I checked in at the dispatch booth, telling one of the officers on duty at a switchboard that Dr. Formhals was expecting me. The deputy greeted me by name, recognizing me from previous visits to Sheriff Pierce. She asked, “Do you know how to find the coroner’s office?”
I replied that I did, then asked, “Does the sheriff happen to be in now?” If Pierce was free, I reasoned, he might want to sit in on the meeting with Formhals.
Checking a logbook, the deputy shook her head. “Sorry. He’s out on a call.”
Thanking her, I headed down one of several wide hallways that radiated from the dispatch booth. The heels of my shoes (they had dried from that morning’s encounter with Mica’s frisky hose) snapped on the hard, gray terrazzo floor. I turned down a narrower hallway, where white walls reflected the sterile glow of too much fluorescent light. Stepping to a door bearing an engraved-plastic sign,
CORONER
, I turned the knob and stepped inside.
The dreary little outer office had a desk where a clerk normally sat, but not today. Opposite the desk were a few extra chairs along a windowless wall. Reaching above the chairs, I straightened a faded print of a tranquil country landscape that hung askew in a cheesy plastic frame. My fussing did little to improve the general air of civil-service shabbiness.
“Is that you, Mark?” called the doctor’s deep voice from around a corner. In the breezy tones of his handsome speech, I thought I detected the hint of a Caribbean patois, but as Formhals had worked in Dumont far longer than I, I knew nothing of his roots.
“Yes, Vernon. Anybody home?”
He stepped out of his office and extended his hand. “Just me today, I’m afraid. I’ve been expecting you. Welcome.” His manner, as always, was cordial enough, but I’d always found his bearing stiff, his air professorial. A crisp white lab coat did nothing to soften this image. His half smile seemed to say with a chortle, This won’t hurt a bit. Instead, he asked pleasantly, “How can I be of help?” And he escorted me around the corner, into his office.
The office was far more inviting than the waiting room. The space was larger and more comfortable, dominated by a massive wooden desk. In addition to the expected books, files, and medical charts, the office bore various personal touches of its occupant, accumulated over the years—diplomas, certificates, photographs, sporting memorabilia, travel knickknacks, a child’s finger painting, a maple-based desk lamp that had been retired from home use. Behind the desk, he settled into a creaky chair with worn leather upholstery. In front of the desk, I took a more spartan seat of county issue, opened my notebook, and readied my pen.
I told him, “Before you issued your report on Jason Thrush yesterday, concluding that the manner of death was homicide, Sheriff Pierce welcomed my investigation into the matter, as the grounds for an official police investigation were limited.”
Formhals nodded. “I’m aware of that, Mark, and Douglas has asked me to continue to assist you.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” I gathered my thoughts. “The search for Jason’s killer has so far been focused on motivation, which has broadened the field of suspects instead of limiting it. In other words, I’ve found that plenty of people, to varying degrees, had reason to want Jason dead.” I glanced at my list of possible suspects: greedy Burton and Mica Thrush, vengeful Nancy Sanderson, sexually confused Denny Diggins, ambitious Tommy Morales, jilted Nicole Winkler, and finally, Thad.
I continued, “I’m essentially back at square one, Vernon. Instead of focusing on motives, I should probably take a closer look at the killer’s method, which has been a point of confusion all along.”
Freshening the dimple in the knot of his tie, he asked patiently, “What confuses you?”
I tossed my hands. “Everything.” Reviewing my notes, I said, “You’ve determined that the cause of death was mushroom poisoning. This was first suspected on the basis of the victim’s symptoms and later confirmed by toxicology tests. Choline and muscarine were the specific toxins detected, and these poisons are associated with the mushroom known as fly agaric, which grows here at this time of year.”
“Bravo.” Formhals smiled. “A fine summation. Keep going.”
I tapped my notes. “Here’s where I get confused. Fly agaric is rarely lethal unless consumed in large quantities, and its toxins act quickly, within three hours of ingestion. That’s not long enough for the mushrooms themselves to be digested and passed through the intestines. What’s more, Jason hadn’t vomited, so there should have been mushrooms in his stomach—but there weren’t.” I looked up at Formhals. “How can you reconcile this disparity?”
