“It’s just that I was thinking of making plans to head back home.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay a while, Jessica. We were together when Al died, and I figure that we should stay together until his death gets sorted out.”
The truth was that I wanted very much to hear what the medical examiner had to say, and to follow up on what Vasquez’s death meant to Bernard Peters and his company. Call me inherently curious. I don’t mind; I’ve been called worse many times over the years.
“I’ll be happy to stay,” I said.
Seth gave me an “I knew you would” smile. “Good. I’ll call Bernie. Meet you in the lobby in a half hour.”
My emotions were decidedly mixed at that moment. I had no official reason for staying in Tampa. All I’d done was witness someone’s death by lightning. Seth’s question about whether Vasquez had, indeed, died from a lightning strike seemed to me nothing more than idle speculation. Still . . .
As I considered this, I realized that my friendship with Seth had taken a new and interesting turn. I’d had the misfortune of becoming involved in a number of real-life murders over the years—I hate to acknowledge how many—and was usually the one who smelled a rat, as they say, when everyone else was pointing to natural causes in someone’s passing. And it was always Seth who chided me about being overly inquisitive and suspicious.
But here he was, eager to meet with people involved in his friend’s death, and even chatting with a newspaper reporter. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, any more than I knew what had intrigued me about the fact that Vasquez had been smoking a cigar that wasn’t his usual brand that night. But now that I’d determined to go along with Seth, at least in the short term, I would give it my best.
The office of the Hillsborough County medical examiner was located on North Forty-sixth Street. Dr. San Martín’s secretary told us that he was in a meeting but would be free shortly. We read magazines for fifteen minutes, until he came through the door, apologized for keeping us waiting, and ushered us into his large, messy office. There were file folders, magazines, and large envelopes containing X-rays on every surface. Two piles of books leaned precariously in a corner. In another corner, a six-foot-tall classic wooden cigar store Indian cast its angry look over the room.
“I appreciate you finding time for me this morning,” San Martín said as Seth and I settled in chairs across the desk from him.
“Hope I can be of help,” said Seth.
San Martín’s expression questioned my presence.
“I’m just along for the ride,” I said. “Seth didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t, of course, but it is a little disconcerting to have a writer in our midst. I trust you aren’t making notes for one of your novels.”
“I assure you that I’m not,” I said.
“Good, because some of what I say this morning isn’t for public consumption.”
He said it in a way that demanded a response.
“Count on it,” Seth said, and I agreed.
“As I told you on the phone, Dr. Hazlitt, I did the autopsy last night. To be more accurate, I participated in the autopsy with a colleague of mine.”
“Come to any conclusions?” Seth asked.
San Martín paused before replying. “Yes, I did, and my colleague concurs. Based upon a gross examination of the deceased, I do not believe that he was struck by lightning.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Seth.
“Oh?”
“I don’t know a heckuva lot about lightning and what it does when it hits somebody—I’ve only had two patients who were hit by lightning.”
“That’s probably more than most doctors up north see,” San Martín said.
“True. And in my cases, both survived, but one was left in pretty bad shape, had neuropsychiatric, vision, and hearing problems.”
“You know more than you think,” said San Martín.
“Appreciate that,” Seth said. “The thing is, I got close to Dr. Vasquez right after he fell, tried CPR on him. I got a good look at his face and neck. From what little I do know, when someone gets hit by lightning, there’re usually burns on the head and neck. There weren’t any burns on Al—Dr. Vasquez—nothing on his clothing or on any exposed skin. I also remember reading that only twenty percent of folks hit by lightning die on the spot.”
San Martín smiled. “Everything you say is correct, Dr. Hazlitt. The keraunopathologists would be impressed.”
I tried to pronounce what he’d said and failed.
“Keraunopathologists,” he repeated. “Specialists in the pathology of lightning. Not many of them. At any rate, your observations are correct. Usually when someone is struck by lightning, burn marks are visibly evident, especially at the entry and exit points. Most people don’t realize that a lightning strike has about ten times the kilovolts as your typical industrial electrical shock. That sort of power burns a victim pretty bad. It immediately turns the victims’ sweat into steam.” He paused for effect. “There were no burn marks on Dr. Vasquez.”
“So the fact that there was a lightning strike at the moment he died was a coincidence,” I offered.
“I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” San Martín said.
“Your autopsy ruled out lightning as the cause of death,” Seth said, “but did it give you any clue as to why he died? He’d told me that he’d had a physical exam a few weeks ago and everything was fine.”
“Do you know who his doctor was?” San Martín asked.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Easy enough to find out. I’d like his input. To answer your question, his heart looked fine. But there was a marked change in the muscles supplied by his cranial nerves, specifically his breathing muscles. It looks to me as though he died from sudden and total respiratory failure.”
“What could cause that?” Seth asked, his expression skeptical. “Are we back to thinking it was lightning?”
“No,” said San Martín. “I can’t say I’m an expert with cases of lightning strikes—” He smiled at me. “Keraunopathy. But I have autopsied my fair share of lightning victims. This, after all, is Tampa. Florida has twice as many fatal lightning strikes as any other state. Even the name ‘Tampa’ is said to stem from a Native American word for ‘sticks,’ which many believe refers to lightning. Nationally, death by lightning is the third leading cause of weather-related deaths.”
