Whiskey Sour Page 5

  “Rastitch. Maria Rastitch.”

  The phone rang. She picked it up, said a few words, and transferred the call.

  “We’re hoping to look at a patient list.”

  “We already supplied that other officer with a list.”

  Which we’d seen. There was no Charles Smith. No one even had Charles as a first name.

  “We wanted to see a list that cross-referenced names with prescriptions. Dr. Booster wrote out a prescription for a large amount of Seconal before he died. Were any of his patients taking Seconal?”

  She frowned and swiveled her chair over to the computer. After a few seconds of punching keys she shook her head.

  “Nope. No Seconal.”

  Benedict said, “How about patients of Dr. Kuzdorff and Dr. Potts?”

  “This includes them. There’s no one. Years ago we used Seconal for sleep disorders, but flurazepam is the preferred method of treatment now.”

  “Do you have copies of all Dr. Booster’s prescriptions?”

  “The ones he fills out here, yes. It would be on the computer. Our database lets us pull information by patient name, social security number, illness, visitation date, appointment date, and prescription.”

  “Is it possible that the doctor wrote a prescription after office hours?”

  “For Seconal? It would be odd. It’s a Control two drug. I don’t see why he would prescribe it at all, in the office or out of it.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “Sure. All he’d need is the prescription paper.”

  “Doesn’t the pharmacy call here to confirm prescriptions?”

  “Sometimes. But if it’s after office hours, they may fill it without calling. The hospital pharmacy never calls. The pharmacists there know all of the doctors.”

  I handed her my card.

  “Thank you, Ms. Rastitch. Please call if you think of anything that may help. If it isn’t too inconvenient, we’d like to speak to a few other employees.”

  “Not at all. I’ll announce you.”

  Herb and I spent another hour talking to Booster’s staff and fellow doctors. They all echoed what the green-eyed nurse had said. No one knew why Booster would write a prescription for Seconal, and no one knew any patient who took it.

  But Booster had written the prescription, as confirmed by the Illinois Department of Regulations, and someone calling himself Charles Smith had filled it and presumably used it in the abduction of our Jane Doe. If no one in Booster’s office remembered him, maybe the pharmacist who filled the prescription would.

  Benedict and I left the doctors’ building, walking over to its ugly twin, where the hospital pharmacy lay in wait. There was a line. But one of the many perks of having a badge was the ability to bypass lines. This seemed toirritate the dozen people we cut in front of, but you can’t please all the people all the time.

  The pharmacist looked like I’d picture a pharmacist to look: balding, fortyish, WASP, with glasses and a white coat. His name was Steve, and he informed us he’d been working there for three years.

  “Were you working here last August tenth?”

  He double-checked his schedule and informed us that yes, he was indeed working that day.

  “Do you remember filling out a prescription for sixty milliliters of liquid Seconal on that date?”

  His brown eyes lit up. “Yes. Yes, I do. It practically depleted our stock.”

  “Could you describe what the individual looked like?”

  He furrowed his brow. “It was a man, I remember that much. But what he looked like? I’m drawing a blank. I fill hundreds of prescriptions a day, and that was two months ago.”

  “Was there anything unusual about his appearance? Very tall or short, old or young, skin color, eyes?” Herb asked.

  “I think he was white. Not old or young. But I’m not sure.”

  “Was he a hunchback?” I asked, bringing up the FBI’s profile.

  Benedict shot me a glance, but honored my rank by not questioning me in front of a civilian.

  “You mean like Quasimodo?” Steve asked.

  I felt silly, but nodded.

  “No, I would have remembered it if he was.”

  “Did he also get syringes with the Seconal?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me check.”

  He went to his computer and hit a few keys.

  “Here’s the prescription.” Steve pointed at his screen. “Under the name Charles Smith. He isn’t listed anywhere else in our computer. No needles, either. All he got from us was the Seconal.”

  “Do you have the original handwritten prescription?”

  “Nope. We throw them away at the end of the week.”

  “How do you know if a prescription is real or faked?”

  “I suppose it’s possible to counterfeit prescriptions, but who else but a doctor would know how many mgs of tetracycline are used to fight a respiratory infection? As for the Class B and C drugs, the ones that could be sold on the street, we call on them.”

  “Did you call for this one?”

  “No. I remembered considering it, but it was eight in the evening and Dr. Booster’s office was closed. I also recognized Dr. Booster’s signature. Even though the amount was strange, it seemed authentic.”

  I sniffled, puzzling it over.

  “Catching a cold?” Steve asked.

  “Not on purpose.”

  “I’d suggest an over-the-counter antihistamine. Stay away from nasal sprays. They’re addictive.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I handed him my card. “If it’s convenient I’d like you to come in after work today and sit down with a police artist. See if we can get a picture of this guy.”

