Mesozoic Murder Read online

  Ansel was dumbfounded, but decided to move forward. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “I realized the meadowlark spoke French because of all that French-Indian angst you cart around all the time.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t kid about this,” Freddy protested.

  Ansel fell against the cushions. She’d heard the Indian gossip that Freddy could talk to animals, but she’d never believed it.

  “So what was the message?”

  “It said, ‘Burnt honey keeps the bees warm.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “It’s your job to figure it out.”

  Ansel scowled. “That’s not very helpful, Freddy.”

  “It’s all I’ve got. So tell me why you were looking for me.”

  “I’ve decided I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Freddy regarded her for several seconds. Then he shook his head. “Sounds like post-traumatic avoidance behavior with a dominating superego. Self-punishment through irrational free association is characteristic of a neurotic anxiety state.”

  “Good job. Go back and tell the meadowlark I’m cured.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “You wanted to show me something. What is it?”

  Ansel nearly fell off the sofa. “You know about the bracelet?”

  Freddy grinned. “No. That was just good old psychological guesswork. I don’t get the big bucks in New York City for nothing.”

  If anyone deserved to be successful, it was Freddy Wing, Ansel reckoned. When she had been suffering through the monumental decision of whether to choose a Tasco 450X Reflector telescope or a Bushnell 1200X Deluxe Zoom Projector microscope for her eighth birthday, Freddy was a kid living in a reservation shack with fifteen other family members surviving on sowbelly.

  “You’re sure a little bird didn’t help you?” she kidded.

  Freddy reached out and took her right hand in his miniature one. “Come on, Sarcee. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you can’t fight the spirits? Get the bracelet.”

  How could she resist his brown eyes, soothing voice and sensitive touch? What a charmer he was.

  “I guess if that’s what the spirits want, I’d better oblige.”

  Ansel left the living room and took the stairs two at a time. In her bedroom, she retrieved the gold bracelet. By the time she’d returned, Freddy had spread out a handkerchief-sized black cloth on the burled wood coffee table.

  As she stood watching him, he pulled a narrow, braided rope and some matches from his size ten boy’s jeans. He lighted a match and held it to the brown plait. Blue smoke curled upward. Sweet grass. The pungent, incense-like smell filled the room, purifying the area, according to Indian tradition.

  “Set the bracelet in the middle of the cloth.”

  Surprised at his serious tone, Ansel stretched the heavy link bracelet out with the eye charm visible. When the great room was hazy with vapors, Freddy snuffed out the burning braid with a quick twist of his thumb and forefinger. He pushed the sweet grass into his shirt pocket, jumped down from the couch, and stood staring at the jewelry in deep concentration for several moments. He rotated the cloth occasionally, not touching the bracelet with his hands.

  “Hai,” Freddy exclaimed with disgust. He carefully pulled the cloth corners over the bracelet. Jumping back onto the sofa, he slid as far away from the coffee table as he could.

  Ansel’s eyes widened “What’s wrong?”

  “Tell me where you got this.”

  Ansel told Freddy of her attack and how the cowboy implicated himself in Nick’s murder by admitting he was searching for money. Freddy never interrupted, unlike Dorbandt, but nodded encouragement as she relived the worst parts. When she’d finished, Freddy steepled his hands and thought quietly for a long time.

  “Freddy, what is this thing?”

  “This is what my people call wihunge. Witch medicine. A conjurer’s charm.”

  “Not Indian,” Ansel concluded.

  “No. This is white power, not red. Magic power is either good or bad. Somebody bad made this. I believe it’s very relevant to your friend’s death.”

  Ansel sat down. “Do you know what the symbol is?”

  Freddy looked at her gravely. “It’s called an utchat. The Eye of Horus. Usually a charm to protect against evil.”

  “Why would a cowboy have it?”

  “Hard to say. The utchat is Egyptian in origin and can represent either the left or right eye of the falcon-headed god Horus. This sky deity is associated with the sun or the moon. The charm represents the All-Seeing eye of the mind. That’s all I know.”

  What in the world did Nick have to do with a gun-toting jerk into Egyptian mythology? Obviously Nick had either owed money or taken it from somebody. Evelyn might have known about Nick’s activities. Now she couldn’t tell her anything.

