Winter of frozen dreams (18 page)

Over the last couple days of lab work Kempfert s nose had twitched with the vague hint of a smell that was queer but familiar. The odors association eluded him until the morning of April 7th, when he realized that the scent was burnt almonds. He intuited that this smell was important, and that evening, at home, its significance hit him. Cyanide was characterized by an odor that resembled burnt

almonds. Too hearty a snort and the fumes could cause illness or death. But how had such a strong smell gone undetected by Billy Bauman, who had extracted all the samples Kempfert handled and who had conducted the autopsy?

The toxicologist paged through the medical literature. Approximately one-quarter of the population, due to a minor hereditary defect, does not perceive the smell of burnt almonds. The odor had eluded Bauman due to a quirk of nature.

Kempferts excitement barely permitted sleep. The next day he got to work early and ran the procedure for identifying cyanide. A small portion of Daviess blood was mixed with two different reagents. A violet color appeared, which indicated a degree of saturation in the blood. Then he took a second sample and placed it in a small dish called a Convay diffusion chamber to ascertain the amount of cyanide in the blood. The measuring was done by ultraviolet spectrophotometry. Once inside the body, the exact form of cyanide—sodium, potassium, or other—could no longer be determined, but that was irrelevant. To substantiate his results Kempfert examined a sample of the stomach contents, evolved hydrogen cyanide gas, and identified it by infrared spectrophotometry.

When the test and retests were completed, he phoned Lulling with the news. Davies had not drowned. He had been killed by an ingestion of cyanide. His blood contained approximately three hundred milligrams, which was twice the lethal dose.

Lulling was stunned. He thanked Kempfert for the fine job, advised that he speak to no one but Doyle concerning the discovery, and treated himself to a fresh bowl of pipe tobacco. After a few minutes of reflection he drove to the medical library at the university and read everything he could about cyanide poisoning. In the middle of his research he wandered out to the pay phone in the hall and caught the toxicologist as he was leaving the lab after a ten-hour day.

'Tomorrow/' Lulling said, as if the request were a command, "you should retrieve Berges blood samples and check them for cyanide too."

The samples obtained from the Berge autopsy were in storage and sealed. Kempfert received authorization and repeated the test for cyanide on Berges blood and stomach contents.

The results were positive. Berges blood contained over thirty-seven times the lethal dose of cyanide.

24

On April 12th Robert Shunk, a document examiner and handwriting expert for the state, submitted his final conclusions. The letters signed by Davies and posted to Anita Clark, Chris Spencer, Eisenberg, and the police, letters that absolved Barbara Hoffman of participation in the Berge murder, were written by Jerry Davies. Each copy was done individually and with the same pen. The letters were written at normal speed and without any sign of duress or unnecessary hesitation.

25

It was chili, Chuck Lulling decided. Barbara Hoffman brought her fiance a hot chili dinner on a snowy Easter weekend, a loving, thoughtful gesture except for one minor detail—the chili was laced with cyanide.

Chili was the perfect food for her scheme. The sublime taste of the secret spice—cyanide—would be buried under sprinkles of cayenne pepper, cumin seed, salt, chili powder, and Tabasco sauce. It was served steaming hot and spicy hot. The reaction would be swift, without time for reflection or panic, without a moment of hesitation during which Davies might dwell on the nature of each

fatal spoonful. No one would suspect chili. Add carrots just in case, because nobody puts carrots in chili.

Furthermore, the secret spice would leave no trace. It would remain undetected unless specifically tested for. And why should anyone even think of it? Berge had been whacked in the cranium with a blunt object, probably a frying pan. The criminal complaint read "bludgeoned about the skull and neck, resulting in hemorrhage and edema and death." Lulling regarded Barbara as audacious and sinister. She would have thought, if the cops couldn't get Berge right, how would they ever guess chili? The image of Barbara, smug and confident, infuriated him.

Lulling visited every restaurant and fast-food joint from State Street to the end of South Park. Every eatery that served chili was asked a simple question: did it put carrots in its chili? The answer never varied. None of them used carrots in their recipes. For Chuck Lulling that confirmed his visceral suspicion. Barbara Hoffman had cooked her fiance dinner on a snowy Easter weekend—and spiced the meal with cyanide.

