“You mentioned the doctor took it in progressive doses, until he couldn’t breathe. Doesn’t that make it tricky to administer?”
Gramm sounded pleased. “Ah, very good. Yes, the recommendation accompanying tubocurarine chloride is that it be administered only by a trained anesthesiologist. Of course, that’s only true when you’re out to benefit the patient; clearly, that doesn’t apply here.”
“It may not apply, but presumably the killer didn’t want Jardine to die on him before he was ready.”
Gramm’s voice was suddenly doubtful. “Jardine?”
Again, I was reminded of the man’s distance from the case. “That was the dead man’s name.”
“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t told. Well, anyway, I suppose you’re right. Still, the injection could have been administered gradually, so that its effects could be monitored. That would account for the victim being bound. On the other hand, the drug only lasts ten minutes or so, then it has to be boostered with another dose, half the strength of the first. That part’s important, since curare is additive.”
“But there was only one injection site.”
Gramm mulled that over for a while. “True. Well, there’s always the element of dumb luck, especially if the dose was secured from a vet.”
“Because it’s smaller, you mean?”
“Right. The killer could inject the entire dose at once and get away lucky. Chances are a full-sized, healthy man could survive that, if just barely. And I guess the killer wouldn’t be too concerned either way. I mean, the worst thing that could happen is that the victim would die. It wouldn’t be painful, but it would still be a terrible experience, tantamount to suffocating in the midst of fresh air.”
Terrible maybe, but the victim hadn’t died of curare. The dosage had been perfect. I wrapped up the conversation with my thanks and a few pleasantries and hung up.
I stuck my head out the door and yelled for Ron Klesczewski. He appeared from around the cluster of cubicles in the middle of the room and followed me back into my office. I scribbled “tubocurarine chloride” on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “That’s the fancy name for curare. That’s what was injected into Charlie Jardine to keep him still while he was being strangled.”
Ron stared at the name. “Holy shit.”
“Apparently, this stuff’s available in hospitals and vet clinics, and maybe by prescription. I want you to check out every source around here and find out if any of it’s either gone missing, say within the last year or two, or if anyone has bought any legally.”
As he started to leave, I grabbed his elbow. “Ron, if we can nail this down, we might find out who was behind this mess. I don’t want anyone to know what we’re up to, okay? When you’re doing your inquiry, make up a story of some kind-an animal poisoning, anything to throw people off.”
Ron nodded. “Gotcha.”
I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes for a moment, thinking hard. A rare drug requiring careful administration. Which of my suspects had that kind of training in his or her background? And why be so eccentric when any number of more mundane drugs could have been used? I was dealing with an ego here, someone consciously leaving a signature.
Harriet appeared on my threshold holding another pink phone message. “Thought you’d like this right away, pretty mysterious.”
The message I took from her read, “Drop by the library.”
I found Willy Kunkle back in the local-history room, sorting through his card catalog. “Don’t they ever let you out of here?”
He ignored any preliminary niceties, continuing to flip through the index cards as he spoke. “Jake Hanson, Mark Cappelli, and the two bankers were in cahoots, but as far as I can tell, the girl was played for a patsy by her boyfriend. He needed a teller and sucked up to the dumbest one he could find.”
I remained silent.
Kunkle finally raised his head and smiled at me. “The catch is, they were not working with Milly.”
I stared at him, my mind trying to place this new fact in order. “But what about all that coke? You saying it wasn’t his?”
“I don’t know, but the people sure weren’t. Nor was Johnnie Woll, if that’s any comfort. I think he was thrown in because it was an easy frame.”
“Who were the other people on the list? Rivals?”
“You got it.”
“Working for who?”
“Flatlanders from Boston. They aren’t anymore, though. That’s why all you got was the girl. After Cappelli jumped to conclusions and took a shot at you, the publicity caused the Boston boys to end the relationship. Too bad for Hanson; he’d been working with them for years.”
I shook my head slowly. “So the list was a plant, sending us in two wrong directions at once.”
Kunkle grinned. “Yup. It got John Woll into hot water, and it got you guys to close down a rival dope ring.”
I looked at him closely. “You’re sure about all this.”
He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“All right. Let’s break this down into segments. If we cross off everyone on the list, who do we have working with Milly? He’s the connection to the streets-the seller. In fact, he may have sold that baggie to Jardine.”
“Or it may have been a freebie to Jardine for having supplied the money to buy the stuff in the first place.”
I nodded. “Okay, which makes Charlie the money man. You think either Charlie or Milly had any big-time dope connections-someone who could supply them with a stash that large?”
“Hanson and Cappelli were supplied out of Boston. I don’t know much about Jardine, but I can guarantee you, nobody in Boston would look twice at Milly, much less sell him a kilo of coke.”
“So the supplier was either Charlie or a third guy.”
“I like Wentworth as the money man. He’s got lots of it. Didn’t you check on Charlie’s finances?”
“Yeah, and they came up clean. He inherited eighty-five thousand dollars and put it all into ABC Investments. In fact, I’m pretty sure Wentworth made him a guarantee of sorts-that if Charlie lost his shirt, Wentworth would make up the losses; ABC was the old man’s idea, after all.”
Willy was obviously enjoying himself. “Sure, what the hell, make Wentworth the money man, maybe unknowingly, and Charlie the pimp in-between, turning the money into dope.”
I put my hands to my temples. “Let’s slow down. We’ve got nothing on these people. Except for Milly, this is all pure guesswork.”
Willy shrugged. “Go back to Milly, then.”
“Right. Why was he killed?”
“Because you were about to talk to him.”
“Come up with another reason.”
Willy shook his head. “Like you and the killer were there at the same time by coincidence? No way; the thumbprint identified Milly, so Milly had to die.”
“But why?” I repeated.
“Because Milly could identify the killer.”
“As what? Were they partners?”
“Maybe; maybe not. If they weren’t, then the dope wouldn’t be the first priority; the killer might not have even known about it.”
“All right. That’s one explanation for why the dope was left behind. What’s another?”
“No time; you and the killer were minutes apart at most.”
“But it took time to plant the list of names. You don’t carry phone numbers like that around in your head.” I snapped my fingers. “Try this: You have a small amount of time available to you, only enough to do one of two things. You can go to a phone book and construct a phony list of numbers to plant, or you can go straight to Milly’s apartment, knock him off, and take the time to steal as much dope as you can.”
Kunkle was tapping his foot nervously. “And the killer opted for the list. What does that tell us?”
“That framing either John Woll or the rival drug ring was more important than the dope, and worth the risk of getting caught while killing Milly.”
Kunkle whistled. “So we’re talking serious motivation, something way beyond just protecting an identity.”