He sat forward in his chair, exhaling a sigh. “I don’t have
the
answer, Mark. The pathology takes us only so far; the rest is a matter of detection. Still, there are a number of ways that the poisoning could have occurred, ways that are consistent with the known facts of the case.”
I scribbled a few Palmer loops to get my pen running. “Meaning, Jason didn’t necessarily eat a heap of fly agaric, then keel over.”
“Correct. In fact, we know that he ate no mushrooms whatever.”
I asked my key question: “Then how did the poison get into Jason?”
As if it were obvious, he responded with a shrug, “By first taking the poison
out
of the mushrooms.”
I paused as if slapped. Looking him in the eye, I asked, “You can
do
that?”
“Of course.”
He laughed. “I do apologize, Mark, but these technicalities seem second nature to me. Let me qualify my ‘of course.’ Actually, it would take a bit of lab know-how, but certainly, the choline and muscarine could be extracted from fly agaric. Once that’s done, there are any number of ways to poison the victim, who wouldn’t need to ingest a single mushroom. Offhand, I can think of at least three possibilities.”
I smiled. “My pen is poised, Doctor.”
He cleared his throat, preparing to lecture. “First, the extracted toxins could be added in strong doses to virtually any food or liquid, then fed to the victim—the classic method of administering poison. Second, the extracted toxins could be suspended or dissolved in alcohol, creating a tincture; if the infected alcohol was then spilled on the victim, the toxins could be efficiently absorbed through the skin, with deadly consequences. Third, the extracted toxins could simply be injected into the victim, with very fast results.”
I looked up from my notes. “But that would leave a needle mark, right?”
“Right. During my physical examination of the victim, I scrutinized every square centimeter of the body, finding no evidence of injection—but a killer will sometimes resort to fiendish measures to disguise needle marks.”
I didn’t want to ask.
“An additional possibility,” Formhals rambled on, “is that the two telltale toxins could have been combined from sources other than mushrooms, then used to kill the victim, giving the
appearance
of mushroom poisoning. This method would of course send the investigation down a false path, focusing on innocent suspects along the way…”
He continued to weigh the finer points of his theory, giving examples of how the mushroom toxins could be replicated, but I tuned out, having already learned the crucial detail that would steer my investigation in a new direction. I now knew that Jason had not actually eaten mushrooms; he’d simply been poisoned—by whatever method—with toxins either extracted from mushrooms or combined to mimic mushrooms. Something Formhals had said still rang in my ear: “it would take a bit of lab know-how” for the killer to pull this off. As Formhals lectured onward, I scratched at my notes, drawing a series of empty boxes, borrowing Lucy’s grid technique.
Gazing at the list of names, I recalled with relief that Thad had been a miserable chemistry student during his junior year; no one could argue that he had sufficient skill to pull off any of the scenarios suggested by the coroner. I inked a thick X over Thad’s box on the grid.
But, I wondered, what about Tommy Morales? I knew nothing of his academic record—was he perhaps a chemistry wiz? An enticing question mark snaked through his box.
Then I focused on the Thrushes. Mica was a total ditz who wouldn’t know a centrifuge from a Bunsen burner—she got a quick X—but her father, Burton Thrush, was another matter. I’d learned just an hour ago from Nancy Sanderson that Burton, like Nancy’s late husband, Leonard, was a chemist. Now
there
was a promising angle, explaining how the sickly Mr. Thrush could pump new life into his ailing business with an enormous and badly needed insurance payoff. I darkened Burton’s box so forcefully, my pen nearly tore the paper.
And what about Nancy herself? Might her masterful kitchen techniques be matched by devilish lab skills? Her own husband, after all, was something of a test-tube genius whose experimentation may have triggered his untimely death. Had Nancy picked up a few tricks of her own along the way, techniques that would allow her to exact grim revenge on the family that had, in her own words, made her life “a living hell”? A question mark now adorned Nancy’s square on the grid.
Denny Diggins—I doodled around his square. Where, if at all, did he fit into this? His only accuser was the lamebrained Mica Thrush, who claimed that Denny had been in the throes of a tempestuous sexual relationship with her brother. It didn’t add up, I felt. Denny himself had asked, “Do you think I’d dare hope that Jason could love
me
?” Even Mica had echoed that question. Still, she stood by her story, and the story was appealing because it led back to the Players Guild.
