Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Without commenting on the Chee-Zees, I grabbed a few and, before eating them, asked everyone, “What do you make of the pictures?”

  Pierce wiped his hands on a handkerchief before picking up the two large glossy photos and displaying them squarely before me. One pictured the whole silk scarf; the other was an enlarged detail of its pattern. Pointing to the detail, he said, “This little figure is repeated all over the scarf.”

  “No question,” said Glee, dabbing the corners of her lips with her fingers, “it’s Bruno’s stylized hedgehog. It matches the trademark we found on his miniature furniture.”

  “Which means,” said Lucy, sitting back while crossing her legs, “that the scarf surely came from Bruno—at least originally. He probably had a number of them custom-made, not only for his own use, but as gifts. In light of his long history of business dealings with Carrol Cantrell, it’s likely that Cantrell already had one, and in fact, Grace Lord mentioned in her police statement that she’d seen a collection of silk scarves while cleaning the victim’s quarters.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of Curleez. “So the scarf might have been Bruno’s, or it might have been Carrol’s—or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

  “Right,” said Pierce. “Bruno is still having trouble producing evidence that he was actually in Milwaukee at the exact time of the murder—no parking stubs—but frankly, I’m inclined to believe him. I don’t think he’d be dumb enough to strangle a business rival with his own cravat and then conveniently leave such an obvious, incriminating murder weapon right there at the crime scene.”

  “I don’t either,” said Lucy, scratching the bristly red hair behind an ear. “It’s plausible, but not probable. Besides, with this new angle that Cantrell could have died from anaphylactic shock, it’s arguable that the scarf was not the actual weapon, but was merely planted to suggest strangulation and to disguise the real cause of death.”

  “Which brings us back to the possibility of a nut-tainted cake,” said Glee, “which in turn could have been baked by Miriam Westerman.”

  I leaned forward. “Okay, gang. Get this. I’ve just come from Grace Lord’s house. While chatting on her back porch, sipping coffee, she dropped a real bombshell—a stunning bit of information that could help us nail Cantrell’s killer.” I paused for effect, popping a Chee-Zee into my mouth and munching loudly.

  Lucy drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “For Christ’s sake, Mark. What’d she tell you?”

  I smiled. “As you know, on Saturday morning, the day before the murder, I visited the coach house with Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman. Grace saw us. Later, that afternoon, she saw Miriam return—leaving a cake on the porch.”

  Receiving the round of gasps I’d hoped to elicit, I continued, “Aware of Cantrell’s allergic condition, Grace cautioned him not to eat the cake, but he specifically assured her that it was safe because he’d already informed Miriam of his condition. Grace saw him eat it.”

  Glee slid a perfectly manicured red nail between her front teeth, dislodging an orange crumb. She wondered aloud, “If Carrol was so severely allergic to nuts, and he ate the cake on Saturday afternoon, why did he die on Sunday morning? Wouldn’t he react faster than that?”

  Pierce assured us, “He was healthy Saturday night.”

  “The timing does seem strange,” I admitted, “but everything else fits. Consider: Miriam had a motive—her hate of Cantrell as a male homosexual who also threatened her antiporn crusade. She had the means to kill him—lacing a cake with nuts after learning of his allergy. And now we know she had the opportunity—an eyewitness saw her deliver the cake.” Rewarding myself for such a neat summation, I grabbed another fistful of Curleez.

  As I ate, the others silently weighed all this, nodding their assent that we were closing in on a killer. Pierce said, “All we need now for an airtight conviction is some physical evidence that Carrol ingested nuts. If testing reveals nuts in either the cake or the stomach contents—better yet, both—this mystery is solved.”

  “And Miriam Westerman,” I added through a facetious pout, “goes bye-bye.”

  “Before you pack her bags,” Lucy reminded me, “we need to at least consider the possibility that both test results could come up negative. Then what?”

  With my spirits dampened by the prospects of such a scenario, I soberly admitted, “Then the focus of the investigation would shift to the only other suspect who had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Cantrell.”

  There was a pause. Pierce said, “Me—right?”