“But you don’t believe Dr. Vasquez was struck by lightning,” I said.
“No, I don’t. Lightning can cause severe injury to the cardiopulmonary system, but that isn’t the case with Dr. Vasquez. Something else affected his cranial nerves and respiratory system, and did it with incredible speed. His death was instantaneous. The toxicology report might give us some answers. I’ve put a rush on it. Did either of you notice anything unusual about his behavior that day? I understand he was hosting a party when he died.”
“That’s true,” Seth said. He looked to me. “Did you see anything unusual, Jessica?”
“Since I barely knew the man, I wouldn’t have picked up on changes in his behavior. He seemed healthy and happy, full of life and spirit. I did, however, wonder why he stayed on the deck after the storm hit. I remember him saying when we played golf that when a storm approached, you’d better get to cover fast.”
Seth laughed. “He didn’t want to waste that cigar he was enjoying. Al did love his cigars.”
“Not unusual here in Tampa,” San Martín said. “I personally can’t stand them, but to each his own.”
Seth asked me, “Do you still have that cigar that Al was smoking?”
“Yes, I do.”
“When Al fell, the cigar went flying. Mrs. Fletcher retrieved it after the cleaning staff picked it up,” Seth explained.
“Silly of me, I know,” I said. “He’d mentioned that the cigar was
a gift from a friend. Apparently it was different from what he was accustomed to smoking.”
I dug in my purse and pulled out the cigar, which I’d placed in a small plastic bag I’d gotten from the hotel. I handed it to Dr. San Martín, who turned the bag so that he could see the cigar through both sides.
“It’s a little squished,” I said. “It was in a puddle when the waitress picked it up.”
“Tampa used to be the cigar capital of the world,” San Martín said as he dropped the bag on his desk. “That’s how Ybor City came to be. Cigars! There used to be a hundred and fifty cigar manufacturers in that section of Tampa alone.”
“I’m looking forward to visiting Ybor City while I’m here,” I said. “I understand it’s . . . well, that it’s very colorful.”
“That it is,” San Martín said. He stood and stretched. “It was a late night and these old bones are feeling it. Thanks for stopping by and sharing what you know. There’s more to doing an autopsy than examining the body. Everything surrounding a death has to be taken into account.”
“I’d appreciate knowing if you come up with any other conclusions,” Seth said as they shook hands. “I’m not only a doctor; I was Al Vasquez’s friend.”
“You’ll hear from me,” San Martín assured him. “Thank you for coming in with Dr. Hazlitt, Mrs. Fletcher. May I suggest that you take the trolley when you visit Ybor City? It’s part of the experience.”
Seth and I decided to take advantage of the warmer weather that day by walking back to the hotel rather than hailing a taxi. He’d arranged to meet with K-Dex’s Bernard Peters at noon at Vasquez’s lab, and for the three of us to have lunch following the appointment.
“Shakespeare wrote about lightning,” I said as we walked slowly.
“Say again?”
“Shakespeare,” I said. “I remember when I taught Shakespeare back when I was an English teacher. Let me see if I remember it. ‘To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke of quick, cross lightning?’ It’s from King Lear.”
“He knew a lot, didn’t he?”
“Shakespeare? He certainly did. Unless you meant Dr. San Martín. He’s a lovely man.”
Seth nodded his agreement. “Well,” he said, “at least we know that Al didn’t die of a lightning strike. I was pretty certain of that.”
“A sudden respiratory attack, enough to kill him instantly,” I said. “Have you ever seen that in a patient?”
“No, can’t say that I have. It’s not possible, as far as I’m concerned. There has to be some other explanation.”
I stopped Seth and placed a hand on his shoulder as I raised a foot to shake out a pebble that had gotten into my shoe. As I did, I looked back from where we’d come and noticed a small silver vehicle driving very slowly. The driver had stopped when we did.
“Do you see that car?” I asked Seth.
“Which one?”
“The small silver one.”
“What about it?”
“It was behind us when we took the taxi from the hotel.”
“So?”
“Here it is again, driving slowly, as though trying to stay behind us.”
“You feeling a little paranoid this morning, Jessica?”
I squinted at the car, trying to see if I recognized the driver through the tinted windshield. The car suddenly sped up, turned a corner, and was gone.
“Sorry,” I said as we continued our walk.
“About what?”
“The car. Nothing unusual about a car being where we are twice in a day.”
We’d almost reached the hotel when Seth said, “Did you see the driver of the car?”
“Not clearly. It was a man. He was alone, I think. Why?”
“No reason. Just asking.”
As we entered the lobby, we were stopped by a desk clerk. “Someone came by and left you this, Dr. Hazlitt.” He handed Seth an envelope on which his name was handwritten.
Seth opened it, frowned as he read the note that was inside, and handed it to me.
Dear Dr. Hazlitt,
It is important that I speak with you. Please call me at my cell number as soon as possible.
