Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  In his chair, Parker remained perfectly still. “Do you have something to tell us, doctor?”

  Dr. Xavier took several breaths as if he were a swimmer coming up for air from deep water. “It was about a week after she and Clarence came in for their consultation. Charmaine called me one afternoon and asked to see me privately. We went for coffee.”

  Miranda gave Parker a glance and waited for more.

  “Clarence was busy at work, planning another one of his trips. He was gone a lot, traveling remote places of the world to collect specimens for the zoo. He’d just returned from Australia when they came into the office and now he was getting ready to go off again right after a professional conference he was attending here in town. She told me how lonely she was. That she missed the time we used to spend together.”

  “What happened?” Miranda said quietly.

  “We talked for two hours. I was late for a meeting, so I said goodbye and rushed back here to the office. I was going to refer her to another clinic. I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “But—?”

  “But she called me the next day. It was a Saturday. Again Clarence was busy at the zoo and wouldn’t be home until late. We went to the State Park, where we used to go hiking when we were in college. She brought a picnic lunch and we ate it under an oak tree near a waterfall, just like we used to do. And—” He drew in another gulp of air. “And we—lost control.”

  Bingo. “You had an affair.”

  “It just happened. It was only that once. We came to our senses and vowed it would never happen again.”

  Miranda folded her arms. “So she rejected you twice.”

  “What?”

  “She was unhappy with her husband. She didn’t want to have kids with him. She could have divorced him and married you instead. But she didn’t.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  Once more she thought of Parker’s surveillance video and the man who sat next to Clarence in the bar.

  “You knew about the conference. Did you go to Dr. Boudreaux’s hotel, find him in the bar and put something in his drink?”

  “What?”

  “Once he was passed out in his room, did you take his car and drive over to his house with your insemination kit?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you learn how to handle snakes from Clarence?”

  Outrage turning his face red, the doctor sprang to his feet. “Unless you can prove any of these insane allegations, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Dr. Xavier,” Parker said in a dark voice. “Dr. Boudreaux told us he signed papers to have his sample destroyed if his wife could not conceive. Were those wishes carried out?”

  Glaring at him in bewilderment, the doctor sank back down in his chair and put his head in his hands.

  “A better question is how long after Charmaine’s death were they carried out,” Miranda said.

  Of course, he would have destroyed the evidence. He would just be following what his patients had ordered, after all.

  Staring out the window, the doctor took several deep breaths. “They were never carried out.”

  Miranda jolted back. “Never?”

  “When it came time for the insemination, Charmaine refused treatment.”

  “What do you mean she refused?”

  “As you said, she didn’t want to become pregnant. She told me she’d been humoring Clarence by coming here.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I told her I couldn’t withhold treatment without her husband’s permission. I advised her to go home and talk to Clarence about it.”

  “And did she?”

  “I don’t know. She came in a week later and asked for more time to think about it. She said she wanted to change the agreement she had signed about destroying Clarence’s specimen.”

  “Change it how?”

  “She wanted his sample to be preserved indefinitely. She wanted it to be used for research, and for any couple who wanted a brilliant child. She wanted a posterity for him. After everything, I believe she really loved him. And so—I complied with her wishes.”

  The words took Miranda’s breath. She glanced over at Parker and saw he was just as stunned.

  “Dr. Xavier,” Parker said slowly. “Are you telling us you still have Dr. Boudreaux’s sample?”

  Closing his eyes he nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to think. “Can we see it?”

  He sat up. “That would be a severe violation of regulations. Not unless you had a subpoena.”

  Oh, no you don’t. “We can arrange for that. But it might get messy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Boudreaux’s impending execution is news right now. It would be hard to keep a request for a subpoena from the reporters. According to what you’ve told us there’s already been an ethics violation.” She nodded toward the photo of his wife.

  She watched his fists tighten as he ground his teeth.

  At last he rose, grumbling under his breath. “Very well,” he said, heading for the door. “Follow me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With Parker at her side Miranda marched down a long hall, following the endocrinologist past a door labeled “Donor Storage” to one with another sign reading “Cryopreservation.”

  They stepped inside a wide white room, and the temperature dropped several degrees. Overhead stretched a broad tiled ceiling holding rows and rows of fluorescent lights. They were so bright Miranda thought she might get a tan from standing under them.

  The perimeter was lined with what you’d expect in a lab. Long shiny metal tables with rolling stools tucked under them. On top of the tables were microscopes, computer screens, and those circular DNA analysis machines like the one Fry used at the Agency. But along the wall to her left stood something that made her, well, freeze.

  A bank of specimen samples—little plastic cups with blue lids—all stored in tall units with glass doors that looked like the frozen section of the grocery store. There must have been over a hundred of them.

  Dr. Xavier followed her gaze. “Those are specimens waiting for screening.”

  “Screening?”

  “Each one is tested for genetic diseases and washed to remove any toxins before use.”

  “I see.”

  “The specimen you’re looking for is in one of those tanks.” Xavier waved a hand toward the far wall.

