by Lynn Bohart
“I’m not sure it does. Thanks for your time, Jack. You’ve helped a lot.”
With an apologetic shrug, she got up to leave, but stopped when he raised his hand.
“Wait a minute. Don’t give up so easily.”
“What do you mean?” She sat back down, watching the bird out of the corner of her eye. It sat placidly on a branch, watching her.
“Look, I’m no dummy. There are a number of ways someone in the lab could commit a crime. I hope that none of them happen in my lab, you understand. But I assume that’s what you’re looking for. I like mysteries as much as the next person, so I suppose if I had a devious mind…” He stroked his chin and lifted his eyes in contemplation. “Okay. Here’s one example of falsifying information. We have something called the Drug Confirmation Room. It’s a high security area where we confirm and store positive drug screens. Only five people have access to the room.”
This information had a familiar ring to it. “Who are the five people?”
“Three lab techs, the pathologist, and myself.”
Now her inner bell clanged, making her ears ring as she remembered Robin’s safety report at the Executive Team meeting.
“So, how would someone do something illegal?”
“Well, that’s where we actually confirm that someone is using drugs. I suppose if you knew someone had tested positively, you could blackmail them. Of course, I have no idea how much money there would be in it.”
“Okay,” she said, diverting her attention away from the bird, “let’s say someone tested positive for cocaine use. Could that person be blackmailed by someone, say in the lab, in order to change the positive results to negative results?”
“I suppose so. They’d have to have a way to run a second test.”
“Could it be done without anyone knowing it?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “At least for a while. I think it would be discovered eventually. But that’s just one example. There are probably more.”
“Robin read the most recent safety committee report in the Administrative Team meeting yesterday and said the door to the GCMS room was left open a few weeks ago. Does that have anything to do with drug confirmations?”
“It’s the same room.” They stared at each other until his eyes narrowed. “Lee, what’s going on?”
She ignored his question and leaned forward again, nearly touching his knee. “Jack, who orders drug screens?”
“Just about every major company in the area, as well as most of the small ones. We do pre-employment drug testing for all of them through the Occupational Health program and then random employer requests on employees they may be suspicious of.”
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate your time.”
She rose and Jack stood this time as well, forgetting his coffee.
“Lee, I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I hope you’re not getting in over your head.”
“So do I.”
She turned away just as someone called out Jack’s name. Andrew Platt approached them from the hallway.
“Lee, what are you doing here?” he asked casually. “I thought you would be…you know… taking some time off.”
“I’m just wrapping up a few loose ends. See you guys later.”
She turned and headed for the basement, glancing out the window as she passed. The bird was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lee took the elevator to a cold, unmarked foyer in the basement, where the white walls and the chipped linoleum floors created a glaring and depressing tunnel going off in two directions. The stale odor of paint thinner pinpointed the location of the maintenance department down the hallway to the right. To the left was housekeeping. She made a quick turn to her left and into a small suite of offices marked DIABETES EDUCATION and weaved her way to the back where a petite woman with a decades-old beehive hairstyle sat with her back to the door. Lee knocked gently on the wall to announce herself.
“Janine, you got a minute?”
The woman turned with a look of surprise, pushing a pair of red-framed glasses up her nose. Janine Fletcher was the hospital’s Diabetes Education Coordinator, and it was her job to instruct patients on proper diet and the self-administration of insulin.
“Hi, Lee. I don’t see you down here often. What can I do for you?”
Lee usually avoided interaction with Janine because her appearance was so off-putting. She had large round eyes accentuated with heavy make-up, made worse because she had removed her eyebrows in favor of drawing on artificial ones that arched high above her natural brow-line. The macro lenses in her glasses magnified her eyes to the point that she looked like one of those cheap Halloween masks you might buy at the dime store.
“I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me about diabetes.”
The perfectly matched eyebrows pinched together in pained sympathy. “Oh, Lee, have you been diagnosed?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I just had some questions.”
The brows lowered and the mask expressed confusion. It was so distracting that Lee made the decision to focus on the rims of her glasses instead of making direct eye contact. Patrick had once said that actors often did this during intimate scenes on stage in order to maintain their concentration, and yet make the scenes believable. She only hoped Janine wouldn’t notice.
“My assistant was found dead last week from an apparent suicide,” Lee said, staring at the red plastic frames of Janine’s glasses. She couldn’t see the other woman’s reaction, but thought she recognized a look of surprise.
“How awful,” the mask spoke.
“The police say she killed herself with an overdose of insulin.”
“My goodness!” This time the brows pulled the eyes open wide. Janine gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down? What would you like to know?”
Lee rolled out the chair from the adjoining desk and sat down. The size of the room placed her knees only inches from Janine’s. Lee saw Janine at monthly manager’s meetings and noticed that she often changed the color of her glasses to match her dress. Today a red skirt peeked out from underneath her white lab coat.
“Diabetics take insulin all the time, so I was surprised it could kill you. How much would it take?”
