by Sydney Bauer
‘At least your husband died of natural causes,’ said Nancy Doyle who was on her third cup of black and her umpteenth cigarette. ‘These people cut my Robert’s throat from ear to ear, left him to die like a stuck pig. Then they killed my son, his chest smashed, his heart pulverised in that massive impact with a God-damned tree. Those lily-livered, murdering bastards have taken everything from me.’
‘It’s okay, Nancy,’ said Sam Croker, aware that while he had become accustomed to Nancy’s gutter talk over the past couple of months, the Caspian ladies might find it a little unsettling.
But he was wrong.
‘You are absolutely right,’ said Eleanor Caspian, reaching across the red formica breakfast bar to cover Nancy’s hand with her own. ‘We have all suffered a loss – all the more reason for us to stick together.’
‘You’re all right, Elle,’ said Nancy, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth before covering the older Caspian woman’s hand with her own sun-spotted, long finger-nailed counterpart. ‘Us widows are like strong, silent sisters in grief.’
Silent, thought Croker.
‘But mess with us and we’ll kick your butt. Am I right, Detective Sam?’ Nancy turned to Croker, who truly had become her guardian angel over the past few months.
‘No argument here,’ said the LA detective.
‘I’m sure of it,’ said Eleanor Caspian.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and taking solace in this small moment of solidarity after what had been a rocky few days of anxiety and uncertainty.
‘Do you think Assistant Director Ramirez believed my story?’ asked Kate Caspian Cole, turning to Arthur. Caspian Cole was a tall, thin, graceful woman with fine dark hair and large grey eyes.
‘There is no real way of knowing,’ answered Arthur. ‘But it was plausible and hopefully, in the very least, bought us some much needed time.’
Kate was referring to a phone call she had made to Ramirez from the Conrad Brussels Hotel, under Leo King’s instructions, on Thursday morning Brussels time. King had told her to apologise for missing their rendezvous with Ramirez’s ‘man’, claiming her mother had taken ill and, she feared, was on the brink of some sort of physical and emotional breakdown. She also told him her mother had, in a symbolic emotional gesture, ‘taken it into her own hands to destroy the only link she had left to that painful time in her life’. ‘She has burned the prescription repeat,’ Caspian Cole had said. ‘I found the remnants of it in the kitchen sink and . . . I wholeheartedly apologise for the loss of what I assume may have been an important piece of evidence.’
Ramirez had said nothing – before assuring Caspian Cole that the loss was regrettable but the circumstances understandable given the stress her mother had been under. She had given him an ‘out’ and he seemed more than happy to take it.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
‘That will be Albert and Pippa Mahoney,’ said Nora, getting up from her kitchen stool.
‘Will all of this information be enough to stop them, Mr Wright?’ asked Eleanor Caspian.
‘We hope so, Mrs Caspian. Often with cases like these you have precedents to refer to, but unfortunately – or fortunately – this one has no such benchmark, at least not in recent history. That’s why we have to make sure our evidence is iron clad. We are dealing with extremely clever criminals with an extensive knowledge of the law. If we provide them with any form of loophole, no matter how small, they’ll find it and take advantage.’
With that Nora led an attractive elderly gentleman and his pretty, blonde-haired grand-daughter into the Mannix kitchen, making introductions all round. She took the Mahoneys’ coats and showed them where to freshen up before heading back to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee.
‘There is one thing I do regret,’ said Eleanor Caspian at last. ‘I feel so terrible for Professor Montgomery – and for my thinking so ill of him, especially since he was so good to my husband. I always thought of him as a sort of Mr Darcy, he has that English aloofness which can sometimes disguise a kinder heart.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Nancy Doyle who had never read Jane Austen or any other English classic novelist in her entire life. ‘But Bridget Jones was no idiot. She saw through all that pompous crap, didn’t she? And that’s the real message, isn’t it? That Hugh Grant was a prick and Colin Firth was the keeper. Some men are just for fucking, Eleanor, believe me I know, but that Mr Darcy was just like my Robert, a little lacking in the animal magnetism department but definitely a keeper . . .’ A fresh set of what seemed to be a never-ending supply of tears now began rolling down her laser polished cheeks. ‘Definitely . . . a keeper.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Ramirez, praying to God his operative was wrong.