  “It’ll never come to that. There’s not a reason in the—”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it, Mark. If testing doesn’t reveal nuts in either the cake or the stomach, I’m screwed. After all, I had the motive—silencing a sex scandal that could threaten my chances for reelection. I had the means—sufficient physical stature to subdue and strangle Carrol. And I had the opportunity—I’d spent the night with the man in the very bed where his body was found.”

  We all recognized that his summation was as neat as mine had been. Lamely, Glee pointed out, “But there are other suspects.”

  Pierce said, “If we dismiss Bruno, there are only three other possibilities that have even been discussed: Dan Kerr, Harley Kaiser, and Ben Tenelli. Of those, Dr. Tenelli is found suspicious only by Mark. Aside from the fact that the County Plan Commission, chaired by Tenelli, issued a report opposing the porn shops, I see no reason to suspect his involvement in any of this—plus the fact that he’s demonstrated, by a lifelong career, that he’s a healer, not a killer.

  “Which leaves us with my deputy, Dan Kerr, and our district attorney, Harley Kaiser. Yes, I agree that they both have a lot at stake politically here, so it’s arguable that they each had a motive to kill Carrol—for Dan, the murder could serve to neatly frame me and get me out of the way for his election, and for Harley, the murder removes a strong foe who sought to deny him victory in his must-win obscenity trial. Even if I were willing to concede—and I’m not—that either Dan or Harley could stoop to murder, we’ve shown only that these guys had a motive. As to whether either of them also had both the means and the opportunity to kill Carrol, that’s pure speculation—we’ve established no further evidence to link either one of them to this crime.”

  Pierce didn’t need to add the logistical hurdle: Dan Kerr was in charge of investigating the murder, and Harley Kaiser’s job was to prosecute it. If either one of them was actually guilty of the crime, he was in an excellent position to assure that justice would not be served.

  I’d lost my appetite for the snacks, as had Pierce. Both Lucy and Glee had also abandoned the Curleez, which lay scattered there on the torn cellophane bag like so many sad little question marks. All four of us glumly eyed the Chee-Zees, pondering in silence what options for action we might have, thinking of none.

  These ruminations were interrupted by the phone on my desk—a startling noise that snapped us back to the moment. “That’s Connie,” I said, recognizing the receptionist’s short double-rings. Leaning to Lucy, who sat nearest the door to my inner office, I asked, “Could you see what she wants?”

  My editor nodded, rose from her chair, and stepped inside to answer the phone. “Yes, Connie?” We all listened. “Thank you. I’ll tell him.” And she hung up. Returning to the table where we sat, she said, “The DA and the coroner are downstairs. They want to see the sheriff.”

  I recalled that Harley Kaiser had told Denny Diggins on that afternoon’s radio show that he planned to meet the coroner right after the program. Something of substance must have arisen from their meeting—they’d tracked down the sheriff.

  “Now what?” said Pierce. Rising, he stepped to the door, leaving to meet them in the lobby.

  “Doug,” I said, “wait. Can we bring them up here? Whatever it is, we may all be able to help. Lucy can see them up.”

  “Sure. Why not?” He returned to the table as Lucy left the room.

  Pierce, Glee, and I spent a minute or two in idle
speculation as to the purpose of this visit, till we saw Lucy returning through the newsroom with Harley Kaiser and Vernon Formhals. Even from a distance, I could see that Kaiser wore his usual smirky, tight-lipped expression—the poodle with an attitude. Formhals, by contrast, carried himself with dignity but good humor, nodding to staffers and exchanging pleasantries as they made their way to my office.

  When they all entered, I realized that the room wasn’t big enough to accommodate six of us comfortably—the space felt instantly cramped and hot. Glee already knew the district attorney, but she had never met the county coroner, so I introduced them. As soon as this courtesy was dispatched, Kaiser snapped, “We need to talk alone, Pierce.”

  The sheriff answered, “If this relates to the murder investigation, my deputy’s in charge—you know that.”

  “Look,” I told the DA, “I know you’re reluctant to discuss the case in front of me. But if you want this discussion off-the-record, I’ll honor that. I’m a man of my word, Harley.”

  He paused. Again the smirk. “You wouldn’t print this anyway, Manning. It doesn’t fit your agenda.”