—Dr. Pedro Sardina
He included the number.
“Sounds important,” I said, handing back the note.
“It does, doesn’t it? I’ll call from my room. Meet you back here in a half hour.”
The message light was flashing on my room phone. It was a call from Oona Mendez.
I don’t know what your schedule is like, today, Jessica, but I would like very much to meet with you at your convenience.
She, too, left a phone number.
I told Seth of Oona’s message in the taxi on our way to the laboratory.
“Seems we’re popular folks these days.”
“It appears that way.”
“I reached Dr. Sardina. He’ll be at the lab when we’re there with Bernie Peters, but he said he didn’t want to talk with him around.”
“I wonder why.”
“I suspect there’s going to be some tense times between Peters and Sardina,” Seth said. “Sardina knows how far Al got with his research, and Bernie obviously wants to know, too.”
“I can’t fathom why a smart businessman like Bernard Peters would allow Dr. Vasquez to keep his research results under such close wraps. After all, Mr. Peters’s company is paying for it.”
“I don’t understand it either, Jessica, but I intend to find out.”
The conviction with which he said it startled me. I had no idea that he’d decided to seek answers to that question, or any question, for that matter. I knew that Vasquez’s sudden death had had a tremendous impact on Seth. He’d kept his emotions in check, but it was obvious to me that he was struggling with them. Despite the little time they’d spent together, Alvaro Vasquez had become a treasured friend, something that few people I knew could claim. Yes, Seth Hazlitt had a world of friends back in Cabot Cove, but few were truly allowed entry into his inner circle, and I thankfully counted myself among them.
I decided to push him.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked.
“About what?”
“About wanting to find out the situation between Dr. Vasquez and Bernard Peters?”
“You sound as though I shouldn’t.”
“Not at all, Seth, but I didn’t realize that you had issues to resolve aside from naturally grieving over your friend’s death.”
He thought before responding. “The way I see it,” he said, “Al devoted his life to finding a cure for Alzheimer’s. He pursued the cause despite interference from Castro’s totalitarian regime, and he showed guts when he and Ivelisse left Cuba and came here to continue his work. He was one hell of a fine man, and I want to make sure that his work gets the credit it deserves.”
I started to say something, but he continued.
“There’s more to it, though, Jessica. There’s a real foul smell, the way he died. It wasn’t lightning like everyone assumed. Sudden and complete respiratory collapse? Never heard of such a thing. Doesn’t make sense.”
It was my turn to think before speaking. When I did, I asked, “Are you suggesting there might have been foul play?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Jessica. All I know is that something’s rotten in Denmark, only it’s here in Tampa, Florida, and I want to know what it is. I owe it to Al.”
Chapter Nine
The guard who’d been at the door when we’d first visited the laboratory was on hand when we arrived to meet with Peters and Sardina. But this time the door to the building was open, and we weren’t questioned as we approached. We entered and followed the narrow corridor back to where the lab itself was located. Peters and Sardina were there, and neither man looked happy.
“Good to se
e you,” Peters said, shaking Seth’s hand as we entered the lab. “Thanks for coming.”
“No trouble at all,” Seth said. He looked over at Vasquez’s assistant. “Hello, Dr. Sardina,” he said.
Sardina muttered what passed for a response and busied himself at one of the computers.
Peters indicated with a flip of his head that we should follow him outdoors, where he led us far enough away from the guard to ensure privacy.
“Hate to get personal,” Seth said, “but I get the impression that you and Pedro Sardina were not havin’ a pleasant chat about the weather.”
Peters’s tight lips and angry eyes confirmed that supposition.
“Anything I can do to help?” Seth asked.
“It’s missing,” Peters said flatly.
“What’s missing?” Seth asked.
“Al’s laptop computer, the one he used to chart the progress of his research.”
“It can’t just be missing,” Seth said. “There’s got to be a simple answer.”
“You know the computer I’m referring to,” Peters said. “I understand that Al shared some of the material on it with you.”
“Ayuh, he did. I got to read some of the entries.”
“That’s more than he did for me,” Peters said.
“Mr. Peters,” I said, “I obviously have no knowledge of what transpired between you and Dr. Vasquez, but I have to ask a question that’s been on my mind ever since I got here. Dr. Vasquez joked once that he kept progress reports from you. I can’t help but wonder why you, as the source of Dr. Vasquez’s funding, would be kept so much in the dark about his progress—and, I suppose, why you would put up with it.”
Peters’s smile was rueful. “Want a straight answer, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Whatever answer you wish to give.”
“I let Al get away with it because, frankly, I had no choice. His research was vitally important to me and to K-Dex. I’d known for years about his research in Cuba into the impact of sugar on the brain, and the role it might play in promoting the growth of beta-amyloids, a chief component of the plaques that are a definite hallmark of brain abnormalities in Alzheimer’s patients. The same holds true of how glucose, and insulin resistance, could influence the unusual growth of tau proteins, another provable aspect of the disease. To be honest, I was taken in by Al’s faith in his research. But who wouldn’t have been? Every report that leaked out of Cuba said he was on the brink of a truly major medical breakthrough.”
Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 8