  “I really don’t remember him.”

  “Our artist is good at helping people remember. This is extremely important, Steve. This Charles Smith has been linked to the brutal murders of two people. Anything at all you can give us is more than we had before.”

  He nodded, promising to stop by. Herb and I left to the sour looks of the people we’d cut in front of. One old woman in particular gave me a sneer that could curdle milk. I considered sneering back, but that would be petty. We left the hospital without incident.

  “What about the candy?” I asked Benedict when we got into my car. “What happened to giving it to sick kids?”

  “I decided that candy is bad for the teeth and generally all-around unhealthy. Not something sick kids should be exposed to.”

  “How gallant of you, bearing that unhealthy burden all yourself.”

  “Want one?”

  “Yeah. If you can part with it.”

  “Just one. I’m looking out for your health, Jack.”

  He handed me a candy bar and I pulled out of the parking lot. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I tore the wrapper off with my teeth and was about to pop it into my mouth when Herb yelped.

  At first I thought he was vomiting.

  But it wasn’t vomit.

  It was a lot of blood.

  Chapter 9

  HERB GOT ELEVEN STITCHES IN THE mouth. A shot of Novocain made it painless, but watching the curved needle stitch in and out of his squirming tongue was torture to see. I could have waited by the emergency room entrance, but I wanted to witness what some sick bastard had done to my friend.

  “Thanth.” Benedict nodded at the doctor when the last knot was tied.

  I eyed the bloody candy bar in the metal tray next to Herb’s bed. The edge of an X-Acto knife peeked out through the caramel, shining in the fluorescent light.

  “One more favor, Doc. I know this is unorthodox, but I don’t have access to an X-ray machine at the station.”

  I explained my request and he agreed, sending me and Herb out into the waiting room. While Benedict filled out forms, I went through my mental files of all the enemies I’d made throughout my life.

  There were more than I’d care to mention. Anyone I’d ever busted from my patrol days up until now could have nursed a grudge. I’ve also pissed off
a few people in my personal life. But I couldn’t think of anyone, even murderers I’d put away who swore they’d break out and kill me, who would leave me such a horrible gift.

  It could have been just bad luck. Some random freak I never met decides to express his hatred for cops by dropping off treats in the police parking lot. But an earlier call to the district killed that theory. No one else seemed to have gotten candy. I faced the disturbing truth that it was meant for me specifically.

  “How about rethent catheth?” Herb asked.

  “Recent cases?”

  He nodded. Herb’s lower lip had swelled up from the stitches, causing him to pout. His tongue was also swollen, making him look like his mouth was full. But a full mouth was the normal look for Herb, so it didn’t detract too much.

  “The only cases we’ve had in the last few weeks are gang deaths and suicides. Except the Gingerbread Man case. But how would he even know who I am?”

  “Newth?”

  “I don’t think I’ve been mentioned in the news.”

  He shrugged. A line of drool was running down his chin; Herb was still too numb to feel it. I made the universal wiping motion on my own face, and he got the hint and cleaned himself off.

  “Do you want to keep our appointment with Dr. Booster’s daughter, or call it a day?”

  “Bootherth daubder.”

  I nodded, glancing to the right as Benedict’s doctor approached. In one gloved hand was the bag of candy bars. In the other was a manila folder.

  “This may sound callous,” he said, handing us the folder, “but you got very lucky. Not only could it have been much worse, but it might have been fatal. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  I opened the folder, taking a look at an X ray of the twenty-one remaining candy bars, including the one I’d almost bitten into.

  “Jethuth,” Herb said.

  “We counted over forty needles, thirty fishhooks, and ten X-Acto blades.” The doctor shook his head. “Only one candy out of the bunch was untampered with. If a hook or a blade got lodged in the throat, it might have easily severed an artery.”

  I stared mutely at the X ray, feeling myself grow very cold. Someone had spent a long time doctoring up this candy. Hours. I tried to imagine that person, hunched over a table, inserting fishhooks into chocolate bars. All this trouble, hoping I’d eat just one. Or maybe hoping I’d pass them out to people. I thought about Herb, almost dropping off the candy at the children’s ward. Both my hands clenched.

  “So, Doctor”––I tried to keep a lid on my rage — “if we find the person who did this, in your professional opinion, could we charge him or her with attempted murder?”

  “Lieutenant, there’s no question in my mind. I would say that you’d have a better chance of surviving a gunshot than one of these candy bars.”

  I thanked him, making sure I got his card in case we needed to talk again. Herb and I walked out to the parking lot in silence, leaving Mercy Hospital for the second time that day.

  “Lunch?” I asked.

  Benedict nodded. Eleven stitches in the mouth weren’t nearly enough to stop him from eating.

