Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  After several security checks and my insistence that I was Dr. Carly Brown’s sister and there for personal reasons, I was granted access. When I arrived at “the freezer,” I found my sister amid a wall of stainless steel drawers that served as temporary homes to the newly departed. Steel tables stood in the room, topped with suspiciously human-looking mounds that were completely covered by sheets. Carly stood by one such mound.

  That whole wobbly thing in my knees started. “Sissy,” I said weakly, using my favorite Southern sisterly endearment for her.

  Carly turned, startled by my voice. She rushed over to me and gathered me into one of her generous hugs. “What are you doing here, bunny?”

  So it’s “bunny” today. From day to day, I never knew what strange moniker Carly would christen me with.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the guys who were found last night.”

  “Let me get you a chair. Please don’t throw up in my workspace. It’s bad enough down here.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching the room swim.

  Carly retrieved a folding metal chair, and I flopped down on it hoping I could beat the descending darkness.

  “You don’t look good, honey. Jazz just went to get coffee. Do you want me to ask him to get you some?”

  “Jazz? Jazz Brown? He’s here?” I asked, panic rising in my voice.

  “I am,” said that yummy voice. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere, holding two Styrofoam cups of steaming liquid. He handed one to Carly and took a sip from the other.

  Okay, maybe I hadn’t been paying attention, and he had come through the door like a normal person, not an apparition. I’d been focused on not passing out and all, but, Lord, could you warn a sistah about these things? Pulling together my cool would be impossible. I didn’t even try. “Hello,” I murmured weakly.

  “Hello,” he said, followed by the now predictable but still heart-stopping smile. “I thought finding you at my crime scene was odd, and now here you are at the morgue.”

  “My sister works here.”

  Carly piped up, “She’s never come here before. Imagine that, the two of you here at the same time. Coincidence or destiny?”

  I glared at her. Who tries to do matchmaking in a morgue?

  “In case the two of you haven’t noticed, I don’t seem to handle death as well as you do. At least not this part. I don’t happen to enjoy hanging out at the morgue.”

  “So why are you here?” Jazz asked, with that maddening half smile.

  “I’m not here for you, nosy.”

  “I’m not nosy. I’m a detective.”

  “I’m a sister. Visiting.”

  He nodded, but he cocked his head to the side and gave me a sly smile. “Why do I have the feeling you’re trying to get all up in my investigation?”

  “Look, all night I dreamed about you—uh—your victims. I just want to know what happened to them. Simple cause of death.”

  He bent closer to me. “Funny, I dreamed about you, too,” he whispered, probably hoping Carly wouldn’t hear. My bones turned to liquid.

  Of course she heard. Nothing gets past her.

  “Y’all dreaming about one another, now? Whatever happened last night must have been good.”

  “He took me home. Period.”

  “I only stayed a minute.” The look on his face resembled a sweet little lamb’s, instead of the lion I saw at the crime scene. He gave me the subtlest wink.

  I tried to ignore him. “Some theories suggest that dreams are an amalgam of one’s day. Mere fragments and impressions of what has happened.”

  Carly would have none of it. “Some theories,” she said, “suggest that you dream about a person because subconsciously you think he”—she gave Jazz an indulgent look—“or she, is hot. I believe that was Freud.” Her gaze bore into Jazz. “What do you think, Jazzy?”

  “I think I have a new respect for Freud. But I’m here to talk about what killed these men, not to analyze dreams.”

  “Right.” She moved to the body on the table nearest her. Jazz followed and waited while she removed the sheet with a dramatic flourish.

  I wobbled in my chair. She’d already done her autopsy, and let’s just say things did not look good. The dead man on the table had a huge Y-shaped incision that went from shoulder to shoulder then headed way down south. God only knows where his organs were. “Can you pull that sheet back up?” I squeaked.

  Carly shot me a look and, upon seeing my face, took pity. She covered him up from the neck down. “Mr. Jonathan Vogel. Age twenty-eight. Cause of death: asphyxia.”

  That name sounds familiar. I started sifting through middle-aged brain fog trying to find the name Jonathan Vogel.

  “He suffocated?” Jazz asked.

  “Asphyxia caused by strychnine poisoning. We don’t usually check for it in routine tox screens, but as I’d told you, I had my suspicions. Results came back positive.”

  I peered around to look at Jonathan Vogel’s face again. “He’s not smiling anymore.”

  “No. Strychnine poisoning is a trip. It works fast, like you and Jazzy. It attacks the central nervous system like a good neurological toxin should, giving a beat down to the nerves that enervate the muscles. The victim—in this case our Mr. Vogel—would have gotten stiffness in his neck and face about ten minutes after consumption. After that he’d go spastic, contracting and contorting.”

  “Which is why his back was arched and he had the death smile,” Jazz added.

  “Finally, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and bye-bye cruel world. Because the contractions forced his muscles to consume the intramuscular enzymes, the poor baby froze up with rigor mortis right away. As the body decomposes, the contractions loosen up, like Bell did last night. That’s why his face is relaxed now, dear sister—unlike yours.”

  “Maybe my face would relax if you’d stop comparing me to a dead body.”

