CHAPTER SIX
By two o’clock Skye’s sister, Summer, had joined him in the morgue. Both kids had presented with vomiting, seizures, and ultimately respiratory depression. The Medical Center had drawn toxicology, but it wasn’t back. The autopsies were maddeningly unremarkable, consistent with the history of death by respiratory failure. Two beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed children, dead for no apparent reason. I agreed with the note that came attached to the medical records from the center. It sure read like a poisoning death to me.
I was mentally rehearsing the various agents that might cause that sort of clinical picture when Lucy called from the lab. The toxicology was done. Coniine.
Poisoning confirmed, but I was taken aback. These kids had apparently died from ingesting poison hemlock, something I might understand in midsummer, because it grew in the woods around Telluride and there were occasional cases around the country, mostly involving children or foragers who mistook it for its edible cousin, wild carrot. But in the dead of winter? Where had they gotten a hold of hemlock? And, as far as I could recall, there wasn’t any commercial preparation containing coniine, so it had to be from the plant itself. My mind was a little fuzzy on the details of plant toxicology. Before I could ask Lucy about the results, she headed me off at the intellectual pass.
“Yes, I am sure. I ran it three times just to be certain. Can’t believe it myself, but there it is. Coniine poisoning.”
I turned the information over in my mind again. Poison. Two dead children. Most poisonings are accidental, but I was having a hard time figuring out how this one would be.
“No chance this is some related compound? Overlap on the H.P.L.C.?” I knew better. High pressure chromatography results are pretty darn accurate, and I hire my staff to be the best at what they do.
I heard a snort on the other end of the line. “No chance. Coniine it is.”
“Any commercial applications? Anything they could get it from other than hemlock?”
“Not really. It used to be a treatment for strychnine poisoning, but that’s about it. This is plant ingestion almost for sure.”
“You aren’t going to tell me it doesn’t grow around here, are you?”
“No. It’s all over, though there have been a lot of control efforts. Pretty hard to eliminate a roadside weed, though, and no way to control it in the back country. But whatever hemlock there is currently rests under a foot or so of snow.” She paused. “These were little kids, but even so, relatively speaking, they had to ingest quite a bit of whatever it was to die from it.”
I pondered that for a moment. There wasn’t much in the stomachs when I had examined them, which was no surprise, given the vomiting. We’d need to talk to the parents about where the kids had been and what they had eaten. “Listen, call down to the clinic and see whether we can get the clothes those kids came in with. There might be something there that will give us a clue. Then get everyone into the office. We need to do a little investigating on this one. Meet you there in five.”
“Sure thing.”
I broke the connection only long enough to dial Tom Patterson. I knew his number by heart. I was hopeful that this would turn out to be just a tragic accident, but his men were the ones who fielded suspicious deaths, and I was going to need an investigator on this one.
***
Eoin Connor sighed and leaned back in his desk chair, regarding the computer screen with a scowl. His head still ached from the previous evening’s drunken bout, and he was irritated at wasting half the day tagging along after Fiona, even though he had vowed to try to come to terms with her, given that Jane was no longer interested in him. He had forgotten how much time that woman could waste and how tiresome her chatter was. It all distracted him from his discipline of two thousand words a day.
His right hand was swollen and tender in the bargain. It made typing more difficult but it was good penance. Writing always ordered his life even amid pain, and there was no reason it shouldn’t now.
He pushed at the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with an ivory-handled tamper. The intricate entwined knot carved into the handle had been worn nearly smooth over the years. He scowled again at the text, highlighted a section, and dispatched it with a click of the mouse, lost forever in cyberspace. He read what remained, scowled once more, and deleted the entire section, reflecting that it was much more satisfying in the old days to yank the paper out of his Smith-Corona. The high-pitched, mechanical protest of the platen as the offending page gave way was satisfying in a way that a single electronic blip was not. It used to stir his creative juices: that sound, an audible rending of writer’s block. Or so he thought. Now he just grimaced and thought through the passage he was working on, rubbing his right hand. The cuts and bruises made it hard to type, even on a keyboard. He supposed he was glad he wasn’t using a manual typewriter after all.
