The Christopher Killer (14 page)

“Well, that means our time’s up,” said Jewel. “I’m sorry it was so short. I hope I’ve been helpful.”

“You have,” Stephanie told him, before Cameryn could reply.

Dr. Jewel stopped in front of Cameryn, towering over her like a totem, his expression carved in wood. He took her arm and helped her to her feet. His hand felt dry and strong against her skin. Rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand, he said, “I understand how difficult it is to lose someone you care about, but remember, you needn’t fear death. There’s life beyond. Hold on to that. And don’t be afraid to believe. You can have faith and science, too.”

“I’ll remember,” Cameryn told him. “I think I understand a lot, now. Much more than before I came in.” Pulling her hand free, she said, “Good luck on your interview.”

The three of them stepped into the hallway; Dr. Jewel locked the door with his old-fashioned key that dangled from a large key ring. “I hope Rachel comes through when I’m on camera,” he said. “That’s what the newspeople want to see. The spirits can be so temperamental.”

“Are you going to walk down with us?” Stephanie asked. She had taken a comb from her purse and was fixing the doctor’s hair. He had to bend at the knees for her to reach the top of his head.

Cameryn answered, “No. I need to make a quick call. You two go on.”

“Good-bye, then,” Dr. Jewel told her as he straightened. “I wish you the best in finding your murderer.”

Cameryn watched as Stephanie, precarious on her pencil-thin heels, and Dr. Jewel, moving with elegant posture, descended the winding stairs to the reporters below. When they were out of sight she checked to see if anyone else was around. The lobby was empty, with only the rubber plant nodding in the corner as a witness. Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, she quickly punched in the sheriff’s number, her heart thumping so hard she could feel the beat in her ears.

After three rings she heard, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end didn’t belong to Sheriff Jacobs. Biting her lip, she said, “Hello, Justin? It’s me, Cameryn. I need Dr. Moore’s number. Fast.”

With a pen she wrote the number on her hand as Justin obediently recited it back to her. “What’s going on, Cameryn?” he asked. “What are you up to? You’re hyper-ventilating.”

“Nothing,” she lied. She slipped the pen back into her pocket and made one more sweep of the Grand. It was empty save for the fan spinning gently from the ceiling.

“Come on, give it up,” Justin said. “You were weird on the swing and now you’re acting even stranger. Something’s up,” he told her. “I can feel it.”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“And I’m saying you’re a bad liar. I just helped you with Moore’s number, so it’s only fair you keep me in the loop. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She hesitated. Her hands shook and she knew she was clutching the phone too hard. “I need to check something first. That’s why I’ve got to talk to Moore.”

“What thing?”

“Justin—I think…” She hesitated. It seemed strange to utter the phrase out loud, but this time, forensically, the pieces fit. She was no longer dependant on Jewel’s fantastic claims. Now she was back in the world of science. “If I’m right,” she blurted out, “swear to God, I may have just found Rachel’s killer.”

“CAMERYN MAHONEY!” DR. MOORE BARKED
into her phone. “What in the name of Pete do you want?”

Since they hadn’t left on the best of terms, Cameryn didn’t want to raise his hackles any further. Trying to keep her voice bright, she repeated, “Like I said, I just need to ask you one quick question. I really am sorry to bother you, Dr. Moore, but—”

Without waiting for her to finish, Dr. Moore broke in, “You do realize, don’t you, that you’re interrupting my work? I’ve got a suicide with a bullet hole in his head and two naturals to autopsy, not to mention a mound of paper to slog through that reaches clear to the ceiling. I’ll talk to you as long as you don’t waste my time.”

“My question has to do with the Geller case—”

“Too late. The body’s already shipped off to the funeral home. Anything else?”

