“If you pulled up the victim’s eyelids, the pupils would be dilated, the opposite of narcotics, where they are pinpoints.”
“So a really clever killer could tell the victim to wear a patch, then pull it off before the corpse is examined?”
“Could.”
“Is Walter a good cardiologist?”
“Yes.”
“If he pronounced—is that the right word?” She nodded, so Ben continued. “If he pronounced a patient dead would he know they’d been killed with scopolamine?”
“No. I wouldn’t either, especially if the patient had a heart condition. There are no outstanding signs. You’d only know by autopsy. The technical term for the manner of death is supraventricular tachycardia. You’d have to see the heart. Now, any of us could have that type of heart attack, but the scopolamine will blow out the heart that way. The tissues, the blood work would tell the tale. It’s an ingenious way to kill someone.”
“Yes, it is. Someone would need to be a doctor, pharmacist, nurse.”
“Or a very bright chemistry major.” She folded her hands together.
“This is a different line, but it may have some bearing on Iffy’s case. How easy would it be for a doctor to falsify insurance claims?”
Margaret’s eyes, light hazel, opened wide. “All too easy, Sheriff.”
“And temptation is high?”
She folded her hands together. “People don’t realize what it costs to be a doctor. Oh, they know those years after college are expensive, but they don’t think about the costs once you are on your own. Salaries. Office space. Hospital privileges. Constantly updating your computers and software. The courses you must continue to take throughout your life to keep your certification. And the real killer is insurance.”
“It raises by specialty?”
“Well, there’s no cheap insurance. Mine is thirty-six thousand a year.”
He exhaled in sympathy. “No competition to lower rates?”
“Not really.”
“So there is incentive to cheat?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Create problems that don’t exist. For instance, I treat you for a bruised patella, kneecap. You’re fine. I fill out the paperwork. The insurance company sends me a percent of my fee.”
“I’d have to be in on it. You need my signature on the form.”
“I suppose patient signatures could be forged, but it’s cleaner if we’re in it together.”
“I see. Is it possible to fake an operation?”
“It is, but then everyone in that operating room has to be in on it. It’s easier to do this for in-office procedures.” She focused her lustrous eyes on his. “Iffy?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.” He couldn’t help telling her.
She sat back up, putting her right forefinger to her temple. “I hate Jason Woods. If this is true, I hope you can make it stick.”
“Like I said, I don’t know. I shouldn’t have told you. It’s not professional.” He stammered for a moment. “I find it difficult to refuse you.”
“Then I’d better ask for something big.” She smiled broadly.
Heart pounding, he blurted out, “May I take you to dinner Saturday?”
“How about Sunday? College games are Saturday. There’s bound to be at least one torn ACL.”
“Sunday it is.”
He left the hospital far happier than anyone going into it. After stopping by headquarters and assigning another officer to direct traffic at a particularly obnoxious intersection, he drove out to Roughneck Farm, where Sister awaited him.
Rapping on the mud room door, he heard, “Come in.”
“There you are.” She took his coat, hanging it on a peg as Raleigh and Rooster sniffed him.
“What a day today. And hey, what a big field for Thursday.”
“Was good.” She’d made sandwiches, which she put on the table. “You probably didn’t eat enough at the breakfast.”
“Actually, I didn’t. Usually I make a pig of myself, but I was trapped between Ronnie, Walter, and Jason all telling war stories. You’re always feeding me.” He inhaled the rich coffee aroma. “You make the best coffee.”
“Thank you.” She poured him a cup, sat down, and picked up her sandwich so he’d pick up his. “I rarely eat at the breakfasts. For one thing, I can’t eat standing up. I mean, I can, but I don’t like it. For another thing, I usually don’t reach the table.”
“Must be hell to be popular.”
“I suffer.” She laughed.
They ate, chitchatting about the drop between the two ponds where Ronnie had broken his collarbone, the swirling wind currents down in the ravine, and the footing that alternated between hard ground and packed snow.
“Weatherman says three inches.” Ben dabbed his mouth with the napkin.
Golly, on a kitchen chair, head above the table, watched every move. “I’ll accept a votive offering, given that I denned a fox.”
“No fair. You get to sit on the chair,” Rooster complained.
“You get enough treats. In fact, Rooster, diet time.”
“Nasty—you can be so nasty.” Rooster put his head on his paws as he lay by Sister’s feet.
Raleigh, silent, sat on her other side. If he looked noble and patient, she might weaken.
“Here.” Sister tore a bit of ham for Golly, then gave some to the dogs. Raleigh’s ploy had worked.
“I’m closing in, Sister. If I make one wrong move, I’m going to lose our killer.”
“Yes. He’s highly intelligent. I suspect most killers aren’t.”
“Actually, most people in jail, men and women, are what’s called low-normals. Some are borderline retarded. A few truly are evil, but most of them can’t control their impulses. No sense of delayed gratification on any front.”
“Pity. We can’t afford the cost of incarcerating them, but we can’t afford them on the streets, either.”
“They’ll do it again.” He accepted a brownie. “That’s not what some people want to hear, but that’s the way it is. And always was.”
“I suppose so, but our killer doesn’t fall into that category.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“It’s been building. I had a vague feeling once we found Iffy. He never figured on a coyote. He’s not country.” She paused. “Today, we started on a bobcat. Think of Iffy. She’s your bobcat. Legitimate game and guilty as sin. Naturally we’d follow the scent.”
“Yes.” He realized he was holding the coffee cup to his lips but hadn’t drunk some, as he was intently listening.
“Then down in the thickest part of the covert, our true quarry crossed the line of the bobcat. Some second-year entry didn’t come right to the horn when Shaker swung the pack onto the fox. Betty pushed them back, and we had all on and a terrific finish. Our killer is the fox. We’ve got to swing onto his line. We can’t let him go to ground. He’s fooled us by using a bobcat to divert our attention.”
“I don’t have enough to convict him.” He appreciated her insight. “Do you think we can turn our fox?”
Occasionally a whipper-in will turn a fox. This takes a smart whipper-in because one can turn the fox back into the hounds, a dreadful thing to do. Usually, a fox should be turned if it, too, is heading for a major highway or if it is running out of the country. Betty Franklin could do it. The trick is to turn the fox at an angle, but not back to hounds. Then the whipper-in has to stay on the outside of the fox until the danger has passed. It’s extremely difficult to do because the fox isn’t trained to obey, whereas the hound is.
By turning the fox, you save your fox, your hounds, and your master, who might be facing an irate landowner.
“We can try,” said Sister. “Do I have your permission to inform Shaker, Betty, and Sybil?”
“Yes.”
“May they put .22 in their pistols instead of ratshot—just in case?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Who will be the bobcat?”
“I will.”
“Sister, I should do it. It’s dangerous.”
“So is foxhunting. Please don’t take this as an insult, Ben, but I ride better than you do.” She paused for a moment, then reached over to cover his hand with hers. “I take my chances. It’s the only way to live, and I really want to get this bastard. Forgive my French.” She added, “I suppose I should tell Gray. They meant to kill him, you know.”