Night Shift

by Annelise Ryan

  “Anything happen today on the Fletcher case?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, those two harridans got into a hair-pulling match after you left and a couple of unis had to go break things up.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Geez, I’m kind of sorry I missed that.”

  “Don’t be,” Bob says. “They’ve gone back home and good riddance.”

  “Were the federal guys excited about the stuff in the safe?”

  “They were. But they were even more excited to hear about the ten-dollar bill serial number clue. It got them into some password protected files on Arthur Fletcher’s laptop. He had a whole other email account, and software to encrypt the stuff he sent and to decipher the stuff he got. It’s some very sophisticated software. It’s unlikely he would have been able to come up with it on his own. Arthur Fletcher dropped out of school in the ninth grade.”

  “What did the emails reveal?”

  “Sadly, not much. The software has an automatic destruct built into it that turns the emails and the ISP they came from into gibberish thirty minutes after it’s opened. There was one email that hadn’t been opened yet, but when the feds tried to trace the ISP it came from, they realized that whoever was sending the stuff was using a worldwide series of servers to bounce off at random. All they were able to get out of it was the username of the sender and the text of the email, both of which turned to gibberish half an hour after they opened the email.”

  “What was the username? Maybe it’s a clue.”

  Bob shakes his head. “It was the letters WMC followed by a string of numbers. WMC might stand for Wisconsin Manufacturers and Commerce, one of the biggest organizations in the state. Unfortunately, there are thousands of people using those letters as an email address. A check with the email provider didn’t offer anything useful, either. It’s a phony name and a phony address somewhere in Uzbekistan.”

  “Well, that’s depressing. I was hoping for some good news.”

  Bob makes a face and says, “I have more news, though I’m not sure you’ll see it as good.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “We were able to obtain security video from the Quik-E-Mart Danny went to the other night and it verifies that he was there, though I don’t think it matters given the time of death. I heard back from Doc Morton this evening and he said they tested Fletcher’s body for the presence of all the poisons represented by the plants growing in the barn basement. Lo and behold, he tested positive for strychnine.”

  “He was poisoned?” I say, looking confused. “But the gun...”

  “Doc said the strychnine causes the muscles in the body to go rigid and what he originally thought was rigor mortis was likely this muscle rigidity instead. That means the time of death was sometime that same evening you and Devo found him. And there is no way Fletcher could have shot himself even if he was still alive at the time. Doc Morton said the guy wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger on the gun or even raise it to his chin due to the muscle rigidity. But that’s a moot point because the livor mortis proves he was already dead by the time he was shot. Though he did say he’s confused as to how anyone managed to get Fletcher into the chair because his body would have been stiff as a board.”

  “So, the official time of death is...”

  “Probably between the hours of eight and ten on the night you found him.”

  “And Danny left work at what time?”

  “No one saw him after noon.”

  “Allie said she saw him for a brief period that evening, but it was around eight if I remember right. She said he called her and told her he was working late. Has he ever said where he was the rest of the time?”

  “He has not,” Bob says pointedly.

  “So, he has no alibi.” I say this with sad dawning, knowing that Danny’s life is going to get a lot more complicated.

  “There’s more,” Bob says, giving me an apologetic look. I brace myself. “When you told me that Danny worked at the food processing plant, I assumed he worked the assembly lines.”

  I nod. “That’s what he told me.”

  “Did he? Are you sure?”

  I think back to conversations I’ve had with Danny in the past in the ER and elsewhere, talks about his medications, his illness, the side effects he had to deal with, and how they affected his life and his job. “He told me once that he didn’t like one of his medications because it made it hard for him to focus and he couldn’t do his job properly. He said his work required coordination, focus, and fast thinking and all of those were affected by the medication. I assumed from that that he worked one of the assembly or production lines. That’s what nearly everyone who works there does.”

  “Nearly everyone, but not everyone. Did you know that Danny has a college degree?”

  “I know he went to college, but he said he had to drop out because that’s when his schizophrenia began to manifest itself.”

  “He did drop out, but it was in grad school while he was going for his master’s. He already had a bachelor’s degree, in biochemistry. His work at the food processing plant is as a biochemist, exploring different ways to grow, package, and preserve the foods they process there.”

  Dread washes over me. “A biochemist? I had no idea.”

  I mentally review the facts: Danny is a biochemist and the Fletcher barn has a chemistry lab in the cellar, a lab most likely intended to extract the deadly poisons growing in that basement. Danny clearly has a connection of some sort to Arthur Fletcher and that death scene in the kitchen. Danny also has no alibi for the time of death.

  This leads me to a depressing but inevitable conclusion: the most likely suspect in Arthur Fletcher’s murder is Danny Hildebrand.

  Chapter 22

  The shock of the revelations Bob has just dumped on me make me temporarily forget about the call I made to Maggie Baldwin earlier. When my cell phone rings and her name pops up, I’m momentarily puzzled by it before memory kicks in.

  “Maggie,” I say when I answer. Though she has a medical degree and is referred to as Dr. Baldwin by some of her patients and associates, she has always insisted that I call her by her first name. “Thanks for calling me back.” I wave at Bob and make a quick exit from his office, heading for the break room. The oncoming cops will be getting their shift report from the outgoing group, so the break room should be empty.

