Killer Physique

by G. A. McKevett

  “But the signs of abuse are all there,” she said. “An inflamed liver, the enlarged kidneys, and the heart—the heart is a mess. Not only are there inflammation cells inside the heart muscle, but connective tissue had started to form between the cells.”

  “Did he die of a heart attack?” Savannah asked.

  “No.” The doctor walked over to the scale and lifted the brain. “He died of cerebral hypoxia.”

  “What the hell’s that?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “The brain suffered oxygen deprivation.”

  “Do you mean, like someone choked him?” Dirk asked.

  Dr. Liu shook her head. “No. There are no bruises on the neck, and no petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes.”

  Savannah looked up and down the enormous body with its bulging muscles. “I can’t imagine that anybody was able to pin him down and hold a pillow over his face to suffocate him,” she said.

  “Or tie a plastic bag over his head,” Dirk added. “So what would cause his brain to die from lack of oxygen?”

  Dr. Liu shrugged. “He stopped breathing.”

  “That’s it?” Savannah asked.

  “That’s enough,” Dr. Liu replied dryly. “A body stops breathing, that will do it every time.”

  “But what caused him to stop breathing?” Savannah asked.

  Shrugging her shoulders, Dr. Liu placed the brain in the pan with the heart, liver, kidneys, and other organs that, until recently, had kept Jason Tyrone alive.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s the million-dollar question, now, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 7

  Usually, when Savannah arrived at the luxury condos where Ryan and John lived, she was in an excellent mood. A visit to this lovely bit of property, perched on a hillside with a panoramic view of the ocean, usually included a scrumptious, gourmet meal, lovingly prepared by the handsome twosome, a snifter of the finest brandy, and scintillating conversation galore.

  What wasn’t to love?

  But today her heart was heavy.

  Feeling the pain of others had always been a burden to her—an overly active sense of empathy instilled in her, no doubt, by her dear grandmother. Tenderhearted Granny Reid would sob her face off over a plaintive tale about her neighbor’s kitten, left outside on a cold winter day without saucer of milk. By the same token, Gran would happily smack the puddin’ out of that negligent pet owner with a twelve-inch cast-iron skillet while lecturing him on the importance of providing proper care for the Good Lord’s innocent creatures.

  Gran was a complex, multifaceted sorta gal.

  Yes, Savannah had been taught the fine points of sympathy, as well as the art of retribution. And as a result, she felt the heartaches of those around her keenly . . . even if, occasionally, she was the one inflicting their pain.

  “I wish we had more to tell them,” Savannah said to Dirk, who was walking beside her, his head down, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old, battered bomber jacket.

  “No kidding,” he replied. “That visit to Dr. Liu brought up more questions than it answered.”

  They passed the pool and wound their way along the stone paths, through the lushly planted landscaping. Overhead, palms rustled as a midday breeze stirred their fronds. And in the perfect, cloudless blue sky, snowy gulls dipped and dove, squawking to each other, complaining about all sorts of birdie drama—perhaps an unshared tree limb, a hawk circling too closely nearby, or maybe a purloined French fry.

  Having lived so long in an oceanside resort community and having grown accustomed to noisy, disgruntled seafowl, Savannah ignored them as she and Dirk made their way to the building at the far corner. The prime spot in the rear of the complex provided the most privacy and the best ocean view.

  Ryan and John had called this beautiful place home for years, and Savannah had always envied them, just a little, and wondered how it would feel to live on top of the world.

  But today she didn’t envy them. In fact, she wouldn’t have traded places with them for all the ocean views in the world.

  Fancy condos, Pacific sunsets, and sea breezes meant little on a day when one of the people you loved died. And especially so if it was under suspicious circumstances.

  When Dirk knocked on their door, Savannah couldn’t help noticing that he did so far more softly than usual. Normally, he had a tendency to knock so hard that a house shook on its foundation—a consequence of spending too many years on the police force.

  He had also refrained from doing his shave-and-a-haircut routine.

