Poison

by Jordyn Redwood

  Nathan eased back. These utterances could be very telling. Nothing had been mentioned about an arrest warrant. Sounded like he’d have to bring her down for questioning. He pulled a card from his pocket. “I would like to speak with you later. What time do you get off work?”

  She pulled the card from his fingers and tucked it into her leopard-print purse. “Four o’clock.”

  “Meet me at the station after work. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  There wasn’t a distinct affirmation of his request, but he could see the heavy sense of civic responsibility on her face.

  Or perhaps worry over working for a murderous leach.

  “I’ll get Dr. Donnely for you.”

  Moments later, Gavin made his way down the hall, escorting them into his office. In the two days since Nathan’s last visit, Donnely’s physical appearance had deteriorated. The once metro-chic male looked barely above bum status. His clothing appeared wrinkled and unkempt. Oil caked his hair into stiff rows like crops for harvest. Coarse facial hair was matted and patchy. Instead of sliding smoothly, his eyes ricocheted.

  A classic sign of being under the influence.

  He sat heavily behind his desk. “What brings you here today, Detective?”

  His words were clear. Either there was another reason for the nystagmus or he was a professional drinker on the downslide.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Vanhise. He’s a psychiatrist who does some consulting work for the police department.”

  “You still haven’t answered my first question—the purpose of your being here today?”

  Nathan stepped up to the desk. “We have a warrant for evidence. I’ll need copies of the medical records for John Samuals and his daughter Raven.”

  Donnely looked off-kilter, as if a seizure was getting ready to ensue.

  “I’m not releasing those. That’s a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality, and Samuals is a federal prisoner.”

  Nathan stepped behind the desk and tucked himself up against Donnely’s chair, his invasion of Gavin’s personal space intentional to establish dominance over his whiny objections. “Doctor, being a federal prisoner doesn’t have any effect over the control of his medical records or the validity of the warrant.”

  “Why are you aiding John Samuals?” The room stilled at the rise of his voice. Donnely huddled himself into the chair.

  Nathan crossed his arms. “We’re not helping him. We’re trying to find Dr. Freeman’s murderer.”

  “But how can these medical records possibly help?”

  “Someone is using the name Lucent and causing trouble. As you’re aware, this name is significant.”

  “I don’t see how their medical records could be of any help.”

  “What surprises me is that you’re not anxious for us to find out who murdered your partner. What if you’re the next target? Or are you trying to hide something?”

  Donnely stood from his desk and pointed a finger in Nathan’s face. “I’m only trying to protect my patient. John Samuals is not the man he pretends to be.”

  Nathan could feel the tingly rise of adrenaline but maintained his position and placed a bored look on his face.

  Gavin’s statement seemed to perk Vanhise’s interest. The man leaned back and crossed his legs. “From what I understand about the circumstances, you willingly got involved in Raven’s care.”

  Donnely turned to face him. “Yes, for her. Imagine the trauma of living through those circumstances. Of being raised by a cold, calculating murderer.”

  “That’s not exactly an unbiased opinion, is it?” Vanhise pulled at the torn shreds of his jeans.

  Gavin crossed his arms tightly. “I only speak what I know to be true.”

  Vanhise kept his gaze on the man. “I mean professionally. It’s well-documented in public sources that John was suffering under some pretty horrific hallucinations. That these directed him to do his murderous deeds.”

  “Are you aware his drug levels were normal at the time of his arrest?” Donnely asked.

  Vanhise waved it off. “It doesn’t mean those drugs were keeping the hallucinations quiet. Clearly, John Samuals is one of the few who committed murder as the direct result of a serious psychiatric disorder. The curious part is why the defense didn’t use that fact to clear him. Why isn’t he in a mental hospital?”

  “I can’t answer that. You’d have to ask his attorney.”

  “Do you have a personal vendetta against John Samuals?” Nathan asked.

  “Of course not. Why would you ask?”

