Frozen Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  He has to push past me in order to get out of the room and I’m tempted to stop him, something I could do easily enough based solely on size. The walkway is narrow and I’ve got several inches on Arnie in all directions. But just as I’m about to assume my Wonder Woman bullet-proof-bracelet stance, I remember that I have another agenda, one that would be best served by Arnie’s departure.

  So I let him go and as soon as he’s gone, I slip Hurley’s hair from my slacks pocket and prepare it on a slide using glycerin the way Arnie did. I position it on the right-hand side of the comparison scope and then retrieve the evidence hair removed from Callie Dunkirk’s wound and position it on the left-hand side.

  As I look through the scope, I hold my breath in anticipation for a few seconds. Then I blow it out in a frustrated sigh and mutter, “Crap.” The two hairs are identical in color, width, and structure, meaning that the hair stuck in the dried blood in Callie’s wound is a match to Hurley’s.

  Chapter 11

  I carefully replace the evidence hair, take apart my prepped slide, and then head for the closest bathroom, where I dispose of the glass slide and the cover slip and flush Hurley’s hair down the toilet. There are plenty more where it came from and for now I don’t want to have it anywhere near me. My next big decision is whether or not to tell Hurley what I did and that his hair is a match to the one retrieved from Callie’s body. Fortunately I need to get everything ready for the autopsy on Harold Minniver, a series of tasks that will give me plenty of time to procrastinate while I try to make a decision.

  Izzy arrives as predicted and within the hour he has made the initial Y-incision, done the rib-cracking, and begun the organ removal on Mr. Minniver for examination and dissection. The heart and lungs come out first and, as I originally suspected, there is no external evidence of any acute trauma or disease to any of these organs.

  But as I weigh each one and remove small samples from them to store for later reference, I detect an odd, faint odor I’ve never smelled before. There’s only me and Izzy in the room and I’m pretty sure it isn’t coming from one of us. I sniff the containers used to store the organ samples, thinking maybe the chemicals in there have changed, but they smell the same as they always have, and distinctly different from the other odor.

  I shrug it off until Izzy removes Harold’s stomach and opens it to examine the contents. As expected, we find food remnants inside that match what he had on the plate that was on the table at his house. The usual sour smells of stomach acid and partially digested food waft up, but underlying it I detect the strange odor again, much stronger this time.

  “What is that smell?” I ask Izzy.

  “Stomach contents,” he says.

  “No, it’s a different odor. I smelled it before when I sampled the lungs and it’s even stronger now with the stomach contents. It smells like burnt, rancid nuts or something.”

  Izzy halts his dissection of the intestines, sets down his scalpel, and gives me a curious look. “Would you describe it as a bitter almond smell?” he asks.

  I take another whiff. “I guess,” I say with a shrug. “Is that what it smells like to you?”

  “I can’t smell it. But if it’s what I think it is, only twenty-five to fifty percent of the population can smell it and most of those are women.”

  I’ve either heard or read this claim somewhere before and realize what Izzy is thinking. “You mean cyanide,” I say.

  “I do,” Izzy says, sounding mildly excited. “It makes sense given the history and the symptoms you provided. Cyanide poisoning mimics carbon monoxide poisoning by causing the same cherry-red color in the blood and skin.”

  We both stand in silence for a moment, staring down at Mr. Minniver’s cut-open, emptied body, which looks like a macabre dugout canoe. Izzy finally breaks the silence.

  “If that’s what this is, it’s a brilliant catch, Mattie. It could have easily escaped detection if not for your nose. Though it does complicate things for us since I doubt Mr. Minniver ingested cyanide on purpose and that means our hoped-for natural cause of death has just become a homicide.”

  We pause in the midst of our autopsy while Izzy degloves and turns on an extra exhaust fan. He then makes a phone call to the police station to report that Minniver’s death might be a homicide. Once he’s hung up, he dons a new pair of gloves and tells me, “Bob Richmond will be here shortly. Apparently Hurley is still feeling a bit under the weather.”

