Excerpt: Murder@YoursTruly.com

Chapter two
Dr. Poe awoke at a quarter of five Monday morning, drained from having slept to deeply for too long. He rolled out of bed and put his feet on the floor, stretching as he stood up.
Dr. Poe dressed quickly in a heavy pair of sweats and running shoes, stuffed a house key into the leather glove on his right hand, and clipped his cellular phone to his waistband. He made quick work of the stairs and locked the door behind him as he left.
On the veranda he spent two minutes doing deep stretches and breathing deeply, causing clouds of steam to rise in the freezing December air. Lumbar and lats, calves, quads, and hamstrings giving each a long deep stretch. Finishing with one hundred pushups and two minutes of side straddle hops, Dr. Poe skipped down the steps and started his run.
This had been his morning ritual for more years than he cared to remember. This morning Dr. Poe left the grounds of his own house at a dead run and kept the pace for a quarter mile down High Street, just past the Methodist Church. As he took the corner onto Spring Street, he slowed his pace to where he was most comfortable, the six minute mile. He could run this pace for hours, and had on many occasions.
Passing into the down town area Dr. Poe ran on the sidewalk through the arctic wind tunnel that was Main Street at five o’clock in the morning. The large empty stone and brick structures re-circulated and further cooled the brisk air upon itself until at ground level the wind was a frigid gale and the ice crystals it carried were like razor blades.
Shifting into the deserted street as he ran past the sleeping hulk of the Collier’s Publishing building, Dr. Poe wondered at how such a pleasant city could have so many dying neighborhoods. He frowned at the Hummer parked outside a decaying wreck of a home on Lowry Avenue, “no doubt they’re dealing,” he thought as he turned the corner onto Pleasant Street and sprinted the three blocks toward Fountain Avenue. Icy sweat poured from his hair and ran in frigid rivulets down his chest and back.
His eyes darted left and right as he crossed Center Street. He saw the red and blue lights of a Champion City Police cruiser canted at thirty degrees some distance down the street. He had a passing moment of interest but opted to run on and leave the police to do police business.
Dr. Poe saw the muzzle flash before he actually heard the gunshot. It was off to the left. In the mouth of an alleyway, just 20 yards down Center Street. He immediately cut left and ran the short distance in at a lightning pace.
At the edge of the alley hunkered on one knee Dr. Poe surveyed the situation. There was luckily no one was standing in the alley, he heard no footsteps. He watched and listened for a full minute before he stood up and walked cautiously into the alley.
He reached a place in the alley that would have been beyond where he’d have seen muzzle flash from Fountain Avenue and turned around. Slowly, meticulously he walked back in the direction of the street. His eyes searched left and right trying to discern the truth from the shadows. There were too many footprints in the mud to find the right set to follow. The shadows and natural darkness of the hour kept him from seeing anything with great clarity.
When he reached the street, Johnathan turned around and looked back down the alley one last time. It was then that he heard the squelch of the radio. Its faint squawk, a sound unique to any other, crackled through the frigid early morning air.
Johnathan took a few cautious steps into the alley and stopped.
The radio squelched again off to the right.
Johnathan walked to the edge of the alley and began searching the clutter to the right of the slushy tire ruts. He walked a bit further
The alley was typical for any slum in the world. There was more than enough trash, broken furniture and old mattresses to outfit any crime scene with a dangerous feeling atmosphere. It was because of two dingy old mattresses and a chair that may not have survived a tornado that Dr. Poe didn’t immediately find the body.
The radio squelched behind him this time, and Johnathan whirled around, glaring at the opposite side of the alley. He walked to a place where an old chair rested against two ruined mattresses and heard the radio come alive.
“321 Edwards, call in present location.”
Johnathan rolled the chair out of the way and found a uniformed patrol officer lying in a glistening black puddle across one of the fetid mattresses. Recognizing the liquid as blood, Johnathan reflexively began a medical assessment.
As he turned the unresponsive officer’s body over, Johnathan realized that blood was still gushing from a neck wound.
