“This is the report on Jack’s stomach contents.”
Hurley squints as he reads it. “Yeah, so? We already know about the garlic.”
“Never mind what the report says was in his stomach. Focus on what isn’t there. That’s what was bothering me—what I didn’t smell during the autopsy.”
“I’m not following you,” Hurley says irritably.
“Think about it, Hurley. If Jack drank enough to get his blood level as high as it was, how come there’s no alcohol in his stomach contents?”
Chapter 32
Hurley frowns and rakes a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he says. “I can’t believe we missed that.”
“Missed what?” says a voice behind us.
We both turn around to find Izzy standing there. I hand him the report and say, “Why isn’t there any alcohol in Jack’s stomach contents?”
Izzy frowns, too; then he gives himself a slap on the side of his head. “Oh, hell,” he says. “I knew something was off when we were doing the autopsy, but I never figured out what it was.”
Hurley runs his hand through his hair again, making it stand up like a cockatoo comb. “But the alcohol had to get into his system somehow. Could it have moved into the intestines already?”
I shake my head. “No, he still had food in his stomach, and that would have delayed emptying to some extent. And with his blood alcohol as high as it was, he had to have consumed a large amount that same morning, just prior to his death.”
“Then how did it get into his blood?”
Izzy and I exchange a look. “Intravenously?” I pose.
Hurley looks askance. “You can give that stuff in an IV?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Years ago they used to use alcohol in an IV to stop premature labor in pregnant women.”
Izzy adds, “And there were some controversial studies done years ago using intravenous ethanol on acutely ill alcoholic patients to forestall dangerous withdrawal symptoms. The right dose of IV alcohol could have rendered Jack stuporous without killing him.”
“Wouldn’t that leave a mark?” Hurley asks.
Izzy nods. “Normally, it would. But remember, Jack’s arms were burned so badly it would be hard or even impossible to find such a mark. I might be able to find some inflammation in the underlying tissue; but other than that, we may be out of luck. I’ll take another look at Jack’s body, but don’t hold your hopes up too high.”
Hurley looks thoughtful and I can tell he’s sussing out the implications. “If this theory is right, and there was an IV involved, would Lisa Warden know how to do it?”
I shrug. “Possibly. Anyone with a medical background might know how. EMTs are often trained to do them. Veterinary assistants can do them. I suppose even a layperson could learn how.” I add this last bit in, because I’m feeling a little defensive of my kind. As a nurse, I don’t want to believe that another person in the medical profession would commit such a heinous act, even though a rogue mercy killer or an occasional adrenaline-seeking psycho who kills patients for the excitement of a code situation crops up in the news now and then.
“I suppose we should take another look at Jack’s body,” Izzy says.
We nod our agreement; and half an hour later, we’re gathered in the autopsy room with Jack’s body laid out on the table. With magnifying glasses, Izzy examines what’s left of Jack’s arms, but he shakes his head after several minutes. “There’s too much damage to the tissue. I can barely find enough to examine, and what I do see is so charred that I’m afraid it’s useless. I’m sorry.”
While Izzy goes about closing up the body bag and returning Jack to the morgue’s cold storage, Hurley and I step out into the hall and lean against the wall. Hurley closes his eyes and rubs his temples.
“Headache?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’m not surprised. You had quite a bit to drink today. Want some ibuprofen? I have a bottle in my locker and I could use some myself for this damned ankle of mine. It’s killing me.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I have some at home. And I think that’s where we should both go for now. I’ll look into getting search warrants for the nursing agency and Lisa Warden’s apartment and we can start fresh in the morning. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some evidence to support the IV theory. We can head back to the Strommen place then, too, to deal with Charlotte.”
“Okay. Where and when do you want to meet up?”
“It’s going to take me a little while to get the warrants. Why don’t we plan to meet around noon? I’ll come by your office and pick you up. If there’s any change to that, I’ll call you.”
