“So we got nothing.” She closed the flaps on the storage box. The tape gun screeched as she ran a line along the seam.
“Not true. The Doc and I are playing phone tag. He left me a message and said he’d taken a closer look at the vial at lunch. He doesn’t know if it’s saline, but he’s certain it isn’t insulin.”
Jo dropped the tape gun on the counter. “How does he know that?”
“He smelled it.”
“He did what, now?” she sputtered. “What if it’s toxic?”
Squint held his hands up in the air. “I know. But apparently, insulin has a distinct aroma of Band-Aids.”
“You mean like what you put on a skinned knee?”
“Precisely.”
As a kid, she’d loved that smell. Weird, considering she encountered it only when she was hurt. “I know he’s not much for speculation, but did he offer anything else?”
“Not on the phone, but he’ll be here in about ten minutes with the vials so we can print them.”
“That’ll give me time to run the evidence down to Reginald before he closes up shop for the day.” She hefted the box. “Be right back.”
Minutes later, she handed the evidence off to Reginald.
“Do you need me to pull anything else?” he asked.
“No, that does it for today. Have a good night.”
In the hallway outside the property room, she encountered the chief’s secretary. Harriet’s upper lip curled, and she veered into records without saying a word. The snub wasn’t unexpected, but it still stung.
Jo ducked into the women’s locker room.
It was well known in the department that to determine the chief’s stance on a matter, one needed only to look to Harriet for the clue. Her curled lip made it abundantly clear that Jo was still at the top of the chief’s shit-list.
Jo splashed water on her face.
The subpoenas had been sent, the evidence reviewed and printed, but the only new thing she’d learned was that insulin smelled like adhesive bandages.
She raised her head and studied the face in the mirror. Taken in parts, she had too square a chin, a slightly crooked nose, high cheekbones, and curious eyes. When mixed together, she’d always considered it a strong face. Not too pretty. Pleasing enough. She’d never much cared what others thought of her looks. Her mother had taught Jo from an early age that looks gave no indication of a person’s character. Only actions could do that.
And what had her actions in the chief’s office said about her? She’d popped off to her boss—the man who stood between her and the promotion she desperately sought. Her mother would have been appalled at Jo’s lack of diplomacy. From a political standpoint, it was nothing short of rash. Maybe the chief was right— she was Joseph Wyatt’s little girl after all.
But she’d told the truth.
Grabbing a paper towel, she blotted her face. Ingersleben would be here any minute. She tossed the towel in the bin and turned away from her reflection.
Just as Jo reached the door, it opened inward and Simply Sarah charged through. The elder records clerk squeaked when she saw Jo in her path.
“Gosh, Jo. If I didn’t have to go to the bathroom before, I do now.” She chuckled and slid past. “I emailed you the information you requested last Friday.” She disappeared into one of the two stalls.
“Thanks.” Jo racked her brain, then remembered the email she’d sent Sarah asking if anyone from another agency had queried Tye, Ronny, or Quinn in the national databases. “Anything turn up?”
“The DA ran all three names back in February.”
“Can you tell me exactly who from the DA’s office ran which person?”
The toilet flushed, and a decidedly less harried woman emerged and moved to the sink. “Not the office. The DA,” she said. “Zachary Walsenberg.”
“Walsenberg himself?”
“Child, you aren’t questioning my ability to run a query, now, are you?” She reached for a paper towel.
Jo collapsed on the narrow bench that ran between the two rows of lockers. Why in the world would the DA run all three of them? Hell, why would he have cause to run any one of them? Of course he’d known who Tye was the day she and Squint spoke to him. He’d known exactly how old he was too—he’d slipped when he called Tye a young man. So what had compelled the DA to lie? “Have you told anyone else?”
Confusion crossed Sarah’s weathered face. “Why would I do that? Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”
Jo’s mind raced with implications—and repercussions. The info might be meaningless. Or explosive. Which would it be? “I need you to keep this confidential.”
Sarah touched Jo’s forehead. “You’re clammy. So, I’m going to give you a pass on doubting my discretion. Chalk it up to whatever’s possessing you at the moment.”
Jo grabbed Sarah’s hand and squeezed. “You can’t even share this with Young Sarah.”
“Don’t you worry none.” Sarah sat on the bench next to Jo. “I’ve been doing this job a long time. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, something new comes along to spin it on its head.”
Something in Sarah’s eyes reminded Jo of her mother, and with surprise, she realized it was pride.
“You go figure out what it all means.” Sarah patted Jo’s leg and then stood, drawing Jo up with her. “Show this whole damn valley what you’re capable of.”
* * *
Doc Ingersleben had already arrived by the time Jo returned to her desk, her mind buzzing with the implications of Sarah’s bombshell. Distracted, she’d hoped she’d missed his quote quiz and was disappointed when he cleared his throat.
“A man should never be ashamed to own that he is wrong, which is but saying in other words that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.” Before either she or Squint could hazard their guess, he continued, “Alexander Pope first spoke the words, but I find myself needing them now. It appears I may have jumped the gun with my preliminary assessment—if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“That’s why it’s called a preliminary,” Jo said. “And it still might prove to be correct.”