It might be the subject giving me trouble, he reflected. He was hip-deep in the research on the murder of John Wallace, Jane’s late husband. With nothing else on his plate and the woman out of his reach, he had decided to forge ahead on the book, but it was hard going. He had long ago given up the idea that this would be an objective rendering, for he was too familiar with Jane. Now it was familiarity torn asunder. What had transpired at the Chop House managed to so upend his perspective that now he wasn’t sure how even to start. Every time he began, a mental image of Jane Wallace after dinner floated between him and the screen, her eyes sad and anticipating yet another grief in what, when he looked at it with his writer’s eye, was an unbearable sequence of disasters. And this time, he was responsible.
He sighed again and typed a few cautious words. He was glad to be interrupted, first by the vibrating of the cell in his pocket, then by the ringing of the old-fashioned — they called it retro, these days — black telephone on his desk. He always forwarded his cell number to his landline when he was in residence, preferring the heavy feel of the black resin hand-piece to the insignificance of his smartphone. It made him feel grounded and, besides, it fit his hand better. He picked it up, wincing a little as he closed his hand around it and spoke gruffly, annoyed at the artless start he had on his chapter.
“Connor here.”
“Eoin! I didn’t think I’d get you!” It was the cheerful voice of Ciaran Ryan, his mate from the old days, lately a well-placed monsignor in the Archdiocese of New York.
“Then why’d ye call, ye old bugger?” Connor was gladder still of the interruption. Ciaran was a good man and a good friend.
“That’s a fine way to treat a man with grand news for the sorry likes of yourself.” Ciaran’s voice was light and teasing, just like the old days.
Connor puffed at his pipe, then laid it down and exhaled slowly. “I could use some good news. But if it has to do with the reconsideration for a decree of nullity, no need to bother. It seems the woman in question isn’t interested.”
There was a small silence on the other end of the phone as Msgr. Ryan digested the news. “I’m sorry to hear that, truly I am, Eoin. But I called, because it’s the oddest thing. I can’t find any record of your case ever coming before a tribunal. Anywhere. There’s no record anywhere that you ever asked for a decree of nullity and certainly no record that one was ever denied.”
This time the silence was on Eoin’s end, and he kept it until he was able to answer slowly and in measured tones. “Tell me that again, Ciaran. Once more. Slowly.” Ryan’s words had washed over him like a cold wave and left him with an immediate, if unwelcome, sense of clarity.
“I know it makes no sense, but there isn’t any record anywhere of a request for review of your marriage. I’ve checked. I called back home and had them check. I pulled in every favor I have, and no one, not here, not in Ireland — no one can find evidence that you ever even asked. Nothing.” There was a pause, and Ryan continued. “That’s good news for you. If you make a petition now, and you can provide evidence that she tricked you into marrying her, well, I can’t promise, but I would hope the tribun
al, any tribunal, would find the marriage invalid. Though it will take some time.”
Eoin stared at the screen, unseeing, his mind back in Ireland, to the parish priest who had taken the papers from him that cold October day and who, nine months later, had come back to his mother with the news that his petition was denied. He was in Liverpool by that time, exiled, and received the news in a letter. He still had it, tucked into his old missal.
The priest was uncle to Fiona and to the mate of his he’d left with a broken jaw in a Derry back alley. The mate he’d fought against to save the skin of a poor young Protestant lad, the mate who, with his cousin, the then-decamped Fiona, had made sure all the world knew Eoin Connor was a turncoat. That priest, their uncle. Their favorite uncle.
“Eoin? Are you still there?” The voice on the phone was concerned.
“Yes…yes. Never submitted?”
