I decided to let it go, hoping that maybe reverse psychology would work—that maybe by not thinking about it, I would remember. So I sat back down and began the task of finishing—Kurt, that was his name—Kurt’s work from the earlier shift, and before I knew it, two hours had passed. I looked up and noticed it was almost 2:30 a.m., which meant I needed to go the cafeteria and pick up Olin’s dinner.
Bastard.
I FINALLY STEPPED OUT of the shower, having exhausted all of the hot water during the twenty minutes I just stood under the stream, grateful for the refreshing water to not only rinse the filth of the desert away but also the stench that sunk into my pores. Too bad that it wasn’t possible to clean the mind the same way, for if it was, I would happily crack my head open and rinse the nasty images from the day away. It was days like the last two when I started to think twice about my career choice.
I toweled off quickly and yanked on fresh jeans, shirt, and socks; stumbling a bit in the darkness in my haste. I headed to the kitchen to grab a fresh cup of coffee that hopefully finished brewing while I was in the shower. God knows I needed the caffeine as I closed in fast on a twenty-four hour stretch with no sleep. I only got down the first swig before my cell phone rattled on the counter, and I quickly snatched it up, answering it on the second ring.
“Ronson.”
“Hey, Steve…it’s Sandy. Got a minute?”
I really didn’t, as I needed to finish getting dressed and head back to the station, but I also knew that Sandy wouldn’t be calling me at 2:30 in the morning if she didn’t think it was important, so I said, “Make it quick. I’m trying to get back up there. What’s up?”
“I have a guard from Yarkema County Jail that insists he talk to you. He won’t tell me why, but he’s called twice, wanting your cell phone number. I wouldn’t give it to him, he’s asking now that I patch the call through.”
I set my cup down on the counter and pulled out the bar stool, cradling the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I reached for pen and paper from the edge of the counter. Yarkema County was where Olin was spending his solitary time these days, and the immediate tingle in my gut, that I had learned to listen to long ago, started bouncing around, letting me know I needed to hear what the guard had to say.
“It’s okay, Sandy. Transfer him through. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
“Sure thing, Steve,” Sandy replied, and then I heard the faint clicking as the call connected.
“Detective Ronson,” I said, setting the phone down on the counter and pressing the speaker button—notepad and pen at the ready.
“Thank God! I didn’t think I was ever going to get it through that dingy receptionist’s head that I needed to talk to you,” came the gruff reply from the other end, a voice full of agitation and excitement at the same time. Before I could ask his name, he continued. “My name is Sergeant Sherman Fenter. I work the solitary block at Yarkema County Jail.”
I interrupted him, hoping to spur him on to the main point of his call. “I’m rather swamped at the moment, Sergeant Fenter. Please, make it quick. What did you need to tell me?”
Sergeant Fenter cleared his throat, “Oh sure, sure you are, working the Folton case, I bet. Sorry. Okay, quick and dirty. I saw the news report about Robert Folton’s death earlier tonight, then saw another report of a death of a herpetologist down in McNeal who I happen to know…well…sort of. Anyway, I watched the news report on Dr. Moore’s death, and the very strange circumstances surrounding it, but what caught my attention was a name.”
God, could he be any slower? I thought as I continued to scribble, raising the pen off the paper for a moment to swig another sip of coffee. I wondered what part of “make it quick” he missed, so I asked, “What name?”
“Bridgette Summers,” he replied, and I decided I would get much further in this discussion if I took over and asked questions that would only require quick, short answers.
“And why is that name important to you?”
“Well, the cops in McNeal are looking for her since she was scheduled to meet Dr. Moore the day he died, and I guess they want to ask her if she did, you know, maybe to narrow down the time of his death? Anyway, I don’t know anyone named Bridgette Summers, but for some reason, my mind had memory of it. Then, it dawned on me a few minutes ago.”