Cameryn spun around, her cell phone planted tight in her ear, afraid to be overheard. Downstairs the interview with Denver’s NBC channel and
Shadow of Death
was in full swing—although she could hear no sound at all from below. The Grand, always sparsely occupied during the weekends, was completely devoid of weekday customers, which made the hotel feel even more like a mausoleum. From Lyric, who got her information directly from Daphne, Cameryn knew that except for Dr. Jewel the second floor was completely empty of guests. The doors to the other rooms were closed, mute and silent, lidded eyes shut in slumber. Still, she felt cautious at the thought of being overhead. Dropping her voice low, she said, “What I want to know has to do with DMSO. Do you know anything about it?”

“Dimethyl sulfoxide? It’s a solvent, a by-product of the paper pulp industry that started way back in the Eighteen Hundreds.” She thought she could hear papers shuffling. “If you’ve got a question about its properties then go to the library,” he told her, distracted. “I’m not your personal encyclopedia. Good-bye, Ms. Mahoney.”

“No,
wait
!”

There was a beat. “Yes?”

“I was with Dr. Jewel and he mixed some DMSO in his drink. He said it was for his stomach. I know they use it for horses and things—”

“—and for digestion, for scleroderma, urogenital disorders, and even as an anti-inflammatory drug. As far as Jewel taking it, what can I say? People do all kinds of strange things in the name of health. Now you can answer
my
question: Why were you even talking with the so-called doctor? That’s not the job of a forensic pathologist.”

Cameryn shifted from foot to foot. “Um…I had a lead. At least, at first, I thought it was a lead. But then I talked to Jewel and it didn’t pan out,” she confessed. “Then when I saw the DMSO on his nightstand, well, it got me thinking along a whole other line. That’s why I called you.”

“Back up.” Cameryn could imagine Dr. Moore’s look as he barked, “You were in the bedroom of a charlatan who is, most likely, as crazy as a loon. Do you think that was wise, Ms. Mahoney? To me that seems an appalling lack of judgment.”

“I didn’t go in his room alone,” she answered, her voice rising. “His assistant Stephanie was there with us the whole time. Besides, what difference does it make if I go into someone’s room?”

“You just made my point for me. Let me be direct here: You’re a high-school kid who’s overestimated herself. You can’t even stay on task—you’ve gone from forensic pathologist to detective in the span of three short days! Goodbye, Ms. Mahoney.”

She could feel him getting ready to hang up. “No,” she quickly pleaded. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. I
apologize
for my tone. I’m just kind of tense right now.” Shaking her head, she said, “Look, what I need is to ask you about DMSO. Can you help me? Please?”

He seemed to wait a moment, probably, she thought, to make sure she suffered. Finally a long stream of breath escaped into the mouthpiece of his phone. She could hear his chair squeak. “Let’s get on to the precise nature of your DMSO question. And I expect you to be quick about it. One of my naturals is crawling with bugs so I’ve got to freeze him, which means, as I’ve already stated, I don’t have time for a cozy chat. Go.”

Feeling the clock ticking, Cameryn spoke in a rush. “All right, the DMSO chemical pulls things through the skin barrier, right? I mean, I remember when Lyric used it on her horse, but her mom made her wash her hands really carefully before she touched the stuff because she said the DMSO would drag dirt or ink or whatever was on her hands right into her skin. She said it could, like, tattoo Lyric’s palms or something. Is that true?”

“Correct. Dimethyl sulfoxide draws elements into the bloodstream right through the skin barrier. But I feel forced at this point to add a big ‘so what?’ That’s one of the properties of DMSO, but certainly not the
only
one. Obviously Dr. Jewel feels it helps his stomach. Maybe one of his ghost friends recommended it for
phantom
pains.” He laughed softly at his own joke. “Are we done?”

In the background Cameryn could hear the heavy notes of opera, swelling in funeral waves, which meant Dr. Moore must be preparing to cut. “Okay, here’s my question. Does DMSO leave a smell on a person’s breath—like a garlic smell?”

