by Jenna Kernan
“They’ve chosen you as a scapegoat.”
“Who has?”
“We have to figure that out.”
“But the state police know about this. I filed a statement with Detective Albritton.”
“Does the sheriff know that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You might be wrong about that file or you might be the only one who knows what’s going on at your company.”
“But then why is this all happening? All I know is that something was made and not tested. I have the batch numbers.”
“It’s enough.” He lifted a brow and studied her. “And what about yesterday?”
“My mother tells me that your brother brought me home in the evening. She said that I was drunk and that I threw a rock through a window at my company. Also, I was the center of a disturbance at the Lunch Box.”
“Doesn’t sound like you. Not even drunk you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve seen you drunk, Paige. You get happy and then you get sleepy.” He had her hand again. “You don’t throw rocks. Come on.” He dragged her to her feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to Glens Falls Hospital for a blood test. I think you were drugged.”
“But Sheriff Trace said he’d arrest me if I left this spot.”
“If you are right, they are going to arrest you anyway, Paige. We need to prove that you were drugged before whatever you took is out of your system. Now, come on.”
Chapter Twelve
The blood was taken at Plattsville Medical Center, and the rape tests were negative. Whatever had happened to Paige yesterday did not include sexual assault.
She emerged from the ER to find Logan speaking to Sheriff Trace, who was taking notes in a notebook. He waved at her and tucked away the pad.
“Any results?” asked the sheriff.
“Not yet. They said they’d contact me.”
“And me,” said the sheriff. “Paige Morris, you are under arrest on suspicion of theft of company property and products, damaging company property and trafficking a controlled substance.”
Paige managed only a strangled sound in her throat as her mouth gaped. What was he talking about?
“I haven’t taken anything,” she whispered.
“Paige, don’t say anything else until we get you an attorney,” said Logan.
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“You deny accessing a colleague’s computer?”
She closed her mouth and kept it closed as the sheriff read Paige her rights and then escorted her out with Logan following beside them.
“When will she be charged?” Logan asked.
“Monday.”
“Arraignment?”
“Monday, as well.”
“Where?”
The sheriff gave him the address of the federal court in their county.
“You’ll keep her safe until then?” he asked.
Trace nodded. “I will. I’m finishing out the month and then Kurt Rogers will be stepping in as sheriff. He’s working with me now during the transition. That means we are not shorthanded for once. So one or the other of us will be with her until her arraignment.”
“Can I post bail?”
“It’s a felony charge, so no bail until arraignment.”
Paige began to shake. This was really happening.
Logan said his goodbyes and promised to tell her mom where she was and what was happening.
Paige was escorted to the sheriff’s SUV, placed in the back seat behind the Plexiglas and transported north. The rain that had been forecast arrived and immediately turned to a slushy mix, coating the grassy surfaces on the highway. Before they reached their destination, the salt and sanding trucks made the season’s first appearance, splattering the windshield with their ice-melting mix.
Once at the Onutake County jail in Kinsley, New York, she was checked for warrants, photographed and fingerprinted. After which, Paige sat in a plastic chair beside the sheriff’s desk, despondently wiping the ink from her fingers with a wet wipe furnished by the sheriff.
Through the office doorway came a stocky man with close-cropped steel-gray hair and a white mustache that covered his upper lip. He wore a sheriff’s uniform that fit snugly across his chest. He offered Paige a kind smile.
“Miss Morris, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Sheriff Trace made introductions. “This is Kurt Rogers, my mentor and soon to be my replacement.”
Paige was escorted through the door and the pleasant conversation ended when she found herself quickly placed in one of three cells. Sheriff Trace told her he had business and was leaving her with Rogers. She nodded mechanically, knowing she could not trust herself to speak. The tears were already brimming in her eyes, and the fear gripped her trachea and squeezed.
She glanced about the cramped surroundings. There was a stainless-steel sink and toilet. On the sink was a small cake of soap wrapped in paper and across the sink was a small white cotton face towel. The bunk was slightly smaller than twin size, with a metal frame, mattress with a plastic cover, and a blue blanket and sheets each in separate plastic wrappers. The walls were concrete, painted an unfortunate pink, the color of lobster bisque. Outside the cell in the corner was mounted a small camera, the red light’s glow indicating that it was on.
A scraping sound brought her around and she found Sheriff Rogers placing a metal chair in the open doorway.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Rogers, motioning to the bed.
Comfortable was not how she was feeling. Lost. That was more the word. Bewildered. Shocked.
“Have a seat, Miss Morris.”
She dropped onto the bunk, facing him.
“I’m not allowed to talk to you,” she said.
“Yes. I know. Not about the matter at hand. But will you tell me about your company?”
She did, answering all his questions about what she did at the plant and what products the company produced, and which were manufactured in Hornbeck.