‘Positive,’ said the ‘cousin’, and Ramirez could hear the shame in his voice. ‘It’s her all right. I even checked with the front desk. She was booked in under the name of Nina Gilks, but rang down specifically to change it to Nancy Doyle just moments after she checked in. But I have no idea how, they told me she was dead.’
The ‘cousin’ had seen her by chance, waiting at a boarding gate at LAX. He was booked on a flight to DC but at the last minute managed to grab a seat on the United Airlines flight to Boston so that he could be sure.
‘It’s her,’ he said again, giving no apology, obviously knowing he would be ‘dealt’ with when he got back to DC. ‘I followed them from the airport. She’s with her cop bodyguard. They went out soon after they checked in to the Regency Park but I didn’t tail them. I have to be careful. She can make me. I figured you’d want me to stay put and await their return rather than risk . . .’
‘Fuck that,’ said Ramirez. ‘I want to know where she is and what’s she’s doing here. Let me know as soon as she gets back to the hotel.’
‘Do you want me to . . . ?’
‘No. You’ve failed twice and there is no way I am giving you a third chance. Your lack of professionalism will be addressed, but for now I just want you to sit tight and call me the minute she returns.’
And then he hung up.
58
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Boston Medical Examiner Gus Svenson falling back onto his grey laboratory stool. ‘This is . . .’
David had known Svenson a long time and seen him give evidence in many a case where the cause of death had been beyond shocking. But he had never seen him like this – his normally pink Nordic skin as white as alabaster.
‘Your Professor is intelligent, man. He was right. There was succinylcholine, but not in the blood.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sara, jumping up slightly to prop herself on top of one of the many laboratory benches, crossing her legs and bending forward.
‘Succinylcholine,’ Svenson went on, ‘is a depolarising anaesthetic. It . . .’
‘We’re novices, Gus,’ David interrupted, pulling over his own stool and urging the sometimes technical Svenson to give it to them in layman’s terms. ‘We need to understand every detail so take us through it in words we can understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Svenson. ‘I’m sorry. Let me try to explain.’
Svenson told them how the clear, colourless drug known as succinylcholine was a neuromuscular blocking agent which, once administered, effectively prevented the naturally existing neurotransmitters from sending messages from the nerves to the muscles. He explained how the drug was effectively used under hospital supervision by doctors who needed to immobilise a patient so that a medical procedure, such as intubation, could be carried out.
‘The drug literally paralyses the patient,’ he said. ‘The muscles will not obey the brain – which is 100 per cent functional by the way. The beauty of this drug is that it acts quickly. If given intravenously the patient is unable to move within a minute. If injected into a muscle, within two.’
‘Dear God,’ said Sara.
‘Yes,’ said Gus. ‘The effect only lasts for four to six minutes but in this time the patient is awa
re but cannot walk, talk, nothing. Torture is it, no? Like being a prisoner in your own body.’
‘So the Vice President was conscious, but unable to move while . . .’ David began.
‘. . . while injected with the OxyContin, yes,’ answered Gus, his face now whiter than ever. ‘But unassisted he could not have been awake for long – and this is what troubles me the most.’
‘How so?’ asked David, drawing his stool even closer to the white-coated ME.
‘Well, the diaphragm is a muscle and it, like every other muscle in the body, is also affected by the succinylcholine. It too is paralysed and, without assistance, the patient becomes hypoxic – unable to breathe.’
‘So it was the succinylcholine that killed him?’ said Sara. ‘Not the OxyContin. And the OxyContin was just a front.’
