“Yes.”
“Air embolism?” Ricky rubbed his face.
“I can’t prove it.”
“That’s the beauty of an air embolism,” Val groaned. “Just inject a bubble of air in his carotid artery, and there’s no trace evidence to prove that it was murder. What about the tox screen?”
“Nothing except traces of diazepam.”
“Let me guess. There was just enough to knock him out?” Val felt as if she were trying to swim upstream. Nothing made sense. On the surface, all of the so-called cases could easily be explained, until you lined them up next to one another and took a good hard look.
After another hour or so of going over the case files, Val didn’t feel any better. When they announced they were finished, Loomis couldn’t wait to rush them out the door.
“We don’t have a case,” she growled as Ricky hurried to catch up with her.
“It’s just too much of a coincidence,” Ricky tried to argue.
“Why don’t we touch base with Calloway and head up to San Francisco? Dr. Logan has agreed to meet with us.”
“Fisher’s father, Marsden, Ryan, Sampson, and Brooks. If it is this punk, I don’t get his motivation. Seriously, what’s the point?”
Val silently reviewed what little they knew all the way up to San Francisco.
* * *
“Thank you for meeting with us, Dr. Logan.” Ricky shook the athletic-looking doctor’s hand. Val followed and allowed Ricky to take the lead.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” the doctor apologized. “I am intrigued that the FBI decided to pay me a visit.”
“We’re involved in a case that may or may not pertain to Elizabeth Pryce’s death.”
“Speaking of intriguing, Ms. Pryce’s passing is the most interesting case I’ve worked on in a very long time. I was clueless as to what caused such a painful death in an otherwise healthy woman. I was convinced that she had come in contact with some form of poison. All the tests I ran for the usual toxins came back negative.”
“I understand,” Ricky said. “Unless you know what you’re looking for, you can’t test for it.”
“Thankfully, her home hadn’t been touched since her death,” Dr. Logan continued. “Truthfully, after the way she passed, no one was anxious to go near the place. There was a fear of coming in contact with something contagious. The only things that had been removed were her body and her cats. The cats were in perfect health. Which further convinced me that it was poison. I went back with the CSU team suited up and prepared for anything. We took anything that she might have touched or tasted. I tested everything, and I found it. The tissue samples I had saved confirmed my findings. She was poisoned.”
“With?”
“Hemlock and white oleander.”
“That’s a bit old school,” Val noted with surprise. “How did someone manage to slip her that?”
“We found the culprit in the form of a gift box of tea and honey. The tea had white oleander and the honey was laced with hemlock. Very effective and extremely painful,” Dr. Logan said.
“Who sent the gift?” Val asked.
“It was traced to a nonexistent company. No prints and the only clue we have is that the postmark was from Los Angeles. I hope this helps. I want to see whoever did this to that poor woman get what they deserve.”
Dr. Logan broke protocol and gave them copies of all the lab reports and his notes. Val and Ricky downloaded the information onto their tablets.
“Remind me again what Elizabeth Pryce’s connection is to Fisher?” Val asked once they had checked in at the airport.
“His girlfriend’s roommate,” Ricky said. “Your buddy Brooks discovered that Janie dumped Fisher to be with Elizabeth.”
“Right, broke the case open.” Val reviewed her notes. “Brooks said it was Calloway who steered him in that direction. When was the last time you heard of someone being poisoned with hemlock?”
“Socrates.”
“The killer had a good shot of getting away with it.” Val carefully began. “He could have grown the hemlock himself and mixed the yellow resin in with the honey to mask the bitter taste. According to Dr. Logan’s notes, it takes one gram per kilogram of body weight. Elizabeth weighed just over one hundred twenty-five pounds, but the killer used sixty kilograms. Enough for a person at least twelve pounds heavier. The symptoms include nausea, emesis, and abdominal pain. Due to the rapid onset of symptoms, treatment is rarely successful. Add the white oleander that was mixed in with the tea, and the poor girl didn’t stand a chance. Does this bolster Calloway’s theory? What do we know about Elizabeth’s personal life? Did she have an ex-lover from hell who liked to garden?”