  I nod, trying to keep the guilt I feel from showing on my face. In the past Izzy has read me with a clarity that I find disturbing and I’m hoping now won’t be another one of those times, or at least if he does see something in my expression he will interpret it as my disappointment over the fact that Hurley won’t be coming.

  Richmond shows up twenty minutes later, just as we’re getting ready to open Minniver’s skull, and as he enters the autopsy room a faint scent of frying oil wafts in with him, offering us a brief reprieve from the less savory chemical and bodily smells that typically permeate our air. Richmond is wearing a white shirt and blue tie, the former stained with what looks like a big glob of ketchup. Of course, given that Richmond is a homicide detective, it could be something else.

  “Way to ruin a Saturday afternoon,” Richmond grumbles.

  “I’m guessing this fellow feels the same way,” I say, gesturing toward Minniver’s body.

  Richmond has the good sense to look embarrassed for all of five seconds but it’s long enough for Izzy to turn on the bone saw and drown out any further comment for the time being.

  “So what makes you think this guy is a homicide?” Richmond says when Izzy finishes cutting through the skull and sets the bone saw aside. “And what’s the cause of death?”

  “Well,” Izzy says, “there’s no evidence of any natural cause of death so far and Mattie detected the scent of bitter almonds when we were dissecting his organs. While it’s still an educated guess at this point, the smell combined with our other findings make me suspect the man was poisoned with cyanide. We’ll know for sure once the lab tests are done.”

  “Cyanide?” Richmond scoffs. “Seriously? Or has someone been reading too many mystery novels lately?” He makes a pointed look in my direction.

  “I’m very serious,” Izzy says, scowling. I’m beginning to suspect he likes Richmond about as much as I do. “I don’t joke about evidence.”

  Richmond makes a face but doesn’t pursue his doubting Thomas attitude. Instead he asks, “Any idea how the cyanide might have gotten into his system?”

  “The odor was strongest in his stomach so I’m guessing he ingested it,” Izzy says.

  I nod my agreement. “I went through his house last night with Colbert. We found a half-eaten meal on the table. It looks like whatever happened to him did so during his dinner.”

  “I don’t suppose you collected any of the food,” Richmond says, casting a doubtful look my way.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” I say, trying not to look or sound too smug.

  Richmond grunts and I take it for his version of grudging approval. “Is the guy married?” he asks.

  “No, he’s a widower. He has a daughter named Patricia Nottingham who lives across town.”

  “Does he have a shitload of money?”

  I shrug, as does Izzy. “I doubt it, based on the way he was living,” I say, “but even if he was rich, the daughter doesn’t strike me as the killer type.”

  Richmond looks amused. “Considering that Hurley was nearly done in thanks to your supposed ability to recognize a killer, you’ll understand why I might want to reserve judgment for now.”

  If looks could kill, Richmond would be heaped on one of the autopsy tables right now, assuming we could find a skid loader to hoist him onto it.

  “Poisoning is typically a pretty personal method of killing someone,” Richmond goes on, ignoring my glare. “Know of anyone else in his life who was close to him?”

  Izzy and I both shake our heads. I stop glaring at Richmond and turn
away so he can’t see the expression on my face. Richmond might be irritating and semiretired, but I’ve heard that he’s also a decent detective and that means he’s good at reading people. I don’t want to give him any opportunities to read me.

  “We just got this case last evening,” Izzy explains in our defense. “The gentleman was brought into the ER as a PNB and had a cardiac history. We thought initially is was a natural death.”

  “But there’s no indication his heart was the cause?” Richmond asks.

  Izzy shakes his head. “Nope, absolutely none.” He gestures toward the partially dissected brain on his side of the table. “And this was the last place I had to look for an alternate cause. There is no evidence at all at this point that any natural disease process led to this man’s death.”

  Richmond frowns. “How soon can you confirm the cyanide theory?”

