by Nina Post
"No. If I happen to see him, I happen to see him, you know? We talk gardening sometimes."
His heart beat faster. "Oh, like what?"
"Plants, flowers, pest control."
"How about geraniums?" he asked.
"Geraniums? Why would we talk about those?" As though cranesbill species would be the last type of flower she and her garage renter would ever discuss.
"Just a personal favorite," Shawn said. "How about mosaiculture? Did he mention that? Or moss?"
There it was. The look. He smiled a little.
"I don't think so. I don't even know what that is, the first one."
"Do you know how he was using the vehicle he stored in the garage?"
"For driving. I presume," she said.
"As far as you know, he wasn't using it for a particular purpose? Landscaping, for instance?"
"Why, because we talked about gardening?"
He let that be. "May I look in the garage?" he asked again.
She pursed her lips in a moue and scratched the back of her neck. He thought of the wounds in Jasper's and Paul's necks that went clean through to the other side. Someone drove a tool through their skulls and into their brains, multiple times.
But he couldn't tell her that, he could only keep trying to persuade. It was his job to keep these things inside him, rolling around like Jasper's marble collection in its case. Time for something different, he told himself, exhausted by keeping these images inside his head. But that was a part of his job. Sometimes it was like a Jack-in-the-box, winding up, winding up, then popping out with a horrible image.
"I have a cat, too," Shawn said.
A twitch of an eyebrow. He kept going.
"His name's Comet. Cats are supposed to be self-sufficient, and he is." He put his hands in his pockets. "But I work strange hours, often very long hours, and I know he gets lonely and even a little upset when I'm stuck on the job for long stretches of time. Even though he should never have a problem getting food and water, I worry about him. Maybe I should get another cat, but he didn't like that before" -- then again, that was an extreme situation. "And now I'm worried about where he'd go if something happened to me on the job."
He was desperate to get into that garage, even if it meant launching into a monologue about leaving Comet at home. Even if it made him sound overly concerned about or attached to his cat, which he'd admit he was. But it was worth a try.
"Sometimes I take him to the office with me," he added, a little desperately.
"Wait here." She closed the door. He let out a breath.
A minute later, she came back and held out a key ring with two keys. "It's the square one. You can leave it in the mailbox when you -- " She raised a hand. "I don't even want to know, okay? I don't want to know. Because if it's bad, I'd want to move, and I really don't want to move again." She ducked back into the house and shut the door.
He didn't waste a second. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, hurried over to the garage, and finessed the key into the stubborn lock. His breath held tight as the big lock fell open, and then he pulled up the pin lock in the door, dropped it into a large sample bag, then swung out the doors, almost enjoying his moderate tachycardia.
The white van was there, complete with Montgolfier Bros. Landscaping sign -- with a tree, like the fisherman mentioned. It was a sweet, sweet moment. "The white whale tasks me; he heaps me," Shawn murmured. "Yet he is but a mask."
Shawn used the phone to take multiple photos of the van and the garage, which was just big enough to open the doors on one side of the vehicle. As he took careful steps into the dark, wooden garage, he smelled linseed oil and solvents with a citrus note, which in turn sounded like an extremely disagreeable bottle of wine.
The van was an older model vehicle, so he should be able to get the door open, but first he'd need his lock kit, which he got from his trunk. He felt and heard the lock open, then pulled the latch to open the door, and smelled it, under the cleaning agents used in the van, under the scent of pine and vegetation. Death. Like a great white shark wearing a nun's habit. Unmistakable.
Shawn unlocked the sliding door from the inside and backed out a few steps. He opened the doors at the back, which had two large windows, one for each door. All he noticed at first glance was a tent, and that the carpet had been pulled up, exposing the metal. Near the slide-out door, there was a cigar box. Sweat prickled on his chest and under his arms. He went around to the other side of the van and pulled open the door, which made a low rumble as it slid and then a click when it stopped. He leaned in and picked up the box.