“Worth looking into.”
“I never thought I’d be anxious to get back to Boston,” Val grumbled. “I can’t shake the feeling that all hell is about to break loose.”
Chapter 38
CC didn’t know how to feel about how eager Leigh was to assist her. They commandeered one of the conference rooms and went to work. CC’s fingers had black smudges from the magic marker she had used to write on the whiteboard that resembled the ones she had at home.
“I can’t believe it.” Leigh studied the work. “When you lay it out side by side like this, it seems obvious. Still…”
“It’s a far-fetched theory, and we have no proof,” CC concluded for her. “How do you conk Max on the head and make it all the way to California to kill Brooks? I always knew the little bastard was smart. I just never suspected he could have pulled something like this off.”
“How and why?”
“If I had the answer to that, I’d be sleeping at night.”
“They’re starting to arrive,” Leigh noted looking towards the hallway. “I know I’m not Max. I just want you to know that I’ve got your back.”
“I appreciate that more than you know.”
CC organized the photocopies she had prepared. She had made over two-dozen phone calls before checking in to the station. Now that everything was laid out, she felt certain of two things. First, she was right, and second, almost no one was going to believe her. The stellar reputation she had developed over her long career would only go so far.
“This is quite the little powwow you’ve gathered,” Rousseau said as he took a seat.
“Yes, sir.” She nervously looked around the room.
She had managed to gather her boss, Mills, McManus, Palmucci, and Wayne. She had Dr. Richards waiting on the speakerphone, and Val and Ricky had just arrived. CC couldn’t shake the feeling that this was one of those moments that could sink a cop’s career.
She felt a twinge of guilt when she saw both Val and Ricky were dressed casually in street clothes. At her insistence, they came to the station directly from the airport. She guessed that sitting in a squad room was the last thing they had planned on doing.
“I’m sorry for this,” CC meekly apologized while Leigh made certain that everyone had a copy of the files CC had put together. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got, then all of you can tell me I’m nuts. Or help. Your call.”
She felt her stomach clench. “Up on the board here, I’ve made three charts. The first is reported sightings of Albert Beaumont, the child molester that the Fugitive Task Force caught last week. Next to that is a list of dead bodies, or in Max’s case, presumed dead. Last is the connection between the victims and Simon Fisher.”
“Fisher?” Rousseau said. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I wasn’t.”
“Hear her out, sir,” Leigh asked. “I know it sounds crazy, but people are dying.”
“I get it,” he said. “If this proves that Max was set up I’m all for it.”
“Oh, please,” Palmucci scoffed. “Then explain the fifty grand.”
“Here.” CC shoved a sheet of paper across the table. Much to her annoyance, Palmucci didn’t bother to look at it. She ran her fingers through her hair and took a calming breath before she dared to speak. “Let’s start at the
beginning.” She pointed to the boards. “Malcolm Fisher died of anaphylactic shock. Supposedly, he was stung by a bee. Ricky, you and Val talked to the medical examiner in San Diego. Can you tell everyone what you found out?”
“Malcolm Fisher did indeed die of anaphylaxis,” Ricky said while flipping through his notes. “The troubling thing is his caddy gave him a shot of epinephrine. According to the medical examiner, there were no traces of epinephrine in Malcolm Fisher’s system. However, although the amount of bee venom in his system would lead us to believe he was attacked by a swarm of bees, there wasn’t a mark on him.”
CC picked up the thread. “Around that time, the Connecticut US Marshal’s office was informed by an anonymous caller that Albert Beaumont had skipped town. The caller’s voice was hard to identify.”
“We couldn’t,” Val said. “We were simply told that Beaumont would be arriving in Boston via a Peter Pan bus. He arrived by train hours ahead of us.”
“But you went looking for him,” CC said. “Another tip of his whereabouts came in. On that day, Elizabeth Pryce died. Ricky, what did the San Francisco ME tell you?”