  “I’m assuming the other vic,” Jazz interjected, “Damon Crawford, died from the same cause.”

  “Your assumption is correct, Lieutenant.”

  “Any other drugs in their systems?”

  “None that we found. Why do you ask?”

  He sighed a heavy I-hate-police-work kind of sigh. “We got a tip that they were involved in the street pharmaceutical business—selling crank.”

  Crank, a street name for methamphetamines, had taken over as the most insidious drug in Wayne and Washtenaw counties. Its high could last for up to sixteen hours.

  Carly shrugged. “All I know is what the toxicology report says. Even if they were selling it, they weren’t using it. At least not when they died. Look at their adorable faces.”

  Their faces were so not adorable.

  “Could’ve been a crank call,” Jazz said. He laughed. I just shook my head at his awful pun. “What do you think, Dr. Amanda Brown?”

  “Their place certainly didn’t have the markings of a dope house or a meth lab. Did your team find any crank on the premises?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did they find evidence of strychnine anywhere? In a pesticide hanging around the yard?”

  “According to Souldier, nary a trace.”

  “Then I think you’ve got your work cut out for you. There’s a murderer on the loose.” I tried to struggle through the fog in my brain. But the synapses weren’t firing. “The name Jonathan Vogel sounds very familiar. I can’t seem to place it, though.” I rested a protective hand on my tummy. “I also think I need to get out of here.”

  “Yeah. You look a little pale. May I help you?” Jazz walked over to my chair to help me up.

  I stood, not as stably as I would have liked, but I stood just the same. “Will ‘helping’ involve my feet being unable to touch the ground?”

  “I’ll allow you to walk on your own. This time.” He raised his eyebrows. “Will that method involve me needing to change my shoes?”

  “I’m inclined to say no—as long as I can get some fresh air within the next few minutes.”

  Carl
y came to me, stroked my hair, and kissed my forehead. “Come visit again, bunny.”

  “I’d rather pass kidney stones.”

  “Not a problem. I’m a medical doctor. I can help with that.”

  “But all your patients are dead.”

  “All your patients are crazy.”

  “I love you, Sissy,” I said.

  “I love you, too.”

  We gave each other a warm hug.

  “Can a brother get some love, too?” Jazz said, stretching his arms out. I tried to ignore him, but Carly passed the buck, no pun intended, right back to me. “See Bell about that. I’m spoken for.”

  Shoot. I went ahead and hugged the big buck. We let each other go and left. Quickly. I didn’t even throw up on his shoes. Jazz pressed his hand at the small of my back again, guiding me.

  He had one thing wrong.

  My feet didn’t touch the ground at all.

  Chapter

  Six

  FRESH AIR IS A WONDERFUL THING , especially after a hasty exit from the morgue. I drank in the scent of new September—air sweetened with leaves just beginning to turn and with a hint of the last of summer’s bounty tenaciously clinging to the wind. Another delicious, manly scent wafted in my direction. Man scent. Essence of Jazz. I moved a little closer to him.

  “I read the notebooks,” he said.

  “Um-hmm,” I murmured, wondering if I should ask what kind of cologne he wore.

  “What are you doing?”

  I snapped to attention. “What?”

  “Are you trying to smell me?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You were smelling me.” He grinned.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said in all truth. What’s worse, he’d busted me. I took a step away from him and lowered my head. My mother always said I wore guilt like a neon sign on my face. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

  He noticed. And liked it. “You leaned toward me, lifted your pretty little face, and very subtly flared your nostrils and inhaled. So, what did you think?”

  When all else fails, deflect the attention away from the troubling focal point. “Lieutenant Brown, I think that if you’re concerned about your hygiene, you should take more pains to make sure you’re in order before leaving home.”

  “I just use soap and deodorant. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “I’m relieved to know that you’re familiar with the combination. What were you saying about notebooks?”

  “I was saying,” he eased closer to me, “I read the Gabriel notebooks.”

  “And?”

  “They belonged to Vogel. Weird stuff using language reminiscent of Scripture, but it didn’t sound like anything I’d learned in Sunday school or Catechism class. Lots of talk about somebody called ‘Father,’ but check this out, this ‘Father’ character didn’t sound like the guy’s dad or any local priest.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, but it does sound like what you were suggesting at the crime scene. You smell good too. Like vanilla and…”

  “Sweet amber. So, what are you going to do?”

  “Investigate further.” He took my hand in his and held my wrist to his nose. “Ummm,” he said. He stopped smelling but kept holding.

  I willed myself to speak. “I thought you were talking about the case when you said you’d investigate further.”

  “I multitask.”

  “Why don’t we just keep things professional?” I asked.

  “You started it.”

  “Fine. Can we agree to finish it?”

  He didn’t answer, still holding my hand.

  “Are you married, Jazz?”

  He dropped my hand.

  “Was that a yes?”

  “That was an agreement to keep things professional.” I watched his jaw tighten.

  I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

  He touched my face. His features—especially his eyes—softened at the contact. “Bell, it’s been a long time since I felt what I did last night. You took me by surprise.” He paused, looked toward the ground, then back to me, as if searching for the words. “I’m not trying to play games with you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I don’t want to get into why. You just have to trust me on that.”