I had stopped writing now as I was searching for my boots and finally found them, straining to put them on and listen to Sergeant Fenter at the same time. I flopped back down on the stool after successfully getting my boots on, a bead of sweat slowly trickling down the back of my neck, my frustration with this conversation growing, but something from the pit of my stomach reached up and kept a lid on my mouth, forcing me to listen.
“I started digging through records here at the jail, and a lady named Bridgette Summers came here a few months ago,” he finally spat out. “And it was to visit Olin Kemper.”
I almost dropped my coffee cup.
The minute I was informed in the wee hours of the morning that Robert was missing, I knew that we would find him dead, just like I knew when I saw his horribly bloated body, rancid smelling and rank from the heat inside his tiny tent that sat for days in the brutal Arizona sun, that his death wasn’t a suicide. I certainly wasn’t surprised when County Coroner Rick Kensington had walked over after examining the scene and said that Robert’s body exuded all the signs of a person bit by a snake, yet the horrendous wound on his neck didn’t match up.
Someone had killed him, and somehow, I knew it tied to Olin, but all that knowledge was only in my head, for I had no shred of evidence other than my hunches and instincts to back up my theories.
Until now.
Fully alert now, I focused my attention back onto my conversation with Sergeant Fenter. “Do you have access to a scanner?” I asked, glancing over my previous notes, making sure I didn’t leave any of our conversation out.
“No, but I have a copier and a fax machine, and I already made a copy of the log. Give me a fax number and I’ll send it over right now,” the sergeant’s replied, full of pride and excitement when he realized that he really did have a piece of important information.
I rattled off the number to him, told him to put it to my attention and not to send it until I called him back from the office since I didn’t want anyone to see this piece of information except me. He agreed, and just as I was about to hang up, he said, “One other thing, Detective. Bridgette listed herself as Olin’s sister, and I checked his arrest record. Olin is an only child.”
I already knew that, but was still appreciative of his attention to detail. “Thank you, Sergeant Fenter. Your detective work has been invaluable. Please remember, not a word to anyone about this. One more quick question. Do you know what kind of facility it was that Dr. Moore worked at?”
“Well, his books all focus on the different types of snakes indigenous to Arizona, but in the last few years, he really focused on the Mojave Rattlers, since they’re so deadly. Oh, I failed to mention, I called a friend of mine that works in the jail in Carohemia County, and he said that one of his buddies that works for the coroner heard the research assistant, the guy that found him, telling the investigator that three vials of Mojave venom were missing. Isn’t that weird? Who in the hell would want to steal snake venom?”
The tingling feeling I had in the pit of my stomach earlier had just become a huge electrical surge, the voltage hitting me hard as I could only think of one reason why someone would steal snake venom, and it sure as hell wasn’t to sell it on the black market.
I thanked Sergeant Fenter and told him again to wait for my call. I sprinted through the living room, grabbing my holster, badge, and keys from the bedroom, and I flew out of the house. As I cranked up my Jeep, I searched quickly through my contacts until I found Rick Kensington’s cell phone number, hit send, and then backed out of the driveway and headed into town. If I knew him like I thought I did, he would be at the morgue working on Robert. Sure enough, he answered on the fourth ring.
“I’m not finished yet, Ronson. Geez, give me time!” he said, dispensing with the idle chit chat that he abhorred.
“Hold your pants on, Rick! That’s not why I am calling,” I said, slowing my Jeep down as I hit the curvy mountain roads that led into the heart of Summerset. “I need you to check something for me though.”
“Ronson, I assure you that he is still just as dead as he was earlier,” Rick said, the heavy sarcasm dripping from him.
I ignored his attempt to irritate me and said, “Is it possible to determine what kind of snake bit him from blood tests?”
I could hear the heavy sigh lingering in the back of his throat as he replied, “Of course. My guess is a rattlesnake, given the terrain we found him in. But there is no way that Robert was bitten by a rattler.”