“So you make things with live viruses?”
She nodded.
“And a lot of gases?”
“Yes. Used in hospitals by anesthesiologists. Oral surgeons, as well, and some in the offices of other specialists.”
“And narcotics?”
“We call them opiates. Narcotics are illegal.”
“Yes,” said Rogers, working his thumb and index finger over his mustache. “How do you know someone isn’t skimming product away from the manufacturing floor?”
She explained the system of checks and balances, the accountability and record keeping.
“But you make up the batch numbers?”
“That would be Sinclair Park. He’s in charge of production.”
Rogers smiled. “This Park fellow, he in charge of all the drugs you make?”
“Pharmaceuticals.”
“Right. He the guy?”
“Yes.”
“Who supervises him?”
“He reports to the CFO and CEO of Rathburn-Bramley.”
“Names?”
She told him that the CFO was Veronica Vitale and the CEO was Allen Drake.
“Your head of security is Louis Reber. That right?”
“Yes.”
“And new hires?”
“My supervisor, the new product assurance director.”
“Yes, because of the hit-and-run. We processed the man accused, Seth Coleman. He was arraigned and is in custody awaiting trial.”
As he should be, she thought, and then realized she might soon face the same situation.
“Who do you report to now?” asked Rogers, now tipping precariously back in his chair so that it rocked on the hind two legs.
“Carol Newman, an outside hire and the one who suspended me. Now I have questions for you.”
He answered them all. Yes, she could have visitors. Bail hearing would be at the same time as arraignment and Rogers thought her chances for bail were good.
“The sheriff was so quick and I didn’t understand—process, I mean, all that he said. I’m being charged with theft and possession. Is that right?”
Rogers lifted a brow.
“The charge isn’t for using, Paige, it’s for trafficking. They found a bag with over 500 pills of oxycodone in your mother’s home in your room.”
Paige lifted the blanket, still wrapped in clear plastic, and hugged it to her chest.
“Impossible.”
“If that’s true, then I’d say someone wants you out of the way.”
Chapter Thirteen
Her mother hired a criminal defense attorney out of Glens Falls. Alison Eckersley arrived early Monday morning. She had thick red hair pulled into a low ponytail, pale skin and gray eyes. Her ill-fitting suit was an unfortunate shade of brown and was not cut for a woman so well endowed, making it tight in the wrong places and baggy where it should have hugged.
Paige sat in the conference room of the jail with Ms. Eckersley after discovering that her arraignment was in ninety minutes. Eckersley explained that the charges were entirely drug related and that, if found guilty, the quantity of drugs found on her premises would constitute a class B felony that could land her in federal prison for eight to twenty years. Her defense attorney wanted to use lack of knowledge as her defense, claiming she did not know the drugs were on her premises. The problem with this was that the baggie in which the drugs were found was from her employer. Her lack of memory of what happened to her on Saturday night and into Sunday morning complicated her case.
She’d told the attorney all she could about the problems she had at work, Dr. Sullivan’s text and her suspension on what she believed was either a mistake or a setup. Finally, she explained about filing a police report with Detective Albritton and receiving a blood test in Plattsville.
Eckersley’s brow knit as she scribbled notes.
Paige’s mother arrived twenty minutes prior to their departure to the arraignment, escorted by Sheriff Trace.
“Leaving in ten minutes, Counselor.”
Her attorney waved him away.
Her mother looked a mess. Her makeup was uncharacteristically heavy-handed, her hair was flat and her eyes were red-rimmed.
She carried with her an envelope with Paige’s blood work.
Paige scanned the report, which showed that she had in her bloodstream both opiates and Rohypnol.
“Rohypnol?” said Paige.
“What’s that?” asked her mother.
Her attorney leaned in to look at the results.
“Roofies,” said her attorney. “It’s a date-rape drug sometimes used to treat insomnia.”
“I didn’t know you had insomnia,” said her mother to Paige.
“I don’t and I didn’t take this.”
“Knowingly,” added her attorney. “We can use this in your defense.”
“I would never take this,” said Paige. “Someone slipped this to me.”
Her mother sucked in a breath and then blew it away. Her hand was still pressed to her heart when she spoke. “Who?”
Her attorney glanced from Beverly to Paige. “Great question.”
Paige’s skin went cold as her body went into panic mode. She tried to rein in her fears and let the rational part of her mind sort out who and why.
Scapegoat, Logan had said. Some person or persons were setting her up. But who among her friends and family would help make her the fall guy for...what exactly?
One possibility emerged, but she pushed it away. He couldn’t do this to her. Could he?
* * *
THE ARRAIGNMENT WAS FAST. Really, really fast. Besides the officials, the courtroom included her mother, Logan Lynch and Carol Newman, her new supervisor.
