Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  Tampa, Florida

  Monday 2:45 p.m.

  February 19, 2001

  AS BEFORE, HATHAWAY IGNORED her question and asked his own. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Otter?”

  “About eleven-thirty, I guess. Some friends came along and invited him to go to a party. I got on the last bus back to Minaret because I was tired and wanted to go home. Why?”

  This was the fourth time she’d asked this same question and this time, Hathaway answered it. “Armstrong Otter was found dead on Eighteenth Street, near the corner of Seventh Avenue, early Sunday morning,” he told her, bluntly and without much finesse, I thought.

  A couple of beats passed as I watched the emotions her face revealed: first shock, then disbelief, then, grief. Margaret broke down completely then, sobbing and wailing. She crumpled onto the floor. Everyone in the office could hear her, which would embarrass her beyond redemption, I knew, once she regained her composure.

  I stood quickly and moved around my desk, reaching Margaret on the floor just a couple of seconds after Ben. We both tried to calm her, to raise her up off the floor, but she wouldn’t stand. Finally, Ben picked her up and put her on the couch in my office, while she continued to cry like I have never observed a person cry before in my life.

  Too shaken to do much besides cover her with the afghan Margaret had knitted for me long before, I locked the door connecting my chambers to the courtroom. Ben and I left Margaret, crying more softly now, and went out into my reception area to be alone.

  “I guess that answers that question,” I told him, bitterly. He had the grace to look sheepish. “I’m shocked at you, Ben Hathaway. I never would have thought you capable of taking advantage of a woman that way.”

  “You knew he was dead, too, Willa,” he accused softly.

  He was right, of course. I could have told her about Otter before Ben arrived and Margaret would have at least been somewhat prepared. I didn’t tell her because I wanted to see her reaction when Ben revealed the news as much as he did.

  Now that I’d seen her reaction, I said a quick thank-you because I wasn’t there alone when she learned Otter had died. A river of shame washed over me. How could I have thought for one second that Margaret would hurt anyone? Based on what? Nightmares and an overwrought psyche? Unbelievable.

  “Now what?” I asked him. “Surely, you don’t think she killed Otter, after that reaction? She couldn’t have known.”

  “You don’t think that was the reaction of a guilty person being found out?” he asked me, as if he believed that, which I knew he didn’t.

  I ignored the question, which wasn’t worthy of a response. “Like I said, now what?”

  “Now, I find out who did kill Armstrong Otter. And why. And hope that his death isn’t tied to Ron Wheaton’s somehow.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve suggested that connection. Do you know more about Ron’s death? Was it murder?” I wasn’t going to let him sneak out without at least telling me what was going in.

  “We’re not releasing that information, Willa. Let’s just say the autopsy’s back and we have good reason to suspect Ron’s death wasn’t by natural causes.”

  “What reason?”

  He studied me for a minute before making his decision. “Will you keep it to yourself?”

  I nodded.

  He said, “Ron Wheaton had three times the amount of insulin in his body that it takes to kill a man in his condition. That much insulin didn’t get there by itself.”

  “I thought you couldn’t detect insulin on autopsy. I had a case in my courtroom about that several years ago.”

  Hathaway shook his head. “That was true, once, because we believed that insulin dissipated quickly from the body. But now we know that the acidic conditions in the body at death preserve the insulin and the formation of lactic acid in the muscles after death prevents insulin breakdown. There’s no question that Ron Wheaton died of insulin overdose.”

  “How long does it take an overdose of insulin to kill someone?” I asked him, making my mental pictures of the night Suzanne found Ron Wheaton dead on our veranda repeat themselves.

  “The reaction time is from five to sixty minutes,” he replied, letting me reach my own conclusions.

  “Meaning someone killed him while he was a guest at George’s that Saturday night?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  I considered who was with Ron Wheaton when he died, and my mind didn’t want to go there. “Where was he injected?”