“At first, Dr. Logan was clueless as to what caused such a painful death in an otherwise healthy woman.” Ricky paused to clear his throat. “After searching her home and running a battery of tests, he determined that she was poisoned.”
“With?”
“Hemlock and white oleander.”
“Hemlock?” McManus said. “Geez, where do you get that these days?”
“You can grow it.” Ricky shrugged. “The CSU team checked out Ms. Pryce’s home. They found that she had received a gift of tea. The hemlock was in the sample of honey, and the oleander, which grows wild on the West Coast, was in the tea. The police tried to track down the company that sent the free sample. They found out the company was bogus. If Dr. Logan hadn’t been so diligent, the death would have been written off as a stomach virus. Dr. Logan is more than happy to cooperate with our investigation.”
“What investigation?” Rousseau asked in a demanding tone.
“Who are these guys?”
“US Deputy Marshal Val Brown and FBI Special Agent Richard Samaria.” CC made the introductions. “They are investigating an aiding and abetting case.”
“You called in the Feds?”
“I-I…” she stammered, knowing her boss was pissed that she had breached the thin blue line that said locals don’t play well with Feds. “I did. They can get information that is out of our reach.”
“You mean your reach. So far I haven’t seen anything that warrants our involvement.”
“I guess I do.” CC’s heart sank. “In which case, I guess I should keep going. On September 29, the Fugitive Task Force received another call alerting them that Beaumont was roaming around Copley Place. At the same time, Bitsy Marsden went for a jog in San Diego. A few hours later, she was discovered with her throat slashed and her sweats down around her ankles. LAPD arrested two upstanding citizens when they tried to use her credit card. They later found what was left of her BMW in a chop shop in East LA. Turns out the kids they arrested didn’t kill her.”
“But they had her stuff,” Palmucci tried to argue.
“They also ended having solid alibis for the time of Ms. Marsden’s murder,” Ricky explained. “I personally find it hard to believe that someone would hitch a ride all the way down to San Diego just to steal a car.”
Palmucci responded with a grunt and roll of his eyes that was worthy of a teenage girl.
“Next we have another tip that sent us chasing after Beaumont, during which time Professor Archibald Harding died of carbon monoxide poisoning in Wisconsin. The police blamed it on a faulty flue in the fireplace. Thing is the fireplace had recently been refurbished. Also, the good professor was naked from the waist down. He was wearing makeup, and he had his Johnson in his hand.”
“So? He went happy,” Palmucci said. “Freaky but happy.”
“According to the coroner, he was standing at attention,” Ricky said. “He was fairly certain that his body had been posed postmortem. He just can’t prove it.”
“Also,” CC said, “the police never found any traces of makeup in the house.”
“And?” Palmucci once again snidely broke in. “So he had a playmate, big hairy deal.”
“A playmate who didn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning? I doubt if he had a friend who played dress-up and left him sitting there jacking off.” CC was pleased to see him slump down in his chair. She hoped that would be the end of his outbursts. At that moment, she was very tempted to slap him around.
“Next on the hit parade is Billy Ryan. He checked himself out of McLean and went straight to a prepaid hotel room. He shot up the purest heroin and cocaine on the planet and overdosed. The quality of the drugs alone would have killed him. Billy got the added bonus of having his drugs cut with drain cleaner. Our ME confirms that Billy died a horribly painful death. About the time Billy was jacking up, another tip came in that Beaumont was spotted lurking around Boylston General.”
CC paused when there was a knock on the door. She took a moment to grab a sip of coffee while Leigh answered the door. Leigh seemed upbeat when she handed CC a FedEx envelope.
“I got your package, Dr. Richards,” CC announced, confusing everyone in the room.
“Good,” Dr. Richards acknowledged over the phone. “You should continue, Detective. I get the feeling you are surrounded by skeptics.”
“Isn’t that the doc who did the profile on Fisher?” Her boss’s face was beet red as he asked the question. “She’s been listening this whole time?”
“Yes, sir,” CC said and she watched the vein in Rousseau’s forehead bulge. She was in it deep, and there was no turning back.