“Oh no,” he stated, tearing off his gloves and pressing a finger against and then into the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
The faintness of pulse, confirmed the probable mortality of this wound as the forgotten radio squelched again.
With his free hand, Johnathan located the radio and with some effort wrestled it free.
He raised the radio and pressed the transmit button, and spoke clearly and firmly:
“Dispatcher there is an officer down, I need an ambulance.”
The dispatcher replied, “Please identify your self.”
Dr. Poe became angry immediately, growling at the radio, “Get an officer and an ambulance to the corner of Fountain Avenue at Center Street. This man doesn’t have long enough to live for us to share a cup of tea and chat about old times.”
***
In the dispatch center Sheila Copeland had been trying to raise Unit 321 Edward on the radio for nearly fifteen minutes. He, Officer Dwayne Rivers had responded to an early morning call in the Center View neighborhood to check out a gathering in an alleyway. He called in when he arrived on the scene and hadn’t been heard from since.
When the strange voice on the radio had reported a man down, she’d feared the worst. Her training had failed and instead of reacting, she’d responded with a type of shock.
“Dispatcher, please send any available patrolman, and an ambulance,” she’d heard from the radio for the second time.
Something in her mind finally made the connection that she had to send aid, regardless of whether the man holding the radio were Jack the Ripper or not.
“Affirmative, please remain with the officer until emergency services arrive, “her words played through her head as if on a poorly tuned radio.
***
Seconds later, Johnathan stopped wording his next mental barrage when he heard the dispatcher hail an ambulance and request two units to respond to his aid.
Several minutes dragged on as he waited. Speaking periodically to the Officer, trying to raise a response, but hoping that if it was the young man’s fate to die, that he should do so in peace Johnathan was surprised when Officer Rivers’ eyes suddenly opened and he strained to speak.
“Doe,” he coughed weakly.
Johnathan raised an eyebrow,
“Don’t try to talk son, relax. The ambulance will be here in just a minute,” He said as calmly as possible, given the situation.
Officer Rivers coughed again. His lungs seemed clear and there was no blood in the saliva at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes fluttered, then opened again, his eyes locked in a determined stare at Dr. Poe as he strained to speak again, “Don’t let me die,” he hissed weakly.
A car pulled up as Officer Rivers slipped once again into unconsciousness.
Johnathan heard the car door close behind him and prayed that the footsteps belonged to a cop and not the young man’s assailant.
“You want to tell me how you come to find a shot cop in this mess and not be involved as intended victim or cop shootin’ scumbag?” Said the thick, confident voice of Patrolman First Class Thurman Dicke, a stout, barrel-chested man of twenty-six with a lantern jaw and wide set predatory eyes.
“Would you like to tell me why the hell your dispatcher was more concerned with who I was than sending help to a downed officer,” Dr. Poe spat in contempt.
Thurman gave the comment the air it deserved before responding in a much kinder voice, “Give Sheila a leg up just for bein’ able to work, Pal. She lost her husband last month; guy’d been a cop in Southgate for twenty-five years. Perp who popped him grew up right across the street.”
For the first time, Johnathan turned his head and looked up at the mountain of a man that was Thurman Dicke.
“Sad to hear, Tragedy comes to us all I guess.”
They both nodded.
The ambulance arrived abruptly and the crew got out and assessed the situation. Both EMTs were taken aback, never having seen a wound quite like the one ailing Officer Rivers.
“Look it,” Thurman growled at them, “this guy has his finger pluggin’ the wound, just pick him up and roll him into the truck,” he gestured toward the open rear door of the ambulance.
Johnathan looked at the medics and frowned before turning to Thurman, “not as simple as that I’m afraid, “turning to the first medic, “do you have cautery?”
The medics looked at each other momentarily and the second one shook his head vigorously, “no sorry, nothing like that. The best we can do is pressure.”
Dr. Poe looked back at the fading Officer Rivers and thought for a moment, “I’ll need a pair of hemostats.”
In a flash the second medic produced a pair of hemostats and handed them over. Opening his case he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and prepared gauze, sponges, and several adhesive strips.