  “No problem,” Maggie says. “I would have called sooner but I had to drive up to Columbia Correctional for an emergency psych evaluation on a prisoner there.”

  As I push open the break room door, I’m relieved to see that it is, indeed, empty except for Roscoe, who wags his tail when he sees me. I settle in at the table and spend the next few minutes filling Maggie in on the situation with Marla Riley.

  “Sounds like an interesting case,” Maggie says. “You think the police will be pressing charges against her?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you’re one of them now, aren’t you?”

  “Well, sort of,” I say. “I’m discovering there are some fine lines when it comes to my duty toward the patients I’ve seen at the hospital before and then encounter in my work with the police.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to see her tomorrow. What else can I help you with?”

  “Well, a couple of things. For one, I have a dilemma regarding my eleven-year-old neighbor, P.J. I’ve told you about her.”

  “Yes, the one who walks your dog. You believe she has Asperger’s, correct?”

  “That’s the one. So, her parents aren’t very involved with her and she’s recently overheard some things said by other girls at her school, things of a sexual nature. She’s asking questions, and I’m not sure how to answer her, or even if I should. Any advice?”

  “Hm, well, if you’re right about the Asperger’s, she likely won’t be very adept at interpreting social cues when it comes to romantic or sexual innuendo and relationships. In my experience, these kids tend to be all about the facts. They don’t embarrass easily, they’re often h
ighly intelligent, and since they tend not to socialize much, they don’t get a lot of exposure to this stuff. But that also makes them vulnerable. The best thing you can do for her is give her some basic facts about anatomy and physiology, and then give her some warnings about the psychological games that both boys and girls can play. Make her understand that her body is hers and not to be touched or used by anyone else in any way unless she says okay. Let her know what to do if someone tries to push that issue. And then try to tell her why it’s a good idea to wait until she’s much older before allowing anyone permission to touch her. Most often, these kids don’t like to be touched anyway, so that part of it might be easy.”

  “So, you think I should be the one to have this conversation with her? Not her parents?”

  “It doesn’t sound like her parents will do it, though I suppose you could go and talk to one of them about it and see what they say. If they seem eager to have that talk with the kid, then let them. But if they’re dismissive about it, you should wear the mantle.”

  I sigh, knowing that no matter which way things go on the matter, it will be awkward.

  “The kid is lucky to have you, and the relationship she shares with you,” Maggie says, sensing my doubts and reluctance. “Don’t leave her in the cold.”

  “You’re just full of metaphorical advice tonight,” I say.

  “I’ve always loved a good metaphor,” she admits. “What else can I help you with?”

  “I have another client, or patient, that I’ve cared for before at the hospital and I’m now dealing with through the police department. He’s someone I like a lot and I fear he’s in a great deal of trouble. He has schizophrenia and there have been issues in the past with him not taking his meds, changing his meds, that sort of thing. Currently, he’s a suspect in a murder case, and I’m beginning to think he might have done it. At the very least, he’s involved somehow. But he’s having all sorts of hallucinatory episodes suddenly, despite claiming that he’s taking his meds as prescribed. He’s been on the same meds for several months now and they’ve been working well for him up until recently.”

  “What meds is he on?”

  I rattle off the names from memory.

  “Hm... patients can sometimes build up tolerances to certain medications to the point where they don’t work well anymore, but the meds he’s on don’t typically have that problem. Plus, you say he hasn’t been on them all that long. Just a few months?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And they were working well for him until recently?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are these recent hallucinations similar to his past ones?”

  “Actually, they’re not. In the past, his breakdowns have followed a pattern. He has auditory hallucinations, voices that tell him to do things like take his clothes off or run away from home. He’ll get paranoid and say he thinks he’s being watched. He stops showering. And he withdraws from life. That’s been his pattern. The voices have never urged violent behavior before, and he’s never acted out against anyone.”

  “Are you thinking his voices told him to kill someone this time?”

  “No, at least I don’t think they have.”

  “So, what’s different then?”

  “He’s having visual hallucinations, one in particular.” My voice drifts off with the last word as I recall that Danny’s specific hallucination is one that I saw myself. “At least I think that’s what it is.”

  “Explain.”

  I tell her about the call to Allie’s house the other night, what Danny was saying, and how he was behaving. “At first, I thought he was having one of his usual episodes, though it was different than his others with this ghost he kept claiming he saw, and the stuff he was saying about a purple and pink polka-dotted dinosaur. But then we ended up at a murder scene and, lo and behold, there was this old-fashioned cookie jar sitting on a shelf behind the victim that was a cartoonish-looking, purple and pink polka-dotted triceratops. Later, when I talked to Danny again, he claimed that the ghost he saw was that of the victim, that it was at the cemetery when he went by there and it came flying out of a tree toward him.”

  “A manifestation of his guilt, perhaps?” Maggie suggests. I don’t answer her immediately and she prompts me with, “What aren’t you telling me, Hildy?”