  “I’m not releasing all of the details at this point. Let’s just say it was in a location where someone else could have done it.” He picked up his hat and told me, “We’ll need a list of everyone who was at Minaret for the party. We’ve already started to repeat the interviews we did that night.” We walked toward the door. “I’m going to want to talk to Suzanne Harper again. I’ll interview you and Margaret myself, when she pulls herself together.”

  We’d reached the entrance now. “And Willa,” he said, one hand on the door knob as I pressed the release to allow him to open the door, “keep Margaret here for a while. We have a search warrant for her home that I’m about to execute. No point in upsetting her further.”

  I strode around Margaret’s desk where I’d been standing to push the door release, grabbed his arm and said, “Not without me present, you won’t.”

  “Oh, really? And just why would I allow you to be there?” He shook off my arm and headed through the door as I turned back to my office to get my purse and car key.

  I stopped to tell my clerks to look after Margaret, cancel the remaining afternoon pre-trial conferences, and to lock up at the end of the day. Hathaway had about a fifteen-minute head start on me when I hurried out the door and hopped down the stairs, two at a time.

  When I arrived at Margaret’s home on Coachman Street, just off the Bayshore past Bay-to-Bay, there were two police cars on the street out front and the front door was closed.

  I parked in the driveway, went around back and tried the back door. It wasn’t locked. How convenient, I rationalized. I was meant to be here. Besides, Margaret or her lawyer could be present as the police executed their warrant and, since they weren’t, someone had to protect her interests.

  I heard Ben Hathaway directing officers to search here and there in Margaret’s modest house. It didn’t take me long to find him. “What have you found so far?” I asked him.

  He gave me a sour look. “Why are you here?”

  “Owner’s representative,” I said. “May I see your warrant?”

  He grunted in a way that meant, “Yeah. Sure.” But he handed me the warrant and didn’t ask me to leave. Maybe he wanted someone to report back to Margaret. Or maybe he’d just given up trying to make me do things he knows I’m not going to do. In any event, he turned back to the officers conducting the search.

  I glanced quickly at the warrant and saw that they had the right to search the entire house, looking for insulin, syringes “and any other evidence” that Margaret Wheaton did or had reason to administer a lethal dose of insulin or any other drug to Ronald Wheaton last Saturday.

  They had started in the obvious places: the bathroom medicine cabinet, the bedroom that was still furnished as Ron’s sick room, the kitchen where I had seen other medications on the counter when I came through the back door.

  A photographer made still pictures of the house and another was taking video of the search. I was torn between running back out to Greta for the small disposable camera I kept in the glove compartment to take my own photographs, and staying to watch the search. I figured I could get copies of the police photos later and make my own pictures after they left, so I stayed to watch.

  The officers found and bagged several syringes, but they all appeared new to me, not used. Then they found a plastic container near the sick bed labeled “sharps,” which they bagged unopened.

  Margaret had not dismantled the last remnants of Ron’s illness. The room was tidy and clean, but still full of
the accouterments of a long-term sick room.

  Hathaway and I watched as the officers took all of the prescription medication with Ron’s name on the label and a few bottles that looked like over-the-counter medication.

  Margaret’s medicine was left intact and there seemed to be quite a bit of it. I didn’t know she took so many drugs on a regular basis. I made a mental note to ask her about it. I also noticed an officer dusting for fingerprints in all of the rooms. Randomly, as if Hathaway didn’t have anything in particular he was looking for but thought he might get lucky.

  Finally, after the officers had done all they could, they picked up their things and left.

  I stopped Hathaway as he was about to walk out the front door. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing much. No ‘smoking gun’ at any rate. I’ll have to wait until everything is analyzed to be sure.”

  “Let me rephrase,” I said, lawyer-like. “What were you expecting to find?”

  Hathaway appraised me and made up his mind, again for reasons he didn’t deign to share, to answer my question. He raked a weary hand through what was left of his hair, chewed more furiously on the toothpick he’d been holding between his teeth in a death grip similar to the one he unleashed on unsuspecting T-bone steaks.