  Before we ate, we stopped at Herb’s house so he could get cleaned up. I waited in the car. I liked Bernice, his wife, but her idea of small talk was asking dozens of personal questions, none of which I felt like answering at the moment.

  When Herb came out, his bloody shirt had been replaced and he wore a new tie, this one too thin by at least twenty years.

  We went to a sub place, where I got a meatball sandwich and Herb got a hoagie with double meat and cheese.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  Benedict shrugged. “I can’t tathte anything. But it smellth great.”

  After feeding ourselves, we headed for Reginald Booster’s house in Northwest suburban Palatine. To do that we had to get on Interstate 90 going west. It was also called the Kennedy. The other big expressways in Chicago were the Edens, the Eisenhower, and the Dan Ryan. Naming them after politicians didn’t make them any more endearing.

  The Kennedy had been under construction for the last two years, so the normally awful traffic was twice as bad. But then there has never been a time when at least one expressway wasn’t being repaired. “Expressway” was a misnomer.

  Even with my cherry on the roof and the siren wailing, I couldn’t get past the single-lane traffic. Driving up on the median was another perk of being a cop, but the medians were swarming with construction workers and yellow machines. I beared it, but I didn’t grin.

  Benedict went over the file with me as we drove, his lisp improving as he practiced his enunciation. On August 9, a person or persons unknown broke into Dr. Reginald Booster’s house at 175 Elm Avenue in Palatine. Booster lived there alone, his wife having passed away three years earlier in a car accident. The perp tied up Dr. Booster and slit his throat. Before death, he was stabbed in the chest and abdomen area twelve times, not deeply enough to kill.

  The reason I’d recalled Booster’s name was that he was all over the news as the “Palatine Torture-Murder.” The media loves a torture-murder.

  Booster’s body was discovered the next day by a weekly maid. There was no sign of anything stolen. No suspects, no witnesses, no apparent motive.

  “What was he tied up with?” I asked Benedict.

  He flipped through the report. “Twine.”

  Twine fibers were found embedded in Jane Doe’s wrists and ankles. A possible link.

  “Was the weapon serrated?”

  “No. The wounds were smooth. But they weren’t as deep as the girl’s.”

  I thought about this. “The jagged edge on a hunting knife, it doesn’t start until a few inches up on the blade. At the tip, it’s like a double-edged knife.”

  “So it could be the same knife.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “Means of entry unknown. Place was locked when the maid arrived. She had a key.”

  “Did they run that angle?”

  “To death. The maid, no pun intended, was clean. In her deposition, she mentioned Booster sometimes kept his patio door open at night to let the breeze in.”

  That struck me as odd, but I was a city girl. Suburbanites didn’t have a lock-and-key mentality. Pay half a million for a house in a nice neighborhood and you figure crime will never happen to you.

  “No prints at the scene, right?”

  “No. But a few smudges on his body that could indicate latex gloves.”

  “Does the daughter live there now?”

  “Nope. She lives in Hoffman Estates. She’s a kindergarten teacher.”

  “Brave woman,” I said, recalling all of the screaming children back at the doctor’s office.

  “So what was that bit with Quasimodo at the pharmacy?”

  “Oh. That was Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber.”

  “The Feebies?”

  “They’re profiling again.”

  Herb shook his head. He’d had some run-ins with the Féderalés last year on a murder case. Sixteen-year-old girl shot in the head, the same MO as another murder in Michigan. The FBI BSU ViCAT profile predicted the killer was a sixty-year-old white male truck driver, former enlisted man, bearded, and a bed-wetter.

  The perp turned out to be two clean-shaven black gang members under eighteen, with no military experience between them, both untroubled by enuresis. Neither Herb nor I had much faith in profiling. In fact, neither of us had much faith in the FBI.

  “So they profiled the Gingerbread Man with a curved spine.”

  “It’s just a hunch,” I said.

  Herb didn’t laugh at the joke either, but at least he got it.

  “Well, maybe we’ll get an ID now,” Herb said. “People are bound to recognize the name Quasimodo.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he rings a bell.”

  I winced.

  “That one actually hurt.”

  “Well, Hugo your way, and I’ll go mine.”

  “Let’s not talk
for a while.”

  We came to a toll booth and I found forty cents in change in my ashtray. State troopers didn’t have to pay tolls, but us lowly city cops weren’t immune. Yet another reason to avoid the suburbs.

  The Kennedy intersected Route 53 with the usual cloverleaf, and I took the leaf going north toward Rolling Meadows. Finally out of construction traffic, I released some pent-up tension and gunned the engine. It didn’t startle Herb too much. Probably because the acceleration on my Nova was comparable to pushing a boulder up a hill.