  There sat a cluster of uniform white containers, three rows deep. They were huge and shaped like oversized oxygen tanks. Each one had a big blue lid. For easy access, she supposed.

  That was where they stored the stuff?

  The doctor moved to a table and consulted a computer screen. After a moment he began typing.

  “What are you doing?” Miranda asked.

  “Searching for the records you want to see.” He frowned at the screen, pressed some more keys, then nodded. “Here it is. All the data on Dr. Clarence Boudreaux’s specimen.”

  Miranda strolled around the table to have a look. She was glad Parker came with her to peer over her shoulder.

  She read through the information as best she could. Hand written notes that had been scanned. Lists with check boxes. Pages with a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo, but the dates seemed correct.

  Parker turned to Xavier. “How can you assure us this sample hasn’t been tampered with?”

  Xavier pointed to the screen. “It’s right there. The measurements, the temperature, the procedures performed. It’s exactly as it was when Dr. Boudreaux deposited it.”

  Miranda’s lips went back and forth. She glanced at Parker. Reading her mind, he gave her a nod.

  “You don’t mind if I call in my team to confirm these numbers, do you?”

  With a grunt, Xavier threw up his hands. “Do what you will. It seems I have little say over it anymore.”

  Taking out her cell, Miranda stepped over to the corne
r and put in a call to Becker.

  Half an hour later Becker and Fry were in the Cryopreservation lab working away, while Xavier paced around in a corner. Becker was on the computer, Fry was at the vat containing Dr. Boudreaux’s “donation.” Miranda had been proud when he insisted Xavier open it.

  The doctor called in two assistants to remove the lid and carefully lift a row of aluminum bricks from the liquid nitrogen solution.

  After another half an hour Fry was at the table next to Becker, which was covered with tweezers and gauze and knives and pens. As he squinted into a microscope Fry’s scruffy face looked grim.

  She stepped over to him and looked down at the petri dish on the table. “What have you got for us, Fry?”

  He raised his head and gazed at her with eyes as cold as the dry ice. “The sample here is three-and-a-half milliliters, the size of a standard specimen.”

  “Okay.”

  “The sample retrieved at the crime scene was the same three-and-a-half milliliters.”

  She folded her arms. “And so?”

  Fry wasn’t giving her the usual flack. In fact, it was the first time she’d ever seen emotion on his face. “It means if Dr. Boudreaux donated only one specimen here at the Fertility Institute, the sample at the crime scene couldn’t possibly have been taken from this one.”

  Miranda’s stomach sank. This was the only specimen Boudreaux had donated. She and Parker had grilled Xavier thoroughly over that, and he had produced all the records to prove it. Becker had gone over them and confirmed it.

  And that meant her theory about the doctor and his part in Charmaine Boudreaux’s murder had been wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Miranda gave Fry, Becker, and the rest of the team the afternoon off and went back to the Agency with Parker. While he retired to his office to do paperwork, she plodded over to the Agency gym to run, lift weights, and pummel her frustration into a punching bag.

  They knocked off around four and went to one of their favorite restaurants for an early dinner, but neither of them was very hungry. They ended up taking home most of the food and stuffing it in the fridge.

  Feeling as if she had bricks strapped to her feet, Miranda climbed the spiral staircase, stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower. When she finished she went into the bedroom, crawled into bed, and lay on her stomach, her face buried in the luxury pillow.

  Defeat always tasted bitter, but this one was especially sour.

  Deep down she’d believed Dr. Clarence Boudreaux and his impossible story. He’d seemed like a gentle, mild-mannered scientist, someone who wanted to do good. Someone who loved his wife and had been framed for her murder.

  But she’d been wrong. She’d spent the morning blaming an innocent man for Charmaine’s death, putting him through hell.

  Slowly she became aware of Parker’s body beside her. He ran his hand over her back, trying to comfort her.

  He was the one who need comforting.

  She turned over and put a hand to his handsome cheek. “I’m so sorry, Parker.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for? You did your job.”

  “But I couldn’t prove Dr. Boudreaux is innocent.”

  His sharp gray eyes took on a hardened look. “What you proved is that Clarence is guilty. And no amount of rationalization or twisting of the truth can change that. I’ll simply have to come to terms with that fact.”

  He pulled the covers over her and lay down beside her.

  She stared up at the skylight in the ceiling wishing she were on some planet far away. Somewhere where the truth was always clear and ambiguity and lies didn’t exist.

  “It doesn’t seem right,” she sighed.

  He threaded his fingers through hers, drew them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Things aren’t always what they seem. No one knows that better than we do.”

  “Yeah.” She listened to the silence in the room for a moment. “Monday’s the execution.”

  “It is.”

  She pressed her palms against her eyes. Tomorrow was Friday. “I have that appointment with Dr. Wingate in the morning.”

  “Good timing. I think I’ll make one, too.”

  “What a pair of detectives we are.”

  “Don’t go there, Miranda. Self recrimination does no one any good.”