  “We have a rapid test we can do here. If it’s positive it will be enough combined with the history and symptomology we’ve obtained for me to make a presumptive call. But the rapid test can give false positive results on rare occasions, so to get a definitive answer I’ll have to send samples off to Madison for testing. It will take a couple of days to get those results.”

  A grumbling sound emanates from Richmond and I’m not sure if he’s vocalizing something, or if it’s just his stomach rumbling. “So how long is this rapid test gonna take?” he asks.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll have an answer for you.” Izzy takes a sample of the stomach contents and leaves the autopsy room. Richmond is right on his heels, leaving me alone with Minniver’s body. I look at him lying there, his body flayed open, his scalp turned inside out and pulled down over his face, his brain pan empty. It reminds me of what I said to his daughter, about how an autopsy is a dignified process, much like a surgery. I can’t help but wonder what she would think if she knew the reality.

  I finish collecting and labeling my samples and both Izzy and Richmond return just as I’m finishing.

  “The rapid test was positive,” Izzy announces.

  Richmond nods. “I had dispatch call this Nottingham woman. She’s at home so I’m going to go over there and talk with her, see what I can dredge up. You want to come along to let her know the results?” Richmond asks Izzy. “I already delivered a death notice to the Dunkirk woman’s family this weekend and I don’t relish having to do it again.”

  “I’ll do it,” I offer. When Izzy shoots me a surprised look I add, “Well, I spoke with the daughter last night so I already have a rapport with her. Plus it is part of my job description.”

  “Is it something you’re comfortable doing?” Izzy asks.

  I shrug. “Those kinds of discussions are never comfortable, but I’ve done it enough times as a nurse that I’m used to it.”

  Izzy nods and says, “Okay then. I’ll close up Mr. Minniver here and finish the paperwork.”

  Richmond blows out a huge sigh that fills the air with the faint scent of fried onions. I can’t tell if he’s miffed that I’ll be going with him or not. “How soon can you be ready to go?” he asks me.

  “Give me half an hour or so.”

  Richmond glances at his watch. “You have an hour,” he says. “Meet me at the station at two o’clock and we’ll ride over to the daughter’s house together.” He starts to leave but then turns back. “And we’re taking my car,” he adds pointedly. “I’m not showing up there with a frigging hearse in tow.”

  “Fine,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. Though I’m not looking forward to having to spend time with Richmond, in order to keep tabs on the investigation and determine the degree of Hurley’s involvement, I feel like I should be in on as much of it as possible. So I need to stay on Richmond’s good side.

  As Richmond turns to leave, he delivers a parting speech. “I’ll get some guys to search Minniver’s house and look into his life more thoroughly to see what else we can find out about him. But I’m telling you, poisoning is personal. I’m betting we don’t have to look far.”

  I spend another few minutes helping Izzy and then head for the shower to get cleaned up. By the time I’m done I’ve got twenty-five minutes to spare and the police station is only a one-minute walk away, so I decide to use the extra time by doing a bit of research. I head for the library computer where a quick search of cyanide reveals all kinds of intriguing information, including the fact that it is often used in metallurgy work and electroplating.

  This revelation sends a chill down my spine as I once again recall Hurley’s garage workshop and his metalwork hobby. Then I hear Richmond’s voice in my head, warning me that poisoning is personal. So far, all the fingers in this case are pointing firmly at Hurley.

  As guilt over not telling Izzy what I know washes over me, I reach a decision and head for his office.

  Chapter 12

  My good intentions are thwarted by two things. The first is the fact that I can’t find Izzy in either his office or the autopsy room. The second is a call on my cell phone.

  At first I think it might be Richmond but when I look at the caller ID, I see it’s Hurley. I hesitate, debating for a few seconds, before I take the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Mattie, it’s me.”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “That’s what I need to be asking you. There’re a bunch of cops swarming around Minniver’s house, so I’m guessing you found something on the autopsy.”

