"I hope I'm not offending you." She handed me a cup.
"Miss?"
"With the cop/doughnut thing. I don't want to play on a stereotype."
"No offense at all." I smiled.
"Got any jellies?" Benedict reached for the box. He fished out something sticky and emitted a satisfied grunt. Other people would be wary of food after taking a bite out of an X-Acto knife blade, but not Herb.
"I'm sorry about the house." Melissa plopped her bulk down on the love seat opposite us. The framework screamed in protest. "The maid never came back after finding Dad dead, and things have gotten dusty. This is the first time I've been back myself. I guess enough time has passed, but I've kept putting it off. Any new news?"
"Possibly. We're following a lead on another case that may be related. Did your father ever fill out prescriptions off duty?"
"Sure. Whenever there was a family get-together he brought his prescription pad with him. Half the hypochondriacs in Illinois are related to me. That's probably why Dad became a doctor."
"What did he prescribe for family members?"
"The usual. Painkillers, sleeping pills, laxatives, cold medication, acne cream, birth control, all the standards. The current hot ones were Propecia and Viagra. He didn't seem to mind the family doing it to him. Both my grandmothers thought he was a saint."
Benedict finished enough of his doughnut to aid in the inquiries.
"Did he ever prescribe injectionals?"
"You mean like for diabetics?"
"Any at all."
"Not to my family. Most of my relatives would faint at the thought of getting a shot."
I sneezed thoughtfully, if such a thing is possible.
"How about Seconal?" I asked. "It's a powerful sedative, like Valium."
"Not to our family. Not that I know of."
"We believe your father may have written a very large prescription for Seconal the night he died, possibly for someone who knew him. Do you know anyone named Charles or Chuck?"
"Sorry, no."
"Any relative with that name, or friend of your father's?"
"No. Not that I know of."
"Ms. Booster..."
"Melissa."
"Melissa, this is a hard question, but do you think there was any chance that your dad may have been selling prescriptions?"
She shook her head, as if saying no to a child. "Dad? No way. Look around you. It's a nice house, but not extravagant. My father made good money, but it's all accounted for. He lived within his means. Besides, Dad just wasn't like that. I had it drilled into my head from a baby on that medication and drugs were very serious and dangerous."
She reached into the doughnut box and removed a powdered, biting into it gently.
"Would he have had a prescription pad in the house?"
"Probably. His desk is in the den. Would you like to see it?"
"Please."
Melissa placed the doughnut on the table and rocked twice on the sofa, pulling up her considerable body on the third try. We followed as she waddled to the den, down a hallway, and into a room the size of a large closet.
"Actually, this is just a large closet," Melissa said. "Dad put a desk in here and it became the den."
She didn't enter, probably because if she did, she wouldn't have room to turn around. I thanked her and went in alone, leaving Herb behind to small talk.
The desk was old and bore the traits of many years of faithful use. It was a rolltop, with five drawers and half a dozen cubbyholes to squirrel away bills or mail. I gave it a quick toss, finding a lot of junk for my efforts, but no prescription pad.
"A prescription pad wasn't listed as items in evidence taken during the original investigation, was it?"
Benedict glanced at me and shook his head, then resumed his conversation with Melissa. They were talking, go figure, about food.
I went to the file cabinet next to the desk and commenced a once-over, finding tax forms, a few medical charts, and a smattering of appliance instruction manuals. No prescription pad.
"Pardon me." I interrupted an argument about stuffed pizza. "But which room was your father's body found in?"
"In the master bedroom. It's down the hall and up the stairs to the right. If you don't mind, I really don't want to go in there."
"I understand."
Herb gave me a look, but I shook my head, indicating he didn't have to tag along. I found the bedroom without difficulty. It was large, with two picture windows, a king-size four-poster bed, and a matching armoire and dresser. The curtains, bedding, and carpeting were all color coordinated, tan and dark brown.
The bed was unmade. Next to it was a chair, part of the bedroom set where Mrs. Booster would sit and do her makeup, and where Dr. Booster was bound and murdered. The Palatine PD had taken the twine used to tie him, but the chair remained, still stained with blood. The carpet under it was equally stained, brown and splotchy.
If Booster was found here, chances were good this was where he wrote the prescription. I checked the top dresser drawer.
Sitting on top of some underwear, waiting for me, was a prescription pad and a pen. Using a pair of tweezers I keep in my jacket for this purpose, I picked up the pen and placed it in a plastic bag, which I also keep in my jacket. Then I tweezed the prescription pad, holding it up to the light. The top sheet had indentations on it, left over from the pressure of the pen used to write the previous prescription.
If I wanted to play Sherlock Holmes, I could lightly rub a pencil over the paper. The lead would fall into the depressions, giving me a readable impression of the missing sheet above it.
But the lab boys would have fits if I did that. These days, infrared do-hickies and other complex stuff could read it without getting graphite all over everything. I bagged the pad and went through the rest of the drawers, searching for other clues. I came up empty, but the little optimistic knot in my belly refused to go away.
Downstairs, Herb and Melissa were in a heated discussion about where to get the best chili dogs. I butted in, sharing my discovery and promptly giving Melissa a receipt for the items I took.
"So he was killed for a lousy prescription?" Her eyes glassed over and she began to sob. Two months wasn't enough time to get over the death of a parent. Some people never get over it.
Benedict, having shared his thoughts on food, now shared a hug with the young woman. She calmed some, and even managed a watery smile in the middle of her tears.
"Please find the man who killed my daddy."
I could have said "We'll do our best" or "We'll stay in touch." But instead, I nodded and replied, "We will."
Then Benedict and I got back into my car and began the long and tedious trip back to Chicago.
Chapter 10
AT 2:35 THAT AFTERNOON THERESA METCALF regains consciousness.
Then he begins.
He tries many new things.
By 5:15 she can't scream anymore.
By 6:45 she's finally dead.
Chapter 11
THE FBI WAS WAITING TO SHOW me more paperwork when we got back to the station. Benedict had deserted me, electing to bring both the lethal candy and the pad and pen to the lab. Occupying my office without permission was annoying enough, but Special Agents Heckle and Jeckle had also appropriated my desk.
"Good news, Lieutenant," Dailey said. "The ViCAT computer has given us a list of possible suspects."
I frowned. "That's my desk."
They looked at each other, then back at me. I wondered if they practiced that move at home.
"There isn't any other place to put all of this data."
I knew a place they could put it, but I played nice and resisted the urge to tell them.
"I need some coffee." I turned around, intending to leave. There was an excellent coffee place on the other side of town.
"Got some." Dailey opened his briefcase, on my desk, and took out two polished aluminum canisters. "Regular or unleaded?"
Both Coursey and Dailey chuckled. Exactly three chuckles each, and then they stopped simultaneously. Eerie.
"Regular." I sighed, sitting in the chair opposite of mine.