  Freddy slid off the sofa. He pulled out a bent business card and a pencil stub from another pants pocket. A quick scrawl, and he passed it to Ansel with an enigmatic smile. “He’ll tell you about the charm.” Freddy headed for the door in a fast, bobbing gait.

  Ansel sprang off the couch. “Wait. That’s it?” Freddy stopped short, and she almost bowled him over.

  He gave her a gorgeous, machismo look. “All you need is that card.”

  She looked at the name and phone number. “Mortimer Peyton. He’s not one of your loony patients, is he?”

  Freddy opened the door, turned around, and said sweetly, “Pick up the phone and call Peyton. Do it, or I’ll come back and shove your dominating superego up your neurotic id.”

  In the blink of an All-Seeing eye, Freddy Wing was gone.

  Chapter 15

  “Do not grieve. Misfortunes will happen to the wisest and best of men. Death will come always out of season.”

  Chief Big Elk, Omaha

  The first thing Dorbandt heard as he entered the autopsy suite was the ratchet sound of the diener opening a white body bag. Used for making pipes, the polyvinyl chloride material had been fashioned into a tough, leak-proof storage compartment for the thirty-eight-degree Fahrenheit cadaver of Evelyn Benchley.

  Dorbandt halted beside the stainless steel autopsy table where two other smocked and masked detectives stood with notepads and pens handy. “Traffic was bad.”

  “I’m Dr. Thomas Avery,” said the oldest man across from him. “My attendant, Dan Newpoint. To your right are detectives Wherle and Carter. Wherle’s the tall one. Gentlemen, this is Detective Dorbandt from Lacrosse County. Grab a smock, mask, and gloves from that cart, Detective.”

  “Dorbandt?” queried the older, balding detective. “You working the poison case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t think these cases are related, do you?”

  Dorbandt shrugged. “Could be.”

  Wherle’s eyes grew wide above the paper mask. “Our vic was poisoned with strychnine?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Detective Carter, short and dark-haired, gave Dorbandt a challenging stare. “Seen your name in the papers. Getting a lot of free publicity, aren’t you?”

  Dorbandt let the needling remark slide. He was on their turf. “Too much.”

  “Don’t mind Carter,” Wherle said. “It’s his first official autopsy. Only been in Homicide three days.”

  “That’s none of his business,” Carter said.

  Dorbandt grinned beneath his mask. “A rookie? You’ll be fine, Carter.”

  The coroner cleared his throat. “Let’s get this horse out of the barn, shall we?”

  The diener threw back the flap, revealing the sheet-wrapped corpse. Final vinyl, Dorbandt mused. There were endless nicknames for body bags. Squish dish. Soap envelope. Gag bag. Droop scoop. All designed to vanquish death with a chuckle and transform darkness into light.

  And no place in the world was more dehumanizing than this cold, green room located in the hospital basement and furnish
ed with stainless steel coolers, tile walls, floor drains, grocery scales, dissection hardware, and human body parts pickled in formalin-filled jars. And the smell was a cloying presence, a hellish, amalgamated scent of disinfectant, rot, and blood.

  “Dan, turn off the air conditioner. It’s going to get hot, but I can’t have trace evidence blowing off the corpse.” Avery eyeballed Carter. “If you puke, do it outside.”

  The diener walked to a rusty window air conditioner and switched it off. The room became much quieter, disturbed only by the sound of huge, stainless steel morgue coolers cycling on and off and whirling ventilation fans.

  Avery bellied up to the table. A corpulent, elderly man with cool gray eyes resembling dirty ice chips, he was dressed in an extra-large, green scrub suit, a disposable plastic apron, sterile latex gloves, paper booties, plastic goggles, and a surgical face mask. Clipped to the collar of his scrub shirt was a small microphone.

  Avery looked at Wherle. “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

  Wherle consulted his notepad. “The vic is Evelyn Benchley. Found dead at six this morning in the employees room of the Roosevelt Natural History Museum. Director found her when he came to work. She was lying on her back. ME found defensive wounds on her hands and a needle puncture between her shoulder blades. Might be drug-induced. Estimated time of death is between six to ten last night.”