  “Because you don’t have any sympathy for his state of mind when he was clearly mentally ill.”

  “I was not directly involved in his case. My concern is only for Raven as my patient.”

  Nathan leaned closer. “Then help us help her. If we can understand more about her, maybe we could find her and return her to her child. Besides, I have a court order. Either way, I’m leaving with those files. So you can either turn them over voluntarily, or I can get a couple of officers over here to search for them. They tend not to be as neat as me.”

  Despite his words, Gavin seemed to acquiesce not out of concern for his patient but because he was backed into a legal corner. His eyes ticked between Nathan and Derrick. He took two steps away from Nathan and turned to a wooden file cabinet. He pulled out one thick file folder and handed it to Nathan. After giving it a cursory look, Nathan handed it to Vanhise.

  “My secretary will make a copy for you on your way out.”

  “Where’s John’s file?” Nathan asked.

  “John was Lucy’s patient. I’ll have my receptionist look in her office.”

  “This appears to be in order.” Vanhise slapped the pages closed.

  No further records were garnered from Dr. Freeman’s office. Nor did they find the doctor’s journal Mrs. Freeman had mentioned. As the receptionist handed them Raven’s copied file, she looked at Nathan like an orphaned puppy needing a home. He motioned to her with his hand formed into a phone to his ear. She nodded in return.

  Nathan and Vanhise stopped at a nearby Starbucks. Nathan wanted some cursory thoughts.

  They’d been sipping coffee, Vanhise flipping slowly through pages, as Nathan watched the fog solidify into flakes.

  “Find anything of interest?”

  “The whole record is intriguing. I’m just not sure what to make of it yet.”

  “Does he have notes about his use of hypnosis? The investigation thus far has shown this was a point of contention between him and Dr. Freeman. She wasn’t a fan.”

  Vanhise flipped through several pages. “Yes, he has several sections about hypnosis sessions.”

  “What’s your take on hypnosis as therapy?”

  He set the folder aside. “Honestly, clinically, it can be helpful. But I think its use is limited. It’s been shown to be effective for things like weight loss and smoking cessation. A girl suffering from depression and hallucinations is an entirely different ball of wax. In that situation, I can’t see how it would be helpful. It’s definitely not on the list of evidence-based modalities.”

  “Why do you think he was using it?”

  “At this point, I don’t know.”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “I don’t even have a good one.” He twirled the cup on the table. “You know memory is not infallible. What we believe about something can be highly suggestible to outside influences.”

  “Like eyewitness testimony.”

  “Exactly. I’m sure you’ve been in situations where you’ve done a lineup and the victim would have bet his last dollar that the man he identified committed the crime. Then some other evidence comes forth that conclusively clears that person.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it happen.” Nathan took a swig of his own caffeinated pick-me-up.

  “The issue with hypnosis is that it puts the mind into a suggestible state and what comes out may not be the truth.”

  “A false memory.”

 
; “I read a biography once of a woman who was a journalist. She was doing a lot of stories about sexual abuse. I think that saturation of information, the things she was writing about, caused her to overanalyze very innocent things in her own family.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it has a happy outcome.”

  “She ended up accusing her father of molestation. Later, through a series of events, she determined these were false memories. Her relationship with her father never fully healed.”

  “Do you think someone could use hypnosis to attempt something detrimental to the patient?”

  Vanhise shuffled through a few more notes. “Like what?”

  Nathan tipped his cup back and forth. “I don’t know. These weird theories pop up in my mind. Sometimes they don’t hold much water.”

  “I don’t think you’d have the reputation you do if you didn’t think outside the box.”

  “Did you find it strange . . . his concern that we were helping John?”

  “Many people find helping convicted criminals distasteful.”

  “True, he had the same face I see sometimes with families when a criminal goes free on some technicality. Yet why would he visit John in prison if he found the idea of helping him so loathsome?”

  “I agree that seems contradictory. Have Gavin’s and John’s paths crossed at some point in the past? If he truly doesn’t like John, why would he want to help his daughter?”

