by C. E. Nelson
“You’re the best.”
“I know. So, what did your parents say?”
Carlisle sat up straight. “Oh boy. You know, I’ve been really tied up with this murder and drug thing. But I’ve got it on my schedule.”
“So, you coming over? I’ve got lasagna.”
Carlisle’s stomach immediately rumbled. “Oh man. I really should work some more.”
“With that cabernet you like.”
“Really?”
“And my homemade French bread.”
“You had me at lasagna. Fifteen.”
Carlisle was smiling now. She brushed off the seeds, slipped on her jacket, and ran down the steps to her car. There were a few cars in the lot, the light from the tall lights in the lot reflecting off of the hoods and windows. Carlisle backed out and then headed toward the freeway, thinking about lasagna and cabernet and bread, and maybe some dessert. She did not notice the black sedan in the corner of the lot follow her.
Dr. Adams received the toxicology report from the state crime lab on Monday afternoon. He read it once and then a second time. He thought back to the autopsy of the Johnson woman. In his mind he went through it again, making sure he had followed all the proper procedures. He could remember nothing he had done that was not proper practice. After considering his own health over the last few days since the autopsy, he decided he felt fine. Adams always followed the same safety procedures when conducting an autopsy. He was very disciplined.
The lab had called in the middle of their analysis. This was quite unusual, and Adams had been alarmed when he answered the call. Their analysis had shown that the samples Adams had sent from the Johnson autopsy were highly poisonous. The technician said they were still conducting tests, with a complete report to be emailed to him later in the day, but that they felt a call was in order. They were still working to identify the poison from the sample, but it was likely that the poison could be lethal just by touch.
The report left nothing to chance. In bold red letters, it announced that the sample they received was highly toxic. Any instruments used needed to be sterilized, preferably twice, and all surfaces in the examination room should receive the same treatment. Gloves and gown worn during the examination were to be considered toxic and disposed of in a like manner. The report identified the poison as plant-based, possibly from South America. The poison would be fatal if ingested, possibly lethal if touched. There was no evidence of concern of the poison going airborne, although if it was in a powder form, breathing in the powder could be deadly.
Adams had called Berger immediately after his call from the lab.
“Les Berger.”
“Detective Berger. This is Doctor Adams from Lake County. I am calling regarding the toxicology report on Helen Johnson.”
Berger had not expected a phone call. Adams had his full attention. “Yes?”
“Detective, Miss Johnson was poisoned as I suspected. The reason I am calling you is that the lab in St. Paul has just called me about their analysis of the samples I sent. They have not completed their analysis, they expect to do so later today, but they called to warn me that the poison used to kill Miss Johnson was highly toxic. Anyone that came in contact with the woman or any part of what she may have ingested needs to be especially diligent to sterilize and or dispose of anything that may have touched her or what she ate.”
“Wow. Bad stuff, huh?”
“Yes, Detective. Extremely lethal. The poison was in the cookie she ate as I had told you before. You didn’t find any other pieces of it outside the body, did you?”
Berger thought about it. “No, nothing.”
“Oh. Any gloves you used in examining the body should be disposed of as if they are toxic. And if any of your team is feeling ill, they should see a doctor immediately and let them know what may have occurred.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said Adams. “All right. Well, I should have a final report later in the day that I will email to you.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Berger tried to think back to the investigation at the scene. As far as he knew no one except Adams had touched the body, and he was certain no cookie fragments were recovered. Anybody sick at the end of last week or over the weekend? He didn’t think so, but he’d have to check on the uniforms and the neighbor that found the body.
Everyone who had been at the crime scene was fine, including the neighbor’s dog. Berger looked at the email with the toxicology report from Adams late in the day. This stuff did not sound good. Someone had really wanted this woman dead. He looked out his window at the lights of the parking lot, thinking he had never had a murder by poison before. As he thought about how the information might affect his investigation, he yawned. Berger decided to call it a day, think about the murder overnight. He shut down his computer, thinking he should have emailed the report to Trask and Carlisle, putting a sticky-note on his keyboard to remind him to do it in the morning.