  “Yes, we did. We just finished up. In fact, I was about to call you,” I lie. I head back to the library and shut myself inside, glancing around to make sure no one is close by to overhear me.

  “So what did you find?” Hurley prods. I hesitate just long enough for him to deduce that the news isn’t good. “Damn, it’s something bad, isn’t it? Is it something else that points to me?” He sounds both worried and angry. “It is, isn’t it? Come on, tell me, Mattie. I need to know what the hell I’m dealing with here. Give it to me, would ya?”

  “I will if you’ll stop fretting for a moment,” I manage when he pauses long enough to take a breath.

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just that I feel like I’m operating in a vacuum here. You’re the only person I can talk to right now.”

  The faint hint of desperation in his voice leaves me feeling guilty for doubting him. Even though I have no idea where in his house he is, or even if he’s in his house, in my mind’s eye I see him pacing back and forth in his kitchen, running his fingers through that thick shock of blue-black hair, worry creases crinkling the corners of his eyes. And rather than feeling empathy for the man, I find myself turned on. The idea of Hurley rendered helpless and vulnerable is oddly stimulating. After shaking off my mental images and cursing the fact that my libido seems to surge like a tsunami whenever Hurley’s involved, I drop my informational bomb.

  “It isn’t confirmed yet but it looks like Harold Minniver was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? That’s typically pretty personal.” Echoes of Bob Richmond. “What was he poisoned with?”

  I feel an odd reluctance to say anything, as if the answer is a piece of spinach stuck in Hurley’s teeth, or a booger hanging from his nose. “We think it was cyanide.”

  A long silence stretches between us and though I’m tempted to break it, I wait, curious to see what Hurley will say next.

  “Shit,” he says finally. He sounds sad, dejected, and defeated. “That’s not good. I have a supply of potassium cyanide in my garage. I use it in my metalwork.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and wince. Only now do I realize how much I was hoping to hear him say he didn’t have any of the stuff.

  “Mattie, are you still there?”

  I open my eyes. “I’m here. Sorry, I was just thinking things through.”

  “It’s all rather damning, isn’t it?”

  “It is, and there’s more,” I say, reaching a potentially disastrous decision. I tell him about the hair we found in Callie’s wound, the one I took from his bathroom, and my subsequent examinat
ion of the two. When I’m finished talking, the line between us crackles with an awkward silence. Only because I can hear him breathing do I know he hasn’t hung up on me.

  “You’re angry with me,” I say, fearing he’ll hate the fact that I did the hair comparison behind his back.

  “On the contrary, I’m impressed. You need to have an open mind and be unbiased in things like this. But I am a little bothered by the fact that you didn’t tell me what you were doing ahead of time. I would have gladly provided you with a hair sample to compare if you’d asked for one. The fact that you didn’t makes me think you don’t trust me.”

  His comment irritates me. “Well, the evidence against you is rather damning,” I snap. “And I haven’t known you all that long, Hurley. You’re asking me to put my reputation and my job on the line for you and I need to be sure I’m making the right decision. If you don’t like the way I’m doing things, feel free to enlist someone else.”

  “No, wait,” he says quickly, sounding panicked. “I’m sorry, and you’re right. It’s not fair to ask you to trust me based on my word alone.” He pauses and curses under his breath. “Please, I . . . I need you, Mattie.”

  His plea melts my lingering resistance, which to be honest wasn’t much to begin with. Even though the evidence all seems to point toward him, my gut still tells me he’s innocent. And I’ve learned to trust my gut for the most part, at least when it comes to matters not of the heart. Problem is, Hurley sort of overlaps the professional and romantic parts of my life.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll help you. Where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know.” I can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I realize things don’t look very good for me but I swear to you, I had nothing to do with Harold’s death or Callie’s. But it’s becoming clear to me that someone wants it to look like I did.”

  “Okay, so who would do something like that?”

  “My best guess is it’s someone who wants to see me suffer, someone who’s bearing a serious grudge against me.”