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“Stu, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I’m fighting the clock on a criminal investigation, and I’m stumped on a blood issue. It truly is time critical, or I wouldn’t be jumping on you like this.”
A chuckle. “I should have known you’d be up to your ass in intrigue. Okay, tell me what you’ve got.”
As thoroughly and comprehensively as he could, Lane explained what he was seeing in the photos on his monitor. “What it doesn’t explain—at least not to me—is the glossy consistency of the blood. It dried under the same set of environmental circumstances. So what could cause some blood to dry more slowly?”
A pensive silence. “Okay, this is just speculation on my part, since I obviously have no firsthand knowledge of either person involved or his medical history. But what if you’re looking at bloodstains from two different sources—the victim and the killer? Following that logic, I’d say one of them is on some kind of anticoagulant. Those are taken under certain medical conditions in order to reduce the risk of blood clotting.”
“So they thin the blood, like aspirin does.”
“Differently. Aspirin thins the blood and keeps it flowing properly through the arteries. Warfarin, the anticoagulant I was referring to, reduces clotting in lower-pressure areas, like the legs, where the blood is stagnant. I don’t think aspirin alone would explain the liquidlike appearance you’re talking about. For that kind of sticky consistency to be present, I’d suspect the patient was on warfarin. That’s prescribed when a patient has either an artificial heart valve, deep vein thrombosis, atrial fibrillation, or in some cases after heart attacks or strokes—”
“Wait,” Lane interrupted. Everything inside him ran cold as Stu’s words struck home.
I’ve got this thing with my heart. Lenny’s words, spoken in Jonah’s hospital room. Atrial fibrillation—a big name for a not-so-big problem. I’m on medicine…it thins my blood, keeps it from coagulating.
“Did you say atrial fibrillation?” Lane asked.
“Yes. In layman’s terms, that’s an irregular heartbeat. In chronic cases, the blood doesn’t flow quickly enough from the heart, making it more likely that clots will form. If that happens, and a clot is pumped from t
he atria to other parts of the body—kidneys, intestines—major problems can occur. And in the worst-case scenario, if the clot is pumped to an artery leading to the brain, it can cause a stroke.”
“And you said the drug prescribed is warfarin?” That didn’t ring a bell. It wasn’t the name Lenny had used. And before he jumped to an unthinkable conclusion, he had to be sure. “Is that the only anticoagulant of its type on the market? Or is it known by any other name?”
“The most common brand name is Coumadin.”
Coumadin. That was the drug Lenny had mentioned.
Lane was beginning to feel sicker by the minute. “How long has Coumadin been on the market?”
“Let’s see—President Eisenhower was given Coumadin after his heart attack in 1956. It’s been prescribed on a regular basis ever since. Does that answer your question?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Is Coumadin prescribed long-term? Could it be taken, say, for seventeen years?”
“Sometimes for life. One important caveat—patients taking Coumadin must get their blood levels checked, at least monthly. The therapeutic window—the difference between the dose necessary to adequately slow the anticoagulant process and the dose that would cause spontaneous bleeding—is very narrow. So the dose must be carefully monitored and adjusted.”
That triggered another memory. Lenny. At the deli last week. Nicking himself while slicing a sour pickle and bleeding way too much for a simple cut. And Arthur, nudging him to have his blood tested, explaining to Lane and Monty that his father was on blood-thinning medication and was supposed to get his levels checked every month, doctor’s orders.
Shit.
“Lane?” Stu prompted. “Are you still there?”
“Sorry. Yes, I’m here. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, and for being so precise with your answers.”
“They clearly weren’t the answers you wanted.”
“No. But they had to be gotten. I appreciate it, Stu. Oh, and happy holidays.”
Lane hung up and just sat there, still struggling to process the implications of what he’d just learned.
The wet blood on the floor. The shiny bloodstained knuckle prints on Jack’s face. Both Lenny’s.
Lenny. Warmhearted, jovial Lenny. The guy who welcomed everyone into his deli. The guy who’d do anything for anyone.
The guy who’d do even more than that to protect his son.
Shoving back the chair, Lane rose. He had to get over to Elyse’s gym, to be there when Monty was putting the screws into Arthur. Because there were pieces of this puzzle that only he could supply.
He was about to flip off his monitor, when the zoomed photo of Jack’s cheek caught his eye, the vertical and horizontal lines, so exactingly perpendicular, etched into Jack’s skin like the mark of Zorro.