— 26 —

The single outlet for cyanide in the Madison area was the Hydrite Company in Cottage Grove, a firm that distributed the chemical in two hundred-pound drums to three local companies involved in the metallurgical industry. Hydrite did not sell the compound in quantities less than the sealed drums, nor had it received any request to do so in the last six months. It seemed improbable that it would have been the source for the material that killed Berge and Davies. Police subsequently contacted every pharmacy in the city, but only one, Prescription Pharmacy, had cyanide on the shelf, and the jar had not been disturbed for over three years.

A check with the university showed a different situation. The University of Wisconsin-Madison bought cya-

nide at $3.39 per pound for use in laboratory instruction, research, and experimentation. Both potassium cyanide and sodium cyanide were stored in numerous labs in the university chemistry and biochemistry buildings.

On April 13th Officer Joe Rut surveyed the facilities at the U.W. and discovered chemical storage shelves immediately off the main hallway and in places where the contents could be accessible to whoever wandered by. Twenty-one labs held cyanide in the chemistry building. Three pounds of cyanide were found in the biochemistry labs, and another three-and-a-quarter pounds were found in various labs in the molecular biology building. Forty-eight containers of cyanide were dusted for fingerprints in hopes of matching a latent print to Barbara Hoffman or Jerry Davies, but all Rut got were smudges and partials, and nothing matched the victim or his suspected killer.

The next day Lulling and Urso interviewed Dr. Bruce Selman, a professor of biochemistry. Dr. Selman informed the detectives that one-quarter pound of potassium cyanide was missing, and presumed stolen, from the chemical inventory of his lab. A check of the records indicated that it had been received in November 1976 and had been missing for at least one month prior to the current date.

Later the same day they spoke with U.W. professor David Nelson, who stated that he'd taught Barbara Hoffman in a biochemistry course, and according to his notes, cyanide was discussed on a minimum of two occasions and was mentioned because it presented a classic example of how a toxic agent can disrupt and interfere with the normally functioning human organism. Ms. Hoffman had earned an A in his class.

Also interviewed was Professor Robert Burris. Barbara had taken a plant biochemistry course he offered in the fall semester, from September 1975 to January 1976. Cyanide was covered in the course. He remembered her as shy and extremely bright, and he remarked that she didn't ask many questions, because she knew all the answers. Her grade for the course was an A.

Talks with security personnel, other professors, and

graduate students and research assistants who frequented the chemistry building established that Barbara had visited the facility as late as the fall of 1977, even though she was no longer enrolled as a student. Lulling and Urso showed pictures of her, and several people were positive about seeing her on the premises.

Every indication was that Barbara Hoffman had pilfered cyanide from the university. Her work as a student majoring in biochemistry had demonstrated to her the severe and lethal nature of the compound, had shown her where it was stored and its accessibility, and her presence in the labs would not be regarded as suspicious or out of the ordinary. Nevertheless the assumption that she'd obtained the cyanide from a chemistry lab was entirely circumstantial. No one had seen her snooping about, caught her with the deadly substance, or heard her discuss its potency and effects.

27

On April 19th articles procured from Daviess bathroom— an Ace comb, towels, soap, toothbrush, bedroom slippers—were tested for traces of cyanide. Sections of the drainpipe in both the bathroom sink and the tub had been removed and were also examined. All results were negative.

28

The eggs were over easy, the steak medium-rare, the hash browns of the prefabricated variety—potatoes frozen into a block, then deep-fried to resemble a square of varnished oak.

"Fucking hash browns taste like sawdust," Ken Curtis grumbled. He sat alone in a booth at the Embers Restau-

i

rant. His broad frame filled a seating space designed for two. It was four minutes past midnight.

Curtis glanced around the restaurant for his connection. Maybe the old man wouldn't show.