  She was grateful for small favors. Maybe she was having a civilizing effect on him, after all.

  It took a while before anyone answered the door. So long, in fact, that she was beginning to think maybe no one was home. But eventually the door opened, and John was standing there in a dove-gray, satin-brocade smoking jacket, his meerschaum pipe in his hand. He looked relieved and happy to see them on his doorstep.

  “Ah, ’tis the two of you,” he said, opening the door wide and ushering them inside. “Ryan will be so pleased you’ve called, and so am I. Do come in and take a seat.”

  He led Savannah to a club chair near the large, ocean-view windows on the opposite side of the living room. She sat down and marveled, not for the first time, at the ultrasoftness of the leather against her hands as she slid her palms across the armrests.

  The heavy, masculine furniture in this room always welcomed her, like a friend’s warm hug, every time she visited. And, surrounded by bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics and walls hung with traditional art in gilded frames, Savannah felt she was visiting the library of an elegant, British manor house, instead of a California condo.

  John walked over to an exquisite bar made of carved mahogany and topped with hammered copper. “I know it’s a bit early in the day to imbibe,” he said, “but could I interest you in a particularly nice Spanish sherry, Savannah?”

  Long ago, Savannah had adopted the policy of never refusing any refreshment offered by John Gibson or Ryan Stone. Life was simply too short to deny yourself pleasures so sweet.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “It’s never too early in the day for a glass of your sherry.”

  She watched as John poured a generous amount into a tiny and delicate Waterford sherry glass.

  Reaching behind the bar, into the mini-refrigerator, he pulled out a frosty bottle of Dirk’s favorite beer.

  As he walked over to them and placed the drinks in their hands, Savannah thought how far John’s and Ryan’s friendship with Dirk had come. In the beginning their relationship had been rocky, at best.

  The streetwise Dirk and the urbane twosome could not have been more different in every way. Dirk listened to country music; John and Ryan were opera aficionados. Dirk’s idea of a good time was sprawling on a sofa and watching a boxing match on TV. The other two would top off a day at the golf course with an evening at a dinner theater. John and Ryan wore Armani, while Dirk fervently hoped he would someday be buried in his decrepit bomber jacket and his jeans with the threadbare knees.

  But the three men had one thing in common—they adored Savannah.

  So, over the years, they had tolerated each other with as much good grace as they could summon. And eventually, they had discovered other areas of shared interests. The greatest of which was the challenge of a tough case and the joy of nabbing a bad guy.

  Savannah had noted, with a great deal of personal satisfaction, when the male bonding had become complete. She knew the day had arrived when John and Ryan began to stock Dirk’s favorite beer in their home bar, and Dirk started to bring a bottle of chardonnay to Savannah’s backyard barbecues, along with his six-pack.

  Yes, it was the ultimate sign of tolerance. Maybe even acceptance.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Dirk asked, as he unscrewed the cap from his beer.

  “Having himself a shower.” John picked up his pipe and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, though Savannah knew he wouldn’t light it in her presence, out of respect for her
nonsmoking status.

  Then there was Dirk, who had recently given up his cigarettes and was doing a pretty good job staying smokeless. Considerate chap that he was, John wouldn’t have wanted to be responsible for anyone tumbling off the cigarette-free wagon.

  “A shower won’t help,” Dirk said, after taking a long swig of beer. “Believe me, I know.”

  Savannah didn’t have to ask what he meant. She couldn’t count the times when she had hurried home and jumped into the bathtub, hoping to somehow wash away the sorrow and the horror of what she had witnessed that day on the job.

  She had seen far too much, too many things, that had made her older than her years—things that could never truly be washed away, no matter how much rose-scented bath gel she used.

  Unfortunately, the human soul couldn’t be cleansed as easily as the body.

  “He’s taking it pretty hard then?” she asked.

  John gripped the bowl of his pipe. “Actually, I don’t think it’s fully hit him yet. This sort of thing takes a while to sink in. You know what I mean?”