Chapter 32
Canton finished the last of her tomato soup. She liked tomato soup. The thick, creamy texture, taste, and aroma reminded her of winter weekends when she was a child. Her mother busy in the kitchen while her father kept the fire burning. Cozy. And secure. Before the Bishops had ruined it. Ruined her life.
She cleaned up after lunch, taking her time, letting the excitement build. With the Dan Bishop funeral at eleven in Two Harbors, she guessed it would probably be three or later before Tom Bishop would return home. If she timed it right, she figured she would have plenty of time to get home herself before dark.
Canton played with the cat as a distraction but couldn’t help checking the time frequently. She prepared herself and her plate of cookies for the trip, ready by two, forcing herself to wait another hour. She tried to read but found herself unable to remember what she read, too excited now for what was to come. At three, she checked her directions on her computer for the final time.
Canton followed nearly the same route that Ken Bishop had taken two days earlier. Although the leaves were past their peak colors, she still thought it was a lovely scene, when she dared take her eyes off the road. The sun was out, enhancing the golden colors, a light breeze giving the leaves a soft ride to the ground. The airport came into view, and Canton slowed as a small plane lifted off; its flight taking the craft over Canton’s car. Canton watched it as long as she dared, listening as the sound of the plane faded. She looked back to the airport. She could see the terminal in the distance, the runways all surrounded by fenced-in, cleared land. Canton had never been to the airport before. Never been on a plane. Never dared. Now, she thought she may like to try.
Just turning onto Fairview off of Gleason, Canton was surprised by another vehicle pulling up to Gleason on Fairview. She didn’t know much about cars, but from the commercials she had seen on television, she thought it might be a Subaru. A woman with chestnut hair was driving and looked at Canton as she pulled by. Canton caught her look and knew she had seen her somewhere before. Averted her eyes and kept driving down Fairview, eyes going to the rearview mirror, checking to see that the Subaru didn’t turn around. She kept driving, watching her mirror, driving past Tom Bishop’s driveway. Realizing she had gone too far by the time she reached the next driveway, she pulled in, backed out, and went back.
She turned into the gravel drive and stopped. There was a car. Parked in front of the garage. What if he had visitors? Family or friends that had come over after the funeral? What if there were more on the way? Doubts filled her mind. Insecurities of the past rising inside. Canton looked between the seats and shifted the car into reverse.
“No!” she shouted, banging her hands on the steering wheel. She scared herself with the outburst and looked to the house, wondering if anyone inside had heard it. After taking a deep breath, Canton put the car in drive and pulled in.
Tom Bishop hadn’t moved since the BCA agents had left. Holding the coffee cup between his hands, staring into the black liquid. Waiting for the magic solution
to his questions to pop to the surface, but nothing happened. He took a sip, the coffee cold and bitter. As he got up to pour it in the sink, he looked out to see a car parked behind his and an elderly woman in a white smock get out.
“Now what?”
Bishop watched her approach the front door, a plate in her hand. He went to the door and opened it as she was reaching for the bell, surprising her. The woman put her hand to her chest.
“My! You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Who are you and what do you want?” Bishop’s voice was cold, hollow. He stood behind the screen door.
“I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind eating a cookie for me?” The woman in the white smock held out a plate of cookies to him, pulling back the plastic wrap with latex gloves.
“No thanks.” Bishop turned, hand on the door to close it.
“Please, sir. There is no need for you to make any kind of contribution or buy anything. All you need to do is try a cookie.”
Bishop didn’t want to deal with this right now. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh please, sir. Just one bite of the cookie. It will make you feel better, and it would really help me out if I could have your opinion.”
Bishop blew out a breath. The woman was persistent. And he hadn’t had a cookie for a long time. They just weren’t on his tight budget. And who knows, maybe it would make him feel better.