‘No,’ said Gus shaking his head. ‘My original statement was correct. The Vice President died from an overdose of OxyContin, no question.’
‘Jesus, Gus,’ said David, his frustration growing by the minute. ‘What in the hell are you talking about?’
Svenson explained that if the Vice President had been allowed to go into respiratory and then cardiac arrest under the influence of the succinylcholine, his body would never have circulated and absorbed the OxyContin that killed him.
The OxyContin was in his blood – successfully distributed throughout his body enabling it to shut down the brain and the respiratory and cardiac systems with it. In other words, according to Svenson, someone must have kept Bradshaw alive long enough to kill him – again – with the preferred drug of choice.
‘Gus,’ David began, not believing what he was hearing. ‘Are you saying someone injected him with the paralysing drug to render him immobile, and then gave him mouth to mouth resuscitation long enough to inject the OxyContin.’
‘Yes,’ said Gus. ‘Or maybe used another portable breathing device like a Guedel airway, mask and bag or a small battery-operated ventilator.’
‘So that the OxyContin could be absorbed and recorded as the official cause of death?’ David confirmed.
‘Yes,’ Svenson said again.
They sat there for a moment, in the cool silence of the ME’s pristine laboratory, the air strong with ammonia, the atmosphere sterile and cold.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sara. ‘Why the hell did they need the OxyContin at all? They could have claimed Montgomery had access to the succinylcholine. They could have framed him just as easily by . . .’
‘No,’ said David. ‘They needed to show the Professor was setting it up as an overdose. Bradshaw was a recovering addict, the OxyContin made a whole lot more sense in their “Montgomery kills Bradshaw” scenario.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Sara. ‘They thought of everything, even the fact that we would never find the succinylcholine – unless we specifically went hunting for it. It is the perfect poison,’ she went on. ‘For the perfect crime.’
‘But we did find it,’ said David. ‘At least . . .’ he paused there, the others waiting for him to continue. ‘Hold on a minute.’
‘What is it?’ said Sara.
David looked at her, his brain working overtime before turning back to Svenson. ‘Gus, earlier you said you found the succinylcholine but not in Bradshaw’s blood – then how did you . . . ?’
‘His urine.’
‘What?’
‘A urine sample was taken from the Vice President by the attending paramedics – standard procedure in drug-related deaths. The sample was frozen so I . . .’
‘You thawed it out and found the succinylcholine?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No succinylcholine.’
‘Jesus, Gus.’
‘Sorry. No succinylcholine but plenty of its by-product – succinylmonocholine. This sometimes occurs in urine but not in such high quantities. I would have liked to test body tissue as well, as this is what most coroners prefer to do, but I work with what I have, and the urine test was conclusive.’
‘Why didn’t you test the body tissue?’ asked Sara.
‘Not possible,’ said Gus, his expression suggesting the question itself was ridiculous.
‘Why not?’ asked David.
‘None to test,’ said Gus. ‘No autopsy.’
‘What?’ said David again, now even more confused.
‘No autopsy at family’s request. Bloods and urine were taken at Mass General.’
‘What? Why didn’t you tell us this earlier, Gus?’ asked David, incredulous.
‘I thought you knew. It was in the original FBI report.’
Sara shot a look at David. ‘More editing, thanks to Ramirez.’
‘I protest about no autopsy,’ Svenson went on. ‘But overruled. Vice President Bradshaw’s body was signed for and taken home – to Virginia.’
‘He’s right,’ said Sara. ‘That’s why there was no State funeral, because Bradshaw supposedly specified in his will that he wanted a quiet family burial in his home town.’
‘So Mrs Bradshaw took custody of the body and flew her husband back to Virginia?’ asked David.
‘No,’ said Gus. ‘Mrs Bradshaw consulted and agree to no autopsy because blood confirmed cause of death. She flew back to Washington to see children. The body was signed for by another individual, a friend who determined no autopsy and accompany Vice President’s body home.’
