Page 10 of Dead Drunk (Cold Case Psychic #36)
Ronan
For the third night in a row, Ronan barely slept. He tossed and turned for a few hours before finally falling into an uneasy sleep. He’d gotten up with the sun and had spent the hours before Ten and the kids woke up going over the notes he’d taken from the day before. He was still having trouble wrapping his head around what they’d learned. He hoped the visit to the medical examiner would provide more answers than questions.
Ronan sat silently in the backseat of Fitzgibbon’s SUV, staring out the window, as his boss drove to the Essex County Morgue, which was located in Peabody. It was a bright, sunny, June day, but the mood in the vehicle was decidedly frosty. All of their usual comradery was gone.
Fitzgibbon flashed his badge at the gatehouse and was allowed into the parking lot. Five minutes later, they took the elevator to the third floor, and quickly found the conference room where the meeting was supposed to take place. The room was large and airy, filled with morning sunshine. A large flat-screen television was mounted to the wall and displayed the logo for the Essex County Medical Examiner.
Jude knocked on the glass door before letting himself inside.
“Hey, Doc, are you ready to see us?”
“Please come in, detectives. I’m Marrisa Spaulding. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”
She stood and shook hands with the detectives and Tennyson. Ronan would peg her age around forty. With long dark hair and blue eyes, the medical examiner was a stunner. She was dressed in a navy pantsuit, with a single strand of pearls around her neck.
“Before we begin, I need to stress the importance of discretion in this matter,”
Fitzgibbon said.
“We believe that the four men we referred to you were all murdered, most likely by the same culprit. Our suspects in this case are rather high profile people and three of them are directly linked to the Salem Police Department. After all these years, our potential killer thinks they are in the clear and I’d like to keep it that way while we investigate.”
“I understand, Captain Fitzgibbon.”
Dr. Spaulding opened her laptop, which connected to the television. Images of puncture marks appeared on the screen.
“These are pictures from the autopsy of the four men we discussed yesterday. As you can see, the marks are the same shape and size. I was able to determine the needle used was a 28G. It’s a needle commonly used by insulin-dependent diabetics and by doctors performing allergy testing on patients. With the length of the needle, it’s able to inject into subcutaneous fat and into the intradermal layer of skin.”
As the doctor spoke, Ronan took notes.
“From the marks on the body, is it possible to tell what substance was injected?”
“Unfortunately, it’s not. What I can tell you is that some time elapsed from the point of injection until each of these men died. There is no longer inflammation at the injection site.”
“So, whatever killed them was something slower acting?”
Ronan asked.
“That’s correct. It’s also important to note that none of the men were diabetic and none had needle marks on their bodies other than the single injection site on their abdomens.”
“Which means we’re not looking at men who were accidentally stuck with their own needles,”
Jude said.
“That would be my presumption as well. After viewing the photos I read through the toxicology reports for each of the deceased. All four had alcohol in their system and no illicit drugs. Each man had blood drawn for standard toxicology tests. None were tested for heavy metals or other poisons. Lastly, all of them had lower than normal blood sugar levels.”
“What would cause that?”
Fitz asked.
“Each of the men had minimal undigested food in their stomachs at time of death. Not eating can lower blood sugar, as can insulin.”
“Is it possible that each man died from insulin overdoses?”
Ronan had recently seen a true crime documentary where insulin was the murder weapon. Victims had been cleverly injected between their second and third toe, as it’s an area that doesn’t get a lot of attention at autopsy.
“It is possible,”
Doctor Spaulding agreed, “but impossible to prove.”
“Why is that?”
Ronan chewed on the cap of his pen.
“Insulin is quickly metabolized and further, it continues to break down after death. If you were to take a blood sample at the time of death and another twelve to twenty-four hours later, as we would do during a standard autopsy, the levels would be much lower in the second test.”
“Fuck me blue,”
Ronan muttered.
“I assume you’re aware of Doctor Winetrap’s criminal record?”
“I am. All four of your potential victims came under his knife.”
“In your professional opinion, do you agree with Winetrap’s findings on these cases or would you have come to different conclusions as to cause and manner of death?”
Ronan asked.
“I agree with his conclusions in all four cases,”
Spaulding said.
“Cardiac arrest is common among heavy drinkers. Alcohol causes high blood pressure, it raises triglycerides and increases inflammation. Add in the stress of being arrested and put in jail and it’s a dangerous health situation.”
Fitzgibbon stood up and offered Dr. Spaulding his hand.
“We appreciate your time today.”
“You’re welcome. Please let me know if you have any other questions.”
Gathering her laptop, Dr. Spaulding left the room.
“Well, that gets us absolutely nowhere.”
Jude shut his notebook with a slap.
“We knew this was a longshot at best,”
Fitzgibbon said.
“Medical examiners do the most basic blood tests. The county and state would be angry if they requested expensive and timely blood tests on someone who died from a heart attack. If poisoning was suspected, then tests would be run, but with our four potential victims, there was no need.”
“How are things with you and Ten? You know, with him not being here this morning.”
Jude wore a guilty look, as if he were uncomfortable asking about Ronan’s marriage.
“Everly had her annual physical this morning, that’s why Ten isn’t here. As for the two of us, we’re okay, but I’m an asshole.”
“We already know that,”
Fitz said with a grin.
“Care to be more specific?”
“Ten has incredible gifts, we all know that. When he works on cases with us, we trust him implicitly.”
Ronan sighed.
“But you came for him when he suggested Cisco could have killed Jefferson McGrath,”
Jude said softly.
“Yeah, I did,”
Ronan agreed, “which makes me an even bigger asshole. If Ten had suggested any other member of the Salem Police was a killer, aside from Cisco and the three of us, my reaction would have been completely different.”
“Not that you need me to tell you, but you’ve always been emotional, Ronan,”
Fitz said, with no trace of his usual sarcasm.
“Most of the time your sensitivity is an asset to our investigations, but in this case, you instantly ruled out a potential suspect and hurt your marriage. Don’t get me wrong, Jude and I aren’t perfect angels. We’ve both been guilty of the same things ourselves.”
“But none of those rare instances affected our husbands.”
Jude waggled his eyebrows.
“I hear you.”
Ronan shoved his notebook in his pocket and stood up. He hated talking about his feelings. He knew what he’d done and said to Ten was wrong. He also knew he needed help dealing with his emotions causing him to fly off the handle, with Ten and at work. Fitzgibbon was right, because of his relationship with Cisco, he decided his friend couldn’t possibly be a killer, when the cold hard truth of the matter could very well be the complete opposite.
It was possible Cisco Jackson was a killer. Ronan was going to do everything in his power to prove that wasn’t the case, but if it was, he’d slap the cuffs on Cisco himself.