Dr. Poe took the hemostats and probed the wound, guided by the finger that still dammed the carotid artery.
I need some light please,” he said firmly.
Thurman turned on his searchlight and directed it to a point above Dr. Poe’s work area, just enough to illuminate but not blind.
The harsh light exposed a terrible wound: a missing chunk of flesh as big around as a silver dollar and as thick as the average thumb. No wonder the mattress was saturated with blood.
Dr. Poe found a place below where the artery was severed and clamped the hemostats around it. The blood flow immediately stopped. He rose and motioned to the medics who were standing by. After a cursory bandaging, they lifted Officer Rivers onto their cart and placed him in the ambulance.
Johnathan watched the lights of the ambulance pass out of sight, saying a silent prayer for its cargo. He turned toward the street and remembered his gloves, and the house key that had been stored within.
Thurman watched him for a moment, partially confusion on his face, amazed at the way Johnathan didn’t seem to notice that he was covered, hell saturated with blood.
After a moment’s searching, Johnathan found his gloves, and the house key not far from them, in a shoe print in the mud. He pulled the gloves onto his bloody hands and returned the key within. He walked toward the street and was thinking about the remainder of his run when Thurman called out after him.
“Hey Buddy, just for the sake of the neighborhood why don’t I give you a ride home.”
Johnathan turned his head quizzically and then followed Thurman’s pointing finger down to his blood-soaked clothes.
“Yes, I guess I’d hate for someone to call the police,” he said with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yeah, so would I,” Thurman remarked as a third and fourth cruiser finally arrived.
The third cruiser, occupied by Officer’s Clayton Portis and Richard Mayes, both black men in their mid thirties, approached Thurman’s cruiser followed by the occupant of the fourth cruiser, Sergeant Garrett Sullivan.
“This the perp?” Sullivan inquired without giving more than a cursory glance at Johnathan’s bloody clothes.
Thurman shook his head, “No, he found Dwayne Rivers. Kid owes this guy his life.”
All eyes shifted to Johnathan who reached for the handle of the passenger door on Thurman’s cruiser.
“Just who might you be,” Sullivan grunted in disbelief, “What were you doing, that you were just happening by here when the kid got shot?”
Johnathan unlatched the door and pulled it open, “I am Doctor Johnathan Newstead Poe, Chief Medical Examiner for Clark, Harmar, and Wayne Counties. Who might you be?”
Sullivan had a momentary look of bewilderment, before he smiled.
“Good to see you got spirit, our last ME was a shit heel.”
Johnathan was quick getting the impression that the Champion City Police Department might be the good old boys club, and if you didn’t conform, then you couldn’t belong, “I see.”
“Look Sarge, I’ll get my report on your desk quick as I can. I came over here when I heard the call, I was on my way home but this is my neighborhood,” Thurman said quickly, before Sullivan could get started.
Sullivan looked at Portis and Mayes, “Mayes can take it from here, “and then to Johnathan,” Doctor-“
“Poe,” Johnathan stated clearly and slowly.
“Yeah, Doctor Poe here can ride downtown with him and give his statement,”
Johnathan fixed Sullivan with his stare and said simply, “I believe that you and I have not been properly introduced. I’m the chief medical examiner, you are a patrolman. You may call my assistant and make an appointment to meet with me when it is convenient for my schedule, not yours.”
An arrogant glare spread across Sullivan’s brow and sloughed down through his eyes and across his jowls.
“Do I make myself clear, flatfoot? Or am I just a shit heel?”
His words cut a deep swath through the arrogant swagger that defined Sullivan, who turned on his heel and walked away.
Johnathan got into Thurman’s car and shut the door. A moment later, Thurman got in and they watched as Officer Mayes ambled over to Dwayne Rivers’ cruiser to avoid looking lost, then got inside presumably to drive it back to headquarters.
“Bastard’s got it coming out the wrong end,” Thurman quipped.
Poe regarded him in silence, torn between the truth of the statement and knowing that if there wasn’t some type of familial solidarity in the ranks of the police, there would be a lack of trust among those who do a mostly thankless job.