  He said, “I thought we’d find the insulin and a set of syringes to inject it with. I thought we might find some financial evidence of a motive for killing him. A journal. A letter to someone. Something like that.”

  “But you didn’t find those things.”

  He almost growled out his answer. “No.”

  “So, what do you think? About Margaret, I mean? Do you really suspect that she killed her husband?”

  I didn’t mention my nightmare the other night. There was no reason for me to ask him his opinions if I was going to credit my subconscious.

  “Yes, that’s really what I think. But I’ll grant you I’d have a hard time prosecuting her for it. He was going to die anyway. A long, terrible death. I’ve checked up on it. That ALS he had is a terrible thing. For all I know, he asked her to do it. Or maybe he did it himself. I understand he still could operate his hands somewhat before he died?” I nodded yes and he went on, “So I figured they were either in it together; he did it himself to spare her, or she did it to spare him. I’ll admit to you, though, that this Armstrong Otter thing has thrown me a curve.”

  “You think the two deaths are related?”

  He looked at me like I was one brick short of a load. “Of course, they’re related. I don’t believe in coincidence. Especially when I’m investigating homicide.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben. But I honestly don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Give me a hint.”

  He tilted his head to one side as if to say, “Okay, I’ll humor you this time,” and then told me, “Margaret Wheaton’s husband and her lover are both dead within two weeks. Do you mean to tell me you don’t think the two deaths are related?”

  For the second time today, I was stunned to speechlessness. I tried to ask Ben another question, but no sound came out of my mouth. I choked on my own saliva and then coughed myself into the kitchen for a glass of water.

  Ben, who is an uneasy friend of mine, followed me into the kitchen to help me along. When I’d finally gotten a hold of myself again, I managed to ask him, “You think Margaret and Armstrong Otter were lovers?”

  “Willa, really. What planet do you live on? I’ve gotta go. Give me a call if you want to share information sometime. I figure Margaret will talk to you. Eventually. And that may be the only way we ever solve this thing.”

  Hathaway turned around and walked out of Margaret’s house.

  I stayed around for a little while, convincing myself that Margaret would want my help, now that Otter was dead and Hathaway had targeted her as his number one suspect. I’d need to get her a lawyer, soon, and I was preoccupied with thoughts about that as I walked back out to Greta for my camera.

  When I returned, I took pictures of every room in Margaret’s house, the medicine cabinet, all angles of the sick room, the bottles of medication on the counter, even the dishes in the kitchen sink.

  I didn’t know what these pictures might do for me, but I’d been helped by this procedure before, so I tried it again. Sometimes, things are hiding in plain sight, but I just can’t see them because I don’t know what I’m looking for. I hoped that would be the case with Margaret’s house because the more I tried to resolve the conflicting sides of Margaret Wheaton, the less sense all of this made to me.

  From my car, I called Dr. Marilee Aymes. Once again, the receptionist threatened not to let me talk to the doctor, but I insisted. She put me on hold for several minutes, which I used for thinking.

  I knew Margaret was diabetic, of course. We’d talked about it many times. Whenever someone brought in a great dessert for a party; when people sent me Godiva chocolates, some of my favorite things; when she was invited out for drinks with colleagues.

  Margaret was a type one, insulin-dependent diabetic. Her mother had the disease, too. Margaret was very careful of her diet. Although I’d never seen her do it, I knew she injected herself three times a day, and had done so for years. She kept her daily insulin supplies in her purse.

  But shouldn’t she have had more at home? Why weren’t they there? Was it because someone had used them to kill Ron?

  So Ron might have had access to the syringes and to the insulin. But could he have injected himself? And if he did, why would he kill himself at Minaret on Gasparilla?

  The insight, which seemed like such a lightning bolt when it had hit me while I was standing in Margaret’s house, now presented as many questions as it answered.

  What did Ron Wheaton and Armstrong Otter have in common? Margaret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tampa, Florida

  Monday 4:30 p.m.