The top lifted with that same soft creak all old cigar boxes had. Inside it was a double-sided hardwood gavel, like one a judge would use. Shawn reached in and took the handle in his gloved fingers, turning it over to examine it. At first, there didn't seem to be any blood on it, not that he could see, but there were a couple of small drops. Enough.
Taking the gavel and the box, he went to his car to get the appropriate evidence packing, sealed it up, then put it in the trunk. Another vehicle pulled up. That had better be the techs. He turned fast, then calmed down when he saw that it was the techs. He was never so happy to see them. "Do a once-over in the vehicle," he instructed after greeting them, gesturing to the van. "Print it, check the interior for DNA, then take the vehicle back to the lab and go over every inch."
They got to work and Shawn got back in his car just as his phone rang again. The number looked familiar. "Hello?"
"Detective Sergeant Shawn Danger?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"This is Hercules from A-Maz-Ing Pet Finders. I have good news for you." Shawn could already tell from the brightness in the man's voice.
"I could use some."
"I found Charlie, the pug you were looking for. He was hiding out behind The Pufferbelly. Maybe he likes Sunday brunch." The Pufferbelly was a restaurant in a renovated 1908 firehouse. He was elated to hear this. It felt like getting a care package full of snacks and books while stranded on a deserted island. "That is good news."
"What are your plans?" Hercules asked. "Are you going to take him?"
His plans. Just when he figured out his emergency plan for Comet, now he had to figure out what to do with Jasper's dog? Even though he was worried Comet might be lonely, he doubted Comet wanted a dog around, even a slow, sad-looking pug. "Where is Charlie now?"
"In a kennel," Hercules said. "Don't worry, it's a good one. But he can't stay that long."
"Give me a little time. I'll call you back."
Shawn hung up with Hercules and called the toxicology lab to see if the results were in from the autopsy. They were. "I'll stop by to pick them up within the hour," Shawn said. "Can you tell me right now if anything showed up?"
"Well, for, uh, Jasper Stowe, the white hairs you gave us are dog hairs, and the brown hairs were from the victim." As he thought.
"But here's the interesting part," the lab tech said, and paused. That small pause nearly drove Shawn into a frenzy. "What? What is it?"
"The toxicological analysis showed a measurable amount of brotizolam in Paul Harmon's femoral vein blood, indicating that he probably ingested a minimum 2.5-mg dose before the time of death."
"Brotizolam? What is that?"
"A sedative-hypnotic drug used to treat severe insomnia," the tech told him. "It's absorbed rapidly after administration, and is most likely the most potent benzodiazepine."
"Whoa, slow down -- what's benzodiazepine?" He had had just a few hours of sleep each night for several nights. He wouldn't process granular pharmaceutical information at lightning speed.
"It's a psychoactive drug, usually used to treat insomnia, seizures, muscle spasms, alcohol withdrawal. It's also used as a premedication for medical procedures."
For insomnia, and epilepsy, he supposed. "So, Harmon ingested at least 2.5-mg. Is that a lot?"
"Both of your victims received a minimum of that dose. It's about ten to twenty times the usual dose. In addition, Harmon's blood alcoh
ol level would have been high at his time of death, and the alcohol in the system would have enhanced the effect of brotizolam and extended the half-life elimination at the higher end, well past the average of 4.4 hours, probably closer to eight hours. He would have been nearly comatose."
Paul must have been drinking at Slammiversary.
"Brotizolam is marketed internationally under the name Lendormin," the lab tech added, "and we don't see it that often because it's not approved for sale in the U.S."
If it wasn't approved for sale in the U. S, would Brower have picked it up while he was overseas in the Army? Or from a narcotics dealer in Erie?
"Jasper Stowe also ingested a dose of at least 2.5-mg?"
"Yes. Blood drawn from Stowe's femoral vein registered a brotizolam measurement that indicates a similar dose, though a test for blood alcohol was negative."
That was no surprise -- Jasper had been running, training for a marathon.
"You said that Harmon would have been nearly comatose owing to the alcohol in his blood. What about Stowe?" Shawn asked.
