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My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “People do that?”
Blake shrugs, unconcerned. “Yeah. I won’t say it happens a lot, but it’s not my first time seeing it.”
We stare at each other for a long moment and I whisper what I think we’re both thinking, “Suspicious, at best.”
Blake raises one brow and adds dramatically, “Murder, at worst.”
I laugh, smacking gently at his arm. “I wouldn’t jump that far ahead. We don’t have anything to back that up.”
“The facts, ma’am,” he deadpans. “Just the facts.”
Pointing at the paper in his hand, I agree. “Exactly.”
“So, now what?”
The question makes me stop. I’d love to say this is where Jeff takes over, but I’ve never had a case that was actual suspicious foul play before. I’ve dealt with too many car accidents and two suicides that were clear even without my work. Other than that, I proclaim death and do autopsies so families can get some closure, but it’s always been a pretty straightforward case.
There was a hunting accident once where we needed to be sure it was an actual accident, but again, my part was relatively simple. I pointed out where the bullet entered, the bullet lodged, and left the rest to the detectives. A member of the team, but not the driving force. That’s always Jeff.
I suspect that if there were a clear murder, Sheriff Barnes wouldn’t even call me, he’d call the State Police. We’re just too country out here in Williamson County for that.
“You know anything about investigation?” I ask hopefully.
Blake shakes his head slowly but then grins. “Nope, but I bet two smart people like us know a lot about research.”
He’s right. I’ve written dozens of research papers, read hundreds, and I keep current on everything I can get my hands on in the forensic sciences. It’s not the same as what the sheriff does, but it’s a start.
“Let’s do it.”
Blake gets up to grab his laptop, setting it on the edge of his desk in front of me. “So let’s start over. What could cause Ol’ Dick to have these metals in these quantities?”
His question leaves me fluttery. Not because it’s all that unique. I’ve been asking myself the same thing. But once again, he’s letting me be the lead. Most folks in the department are so ready to get out of my presence that they don’t ask me anything other than ‘where’s the written report?’ before laying tracks for the nearest door.
He looks at me expectantly, waiting patiently for my input, and right in the middle of my chest, I feel another flutter.
Which reminds me . . .
“I think we need to leave out the heart attack as a symptom for our initial inquiries because it’s an acute event. More like the signpost, but not the road. The metal levels are indicative of a longer, chronic condition. Maybe if we can figure out how it started—”
“We can figure out how it ended,” he finishes. “Makes sense.”
I click into a browser and begin searching out possibilities. I know most of them, but there have to be some that I haven’t crossed off yet.
Blake watches me, reading over my shoulder as I jump from website to website. We discuss dozens of possibilities and discount them all.
Hours later, or so it seems, we’ve reached a dead end.
“So the oddest thing is the presence of this particular combination of heavy metals. Typically, exposure is to one metal, but Dick’s insides have basically been doused in everything—lead, mercury, and arsenic.”
“Arsenic?” Blake repeats. “That’s been used as a poison for centuries. Before it was traceable, it was known as ‘inheritance powder’ because it was commonly used by beneficiaries if dear old Dad wasn’t dying fast enough. Slip him a mickey and boom, you’ve got the keys to the kingdom. Is that what Mrs. Horne’s trying to do?”
He’s talking about murder for money, and all I hear is his pulling out historical trivia like a boss. A very sexy, smart boss. I stumble over my factual response, trying to let the heat his intelligence ignites die down. “Doubtful. We’ve all got some arsenic in our bodies. A lethal dose, though . . . definitely unusual. Arsenic is easily and routinely screened for now, so it’s a pretty stupid murder weapon.”
“Yvette Horne doesn’t strike me as the intelligent sort,” Blake retorts with a smile. It’s so distracting, so easy and light. I want to smile like that, as though the world isn’t a cruel place where things get ripped away from you as soon as you get attached to them.
Focus, Zoey. Think about Richard Horne, lying face down in his morning breakfast with juice puddled in his lap.
That image is enough to bring me back to our research. “True, but we can’t discount the other two metals.” Blake nods, and we go back to clicking and reading, reading and clicking.
