner said, sotto voce. My communications with Hackle had been through Uncle Otto and email while Spooner had had the pleasure of more direct interactions.

  “Did I miss anything?” I asked Spooner.

  Hackle peered at us over his glasses. “Why don’t you two chatty Cathies come over here and make yourselves useful?” A worried glance between Spooner and myself, but we obeyed, albeit without much enthusiasm.

  “It can be problematic to differentiate between antemortem and postmortem injuries, especially when those injuries are inflicted in the last few minutes of life. For example, if a person collapses, there might be lacerations to the head and scalp, which can be a bitch to interpret. But as there’s no evidence of hemorrhage, I can say with certainly that the head trauma occurred postmortem.”

  “Dead men don’t bleed,” I said.

  “As a general rule, if they do anything, they ooze,” Hackle said.

  “What about the arm wound?” Spooner asked.

  “That is interesting!” Crinkles appeared around the lively eyes and Hackle pointed at Dick’s upper left arm. “What do you see?”

  “I see a small abrasion...” Spooner began.

  “No shit, Sherlock. Look at the area around the wound. Now what do you see?”

  I leaned close. Tiny white fibers clung to the area, forming a discrete band around the arm. I told Hackle what I thought I saw.

  “Very good, Scarpetta—now what does that mean, boys and girls?”

  Spooner laughed softly. “Somebody put a goddamn Band-aid on the first gunshot wound.”

  * * *

  Back in his office, Spooner produced a bottle of Jack. Both Hackle and I nodded and the sheriff poured. I preferred Jim Beam myself, but any port in a storm. We drank in silence for a few minutes. Somewhat restored by the whiskey, I opened it up. “So where do we stand?”

  “Up the creek without a paddle,” Spooner answered.

  I disagreed. “Now that we know a not insignif
icant time elapsed between the two gunshots we can recreate the night of the murder more accurately. The gunshot wound to the arm happened elsewhere. After that, Mel cleaned his wound and changed clothes.”

  “Clothes that don’t fit,” Spooner said. He turned to Hackle. “Any chance the head wound also occurred elsewhere?”

  “No way, lividity indicates Mel Dick died in that golf cart.”

  “After which he was shot in the head,” I added.

  “So Blanding was right about that,” Spooner said.

  “TOD is accurate as well,” Hackle said. “Mel died between ten and two in the morning.”

  I said, “Mel was last seen alive a little after eleven, which narrows the TOD even more.”

  “We only have Anita’s word on that, Addie,” Spooner reminded me.

  “I also agree with Blanding’s assessment of general health,” Hackle said. “Mel was slightly overweight but otherwise quite robust for a man of sixty-two. Apart from some slight scarring of the upper right lung, his organs were free of disease.”

  “So what was the cause of death?” I asked, exasperated.

  “Most likely a heart attack,” Hackle said.

  “But you said he was healthy.” This from the sheriff.

  “The human body is not a car, Sheriff. You don’t crack the hood and see the old parts. I said his organs appeared to be free of disease, including his heart. But it’s not unheard of for seemingly healthy hearts to stop beating.”

  “Especially if they get a little help,” I muttered.

  “Is this murder?” Spooner asked, cutting to the chase.

  “It’s damned suspicious, but I’m not sure if it’s murder,” Hackle said. “That’s for you guys and the district attorney to decide.”

  “You’re killing me,” Spooner moaned, reaching for the bottle. After refilling his glass, he tipped the bottle to me and Hackle. I held out my glass but Hackle demurred.

  “Dr. Hackle,” I said, “might the first gunshot have precipitated the fatal heart attack?”

  “Absolutely,” Hackle said, rubbing his goateed chin, “but since we know so little of the circumstances of the initial wound, it’s difficult to determine.”

  Spooner snorted. “Seems clear-cut to me. Dick was shot, the stress and loss of blood caused the heart attack—that’s murder.”

  “First of all, there was insignificant blood loss, with no sign of hypovolemia. The bleeding was staunched immediately after the injury. And his stress level is unknown—he wasn’t even concerned enough to get himself to the E.R. The arm wound was very minor. With minimal care it would have healed on its own. Now if Dick was restrained, and somehow prevented from obtaining medical care, then it’s clearly murder.” Hackle sighed and set his empty glass on Spooner’s desk. “I’ve done my job, Sheriff. It’s in your ballpark now. I only wish I had performed the first autopsy. I suspect there is a lot more Mel Dick had to tell me. These second autopsies are always problematic.”

  Spooner and I exchanged a quick look.

  “You’re right, Doc,” Spooner said, fingers tapping over the keyboard. “Mel Dick does have something else to tell you. This video was recorded hours before Mr. Dick’s death.”

  As Mel Dick’s agony played out again, I focused on Hackle’s reaction. The pathologist watched in mute concentration. When it was done he gestured for Spooner to play it again. In all Hackle watched the video a total of five times and with each viewing his brow grew more furrowed and his silence more impenetrable. What did he see?

  “I’ve changed my mind, Sheriff,” Hackle said at last. “I’ll take you up on that other drink.” A healthy slug of Jack and Hackle said, “I’ll have to wait for toxicology results, but I’d bet that Mel Dick was suffering from anticholinergic syndrome.”

  “Is that the disease that killed him?” Spooner asked.

  “Acute anticholinergic syndrome is not a disease, although it could certainly precipitate a fatal heart attack. The syndrome is usually caused by an overdose of an anticholinergic drug. In a patient of Mel Dick’s age, I would expect the cause to be geriatric polypharmacy.”