“Please, sir. They are delicious. One bite?” She held the tray out to him.
“Fine.” Bishop turned the handle on the door, pushing it open. The woman backed away and then moved around the door. She held the tray out to him.
Bishop picked up a cookie, inspected it, and then took a bite. The cookie was a little dry, and a crumb ended up on his lip which he wiped away with the back of his hand. But it did taste good, very sugary, and lots of chocolate. The woman watched him as he chewed and swallowed.
“Is that it? You want the rest of this back?”
“Um, no. Thank you, Tom.”
Bishop was letting the screen door close, but he stopped at the sound of his name. “Do I know you?”
“You and your siblings ruined my life, Tom. I’m Grace Canton.”
Bishop stared at the smiling old woman. Grace Canton? Had he heard that right? He was about to ask who she was again, but his thoughts were becoming jumbled, his mouth dry, his throat constricting. And then there was an incredible pain in his stomach, like a porcupine was inside of him, stabbing him, ripping open his insides. Bishop wrapped his arms across his stomach before he fell to the floor, his body halfway out the door, holding the screen door open. He looked up at Canton, twitched twice, and died.
Canton pulled the door all the way open and looked down at Bishop. She smiled. Then she looked for the remainder of the cookie. It was not behind him or on either side. She backed away, holding the edge of the door with one hand, the plate in the other, and looked around the steps. No cookie. She didn’t want to leave any evidence. Or have a dog find it and die. She’d feel bad about that.
Canton put the plate down on the step and stepped back to where Bishop was laying. She bent over, grabbed Bishop’s shoulders, and tried to lift him. The body came up, but she quickly dropped it back to the floor. It was too heavy. Canton was leaning forward over Bishop, taking deep breaths, when she heard the car approaching. She stood straight, looking at the driveway as the car drew nearer, frozen in fear. A red pickup zipped past the driveway, never slowing. Canton released a breath.
She looked down at the body again. The right side of the body had fallen against the door, the right leg drawn up slightly. She moved to that side, holding the door open with her butt. Bending over, she reached under Bishop’s right shoulder with her right hand while grabbing his belt near the floor. She lifted again. The body came up, enough for her to see some of the cookie, before she dropped it back. You can do this. She leaned over the body, breathing heavily again, before taking in one large breath as she laced her hands where they had been before. Canton bent at the knees this time, lifting and then pushing. The body rolled.
The remainder of the cookie was there, in a hundred pieces. Canton collected all she could in her hands before moving outside, lifting the plastic, and dumping the crumbs on the plate. She looked back. There were tiny crumbs still on the floor, but she’d need a vacuum to get those. There was no time to go searching Bishop’s house for that. She hurried to her car, backed out of the driveway, and went home.
Ken Bishop got up from the table after the agents left, poured himself some whiskey, dropped in two cubes, and went back to where he was sitting. It bewildered him. The questioning by the BCA agents should have put him on edge, but he found he had a hard time paying attention to what they were saying. Someone had murdered Helen. And now someone had killed Fran. Maybe his fairy godmother was helping him out. He didn’t think so. What he did think was that his paranoid brother may be right. Someone could be killing them all off, beating him to it. But who?
Bishop finished his whiskey thinking about it and poured another. He could not come up with a good reason why anyone would want to kill his family. But it wasn’t really his family, was it? He had killed Laura and Dan. Someone else had killed his sisters. His sisters. That had to be it. He knew Fran and Helen talked regularly. And they had been to each other’s homes occasionally. They were friendly. But did they belong to any groups or organizations together? Places where someone might become familiar with both? He didn’t know, but it was possible.
