by Tonya Kappes
“It’s not a tat. It’s Sharpie marker. On his right wrist.” He used a pointer to point to Doc’s other hand. “Ronald has never been able to write properly with his left hand, nor deal a good hand in poker, because the tip is gone off the pointer finger. He was right-handed.” He dragged the pointer over to the Sharpie design. “This is intricate detail Ronald could’ve never done with his left hand. Plus, when I swipe it, parts of it rub off easily because it’s not been there long.”
The design written in Sharpie on Doc’s wrist reminded me of something. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
White’s Jewelry, I thought to myself.
“White’s Jewelry,” a soft and gentle voice spoke back.
My head shifted side to side. “I’m sorry.” I leaned a little over Doc’s body. “Did you say White’s Jewelry?”
“No.” Max’s brows furrowed. “I said there is no way—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off. “I heard you say that, but you didn’t say anything about the jewelry store? And the break-in?”
“No.”
“You don’t know.” I gasped. “You’ve been down here all morning.” I gestured to the autopsy room. “White’s Jewelry was broken into before Polly Parker opened up for Viola White and this exact same symbol was spray-painted on the carpet behind the glass counter.”
Somehow Doc Walton’s murder and the White’s Jewelry theft were related, and the killer wanted me to know.
“I even took pictures of it but I left my bag out in the truck.” I held a finger up. “I’ll be right back.”
A clear glass jar full of Band-Aids was sitting on the counter on my way out of the autopsy. I lifted the lid off.
“You don’t mind if I use one, do you?” I asked, peeling the gloves off of my hands.
“No, take what you need.” Max was bent over with a magnifier stuck on his goggles taking a good look at the Sharpie tattoo.
Walking out to the truck, I ripped the Band-Aid open and made it tight around my finger like my mother used to do when I was a child. Oh, how I missed those days.
Follow your instincts. The whisper filled my head. My heart sank and I took a few quick breaths.
I grabbed my bag, taking it back inside.
“I swear it’s the same symbol from White’s,” I said as I rushed back into the autopsy room, where Max was still hunkered over the corpse.
I sat my bag on the counter, deliberately keeping my back turned, not facing the procedure until I heard some clicking noises.
“What are you doing?” I asked, looking at Max, who was holding a fancy digital SLR camera.
His hand was placed on the lens, rotating it left and right, clicking with the other. He would squat, stand, and move around the body like he was a photographer on the set of America’s Next Top Model and Doc Walton was the model.
“I have to take pictures of everything.” He didn’t miss an angle. His finger continued to snap away. “It’s part of the procedure. Especially in a murder investigation.”
It might be sick, but for the first time today, I felt a little better. Taking any more pictures myself than I needed to of Doc Walton’s dead body was not high on my priority list. I wasn’t looking forward to downloading them at home tonight as I stirred my spaghetti.
“I had to take pictures while Ronald was in the body bag.” His voice cracked, and I looked over at him. There were tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “And when I transferred him to the table.”
I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder. He continued to snap.
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure how to console him. “I know y’all were poker buddies and friends.”
He stepped away from my hand, putting the camera down on the stainless steel table next to Doc Walton, and peeled off his gloves, the bags under his eyes damp.
“I’ve never had to do an autopsy on a friend before.” He nodded for me to follow him. He picked his camera up, putting the strap around his neck. He lowered the exam table, grabbed his camera, and took pictures of Doc’s face. “What in the world?” He let the camera dangle and grabbed a pair of tweezers.
“What?” The shock in his voice had me hoping it was something important.
“Is this mercury from a thermometer?” He held the tweezers under the magnifying lens.
“There was a broken thermometer on the floor. Doc Walton didn’t believe in the battery ones.” I thought about going to see him as a child and having to put that glass thermometer in my mouth for what seemed like a long time. I almost smiled.
“I know, but why was this embedded in his mustache?” Max asked.
“Embedded?” I asked and leaned over Doc Walton’s face.
Max used the tips of the tweezers to rake through Doc’s mustache. “See?” The tweezers parted a couple of hairs to expose another ball of the mercury.
Carefully, Max put the mercury ball into a beaker with the other one.
“You don’t think he could have dropped the thermometer while he was being stabbed?” I asked. “Maybe he was taking the killer’s temperature. The killer could have taken Doc off guard and stabbed him. Doc dropped the thermometer, breaking it, and the mercury rolled everywhere. When he fell to the ground, he fell face forward into the mercury, getting it in his mustache.”
It seemed like a pretty good analysis, if I said so myself.
“There are no cuts on his face.” Max grabbed his magnifying glass and looked down through it. “If he landed in glass, he would’ve had some cuts. Besides, when I moved his body, there wasn’t a pile of mercury or glass.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, disappointed that my theory was probably wrong.
“Kenni.” Max put the magnifying glass down. His tone became chilly. “I think I can guess how Ronald died.”
“Guess?” There was no room for guessing.
“I’m pretty sure I know.” His voice cracked. “I think the killer somehow made Ronald ingest the mercury.”