  “You mean he took too much prescription medicine?” Spooner said.

  “Many older folks are on multiple meds, Sheriff.”

  “Not Mel Dick.” I explained that I’d scoured the Dick home searching for medications, hoping to find a clue to Mel’s mental deterioration. “Apart from Anita’s diabetic meds, all I found was Mel’s Lipitor, which his daughter said he’d been taking for years. According to her, it was the only medication Mel was prescribed.”

  “The medication could have been prescribed for an acute condition of which the daughter was unaware.” Hackle looked at Spooner. “Perhaps Mr. Dick carried the medication on his person.”

  “Sorry, Doc,” Spooner said. “No medications were found on the body or in the golf cart. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but how are you so all-fired sure that Dick had this syndrome?”

  Hackle’s lips made a straight line. “The parasympathetic nervous system regulates the so-called rest-and-digest activities. Peeing, pooping, salivating...”

  “We get the picture,” Spooner said.

  “Anticholinergic medications inhibit the parasympathetic nervous system by blocking the neurotransmitter acetylcholine. This can cause a cluster of unpleasant side effects including dry mouth, increased thirst, flushing...”

  Spooner slapped his desk. “You just painted a picture of Mel Dick on the night of his death.”

  I told Hackle about Mel’s cognitive symptoms and asked if that fit with his tentative diagnosis.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “but it might be helpful to think of Mel’s condition as intoxication rather than disease. Paranoid delusions and grandiosity could be part of the picture while retrograde amnesia is typical. Of course I’m basing my diagnosis on a jittery video, but if you go through the video with a checklist of observable anticholinergic side effects, even a layperson can see it.”

  I was excited. Hackle might have discovered the cause of Dick’s cognitive decline, that peculiar lunacy that waxed and waned like the moon. Faint bells rang. Playing devil’s advocate, I asked, “But don’t a lot of diseases have similar symptoms? For instance, increased thirst is a sign of diabetes.”

  “And folks turn red when they’re pissed off,” Spooner added.

  Hackle raised his eyes to heavens. “Since WebMD, everybody thinks they’re doctors. You’re both right, of course, and as I viewed the video, I asked myself the same questions. Let’s go through the video again and this time I’ll talk you through it.”

  Sheriff Spooner and I watched the video with new eyes. We hardly required Hackle’s explication, it was all in front of us—the slurred speech, unsteady gait, flushed complexion.

  “Pause it, Sheriff—this is rather interesting.” It was near the end of the video. Mel Dick’s red face filled the screen. He held Mr. Jinks to his chest, just after he’d declaimed the pooch as his only friend. “Look at his eyes,” Hackle commanded.

  “As big as saucers,” Spooner said.

  “When I saw those dilated pupils, I felt fairly certain this was anticholinergic toxicity.”

  “But what caused it?” I said. My head spun from all the jargon and we were no closer to the truth.

  He knocked off his drink, stifled a yawn. “I don’t know. As I said before, my best guess would be an accidental overdose of a prescribed med. Further muddying the waters, many other medications have anticholinergic properties—antipsychotics, antidepressants, antihistamines. The thing doesn’t hang together.” The frustration in Hackle’s voice was almost palpable. “If Mel Dick was four or five decades younger, it’d make a hell of a lot more sense. Most clinical presentations of anticholinergic toxicity are hallucinating teenagers who stumble into the E.R. after ingesting Datura stramonium for a cheap
high. The literature identifies rare cases of Atropa belladonna used for its hallucinogenic properties—now that’s really playing with fire.”

  “Belladonna,” I said. “Isn’t that deadly nightshade?”

  “That’s poison,” Spooner said.

  “Yes,” Hackle said, “an ancient poison especially beloved of the Romans. Belladonna means beautiful woman and Atropa refers to Atropos, one of the three Fates in Greek mythology.”

  “Aren’t you a wealth of information,” Spooner said.

  “Atropos was the scary big sister.” When Spooner and Hackle gave me the fish-eye, I explained that as a child I’d devoured Greek myth.

  “I’ll bite—what’s so scary about big sister?” Spooner asked.

  “She’s the one with the scissors. When a person’s allotted time is up, she cuts the life thread—a quick snip and oblivion.” Hackle scissored the air with his fingers.

  “What was that other plant you mentioned?” Spooner asked. “Datura something?”

  “Datura stramonium has a long history of use as a hallucinogenic. It’s a common plant. I’ve seen it growing in a lot of Florida backyards.”

  Spooner snapped his fingers. “You mean stinkweed?”

  Hackle nodded. “That’s one of its names, along with devil’s grass, angel trumpet, jimsonweed.”

  Spooner threw back his drink. “A couple years back we picked up a boy walking naked down Center Street after eating stinkweed.”

  “As I said,” Hackle said, “if Dick was a reckless teenager, I would guess datura poisoning secondary to self-medication.”

  “There’s no way Mel would intentionally ingest such a dangerous substance,” I said.

  “I agree.” Hackle stretched his back, followed by a loud pop. “It’s far more likely to be an inadvertent overdose of a prescribed medication. That’s what you should be looking for, Sheriff.”

  “Maybe Mel Dick didn’t know he was ingesting the stuff,” I suggested. “Maybe someone fed it to him.”

  “Poison?” Spooner asked, nearly falling from his chair.

  “Highly unlikely,” Hackle pronounced. “There are far more effective poisons available. Datura as a poison just doesn’t make sense.”