  I hesitate, unwilling to say what I need to. Finally, I blurt it out. “I think the ghost might be real, because I saw it, too.”

  Now it’s Maggie’s turn to be silent. After an interminable amount of time she says, “A trick of the light in conjunction with your own imagination, maybe a bit of mist or fog?”

  “I really don’t think so,” I tell her. “I mean, I know ghosts don’t exist, at least I don’t think they do. But there was something there, Maggie. His sister claims she saw it, too, on a different occasion.”

  There is a moment of contemplative silence before Maggie says, “How have you been doing otherwise? Finding any odd food items in your pockets?”

  I feel myself blush. “I have, but only a couple of times,” I say. “I’ve just started this new job and that adds a lot of stress to my life. I’m still trying to figure out my new sleep schedule and my body isn’t in sync with what my brain says I should do.”

  The door to the break room opens then and Brenda and Devo walk in, ready to start their shifts.

  “Ready to go, Hildy?” Brenda says.

  “One sec,” I tell her. Then to Maggie, I say, “I have to go. My shift is starting.”

  “Do you have time for an appointment tomorrow?” Maggie asks. “I can try to squeeze you in after my regular appointments for the day.”

  Brenda points to Roscoe and says in a low voice, “I’ll load him up if that’s okay?”

  I nod and she walks over to his bed and hooks up his leash to his collar. “Come on, Roscoe,” she urges. “Another working night for you, boy.”

  As I watch Brenda walk Roscoe out, I tell Maggie, “I’ll be working all night tonight and then I have to report for duty at the hospital when I get done here. I won’t be getting to bed until I get off work at three-thirty tomorrow, and by then I’ll be too exhausted.”

  “Hm... I suppose you’re right. It won’t help if you’re too tired. So, let’s do this. I’ll plan on coming by the hospital tomorrow to see Marla Riley at noon. Let’s try to hook up then, just to touch base. In the meantime, I’ll think about what you’ve told me and see if I can come up with any great witticisms between now and then.”

  “That should work. Thanks, Maggie. I’ll see you then.” I disconnect the call and hurry out to the back lot where Brenda Joiner and Roscoe are both loaded into the car waiting for me.

  “Here’s hoping we’ll have a quiet night tonight,” Brenda says as we pull out of the lot.

  My cell phone rings then, and I’m surprised to see Bob’s name come up as the caller. “Hey, Bob. What’s up?”

  “Have you talked to Danny Hildebrand today?”

  “No, why?” A cold feeling of dread spreads through my gut.

  “The feds want to have a chat with him, and they went to his house this evening to get him, but he isn’t there. His sister said he went out for a walk around noon and never came back. He didn’t take his cell phone with him and his car is sitting in the street out in front of the house. Any idea where he might be?”

  I think a moment. “No,” I tell him. “Have you checked the hospital to make sure he isn’t there?”

  “No, good idea. I’ll give them a call.”

  “Let me know what they tell you, will you?”

  Bob agrees and I disconnect the call. “Danny Hildebrand is missing,” I tell Brenda. “And the feds want to question him. It isn’t looking very good for him.”

  “Do you think he killed that farmer guy?”

  “I don’t. I can’t say why, it’s just a gut feeling.”

  “Ah, your gut again,” she says in a teasing tone. “Why don’t you use that gut to figure out where Hildebrand might be?”

&nbs
p; We fall silent for a minute or so and then I say, “You know, I do have some ideas. I think he might go to either the cemetery or the farm. Fletcher’s death is weighing heavy on his soul. Whether or not he was the one who killed the man, he feels responsible for his death. I think he wants to apologize to the guy.”

  “A bit late for that,” Brenda scoffs.

  “Not if he apologizes to his ghost.” Brenda shoots me a look that says she thinks I’m off my rocker. “The cemetery,” I say. “He thinks he saw Fletcher’s ghost there. Maybe he went back hoping to see it again and make amends somehow.”

  “You want to go and search through the cemetery in the dead of night?” Brenda says. She doesn’t sound leery of this idea. In fact, she sounds excited.

  “Depends,” I say. “Bob is checking at the hospital to make sure he isn’t there. I suppose we could go out to the farm and see if they’ve had any suspicious activity. There is still a guard of some sort out there, right?”

  “There is,” Brenda says.

  “Except Bob said Danny’s car is at the house. I doubt he would have gone that far on foot.”

  “Good point,” Brenda says.

  Bob calls back then and informs us that the hospital hasn’t seen Danny, and I tell him about my idea with the cemetery. He agrees it’s worth a check and, the second he says this, Brenda turns the cruiser around and heads for the land of the dead.

  Chapter 23

  The city cemetery is in a part of town that is reasonably well lit at night, but most of the lights are on the streets. The bulk of the cemetery is shielded from these lights by the big old trees that cover the land. I’ve often wondered at the wisdom of planting that many trees in an area where frequent digging takes place as the root systems must be extensive. But it seems to work.

  Brenda parks the cruiser at the entrance gates, which are never locked, and I get out and fetch Roscoe from the back. At first, I hook him up to his leash, but then I decide to let him run free and explore, figuring if there are any ghosts or live persons in the area, he will find them and alert us.