"Harmon would have been unconscious, or close to it. Stowe would have had considerable difficulty responding or moving."
Presumably, Brower dosed them to keep them immobile and quiet, but didn't have to. He had strength and skill. However, both kills were done in public places.
Something was missing, and it bothered him.
"Stowe was killed during his morning run," Shawn said, "and Harmon showed defensive wounds, so both victims were still conscious shortly before they were killed. Were they injected, or…"
"Brotizolam comes in tablet form, so it could have been forced down the throat before they were murdered. I can tell you that brotizolam would have taken effect almost immediately, especially with Harmon. He must have had very little time to defend himself."
It wasn't high enough of a dose to render them totally unconscious -- and Brower couldn't have foreseen that Paul had a high blood alcohol level. Why dose them like that?
"And there's no way a person would have a prescription for this."
"Not in this country."
Shawn paused. He needed to ask the right questions, and was worried, as usual, that he wasn't. "Would a person who goes out of their way to acquire brotizolam be likely to have a prescription for a different kind of insomnia drug?"
"Yes, I'd say that would be likely. They probably just don't like it as much, because brotizolam is likely the most efficacious benzodiazepine."
After Shawn thanked the lab tech then hung up he did some quick research on brotizolam. It was created in 1976 at Takeda Chemical Industries in Japan, and the toxicologist was right: it was not approved for sale in the U.S. -- or in the U.K., or Canada, though it was approved for sale in Japan, some European countries, and a few other places.
He called the pharmacy that Jasper Stowe had used before and asked if they had any sleeping-related prescriptions on record for him. They didn't. Shawn thanked them, hung up, then double-checked Jasper's medical records for drug history. Nothing related to insomnia, seizures, spasms, or alcohol withdrawal. Jasper was clean as a boy scout. Shawn repeated the task for Paul's pharmacy in Coudersport. They told him that Paul had used a prescription nonbenzodiazepine hypnotic in the past, but the prescription hadn't been filled in eight months.
Brower was a cipher, and Shawn had limited information, but all he found were a few prescriptions for painkillers. Shawn started to call the pharmacy Darcy used for her birth-control prescription, then decided to drive there instead. When he arrived, he asked for the pharmacist and briefly explained what he needed to know. He showed his badge and documentation -- a copy of the missing persons report -- that indicated there was an active investigation, so no warrant was required under HIPAA regulations.
The pharmacist went to the computer and typed in the name. "I do see some management here -- an active prescription to Zolpidem, a nonbenzodiazepine hypnotic, and Quazepam, a benzodiazepine derivative drug."
"What's Quazepam used for?"
"It's used for the treatment of insomnia."
***
In the parking lot, Shawn called Darcy's husband. He identified himself, told Mr. Kehoe they hadn't found her yet (which he hated to say), then asked him a question. "You had mentioned to me that Darcy has some collections. Would you mind telling me what those are?"
"Well, let's see. She's got yardsticks, antique wooden spinning tops, and early 20th century wooden hand mirrors."
Shawn cursed silently. "What else? Does she collect anything else?"
"Well, she's also got a world-class antique hairpin collection. It's her favorite, but she keeps most of the pieces in storage."
He closed his eyes, thinking he could just as easily passed by a "crazy wall" where Darcy laid out every step, and he still would have willfully not noticed it.
He made a another call, this time to Ashburn. "Remember me, Captain? One of your Crimes Against Persons detectives? I need a warrant for the monastery and for the curtilage at the monastery."
Ashburn snorted. "You want to harass a bunch of monks? Are you fucking kidding me, Danger?"
"Ah, so you do know who I am."
"What's the object?"
A search had to be specific both to place and to the object to be searched for.
"The murder weapon. Darcy Kehoe. The missing Zippo lighters. Any amount of Lendormin."
"Lendormin?"
"The brand name of the brotizolam the toxicology analysis found in both bodies."
Shawn waited.
"And the curtilage? What's your reason for that?"
"The gardens."
Ashburn sighed. "Have you tried just asking these monks if they would let you search the location?"