“Some guys are just assholes by nature,” He added.
They both laughed for a moment.
“Where d’you live anyway?” Thurman inquired.
“Over on High Street, in the old Foos house,” Poe said.
“That big damned place, do you have like sixty kids or somethin’?” Thurman scoffed.
Both men watched quietly as the Clark County Sheriff’s Office Mobile Crime Lab arrived on scene. Officer Portis got out of his cruiser to assist them, as a token representative for the CCPD.
“No, it’s like me- old and of museum quality,” Poe replied in an exacting matter of fact tone.
They laughed again as Thurman put the cruiser in gear and drove away from the scene.
They rode in silence for several blocks, each man occupying his own thoughts. They passed through a neighborhood with several small HUD homes, and another still in its death throes.
“You have to admit,” Thurman said in a manner that was sort of fishing, sort of not, “it is one hell of a coincidence that the guy who just happens to be running by a crime scene not only happens to be a doctor, but not just any doctor, a guy qualified to operate on a traumatically injured guy.”
“No big deal, any doctor- hell either of those medics, even you could have done it, “Johnathan said modestly.
“Not me, huh uh, no way,” Thurman argued.
“Sure you could, did you ever put a clamp on a leaky radiator hose?” Poe asked, insistently.
“Well yeah, but Doc,” Thurman protested, also insistent.
Johnathan raised an eyebrow in devil’s advocacy.
“That was some guys jugular vein, his life was leaking out all over, I’d a’ shit my pants if I walked up on that,” Thurman said in a more or less convincing, “I’m just a stupid cop” tone.
“You’re young and so I will let you off on that note, but you knew the young man, I am sure you’d have figured something out,” Poe said dryly.
“Oh yeah, like what? Maybe stick my finger in it and pray somebody showed up who knew more than me?” Thurman’s tone was also dry, a bit more than a touch of sarcasm in it.
“That’s exactly what I did,” Poe replied.
Thurman looked at him in amazement.
Johnathan pressed his thin lips into a passable smile and pointed at the large limestone house they were about to pass, “this is my stop.”
Thurman piloted the cruiser into the driveway, “I remember when this place was a bed a breakfast… But who’d want to visit this city anymore.”
“Good thing I decided to visit,” Poe quipped as he got out of the car, “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem, I’ll see you around I’m sure.”
Poe watched Thurman drive off as he fished for the house key tucked inside his glove. He thought about Officer Rivers, and hoped that Champion City’s finest could come up with something better than the odd coincidence that the new Medical Examiner happened to be running by at the exact moment that some unseen miscreant shot a police officer and then disappeared into thin air.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, carefully closing the door and locking the deadbolt. Pulling the sweatshirt off inside out he laid it on the mat, kicked off each shoe onto it, and then finished undressing, piling everything on the sweatshirt before tying it all into a bundle with the sleeves. Leaving the bundle on the mat, Johnathan walked down the hall to the bathroom.
The snow started to fall while Dr. Poe was in the shower. It was coming down steadily when he left home, and traffic was traveling moderately well for the road conditions. It was mid autumn, and drivers hadn’t yet become overconfident in their ability to drive on slippery roads.
When Johnathan arrived at the Clark County Medical Examiner’s Office, the tone of the work day was being set by the ubiquitous sound of a ringing phone. As one line was answered, another would begin to ring.
Melissa Marsden, the receptionist was waging war on the PBX phone system and seemingly fighting a losing battle. Wisely she was allowing calls coming in on the public line to go to voicemail, knowing that most people with real business had a direct number to the office they needed. She was merely playing short order cook to the overflow.
Johnathan smiled at her as he walked by. He appreciated efficient work, and recognized Melissa as a model from who most could take a lesson. He had been on the job for three days officially, not counting his trip with the ME scene crew to pick up the late Father Andarcio who was still occupying a space in cooler number one.
There had been few questions for which Melissa didn’t readily have an answer. She had worked in the ME’s office for ten years and she had seen six chief medical examiners come and go. She had cited that his predecessors had fallen to scarcity. Scarcity of ethics, scarcity of the spirit takes to work in public service, or a scarcity of gumption. Spirit and gumption being the most rampant killers in most professions, Poe had agreed wholeheartedly.