Everything about Jason and his death seemed so…well,
theatrical.
He was a hunky young heartthrob, a teenage actor tragically downed in his prime (by poisonous mushrooms, no less) on the very evening he was to debut the starring role in an original play. The dramatic overtones of his murder had escaped no one, and for this very reason, Thad was seen by many as the prime suspect.
Though my list included several people who had gained some form of satisfaction from Jason’s death—Nancy Sanderson, Mica Thrush, and her father, Burton—these names were not associated with the Players Guild, which is where my instincts pointed. Among those involved with
Teen Play
, Thad was never a real suspect in my eyes, while the others—Denny Diggins, Tommy Morales, and Nicole Winkler—were suspicious only by virtue of mere conjecture.
Mulling over the coroner’s new angle that the killer would need a good deal of lab savvy, I realized that I was lucky to have a valuable resource at my disposal. Frank Gelden, who had so willingly offered his know-how in exploring the coroner’s initial theory, had since underscored his friendship to Neil and me and would doubtless be willing to help again. He had accurately deduced that Dr. Formhals had targeted fly agaric. As an experienced researcher, Frank was surely familiar with the techniques now described by Formhals. Perhaps Frank could be of help in identifying others who might share this background—others who had some involvement with the Players Guild.
“Excuse me, Vernon.”
The coroner’s extended scientific monologue clipped to a halt as he reacted to the sound of my voice. From behind his desk, he looked at me as if he’d forgotten my presence. With a jolt of recognition, he asked, “Yes, Mark?”
Leafing to the back of my notebook, I said, “I wonder if I might use your phone. Something just occurred to me.”
“Of course.” He turned the desk phone in my direction. “Be my guest.”
I found the Geldens listed among several other recent acquaintances. Closing my notebook, I lifted the receiver. I explained to Formhals while dialing, “I have a biologist friend who’s knowledgeable about mushrooms, and he happens to be tech director at the Dumont Playhouse. I’m hoping he’ll be able to steer me—” I raised a finger, as the other phone had begun ringing.
After four rings without an answer, my call transferred to voice mail. “
Hi
,” gushed a breathy voice, Cynthia’s. “You’ve reached the Dunne-Gelden residence, but neither Frank nor Cynthia is available at the moment. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back in two winks.” Beep.
Shaking my head, I hung up—two winks, indeed.
Formhals asked tentatively, “Is something… funny?”
“Not very. It was just the phone message, promising to get back ‘in two winks.’ ”
“How precious.” Formhals gave me a big, exaggerated wink, bursting into laughter. I couldn’t recall having seen him indulge in an expression of mirth more forceful than a low chortle, so this reaction was tantamount to an outburst.
Getting in the spirit, I reminded him, “That was
two
winks—you owe me one.”
So he supplied the other wink, laughing all the louder.
To my mind, it wasn’t all that funny, but he was clearly enjoying himself, so I chuckled along, waiting for his laughing jag to pass. It didn’t though. Instead, his hilarity seemed to snowball, and soon he was pounding the desk, gasping for air. “My God…two winks!” Which of course proved infectious. Before long, I was whooping away with him.
And then, I almost gagged on my own laughter. All this talk of “two winks” had led me to recall that there was not just one Winkler, but two, the pretty Nicole and her mother, Joyce. I’d been focusing on Nicole, Jason’s jilted armpiece, but I hadn’t given her mom a second thought. I now realized that she too had an ax to grind. Joyce was one of the first people I’d met at the previous Wednesday’s dress rehearsal—the costume mistress who’d volunteered for the show in order to do some bonding with her despondent daughter. When she’d complained about having to juggle night shifts on her “real job,” Denny had explained, “Joyce is a lab technician at the hospital.”
“Mark?” said Formhals, swiping a tear from his face. “What’s wrong?” His jollity had subsided, done in by my own sudden seriousness.
“Nothing’s wrong, but something may be falling together here. Tell me, Vernon, would a hospital lab technician be likely to have knowledge and skills sufficient to extract the mushroom toxins in the manner you’ve described?”
He paused in thought, eyes to the ceiling. “Depends on the specific job, but sure, anyone employed in hospital tech work should have some fairly advanced lab skills.” His gaze returned to me. “Why? Who is it?”