CAME A SHADOW (The Shadow Trilogy Book 1) Page 7

  It was true that Jarvis had been a fairly heavy smoker, and examination of his lungs provided ample evidence that trouble might have been expected from this source eventually. But, at present, there were simply none of the signs one would expect to find associated with death from sudden cardiac failure.

  A telephone call to the G.P. who saw Jarvis on those rare occasions when he required medication had confirmed his blood pressure was well within normal range when last tested, about six months earlier.

  "Blooding puzzling," Phillips muttered to himself.

  He was momentarily tempted to accept the evidence at face value and write the inconsistency off to an uncommon occurrence, possibly brought on by the extreme stress resulting from Jarvis' predicament. But the urge was fleeting. It was simply not in the doctor's nature to take the easy road.

  He decided to test for the presence of several drugs capable of causing death by bringing on a heart attack.

  An hour later, the tests completed, no traces of suspicious drugs had been detected. These results did nothing, however, to convince him that Jarvis' death had resulted from natural causes.

  ****

  Although he lacked the technical know-how of the coroner, Jack, too, was convinced there was more to Jarvis’ sudden demise than simple heart failure. Twenty-five years of investigative police work had taught him not to disregard what his gut instincts were telling him. And they were telling him now that Jarvis' death should be setting off alarm bells.

  But Jarvis’ unexpected death wasn't the only thing bothering him. Brooker, the unemployed Vietnam vet, was like a pebble in Jack’s shoe. They still hadn't found anyone who could confirm Brooker's presence in town on the afternoon of Sophie's disappearance and Jack shared Deputy Oakley's skepticism that anybody with Brooker's menacing presence would be overlooked literally everywhere he went.

  There was one other thing, too - totally unrelated but just as troubling. During their initial questioning of the Crandall family, Jack had been very specific in fine-tuning the times Bert Crandall claimed to be at the homes of various neighbors. While both Brad and Samantha Crandall had confirmed the old man's arrival back at the farm at five o'clock, Bert Crandall had stated emphatically he had returned home immediately after leaving the home of Jake and Elsie Turnquist, who lived no more than five minutes away by car. When questioned by the County Sheriff's department the Turnquists had both verified that Bert had visited them for approximately forty minutes, but they had also confirmed that he had left just before four o'clock. They were both certain of the time because their antique clock had chimed just as Bert was pulling out of the driveway and it had prompted Elsie to comment she had best get the roast in the oven if they were going to eat by their usual time. If they were correct - and there was no reason at all to believe they weren’t - it left approximately fifty-five minutes of Bert Crandall's time unaccounted for.

  Jack had questioned the elder Crandall about the discrepancy immediately after it came to light. He'd seemed confused at first and then had suddenly recalled making a visit to the Colville cemetery to spend some time at his wife's gravesite.

  Of course, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he had forgotten about the visit. Stranger things had certainly occurred. But Jack couldn't shake the feeling it was unlikely, given the fact he had made such a case of getting times and events as exact as possible during that interview.

  He was frustrated by the fact that for every step forward they took in this case they seemed to take at least two back. The way things were going it came as no particular surprise to Jack when the coroner phoned him late that night.

  "Agent Parmenter, I've completed the autopsy on Henry Jarvis," Phillips said. "I'll be submitting my findings in the morning, but I think perhaps it would be wise if we had a little chat before then."

  Phillips welcomed Jack into his office and offered him a seat, then leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. When he spoke it was with quiet formality, a habit probably resulting from the many years spent consoling the relatives of his clients. The one drawback to his chosen profession, of course, was that his clients never had the prospect of returning to a state of good health.

  "I'm afraid the results of the autopsy I performed on Mr. Jarvis were not entirely conclusive," Phillips began. "There were some inconsistencies that bother me about the manner of his death." He paused to gauge Jack's reaction.

  "Go on, doctor.”

  Phillips noted the FBI agent did not appear particularly surprised by his comments thus far. "Have you ever heard of a drug called myotetrapine?" Phillips asked.

  "Can't say I have," Jack answered. "Why?"

  "Quite frankly, I wouldn't have thought of it if not for the fact that Jarvis seemed to have the heart of a bull moose. Just not a candidate for a heart attack in my opinion. Myotetrapine is a blood pressure medication developed during the war. Generally quite effective at lowering dangerously high blood pressure in most patients but with one very interesting side effect for patients with a certain rare blood type." Once again, Phillips paused.

  Jack sat forward. "Okay, doc. You've got my attention."

  "It's highly toxic to anyone with type AB blood. The thing is, even if administered in a dosage sufficient enough to cause death in a patient with this blood type, it leaves absolutely no trace elements. Anyone with type AB blood who was administered a strong dosage of this drug would almost certainly die within a matter of seconds and the only apparent cause would be from natural cardiac failure."

  Phillips again paused, this time to give emphasis to his next statement. "Interestingly enough, Agent Parmenter, our friend, Mr. Jarvis, appears to have died as a result of a heart attack, but I can tell you without hesitation there were absolutely no signs of the heart disease one would expect to be present to support that conclusion.”

