Killing Cassidy (21 page)

“It depends on specific dates. It may mean nothing at all except that he decided to give himself a brief vacation between jobs. However, he didn't stay very long in Ohio, either, did he?”

“Hmm. That's a point. You know, I wonder just how much Doc Foley knows about him? Do doctors check on each other at all, I wonder? Or does the AMA, or somebody? Or do they just take each other at face value?”

Alan shrugged. “Your health care system here works on such different principles from ours, I can't even guess.”

“Well, I suppose I should know, but in fact I don't. I can ask Doc. Meanwhile, would you like to learn a little about maggots, or is it too close to lunchtime?”

“My dear, I already know more about them than I wish I did. However, learning a bit more will not ruin my digestive processes.”

“It may well ruin mine, but anything for the cause. Let's go see the bug man.”

We drove to the nearest visitor parking lot. It was not a good day for walking. The air had grown even closer and more humid; heavy clouds began to tower in the west. Dull thunder rumbled, distant but nearing. I wished the storm would hurry up and get it over with.

The university had not, as yet, found it necessary to alter the Biological Sciences Building. It was one of the older buildings on campus, but a new laboratory wing had been added in the 1970s. It might have been better, but it served. I hoped that when they did decide more modern facilities were required, they'd simply build a whole new lab and leave the old building alone.

Foolish romanticism, I told myself. But this place held memories for me.

The memories were a little too insistent when I approached the building. I detoured and entered by a side door. “Closer to Stan's lab,” I explained to Alan.

And farther away from Frank's old office.

We found Stan happily engaged with a tray of what looked, at first sight, like swollen grains of rice.

“Hi!” he greeted us, as if I'd last seen him five minutes ago, instead of several years. “Want to watch the maggot races?”

“Stan, it's good to see you again. This is my husband, Alan Nesbitt.” I didn't offer to shake hands, just in case … well, just in case. Neither, I noticed, did Alan. “Still absorbed in your work, I see.”

“Well, sure.” He sounded surprised. What else, after all, would a person do with his time? “I heard you were in town. Tough about Kevin, huh?”

“Very. Listen, Stan, I'm sure the maggot races are fascinating, but I need some information, if you have it. You know about Jerry—” I stopped. I still didn't know Jerry's last name. I looked at Alan, who shrugged and shook his head. “Well, Jerry. The rather odd man who lived in the woods close to Kevin?”

“And got himself bumped off. Sure. What do you want to know?”

“Have the police called you in to determine the time of death?”

“Sure. Who else?”

“Who else, indeed. So when did he die? Could you tell?”

The wonderful thing about Stan is that his curiosity is confined entirely to the behavior of insects. It would never occur to him to wonder why I wanted to know.

“Child's play. Anybody could have told them. They had some crazy idea he died Saturday night. No way. Monday morning. Ten or so. I couldn't pin it down to the minute, but before noon, absolutely. I'd say ten, myself.”

The mobile grains of rice did something of apparent interest. “Hey, you sure you don't want to see this? It's terrific!”

I'd had rice with my lunch. I now regretted it. “Thank you, Stan, but another time. I have just one more question. What did Jerry die
of
?”

“Not my department,” said Stan, “but it was obvious enough. Cherry red blood, you know.”

“Cyanide, or carbon monoxide?” asked Alan.

“Cyanide, for sure. Killed some of the bugs. Hey, look at those little guys!”

I tried hard not to. “Great, Stan. And thanks for your help. We'll be on our way.”

“Sure.” He'd forgotten us by the time we reached the door.

F
AT
drops of rain were beginning to fall when we left the lab. We made it to the car before the deluge, but only just. I hadn't fastened my seat belt before the storm arrived in full fury, the rain pelting the car like stones, the thunder and lightning almost continuous.

We waited it out. There was nothing else to do. I couldn't drive when I couldn't see. The wind howled and shook the car as it stood helpless against the elements.

“It was,” Alan observed when the atmospherics abated a little, “a dark and stormy night.”

“Afternoon. It only looks like night.” A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder arrived simultaneously. I yelped and grabbed Alan's hand. “Did you see that? It struck the ground right there in front of us!”

“A car is quite a safe place during a storm, you know.”

“I know that. You know that. But does the
lightning
know that?”

It didn't last long, of course. Storms like that wear themselves out quickly. The fireworks moved off, the rain slowed, the wind quieted. I didn't move. Alan looked at me with a question on his face.

“We might just as well stay here until it's really over. There'll be branches down after a storm like that, some streets will be flooded, some traffic lights will be out. It might be just as easy to leave the car here and walk, actually. But I'm not moving until the rain stops.”

“Ah.”

We sat listening to the rain.

“Cyanide,” I said after a few minutes.

“Yes. Interesting, isn't it?”

“I don't think I expected that.”

“Nor did I. I expected something a trifle more amateurish.”

“A doctor would find it easy to get hold of cyanide.”

“Still harping on Boland, are you? Dorothy, anyone would find it easy to get cyanide, if he put his mind to it. It's one of the most readily available poisons. Used in photography, industrial plating—oh, all sorts of things. The odd thing, to me, is that someone thought of it. Amateurs usually think of arsenic, if they think of poison at all.”

“Well, I still think Boland is in the running. Maybe Kevin's stolen tricycle wasn't part of the pattern at all.”

“You could be right. What do you plan to do about it?”

“I'm going to follow up that odd little gap in his employment record. I'm sure the university library will have computers for student use. I intend to surf the Net.”

Alan's eyes twinkled. It wasn't so long ago that I took the normal middle-aged attitude toward computers—mysterious machines, somewhat threatening, often nuisances. It took a boy in his twenties to show me the possibilities; since then I've embraced the technology. When I want to learn more about almost any subject, I turn automatically to the Sherebury library's computers.

