Jessica took Linda Sue's hands in her own. “We need you to be clear on this, Linda. We have reason to believe that this particular poem may have been written by your brother.”
“He didn't, you know, kill himself, did he?” she asked.
Jessica shook her head emphatically. “No, of that much we are certain.”
The sister stared at the poem, reading its every line. “Sounds like Pattie's prattle. Yeah, looks like his handwriting.”
Sturtevante said, “I'd like you to come back to the station house with me, Miss Harris.”
“What for?”
“Routine questions. Get a fix on your brother's acquaintances, his routine, that sort of thing. Any bit of information, you know, could lead to something else, which in turn could uncover something new in the case, you see.”
“Until the trail leads to his killer, you mean? You have no idea the times I told him the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” She sniffed back sobs. “I won't let you all treat this as a typical death, do you understand me?” Sturtevante put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Of course.”
Jessica reassured her. “There's nothing typical about what's happened here.”
“No, dear,” added Kim, “there's nothing typical at all about this case. You're not to worry on that score.”
NINE
You shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of margin.
Philadelphia Police Department, three days later
It had been two days since Jessica's skilled hands and scalpel autopsied the remains of Maurice Deneau, but the procedure on the young man netted them nothing new save for the added DNA sample taken from the tearstains believed to have come from his killer. Thomas Ainsworth agreed to having a sample of his DNA taken so as to be ruled out as a suspect; he'd claimed not to have touched the body beyond attempting to shake Maurice awake. He claimed that when he found this impossible, he immediately called the police, and at no time did he shed tears directly over the body. In fact, he found touching the body repulsive.
All internal organs proved absolutely healthy and disease-free. They had simply ceased to function, along with the brain and the heart. Jessica could simply find no cause of death beyond the unknown toxins in the poisoned ink. Still, they knew the delivery system must be the ink, as they saw no internal destruction to lips, gums, throat, or stomach lining, and there were no exterior marks on the body save the poem. Some poison delivered through pen and ink, but what?
Maurice's autopsy had shown only what they suspected: a young man in good health who had suffered a sudden trauma to his system, primarily his brain. A death by narcosis in which vital organs simply shut down domino fashion after the brain had ceased to send signals. They ran tests for any traces of the usual suspects: arsenic, strychnine, household chemicals. But the usual routes to certainty were leading nowhere, and Jessica's attempt at getting results from toxicology had totally failed.
She called a meeting with Sturtevante's boss, Chief Aaron Roth, to air her complaints about the PPD's toxicology lab. When she entered the room, she wasn't surprised to see the old coroner, Shockley, and his toxicologist, Frank DeAngelos, allied against her.
Chief Roth, clearly a man of few words, said, “Let's hear it, Dr. Coran.”
She decided it would not do to mince words with these men. 'Toxicology on all previous victims has netted us nothing substantial, and so we remain in the dark as-”
Dr. DeAngelos, PPD's top toxicologist, immediately shot to his feet to defend himself and his department. “It always proves difficult to test for a mystery substance.” The thin man's black mustache twitched mouse like over his lip as he spoke. “Not knowing what to test for, and unable to test for all the myriad possibilities-almost any substance can be turned into a poison-we don't know where to begin.”
Jessica calmly sat down here in the operations room, where the photos of all the victims had been pinned on every wall, their dead eyes now looking down on the living in what looked like accusation. Earlier in the day, this room had been filled with the men and women on the citywide task force that was working to crack the case.
Jessica said evenly, “May I suggest-”
“No, you may not suggest how to run my department,” said DeAngelos.
“Frank, let's hear Dr. Coran out, please,” scolded the chief.
“May I suggest, Dr. DeAngelos, that your people begin with anything that works like an anesthetic. I'll go out on a limb here and suggest that our killer might be an anesthesiologist. He knows how to quickly and efficiently put people to sleep for a long time.”
“We've tested for the usual barbiturates, such as Brevitol,” said DeAngelos.
“Then what about the unusual; what was used commonly before Brevitol?”
Jessica had been after DeAngelos since Maurice's body had been brought in, desperately trying to get some fix on the toxins found in the victims. She had also attempted to understand DeAngelos's perspective, and to remain open to any educated conjecture about the type of poison or drug the killer used. In fact, she had all but camped on his doorstep and badgered his people for results, for all the good it had done her.
Disappointed now with the lack of progress, her blood pressure rising, Jessica was angry and upset. She put DeAngelos on the defensive, confronting him. “I just learned that your people have still not forwarded samples of the ink poison to D.C. Is that true?”
“My people are busy, Dr. Coran, and we are all doing our damnedest to solve this mess.”
You're only testing for household chemicals and over-the-counter drugs.”
“We've tested for PCP, heroin, cocaine, all the usual street crap.”
“Dammit, Doctor, test for everything. Every known substance, if you must.”
“Do you know what you're asking?” he grumbled back.
“I can't approve that kind of overtime for my people. We have to work within a strict budget, Dr. Coran. Postmortem investigation doesn't come cheap. This isn't the goddamned FBI; here in Philadelphia, we don't collect taxes the way the feds do. We aren't funded to-”
It was maddening. “Dr. DeAngelos, we are stymied in this case until we can identify the drug or poison the killer uses.”
“I am quite aware of that.”
“The poison must be exotic, colorless perhaps, certainly odorless, with the possibility of a metallic taste or aftertaste. We have told you that we suspect it produces a reddish-colored rash, which dissipates after time.”
DeAngelos defended himself before Police Chief Aaron Roth and Dr. Shockley. “Whatever it is, our mystery poison isn't the standard text, and as for these symptoms, all of them you learned from Dr. Desinor's suppositions about the nature of the poison. A woman who holds no credentials in toxicology-or even pharmacology, as far as I know.”
“She enumerated the suspected symptoms while under trance, and once again I can tell you-”
Dr. DeAngelos demanded, “How can she possibly describe symptoms of a poison we have not as yet identified? This is sheer madness, Chief. Talk about putting the cart before the horse.”
Finally, Jessica blurted out, “Dr. Desinor's psychic abilities are well documented, sir.”
“Ah, and we're all to jump to the orders of your pet sorceress, I suppose?”
“She has at least given us some intriguing clues to pursue, Dr. DeAngelos.”
“I do not deal in the intriguing. And I tell you, we are doing everything in our power at this time. In addition, we've tested for iodine, lead, and mercury-all of which leave a metallic taste in the mouth, and all of which tests, thus far, have come back negative.”
She tried to calm both herself and him. “All right, but have you tested for Flagyl?”
“Flagyl?”