We tell Izzy good night and I drive Hurley back to his house, dropping him off out front. By the time I get back to the cottage, my ankle is swollen beyond recognition and throbbing like a toothache. I let Hoover outside to do his business. When he’s done making yellow snow, I lock the front door and go for some ibuprofen. When I open my medicine cabinet, I see the bottle of Vicodin that was prescribed for me by the doctor in Georgia. Thinking my pain is big enough to warrant the stronger med, I take one. After changing into my jammies, I hobble out to the couch and settle in with the remote in hand, my phone on the end table, a throw over my body, and a pillow beneath my foot.
The next thing I know, my phone is ringing. I start awake and glance at my watch; it’s one in the morning. I grab for the phone, nearly dropping it on the floor.
“Hello?” I answer irritably.
“Mattie, it’s Izzy. We have a call.”
“I thought we were off duty until morning.”
“We were, but the covering coroner already has two other cases at opposite ends of his own county, so he called to see if we could pick up a little earlier than planned.”
Crap. “Okay, give me five minutes?”
“Meet me at my car.”
The pain medication seems to have helped. But when I toss back my throw and look at my foot, I’m horrified to see that it’s still grossly swollen and the skin around it contains nearly every shade in the visible color spectrum. The bulk of it is blue and purple, but there are also hints of green, yellow, and red. At first, I think I’m going to have to call Izzy back and tell him to go on without me. However, when I give the injured foot a tentative road test, I discover that the Vicodin I took earlier did its job. The foot is still tender and the ankle is a bit wobbly; and while I won’t win any prizes for grace, I can walk on it.
I dress as fast as I can and find Izzy outside with the motor running, waiting for me. I ease into the front seat, wedging myself in behind the dash. At least this way, I can’t see my foot anymore. Despite the fact that the heater outlets are only inches from my face, Izzy’s old car never seems to warm up very well. As a result, a blast of frigid air hits me full on.
“What do we have?” I ask, shivering against the cold and rubbing at my face. My nose itches like crazy, and I assume it’s because of the air blowing at me.
“The cops said it appears to be a drug overdose.”
As soon as Izzy says this, I realize that my itching has less to do with air than it does the Vicodin in my system. And in the interests of professional responsibility, I decide that I better tell Izzy what I took.
“Speaking of drugs, I took a Vicodin a while ago because my ankle was really throbbing.”
“Thanks for telling me. Did it help?”
“It did.” I rub at my nose again.
“Do you feel like you can function okay?”
“I think so. To be honest, I don’t feel much of an effect from it, other than the fact that my ankle feels a smidge better and my face is itching like crazy.”
“Good. When we get to the scene, I’ll do the bulk of the hands-on stuff and you can handle the pictures.”
“Sure, but if you see me do anything stupid, promise me you’ll tell me, okay?”
“I’m not worried. I trust you. You’ve got a good eye and a sharp mind for this work, Mattie. You’re a natural at it. Catch
ing that bit about Jack’s stomach contents was brilliant.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed, about you and Hurley?”
“I have,” I say, thinking that so far my plan for financial independence isn’t going very well. “I’m still thinking about it.”
“You really are good at this job, and I know you don’t want to go back to work at the hospital. But if that’s what it takes to give you and Hurley a chance to see if whatever it is you two have can turn into something bigger, maybe it would be worth it. If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s that life is all too short. Carpe diem and all that, you know?”
“I do. And thanks for being so understanding about it.”
Izzy turns onto a residential street and I see a bunch of cop cars and an ambulance up ahead. As he pulls in behind the ambulance to park, I realize where we are. I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach. We get out and Izzy opens the trunk, handing me the camera while he grabs his site-processing kit. We then follow an officer’s directions inside to the victim’s apartment.
There are several cops standing around a couch in a huddle, and I see that Hurley is among them. He turns and sees us enter. From the look on his face, I know my worst fears are about to be realized. I hobble up closer to the couch and push my way through the moat of people there.