As for ethics, in Champion city’s recent past there was a situation in Medical Examiner Derek Woodruff’s office where an autopsy could be shaped to suit the needs of either a family member, or a public official…Like a prosecutor… For a fee of course. Ah, public service. Tammany would have been so proud.
Dr. Woodruff had become nerve worn and complacent. The corruption had so many layers that it was unclear exactly when he’d taken the first step down the slippery slope that led to his demise. When the story hit the paper that he’s altered a report that allowed a young sociopath named Robert Weaver back onto Champion City’s streets, Dr. Woodruff put a pistol in his mouth and became the first case for his successor to deal with. It was an open and shut case.
Dr. Poe passed through the small but well appointed lobby stopping only to swipe his County ID through the scanner which unlocked the door to the office area with a metallic buzz.
Passing a row of portraits of former Medical Examiners along the left wall, and series of photo profiles of some of Champion City’s most legendary murderers on the right it seemed that even now these sick men and women were being scrutinized by their would be pursuers.
Poe stopped and looked at one of the portraits for a moment. Dr. Peter Klein the man he replaced. Directly across from him was the malignant image of Alan Michael Shirey Champion City’s current most famous serial killer.
Shirey was the typical high strung, shy, anti social sociopath. He didn’t function well around other people, and he knew it. He acquired an electrician’s certificate and worked well as a productive member of society, with a unique social problem for years. But one night, while wiring the new Fashion Central store in the Champion City Mall, Shirey snapped, killing two electrician’s helpers. He’d posed them in the food court and went back to work.
When Marsha Adams, a mall security officer made her rounds the following hour it didn’t dawn on her immediately that anything was amiss. It wasn’t out of character for the overnight contractor’s to sit in the empty tables at the food court on their breaks. Then she realized that for a change they were quiet. No whistling or cat calling after her. Rare was the night when one of them didn’t make a comment about her having been a model in a prominent gentleman’s magazine. It was true, and she didn’t mind that they’d recognized her. It was a different time in her life, though only a year before.
She had approached the men on her way back from checking the fire exit tunnel, noticing with particular interest that they were in the same position they’d been in when she’d passed the first time.
The ghastly scene was almost comic in its sick nature the first victim Daniel Gonzales; the eighteen year old had been propped up with a long screwdriver driven up through his lower chin, through the soft palate and into the top of the spinal column. He was propped up as if drinking coffee and reading the tabloid paper “The Squawk Box.” The other man had been electrocuted on purpose, via a length of Romex commercial grade electrical wire, clamped into his mouth with a pair of clamping pliers.
Marsha had called the Sheriff’s office and had been instructed to wait for the deputies before approaching any of the mall staff or contractors. She decided that it would be best to tell Alan about his employees before the deputies arrived; he had seemed like such a timid fellow.
She knew that she’d misjudged him when his hand closed around her throat. Two months later when the police found her, well fed and alive but in such a state of horror that it took nearly a year for her to be able to give a statement.
Shirey had rendered her unconscious and carried her to his truck. He drove her to an abandoned farm house on Lincoln road, where for the next thirty six days he would rape her repeatedly between long periods of sensory deprivation. She wanted to believe that he wasn’t going to kill her, though the rape, which had began as bondage intercourse grew more violent daily, as if he were toying with her. At some point during her captivity, Alan had decided that Marsha was some type of pet and he began grooming her and telling her about his victims. She would later suppose that the periods in which she was locked in the vault were the times that he was hunting other victims.
She became thankful that he was letting her live, and would cater to him as best he would allow her. She explained it as having felt some sort of love for him; it would turn out to be his undoing. One afternoon when he was preening her she’d touched his hand. In his anger he’d raped her, and she hadn’t resisted, in her distressed psychological state she’d become aroused. She’d reached beneath her assaulted rear and took hold of him. He’d ejaculated with great force and then beat her to the edge of death before rushing out of the house. It upset him so that he’d forgotten to restrain her.
