Bitter Brew

by G. A. McKevett

  And then there were the others, whose passings had nothing to do with illness or accidents. Rarely and tragically, someone left this earth at the hands of another.

  Those who lost their loved ones in that horrific manner had no such platitudes to comfort them. All they had left were gaping holes in their hearts and the age-old questions: Who? How? Why?

  Savannah harbored strong personal opinions about those events. She firmly believed that the act of murder was the purest form of evil on earth, that it rocked both the physical and spiritual worlds to their core.

  Homicide could never qualify as “meant to be,” as every victim was cheated out of whatever time they had left to complete their life’s work and enjoy the earth’s beauty, not to mention the love afforded them by their friends and families.

  While she couldn’t restore anybody’s loved one or even begin to assuage their pain, occasionally, Savannah had been able to answer a few of those haunting questions and secure some degree of justice for the survivors.

  She was fiercely proud of that.

  She firmly believed that no one could understand the true value of justice until they had suffered a great wrong and then been denied it.

  So, on her way to the morgue she felt a strong sense of apprehension, mixed with a determination, that if Brianne Marston had been robbed of her life, she would do all she could to bring her killer to justice.

  But this time it was a bit different, more complicated. She couldn’t help wondering what price her friend, the county’s first and only female medical examiner, might have to pay before Lady Justice’s scales would find a place of balance.

  One day at a time, Savannah girl, her mind whispered with a quiet, gentle voice that, as always, sounded a lot like Gran’s. One moment at a time, if that’s what it comes to.

  * * *

  As Savannah pulled her bright red 1965 Mustang into the morgue’s parking lot, she fought that ever-increasing heavy, sinking feeling in her belly that usually accompanied visits to this place of death. She couldn’t help dreading the prospect of adding to the burden she already carried—that of knowing the horrors one human being could perpetrate on another.

  Also, there was Officer Kenneth Bates.

  She and Kenny had a love/hate relationship.

  He loved her. Although his feelings for her tended more toward hard-core pornographic lust than sweet soul mate adoration.

  She loathed him, his too-tight, grease-stained uniform, his lopsided toupee . . . the scratched, faded linoleum he walked upon, the chili-cheese, nacho smelly air he breathed.

  Unfortunately, the reception area of the building was his domain, and she had to sign the clipboard on his counter before she could enter the secure interior, where Dr. Jennifer Liu conducted her autopsies, supervised identifications, and wrote her reports.

  As always when opening the front door, Savannah steeled herself for the upcoming onslaught of double entendres, insulting propositions, indecent proposals, and elevator glances that took in every “floor” of her body edifice, lingering on his favorite locations.

  Society at large might have finally begun to shine a light into the darkness of sexual harassment, but not even a penlight had illuminated the murky cave that was the heart of Kenny Bates. Savannah truly doubted it ever would. She suspected that Enlightenment was low on Ken’s priority list, well below female body parts that would fit beneath a string bikini, beer, and a pastrami and limburger cheese hero sandwich.

  But today, Savannah was shocked to see that things were different in the reception area of the county morgue.

  Instead of finding Officer Kenny sitting alone behind his desk, playing video games, looking at porn, and munching on spicy chips—yes, for a nitwit, he was remarkably good at multitasking—he had company. And he didn’t look particularly happy about it.

  Dr. Jennifer Liu stood beside his desk, her hands on her hips, a stern look on her face, as he pretended to work by shuffling stacks of papers on his desktop from one spot to another.

  The moment Savannah opened the door and stepped into the reception area, Jennifer turned to Kenny, jabbed a warning finger at his nose, and said, “Not a word, jackass. You speak to her, you die. Badly. Got it?”

  He looked up at her, an expression of sheer terror on his face, his orange, nacho-stained lips aquiver. He nodded.

  Savannah saw him start to turn his head and glance her way, but in the last second, he seemed to think better of it and, instead, stared intently down at the newly-arranged papers on his desk.