“You are kind to try to soften the truth, but I would imagine that if you questioned the vials, there may be more to the story than we first assumed, no?”
“We’re still not ready to name a murderer—just the possibility that there may be one,” Jo admitted. That the suspect was a person with access to all the reports, she left unsaid. “What are your thoughts now?”
“I’ll definitely know more when I receive the toxicology. I’ve contacted the lab and asked them to prioritize the screening, so perhaps we’ll see it sooner rather than later. As for thoughts, let me start at the beginning. As I’m sure you are aware, sugar is an energy source that fuels the body’s cells.” He slid the brim of his driving cap back and forth between his fingers. “Problems arise when the sugars can’t permeate the cell walls. Insulin helps sugars break into cells.”
Jo extracted a notebook from her desk. “So insulin is the burglar of the pharmaceutical world.”
“You do have a way with words, my dear. The human body is remarkably adaptive—a work of art, really. When it can’t produce enough insulin, the body looks for an alternate energy source. That source is fat, and in order to break fat down, the body releases hormones.”
“And no one’s capitalized on this as a diet measure?”
“It’s not without complications. The process produces an acid byproduct called ketones. If left untreated, it would lead to ketoacidosis—also known as diabetic acidosis or DKA.”
“DKA it is,” she said, adding the acronym to her notes. “Would that have killed Tye?”
“That all depends.”
Her pen stilled. “On what?”
“One must consider the variables involved. Each of the many types of insulin has its own pharmacokinetics. Onset of action, peak effect, duration of action. Patients typically use a daily basal insulin, then
a short-acting bolus to account for the carbohydrate content of their food.”
There were many reasons why Jo hadn’t pursued being a doctor. Words like pharmacokinetics topped the list. “Can you explain it in a Diabetes-for-Dummies kind of way?”
“Ah, layman’s terms. Yes. Based on the medications that accompanied Mr. Horton, his insulin regimen included an injection of long-acting insulin that he took morning and night. He supplemented that with short-acting injections to account for the sugars and carbohydrates in his meals and to correct for any spikes or dips of blood sugars outside the normal range.”
“Hypothetically speaking, is there a set of variables where saline would either incapacitate or prove fatal?”
“Saline itself, no. However, substituting saline for both the long-acting and the short-acting insulins could be devastating to a patient in need of insulin therapy. Say Mr. Horton unsuspectingly injected saline instead of his long-acting insulin in the morning. It wouldn’t take long before he felt a bit off. In all likelihood, he’d check his blood sugar level, and then use a short-acting injection to remedy the variance. If that was also saline, and he then consumed a hypothetical slice of cake—”
“Or a shot of whiskey?”
“Or a wee dram. Mr. Horton very easily could have gone into a diabetic stupor.”
“He was alive when he was shot.”
“Most definitely, but it’s impossible to tell if he was conscious.”
“Then it’s possible he could have been positioned and someone else could have pulled the trigger?”
“If we’re still talking hypotheticals, it’s possible. There was no sign of a cadaveric spasm.”
It had been four years since her homicide investigations class. She recalled the term but not its definition. “I’m sorry, can you refresh my memory on what that means?”
“No need to be sorry, my dear. Instantaneous rigor. It’s a phenomenon that is most often evident if the victim is gripping something at the instant of death. Unlike regular rigor mortis, it doesn’t leave the body—well, at least not until putrefaction—and it can’t be broken without force.”
“You said sometimes. So even if a person was clutching a weapon, it might not be present. That means its presence is more of an investigative clue than its absence.”
“Precisely. If the cadaveric spasm was present in Mr. Horton, I would stand by my preliminary finding that Mr. Horton met his demise with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Without its presence, I can’t help you determine who pulled the trigger. It still could have been Mr. Horton, or it could have been someone else.”
In light of Sarah’s information, the next question was delicate.
Before she could figure out how to ask it, Squint spoke. “Does this mean you will be amending your finding?”
“I intend to do so when I get to the office.”
“Is that something that must be done immediately?” Jo asked.
Squint’s eyebrow shot up, and Dr. Ingersleben’s brows scrunched. Funny how one piece of the anatomy could go in two different directions and still convey the same WTF expression. She added, “I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics, but it could be beneficial to the investigation if news of the status change wasn’t known yet.”
Dr. Ingersleben thought about it. “I can certainly wait until I receive the toxicology, but if that shows what I think it will, then suicide is no longer a foregone conclusion.”
“I would appreciate whatever time you can give me.”
“Of course.” He stood and retrieved his tweed coat from the rack. “I very much look forward to learning what nefarious plot you’ve uncovered.”
As would she.
They said their good-byes, and Doc Ingersleben clomped down the stairs.
Jo waited until he’d hit the bottom tread and then turned to Squint. “Remember when I said I wasn’t accusing the DA of murder? I’ve changed my mind.”
42
Jo knew better than to enter the chief’s office for the third time in one day without reinforcements, and although she again selected the seat closest to the door, this time Squint sat next to her. She was grateful for his reassuring presence.