  Though I felt like throttling the weasel, I was in no mood to argue with him.

  Pierce asked flatly, “What have you got?”

  With a flip of his hand, Kaiser turned the discussion over to Formhals.

  The coroner came forward a step, tightening our circle. Clearing his throat, he told us, “I’ve just received the report analyzing the cake’s contents. It contained substantial swirls of peanut butter.”

  As his words sank in, Glee and Lucy sighed audibly. Pierce and I exchanged a relieved smile. I couldn’t imagine why Kaiser had said that this news would not “fit my agenda”—it exonerated Pierce, didn’t it?

  Pierce fished his car keys out of a pocket. “Time to pay Miriam a visit.” And he began moving toward the door.

  “Why?” asked Kaiser, as if Pierce were an idiot.

  As if Kaiser himself were an idiot, Pierce turned and told him, “The cake came from Miriam, who knew of the victim’s severe nut allergy. The cake was laced with peanut butter. That wraps it up.”

  “Hardly,” said Formhals. All heads turned as the coroner explained, “The victim’s bracelet specified that he was allergic to ‘nuts,’ but the cake contained peanuts, which are technically legumes, distinct from tree nuts. The cake may have had no effect on the victim whatever. Only the still-awaited toxicology report will reveal whether he died from peanut poisoning or if perhaps he was slipped a dose of ‘real’ nuts by some other means. Frankly, I now find those possibilities doubtful. My strongest theory is our initial theory, that the victim was strangled to death.”

  Now, of course, I understood Kaiser’s assumption that I would be disappointed by these findings. Still, Formhals’s explanation left me fuddled. I told him, “I’ve read many accounts of deadly reactions to peanuts—there’s even been talk of banning them as airplane snacks.”

  “Yes, yes,” he lectured, “but there’s widespread confusion on this topic. About one percent of the population is allergic to nuts. Of those, about half are allergic only to peanuts. Of the rest, some react only to tree nuts, others to both. Common sense would advise anyone in any of these groups to avoid all nuts. Our problem here is that we just don’t know which allergy group Cantrell fell into. His Medic Alert bracelet specified only ‘nuts.’ If he was known to be allergic to peanuts, the bracelet should have said so. In short, unless toxicology proves otherwise, Cantrell didn’t die from eating that cake.”

  Glee muttered, “That lets Miriam off the hook.”

  The coroner’s findings did more than that; they shifted the brunt of the prosecutor’s suspicions right back to Pierce. Curiously, though, Kaiser didn’t pounce on these implications. Instead, he asked anyone, “Why do I keep hearing Miriam’s name in this discussion?”

  The question reminded me that Kaiser himself had never considered Westerman a suspect—that was our theory, behind the scenes, developed only a day earlier. What’s more, Kaiser and Westerman were allies in their battle against porn. Something warned me that it was strategically unsound to share with Kaiser any hunches we had about Westerman.

  Fishing for something—anything—to drive the conversation in a fresh direction, I said to Formhals, “The event that sent us down this new path of investigation—the possibility of anaphylactic shock—was your discovery yesterday of the two needle marks on Cantrell’s thigh. Because the EpiPen was crushed underfoot at the crime scene, we can’t be sure if it was actually discharged by the victim in an attempt to stave off an allergic reaction. It’s reasonable to speculate, though, that he made two attempts to inject himself with the antidote, hence the two needle marks.”

  “Yes…?” said Formhals patiently, unsure of where I was headed.

  In truth, I myself didn’t know, but I forged onward, “Since there were two needle marks, there are logically three possibilities: both came from the EpiPen, or both came from something else, or one came from the EpiPen while the other came from something else.”

  Kaiser butted in, “Something else? Like what?”

  “Like…poison,” I suggested, bluffing, as if the answer were obvious. Even as I said it, though, I realized that I had raised a sensible possibility that had not yet been explored. “I’m curious,” I told Formhals. “Is it conceivable that Cantrell was injected with something other than the EpiPen’s epinephrine, some fatal solution that could go undetected?”

  Kaiser blurted, “For God’s sake, Manning, you’re grasping at straws.”