The victim is lying on her back; her open, dead eyes are staring at the ceiling; a froth of white foam is drying on her lips. She’s wearing a sweater, and the left sleeve is pushed up to above the elbow. Embedded in the crook of her arm, hanging there like some deformed, bloodsucking tick, is a needle and syringe.
“Well, this is one less search warrant I’ll need to hunt down in the morning,” Hurley says to no one in particular.
Looking confused, Izzy turns to me and asks, “What does he mean? Who is this?”
I raise my camera and snap off my first shot before I answer him. “It’s Lisa Warden, our prime suspect in the Jack Allen case.”
Chapter 33
I snap several pictures of Lisa’s body and then of the room in general. Izzy makes the cops move out of the way, gloves up, and gets closer to Lisa to do his exam. Carefully, using only two fingers, he removes the syringe and needle from her arm, dropping it into a plastic sharps container, which he then seals with evidence tape.
“We’ll dust that syringe for prints and I’ll do an analysis of the contents when we get back to the lab,” he says. “But based on my preliminary exam, I have to say that everything appears consistent with a narcotic overdose: the foaming of the mouth, the pinpoint pupils, and all these track marks on her arm.”
Hurley says, “I guess this answers the question of whether or not Lisa knew how to start an IV. If she was practiced at finding her own veins, I’m guessing it wouldn’t have been hard to find Jack’s.”
I rub at my nose again; and when I do, it triggers a memory. “Damn,” I say. “I should have picked up on that when we were here before.”
“Picked up on what?” Hurley asks.
“Lisa kept rubbing at her face all the time, the same way Candy did when we saw her in the ER, remember? It’s a classic sign of narcotic use. The histamine release triggered by the narcotic makes your face itch. I didn’t realize that’s what it was. I thought she was itching at cat hairs. Which reminds me, where is Tux?”
“The cops who got here first found him on top of Lisa’s body. They’ve got him locked in the bedroom for now,” Hurley says.
As if to confirm this fact, the bedroom door rattles and we all hear a plaintive meow. I look over and see one of Tux’s black-and-white feet poking out from beneath the door.
“I’m going to go check on him,” I say, heading for the bedroom.
“Don’t let it out,” Hurley says in a panicked rush. Everyone in the room turns to look at him, reacting to the tone in his voice. Seeming to realize that he’s revealed more than he meant to, he gives everyone a “What?” look and comes back with a quick cover-up. “Well, there might be evidence on him.”
“That’s true,” I say. “Do you want to check him out for that, or shall I?”
The room is perfectly still, waiting for Hurley’s answer. Torn between facing his fear and saving face, he vacillates a moment before caving in. “You can do it,” he says.
I snap a few more pictures of the living area, and then I head into the kitchen for a quick look. The sink is filled with dirty dishes; the refrigerator shelves are covered with various spills, but are otherwise pretty bare; the cupboards don’t contain much in the way of food or dishes. Other than that, I don’t see anything of significance; so after taking a few shots of the room, I head for the bedroom.
Before opening the door, I squat down in case Tux decides to make a run for it. But he patiently waits as I enter the room and shut the door behind me, and then he makes friends by rubbing up against my legs and weaving around my feet. I bend down and give him a little scratch under the chin and he starts to purr. Near the door is a large, enclosed litter box filled with fresh litter, and a bowl of food and water. It looks like the same one I saw in the bathroom on my last visit, albeit cleaner. Occupying the bulk of the room is a queen-sized bed, which is unmade. There is also a dresser in the corner. After snapping some pictures of the overall room, I head that way to search the drawers, Tux on my tail.