“It’s like they say, too much of anything, even a good thing, can kill you. But it would depend on a number of things. Her height and weight. Was Diane a diabetic?”
“No, she wasn’t. But she had a diabetic cat. That’s where the police think she got the insulin.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. Well, let me think. There are a variety of types of insulin. Some are faster acting than others.” The petite, bird-like hands pulled out a chart from a stack of papers on her desk. “There are two types of diabetes. Type 1 diabetes is where the body makes little or no insulin at all.”
Janine pointed to the top of the chart labeled “Type 1 Diabetes” where an arrow pointed at a list of symptoms. It was clear she’d given this lecture many times before.
“People with Type 1 diabetes must take insulin in order to live.”
“And you have to inject it?” Lee asked for confirmation.
“That’s right. You can’t take it in pill form. The second type is called Type 2 Diabetes.” She pointed to the bottom of the chart.
“Clever distinction,” Lee muttered cynically.
“Many people who have Type 2 diabetes control it with diet, although many do take insulin.”
“Is it the same for cats?”
“I’m not a vet, but I’d assume it’s the same. Probably for an animal the size of a cat, you’d use long-acting insulin.”
She stretched across the desk to reach into a second pile of papers where she pulled out a sheet and pointed to the top of a chart.
“This is Humalog. Rapid-acting insulin like this would be taken with a meal. You want it to mimic the pancreas to get a quick reaction.” She pointed further down on the chart. “Then you’d use it in combination with longer acting insulin like
Lente or Ultralente. That way you would maintain the basal level of insulin in the blood stream. Make sense?”
Lee made the mistake of turning to look directly at her and flinched at the sight of her eyes magnified so close. “I guess so,” she stuttered, looking away. “The difference is in how fast the body absorbs it, right?”
“Correct. So for instance, the cat might use a pre-mixed combination like NPH, because you can’t force a cat to eat. At least I know I can’t force mine. So you couldn’t use Humalog. You’d want to provide insulin that stays in the blood stream over say, 10 to 12 hours, in order to avoid low blood sugar reactions.”
“Interesting,” Lee mused. “Thanks. But how much insulin would it take to kill someone?”
Janine sat back. “Again, that’s hard to say. One unit of insulin lowers the blood sugar in a person about 25 points. A person without diabetes runs a blood sugar of 60 to 110 milligrams per deciliter.” She paused, recognizing Lee’s confusion. “You don’t need to understand that. What you need to know is that a person without diabetes would rarely drop below 60. Forty to fifty units of fast-acting insulin could probably kill a person if they didn’t respond by eating,” she finished.
“So…how much is a unit?”
The nurse reached for a Zip-loc bag on her desk, ripped it open, and produced a syringe encased in plastic.
“This is a 100-unit syringe. Each little line indicates two units,” she said, using her fingernail to trace the short lines on the base of the syringe before handing the syringe to Lee.
Lee froze as she took the syringe into her hand. It was the same type of syringe that had taken her friend’s life. Janine reached into a drawer to pull out another bag and removed a much smaller syringe.
“This is what they call a Terumo syringe. It measures in half units and is often used for children. I suppose this could be used for cats,” she added with a shrug.
Lee took the second syringe and said, “This is exactly the kind of syringe Diane used for her cat. But wouldn’t one this size hold enough to kill someone?”
“The small syringe will hold only up to twenty-five units.”
“Twenty-five units,” Lee uttered slowly. “So she would have had to inject herself twice?”
“I guess so,” the nurse said. Janine took the syringes back and put them away. “I hope I’ve helped, Lee.”
“You’ve been a big help,” Lee replied. “Just one last question. How long would it take for someone to die from insulin?”
The other woman paused before answering.
“The right amount of Humalog could take as little as ten to fifteen minutes.”
Lee felt a shock wave ripple through her body. “But that means Diane could’ve been able to fight back.”
“Fight back? What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Lee sputtered, but she leaned forward, intent on knowing the truth. “I just need to know. Would the person be awake and alert? It’s important, Janine.”
Janine’s body tensed, the muscles flexing across her jaw line.
“Yes, I think they’d be conscious for several minutes. Now, I need to get back to work, Lee.”
Janine picked up the phone as if to make a call. The interview was over. Lee turned to exit on her own. At the door, she glanced back to say thank you, but Janine had turned and was looking directly at her. Under Lee’s scrutiny, she slowly replaced the phone without waiting for a connection.
Lee smiled awkwardly and left, wondering who Janine had been calling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lee made her way to the car, her mind filled with the image of Diane fighting for her life. It had never occurred to her that Diane hadn’t died quickly. And the knowledge that her friend’s last moments may have been spent suffering, or with the knowledge that she was about to die, left Lee with a profound feeling of sadness. Since Diane’s condo was near where she planned to have lunch with Marion, Lee decided to confirm a few of the things she’d just learned.
