Claws And Effect Part 22

"Yeah." Harry sighed. "Instant meeting. Just add danger."

"My point exactly. Harry, let the professionals deal with this." Mim got up and dialed Sheriff Shaw.

"I still think we should try the missing-dog notice by ourselves," Harry said to Miranda, who shook her head no as Mim read the letter over the phone to Rick Shaw.

"Now that Larry Johnson's been killed, Mother won't rest. She wants to find the killer probably worse than Rick Shaw and Coop." Murphy worried. "I don't know if we can keep her away from the hospital."

"Well, I know one thing," Tucker solemnly declared. "We'd better stick with her."

"And I think what's under the floor is dangerous. Pewter, those IVAC units aren't down there for lack of s.p.a.ce. I predict if someone stumbles onto that room there will be another dead human." Mrs. Murphy put her paw on the postage scale.

31.

For Sheriff Rick Shaw and Deputy Cynthia Cooper it was the week from h.e.l.l. The ballistics report ascertained that Larry Johnson was killed by a sh.e.l.l from a twenty-gauge shotgun.

While Rick spent the week questioning everyone who had been at the hunt meet, the barns, on Larry's patient list, Coop dipped into the state computer file on twenty-gauge shotguns.

There were twenty-six registered firearms of that description in Albemarle County, ranging from a handmade Italian model costing $252,000, owned by Sir H. Vane-Tempest, a very wealthy Englishman who had moved to Crozet five years ago, to the more common $2,789 version, a good working shotgun made by Sturm & Ruger.

Coop patiently called on each shotgun owner. No one reported a firearm stolen. She asked each owner if they would allow the shotgun to be checked to see if it had been fired recently. Everyone agreed. Everyone wrote down the last time they had used their shotgun. Even Vane-Tempest, a pompous man whom she intensely disliked, cooperated.

Of the twenty-six firearms, four had been used recently and each owner readily volunteered when and where they had used their shotgun. All four belonged to the Kettle and Drum Gun Club. None of the four had any connection that Coop could discover to anyone at the hospital.

Being in law enforcement, she expected people to lie to her. She knew in time she might find a connection but she also knew the chances were slim.

The weapon that killed Larry was most likely unregistered. It could have been bought years ago, before registration became the norm in America. It could have been stolen from another state. Could have, should have, would have-it was driving Coop crazy.

Rick and Coop studied patient logs, pored over maintenance records kept by Hank Brevard. They even walked through the delivery of a human kidney right up to the operating room.

The hospital routine was becoming familiar to them. The various doctors, nurses, orderlies, and receptionists were fixed in their minds. The one unit that upset both of them was Tussie Logan's. The sight of those terminally ill children brought them close to tears.

When Rick came back into the office he found Coop bent over the blueprints of the hospital.

"So?" He grunted as he removed his heavy jacket, quick to pluck the cigarette pack from the pocket. He offered her one, which she gratefully took. He lit hers, then he lit his. They both inhaled deeply, then relaxed imperceptibly.

Nicotine's faults were publicized and criticized but the drug's power to soothe temporarily never abated.

She pointed to the center of the blueprint with the glowing tip of the cigarette. "There."

He put his elbows on the table to look closely. "There what? You're back at the boiler room."

"This old part of the building. Eighteen thirty-one, this old square right here. The boiler room and the one hallway off of the boiler room. The rest was added in 1929. And it's been renovated three times since then. Right?"

"Right." He put his weight on his elbows as the pressure eased off his lower back, which felt stiff in the cold.

"The old part was originally built as a granary. Heavy stone flooring, heavy stone walls, whole tree-trunk beams. The original structure will last centuries. I was thinking about that. Now what I've been able to piece together about the history here"-she paused, took another drag-"thanks to Herb Jones's help, he's quite the history buff, well, anyway, he says the rumors always were that the granary was a way station on the Underground Railroad. No one was ever able to prove it but the owners, the Craycrofts, opposed slavery. Peaceably, but opposed, nonetheless. But as Herb says, no one ever proved a thing and the Craycrofts, despite their opposition to slavery, fought for the Confederacy."

