Nevada Rose

by Jerome Preisler

  “At first, I thought it was nothing much,” said Catherine. “But then I found some discrepancies about the reason for his death.”

  “Reason? What are you talking about?”

  Catherine looked at Eleanor unwaveringly now. “The newspaper obituary said he passed away of a heart attack,” she said. “But when I contacted the New York Police Department earlier tonight and was able to obtain his official death records, it turns out he died from positional asphyxia. Oddly enough, the same thing that was determined to be what killed Rose Demille.”

  Eleanor stared at her. “I thought you weren’t accusing me of anything,” she said. “But if you’re suggesting I knew anything about it…”

  “Anything about what?”

  Eleanor was silent.

  “About what?” Catherine repeated.

  Several more ticks of silence. Then Eleanor said, “My husband Carl died fifteen years ago. Fifteen years. How dare you come to me with these despicable hints and conjectures?”

  “There’ll be no conjecture at all when we exhume his body,” Warrick said.

  Eleanor glared at him, then at Catherine. “You can’t do that,” she said.

  Catherine sighed. “We can, and we will,” she said. “And you should know—if you don’t already—that elevated traces of succinylcholine’s chemical components remain in brain tissues indefinitely.”

  A moment passed. Another. Eleanor Samuels sat there looking at the CSIs, her features suddenly devoid of expression.

  “I already asked what you wanted,” she said. “Now tell me. Right out.”

  Catherine looked at her. “If we conclude Carl died of an undetected succinylcholine overdose, we’ll have a trail that leads us straight from Layton to the deaths of Rose Demille and your first husband. I don’t have any idea right now how much you knew or didn’t know about Carl’s death. But help us, and we’ll inform the district attorney how valuable a witness you are to the case.”

  Eleanor sat very still.

  And then, at last, sighed heavily.

  “I’m not to blame for Carl…and what I know about his death, I only learned afterward,” she said. “Leave me out of whatever you uncover, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  It was almost half past midnight at headquarters. The place looked blue. Somehow, it always looked blue. Now and then, you might hear a couple of the uniforms whispering that it was probably because the CSIs had their fancy gizmos zapping ultraviolet radiation everywhere. But whatever the reason, when it got to be around midnight, it always seemed a deeper, bluer blue around HQ.

  In the corridor outside the interrogation rooms, Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, and Captain Jim Brass were waiting for showtime…which, more often than not, tended to start in the bluest of the blue hours around here. And though some occasionally muttered that Brass’s frequent exposure to all this blueness was a contributing factor to his perpetually sunny (hardy-har-har) disposition, there was no real evidence supporting this claim.

  There was, however, more than enough to form a solid basis for dragging Dr. Layton Samuels out of bed to question him about the murder of Nevada Rose Demille, something a couple of Brass’s detectives had done on his orders a short while ago.

  Glancing at his wristwatch, Brass figured they ought to be arriving with everyone’s favorite plastic surgeon-cum-author-cum-daytime television fixture any minute now. In fact, he was wondering why the hell they hadn’t already appeared. He turned to Catherine.

  “What the hell do you think is going on?”

  “Going on where?” she replied.

  “Going on outside that’s keeping those damned dragass lunks I sent to pick up Samuels from being here with him by now—”

  The captain broke off as the vibrating cell phone in his pocket silenced him. He reached for it, flipped it open, and listened.

  “Uh-huh,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Give us five minutes, and don’t be a second late.”

  Then he flipped the phone shut and looked at Catherine again. “They’re here,” he said. “Bringing Samuels out of the car.”

  She turned to Warrick. “Better get our other player ready for her cameo,” she said. “Timing’s everything.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and hastened toward a waiting room a few feet down the corridor.

  Exactly five minutes later, the pair of detectives dispatched to Samuels’s residence came trotting around a bend in the corridor right beyond the waiting room. Sandwiched between them, bags under his eyes visible behind his glasses, the doctor looked none too pleased at having been hauled in by the police and bore little resemblance to the smiling, buoyant figure known to his loyal cult of TV viewers and book readers.