The dresser contains the usual suspects: an assortment of clothing, some belts, and a small box containing several pairs of cheap earring studs. I sift through the clothes, squeezing all the paired socks and feeling the folded items for anything that might be hidden. I also take each drawer out of the dresser and examine the back and undersides, but I come up empty. On top of the dresser is a music box. When I open it, a little ballerina pops up and starts to spin as the box spews out “Nadia’s Theme.” Tux jumps up on top of the dresser and bats at the ballerina, and then he mashes it down, causing a small hidden compartment in the bottom of the box to pop open. Inside I find an assortment of pills, some of which I recognize as hydrocodone and oxycodone. I wonder how Lisa got her hands on the pills and whether she stole them from the patients she was caring for.
I take photos of the pills and then move to the closet. Here I find a couple of men’s shirts and a man’s suit hanging with Lisa’s clothing. To be thorough, I look under the bed, where I find some prehistoric-sized dust bunnies, but nothing else. I give Tux a few more pets and then head back out to the main part of the apartment, keeping the cat locked away. I report on my findings and no one seems inclined to enter the bedroom to verify things, so I move on into the bathroom.
Fortunately, it’s been cleaned some since the last time I saw it. I recall the dark, short hairs that were in the sink the last time I was here. Given Lisa’s own lighter hair color, I figure they must have been a boyfriend’s. Based on that and the clothing in the closet, I’m guessing he and Lisa had some sleepovers. I proceed to take the usual general photos of the room and then head for the medicine cabinet. Here I find an assortment of over-the-counter meds and one prescription bottle with an antibiotic label on it. The pills inside aren’t antibiotics, however; they match those I found in the music box.
The only place left to search is a small built-in cabinet. I open it and find shelves of towels, washcloths, cosmetics, and personal-hygiene products. After taking a picture of it as is, I start searching through the items. It’s not until I look inside a large economy-sized box of tampons that I hit pay dirt. There, stashed among the handful of tampons left, are a dozen or so syringes.
After taking a picture, I carry the box out to the living room and show it to Hurley, along with the bottle of narcotic pills.
“I didn’t find any IV supplies, but they would have been easy enough to get rid of,” I tell him. “Given Lisa’s drug habit, and the fact that she had all these syringes, it certainly seems feasible to think she could have given Jack an IV.”
Hurley nods. “And that would close this case up with a tidy bow,” he sa
ys.
“Except for one thing,” I say, frowning.
He nods again and then, in perfect sync, we both say, “Where’s the money?”
Izzy decides to join in on our speculations. “If Lisa had a drug habit, she might have been using the money to buy whatever she was shooting up. Maybe she flashed too much green in front of the wrong persons and they decided to come back and help themselves. Maybe her overdose wasn’t an accident.” He looks at Hurley. “How did you guys come to find her?”
“We got a call from a neighbor, a woman named Tonya Collier, who found Lisa’s cat out loose. She knew Lisa never let the animal out, so she caught the cat and brought him back to Lisa’s apartment. When she went to knock on the door, she found it ajar and pushed it open. She saw Lisa on the couch and realized she was dead. After tossing the cat inside and shutting the apartment door, she called the police.”
“Was Lisa alone?” I ask.
One of the uniformed cops answers, “Yeah, why?”
“I’m pretty sure Lisa had a boyfriend who slept over from time to time.” I explain about the clothing and the hairs I saw when Hurley and I were here before. “So the boyfriend might have found and taken the money. Or maybe the neighbor?”
Hurley shrugs. “It’s possible, I suppose. Why don’t we go talk to her and see if she’ll let us search her place?”
I look over at Izzy, who says, “Go ahead. I’ll finish up here with the body and arrange to get it to the morgue. Let’s plan on doing her autopsy later in the day, say around noon?”
Hurley and I both nod. I give Izzy the camera and follow Hurley outside and across the stairwell to the apartment opposite Lisa’s. Hurley knocks and, a moment later, a woman answers. And not just any woman, either. Tonya Collier is a knockout. She’s tall and lithe, with a gorgeous mane of wavy red hair, crystal blue eyes, and porcelain skin.
“Yes?” she says, her voice sultry. She looks straight at Hurley, and it’s as if I’m not even there.
Lucky Stiff Page 27