  Jennifer leaned over him and, since she was now dressed in her usual attire—a low-cut, silk blouse, black leather miniskirt, and stilettos—the move afforded him quite a view of feminine pulchritude.

  Savannah was shocked to see that he didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. Instead, he ducked his head and averted his eyes.

  Good Lord, she thought, what’s the world coming to?

  She heard Jennifer whisper in a menacing tone usually reserved for mustachioed cartoon villains wearing black capes as they tied helpless blondes to railroad tracks, “She does not have to sign in. She was never even here. You never saw her.”

  “Right,” he mumbled. “Never here. Never saw nobody.”

  Jennifer turned to Savannah and crooked her finger, beckoning her to follow as she headed for the hallway.

  Savannah hurried after her. When she caught up with her, they walked side by side down the grim corridor, the medical examiner’s stilettos clicking on the worn tile and echoing off the gray walls.

  “How the heck did you do that?” Savannah asked, still flabbergasted.

  “How did I do what?”

  “Tame a beast like Bates. Dirk has slugged that guy. I’ve beaten the tar out of him with his own porn magazine. And it didn’t even make a dent in his stupidness. How did you manage it?”

  “It’s just a matter of having the proper equipment. The first day I arrived, he tried that crap on me. Suggested I come over to his house and watch a geisha girl-American G.I. porn movie with him.”

  “But geishas aren’t hookers and, besides, your heritage is Chinese.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “He’s an idiot. I dragged him to the back, took him into an autopsy suite, and showed him firsthand what I can do with a scalpel, a rib cutter, and a skull saw.”

  Savannah thought it over, then nodded solemnly. “That explains a lot. Thanks for sharing.”

  “Anytime. I’m an amazing source for life hacks. Bring me a box of your chocolate and macadamia cookies the next time you come in, and I’ll tell you how to avoid clumpy mascara and split ends.”

  For a moment, Savannah thought her old friend was back—stilettos, miniskirt, sarcasm, and all. But one sideways glance was all Savannah needed to see that Dr. Jennifer Liu’s jaw was still tight, her backbone a bit too straight, and her arms tight to her sides.

  She looked like she was heading off to war.

  One she expected to lose.

  As they approached the stainless-steel double doors that led to the autopsy suite, Jennifer seemed to grow more tense by the moment.

  She glanced up and down the hallway and seeing no one, she swung one of the doors open and told Savannah, “Come on. The first thing I have to show you is in here.”

  Savannah braced herself for what she might find inside the autopsy suite. She hated to add to the growing list of waking nightmares in her head.

  Dr. Jen would do it for you, she told herself as she stepped inside. Just get it over with.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Jennifer told her as she led her through the main room with its dissecting tables, steel sinks, bright lights, counters covered with trays of equipment, and cabinets, toward a heavy metal door on the back wall.

  As soon as the M.E. began to open that door, Savannah understood that the person she was about to “meet” would not be among the living. Inside was the cooling unit, where bodies were stored before and after autopsies.

  She was pretty sure that no one
in their right mind would want to hang out inside what amounted to an enormous refrigerator full of dead folks, not even if they were wearing thermal long johns and an Alaskan parka.

  Jennifer flipped on the light switch, revealing a simple, straightforward storage system that consisted of sturdy metal shelving that looked like a series of uncomfortable bunk beds, lining three of the walls.

  On those shelves, Savannah saw four bodies. One was in a black, zippered, and locked bag. The kind used for suspected homicide victims. The other three were wrapped in heavy, clear plastic.

  With an officious look on her face and a determined stride, the medical examiner walked over to the body in the black bag, pulled a key from a chain around her neck, and opened the lock. Then she unzipped it and peeled back the sides, exposing the head, face, and upper chest.