  Watching him approach, Brass and Catherine traded glances.

  Brass seemed on the precipice of annoyance. “Where’s Warr—?”

  He abruptly fell silent, yet another sentence aborted on his tongue as the about-to-be-mentioned Warrick Brown emerged from the waiting room with Eleanor Samuels, leading her directly across the path of her husband and the detectives.

  Right on cue.

  Seeing her there, Layton Samuels jerked up straight, halting as if his legs had turned to wooden posts. “Eleanor,” he said, stunned. “Eleanor…what are you doing here?”

  Warrick’s hand on her arm, she stood a few feet in front of her husband, her face tight, meeting his astonished stare without response. Brass and the CSIs let the moment play out, wanting to give Samuels something to think about. Then Brass said, “Bring Mrs. Samuels to Interrogation Room A.”

  Warrick nodded, gently nudged Eleanor’s arm. Her eyes lingered on her husband’s for a moment before Warrick led her up the hall past Brass and Catherine.

  After a silent three count, Brass turned toward the now very stunned and confused Samuels.

  “Your lawyer’s waiting for you in Interrogation Room B,” he said, and nodded for the detectives to lead in the opposite direction from his wife.

  A slim, attractive woman named Carole Eisling, Layton Samuels’s pricey attorney, looked the diametric opposite of her client insofar as being ready for postmidnight dealings with law-enforcement personnel. Her sea-green eyes looked as sharp as an eagle’s. Her hair and makeup were just so. Her thousand-dollar-plus Armani pantsuit was neat, crisp, and flatteringly tailored to her figure. Completing the image of prosperous efficiency, Eisling had put her beyond-expensive Salvatore Ferragamo briefcase on display on the interrogation-room table, positioning it smack dab between Samuels and herself on one side and Catherine and Brass on the other—presumably hoping it would impress the lowly LVPD peons into knowing their rightful places.

  Brass wondered why it never occurred to these genius shysters out here in Vegas that all their showboat trappings only pissed cops off. Back in Jersey, someone like Eisling would have known better and gone for a more frumpish workaday look. But then again, this sure as shit wasn’t Jersey. What else did you expect from a place symbolized by a sexy neon rodeo cowgirl?

  “So, now that we’re all gathered together,” Eisling said, sounding appropriately chagrined, “how about somebody explaining why Doctor Samuels is here tonight, let alone at this absurd hour?”

  When he considered what Samuels must be paying her, Brass was thinking she could have done a whole lot better than a clichéd opening question that didn’t even merit a retort. He looked at Catherine, figuring she might as well take charge of things here.

  With the obligatory Miranda rules cited and a video camera recording the interview, she did just that, explaining that Dr. Layton Samuels had been brought in for questioning about the death of Rose Demille and then proceeding to lay out the contradictions between his version of their supposedly passing acquaintance and certain information they’d come upon indicating he’d been less than candid.

  Now came the familiar song and dance—a fusillade of obligatory objections from Eisling about the relevance of Samuels and Rose Demille’s personal relationship, followed by Catherine’s insistenc
e that her client would benefit greatly if she stopped filibustering the interview and let the facts be aired.

  Finally, if only perhaps temporarily, the spiffily clad attorney relented.

  “Doctor Samuels,” Catherine said at last, “why is it you never mentioned your separation from your wife when we spoke at your office?”

  “It was a personal matter,” he said. “I didn’t see what it had to do with the reason you were there.”

  “Even though I’d asked about you having an affair with Rose Demille? And even though your wife has given a sworn statement that she filed for separation because of that affair?”

  Samuels massaged the area above his nose with two fingers. “I told you,” he said. “The separation was personal. And an embarrassment. I have a public reputation.”

  Brass looked across that table. His turn. “And you thought that reputation so important you’d lie to police conducting a murder investigation.”

  Eisling glowered, mouthed a few more objections, finally subsided, and whispered something in Samuels’s ear.