  She managed a smile for him. “You’re a pretty good shrink yourself.”

  “I do my best.”

  They fell silent, she felt her eyelids getting heavy, and as she started to drift off, she wondered whether the snakes would be invading her dreams again tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Shortly after ten the next morning Miranda was sitting in the cozy recliner in Dr. Valerie Wingate’s office, while the therapist sat across from her in another chair, notebook in hand.

  “How have you been doing lately?” She asked in a calm even tone.

  “Me? Oh, peachy. Just peachy.” Miranda eyed the box of tissues on the doctor’s tidy desk and wondered how many she’d be going through today.

  “So you’ve been having a difficult time.” Like Parker, Dr. Wingate knew her too well.

  Miranda shifted her weight and cleared her throat. It was no use to avoid talking about it. Why waste the money?

  “I’ve had a couple of rough cases lately.”

  “So I’ve read in the news. Especially the one in Jasper County.”

  “What did you read?”

  “You and Wade faced down a monstrous serial killer. You stopped him. That must have taken a lot of courage.”

  “Yeah, well—He wasn’t just a serial killer.” She twisted again. This chair was too soft. Either get it over with or get up and leave. And ask for a refund.

  Dr. Wingate eyed her quietly through her square-shaped glasses.

  Miranda took another moment to gaze at the psych books on the shelf behind the desk.

  Then she took a deep breath and began to tell the doctor all of it. About that ratty house in Jasper County. How the team had gone out there after tracking Tannenburg down. How she’d gone in alone. She told her what that awful dank basement had smelled like, about the burning candles along the floor, how he’d had Parker’s daughter locked in a cage. What he was going to do with both of them. She told her how he was connected to Leon, her crazy ex-husband.

  And then she told her what he’d said to her.

  He said he had a wife at home who needed to be taught a lesson. He wanted me to rape her.

  “You see? He wasn’t just a serial killer. He was Mackenzie’s father.”

  She watched the doctor’s calm brown eyes widen with distress behind her glasses. But all she said was, “My.”

  Miranda wondered if she should get the box of tissues yet. “Needless to say, I’ve been having nightmares about it.”

  “That would be normal, I’d say.”

  “I’m worried Mackenzie knows about it.”

  The doctor was mute.

  Miranda tensed. “You’d tell me if she did. I mean if she told you, right? I mean, after all. I am her real mother.”

  Dr. Wingate set her notepad down in her lap and smoothed her slacks. “I can tell you she hasn’t said anything like that to me.”

  That was a relief. Sort of.

  She waited for Miranda to say more. When she didn’t, the doctor said, “We can try some relaxation techniques, if you like.”

  Anything for now. “Okay.”

  She closed her eyes and listened to the doctor’s soothing voice coax each of her muscles into letting go of tension. Her toes, her ankles, her calves, her butt.

  It helped a little, but when they got to her abdomen, all Miranda could feel was the terrible heaviness there.

  She opened her eyes. “Parker and I have been working a case of someone on Death Row.”

  “Dr. Clarence Boudreaux?”

  “You know about it?”

  “It’s in the news. I’ve been following it. I know your husband did some work on
it years ago.”

  Of course. Parker must have come to see Dr. Wingate then, especially while he was going through his ordeal with Sylvia.

  “We can’t find anything to prove him innocent. The harder we look, the stronger the evidence is against him.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said in a nonjudgmental tone.

  She thought of Dr. Boudreaux’s gentle brown eyes. Of his insistence on his impossible version of the facts. That he’d fallen asleep in his hotel room the afternoon his wife was killed. That he didn’t get home until later that night. That he hadn’t made love to his wife in over a week. That he had no idea how seminal fluid with his DNA had gotten inside her.

  She gave the doctor a condensed version of Dr. Boudreaux’s statement and the evidence she and Parker had uncovered.

  “Do you think—?”

  “What?”

  “Could someone just forget all that? I mean, not remember making love to his wife—or forcing himself on her—and then killing her?”

  “You mean like a blackout?”

  “Something like that.”

  The doctor’s brow creased as she thought about the question. “It’s rare, but—”

  “What?” Miranda sat up. “Do you think there’s an explanation?”

  “I can’t give you a definitive diagnosis, of course. But it could be dissociative identity disorder.”

  “You mean multiple personalities?”

  She nodded. “It used to be called that. Supposedly, there’s a disconnect from a person’s memories and feelings.”

  “They act like someone else and don’t even remember it.”

  “That’s part of it. The subject experiences time loss, out of body experiences, mood swings.

  “Like bursts of temper.”

  “Yes.”

  Like the ones Donna Jacobs and Dr. Quigley said Clarence had. Bingo. “Isn’t it caused by trauma?” That was Dr. Wingate’s specialty.

  “It’s thought to be brought on by severe trauma, usually in childhood. But the disorder isn’t well understood and it’s controversial. Some feel it’s an offshoot of borderline personality disorder, or could even be dissociative amnesia.”