He drove onto the interstate and played chicken with a dump truck and lost. Worse yet, under the influence of sedation and pain medications he’d mentioned Marsha.
The policeman who found her took for granted that she was dead called the Medical Examiner instead of emergency services. In a cursory check for vital signs, the physician’s assistant who went with the scene team had also presumed she was dead, until he’d attempted to take her temperature and found actively bleeding wounds in her nether region.
Having been captured alive, which is odd for a sociopath he was detained on a multi-life ticket at Parkview Clinic. He’ll never stand trial, but there’s enough red tape to keep him tied up forever. In his tenure at Parkview he’s added seven names to his list of known victims, bringing the total to thirty-three.
The Desk in Dr. Poe’s office was covered with record jackets, some thick, other’s thin, but none empty. Most has at least one if not as many as a dozen sticky notes attached to the jackets. Notes specific to a particular member of the file were always on colored paper. In the case of more organized organizations, the pages were often color coded to the various team members.
Dr. Poe sat down and surveyed the desk with no particular file standing out immediately. He reached for the computer mouse and brought up the voice mail program. Oddly enough he had only one message.
Pressing play, Dr. Poe listened to a polite message from a reporter from the Champion City News & Sun. Through the formal prose, Dr. Poe got the underlying message- tell us something, or we’ll tell the public something interesting… He deleted the message.
Taking the first record jacket off the pile, Dr. Poe opened it to review the post report. At face value the file seemed to be in good order. Cover sheet on the left, scene report on the right. Crime scene photos under the crime scene report. Photos from the post mortem lab were under the autopsy report, and the toxicology report was attached upside down facing inward so that it could quickly be checked against the general fluid analysis, the sheet directly beneath it.
This particular file was on a Jane Doe, approximately thirty years of age, five feet seven inches tall, weighing one hundred and fifteen pounds. Date of death was listed as November 22, Thanksgiving. Time of death was around 4:30 am. Her photo showed that she was very pretty even in death. She’d been found along an alleyway adjacent to the Bus Station; no doubt she’d been turning tricks. Bus stations are a notorious hangout for prostitutes, when she’d met a likely fellow. They’d gone across the street into the dark alley and he’d either killed her outright or by accident. The cause of death was listed as autoerotic asphyxia, meaning that one sexual partner will restrict the other’s ability to breath in order to intensify orgasm. In some cases, the person is strangled to death. Homicide, plain and simple, the question now was negligence, or not.
Poe ran a finger along the labels of several file cabinet drawers before finding the one labeled Unidentified Victims. He opened the drawer and found it divided into two sections, one for John Doe’s and another for Jane. The sections were filed in reverse chronological order, meaning that files with the most recent dates were toward the front for easier access.
Johnathan filed the Jane Doe he’d just reviewed after writing the file number, the name, and the cause of death on a legal pad. He repeated this for the next couple of files- two John Does, killed on the same night, one a vehicular homicide in which one drunk had run over another. The second was a strangulation death.
This body was found in the same geographic location as the earlier Jane Doe. The man had one hundred dollars in the right front pocket of his jeans, which were around his knees when he was found. His shirt had been removed and it was found rolled under his head. The date and time of death were listed as November 22, at 4:30 am.
After noting the listing on his legal pad Dr. Poe’s eyes fell on the listing for Jane Doe.
“This is very strange. Why wouldn’t these files be together,” he said to himself as a shadow filled the doorway to his office.
“Do you always talk to yourself,” asked the pleasant, cartoonish voice of Micki Schiller, the twenty year old crime scene analyst, who could easily pass for a Gothic princess with her elongated shapely frame. Black and dull gray attire contrasted with her pale skin, made worse when accentuated by overstated silver jewelry. Her long hair of such deep black that it shimmered gun barrel blue, worn in a long braid, coiled whip like around her neck.
Dr. Poe regarded her for a moment, taking her in gradually lest he overdose on the first eyeful and succumb to the cover without reading the book.
“Do you always dress like Wednesday Addams,” he thought, but didn’t ask.