“What?”
I had never heard of such a thing.
“Ronald might have been stabbed multiple times, but he most likely died from ingested mercury balls.” He put his hand over his mouth like he was being smothered. “I believe the balls on the floor fell out of the killer’s hand when they were trying to smother Doc. He does have some bruising on the back of his neck, which makes sense if the killer grabbed Doc and forced the mercury balls from the broken thermometer over his mouth and nose. When Doc tried to catch some air, the mercury balls would’ve slid down his passageways. This would explain the little blood in his mouth, his swollen eyelids, and bloodshot eyes.” He moved his hand over every body part he had named that would be affected by the poisoning. “It’s hard to trace and the killer was smart enough to know that. And,” he moved his finger over one of the stab wounds, “they were very angry with him to keep stabbing him.”
“So your theory is the killer stabbed him first and saw it wasn’t going to do the job so they broke the thermometer, got out the mercury globules, and forced them down Doc’s throat?” I asked.
“I’m just here to figure out how he died.” Max motioned for me to follow him to his office. He talked into a mini tape recorder, reciting exactly what he had told me. “I have to put in all theories to help me put the facts together. Ronald will tell me how he died.”
“Ronald will what?”
“His body will tell me how he was killed,” Max spat. This was the first time I had heard him sound angry.
We walked into his office right off of the autopsy room. The room was bare. There were two chairs in front of his desk, neither of them matching, which made me think they came from Ruby’s Antiques on Main Street. Behind the desk was a bookshelf wall, only it didn’t hold a single book. It was filled with files upon files.
“Have a seat.” Max to
ok a seat in the chair behind the desk. “I have to find out what happened in Ronald’s office last night.”
“Me too.” He had to know how serious I was. “Last night?”
“The wound marks can tell me a lot.” He flipped his fancy camera on and showed me a picture of some of the wounds.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the stuff around the wound.
“It’s Steri-Strips. Like Band-Aids. They help me take a good picture of each wound so I can measure the depth and figure out the mapping.” He flipped to the next picture. “If the blood tests come back toxic with mercury, I’ll be able to use the mapping to figure out if he was stabbed first, and when that didn’t do the job, they used the mercury.”
“How does the mapping work?” I asked.
He put the camera down and took in a deep breath. I could tell he was a little frustrated with my lack of knowledge. “I can determine by the pattern of the wounds how and in what order they were created. I’m wondering if the killer didn’t intend to kill him, but something set them off and they killed him on impulse. That might explain the random pattern of stabbings.” He drew his arm up over his head, pointing to his shoulder blade. “The x-rays show the depth of the wounds, and I really have to rule out the stab wounds as the cause of death.”
He picked up the x-ray film off his desk. “This shows the stab wounds didn’t go into the body enough to hit an organ or any sort of major artery, so I’m deducing the weapon was not a knife.”
I stood up and took a closer look.
“These stab wounds look post-mortem.” He used his pen to point to the ones he was talking about.
“So Doc was already dead when he was stabbed?”
“Yes, so mercury poisoning is the most likely cause of death.” He pointed to more of the post-mortem wounds. “The person who did this must have been very angry. I don’t know anyone who would continue to stab someone who was dead unless there was so much hate built up in them that it was the only way to get out their rage.”
“Who could have hated him that much?” I thought about who Doc Walton hung out with, and no one fit the profile Max was talking about.
“The preliminary toxicology test will give us some direction.” He picked up his camera again and showed me another picture. “His wrist. This symbol was also at the White’s Jewelry break-in?”
“Yes.” I pulled my camera out of the bag and showed him the pictures of the symbol. “Which leads me to believe the two crimes are connected.”
“It looks like some sort of Chinese symbol like you see down at Kim’s Buffet.” He stared down his nose at me before he took off his reader glasses, setting them aside and folding his hands in front of him on the folders. “You know, I never saw your Poppa a day without that pin on him.” His chair creaked when he eased back, crossing his arms over his chest. “He even wore it in church.”
I ran my finger over the pin. Mrs. Kim would know what the symbols mean. I needed an expert and she was Chinese. I couldn’t get a better expert. “Listen, you keep working on the autopsy and I’m going to figure out this symbol.” I jumped up, gathering my stuff before zipping my bag. “I think that’s a good place to start.”
Chapter Eight
“Kenni, hi!” Ruby Smith waved at me from across the street. Her short red hair sparkled in the early morning sunshine. Her orange-lipstick-lined lips parted, she called, “Wait right there!”
Ruby weaved her long and lanky five-foot-nine frame in and out of Main Street traffic, looking like Frogger in her green jumpsuit, flailing her hands at oncoming traffic to stop and let her pass.
“Use the crosswalk!” someone yelled when they passed her.
Ruby threw her middle finger up and kept going. “I’ve got a two-for-one special today.” She threw both middle fingers up. “People are so rude.” She shook her head at me.
“Well, jaywalking is against the law, Ruby.” Not that I would give her a citation, but she did need to know she was completely in the wrong when the crosswalk was just a few steps away.