  She stepped back to give Savannah a clear view. “This is Nels Farrow, a successful, local real estate broker. Yesterday, his wife, Candy, found his body lying in their backyard, in the middle of his rose garden that he was so proud of. She said he’d been sick for some time, but Candy was shocked and devastated to find him dead.”

  Savannah moved closer to the deceased and took a good look at him. Even in death, she could tell he had been a handsome man and in the prime of his life. He had thick blond hair, a strong jaw, and a dark tan, which Savannah surmised was from all the hours he had spent in his rose garden.

  Her heart ached for him. Thanks to her Granny Reid, Savannah had a soft spot for those who spent their time and love nurturing roses.

  “He looks about thirty-five,” she said. “And in good health.”

  “Good guess. Thirty-seven and in excellent health. Except for the Halstead’s. His father died of it. His physician recently diagnosed him.”

  Savannah turned to Jennifer, surprised. “Really? He had it, too? I thought it was a rare disease.”

  “Yes, fairly rare. With people of European descent, approximately one point five per one hundred thousand. Among other populations, like those with Japanese, Chinese, Hispanic, and African heritage, it’s even less common.”

  “San Carmelita’s population is about one hundred thousand,” Savannah observed. “That would mean, on the average, about one and a half people in town would have it. Even less if you factor in the thirty-three percent Hispanic population.”

  “Low odds. And what are the chances that two of them would die from it less than hours apart?”

  “That defies credibility. On the average, how long does it take for somebody to die from Halstead’s?”

  “From the time people began to manifest the symptoms, especially the seizures, they’re usually gone in about five years.”

  “Was your friend, Brianne, sick that long?”

  “Not even close. A few months. That’s all.”

  Savannah nodded toward the body in the black bag. “And how long did Mr. Farrow’s wife say he’d been sick?”

  “He’s been exhibiting symptoms of confusion, irritation, and paranoia for the last two months. He had a seizure last week.”

  Savannah was starting to feel the queasiness in her stomach that had nothing to do with the fact that she was in a morgue.

  Jennifer leaned down and pulled the zipper of the bag closed. Then she proceeded to replace the lock.

  “I can see why you’re concerned,” Savannah admitted.

  “I’m not concerned.” Her job finished, Jennifer led Savannah from the room and turned out the light. As she closed the door and fastened it securely she said, “I’m scared to death.”

  * * *

  Jennifer Liu sank into the chair behind her office desk and sighed. “If I wanted to lie to myself... If I wanted to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep without having to jump out of bed and run to the bathroom to throw up from sheer terror, I’d try to believe that Brianne and Farrow died at practically the same time of a rare disease. Two people who, from what I can tell, didn’t know each other. And it was just a sad coincidence.”

  Sitting in the chair beside the doctor’s desk, Savannah watched her friend with concern. Having dealt with people in crisis too many times to recall, Savannah knew the look of a person on the edge.

  Jennifer Liu was definitely teetering.

  “Is it possible that they died of something other than Halstead’s or suicide?” Savannah asked.

  “It most certainly is possible. In fact, I’m afraid it’s highly probable. That’s why I’m so upset.”

  Jennifer took a set of keys from her purse. Savannah noticed they were her personal keys—car, house, and several others.

  She used one to unlock the bottom drawer of her desk. Taking out a manila envelope, she said, “This wasn’t simple coincidence. This was death by design. Whether suicides or homicides, I’m not sure.”

  Opening the folder, she shoved it into Savannah’s hands. “Have a look at Nels Farrow’s tox report.”

  “You got his toxicology report back from the lab already?”

  Jennifer shrugged and gave her a weak smile. “I have friends in high places. I was worried, so I had it fast-tracked.”

  “I’ll say you did. Dirk waits days, weeks, sometimes months for this.”

  “He doesn’t have friends in high places. Not that many in medium or low places either.”

  When Savannah shot her a quick, warning look, she added, “Sorry. Now that he’s your husband, I guess I can’t insult him anymore. Too bad. It was so much fun.”