The doctor seemed to hesitate. “I’m not an expert on the properties of DMSO, but if memory serves, I believe it leaves a slight odor of garlic that secretes from the digestive track. I suppose you could say that anyone silly enough to drink the stuff gets a side benefit of bad breath. Did your Dr. Jewel need a mint?”

“I knew it, I knew it!” she said excitedly. “Think a minute, Dr. Moore. Think about Rachel.” Cameryn felt a surge of energy as her ideas clicked into place in a clear, forensic formula. “Remember what I smelled at the autopsy? I smelled
garlic
!”

“Dear Lord, we’re not back to this again! Are you still obsessing about the fact Rachel had a whiff of garlic coming from her lungs? It means nothing!”

“Just hear me out! The tox screen on Rachel showed roofies in her system, right? Well, I’m going to tell you something you can’t repeat to anyone else. Okay?” Give him some special information, she calculated. Pull him on to her team. Let the doctor know she trusted him.

“It’ll go right into the vault.”

Cameryn took a breath. Her legs shook as she said, “What people don’t know is that
all
the victims had roofies in their systems, in the same low dose that Rachel had.
What if
that’s because the killer mixed his date-rape cocktail into something like a Coke? And then
what if
he added DMSO to the mix?” She could hear the eagerness in her own voice as her words came faster and faster. “And
what if
the killer is, say, in the restaurant, and he waits for
all
the other customers to be leave?
What if
, right then, the killer spilled his own drink, which of course meant the server has to go and clean it up. Wouldn’t cleaning up a drink spiked with DMSO pull some of the date-rape drugs into the victim’s bloodstream? And wouldn’t that make it really easy to get the server under his control? One victim worked at a Seven-Eleven—she’d have to clean up spills. One was a maid, so same for her. Another one of the victims was a
server
, just like Rachel. It really is a perfect plan!”

“You mixed your tenses.”

It took a moment for Cameryn to process this. “What?”

“In your scenario. You went from past to present tense. That’s poor grammar. Don’t they teach you anything in school anymore?”

Stunned, Cameryn asked, “Were you not listening to me?”

“Oh, I was. I think you should give up forensics and detective work and go straight into fiction writing. I’ve got a bit of skill in that area myself,” Dr. Moore told her. “Try mine out.
What if
aliens from another planet beamed Rachel’s body into their spaceship?
What if
, when they were done with their sordid extraterrestrial examination, the aliens decided to kill Rachel so she wouldn’t spill the beans about their planet?” His sarcasm was unmistakable now. “And
what if
the aliens put a Saint Christopher medal on her body, who, by the way, I deduce must be the patron saint of the space folk. Hmmm, I think my theory’s even better than yours. What do you think, Ms. Mahoney? Is there a Pulitzer in my future? Oh, wait, I’m asking the wrong person. Better ask Dr. Jewel.
He’s
the guy who reads tarot cards.”

Heat rocketed into Cameryn’s cheeks and anger shot behind her eyes like sparklers. He was mocking her. He had blown off every word she’d said. But she still needed him, and that made her madder still. Trying to keep the anger from her voice, she said, “I’m being serious, Dr. Moore. If the killer did it the way I’m saying then it would account for two forensic things: the garlic smell and the color on the palms of Rachel’s hands. I’m thinking the color would be from the Coke or root beer passing into the skin. Maybe it sounds a little crazy, but I think it’s a theory that might have merit. Could you run a screen for DMSO on her blood?”

“Based on what? On your fairy tale? No, I think I owe our taxpayers more than that.”

“How hard would it be—?”

“Not hard, just expensive and unnecessary. Actually, I suspect you’ve resorted to this kind of invention because, frankly, you didn’t contribute at the autopsy. Let me end by saying the operative word in your little scenario is ‘might.’ You have no proof, none whatsoever, that Dr. Jewel had anything to do with Rachel’s death. A bottle of DMSO proves nothing. Your father told me himself that Dr. Jewel was in Santa Fe at the time of the murder. Your wild accusations reveal you to be the immature, inexperienced amateur I thought you to be. Let the police do their work, Ms. Mahoney, and for Pete’s sake, let me do mine. Good-bye.”