  “And?”

  “Would you care to guess Mr. Jarvis' blood type?"

  Jack studied the doctor's face. "AB?"

  Phillips nodded.

  "I can’t deny this is all very interesting, doc, but is there anything other than your suspicious mind that we have to go on here?"

  Phillips shook his head slowly. "I’m afraid not. My report will state the only thing it can, that Jarvis died as a result of heart failure. I just wanted you to know that I have some reason to be skeptical that it was a naturally occurring incident. I wish I could be more helpful to you."

  "Any suggestions on how we might proceed from here based on your suspicions?"

  "Not really. But if you can tie anyone to this drug you'll have a very suspicious individual on your hands. Myotetrapine is, I would venture to say, extremely rare. Only someone with a medical background would be able to get their hands on it, although it's impossible to say how accessible it may have been during the war. It's use was discontinued in the U.S. when the dangers were discovered and it's never been produced since that I know of. The only reason I remembered it at all was because I did a brief stint in the Army Medical Corps during the war and had some direct involvement with it."

  "If Jarvis was, in fact, murdered by someone who administered this drug to him, then obviously it was someone who knew his blood type," Jack reflected. "By the way, were there any signs of a needle puncture?"

  "No, but it wouldn't be necessary," Phillips replied. "It would be just as lethal if ingested through the stomach. He could have been fed it with his last meal."

  ****

  There was a wispy layer of snow on Jack’s rental car when he returned to it after leaving the coroner’s office. The air was cold enough now that the snow was fine and dry and, turning on the windshield wipers, it floated away with no more consistency than particles of dust.

  Jack drove slowly back to the hotel, partly out of concern for the icy road conditions but also to give his mind an opportunity to digest what the coroner had told him. Although the details of Doctor Phillips’ suspicions were intriguing, Jack was not surprised by the gist of the coroner’s revelations. In fact Docto
r Phillips intuition regarding the likelihood that Jarvis’ death involved foul play very closely mirrored his own.

  When he arrived at the hotel the front desk clerk handed him a message; it was from Callie, asking that he call her as soon as possible.

  He took the steps two at a time and phoned her at home from his room.

  She answered before the first ring had completed.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  "Jack, I've got something here I think you'll find very interesting. Can you come over?" She spoke quickly, excited enough about something to cause her to be short of breath.

  A few minutes later he was knocking on her door.

  Callie greeted him wearing a loose tank top, tight fitting stretch pants, and a pair of men's work socks. The outfit certainly wouldn’t sound sexy if described over the telephone but she managed to make it look that way nonetheless.

  Once Jack was seated she handed him a mug of coffee, already containing the obligatory quantities of cream and sugar, and pointed him toward the couch, then sat at the opposite end, facing him, with her legs curled beneath her.

  She took a quick sip of her coffee, peering at him over the rim of her cup. Her eyes were as bright as a child's on Christmas morning.

  "So, what’s up?” Jack said. “You sounded pretty excited on the phone."

  Callie put her coffee cup down on a side table. "I had some time to kill tonight so I went back to Jarvis' place to have another look around. I know we went through his garage before but I just had this feeling maybe we had overlooked something, you know? Anyway, I'm rummaging around through a bunch of tools and stuff under his workbench and I feel something stuck to the underside of the bench top." She reached behind her and picked up a wool toque, obviously a child's judging from the size and knitted design, and held it out to Jack.

  Jack took the toque in his hands, folded it inside out, and read the name tag sewed neatly to the underside of the pompom … SOPHIE CRANDALL.

  The hair on the back of his neck bristled. “Shouldn’t you have logged this in as evidence?”

  It wasn't the reaction Callie had expected. "Yeah, of course, but I just came from Jarvis’ place and I wanted you to see it right away. What's the matter, Jack? This cinches it - another piece of evidence tying Jarvis to Sophie."

  "What made you go back there for another look?" he asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

  "Like I said, just a hunch."

  The chill had been replaced by a sickly feeling in the pit of Jack’s stomach. He smiled coolly. "Well … good work, Callie."

  "I'll have the parents confirm the toque is Sophie's in the morning," she said. "Do you want to come out to the farm with me?"

  "No, you go ahead. I've got some things to take care of in the morning. Check with me when you get back to town." For reasons that were not entirely clear to him at that moment, he decided not to mention the meeting that had taken place with Doctor Phillips or the questions raised by the mysterious manner of Jarvis' death.

  Jack stood. “Well, I’d better be going,” he said.

  Callie looked at him suspiciously. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.”

  Back in his hotel room Jack cracked a Budweiser, stretched out on the bed, and ran the evening’s events through his mind. Before meeting with Callie he had decided Jarvis' guilt was far from a certainty. The coroner’s suspicions confirmed his own. Now, seemingly, more evidence against Jarvis.

  The problem was, of course, that it was phony.

  Jack knew with a dead certainty that he'd checked that workbench himself, along with every other square inch of Jarvis' house, garage, and property. Not only him either. A virtual platoon of experienced police officers had done likewise.