“And the best of luck, my dear. I think I'll strike out on my own. This cyanide business has made me more eager than ever to make Darryl an ally rather than an antagonist.”

“Why's that?”

“For one thing, cyanide is not a means I would expect a policeman to use to dispatch anyone. Especially an American policeman.”

My brows furrowed over that one for a moment, but then I got it. “Oh. Because American policemen have nice big fat guns on their hips. You think they would shoot, if they found murder necessary.”

“Well—let's say I think those big fat guns predispose one to violence. One's thoughts would turn to violent means. Not shooting, actually. It would be wildly stupid for a policeman to murder someone with his own gun, and Darryl is not stupid. Simply some violent method. And the second reason I'd like to clear Darryl, as soon as possible, is that the police have resources to trace the purchase of cyanide. They are in fact already doing so, almost certainly. It would be nice not to have to duplicate those efforts. It's stopped raining, by the way.”

“So it has. All right, we have a plan of action, at least for the time being. Look, the library's not far from here. Why don't I walk over there, and you take the car wherever you're going. Can you drive on the right, do you think?”

He grinned. “I think I might be able to manage for a street or two in a town this size.”

“Okay, I'll see you back at the hotel. I'll bet I find out more than you do!”

I splashed back across campus to the library in high spirits. The storm had left the air clean and fresh, and so brisk I was glad of the Burberry I'd been lugging around all day. The blue of the sky was beginning to win over the gray of the clouds by the time I dodged the largest of the puddles in front of the library door and went in.

The library seemed dark when I went in, nothing like as well lighted as I remembered. When I went to the information desk and asked about computer terminals, I realized why.

“All our computers are down, ma'am,” said the young man at the desk, in the weary tone of one who has repeated the same statement too many times. He looked me over, gray hair, hat, and all, and explained further. “The storm took out our power and the modern lines. We're operating under emergency power. No, I don't know when they'll be back up. No, sir,” to the man behind me, “they're all down. No, nobody's said when—”

I moved out of the way. Very well, the new technology was unavailable. I'd fall back on the old way: books.

I turned back to the harried young man at the desk. “Excuse me, but do you still have telephone books for other cities?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “They're out of date, though. We use the computer now.”

“No, you don't actually use the computer now, do you?” I retorted and turned away.

It took only a few minutes to look up a hospital in Richmond, Virginia, and one in Youngstown, Ohio. It took a little longer to find the American Medical Association publication that outlined certification procedures. Fortunately I knew the layout of the Randolph library far better than the student assistants, who were helpless when the computer catalogue wasn't operating. I'd never had occasion to use the medical reference section before, but I was able to find it.

Now for some phone calls. If the modern lines were out at the library, the regular phone lines probably would be, too, and anyway pay phones are uncomfortable for anything more than the “I arrived safely; I'll see you in an hour” sort of thing. I started to walk back to the hotel, but on the way I changed my mind and detoured to Hillsburg Community Hospital. I might be able to find a shortcut.

The volunteers at the visitor desk were busy. Good. They wouldn't want to waste time with me.

“I don't want to keep you,” I said guilelessly when a pleasant gray-haired man asked if he could help me. “Could I just see your staff directory for a minute? I used to know several people who worked here, and I'd like to say hello, but I've been out of town for a while, and I'm not sure which ones are still here.”

I had the well-worn paperbound booklet in my hands before I'd even finished my explanation. Maybe they always let people look at it, but I hadn't wanted to take chances.

My excuse had been absolutely accurate, as far as it went. I was sure there were still a good many of my friends working here. I hadn't a clue, though, who they might be. I leafed through the booklet quickly.

Ahah! Not one but
two
former students of mine in the first two pages! One was working in human resources, what I always used to call personnel.

With access to computers.

“Thanks so much!” I handed the booklet back. “Where is the human resources department?”

“Second floor south,” said one of the volunteers. “Take that elevator and turn left.”

And there, at the end of the hall when I took the elevator and turned left, was a small office, one of several. In it sat Ray McKenzie, as red-headed and freckled as he had been in the fourth grade, and almost as round and rosy-cheeked.

The corridor was deserted. Nobody would notice if I paused a moment. I studied him, remembering him a little better now that he was in front of me. I would perhaps have done better to choose someone other than Ray. Ray had been a plump, serious little boy, not much given to mischief. Not exactly the star of his class. Somewhat slow over long division, as I recalled. And no good at all at any playground games. But he'd liked me. I'd worked with him until he actually enjoyed the intricacies of arithmetic. I'd also done my best to protect him from the small cruelties the others had imposed, almost unconsciously, on the child who was a little different, who didn't make friends easily.

He would remember me, I felt sure. It had only been a few years—well, ten—twelve? thirteen?—since he'd been in my class. Whether he, the serious, the hardworking, would help me with a somewhat unorthodox request was another matter.

I was here now. I couldn't lose anything by asking.

He was still as nearsighted as ever, his glasses still as thick. He looked up from his keyboard at my approach, but his eyes didn't focus on me.

“The employment office is by the elevators, back down the hall,” he said, and turned back to his work.

“I've come to see you, Ray.”

It took him a minute. Then he smiled and stood up to shake my hand. (He was always a polite child.)

“Mrs. Martin? I'm sorry I didn't recognize you at first, but—”

“But I'm the very last person you expected to see.”

“Well, yeah. I mean—you're not applying for a job, are you?”

I laughed. “No, I've been retired for years, and I don't know what I could do in a hospital anyway.”

Ray nodded, but he looked puzzled.

I had planned some small talk. Came by to see you, wondered how you were getting along, oh, by the way, there's something you could do for me.

It wasn't going to work with Ray. He didn't have the imagination to buy into an elaborate fiction.