  “Well, now, you don’t have to go that far, but at least not as often.”

  “He’s dressing better now that he’s married to you.”

  “I try. God knows, I try.” Savannah glanced over the medical report, looking for anything that appeared to be plain English that she could understand and not finding a single word.

  Laying the folder on the desk, she said, “I have no idea what those test results mean. You’ll have to translate for me.”

  Jennifer pulled a second envelope from the bottom drawer, only this one was sealed. She reached into her purse and surprised Savannah by producing what appeared to be an antique, ivory-handled switchblade.

  Savannah couldn’t help thinking that Dr. Jennifer Liu had always been and continued to be an ongoing source of wonder.

  In one practiced swipe, she had cut the envelope open.

  After placing the deadly weapon back in her purse, she pulled a paper from inside the envelope and handed it to Savannah.

  “This is Brianne’s tox report. The real one.” She lowered her voice. “Not the one I submitted with my final ruling.”

  Savannah started to ask whose blood she had sent to the lab to get the fake report but seeing the small bruise and pinpoint red spot in the crook of her elbow, she decided not to.

  “See the list of chemicals entered on line five?” Jennifer asked.

  Savannah found the spot she was referring to and read the first entry. “The list that starts with pri..mi..barbital?”

  “Yes. Primibarbital is the primary ingredient in an extremely rare and highly efficient suicide cocktail. Mixed with the others listed below it and taken in a large enough dosage, death would be quick, sure, and relatively painless—at least, as painless as dying ever gets.”

  “Then Brianne took the cocktail and committed suicide, like she told you she intended to do?”

  “So we would be led to believe.” She tapped a fingernail on Farrow’s folder on her desk. “Now look at his report. Line five.”

  Savannah did as she was told. “Primibarbital.” She checked the remainder of the list, then compared them with Brianne’s. “And the others, too. All the same.”

  “That’s right.”

  Savannah’s brain whirred, trying to take in the information she’d been given and make sense of it.

  “Apparently, they both took the same rare cocktail and committed suicide. I’m sorry, Dr. Jen. That’s very sad. But I’m not sure why you’re so concerned that you’re going to be exposed, or why you suspect they were murdered.”

&nbs
p; Jennifer sighed, leaned back in her chair and, for a moment, massaged the back of her neck.

  Savannah could only imagine how tight and sore it must be.

  “I did a bit more testing,” Jennifer said. “I used a sample of Farrow’s hair. And fortunately, although Brianne was cremated, I had saved a strand of her hair for sentimental reasons. Thought I’d put it in a locket or something.”

  At first, Savannah thought that sounded a little creepy, then she recalled reading that the Victorians often did that. They had commonly worn hair jewelry, designed to hold those precious locks, so that they could keep a bit of their loved one with them at all times.

  Although it was no longer a common practice, this was Dr. Liu, so “common” hardly applied.

  “You ran a test on their hair?” Savannah asked.

  “I did a segmental analysis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I cut off sections of the hair, then tested each piece individually for drugs and other toxins.”

  “If they took the cocktail and then died right away, the drugs would have only been in the hair closest to the scalp, right?”

  Jennifer nodded. “If at all, yes. But I found it in both of their samples, in the one centimeter and two centimeters segments. Hair grows approximately one centimeter per month, so . . .”

  “They were ingesting those chemicals as long as two months before they died?”

  “Exactly.”

  Savannah sat, silent, as a sinking feeling swept through her.

  Finally, she said, “Who would take poison over a period of sixty days, feeling horrible and killing themselves gradually and miserably?”

  “No one. And certainly not two people.”

  “Someone was slipping it to them.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “What would be the symptoms of this sort of poisoning . . . using those drugs in that combination?”

  “Loss of motor control, irritability, confusion, paranoia, difficulty swallowing, and finally seizures. According to their doctors, both manifested those symptoms in their last two months, intensifying in the days before their deaths.”