Chief Grimes capped his pen. “You’ve got two minutes.”
Two minutes wasn’t nearly long enough, so she chose the one sentence that would buy her more time. “I think Zachary Walsenberg is involved in the murders of Tye Horton and Ronny Buck.”
On the desk a clock ticked, filling the silence until the chief finally spoke. “You what, now?” He locked eyes with Squint. “Please tell me she’s joking.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“And what do you think, Detective MacAllister?”
“I think she has a compelling case that you should hear.”
The chief swiveled his gaze back to her. Based on the staccato rate of the pulse in his temple, the man needed to have his blood pressure checked.
“Let me hit the highlights.” She drew a deep breath. On the heels of this morning, she needed to reestablish her credibility. “The DA’s son, Derek, suicided last year after he, Ronny, and Quinn Kirkwood were involved in testing a video game designed by Tye Horton. In February, the DA ran all three of their names in the national and statewide databases. College records indicate Horton moved into the property owned by the DA in March. Coincidently, that’s the same month Quinn started receiving insulting and threatening emails related to gaming. Many showed that she’d sent them to herself.”
“How is that the DA’s fault?”
“It’s called spoofing. Think of it as the email equivalent of a carjacking. A suspect shoves the driver into the passenger seat. The owner is still along for the ride, but no one knows who’s actually behind the wheel.”
“Go on.”
“Squint and I interviewed the DA after Tye’s apparent suicide. He denied knowing Tye Horton, but during the conversation called him a young man. We know based on the records check that he had run the name. That’s lie number one.”
“I don’t know that I agree with the characterization of that being a lie. He ran the name nearly a year ago.”
“When the DA called you this morning to complain about me, did he mention he’d lied to me yesterday about Quinn as well?”
“Stick to the facts, Detective. Your time is running out.”
“During the fund raiser on Friday, I spoke to the DA about a case involving internet threats. That night, someone tampered with Ronny Buck’s truck. Around zero two thirty hours, Zach Walsenberg knocked on Quinn’s hotel room door. He addressed her by name and said he wanted to ask her about Derek. She threatened to call security and he walked away. She packed up her stuff and left the resort. During the drive home, she rounded a curve, hit some ice, and skidded into the mountain. A couple of minutes later, Ronny Buck hit the same curve, the same ice, and with no brakes, went off the side of the mountain.”
She broke off to gather her thoughts. “Yesterday, I saw the DA fishing. I asked him if he’d spoken to Quinn on Friday night. He pretended not to know who I was talking about. When I reminded him about knocking on her door, he agreed it was possible but said the room had been rented by his wife and he’d made an honest mistake. I have the surveillance photo showing him call Quinn by name. If that wasn’t enough, after I asked if he still had Tye’s belongings, he told me that the family was picking them up the next day—which would have been this morning. I called them. They hadn’t heard the property had been released. That covers lies two and three.”
“It’s my understanding that the coroner ruled the Horton case a suicide.”
“That was his preliminary assessment. He’s going to amend that.”
“To an undetermined manner of death or a homicide?”
Squint answered. “That depends on the continuing investigation.”
“There’s still more, Chief,” Jo added.
He rubbed his temple and then picked up his telephone and jabbed a speed dial. “Hi honey, I’m going to be a few minute
s late.” He paused. “No, it shouldn’t be longer than a half hour. I’ll see you soon.” The receiver banged into the cradle.
Without waiting, Jo continued her argument. “That brings the death toll to two—three if you count Derek. Tye’s home had been staged to mirror a section of the game he had designed. His laptop and all his games and gaming consoles were missing, presumably stolen. Tye is an insulin-dependent diabetic. We don’t have his toxicology back yet, but at least one of his vials contained something other than insulin. My working hypothesis is that the murderer withheld Horton’s insulin until he fell into a diabetic stupor and then killed him with the shotgun, staging it to look like a suicide. Meanwhile—”
“My God, there’s more? This seems a rather elaborate conspiracy.”
“Meanwhile, the threats against Quinn have escalated. We also have the first clue that links them all together—an email that said simply, ‘And then there was one.’ This one came right after she’d received an email from someone claiming to have seen her inside the Burnt Bean—coincidently right after she’d been in the Burnt Bean with yours truly.”
“So you think the threat is from a local source.”
“I do. Saturday, Quinn found several internet sites in her name. Mostly social media, a couple of escort services. We faxed subpoenas requesting account information to all of the providers. The escort service already responded. The account was set up four days ago by Tye Horton, and the IP address comes back to Echo Valley. This is problematic, considering Tye Horton is dead, and as an aside, his laptop is still missing.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Chief,” Jo said. “I recognize this is a political hot potato.”
“Do you? This is the goddamned district attorney we’re talking about. But you still haven’t described any sort of motive. Why on earth would Zachary Walsenberg risk everything he’s built in this valley to commit the type of crimes he’s dedicated his entire life to combating?”
“Because of a game that gave his son the courage to declare himself gay after he fell in love with its designer.”
Shadow Ridge Page 24