Twin Offerings

by Ruth Parker

  “Also could have been a gift with purchase promotion,” she said. “In the seventies and eighties, lots of gas stations ran promos. Every fill-up got you a stamp. Lick the stamp, stick it on your booklet. Redeem your booklets for different prizes.” She pointed to a clock on the wall. The hands didn’t move. “That took my mom seven booklets of Chevron stamps to get.”

  “Like Marlboro Miles,” he said.

  “Exactly. Banks gave out gifts for opening new accounts. There used to be lots of promotions like that. Collectors go nuts for those items. Nowadays, stores just dangle a gift card on the end of the stick. That’s no fun.” She fiddled with her necklaces, rearranging them and straightening them. Fletcher thought this was a nervous gesture, a guilty gesture. Not that she was holding out—but that she felt bad she couldn’t be more knowledgeable.

  “Well, thanks for your help. You really know a lot about this sort of stuff,” he said. He handed her a Sheriff’s Department card with his cell phone number written in red ink on the front. “Here’s my card if you think of anything.”

  “Look on eBay,” she said. “It might be tedious, but you can look at the buyers’ and sellers’ histories. That’s where collectors mostly shop now. The thrilling days of finding a treasure at the flea market are gone,” she said with real disappointment.

  “Thanks again,” he said. He turned to leave, but she cleared her throat.

  “Is it possible you can tell me what this has to do with? It’s not a murder, is it?”

  “I can’t say, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

  “Not those two girls from Bailey, the missing twins that they found dead in the woods yesterday?”

  “No ma’am, not those two girls,” he said; the lie was automatic and he felt no guilt whatsoever.

  “Oh good,” she said. “I’d hate to think that all I could do to help those poor girls was tell you to look on eBay.”

  Seven

  Laurel changed into her scrubs and coat, washed up, and put on her gloves and hairnet. She found her lab station clean and orderly, with the logs signed and dated by the scientist who had taken over the pollen testing last night. Laurel had completely forgotten about that. After seeing the pictures of those two dead girls, seated in the gray misty woods at the world’s most macabre tea party, stealing a tractor blade and killing a dog didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

  Laurel was going to start the toxicology tests. It would be easy. Talking to that damned Fletcher Reed later tonight was going to be hard. Partly because her own memories were so foggy—but mostly because she couldn’t tell him the truth. At least, not all of it.

  Laurel started preparing her equipment for the immunoassay. She had to run a maintenance check on the equipment and document the findings in the maintenance log. Then she ran calibration tests that verified the potency of the reagents, documenting the results in the calibration log. The logs were the first things the defense would subpoena; the easiest way to get a piece of scientific evidence excluded from trial was to show that the machine had not been properly maintained and calibrated. Laurel was always meticulous. She would never let any of her tests be excluded on a technicality.

  The machine would do the actual testing; it was her job to properly prepare the specimens. As if on cue, the doors opened and the autopsy technician Nowak came in, holding the bright blue container that looked like it could have been his lunch pail. There were no sandwiches or bottles of soda inside. It was filled with test tubes of blood, urine, eyeball humor, cardiac muscle, bile, and liver.

  Laurel would run the liver and the eyeball humor today. Blood was less reliable for toxicology, as different parts of the body metabolized chemical compounds at different speeds. The liver, however, was the central clearing house for drugs being metabolized by the body and provided the most consistent results.

  She signed the chain of custody log and Nowak hesitated. He looked at her, his honest blue eyes matching the color of his worn scrubs. “Those state doctors are assholes,” he said. “That perfume evidence could really help nail the guy when the cops catch him.”

  “If the cops catch him,” Laurel said, not wanting to give into despair, but not being able to help it. She kept her eyes on her equipment, the beakers and spoons and pipettes. She’d never been good at looking people in the eyes—especially when they pitied her. People had pitied her her whole damned life.

  “No such thing as too much evidence. I think they were just miffed that they didn’t think of it.”

  “Well, thanks,” Laurel said. She took the blue case and opened it, focusing on the test tubes and the paperwork, ignoring Nowak in the hopes that he would go away. She did not have the energy for social interaction.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just let me know if you need anything. The bodies aren’t being released to the families for seventy-two hours.”

  There would only be time to run the test for one of the girls today, so Laurel chose Rebecca Clark’s samples.

  She took the base extract powder and started spooning it onto the scale. She dumped it into the beaker and added a measured amount of distilled water. She would mix the biological materials into the base before putting the samples into the machine. She would also have to prepare a control negative and a control positive for each of the substances she was testing for. The controls came in small vials that were extracted from banana leaves.

  Laurel measured and poured for a long time before she had all the samples ready for the machine. She would test for benzodiazepines and alcohol, but also for common street drugs like cocaine, amphetamines, and marijuana, and common prescription drugs like opiates, anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, cardiovascular drugs, antihistamines, and analgesics. She would also test for barbiturates and GHB, as they could be used to sedate the victim and, if mixed with alcohol or other drugs, could cause death. She also decided to run a carbon monoxide test too; it could also cause cardiac arrest without leaving a mark.