‘What?’ said David again, now feeling like a broken record. ‘Who, Gus? Who signed for Bradshaw’s body, who put the kybosh on the autopsy and who took him home before any further tests could be conducted?’
‘Why his best friend, of course. CIA Director Richard Ryan.’
59
‘You sure you’re okay then?’ asked Sam Croker. It was late and Croker was just about to leave Nancy’s room for his adjoining suite next door.
‘Sure I’m sure. In fact, to be honest, Detective Sam, I’m feeling kinda free. Giving that statement was good for my soul and helping nail those pricks will be downright liberating.’
‘Yeah,’ said Croker. ‘You did good today, Nancy.’
‘Thanks, Detective Sam,’ she said with a smile.
‘Well, I’m right next door if you need me,’ said Croker moving to the door that linked their two suites. ‘I’ll leave this door unlocked so you can come right on in if you’re worried about anything. Detective Mannix has organised regular security patrols of our floor so . . .’
‘I know,’ she said, walking towards him.
And then Nancy Doyle did something she had never done before, she took Croker by both of his hands, holding them firmly in her own. It was a small gesture of pure gratitude, a linking that symbolised her appreciation, like a child acknowledging a best friend who had made her feel safe at a time of ultimate vulnerability.
‘Detective Sam,’ she said. ‘I just want to say . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ said Croker.
‘No, I need to say this,’ she said squeezing both of his hands in her own. ‘You have been a good friend at a time when . . . come to think of it, you are probably the best friend I have ever had. I don’t think I could have done this without you. Hell, I don’t think I’d even be here without you.’
‘Really, Nancy, you don’t need to . . .’
‘Yes,’ she said cutting him short. ‘Yes I do! I know you think I got confidence, but believe it or not, I ain’t that sure of myself. I may look the part but I ain’t no Beverly Hills housewife. I’m just a girl from Tampa who knows what it’s like to have a whole bunch of smarter, richer people look down at her. But you never did that, Detective Sam. You always showed me respect, even when I was coming off as crazy as a loon.’
Nancy looked into his eyes then and told him as plain as she could. ‘I love you for that, Detective Sam. I love you for treating me like a human being with feelings and worries and most of all with brains. I just needed you to know that before I go to sleep tonight. Okay?’
Croker said nothing, just looked at her before bending down to kiss he
r lightly on the forehead.
‘You’re a good woman, Nancy. No, more than that, you’re a lady, and don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.’
60
They had gone straight home after seeing Gus Svenson, needing some time to think it through. David knew Joe and Frank were still taking testimonies at the Fairmont, and Arthur and Nora were busy organising their own witnesses’ statements. So David opted for some space, some time alone with Sara to try to put it all together.
They had spent the night trying to make sense of what Gus had told them until they decided it was best to sleep on it and wake in the morning with what they hoped would be clearer heads and perhaps a more palatable explanation. But Saturday morning brought no brainwaves of salvation, just the same horrifying conclusion that they had been wrong all along – that Dick Ryan was not a ‘good guy’ after all – that he had been working with Ramirez from the very beginning.
‘It fits,’ said David over their early morning coffee. ‘Ryan administered the succinylcholine and then put Bradshaw on some sort of portable ventilator to keep him breathing. Their plan was almost foiled when Bradshaw’s wife entered briefly, but she was only there for a couple of minutes, just long enough to check her husband had made good on his promise to take a rest.’
‘The bedroom door was closed so she didn’t disturb him,’ said Sara. ‘She stayed in the outer suite for a minute or two, and as soon as she left . . . Ramirez moved in at 8.03, just as the effects of the succinylcholine were wearing off. He took off the breathing apparatus, injected the OxyContin and sat with the VP for a few more minutes just to be sure he was halfway to heaven. Ramirez exited at 8.07, told everyone, including Maxine Bryant, that the Vice President could not be disturbed until ten minutes later, when Montgomery turned up only to find his famous friend was dead.