  “Sometimes the best revenge is not killing a person but psychologically torturing them.”

  “And how would he do that?”

  “By tormenting his already troubled daughter.” Nathan stood from the table. “Take a good look at that file, Derrick. I think I need to start looking into Dr. Donnely’s past.”

  Chapter 19

  LEE EXITED THE ROOF ACCESS of the building that sat across the street from the bank. Despite the chill in the air, Lee’s body temperature rose in his SWAT uniform. The weight of the vest usually comforted his psyche, but today it felt wholly constricting and he wanted to peel it off and toss it over the side of the roof. He had trouble discerning if it was his anger or his consternation that caused the increased heat. Sweat pooled at his armpits and at the small of his back. He swiped at a trickle that slid down the side of his face.

  Holmes had assigned him to be a spotter for the roof sniper, whose world consisted only of what he could see through the scope, leaving him vulnerable to everything in the periphery. Lee would have the advantage of seeing the whole picture, backing up Holmes if needed.

  Officer Ryan Zurcher was setting up his rifle and scope. He was a lateral transfer from Lee’s old department, one he was glad to have on board.

  Another person he could talk with about that day, as Ryan had lived through it with him as well.

  Unfortunately, Ryan’s transfer was under duress. His parents were older and in poor health, and the drive from Colorado Springs became too arduous for him to keep up with their needs. As any good son would do, he moved close by them. Sometimes, Lee wished he could find an outlet for the constant stress the younger man was under.

  Lee patted his shoulder. “Ryan, looks like you’re stuck with me over the next several hours.”

  “Couldn’t think of a better man.”

  Lee adjusted his vest and grabbed the binoculars. As the temperature dropped, an eerie fog gelled and hung low over the area in a thick haze. At the front of the bank, all the blinds were closed. The end of a weapon poked through the thin metal slats with a set of eyes next to it peering out to see what the police were up to. Gray sweeps of hair curled in front of one eye.

  The Granny Gang was what the press had dubbed them for dressing in oversized floral dresses complete with drooping bosoms and wrinkled, elderly masks. This was their first visit to Aurora.

  “Looks like today will be the end of their run.” Ryan set the scope on the roof and settled on his abdomen. Suddenly, he turned on his side and gasped in pain, as if he’d settled on something sharp.

  Lee kneeled next to him. “You okay?”

  The younger officer wiped the sweat from his brow. “Yeah, just some weird belly pain.”

  Even though SWAT uniforms trapped heat, the amount of sweat that poured from Ryan’s face was unusual.

  “Are you sick?”

  “I had an interesting night.”

  Lee heard a command crack through his earpiece. “SWAT Two, do you have line of sight inside the bank?”

  Lee stood and double-checked the hostage taker’s position. No change. “SWAT One, that’s negative. Getting sniper into position.” Lee turned back to Ryan. “What happened last night?”

  “Met a girl.”

  “Yeah?”

  Ryan chambered a round. “She was into some strange things.”

  “You didn’t do anything you’ll regret, did you?”

  The officer shook his head and leaned back into the scope. “Wish it would have been more fun for me. I have horrible allergies. Took a dose of allergy medication and was dead to the world. When I woke up, she was MIA.”

  Lee settled next to him and took another view. Things had escalated inside the bank. One window now had an open view inside, the blinds askew, the cords swung wildly as if someone had pulled them and been yanked back from their position. He could see one of the gunmen shouting. He had a woman pulled up against his body, his arm clenched tight around her neck, the barrel of the gun at her temple.

  Violence from a distance, without the sound or feel of the energy from those on the ground was like watching a silent movie.

  “Got a lock?” Lee asked.

  No response. Lee looked down. Ryan used the back of his hand to mop up the sweat with his glove. The end of the rifle shook, unsteady.