  She loaded the small, one-hundred microgram cups into the machine, placing them into the carousel and recording their position. After all the cups were loaded, she programmed the machine and started its cycle. It would take about a half hour to run the tests. The machine was automated and worked methodically, spitting out the results on a long paper that looked like a grocery store receipt. The test worked very simply, which was why it only took a half hour to run. Inside the biological sample (in this case, the liver), a small amount of antibodies for substance was added. If testing for marijuana, an antibody for marijuana was added to the sample. The antibody would bind with the marijuana molecules, then the antibodies would be measured.

  While the machine was running, she would do a separate test on the eyeball humor. Eyeball humor was the most reliable source of measuring blood alcohol levels. Laurel prepared more of the base and added a small amount of eyeball humor to it, saving the rest of the sample in case they needed independent verification. She ran a calculation on her computer and determined the correct amount of ethanol reagent to use for such a tiny sample. Laurel added the ethanol reagent and waited while the antibodies bound to any ethanol proteins present.

  She had a few minutes to rest, but wouldn’t let herself. If she let herself relax—even for a minute—her mind would wander to that day fifteen years ago. To the man with the crooked, narrow face and weird eyes that were almost no color at all. Have some tea while I set up, he’d said. She didn’t think it was weird that he’d brought with him an actual teapot and small matching cups and saucers.

  The eyeball humor sample was ready, and she measured the bound antibodies. Eyeball humor would typically give a blood alcohol concentration of 20% higher than traditional blood tests, so she had to extrapolate the results using an equation on her computer. As expected, the girls had alcohol in their systems. Rebecca, at least, had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.06 percent. For a twelve-year-old, that was a lot. Most likely a shot of brandy or whiskey added to the tea—but for a girl who weighed less than a hundred pounds, it was definitely e
nough to compound the effects of benzodiazepines and cause central nervous system depression and heart failure.

  On her computer, Laurel opened up the evidence template document and began documenting the testing procedures and results. She wanted to be able to give something meaningful to Underwood today. He seemed ready to arrest her for obstruction of justice earlier that morning.

  She had to admit, it was a good thing that Fletcher had been there.

  The loud bell scared her when it went off. She jumped in her chair, her heart thudding almost painfully against her chest. It was just the timer on the immunoassay machine. The test was complete. She wondered if her nerves would ever get back to normal—or at least her version of normal.

  The results were printing and the paper was unrolling out of the top of the machine. Laurel had to wait a long time for the entire report to print. When it was done, it was over four feet long.

  She scanned it quickly, trying to find the concentration of benzodiazepine markers. Combined with that much alcohol, a lethal dose of Xanax or Valium wouldn’t be that high, maybe only half a milligram per kilogram of body weight—about seven tablets of Xanax per girl.

  About three feet down the roll, Laurel found the benzodiazepine results. She had to run the numbers through the computer, factoring in age and weight; Laurel calculated that Rebecca had a benzodiazepine concentration of approximately one milligram per kilogram—definitely enough to put her into cardiac arrest. It was hard to say for certain, because it was almost impossible to die from benzo overdose alone. The lethal dose for most adults was about 600 tablets. However, when alcohol was mixed with benzodiazepines the lethality of the two drugs in combination was unpredictable and varied from person to person.

  The only bright side was that when the girls stopped breathing, when their hearts seized in a panicky last-ditch effort to get oxygen to their brains, they would have been in a deep coma. Far away from fear, pain, or perhaps the most damaging of all: hope.

  Fletcher had argued with Frank Underwood—argued vigorously and passionately, citing his years of interrogation experience and the numerous victimology studies he’d authored. And he still lost. Underwood would not listen, would not relent. Underwood wanted to do it his way and his way only.

  Underwood had commandeered one of the Sheriff’s department interrogation rooms (although, in the politically correct state of Oregon, they were all referred to as interview rooms) and set up a video camera and microphone. “Go easy on her,” Fletcher had warned. “If you’re too aggressive, she’ll push back.”

  “If she hides anything from me, I’ll personally see her fired,” Underwood said. “Her only hope of saving her job is if she can give us something useful.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Fletcher said. He doubted that Underwood could actually get Laurel fired, but he didn’t doubt that the detective would try. “Let me talk to her alone in her lab. Keep it informal. I’ll treat her like a valuable asset—which she is, by the way, don’t forget that. And I’ll get her permission to record audio.”

  “Since when did you of all people go soft?” Underwood asked. “Did you have a change of heart after the FBI threw you out on your ass?”

  That was when Fletcher knew he had lost for certain. The best he could hope for was a seat in the interview room alongside Underwood.