  “I sure do,” Savannah replied. “Death is such a strange mystery. As much of it as I’ve seen, I still can’t get over how a person, a human being, can just . . . end like that.”

  “Me too.” Dirk nodded. “You can’t really believe it. Especially when it’s someone you were just talking to.”

  John wiped his hand across his face, and Savannah thought, for the very first time ever, that he looked his age. In fact, he looked like an elderly man—gray-skinned and dull-eyed.

  She realized that he and Ryan, like she and Dirk, had missed an entire night of sleep. Added to the shock of their friend’s passing, this had to be hard on the older man.

  She took a sip of the sherry, held it on her tongue for a moment, and allowed herself to enjoy its fortifying warmth. When she swallowed, she felt its fire tracing a path to her belly. In a matter of moments she delighted in the sensation of it spreading throughout her body, soothing and comforting.

  Of course, the solace that alcohol provided was artificial, an illusion at best. It was no substitute for true, spiritual peace. But at a time like this, she’d take whatever she could get.

  Hearing someone coming down the hall to her right, she turned and saw Ryan enter the room, wearing white shorts and a white polo shirt. His hair was wet and uncombed. He looked preoccupied, his expression despondent, until he saw them. And then he brightened slightly.

  “Oh, hi. I didn’t realize you guys were here. But I’m glad you are.” He glanced around at the drinks in their hands. “And I see we’ve started happy hour a bit early. Good idea.”

  He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of chardonnay. Then he joined them, sitting on the end of the sofa nearest Savannah.

  “What’s new?” he asked. “What did Dr. Liu have to say?”

  Dirk gave him a crooked smile. “What makes you think we’ve been to see Dr. Liu?”

  “I know the two of you,” Ryan replied, running his fingers through his disheveled hair. “And I knew you wouldn’t rest till you took a trip to the county morgue to find out what she’s got.”

  “I should have thought of that,” John said. “But then, Ryan’s mind is far more devious than mine.” He turned to Dirk. “What did she say?”

  “Not a lot,” he replied. “She said the cause of death was brain hy . . . hyp . . . something.”

  “Hypoxia,” Savannah supplied.

  “He suffocated?” Ryan said, his face registering even more distress. “I’m surprised.”

  “I’m surprised you knew what hypox . . . that word . . . meant,” Dirk replied. “Yeah, that’s what she said. He died because he stopped breathing.”

  “Well, not to be callous, but don’t we all in the end?” John said. “I wish she had been a bit more specific.”

  Savannah took another drink of the sherry and then spoke the news she had dreaded sharing. “She did mention that there were problems inside his body—damage that suggested the long-term, heavy use of steroids.”

  “Sad to say, I expected as much.” John laid his pipe on a nearby end table. “I was afraid it would turn out to be something like that—the result of some bad lifestyle habits and not some unavoidable medical condition.”

  Ryan sighed. “Personally, I was hoping for a congenital heart condition or something like that.”

  “At least,” Savannah said, “there’s no obvious sign of foul play. I was relieved to hear that, because I was wondering if, you know . . .”

  Dirk cleared his throat. “Yes. We were all wondering. We all had a feeling.” He looked at Ryan, then John. “Didn’t we?”

  At first they said nothing. Then John finally broke the awkward silence. “Yes. And I’d wager we all still do. We have that sinking sense that something’s amiss.”

  “Then let’s go over it together,” Savannah said. “Last night at the premiere, when the two of you were alone with him, did anything happen that was out of the ordinary? Does anything stick out in your mind?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said right away. “When he asked us to come by the hotel later.”

  John nodded. “That was strange, indeed. Even at the time, I could feel a bit of a shiver down my back. I knew he wasn’t asking us over just to have a pint and chat about the old days.”

  “Exactly when and where did this happen?” Savannah asked. She could hear her own voice change as the old cop’s investigatory tone replaced the personal, down-homey one.

  Once an interrogator, always an interrogator.