  There wasn't a particle of doubt in his mind that the toque had not been there on the day of their initial search. And as Jarvis had been held in continuous custody since prior to that time, the toque had obviously not been placed under that bench by him.

  CHAPTER 11

  A pervasive silence lay over the Crandall farm, all sounds of life seemingly smothered under the deep mantle of snow covering the buildings and acreage. Samantha had not uttered a word in over a week. Brad and Bert, too, had lapsed into a state of non-communication, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary that they do so.

  Samantha spent most of her time closeted away in Sophie's room, clutching Sophie’s favorite doll to her chest. She swayed gently in a rocking chair, humming nursery tunes, her mind occupied with thoughts of those trivial events that stand out in memory for the very reason that they are mundane in nature. Whenever errant thoughts of Sophie’s current fate wormed their way into Samantha’s consciousness she expelled them, refusing to give form to the unthinkable notion that her daughter was lost to her forever.

  She could take no comfort in the normally protective arms of her husband. The mere sight of Brad filled her with such an acute sense of revulsion, self-loathing, and guilt that she was forced to flee his presence or face the prospect of becoming physically destructive.

  ****

  Three weeks had passed without a break in the case when Brad called Callie. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “Of course. I can stop by the farm---”

  “No. I’ll come into town.”

  “… Sure.”

  When he arrived at her office she looked up from her desk with a disheartened expression on her face and silently motioned him to a chair.

  "Just tell me straight,” Brad said. “Is there any hope you'll ever find my daughter?"

  Callie wouldn’t back down from the accusatory look in his eyes but she could not find blame with the way he felt. "Believe me, Brad, we're not giving up on this. But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that the death of our only real suspect adds an element of … extreme difficulty to the case. Locating Sophie now could prove impossible."

  Her words cut into him like a knife, tearing at his insides. He felt wasted and more depressed than ever. His eyes teared up and he looked down, massaging his forehead to hide his pain. In a quiet voice he asked, "If you’re so sure this Jarvis is guilty, why is Parmenter asking my father so many questions?"

  Callie gripped her hands together and leaned forward. God only knew what torment this poor man was going through and her heart went out to him. "For what it’s worth I think he’s wasting his time. But Agent Parmenter is extremely thorough and he’s concerned about the fact that your father gave conflicting stories about his whereabouts at the time of Sophie's disappearance. When we first spoke with all of you at the farm Bert told us he had come home directly from the Turnquist farm, not more than five minutes away. Afterwards we learned he had left them at four o'clock, a full hour before he arrived home. When we questioned him further about the discrepancy he remembered driving to the cemetery where he says he visited your mother's gravesite before returning home."

  Brad shook his head in wonder. "Why would Parmenter find that so unbelievable? Dad has visited my mother's grave at least once a week since her death.?"

  "It's just that he went over the details of everyone's movements in great detail at the time and made a real issue of getting times as accurate as possible. Agent Parmenter finds it somewhat suspicious that your father would have forgotten an entire hour at such a critical time."

  "He was upset! Is it really so hard to believe he overlooked something at a time like that? The fact is he’s devastated by the knowledge that if he had come straight home, Sophie would be alive and with us right now. To accuse him of something so unthinkable is … it’s disgusting.”

  "Please try to understand,” Callie said. “This is just one of several things we have to satisfy ourselves about. We're also looking into a number of other areas where alibis don't check out. I asked for the FBI’s help with this investigation for the very reason that they have a great deal of experience in these matters and I believe it's best to let Agent Parmenter work through the case in his own way. I know you t
hink we're not making progress but, believe me, we're doing all we can."

  Brad stood and walked to the door, shaking his head in despair. He could not find the strength to speak.

  After he left Callie placed her hands over her face, choking back tears of sorrow and frustration. It could not be denied that she had witnessed the outcomes of some brutal and heart-wrenching things in her career as a policewoman - but, as bad as they were, none of those things had affected her on a personal level. This was different. This was personal.

  ****

  Jack pulled his rented Buick to a stop on the gravel road across from A.J. Brooker's humble abode. The only indication that the place was inhabited by something other than mice was the thin trail of smoke coming from a pipe protruding through the tin roof. A rusted Ford pickup of 1950's vintage sat off to the side of the shack.

  Jack was in a contemplative mood. Should he force Brooker into a confrontation about his purported visit to town that nobody could substantiate, or play into his obvious deception in hopes the guy would slip up. It wasn’t just the unsubstantiated alibi that bothered Jack; there was more to it than that. Brooker was easy enough to read. He was a tough guy, a bully. The kind that loved to use his size to intimidate people. The problem, Jack decided finally - although he was loathe to admit it - was that Brooker did not fit the profile of a child killer. Jack had no illusions about Brooker being guilty of something but he had serious doubts that he was responsible for whatever had happened to Sophie Crandall.

  Jack had more or less decided to move on when he saw Brooker leave the shack and walk toward him. He had a momentary urge to pull out his gun and shoot the bastard just to wipe the self-assured expression off his face.