Across the four lanes of East Washington Avenue, ground lights bathed the headquarters of American Family Insurance with bright, milky beams. Curtis pondered insurance money and sex and the silly contortions of ambition. The scam would have succeeded except for lousy timing and a stroke of impatience. The idea was sinister and brilliant. It showed boldness and ingenuity, and Barbara might have gotten away clean if Berge hadn't died on her.

Killing Berge was an amateur move, Curtis decided. Recruiting Davies to get rid of the body had compounded the mistake. It was an error that cost her three quarters of a million dollars. But the damage could have been confined to her pocketbook. Had Barbara been as smart as she boasted, things could have been controlled. Losses would have been minimal. Hiring Eisenberg was astute. However, Barbara couldn't stay straight long enough. She thought she could evade the Berge charge and still collect the windfall on Davies.

Sam Cerro's bust was a bad break for Barbara. She didn't know it, but it ended her hopes of beating the Berge rap. The irony was that she had no connection to Cerro, no way of understanding their bond.

It seemed to Ken Curtis that Barbara had sealed her fate when she killed Davies. With Davies alive the DA acted uninterested in the tales Curtis had to sell. His information was superfluous. But with Davies dead the balance tilted. Without Davies, Curtis reasoned, the prosecution's case had an empty middle, a huge void where the center should have been, and acquittal was likely. Why else would Lulling be willing to cut a deal? Curtis sensed his information was crucial to convicting Hoffman or at least to keeping her in court long enough to let a jury deliberate.

Give-and-take held the world together. It got people

what they wanted, and those that bullied the nastiest and bartered the best got the most. These were axioms Curtis lived by, axioms that helped him prosper. Barbara was so smart she was dumb. She ate too many Quaaludes, swallowed too much wine, tried to manipulate too many men. It never occurred to her that maybe she was the one being manipulated.

The folly of a vixen with a middle-class upbringing, he smirked. He liked to fuck her in the afternoon. For a brief spell it became habit, visiting apartment 306, scoring a quickie if she was home alone, then going about his business. Whatever naughty desire Curtis conjured, Barbara performed. They did everything but kiss. Despite how she'd plead, Curtis refused to kiss her.

When he grew accustomed to her sexual tricks, when he recognized that beneath the intelligent tongue was desperation, and insecurity fathoms deep, he changed the rules with her. He spurned her advances. Until a year ago he still visited, infrequently, still chatted with her, still let her suck his cock, still had her convinced that he was the one performing the favor.

Curtis s thoughts switched tracks when Chuck Lulling and Steve Urso entered the Embers Restaurant. It was 12:31 a.m.

Urso was present because Curtis had insisted on it. They had grown up in the Greenbush together, played basketball as kids in the Y league, been classmates at Madison West High School. Curtis considered Urso a known quantity. He could gauge Urso's responses. He had a notion of whom he was working with, the motivations, the possibilities, the respect. Curtis viewed Lulling with distrust. Even those friendly with him knew that he was a cop from the old school who made up the rules as the game was played out, who had no qualms about amending the rules in his favor at any time and without notice.

The detectives joined him in the booth and ordered coffee.

"Fucking cops are boring/' Curtis said. "They always

A

order coffee. Is it part of the job, or what?"

"If we weren't cops, we'd be able to afford breakfast too," replied Urso.

Lulling stuffed the bowl of his pipe with tobacco from a leather pouch. The meeting with Curtis was unauthorized. Doyle had nixed it, but the DA's position was compromised by the ethical standards of his profession. Lulling had no such restrictions. So he defied orders and arranged the conference.

With Davies dead they needed the information Curtis had been willing to trade back in January. The investigation had stalled, and they were in desperate need of a break in the case. Lulling thought Curtis might provide it.

The senior detective started by announcing that Sam Cerro would have to serve time. Lulling's words were interpreted as a statement of fact rather than as a negotiating ploy. Curtis said the time was not to be served at Waupun, the states maximum security prison.

Lulling nodded through a puff of sweet gray smoke. He offered a deal: six months 7 time and four years suspended for Cerro in exchange for what Curtis knew and his testimony in an open court.

"The time gets done at Oakhill," Curtis said, referring to the minimum-security facility a dozen miles outside Madison.

"I ain't the fucking judge, Ken."