Micki cleared her throat after a moment.
“Oh,” Dr. Poe said absently, “No, not usually. But this is not a usual day.”
Micki smiled and walked into his office. Her eyes fell on the open file cabinet drawer, and then centered on the desk, “Straightening up, or searching for something?”
He looked at her again, not knowing what to make of her.
“I was reviewing these and putting them away, and I think I have found a pattern. Well the beginnings of a pattern at any rate. Two coincidental deaths do not a serial murderer make.” he said decisively.
“Mm’hm,” she added awkwardly aware of his gaze, “is there a problem?”
Dr. Poe realized that he’d been staring and shifted his gaze to the mass of files on the desk, “Sorry, it’s just that-“
“You’ve never met anyone quite like me,” she giggled.
“Err, um yes, exactly” he said evenly, meeting her gaze this time, noticing that her eyes were brilliant and attentive, very intelligent and active.
They both smiled.
Dr. Poe opened his mouth to speak, and thought better of it for the moment.
Micki noticed and seemed to be waiting and then offered, “I bet you are wondering why I came to your office, huh?”
He nodded, realizing he was staring again.
“I’m Micki Schiller btw, “she said, relaxing a bit.
Dr. Poe nodded, and then raised an eyebrow.
Micki noticed and stopped, “Oh, uh. Oh, yeah. I came to your office to tell you what I found when I went over the photos from the rectory at Holy Grail.
Dr. Poe smiled and stood up, “show me.”
They exited his office and walked down the short hallway and turned to the left, down another short hallway and into a small auditorium. Micki walked to an overhead projector and turned it on. An enlarged image showed a stoneware plate which contained a partially eaten slice of ham. Potato salad, a partially eaten deviled egg with very clear dental impressions, and a serving of bread dressing, also partially eaten.
“Let me guess, this is the menu for the Holy Grail Church Potluck,” Poe quipped.
His joke was lost on Micki, who gave him a very bland look, “only if you want to die of shellfish poisoning.”
Dr. Poe gave a thin lipped smile, “Cause of death according to autopsy was?”
“Anaphylaxis. He hadn’t taken any medications at all, not even an aspirin, let alone penicillin, and we found no stings or bites. I know that certain types of seafood allergies can cause anaphylactic shock, my aunt Polly ate lobster for years until one day when she cracked open a claw, dipped the meat in melted butter and nearly died of a respiratory failure before someone figured it out and gave her epinephrine,”
“Okay, hooray for Aunt Polly. Who was the culprit here?” He asked with real curiosity.
“It turns out that Father Andarcio had and an acute allergy to the oysters in the dressing,” Micki said matter of factly.
Dr. Poe looked at the image on the screen for a long moment. His mental process was trying to find a flaw; he was so used to the mental game of chess, that it was hard for him to grasp the simplicity of it.
“An allergy to oysters? I have heard of shellfish allergy, but oysters a bivalves, and generally it happens to people who eat crustaceans.”
Micki nodded in agreement, “So are we gonna tell the newspaper so they can stop calling?”
“No, get me the toxicology reports and a tissue analysis consistent with your opinion, doctor,” He said with a smile.
It was Micki’s turn to raise a brow, “I’m not a doctor.”
“I wouldn’t recommend you play one on TV,” Poe jabbed playfully.
“Oh, I’ll get you, you just wait, buster” she jabbed back.
Dr. Poe walked back to his office, pleased that some headway had been made in solving his current high profile case. Secretly he wasn’t convinced that is was as simple as a case of shellfish allergy, but for the time being it would do to soothe the media.
When he walked into the office, he sat down and remembered John and Jane Doe. It was significant enough that two people were murdered on the same night, at the same location, at the same time. The most curious matter and the one he was planning to look into first was why both the police report, and more importantly the investigation done by the Crime Scene Team had neglected even to mention that the bodies were in the same crime scene.
If this was a case of simple negligence so be it. Though it was a hard sell considering that it was missed not only by the Champion City Police, but also by the Medical Examiner’s Office, and that was inexcusable.