"No."
"Do that first, then get back to me."
***
Before dropping off the gavel at the lab, Shawn called Abbot Thomas's office line. After greetings and making sure the abbot remembered him, not that he expected he'd forget, Shawn asked if the abbot would mind if he searched the monastery and grounds for some evidence connected to the two homicides he was investigating. If the abbot refused, Shawn was confident the affidavit he filled out for the warrant would hold up later.
"I can get a search warrant if I need to, Abbot," Shawn said during the abbot's hesitation. "I'd rather get your permission."
"Is this about Brother Benedict?"
"Yes."
"And what are you hoping to find here?"
"A missing woman, the murder weapon, a prescription bottle, and some missing items."
"Oh dear. Oh dear." The abbot paused again. "Detective, if any one of the brothers committed some kind of sin, or -- or had evil thoughts arise in his heart, he would have confessed them to me as the fifth step of humility. He would have told me. I am his abbot!"
"Well, he didn't. Do I have your permission, Abbot Thomas?"
"No, Detective. You'll have to get your warrant."
Chapter 20
Shawn spent nearly an hour at the Wegmans working on the affidavits for the two warrants -- his sworn statement that specified the evidence and the exact places that he wanted to search. He found a judge who could sign off on the search, then met his team a short distance from the monastery, in the parking lot of a Methodist church.
Then, flanked by a team of five officers and one cadaver dog, Shawn started with the curtilage. Abbot Thomas came out to greet Shawn, but his welcoming smile faltered when he saw the team and the dog. Shawn knew it was probably sinking in what they were there to do.
Shawn handed gestured to the officers to go ahead as he gave the abbot the warrants. "Marin, Crane, check the grounds by the moss garden. I'm checking the house." The abbot looked deeply concerned.
As Shawn headed toward the garden he noticed that the brothers had forgotten their humility in favor of curiosity. Their eyes weren't to the ground, they were directly on them, and one scurried over. "Detective Danger?"
"Yes."
"I'm the one
who called you," he said in a very quiet voice.
"You called the tip line?"
"Yes. Look in the moss! Northeast corner," he whispered furtively, then scurried away again.
Crane and Marin were already at the moss garden, and stopped dead when they saw the gigantic foliage sculptures. There was one of a pilot whale, one of a dragon, and one of an angel with broad wings.
"What kind of lunatic did those?" Marin said.
"Our suspect," Shawn said. "It's called mosaiculture."
Crane frowned.
"It doesn't matter. Marin, use the shovel with the moss garden there." Shawn indicated the area.
"The shovel?" Abbot Thomas said in a strained voice. "Is that necessary?" The officers spread out. Shawn turned to the abbot, who was wringing his hands like a mantis. "You're not going to dig up the garden, are you?"
"We're going to need to do some digging, Abbot," Shawn said. "We're looking for a weapon that was used in five murders."
"Oh dear. Oh dear." The abbot wandered off, making nervous repetitive movements with his hands. "Where is Brother Benedict?" Shawn called after him. His phone buzzed and he silenced it without looking at the screen.
The abbot paused. "He left an hour ago."
"Where did he go?" Shawn's phone buzzed again. He silenced it again.
"I have no -- I -- well, he went on one of his errands."
"The kind where he brings back materials for those?" Shawn pointed his thumb at the giant sculptures.
"Yes." The abbot rubbed a hand over his face and then over the top of his head. "Yes." Shawn disliked causing him this much anxiety, but it had to be done.
"When's he due back?"
"I -- " The abbot pressed on his forehead. Shawn imagined a bitch of a headache must be coming on. "Uh… by vespers. Six p.m."
Shawn's phone buzzed a third time. He checked the screen then took the call, holding a hand up to Crane to tell him to hold on. "Yes, Captain."
"You got yourself one epic clusterfuck, Danger," Ashburn told him over the phone.
"What are you talking about?"
"Those techs you left in the garage? They ended up in the hospital."
"What?" Shawn's first thought was chemical leak.