  “It was right after the movie ended,” Ryan replied. “We’d gone into the men’s room in the VIP lounge. John and I had finished our business and washed our hands. So had Jason. But he was taking a lot of extra time, washing his face and combing his hair. Then he took forever, fiddling with one of those pain patches he wears sometimes—taking it off, putting it back on, repositioning it. I think he was deliberately stalling.”

  “Yes,” John agreed. “It was as if he was biding his time until everyone else in the WC had left.”

  “And finally,” Ryan said, “when it was just the three of us, he bent over and glanced up and down the line of stalls, like he was looking for feet. When he was sure we were alone, he said, ‘Listen, guys. I’m gonna ask you for a big favor. I’d really appreciate it if you’d come by my room at the Island View tonight after you drop off Savannah and Dirk. I know it’ll be late, but there’s something I really need help with. And you two are the only ones I can trust with something like this.’ ”

  “No wonder your antennae went up,” Savannah said.

  “He didn’t give you any idea at all what he was talking about?” Dirk asked.

  “Not a clue.” John shook his head. “No sooner had he said that than a couple of blokes walked in, and that was the end of the conversation.”

  “Do you think it might’ve had something to do with you dudes being bodyguards?” Dirk suggested.

  “Yes,” Ryan answered. “I remember that’s what I thought at the time. He sounded sort of nervous, a bit scared. And I thought maybe he intended to hire us for security. Not that we would’ve taken his money.”

  “Most certainly not,” John added. “He was family to us . . . like the two of you.”

  Savannah smiled. “You say he was wearing a pain patch?” she said, changing the subject.

  Ryan nodded.

  “I’ve seen him use those many, many times,” John said. “With his training regimen he was always pulling or straining something. He said they didn’t take the pain away completely, but they made it a bit more bearable for him.”

  “Where was the patch?” Savannah asked.

  “About here,” Ryan said, pointing to the center of his own chest. “He complained of a condition called costochondritis—inflammation of the breastbone. He’d come down with a severe case of it years ago, when he was a bodybuilding champion.”

  “Aye,” John added, “the physicians told him to give it a rest and allow it to heal. Bu
t, of course, he wouldn’t. He was that sort. Driven. That was Jason.”

  Savannah thought back to the hotel room—to the young man’s body sprawled on the hotel floor. “He wasn’t wearing a patch on his chest,” she said. “When you found him, his chest was bare.”

  Ryan looked at her, considered her words, and nodded. “That’s true.”

  “Maybe he took it off,” she suggested.

  “He might have. He wouldn’t have put it on unless the pain was really bad. He wouldn’t even take an aspirin unless he absolutely had to.”

  “That’s true,” John added. “He wasn’t like a lot of those bodybuilder chaps. Stayed away from medications as much as possible—though sometimes the pain got the best of him, and he had to use things like those patches and over-the-counter pills.”

  “After he messed with the patch, what happened then?” Savannah asked.

  “We walked out of the lounge,” Ryan replied. “And then we left the theater.”

  “You walked him to his limousine?” Dirk asked. “And you actually saw him get in?”

  “Yes, we stuck close by,” John said. “It seemed like he was still a bit nervous. Had been ever since the balloon-popping affair. And then with that mysterious thing he said in the lounge—we thought he might feel better if we stuck close.”

  Savannah recalled the moment she had seen Ryan and John put their friend into the limousine. Jason had seemed jumpy, eager to get into the vehicle as soon as possible.

  She had seen that sort of behavior, that frightened demeanor, many times before. But usually the skittish person was a female, often one who was trying to escape a stalker.

  “He acted like someone was after him,” she said under her breath, more to herself than to the others.

  But they heard her.

  “Yes, he did,” Ryan replied. “He was acting like somebody who’d had a death threat.”

  “And a credible threat at that,” John added. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll be haunted by the thought that he needed our protection, and we didn’t keep him safe.”

  Ryan’s eyes filled with tears. “No kidding,” he said. “That’s what we do for a living. But we couldn’t even save our friend. I’m never going to get over this.”