“Never. Clean slate, Eoin. That’s a good thing.” Then, a pause and a question. “How did you ever get the idea you’d been denied?”
Eoin considered telling him that he’d been deceived by the very man of the cloth he’d depended on to help him, but his swelling anger made it impossible to speak for a moment or two. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the life that was stolen from him: wife, children, home, hearth, perhaps grandchildren by now, comfort, and meaning. Finally, he managed a brief recitation of facts. “Father Clancy. He told me. I never saw the papers. I just took him at his word. No reason not to.”
He stood abruptly and strode across the rug, turning sharply as he reached the end of the telephone cord, pacing like a caged animal, too angry to think, and then sat heavily in the chair again for lack of an alternative. His right leg immediately took up jostling to dissipate the angry energy that surged through him once more. His hand rested lightly on his thigh, moving up and down in rhythm, a twinge of pain with every bounce.
Another small silence and then: “Mother of God. I am so sorry, Eoin. What a waste for you.”
Eoin sat upright, his leg still, suddenly clearer of heart and mind than he had been since Fiona arrived. “No need, Ciaran. But thank you for calling.” His voice was calm and hard and something in it frightened his friend.
“Eoin? Eoin! It’s not something that can’t be fixed. In fact, you’re better off than you thought. Those days were clearer looking back than they were going forward. There has to be a reason. Perhaps Father Clancy confused you with someone else. Perhaps you just misunderstood him.”
Indeed, it was a hard time, Eoin reflected. The I.R.A. was bombing something every other day or so, and Fiona’s cousin, the one he’d toppled, was a hard man, violently and bitterly opposed to the British. His uncle — the priest — was an old man, even then. Was he just as angry, wanting to punish Connor, or was he simply weak and tired and afraid of retaliation himself? It didn’t matter, he decided. What was done was done.
But Connor did wonder, unkindly, if the poor man ever confessed his lie. If he’d ever done penance for ruining another man’s life in the name of the Church, at a time when people in general — and he in particular — took what she said so very seriously. “I understand, Ciaran. Thank you for your help.” He worked hard to keep his voice even and flat, giving no hint, he hoped, of the rage that threatened to break out of him. He wanted Ciaran off the phone, or he was likely to pull it right out of the wall. Tossing it through the plate-glass window of the study might provide satisfying relief.
“I can help you submit your petition now.” Ciaran Ryan’s voice was sympathetic.
Connor was suddenly still, examining the ceiling and thinking of two women. “I’ll let you know, Ciaran,” he finally said. “All the best.”
“All the best. Take care.” The voice was doubtful, but kind. The line went silent.
Eoin Connor re-cradled the receiver and sat looking at the screen, unseeing for a long time, wondering. Did Fiona know, too? Had she always? Surely she had. She was far too clever and far too manipulative to be innocent of this deceit.
He stood up abruptly, shoving the chair back from the desk so hard that it toppled over. He headed for the spare room, the one where he stored boxes of research until he needed them, and the one in which his punching bag hung. He found it as he always did, silent and gray, ready this time to absorb his anger, pain or no pain, so that he might eventually sort this out. For now, the image of Jane Wallace vanished from his imagination, to be replaced by nothing at all except a memory of a long-ago murder in a Belfast flat that had killed more than an innocent young lad and left him broken in its aftermath.
CHAPTER SEVEN
January 11
It was difficult to retain any sense of normalcy between Eoin’s bombshell and the poisoning deaths, so I did what I always do under such circumstances: I buried myself in my work. I spent the better part of the day going through reports and reviewing letters from lawyers wanting assistance from me or from the Center. I nearly always agreed to the ones asking for forensic help. I was far more particular about the requests to co-counsel. Too many of them were from plaintiffs wanting to follow in my footsteps and sue various medical corporations in the hope of getting a windfall settlement. I generally wrote a polite reply, declining on the basis of my calendar. What I really wanted to say was that that game wasn’t worth the candle it took to light the field. It would have been the better part of valor for me to resign my position and move on than to challenge Hardy-Finch Labs in court. I would have been poorer but I’d still have a husband, who had been murdered as a result of the verdict and my vicious partners.