"Yeah, well, you tend to do that when people invade your backyard." Rick straightened up.

"The Craycrofts lost everything, like everyone else around here. They sold the granary in 1877 to the Yancys. Herb also said that the granary was used as a makes.h.i.+ft hospital during the war, but then so was every other building in the county."

"Yeah, they s.h.i.+pped in the wounded by rail from Mana.s.sas, Richmond, Fredericksburg. G.o.d, it must have been awful. Did you know that the War Between the States was the first where the railroad was used?"

"Yes, I did." She pointed again to the boiler room. "If this was a way station on the Underground Railroad then there are probably hidden rooms. I doubt there'd be anything like that in the new part."

"When did the granary cease being a granary?" Rick sat down, realizing he was more tired than he thought.

"Nineteen hundred and eleven. The Krakenbills bought it. Kept it in good repair and used it for hay storage. They were the ones who sold it to Crozet United, Incorporated, the parent company for the hospital. There are Krakenbills in Louisa County. I contacted Roger, the eldest. He said he remembered his great-uncle mentioning the granary. He doesn't remember much else but he, too, had heard stories about the Underground Railroad."

"What you're getting at is that maybe the location of Hank's murder is more important than we thought."

"I don't know. Boss, maybe I'm grasping at straws, but it looked like a hurry-up job."

"Yeah." He exhaled heavily, a spiral of gray-blue smoke swirling upward.

"I keep coming back to how Hank was killed and where he was killed. If this were a revenge killing, the murderer, unless he is stone-stupid, would pick a better place. The risks of killing Hank at work are pretty high-for an outsider. For an insider, knowing the routine and the physical layout of the hospital, killing Hank could be a matter of opportunity as well as planning. The risk diminishes. The way he was killed strongly suggests knowledge of the human body, height, and physical power. Whoever killed him had to hold him long enough to slit his throat from left to right. Hank wasn't a weak man."

"I'll agree with you except on the point about knowledge of the human body. Most of us could slit a throat if we had to. It doesn't take a surgeon."

"But it was so neat, a clean, one-sweep wound."

"I could do that."

"I don't know if I could."

"If your victim were weaker than you or you had him helpless in some way, sure, you could make a neat cut. The trick to slitting a throat is speed and force. If you hesitate or stick the knife straight in instead of starting from the side, you botch it. I've seen the botched jobs."

She tightened her lips. "Yeah, me, too. But boss, the weapon was perfect, sharp."

"A layman could grind a knife to perfection, but I grant you this looks like an inside job, someone picked up a big scalpel or whatever and s-s-s-t. You know, it would be easy to throw away the instrument or return it to where surgical instruments are cleaned. We've been through that."

"Okay. We're on the same wave here." She held out her hands as if on a surfboard, which made him laugh, then cough because he'd inhaled too much. She slapped him on the back, then continued. "Big foxhunt at Harry's farm. Everyone's in a great mood. They view the fox. The fox gets away per usual. People are lined up for the breakfast like a movie premiere. Everyone and her brother is there. You can hardly move it's so packed. The food is great. Larry drinks a little, gets a little loud, and says he'll meet up with me. There couldn't be too many reasons for Larry to meet with me. I'm not a patient. It's not a big stretch to think he had something professional to tell me, my profession, that is. But it's not like it's a big deal. He didn't make it a big deal. Over fifteen or twenty people near the table had to have heard him. But again, it didn't seem like a big deal. He didn't use a dark tone of voice, no hints at evil deeds. However, he knew procedures cold. He knew the people. He probably knew more than even he knew he knew. What I'm saying is that he's known his stuff for so long he forgot how much he did know. An observation from him was worth a h.e.l.l of a lot more than an observation, say, from Bruce Buxton. See?"