  February 19, 2001

  “YES, WILLA? WHAT DO you want? I’ve got an office full of patients here.” Marilee finally came to the phone, bringing her usual gruff manner with her. I asked Marilee Aymes the question and she thought about it before she responded to me.

  “Sure, he could have done it. His ALS wasn’t that far gone.”

  “What would have happened to him, if he’d injected himself?”

  “Depends on how much pure insulin he injected. Too much, and within minutes he would have been in a hypoglycemic coma. Not long after that, he’d have been dead. Probably about thirty minutes. Less if he hadn’t eaten in a day or so. Anything else?”

  “Just one more thing. Where on the body would you have to inject enough insulin to kill a man?”

  “Insulin has to be injected under the skin, or it can be given in an IV. Enough to kill would leave a pretty big lump under the skin, so somewhere on the body that has the ability to take a big lump.” She was impatient to hang up, and I was glad to let her.

  I was speeding now, needing to get there before Hathaway figured it out, too. I parked the car, jumped out, and ran. It didn’t take me long to find it. In the azalea bushes about ten feet from where Suzanne found his body.

  The killer must have thrown the syringe there after he injected Ron with pure insulin.

  I picked it up carefully with a plastic bag I’d grabbed out of Margaret’s kitchen and brought with me for that purpose. Then, I zipped the syringe up inside the bag and looked at it.

  Now what? If I didn’t give this syringe to Ben Hathaway right now, I would be obstructing justice instead of just the bit of tampering I’d already done. I ignored the CJ’s voice I could hear in my head, warning me that I was putting my career on the line again. Obstruction of justice is definitely an impeachable offense.

  The syringe might have the killer’s fingerprints on it. Or it might not.

  I looked around in the bushes for a pair of surgical gloves, but found none. If the killer had worn gloves, he took them with him when he left.

  But if Ron Wheaton had injected himself, his prints would be on the barrel of the syring
e. I put the syringe in my pocket and went back out to my car, where I stored it in Greta’s glove box.

  It took me ten-minutes to drive back to the old federal courthouse. I parked Greta in my customary spot, across two spaces, and walked pensively through the courthouse to the ancient elevator.

  I could have taken the stairs, but my spirit was dragging, so I just waited. The elevator took longer to arrive than my drive in from home. Another interminably slow ride up to the third floor reminded me why I never used this elevator. I’ve seen entire pregnancies come to full term in less time.

  I pushed the buzzer seeking entrance to my chambers rather than dig out my keys. No one answered the door. When I looked at my watch, it was only four-thirty, so I kept buzzing.

  Eventually, all the way back in the library, one of my clerks heard me and came to let me in. I thanked him and made my way into my office, expecting to see Margaret in exhausted sleep on my couch. Which is just where she was.

  Before waking her, I made us a pot of hot tea, rattling the cups to create some noise at the same time so that she might wake up by herself and not be startled. When I brought the tea back to the couch, she was sitting upright, a sleepy face still, and seeming quite bewildered.

  I handed her the tea, liberally laced with lemon and a dollop of whiskey, for fortification. She was able to hold the cup in both hands. We sipped in silence until I thought she was gaining composure.

  “Margaret, Ben Hathaway wants to arrest you for murder. He’s been searching your house. It’s time to let me help you. Will you do that?” I spoke gently to her because she looked so small and fragile and just plain old, sitting there with the afghan she’d made me wrapped around her small shoulders.

  Without her glasses on, her eyes seemed smaller than usual. She blinked at me as if she didn’t quite understand what I was saying.

  “Margaret.” I touched her on the arm this time and said, still gently but more insistent, “Do you understand what I’m saying? You need a lawyer.”

  Ignoring the warning bells going off in the self-preservation section of my own mind, I told her, “You need to let me help you. If you don’t, you’re going to be in jail soon. Ben Hathaway thinks you killed Ron. And Armstrong Otter, too.”