  I looked into his eyes. He was telling the truth, or he was a sociopath. I hoped for the former. “Why can’t we—”

  “We just can’t, baby. I wish we could.” He brushed his hand across my cheek.

  I turned away from him. The gray and uninspired city buildings surrounding me were in sharp contrast with the vivid beauty of the day, and there stood Jazz in the center, looking like the finest man God ever made. He’d made it clear that we weren’t going to get together. It was my cue to exit. “I’d better get going, Jazz. Good-bye.” I took a deep breath and a step toward my sunshine yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in the front row of the lot, as I removed the keys from my purse.

  Jazz jerked to a stop and gaped at me. “Tell me this isn’t your car.”

  “It’s my Love Bug.”

  “I asked you not to tell me that.”

  I grinned. “Does it make a difference?”

  “It should,” he said, voice serious but eyes alight with a spark of mischief. “Bell, no one drives Beetles anymore.”

  “I do.” I ignored his teasing, pretended to be offended, and jammed the key into the car door. I might be desperate for male attention, but nobody talks smack about my Love Bug.

  “Wait.”

  I had the nerve to stop.

  “Can you tell me a little more about the investigating you used to do?”

  Just a simple question. I answer. Then leave. No problem, right?

  “About seven years ago I worked as an assistant for my mentor, Dr. Mason May. I used to covertly attend Bible studies or group meetings and report my findings. I barely remember, but I can’t think of any other reason I would have been in that house.”

  “At the crime scene you said it was bad if you were there.”

  “People—concerned relatives and loved ones—hire Dr. May to look discreetly into cults and toxic churches. Bad stuff.”

  “Is he still around?”

  I smiled. “He is. Dr. May is like a father to me. He’s on staff at Great Lakes Seminary.”

  “Can you arrange a meeting with him?”

  “I’ll give you his contact information. You can tell him I sent you. He’s usually in his office and available for such meetings.”

  “Come with me.”

  I started using pop psychology affirmations on myself.

  You are in control. You own this situation.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not my business. You don’t want me, quote, ‘all up in your investigation,’ end quote.”

  You are strong. You are assertive. You are in control.

  “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant.”

  “I just don’t want you investigating on your own. Two people are dead.”

  “Don’t worry, Jazz. I’m through with you and your investigation.”

  Ha! Triumph!

  “No, you’re not.”

  I didn’t expect him to say that. I stammered, and my control slipped. “I—I…um. I just wanted to know how those men died. Honestly.”

  Oh, no. Now I’m confessing. This is bad.

  He looked into my eyes, and the inadequate façade I’d erected started to crack. He hypnotized me with those rich, cacao eyes. “Just go see May with me.”

  Crack, crack, crumble.

  “You can see your mentor,” Jazz said. “And I’ll buy you lunch. I’ll even pay you for your time. Then you never have to see me—or smell me—again.”

  Good-bye, façade. Hello, trouble.

  I sighed. “I’ll go with you; but after that it’s over.”

  “Okay, Bell.”

  “And don’t call me Bell. It’s reserved for people who love me.”
/>   “Doesn’t a minute of love count?”

  It did count. Way too much. “Are we driving in our own cars or going together?”

  The grin and the twinkle in his eyes returned. “Will you go with me?” He laughed. “I haven’t asked anybody that since I was sixteen.”

  “Could you please stop that, Lieutenant Brown?”

  “Fine. I’ll be a perfect gentleman from now on.”

  I glared at him. “You mean it?”

  “I do. Are you ready? I’ll drop you off here at your little yellow thing when we’re done.”

  “It’s a Love Bug, not a ‘thing.’ My great-grandmother used to say, ‘Don’t start no stuff, and it won’t be none.’ ”

  “Then she’d be proud of us, because it ‘won’t be none.’ Ready?” He moved his arm toward me to guide my back.

  “No touching.”

  “No problem,” he said, but the smirk on his face told me he thought the whole thing was funny.

  He led me to the Crown Vic and opened the door like a gentleman. “Buckle up. I wouldn’t want your great-grandmother to think you’re not safe with me.”

  “She wouldn’t trust you as far as she could throw you.”

  “She would love me. I’ve got a gold badge. ‘Protect and serve’ is what I do.”

  “That’s not even enough to convince me to trust you. And I’m a marshmallow by comparison.”

  “Then I’d tell her I was born to take care of you. And because great-grandmothers know these things, she would know I’m serious, Bell.” Then he closed the car door like he’d only said “Watch your arm.”

  My heart did another little flip. Mason May’s office suddenly seemed very far away.

  Chapter

  Seven

  FORGET PARIS; give me the office of Dr. Mason May any day. I walk into his domain and salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs upon hearing a bell ring. Two walls are lined with books, and two are adorned with African art. A massive, antique oak desk sits near the center of the room. More books are piled on the desk and stacked on the floor. In front of the desk are two contemporary, overstuffed red chairs with mud-cloth pillows that invite you to lounge. The room is earth and fire—a marriage of passion and intellect in one sacred space. Mason’s luscious “big papa” leather chair—as soft as a newborn baby—sits as stately as a throne behind his desk.