  Avery glanced at Dorbandt. “What makes you think this is related to your case?”

  “Benchley and Capos knew one another.”

  “Any leads I should know about before I examine her?”

  “Capos got a dose of concentrated strychnine solution injected in the nape of the neck. There’s some missing money involved. I’m thinking this was a vendetta killing. Trace evidence was minimal, but I’m tracking down the poison’s source.”

  The coroner nodded. “Suspects?”

  “Lots. Nobody’s leading the pack.”

  Avery motioned to the diener. They removed Benchley, sliding the body bag from under her deadweight. “Well,” continued the coroner, “you’re probably looking for a layman who can get strychnine and knows how to use it. Check hospitals, dispensaries, labs, and pharmacies. Don’t forget feed stores, warehouses, storage areas, vet supply houses, farms, and ranches.”

  Dorbandt wrote a note. Arrowhead Ranch? Phoenix had known both victims.

  The swishing noise of the diener slowly unwrapping the starched sheet caught Dorbandt’s attention. Evelyn Benchley had been a tall, older woman wearing a matching long black and white skirt and short-sleeved top. Tan hose encased her legs. Shoulder-length strands of blonde hair had slipped from their restraints and flopped against her face.

  Her hands and feet were covered with brown paper bags, carefully tied to the wrists and ankles. Approximately eighteen hours after death, her body had become locked straight at the elbows and knees, a board of frozen muscles. Her head and arms looked reddish-green. Benchley’s face was doll-like: cold, lifeless. Open, glassy blue eyes stared upward: dilated, fixed.

  Avery checked the I.D. tag on Benchley’s right ankle. He moved up to her chest and used a stethoscope to check for a heartbeat. Then he compared a driver’s license supplied with the transfer paperwork to the corpse’s stony face.

  “It’s a match. Wherle, while I get her measurements, describe the crime scene.”

  “She was a fossil cleaner who often worked late at the museum. Museum entrance was locked. Rear exit wasn’t. Don’t know if the perp hid in the museum at closing time, or came in the unlocked rear entrance, or maybe the vic knew the person and opened the door. Evidence of a struggle. Room was tossed. Not a robbery. Director said nothing is missing. Vic had her purse and wallet. Money, credit cards, and jewelry all there. Defensive wounds on the vic’s hands included broken fingernails and blood. A search of the premises didn’t turn up any drugs, syringes, or needles. Not much trace evidence. So far no prints, finger or shoe. The perp is either very good or very lucky.”

  “Sexual assault?” Avery queried.

  “Nothing we could see. Clothing was intact, and there were no bruises, blood, or body fluids consistent with rape.”

  “How about the body transport? That go okay?”

  “Yeah. She was pronounced dead by the ME, bagged, and transported straight here by the EMTs.”

  “Any over-the-counter drugs in the victim’s possession?”

  “Just buffered aspirin in her purse.”

  Avery nodded. “Check the victim’s home for prescription drugs, illegal drugs, and drug paraphernalia. Look in the cupboards for household poisons or pesticides. Try everything, including food goods where things can be hidden. And get me the medical history ASAP. I want to know if there’s drug abuse.”

  “Will do,” Wherle agreed, writing in his notepad.

  Avery grabbed a full-plastic face shield and adjusted it over his surgical mask. He set his microphone volume. Dorbandt noticed how pale Carter looked beneath his mask. The rookie stood stiffly, nervously wiping his face with a gloved hand.

  “Let’s get started. This is case number 01-2515, Evelyn Benchley. The body is that of a well-developed and well-nourished fifty-two-year-old Caucasian female with blonde hair and blue eyes. The body is seventy-one inches long and weighs one hundred forty pounds. The skin is slightly greenish-red and cold to the touch. Rigor is resolving. The jaw and neck are slack. The limbs remain rigid. The corneas are cloudy.”

  Avery dictated as he removed the hand bags, placing them into separate evidence bags and labeling them right or left. “She fought all right,” said the coroner, pointing to dirty and bloody nails. “Maybe we’ll get DNA.”

  He used rape kit collection envelopes and took fingernail parings as well as fingerprints. Everything was recorded on tape, including the physical appearance of the bruised hands themselves. The coroner removed the bags on Benchley’s feet, revealing low-heeled, black leather pumps.