  Before Lee could suggest Ryan set the weapon down, the young man convulsed, his finger jerked against the trigger. The unexpected, explosive concussion of the high-power rifle stunned Lee’s senses. The instantaneous noise of the bank window shattered by the supersonic round sounded like it was coming from a room down a distant hallway. From that same distant place, Lee could hear Holmes’s voice in a controlled rage.

  “Who fired! Who fired!”

  Lee keyed his mike. “SWAT One, accidental discharge. I say again, accidental discharge.”

  “Hit now! Hit now!”

  There was a series of concussive booms as flash-bang grenades went off inside the bank and fellow officers rushed in.

  Ryan’s screams nearly drowned out Holmes’s voice in his earpiece. Lee crouched to the roof. “Ryan!”

  The man had rolled away from Lee, the rifle tight in his arms. Lee belly crawled to his position. A chunk of ice fell from the sky.

  Great, hail.

  “Ryan? Can you hear me?” Lee latched a hand onto the man’s arm to keep him from rolling, stopping him facedown, the rifle pinned under him. The man’s howls echoed in Lee’s memory like the wolf he’d once stumbled upon caught in an old steel trap.

  He’s dying.

  “Just let me do all the work, buddy.”

  Lee seized Ryan’s right hand, ensuring control of his trigger finger, and pulled it straight off the rifle. Then, he placed his free hand under the sniper’s armpit and carefully rolled him off the weapon.

  “I’m going to move this, Ryan, just relax.” Lee eased the weapon from his hands.

  The man clutched his belly, writhing like a worm caught on a fishhook. Lee wanted to clasp his hand over Ryan’s mouth to drown out his violent shrieking. More shots sounded from the bank. Chunks of ice danced on the roof. Lee shielded the man’s face with his body.

  “Ryan, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

  Ryan only screamed through gritted teeth. Keeping a steady hand on Ryan’s shoulder, Lee peeked over the roof’s ledge. Two men were facedown on the sidewalk, their arms cuffed behind their backs, guarded by two officers with weapons trained at the ready. Ex-hostages were grouped to one side. Several officers had notebooks flipped open, taking statements.

  Holmes c
ame over the radio. “SWAT Two, send SWAT Seven to the command post immediately. I need you to remain in place and secure your position as a crime scene.”

  “Command, this is SWAT Two, stand by. We have a problem up here. Come to my location.”

  Ryan grabbed at his legs and began to roll side to side.

  “Try to stay still. I need to secure your rifle.”

  Lee stood and took one large step away from Ryan. He activated the safety and opened the bolt, locking it to the rear. The empty brass cartridge ejected into the air and Lee watched gravity work in slow motion as the brass spun end over end, the familiar tink-tink an exclamation point to Lee’s current thought.

  Hell in a hand basket was an understatement for this day.

  Lee released and let the magazine slide out into his palm and placed the weapon on the roof with the bolt open and the empty chamber visible. He placed the magazine by the butt of the weapon so it would be obvious to upcoming officers that the rifle was clear and safe. He picked up the spent brass and laid it next to the rifle.

  Returning to Ryan, Lee worked to undo his vest. The color drained from Ryan’s face, as sweat continued to pour from every conceivable pore.

  “Ryan, did you take something?”

  He flung his head side to side. “Make it stop! I can’t take the pain!”

  At first, Lee thought Ryan was seizing. All his posterior muscles pulled taut and yanked his back to an arched position to the point only his head and heels touched the ground. Ryan’s eyes widened and a scream peeled from his lips louder than the hail falling around them.

  Then he went limp and fell against Lee, his lips silent and slack.

  His eyes rolled back into his head. His breathing slowed.

  “Officer down! I repeat, officer down! I need a medic team on the roof.”

  Chapter 20

  LILLY REEVES WAITED JUST inside the trauma bay for the ambulance to arrive. Night had fallen, and the eerie late afternoon autumn storm infused a slow paralysis over the city. Colorado weather was known for its rapid changes, but this was beyond anything she experienced before. Fog, then hail, and now a blizzard.