Still, there was no need to take any chances, was there? Bishop turned off the light in the kitchen. He walked to his back door in the dark, turning his yard light on, looking outside through the window in the door. He saw no one, but he waited and watched for three or four minutes before stepping outside. Running all the way, he went to the garage and retrieved his pistol from under the seat in his car. In a minute he was back in the house. He left the yard light on, something he never did because it cost money, and locked his doors. After walking to the living room in the dark, he pulled the curtains. He walked back to the kitchen, flicked on the light, and retrieved his whiskey.
There was a noise in the house, one he didn’t recall, and he froze. The furnace kicked on. “Jeez,” he muttered and took a long sip. His phone was lying on the table and he picked it up. There should have been a message from his brother about why Fran wasn’t at the funeral, but there was nothing. Maybe he has more patience than I give him credit for. “I better call him.” Ken pushed the icon for Tom and listened, leaving a message for Tom to call.
Chapter 33
Carlisle was up at five-thirty the next morning. She had stayed the night at Pearson’s and was now in his pool doing laps in the nude. She was missing her morning run but had to admit the pool was pretty nice, especially when it was cold and dark outside. After a shower, she made coffee, had a bagel and a yogurt, and then got dressed. Pearson woke as she sat on the bed to put on her socks.
“Where are you going?”
“Work. Some of us have to work.”
“Why don’t you retire?”
“Yeah, right. Who retires when they’re thirty.” She looked at Pearson. He smiled. “Oh, right, well you’re different. A lot different.”
“Is that good?”
“I’m not sure. I’m thinking about it.” She leaned across the bed and kissed him. “There’s coffee made.”
“Thanks. Will I see you tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got crooks to catch. I’ll call you later.”
Carlisle drove to her apartment, changed, and was at work by seven. She made more coffee and then went through her emails. Nothing new overnight. She reached in the bag in her seed drawer, scratching the bottom, and then took a closer look. No mice. Decided her supply would last until noon when she would go out to get a new supply. Picked up the bag just to see if there were any mouse droppings. Sat back in her chair and popped a few seeds in her mouth, right hand falling on top of the left in
her lap. She twirled her ring on her finger, feeling the diamonds. Lifting her hand in front of her face, she looked at the sparkling stones.
A smile and a feeling of warmth spread through her, a feeling of belonging. Being attached to someone. But there was another feeling too. Related. A feeling of sadness and emptiness. For Jake Roberts. And the baby that would never know its mother. Sandy Roberts. Someone’s mother who had been killed because she did the right thing. Who risked her life to stop something bad. Someone bad. Someone still out there.
“Careful, Carlisle. You’ll go blind.”
Carlisle was startled to see Lerner sitting in the chair next to her desk, coffee cup in hand. She glanced back at her ring one more time and dropped her arm.
“Going to be a beautiful day!” said Lerner. “Great to be alive.”
Carlisle looked at him and shook her head. His brilliant smile was nearly as blinding as the reflection of the stones in her ring. “Well, Sandy Roberts and Laura Maples are not alive. Are we any closer to finding out who killed them?”
Lerner took a sip of coffee. “I can’t say as we are. We have, what, three doctors who said that they questioned the amount of medication refills requested for their patients at Hillside and no relatives who have noticed anything out of line. I was thinking, what if we could get hold of the prescription records for a few patients and take them to another doctor? See what that doctor would say?”
“Good thought, but that may be difficult. Just getting the records may be tough, and then I’m not sure we’d get much of anything like a definitive opinion. The doctor would have to be familiar with the patient. And they may not want to disagree with what one of their colleagues has done.”
“Yeah, I suppose. So…?”
“What about the list of former nurses we got?”
“Nothing. They all said they wouldn’t talk or just hung up on me. They were scared.”
“Yeah. The Sandy Roberts’ murder would do that. They probably all got phone calls.” Carlisle popped in a few more seeds. “So, I think we have to put the squeeze on one of the nurses at Hillside or maybe on Rahm. They don’t know how much Roberts told me. We tell them they will not only be doing time for stealing drugs but also that they will be an accessory to murder if they don’t cooperate.”