  Fletcher couldn’t wait any longer. He went down the long hallway and entered the adjoining building, where the morgue and laboratory were. He found the lab and peeked in through the glass windows in the heavy metal doors. Laurel was at her workstation. Even with a puffy white hairnet and gloves up to her elbows, she was still the best looking woman in the entire building—and he was including the two college interns who had been asking him what it was like in the FBI.

  Laurel was hunched over the large tray of samples in front of her. It looked like a giant ice cube tray, each partition holding a small vial. She was reading from a long, skinny strip of paper, then typing into her computer. Those were probably results. That was as good of an excuse as any to go in and talk to her.

  He went through the doors and announced his arrival, so as not to be accused of sneaking up on her. “What did the tests say?” he asked.

  “Alcohol and benzos,” she said.

  “Did you check the residue in the teapot and cups?” he asked.

  “Not today,” she said. “Prepping the biological samples takes forever. I only got to test Rebecca’s samples. If I come in early tomorrow, I can probably do Rachel’s samples and the teapot.”

  “Take it easy,” he said. “We’ll find him. You don’t need to work yourself to death.” He immediately regretted his choice of words.

  “Someone has to,” she said. There were dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept well last night. Like maybe she hadn’t slept well the last fifteen years.

  “How much longer until you’re done here?” he asked. She’d already stayed an hour and a half past her scheduled time.

  “I just need to clean and lock everything up.”

  “Come to interview room four when you’re all wrapped up.” He looked at his watch. “About six forty-five?”

  “Make it seven-thirty,” she said. Why did he get the feeling she was trying to stall?

  “Okay. See you in a few.” He left the lab and found one of the college interns at the reception desk.

  “Can you help me with something? I need you to keep an eye out in case a witness flees.” She looked up from the computer screen, eyes bright and eager to be doing something that didn’t involve a spell-checker.

  “Like a stakeout?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Follow me. Get your coat.”

  Laurel finished filling out the evidence logs and locked up the rest of the biological materials. She printed out the preliminary report findings to give to Underwood. Hopefully this would smooth things over. Instead of going out the door that led back into the Sheriff’s Department, she went out the back exit, into the employee parking lot.

  There was something she had to get from her house. She didn’t think it was going to help the investigation in any way, but she had to give it to Fletcher. As a sign of good faith. And to trick him into thinking you’re telling the whole truth.

  She got into her car and started up the engine. Just as she popped it in reverse, a man started hammering his fists at her window. It was getting dark outside and she couldn’t see his face. She was about to jam her foot on the gas and skid out of the parking spot, but he cried out, “Ms. Gates!” and she recognized the voice. Fucking Fletcher.

  “What the hell?” she said.

  “Where are you going?” he said. He was breathing hard. He’d obviously been running out here to catch her. “We’re going to meet at seven-thirty, remember.”

  “How did you know I was out here?” She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving.

  “I was coming out here to get something out of my car,” he said.

  “What were you getting out of your car?” she asked quickly, trying to catch him in a lie.

  “Some paperwork,” he said. She supposed he could be telling the truth, but she had the feeling that he was lying. “Now answer my question. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home,” she said. “I needed to get something. I don’t think it will help you guys, but you never know.”

  “Do you want me to go with you? It could be dangerous.” he asked.

  “No,” she said and pulled out of her parking spot. He doesn’t trust me, she thought. At least that means he’s smart.

  Laurel drove home, exhausted but knowing that the day still wasn’t over. The day had not been physically demanding, but her body ached with sorrow. And rage. When she’d left the Sheriff’s Department, she’d gone around the front and—lo and behold—there was Fletcher’s garish red rental car in the front parking lot. The jerk had been watching her.

  When she got to her house, she started the ritual. Up the walk, she pulled her gun, keeping it close to he
r side. She checked the perimeter of her house, inspecting the windows and doors for signs of entry. She entered through the back door, then swept the whole house, room by room, behind doors, underneath beds, inside closets. She checked the window locks again from the inside.

  She was satisfied that he wasn’t here. That odd crooked face and no-color eyes.

  Laurel didn’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, didn’t want to languish on Memory Lane—because Memory Lane was always on the wrong side of the tracks. Better to get what she came for and then go back to the station, where she would get pity, sympathy, people asking are you okay? People saying this must be tough, what with your sister and all. Or, worse—we understand if you need to take some time off.

  The hell of it was that she wasn’t okay. On a good day, she still entered her house with a loaded weapon drawn, ready for the man who took Leigh to come back for her.

  Fifteen years since I turned and ran, and I still expect him to be right behind me.

  And in those years, Laurel had made something of herself, while her parents withered into dry husks, easily blown away in the wind. It would have been different if they hadn’t been identical twins. Her father could not look at her without seeing his other lost daughter. After a year and a half—when the last of his hope had curdled in his heart—he’d shot himself while his car was idling in the driveway.

  That was when her mom really lost it. Her mom never came out of her room, never got out of bed. The only light she would permit was the light of the television, perpetually tuned to the same channel because she never really watched anything. She’d had a heart attack at the ripe old age of forty-eight.