He meant it this time. The dial tone droned in her ear, a single, monotonous note. She would have screamed in frustration, could have because the thick carpeting would have soaked it up, but instead she shoved her phone into her back pocket so hard she heard a thread pop. So, he thought she was an amateur. Dr. Moore had no idea who he was dealing with!

For a moment she paced, utterly frustrated over Moore’s blow-off and yet fearful a kernel of truth might be hidden inside his accusations. Everything she’d said had been speculation. But what she’d constructed in her mind made sense of the evidence. The problem was she needed more. If she could find the roofies, she’d have him. He might even have another Christopher medal inside. There might be duct tape she could trace back to the piece cut from Rachel’s hands. And there was only one way to find out.

It wasn’t that hard to get the skeleton key—Cameryn worked in the Grand, after all. After chatting up Diane, she offered to cover the desk for a moment so Diane could watch the interview, but only for a minute because Cameryn had to get home. Alone, she pocketed the skeleton key, smooth and cold, as much of a relic as the antique mirror behind the lumbering desk. True to her word, Diane returned in less than five minutes.

“Are they going to interview much longer?” Cameryn asked.

“Oh yeah, looks like they’re just getting warmed up. I was hoping to get an autograph but they’re too busy. Thanks for letting me take a break, though,” Diane said, grateful. The phone rang then. Diane picked it up, giving Cameryn her opportunity.

Unseen, she slipped up the steps, as quiet as the spirits haunting the Grand. With one last sweep of her eyes, she once again cased the second-floor lobby. A gauzy curtain moved in an unseen breeze while dust particles shimmered in a light beam as round as a pillar. It wasn’t hard to believe ghosts floated in the Grand’s prismatic air. “If you’re here, Rachel,” she whispered, “help me nail this guy. Just help me.”

With a flick of the key the lock sprang; quickly, quietly, she made her way into the room.

It was different now that the room was empty. The place looked older, more tattered, like a well-worn book read countless times before being passed to friends, the kind of book that looked friendly, but used. She took in the mulberry pattern on the bedspread, but she saw not the intricate tapestry design but how the fabric had pilled, as rough as a cat’s tongue. Perched on a tall brass frame, the mattress sagged in the middle; the bed skirt frayed at the hem like an old ball gown. The center of the velvet seat had been worn smooth; this was a room clinging to the past. A brass alarm clock, squat on three legs, ticked softly, reminding her she didn’t have much time.

The DMSO was still on the nightstand, so she picked it up and examined the label, hoping for clues.
Dimethyl sulfoxide,
she read silently. Holding the amber bottle to the light, she saw it was only half full. Opening the top she sniffed it, but the powder smelled more like over-ripe fruit than garlic. She set it down and began her search.

Drawers first. The old wood resisted as she tugged on it, and when she finally got it opened she realized the workmanship was rough, as though made by a blacksmith instead of a carpenter. Unlined, the first drawer was neatly stacked with Jewel’s underthings. One at a time she carefully lifted his boxer shorts, his too-white T-shirts, his meticulously folded socks. Nothing unusual was there. The next drawer held four pairs of denim jeans, clean and neatly folded. Methodically, she searched the pockets but found nothing. Another drawer had a leather box, the size of a loaf pan. “Come on, come on,” she muttered, picturing a Christopher medal.
Let it be in here!
But when she opened it she was disappointed; inside, lying on a bed of heavy black satin, were only four items: two turquoise rings, a thin watch, and a money clip topped with a diamond triangle. Next to the jewelry was a pack of cigarettes, menthol, and a silver lighter etched with the triangle.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she murmured. “I suppose if you talk to the dead you’re not so worried about dying from cancer.”