She pushed her wrists toward me, a bag dangling from her grasp.
“Cuff me.” Her chin lifted in the air, her eyes sweeping down at me. Her green eyeshadow sparkled. “Take me to jail.”
“Ruby.” An exhausted sigh escaped me. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You apparently don’t have time to do laundry either.” Her lashes whipped up, her eyes as wide as the full moon.
“It’s been a long day.” I wasn’t about to get into a discussion over my attire; I already knew I looked like I had just rolled out of bed.
Which I had this morning, but in my defense, I hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, nor investigating a murder or a break-in at White’s.
“I just wanted you to know that Viola White called and told me about the robbery.” Ruby tucked a loose hair behind her ear. “I called Doolittle Bowman and told her to call an emergency town meeting, but she said someone else had already called in to suggest the same thing.” She leaned down and whispered, “And Doc Walton? You need to check out that Doctor Shively.” Her painted-on brows arched. “When I went to Ben’s for a cup of coffee yesterday, Doc Walton was in there having a heated discussion with Doctor Shively. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop so I didn’t hear anything.” She gave a theatrical wink. “Toots came into the shop the other day and Doctor Shively was at the register. The two of them avoided each other like the plague. When I asked Toots about it…” She cleared her throat. “Not that I was nosing, but it is my civic duty since I am on the town council.”
“Of course you weren’t. And of course you are only doing your civic duty.” I knew better. Ruby knowing something was as good as putting it in the newspaper. Better, even.
“Toots said Doc Walton and Doctor Shively had seen the same patient and didn’t see eye to eye on the patient’s treatment.” Slowly her head nodded up and down. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it at the town council meeting.” She wiggled her brows.
The meeting would be like a firing range, only I would be the target and the people of Cottonwood the bullets.
“Thank you for the information about Doc Walton. I’ll look into it.”
I had to find out what the doctors were fighting about. Why didn’t Toots tell me about it?
I held my hand up for a slight wave, and she grabbed it.
“What on earth did you do?” She held my finger up to her eyes and took a good look. “You’re bleeding.”
“I am?” I jerked my hand out of hers and looked at the Band-Aid.
She was right. The blood trickled down through the Band-Aid and in the creases of my hand.
“Crap.” I ran the finger down my shirt.
“Such language,” Ruby hissed.
“Really? You just gave someone the bird and you’re fussing about the word ‘crap?’” I looked at my finger again.
“They were going to hit me.” She stomped her foot.
“You were jaywalking.” The pin poke continued to let out little dots of blood. I waved her off. “Listen, I was going to come see you because I found a pin of my Poppa’s from when he was sheriff.”
“He was such a good sheriff.” A smile crossed her orange lips. “He would’ve been all over these crimes. Not that you aren’t. Now, what about that pin? I bet it would fetch a pretty penny.”
“Oh no.” I shook my head and pointed to it on my shirt. “I’m not selling it. I want to wear it on my uniform but I need one of those butterfly clasps to keep it on.”
“Darling,” Ruby held her bag in the air, “I would say it was your lucky day, but it clearly hasn’t been. But I just so happen to have picked up a bunch when I went antiquing yesterday in Clay’s Ferry.” She opened the bag and put her hand in, pulling out a handful of clasps and extending her palm to me. “I didn’t go back to the shop after I
found these gems and I was going to put them out today.”
Clay’s Ferry was another small town known for their antique shops. In order to get there, people had to drive through Cottonwood, which was why Ruby decided to open her shop.
“That is so strange.” My head cocked at the coincidence of her having exactly what I needed. “How much for one?”
She put them back in the bag, keeping one in her pincer.
“Take it.” She stuck it in my palm and curled her hand around it, making mine into a fist. “Maybe wearing the pin will give you some mojo to help solve the crimes like your Poppa would’ve.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly shut it when she tapped the bottom of my chin.
“It’s not ladylike to gawk with your mouth open. If you let your mama mother you, I’m sure she’d have taught you that. I’ll see you tonight.” She turned away as if her jab was everyday talk and darted across the street, but not without flipping the bird to another car that almost hit her.
Chapter Nine
By the time I got home, it was dark. There was no sense in going to Kim’s Buffett this late. It wasn’t like I was going to get any more answers about Doc’s murder tonight and any evidence wouldn’t be back this quick.
I owned a little cottage off Broadway Street on the south side of Cottonwood, known as “Free Row.” Everyone in town knew exactly where that was and not many people thought it was a good thing.
Most of the people who lived on my street were on commodity cheese and food stamps. Yeah, there were cars in the front yard propped up on cement blocks, ripped-up couches on porches, and maybe an unruly teenager or two—who didn’t think I knew they were unruly—but I gave them the stare down if I saw them outside to put a little fear in them. No one on Free Row ever bothered me or they knew I’d be loading more than my washer and dryer.
Living on Free Row didn’t bother me. My house wasn’t much, but it was my Poppa’s and he’d left it to me in his will. Duke and I enjoyed it and that was all that mattered.