Considering the last few days, there was a surprising dearth of bodies at the moment, leaving Sadie Jackson at loose ends. She wandered up to my office, bored I supposed, and perhaps a little lonely. I know I was.
“Hi, Boss.”
I laid down my work.
“I thought I’d take a late lunch. Want to come along?”
Letters could wait. One nice thing about my line of work is that nobody’s going to die if I’m a day or two late in getting something done. I wasn’t accomplishing much, anyway. “Sure. Where to?”
“How about Amanda’s?” She named a new bistro in Mountain Village, which required a trip on the gondola over the top of the mountain. Why not?
The ski lines were long, but we were able to cut ahead as foot passengers. The ride up was bright and beautiful. Sadie commented about my decision to hire her. It was meant to be conversation, maybe even flattering. I didn’t receive it that way. It felt like she was buttering me up, and I was suspicious.
“I really am glad that you are spontaneous. I love being here. I really didn’t think you’d hire me when I barged into your office that day.”
“It’s nice to have some help.” I refrained from telling her that spontaneity was not exactly my long suit. The silence broadened. I hadn’t done much to get to know Sadie; perhaps that was the source of my unease. No time like the present, I thought. “Tell me about where you grew up, Sadie.” Question number one in the Southern Belle handbook, guaranteed to prod even reluctant conversationalists into chatter. People usually like talking about themselves, and Sadie was no exception.
“Mom and dad were archaeologists. Technically, I suppose, I was raised in Illinois where they taught, but really I was raised at their digs: Morocco, Brazil, Indonesia, Africa. I suppose it’s why I can’t settle down.”
“It must have been interesting. I’ve never travelled outside the U.S. “
Sadie was astonished. “No way! Why not?”
“Medical school, kids, jobs, that sort of thing. It was too hard. John and I planned to travel when the kids were grown, but we never got the chance.” I banished the incipient sadness. That was over and done with. “I have a passport, though, so I’m ready.”
“I loved it. Traveling, I mean. Some of the places weren’t so great, and I liked getting back home to the States every fall. Every couple of years, we’d move onto a different spot. Mom and Dad were never academically famous but they kept their jobs, and
I guess that’s all they wanted. That, and to dig up stuff. I guess that’s why I became a forensic pathologist.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
Sadie shook her head. “They died in a small plane crash on the way to their dig about a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. They didn’t suffer.” Her words were so matter-of-fact that they stunned me. “I think that’s the worst. I hate to see people suffer. If I had realized that is what medicine was about, I would have stuck to archaeology.”
I was taken aback. “What did you think medicine was?” What did she think forensic pathology was, for that matter? There was no lack of suffering in our work, even though it was vested in the survivors. Our patients were past pain by the time we got to them.
“A good way to make a living. I like science, and my advisors suggested I go into medicine. It was a perfect time for that. Women have an advantage these days. I just want to pay the bills and be free to do the stuff I like.” Sadie’s grin was genuine.
“It’s certainly a different perspective than my medical cohorts and I shared,” I said. “Most of us went into medicine with a high sense of purpose. Out to save the world and all that.”
“Not me. I just want to earn a nice living and have enough free time to enjoy myself before I check out.”
“Interesting,” was all I could say.
Sadie shrugged. “What else is there?”
I debated keeping my mouth shut. This was supposed to be a light conversation on the way to lunch. No need to get all philosophical with someone who plainly did not care about very much at all. But somehow silence felt like ratification so I just said, “Lots, Sadie. There’s lots more. I hope you find it.”
So much for question one in the Southern Belle handbook. I’d skip over the others: who are your people, and where do you go to church? I was pretty sure the answers would unnerve me.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 7