  “I wouldn’t characterize it as a lie,” the doctor said.

  “Then how would you characterize it?”

  “Protection of a brand name,” Samuels replied. “My business has a clean image. I have a responsibility to my employees and corporate sponsors.”

  Silence. Brass passed the ball back to Catherine, who thought those words very reminiscent of Eleanor’s defense of her happy-spouse charade. Two from the same mold.

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “you’re no longer denying your relationship with Rose Demille, is that correct?”

  He looked at her. Rubbing the bridge of his nose now.

  “Is something wrong, Dr. Samuels?”

  He took a deep breath, exhaled, shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a headache.”

  “I hope it isn’t one of your migraines.”

  Samuels gave her a questioning look.

  “Your wife told us you suffer from them,” Catherine said. She pulled a transparent evidence bag out of her blazer pocket and set it on the table. Inside was the pill dispenser from Rose Demille’s dresser drawer. “We’d been wondering if this was something you might have misplaced.”

  Samuels looked down at the bag. Then back up Catherine. “Where did you get that?” he said.

  “Rose’s dresser. With some other odds and ends tucked away under some lingerie.”

  Samuels shook his head. “I don’t recognize it,” he said.

  “You sure? Because Eleanor said she’d bought it for you a few months ago. Also, it contained traces of Verapamil and lithium…two of the medications you take when the headaches aren’t too bad.”

  Samuels and Catherine commenced a staring contest.

  “Did my wife tell you that as well?” he finally said.

  “Well…Eleanor wasn’t too happy when we informed her where we found the dispenser.”

  Not unexpectedly, that got Eisling practically jumping out of her chair. “This is ridiculous!” she said heatedly. “You can buy pill dispensers like that anywhere…and if we started taking a count of everyone in Las Vegas who has chronic headaches—”

  Catherine made a stop gesture and pulled the bag off the table. “I was just asking,” she replied. Her eyes, however, remained on Samuels. “In case it jogged your memory about it being yours.”

  Samuels said nothing. Just sat there rubbing his brow.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” Catherine said.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’re sure? In case you need to take a pill for the headache,” Catherine said. “Although I know you use third-line nasal medications—a DHE spray and intranasal cocaine drops—when the cycles become very severe. And that you sometimes have episodes so terrible you’ll have a drink or two along with the medications.”

  “Eleanor again?” he said.

  “Maybe she still worries about your health,” said Catherine. “Mixing those drugs and alcohol is strongly contraindicated. It can have some very undesirable consequences. Intense emotional swings, loss of judgment, even sudden rages—”

  “Okay, wait a minute, I’m really not liking where you’re going with this!” Eisling said loudly.

  Catherine glanced at Eisling, nodded, and broke off, thinking she’d taken that tack far enough. “Doctor Samuels,” she said, “I know you’re very familiar with the anesthetic succinylcholine.”

  Samuels’s eyes moved behind his lenses. A little upward flicker. If you were an expert on neurolinguistic eye movement, which Brass knew Catherine was, you knew you’d struck a nerve.

  “Doctor Samuels…”

  “I developed it. Pioneered its use. As I’m sure you also know…along with thousands of professionals in the surgical community.”

  Catherine looked at him steadily, watched him massage his temples with both hands now. Time to fire the heavy ammo.

  “That’s true, and I’m sure you’re very proud of that accomplishment,” she said. “But what all those doctors don’t know—and might indicate something you wouldn’t be too proud of—is that abnormally high levels of succinic acid and choline were found in Rose Demille’s brain, a telltale sign of succinylcholine overdose—”

  “Enough!” From Eisling.

  “—and that our coroner discovered two pinpoint needle marks between Rose Demille’s toes, where succinylcholine can be effectively administered—”

  “I said enough—”

  “And where only someone very experienced at using a syringe would leave them without having to poke around a few times.”