Paige did not speak. The prosecuting attorney laid out the evidence they had, including the opiates, stolen from her plant and found in Paige’s bedroom after an anonymous tip was received by the state police. Equally troubling, the prosecution delivered a bank statement indicating that there had been a deposit yesterday of $11,000 into Paige’s checking account. She was still reeling over that bombshell as her attorney denied all charges on her behalf and asserted that the charges were invalid and should be dismissed based on Paige’s blood test results, but the judge deemed there was enough evidence for her to stand trial. Bail was set at $45,000. Her mother looked lost. They didn’t have that kind of money.
Paige was escorted back to jail for lunch where Sheriff Rogers explained that, if her family did not post bail, she’d remain here in their custody until her trial, which was over a month away.
She wasn’t hungry but forced down the chicken and biscuits, coffee and pumpkin pie. The dessert made her wonder if she’d be home for Thanksgiving or eating that meal here in this cell.
Sometime in the middle of the afternoon she received a visit from Detective Albritton.
He stood leaning on the locked door. “I went to the funeral home in Hornbeck to speak to the coroner. He had a list of all belongings found on Dr. Sullivan. They did not include a smart watch.”
She thought for a minute. “There must be a record of the text somewhere.”
“There is. I have it. Dr. Sullivan has three phones on his account. One for him. One for his wife and one for his son, Steven. He also has a smart watch linked to his phone. I requested the call and text data. It includes the location. His final text matches the area where Dr. Sullivan was struck and killed. It also matches his time of death.”
“You think someone sent it after he was dead?”
“No, I think Sullivan sent it to you after he was hit and before he died. I think someone knows about that text and possibly the email you discovered, and that is why you are sitting here.”
“You think I’m being set up.”
He nodded. “You know, those watches have an interesting lock feature. They lock when they are removed from the wearer’s wrist. Until then, anyone could have read that text or anything else.”
“So they would have to have been at the scene?”
“Or in the ambulance or at the funeral home. I’d say the person who removed that watch checked it first. Then they would have known on Thursday that you received a text and what it said. If we are right, you have come to the attention of a person or persons willing to kill your supervisor.”
“But he was hit by a guy with a record of DUI.”
“He was hit by his vehicle. I’ve spoken to Seth Coleman. He denies driving his truck at the time, and I have to check his alibi.”
“You think someone stole his truck and used it to kill Ed? Set him up, too?”
“I’m chasing that lead. I believe that whoever this is, they don’t yet know that you spoke to me. And they would not have known that you went to the hospital until your attorney mentioned it at the arraignment. I got there late but noted who was in there. Logan, your mom and a woman in a suit.”
“Carol Newman. She is Sullivan’s replacement and the one who suspended me.”
“And she is on her way back to report what happened here this morning.”
Suddenly, Paige wondered if this cell might be the safest place for her.
The heavy metal fire door beyond the row of cells creaked open and Rogers grinned in at them.
“Bail’s been posted. You, my dear, are free to go.”
* * *
LOGAN WRAPPED THE dove-gray winter coat that had belonged to his mother around Paige’s shoulders. Then he held the door to the station. She paused in the entrance, blinking up at the dazzling whiteness of the snow falling from the sky. In the twenty-four hours she h
ad been in custody, the weather and the season had changed from fall to winter. The slush that had splattered against the window yesterday afternoon had blossomed into perfect feathery flakes of snow. The fluffy powder reached five inches.
He helped her into his truck. The drive back to Hornbeck was awkward, with him trying to think of something to say and her wiping her eyes with a crumpled napkin. At arriving at her home, she seemed to pull herself together.
He walked her toward the house.
“Could you come in for a minute? Maybe we could talk.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to pick up the kids.”
She nodded. “All right. Soon, though. Okay?”
He remembered her wanting to talk to him after the Harvest Festival, but they’d never had the chance.
“Is this about the investigation?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s personal, Logan.”
Now he didn’t want to speak to her, as dreadful possibilities rose in his mind. Foremost was the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.
“Thank you for coming to get me,” she said as they walked side by side in the snow. “I don’t know how my mom managed bail when she can barely keep this house.”
“Your mother? No, she doesn’t know I bailed you out yet. I think she’ll be surprised.”
Not as surprised as Paige, who had stopped walking and now stood staring at him with one hand holding closed the top of his mother’s gray woolen coat and the other flapping up and down as if she were attempting a one-armed takeoff.
“You posted my bail?” She stared at him as if he were a stranger.
“Yes.”
“How did you... Oh, Logan, you didn’t mortgage your dad’s house or anything.”
“No. I have savings. My military pay and most of my salary from the constable position. I’ve been saving for something, but I can’t remember what. Maybe it was for this.”
“You’ve been...”