  “Hold on, now,” said Formhals with the calm voice of medical authority. His black fingers straightened the white tips of his perfectly pressed collar. Pinching a fresh dimple in the knot of his tie, he told us, “Mr. Manning poses an interesting question, if only from an academic standpoint. Consider the neurotoxins.”

  Reaching inside my jacket, I extracted my pen and notebook, preparing for a lesson that was out of my field. Both Lucy and Glee were already taking notes.

  Formhals continued, “Some of these metabolic poisons, which limit their action to the nervous system, could produce symptoms quite similar to those observed in the victim. Well-known examples include strychnine and curare, as well as an assortment of nerve gases developed for chemical warfare. Even such familiar substances as caffeine and nicotine are, in sufficient doses, powerful poisons that can cause the lethal stimulation, then depression, of the central nervous system.”

  Lucy told him, “I assume, though, that any of these substances would eventually show up in toxicology tests.”

  “Exactly.” Formhals nodded. “Another class of potential poisons would be alkaline elements like potassium and calcium, available in many injectable drugs. Overdoses of these body elements can cause rapid respiratory failure and death, with asphyxiation symptoms identical to those observed in Mr. Cantrell. The use of these poisons too would be easily revealed by toxicology.”

  I breathed a frustrated sigh. “I guess that’s the nature of poison. It always leaves its telltale marks—right?”

  Formhals hesitated. “No, Mr. Manning. Not always.” He arched a brow.

  The rest of us exchanged a round of wondering glances, then returned our attention to the coroner.

  His manner now distinctly sheepish, he explained, “I can think of at least one neat exception. I have some direct experience with an injectable lethal drug that could not be detected by testing. It’s well-known within the medical community.” He turned to the DA. “Mr. Kaiser, to be perfectly blunt, I’m not entirely certain of the legality of the experience I’d like to relate.”

  Kaiser flapped his hands, shooing the coroner’s concerns, assuring him, “We’re all off-the-record here. We just want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Very well.” Formhals paused, collecting his thoughts. “After leaving medical school back East, I did my residency at an inner-city hospital. Since I lived only a couple of blocks away, it was too short to drive, so I walked to and from ho
me, often at odd hours. It was a terribly dangerous neighborhood. Purely in self-defense, mind you, I always carried with me a syringe loaded with succinylcholine.”

  Lucy, Glee, and I looked up from our note-taking, needing help.

  Formhals spelled the word for us, adding, “For short, call it succinyl, or just sux. It’s a surgical anesthetic, a muscle relaxant that’s been in wide use for many years. A twenty-milligram injection ‘stabbed’ anywhere fleshy—a thigh will do nicely—would fell an attacker within mere seconds. Within five minutes, he’d be dead of asphyxiation.” Formhals turned to the DA, pointedly adding, “Thank God, I never had to use it.”

  Glee wondered aloud, “Something that lethal—wouldn’t it show up in toxicology tests?”

  “No,” Formhals assured her. “That’s the ‘beauty’ of sux. Upon injection, it’s rapidly metabolized by the body as a natural substance, leaving nothing to be traced by toxicology.”

  “Good Lord,” said Glee, “it’s frightening to think such stuff exists.”

  “Succinylcholine is indispensable,” he reminded her, “for its intended use. Fortunately, this powerful drug has no prescribed use outside of anesthesia, so only a doctor would have access to it.”

  Pierce asked him, “Then what’s the likelihood that it could have been responsible for Cantrell’s death.”

  “Very remote,” replied Formhals, shaking his head, “practically nil. Succinyl poisoning is a long shot at best. And even if it was responsible for Mr. Cantrell’s death, there’d be no way to prove it.”

  We all fell silent. I capped my pen.

  Doug Pierce, who had listened silently to this whole discussion, now said, “So we’re back to square one.”

  “Actually,” said Kaiser, “we’re not. We’ve very nearly wrapped this up. All we need now is the final toxicology report, and Vernon has requested a rush on it. We’ll have the results within thirty-six hours. By Sunday morning, no later, we’ll know whether the victim had ingested nuts—real nuts, tree nuts, the kind that could kill him. Meanwhile, Doug, let me offer you a word of friendly advice.”