“More Feds?”
“Yes, sir. There was another tip. Once again, the caller’s voice was ambiguous. At the same time, Dr. Jack Temple went for a stroll on Revere Beach. He had consumed vodka laced with painkillers. The empty bottle of vodka was found in his kitchen. Jack also had an unopened bottle in his freezer. Wayne ran the bar codes on both bottles.”
Wayne said, “The bottle in the freezer was purchased at Jobo Liquors on Cambridge Street two weeks ago, and Dr. Temple paid with his Visa card.”
“Jobo is down the street from the hospital,” CC said. “Dr. Temple would have passed it along his walk to the Bowdoin T-stop.”
“The second bottle,” Wayne continued, “was purchased with cash at Blanchards Liquors on the day that Dr. Temple died.”
CC once again stepped in. “It was also purchased while Dr. Temple was at the hospital. He wasn’t supposed to be working that day. He was filling in for someone else. McManus, did you ever find Dr. Temple’s keys?”
“No. The only keys that we found were his car and work keys.”
“Dr. Temple,” CC told them, “had a nifty little interlocking key ring that hooked to a clip and a lanyard. It’s designed so you can keep different sets of keys separated. Dr. Temple was wearing the clip and the lanyard when he was found. No keys. The only way to lock or unlock the door to his condo is with a key.”
“They could have washed away,” Rousseau argued. “The guy drowned.”
“This key ring is very sturdy,” CC answered. “A gift from a pharmaceutical company. My wife has the same setup. When Jamie is at work, she locks her personal keys in her desk and only carries hospital keys around. To unlock one of the sets, you need to twist the metal bar, bend it up, twist again, and then detach it. Not something that would just wash away.”
“Also, we found something interesting in Dr. Temple’s condo,” McManus said without missing a beat. “His son had visited that morning. The place was neat as a pin. Apparently, Dr. Temple was a very organized man. When we entered the locked condo, we found a woman’s scarf and a Charlie Card. The card was for special fares, since the owner is on disability. We have her name, June Devlin.”
“What’s her disability?” Palmucci asked.
“Junkie,
prostitute.”
“Isn’t that grand,” Palmucci said and snarled. “And we get to pay her rent. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and democrats.”
“Don’t make me smack you. “ CC couldn’t suppress her anger. “McManus, where was Ms. Devlin at the time of the murder?”
“What murder?” Palmucci interrupted once again. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” Val said before CC had the chance. “But if you’d shut up and listen, you might learn something. I swear you make one more snotty comment, and I’ll be shoving my foot up your ass.”
“She’ll do it, too,” Ricky said with a sly smirk.
“You think you scare me, little lady?”
“Seriously, you don’t want to push her,” CC told him. “Just let me get through this, then you can tell me what a jackass I am.”
“Fine.” Palmucci folded his arms tightly against his chest. Everyone else in the room sighed in apparent relief.
CC doubted that they agreed with her, but Palmucci did have a way of pissing people off. “McManus, if you don’t mind?” she said to the amused trooper.
“Ms. Devlin was incarcerated for solicitation,” McManus explained. “Locked up over the long weekend. When Dr. Temple went for his swim, she was sitting in jail. She wasn’t arraigned until Tuesday morning when she posted her forty-dollar bond and went on her way.”
“The kick in the pants on the day of Jack’s death is the tips kept coming in.” CC pressed on, determined to explain everything.
“Beaumont, like the fair Ms. Devlin, was in custody, thanks to Deputy Brown and the task force. Another tip came in around the time Max took a header down that flight of stairs,” CC said. “The tips haven’t stopped, even though Beaumont is dead.”
“If I may ask?” Palmucci cleared his throat. “Who in the hell is Albert Beaumont?”
“The miserable sack of poo my mother had the misfortune to marry after my father died.”
“You mean Bert? The sorry son of a bitch.” Palmucci was clearly disgusted. “You should have slammed that loser with a baseball bat.”
Checkmate (Caitlin Calloway Mystery Book 2) Page 37