Fifteen minutes later, she was using her key to gain access to Diane’s house for the second time. The first thing she checked for was the feather, but it was gone. Then she remembered the intruder. Everywhere she looked books had been pulled from shelves and tossed onto the floor. The doors to Diane’s curio cabinet had been thrown open and her treasures swept from their shelves. Much of Diane’s glassware had also been smashed. Lee thought anger had fueled this intruder. But why? And was it the same person who had invaded her own home, and her body?
Lee shook off a sudden chill and looked around again. Carey had obviously attempted to clean up. The dining room table was covered with lopsided stacks of linen, papers, and books. More books were stacked on the floor. A large plastic bag sat in the dining room filled with trash and broken pieces of china. Lee almost cried, knowing how much Diane had loved her grandmother’s rose-patterned dishes. But an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu hit her as she stepped through the mess, remembering her own living room. Lee began to tremble at the memory of her own attacker and an intense feeling of vulnerability swept over her again. She needed to make this quick.
Lee took a deep breath and marched to the refrigerator. She found a row of little bottles lined up in the door. Lee grabbed a bottle that was only half full and turned it around so she could read the label. It was NPH insulin. Her mind whirred back to Janine’s chart and the pre-mixed longer acting insulin that Janine thought would be used for cats. A quick check confirmed the other bottles were the same. One fact confirmed. Now Lee had to find out what kind of insulin had been found in Diane’s body.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Alan’s number at the police station.
“Alan, it’s Lee.”
“Hey, how are you doing? I heard about the breakin at your house. I called you at home, but you’d already left.”
“Um…I’m okay. Nothing was stolen. Hey, listen, I was just curious about something and wondered if you’d check it for me.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I’m over at Diane’s condo helping to clean up.” She hated lying to Alan, but didn’t want to raise any alarms. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, could you check the coroner’s report to see if they determined what kind of insulin was found in her body?” She held her breath wondering if Alan would question her right to know.
“What difference does it make?”
“Call me anal retentive. I just want to know.”
“I’m not on the case, Lee.”
“I know it’s a big favor. It would just…I don’t know…it would just make me feel better.”
He sighed so heavily she could hear it over the phone.
“I’ll call you back.”
She hung up and returned the insulin bottle to the refrigerator. Then she pulled out a chair from the dining room table and sat down to wait. Her thoughts went back to what Janine had said about how long it would have taken Diane to die. Lee began to consider the vase again. Maybe Diane had fought with her attacker, and the vase had been broken in the struggle. And the attacker had cleaned it up. Or, what if Diane had tried to fend off her attacker, but was injected with the insulin during the struggle? Lee tried to picture that in her mind. It was plausible. Then, momentarily stunned, Diane might have made an attempt to escape, and that’s when the murderer picked up the vase and hit her with it.
No, Lee rejected that idea. Under that scenario, Diane would have had enough time to make it out the door, or call for help. She had to have been disabled before she was injected with the insulin. Click. That’s how the vase was broken. Lee thought back to that night when a skinny policeman knelt next to Diane’s body and fingered a large bump on the side of her head. He’d looked at the coffee table and come to the immediate conclusion that her head had hit the table when she fell. Lee was certain now that he was wrong. The bump had come from being hit with the vase. But there was nothing to prove it.
Just then, her cell phone jingled.
“The report doesn’t address the insulin in her b
ody,” Alan said without greeting. “It does say they analyzed the syringe and found a small amount of insulin in it. Something called Humalog.”
Lee came to attention with a jolt. Humalog was the rapid-acting insulin. Not something Diane would have had in the house for Sasha. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves.
“Lee? Are you there?”
“Yes, thanks, Alan. That helps. One more question. What does the report say about the bump on her head?”
“Lee, there’s no reason to investigate. I told you.”
“I know, Alan, but if it will make me sleep better, it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
There was another sigh and the sound of paper rattling before his voice returned.
“The coroner said she had a blunt force trauma on her occipital lobe, probably caused by hitting the coffee table as she fell.”
“Thanks.”
“Does this mean you’ll stop worrying about this now?”
“Just for the record, Alan, Diane doesn’t have any Humalog insulin in the house. She didn’t use that type of insulin for the cat.”
“Isn’t insulin − insulin?” he asked.
“No. You would use a different type for a person than you would for a cat.”
She stopped again, letting what she’d said sink in.
“Okay,” he said too quickly. “I’ll let Sergeant Davis know. He’ll look into it.”
Lee’s heart fell. Sergeant Davis wouldn’t do anything.
“If there’s a reason to investigate, Lee, we will,” Alan said as if reading her thoughts.
“I know. Thanks, Alan. I’ll probably see you guys this weekend.”
She hung up, but remained where she was, lost in thought. Finally, there was something concrete, something the police had overlooked. Someone had brought in the insulin used to kill Diane, along with the larger syringe. But would they actually investigate it?
She got up and wandered into the living room. There had to be more. Something she could hold up to Sergeant Davis and say, “Here, you lazy son of a bitch! Here’s the evidence you ignored.” Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the oval coffee table, taking her back to the night of the murder. She and Diane had sat side by side on the sofa, flipping through a stack of color photos.