I almost wrecked the Jeep as I slammed the brakes on, resting the bumper inches away from the brick and mortar that made up the small morgue. “Hold that thought and let me in,” I almost shouted into the phone as I climbed out and ran to the door, hanging up the phone as I pounded on the glass.
I could see Rick coming down the hallway and motioned for him to hurry up. As he opened the door to let me in, he noticed my hyped-up state and said, “All right, Steve. What’s going on here?”
“What the hell do you mean he wasn’t bitten?” I said, my words harsher than what I intended.
“Come here. I’ll show you,” he said as we walked back to the area where the body was splayed out on the dissection table. He walked over to the side by Robert’s swollen head and pointed to his mangled neck.
“You see this area here? At first I thought that maybe an animal did this post mortem, but after careful examination, I concluded that the tissue was still living at the time it was torn. I found no evidence of any teeth or claw marks. Under his nails, I discovered chunks of his own tissue, so he obviously did the damage to his neck himself.”
I held my breath for the umpteenth time today, and even though we were in the cool confines of the morgue, the stench of the remains was beginning to make me nauseous. How Rick handled it on a daily basis was beyond me. He was bent over and examining the decayed tissue around Robert’s neck again, his nose only inches from the reeking mess. I had to turn my face away and take a deep breath before I responded, “Okay, back to your original statement that he wasn’t bitten by a snake?”
Rick stood up straight and smiled a bit as he walked past me to the large metal table across the room that was littered with all sorts of shiny metal tools that almost looked like medieval torture devices as he picked up a small vial of thick, coagulated blood.
“Patience is a virtue, my friend. You see, I already tested his blood to verify my initial appraisal of his demise; he had snake venom coursing through his veins, which caused his death. But,” he said, pointing over to the slab once again, “he died from respiratory paralysis, and it came on almost immediately after he ripped the skin from his neck since the bleeding stopped just a few minutes after. Had he still been alive, there should have been a tremendous amount of blood volume lost, but that is not the case. A typical snake bite, while painful, doesn’t cause respiratory failure in minutes, even in someone very ill or old. However, the bite from a snake that carries neurotoxic venom…well, that bite is extremely painful, yet in someone the size of old Robert here,” he said, patting Robert’s foot, “it still wouldn’t have killed him so quick. So, I ran a few blood tests and guess what?”
Frustrated and needing to go toss my coffee up, I struggled to create a calm façade and replied, “What?”
“I found a huge amount of venom in his blood, significantly larger than what could have come from being bitten by even several snakes at one time; and of course, there are no puncture wounds on him anywhere. And, there is nothing in the contents of his stomach either other than a bit of alcohol, which means that someone injected him with a massive amount of venom, probably in the neck, and the excruciating pain from that caused him to tear apart his own neck.”
Oh yeah…someone injected him, and I knew her name.
HOME. FINALLY.
Purr Baby greeted my late arrival at the door with several loud meows, and I am sure that in cat language, she probably just called me several ugly names and requested her dinner, now. I flicked on the light as I locked the door, picking her furry mass up, cooing my apologies in her soft ear all the way to the kitchen as I prepared her long awaited meal. Poor cat.
With one last pet on her soft head, I headed to the bedroom to begin packing for my trip, but the call of the bath was too much for me to dismiss, so I gave in and waited impatiently for the hot, steaming water to fill the tub and hopefully relax some of my muscles that were way past being in knots.
I finally lowered my tired limbs into the bubbles and closed my eyes. Three o’clock in the morning and I was just now getting home—in a taxi no less—wondering who in the hell decided to completely deface my car with the huge, red spray-painted letters T R A I T O R across the hood. Every window was shattered, and the tires were utterly shredded to pieces, like a bear had used them as a scratch pad. Poor Tyson had been so protective that he immediately pushed us into the elevator and back to the main level where he called the security desk, and within minutes, the stark concrete deck was flooded with the bright lights from several police cars.