"Kind of."

"I don't think Larry knew what was wrong at Crozet Hospital. Not yet anyway but our killer feared him, feared he'd put two and two together quickly once he sobered up. Whatever Larry did observe, our killer made certain I wouldn't know."

Rick's eyes opened wider. "Our perp was in the room, or if he or she has an accomplice they could have called to warn about Larry spilling the beans." He inhaled. "We know from ballistics and the entry point of the bullet that the killer was flat on the hill about a quarter of a mile from the barn. Larry never knew what hit him. The killer crawls back off the hill in case anyone hears the shots. He was d.a.m.ned lucky those kids keep the radio on full blast but maybe he knew that. Maybe he rides. Or he's a hunt follower. He knew where Larry stabled his horse."

Coop added her thoughts. "He crawls back down the hill, gets in his car or truck, whatever, and pulls away as the sun sets. I checked for tracks. Too many of them. Nothing definitive. I had casts taken just in case."

"Good work." He crossed his arms over his chest, bit his lower lip for a moment.

"There's one last thing."

"What?"

"The attack on Harry."

His face fell. He took a last drag, then stubbed out the cigarette, the odor of smoke and tar wafting up from the ashtray. "d.a.m.n."

"In the boiler room."

He looked back at the blueprints. "d.a.m.n!"

32.

"Box of rocks." Fair touched his forehead with his right forefinger.

"Don't start with me," Harry warned as she walked down the steps to the lower parking lot.

On the tarmac the jet warmed its engine, the whine piercing the still February air. Fair had just returned from his conference.

"You didn't even call to tell me."

"Accident." Harry felt like picking a fight.

"I'm so glad I have a girlfriend with a bald spot." He indicated the small patch on her head with the st.i.tches.

"Yeah, be glad you have a girlfriend. Of course, BoomBoom could always fill in if I'm gone."

"You know, Harry, you find the belt and then hit below it."

"Hey, isn't that where you guys live?"

"Thanks a lot, pardner." He reached her truck, swung his bag over the side.

It dropped into the bed with a thud. He put his kit bag on the floor of the pa.s.senger side.

They said nothing until Harry paid the parking fee, turned right, and drove down to the Y in the road. "I think I'll go the back way. Through Earlysville."

"I should have known when you didn't call me that you'd gotten in trouble. But 'No,' I told myself, 'she knows how intense these conferences are and she's busy, too.'"

"You could have called me." Harry pouted slightly.

"I wish I had. Not that you would have told me."

"Who did?"

"I've known you since grade school, Sheezits." He called her by her childhood nickname. "You don't have farm accidents."

"I broke my collarbone in seventh grade."

"Roller skating."

"Yeah." She scanned her past for a salvaging incident.

"You stuck your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Did not."

"Miranda told me."

"I knew it!" Harry's face reddened. "I'll never tell her anything again."

Naturally, she would.

A few miles west, the panorama of the Blue Ridge opened before them, deep blue against a grainy, gray sky, a true February sky.

Fair broke the silence. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't." She bit her lower lip. "You know, I drove by the hospital and I kind of thought, 'Well, I'll go see where Hank met his maker.' And I walked in the back door. I mean I just didn't think I'd be a threat or whatever I was."

"And now Larry. Oh boy, that's hard to believe. It hasn't really sunk in yet. I think it will when I go by his house or to the next hunt and he's not there."

"Mim's taking it pretty hard. Quietly, obviously."

He stared out at the rolling hills punctuated with barns and houses. "Funny how love persists no matter what."

"Yes."

He looked at her. "Promise me you won't do anything like that again."

"Be specific," she hedged.

"You won't go back into the hospital. You won't snoop around."

"Oh-all right." This was said with no conviction whatsoever.

"Harry."

"Okay, okay, I won't go alone. How's that for a compromise?"

"Not a very good one. You are the most curious thing."

"Runs in the family."