  “I’m telling you for the last time that I am objecting to these leading statements. And that we’re going to call off this interview here and now if you continue—”

  Now it was Brass who had enough. He shot Eisling a look. “Object all you want,” he said. “But that won’t change the fact that we’ve obtained an exhumation order for the body of Eleanor Samuels’s first husband, Carl Melvoy. And that it’s going to be tested for succinylcholine breakdown products that would still be highly detectable in his remains. And that we have a sworn statement from Mrs. Samuels that your client was having an affair with her while she was still married to Melvoy—and finally, that, while overmedicated for one of his migraines, he later admitted to her that he murdered Carl using an injection of succinylcholine—”

  “That’s it, we’re done here!” Eisling started to reach for her fancy briefcase. “If I had any idea that we’d come here at this ungodly hour based on the vicious and baseless accusations of a spurned wife—”

  “Dismiss those accusations if you want,” Catherine said. “But they’re part of a detailed account Eleanor gave me hours earlier at her apartment. And more important, they’re part of the sworn statement she’s giving a district attorney at this very moment.”

  Eisling pushed to her feet. “You’ve got some goddamned nerve not telling me about that in advance,” she said, seething. She looked over at Samuels. “Layton, we’re leaving.”

  He didn’t budge. Just sat there with his head hanging between his hands, massaging his temples with the balls of his palms.

  “We are terminating this interview right now, Layton,” Eisling said, her tone frostily insistent. “If these people have the stones to apply for a formal arrest warrant based on circumstantial nonsense and hearsay, we can take it up again at some later juncture.”

  Samuels stayed put. Slowly lifted his head. Looked straight at Catherine. “Rose was my love,” he said in a barely audible voice. “My obsession.”

  Eisling gave him a sharp glance. “Layton…as your attorney, I have to advise you that anything you say now can be—”

  He waved her into silence. His eyes still on Catherine. A long moment passed that way. Eisling stood there, shook her head with resignation, and finally sat down as if the wind had gone out of her.

  “If you loved Rose,” Catherine said, “why did you kill her?”

  Samuels kept looking at
her, his eyes glistening now. “Our relationship was fine. Perfect, in fact.” He paused. “The great ones, the innovative ones, those who allow themselves to think freely and without creative restraint…so many have had polyamorous relationships. Like Picasso, whose work you so admired. And Gauguin, my God, he had a virtual harem there in Tahiti.” Another pause. “I shouldn’t compare myself to those men. It sounds immodest. But what I’ve done for human bodies…how I’ve reshaped flesh and cartilage…it is a form of art, don’t you think?”

  Catherine said nothing for a minute, then, “You’re saying it was okay with Rose if you saw other women?”

  He expelled a long breath, rubbing his forehead. “I had no interest in anyone else. Rose was one of a kind. Nature had given her the physical attributes most women pay thousands, tens of thousands of dollars to replicate…that I can only aspire to achieve for them with my hands.”

  “So when you talk about being polyamorous…”

  “I’m saying that I took pleasure from Rose having outside sexual relationships,” Samuels said. “Knowing she slept with famous men…men who could have had any woman in the world but desired her…it’s honestly difficult to explain the gratification it gave me. I suppose I’d have to equate it to the world of art again. To the great works I display on the video screens at my office. I can share the beauty of those masterpieces with others, but they know—and I know—that in the end, they belong to me.”

  “What changed things for you?” Catherine asked.

  “Baker,” Samuels said tightly.

  “Mark Baker?”

  He nodded. “Her affair with him was different. Everyone knew it had gotten serious. All you had to do was turn on the television to hear about it…to see them constantly out on the town together.” He swallowed. “I knew I was losing her to that goddamned ballplayer. It was so obvious. And I just couldn’t take it.”

  “So you plotted to kill Rose. And frame Baker for her murder in the process,” Catherine said.

  Samuels sat there in silence for several seconds, his eyes moist. “I’d thought about it,” he said. “Call it a dark fantasy…we all have them, our poorer moments. But when she told me she was going to be with Baker for his birthday celebration…that she would have to see me afterward…”