For the next two and a half hours, I answered so many questions that close to the end, my voice started to fail. The first batch of questions came from the fresh-out-of-the-academy rookie that had the audacity to ask me if I had a jealous husband or lover—I mean, really, what angered ex would use the word traitor?—and moved on to the detective that finally arrived only after my insistence with Rookie Blue to speak with one. The only bit of fortune that the last twenty-four plus hours bestowed upon me was the fact that Detective Larson actually was aware of the reputation of Winscott, plus he recognized me and knew about Robert’s death, so he immediately understood that my destroyed car wasn’t the handiwork of just some green-eyed ex or bored juveniles looking for some fun. This fact was hammered home with him after a quick interrogation of the on-duty parking attendant and the subsequent discovery that the camera on this level was blacked out with some type of spray adhesive.
Once finished with all the obligatory paperwork and my car doing a guest spot on CSI:Phoenix (I did laugh a bit at that. The black clad investigators looked like they just walked off the set, complete with ‘Crime Scene Unit’ emblazoned across their backs), Detective Larson arranged for Rookie Blue to take me to the airport so I could procure a rental. Of course, trying to navigate the sprawling airport and then actually find someone to help me was an episode worthy of a comedy sketch on Saturday Night Live, complete with an ending that had me leaving in utter frustration and being driven home in a taxi.
The bubbles were starting to dissipate and the water was tepid at best now, but I just wasn’t ready to face the daunting task of packing just yet, so I drained a bit of the water out and refilled the tub with water so hot I had to pull my legs up and rest them on the cool, marble ledge until finished. I tried closing my eyes again in hopes of shutting my mind off, but of course, that didn’t happen. I wanted to focus on Steve and our beautiful night together, but when I sought out those images, they were replaced by his words in my ear earlier about Robert and kept mingling with the words painted across my car, and I knew they were connected.
I opened my burning eyes and turned my head toward the bathroom door, knowing I needed to call Steve and tell him this latest little revelation, but I knew he was busy working on Robert’s case, and I didn’t want to interrupt him or let these last few moments of hot water and fragrant bubbles go to waste. I leaned back a final time and tried to forget the gnawing guilt that was twisting in my stomach, but I lost that battle as the tears finally trickled down my cheek, quietly melding with the hot water, causing the tiny, delicate bubbles to silently burst.
I WAITED FOR THE lock to release as I stared through the metal bars, ignoring my compan
ion who, it appeared, had just rolled out of bed moments ago. Although he was wearing the traditional garb of a lawyer, stuffy tie and all, the wrinkles on his suit and the lines of the sheets on his face were painfully obvious. At four o’clock in the morning, it shouldn’t have surprised me, for most normal people were actually sleeping.
But not me.
The buzzer went off at the same time the lock was opened and Nick Rancliff and I waited for the steel, reinforced door to slide open. I motioned for him to go first, which he did, his limbs still asleep as his motions were jerky and hesitant. Of course, I had yet to really inform him of the reasons behind my requesting his presence while I interrogated Olin other than it was a matter of great urgency and couldn’t wait until daylight. He had mumbled something about being glad that he was already in Summerset at a hotel so he didn’t have to make the long drive, but I ignored his snide remark and just hung up after telling him he had fifteen minutes to meet me at Yarkema County Jail.
We walked silently along the corridor as the residents were still asleep, and I could tell from his hesitant footfalls that he was nervous and unsure as to why he was here. Considering that I was simply expecting the typical tyrannical attorney, preening and fussing about their client’s rights being violated, I found his behavior sort of odd. Nick Rancliff genuinely seemed worried, and I found that to be very interesting.
A burly jailor that looked like a small linebacker met us at the end of the corridor, and judging from the wide grin spread across his face, this was Sergeant Fenter. He extended his meaty hand toward me and said, “Detective Ronson. So nice to meet you. Mr. Kemper is in here.”
His exuberance almost crushed the bones in my hand, which, considering the difference in our sizes was actually funny. He was like a pit bull—compact and designed to inflict pain.
Eviscerating the Snake - The Complete Trilogy Page 29