  Avery grabbed a small, flashlight-like device from an equipment cart and clicked off the huge overhead autopsy lamps. “Turn off the regular overheads, will you, Dorbandt? Behind you on the wall.”

  When Dorbandt hit the lights, Avery searched Benchley’s clothes with the Woods Light, looking for semen stains that would fluoresce beneath the ultraviolet rays. With the help of the diener, Avery moved the beam over the front side of Benchley’s clothing. Occasionally odd pinprick patterns of purple-white light appeared. “Just some lint,” Avery announced. “No signs of sexual activity.”

  “Just like Carter,” Wherle said.

  Carter didn’t move, his eyes riveted to the corpse. “Very funny.”

  Avery put aside the Woods Light and clicked on the surgery lamps. “Turn on the lights,” he directed Dorbandt. He dictated more findings, cataloguing everything Benchley wore by color, size, label, style, and location. He removed non-clothing possessions and bagged them separately for delivery to forensics.

  “One Elgin watch, white metal. Two pierced earrings. Black stones in silver metal settings. Two rings. One diamond in a yellow metal setting and one blue stone in a yellow metal setting. One necklace with charm. Yellow metal.”

  Avery stopped the tape. “This gold necklace with charm is weird. Have a look.” He held up the eighteen-inch-long chain with a dime-sized charm. “Eye design. Anybody recognize it?”

  Sweat coursed down Dorbandt’s forehead. And the smell inside the suite had reached a new revolting intensity. He stole a glance at Wherle and Carter. Wherle was sweating profusely, too. Carter looked greener than the cadaver.

  Wherle shuffled closer. “Nope.”

  Carter just shook his head, so Dorbandt moved in as Wherle backed away. “Looks familiar, but I can’t place it.” He quickly sketched the charm in his notebook, then watched as Avery continued gathering evidence for DNA testing. Avery plucked single hair samples from the scalp and bagged them. He collected blood stain samples from Benchley’s fingers via water-moistened swabs.

  “Dan, let’s flip her,” Avery directed before d
ictating again. “There are numerous ante-mortem contusions on the undersides of the arms, legs, and head, suggesting the victim suffered extreme ante-mortem trauma. The bruises progress vertically up the limbs and are symmetrical on both sides of the body. There are no cuts or abrasions above the bruising, and I see no patterns or marks imprinted on the skin from a weapon. This suggests the wounds were self-inflicted during a state of intense paroxysmal, involuntary muscular contractions common to convulsions or seizures.”

  Dorbandt’s stomach twisted. “Capos had those. Bruises on the undersides from thrashing around after he was poisoned.”

  The coroner pursed his lips. “Could be coincidence.”

  Carter’s voice exploded inside the room. “Shit, we’ve got a serial nutcase.”

  Avery shook his head and glared at the young detective. “Don’t put words into my mouth. I haven’t determined strychnine poisoning as the mode of death. The body will reveal everything to us in its own good time. Let’s have a look at this puncture mark.”

  Avery’s gaze swept over Benchley’s shoulder blades and lingered there. “What’s this?” He leaned closer to the blouse. “There’s a small hole punched through the cotton. Dan, hand me a swab.”

  “Find something?” Wherle moved closer, careful not to touch Benchley’s stiffened arm.

  “There’s a tiny, oily-looking stain around the puncture hole. It’s visible even on black fabric.” Avery swabbed a sample. “I’ll cut out a swatch and send it to the lab.”

  “What do you think it is?” Dorbandt held his breath.

  The coroner’s face was pensive. He stood quietly, staring at the puncture. “I’m not positive, but I think it’s silicone or Vaseline. Did your ME mention that in his report?”

  “No. Capos’ needle puncture went directly into the skin. How did you know what it was?”

  “I’ve seen it before. I had a case where a wildlife officer accidentally shot himself in the leg while loading a tranquilizer gun. The dart was filled with enough Ketamine to immobilize a nine-hundred-fifty-pound bull. He died in five minutes from seizures and respiratory failure. His trousers had the same stain. Sometimes hunters use lubricants to facilitate needle penetration.”