Murders of a Feather, page 10
As I listened, I experienced the same cold bewilderment I felt that day.
“But the police still investigated, didn’t they?” Cindy said. “They closed off the surgery, you said?”
“Right. An officer put up caution tape and cordoned it off from the rest of the hospital. I think they searched reception, too. I assume the chief asked you about the controlled drug log and safe—and what they found?”
She twitched her lip. “Right. At first, all they were interested in were the anesthesia tanks. I don’t think they knew about the propofol, or ketamine, or any of our other drugs. Most people don’t understand that veterinarians use many of the same drugs as human hospitals.”
Mari cleared her throat. “We don’t have any Xanax in the safe, do we?”
“Nope,” I answered. “Cindy, was Babs prescribed Xanax for anxiety?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”
“If she wasn’t prescribed it, the killer could have used it as the induction drug.”
Cindy made a note in her phone. “I’ll add it to the list of things for Bobby to check. He’ll have to get around the HIPAA laws and interview her doctors.”
So many things we still didn’t know.
Babs died on Friday while Mari and I were finishing our house calls, and since then, I’d stayed out of the surgical suite. With Cindy home from vacation, it reminded me that come Monday we’d be back at work. I floated the idea of Mari and me searching the treatment area, employee lounge, X-ray, and surgery, while Cindy searched reception, pharmacy, and the exam rooms. We should look for something…anything that didn’t seem right. I reasoned that once our animal hospital went back to normal hours and scheduled surgeries, any remaining evidence would be wiped away.
Mari and I decided to start in the obvious spot, the surgical suite. We’d both avoided going inside and assumed it might be a bit disheveled from the forensic team. That didn’t matter. We knew everything that belonged in this well-used room.
“Let’s get the worst out of the way,” I suggested to my assistant as we stood in front of the surgery suite double doors. Neither of us moved. I took a deep breath and opened the doors.
The room didn’t look as bad as we thought after EMTs, police, and a forensic team had traipsed through it.
Our surgery table is stainless steel, with a foot-controlled raising and lowering feature. Although this is where we discovered Babs, I figured after the forensic team did their thing there would be little to find here.
We started at the bottom, searching underneath the table, taking care to check the pedestal all the way up from the tiled floor.
“It looks okay to me,” Mari said, “but I need to clean the top. There are a million fingertip smudges from the investigation.”
“Let’s wait until we finish, then I’ll help. The police and EMT crew sure left a mess.” The metal waste paper bin was filled with medical debris, mostly packaging.
“Yep. I’ll take this side of the room. Meet you in the middle.”
Our surgical suite, where we performed all the sterile surgeries like spays and neuters, was separated into two sides, with the surgery table located in the middle of the room. Doc Anderson owned two portable anesthesia machines, both stored in the same area as the metal gas cylinders. Everything necessary for anesthesia administration had been located on one side of the room. On the other side were stored surgical instruments and sterile surgical packs, pathology materials for the lab, and drawers of orthopedic instruments, bandage materials, etc.
“So far, I don’t see anything unusual,” Mari said. She counted our anesthesia gas canisters and checked the tubing and hoses. “I’m assuming the police confiscated that anesthesia mask she was wearing.”
“Good assumption, but we should ask Cindy.” All the drawers I inspected appeared normal. We both did a final look around then went out the surgery doors into the treatment area. This is where “dirty” surgery or “nonsterile” surgery was performed—procedures such as cat abscesses and some dental procedures, where everything needs to be clean but not necessarily sterile.
Sitting high on the top of a bank of cages, Mr. Katt glowered down at us.
“I wish you could tell us what you saw that day,” I said to the kitty. “Anything would be appreciated.”
In true feline fashion, he turned his back and started grooming himself.
The two of us methodically searched the cabinets and counters but noticed nothing out of place. We even went through everything in the employee refrigerator and our biologics refrigerator, with all the vaccines and medical items that needed to be kept cool. Nothing.
We’d just about finished when Cindy joined us. “The front office is almost exactly like I left it. There are a few more paperclips than usual, some assorted pens, and a drafting pencil. Everything was filed and the computer records appear to be up-to-date. The receipts tallied up, and the locked petty cash drawer is accurate.”
“It’s as though Babs wasn’t even here. What happened to her coat and purse and boots?” I asked. “Do the police have them? I’m assuming so, but maybe you can find out, Cindy?”
“Will do.”
Mari ran her fingers through her curly hair. “I need a break.”
“Perfect timing,” Cindy said. She pointed to a box in the corner labeled V-Day.
“Can you both help with the Valentine decorations?”
Cindy’s request made no sense at first. “What do you mean?”
“It’s almost Valentine’s Day. I’ve put up decorations for every major holiday as long as I’ve been here, and I’m going to continue that tradition no matter what.” Her voice steadily rose in volume. “Besides, Babs would have wanted me to.”
Mari and I exchanged looks. I didn’t think Babs much cared if we decorated the waiting room, but the frown on Cindy’s face suggested I hold my tongue.
“You two go ahead. I’ll clean up surgery and meet you up front,” Mari said.
“Alright.” I grabbed some scotch tape from our junk drawer. “Let’s get this over with.”
Cindy’s sneakers made a low-level crunchy squeaking sound on the floor as she walked ahead of me. I recalled the clomp of Babs’s shoes walking down this same hallway.
“Kate?”
I turned toward Cindy’s voice, realizing I’d been staring at nothing.
“Here’s a box of garland with little red hearts on it,” she said. “Go ahead and fasten it up along the chair railing.”
“Okay.” Doc Anderson had New England–style chair railings in the exam rooms and in reception, with a darker greenish blue painted below the rail and white above it. A combination of stickpins, scotch tape, and sticky putty stuff usually secured the seasonal decorations. My lack of enthusiasm felt patently obvious.
“Isn’t this cute?” Cindy showed me a large heart-shaped greeting card. “It’s from Pinky and his fiancé and their dogs Princess and Queenie. So sweet.”
“Sweet,” I repeated.
I watched Cindy attach the card with a clip to a cord strung below the animal hospital bulletin board. The large cupid on the front now pointed his arrow directly at me.
“I’m taking a picture for our website,” she said. “We might as well try to get back to normal.”
Cindy’s plan was to soldier through our tragedy and to conduct business as usual. She motioned to me to continue decorating.
At the bottom of the box lay another garland with silver and red dogs and cats and tiny cupids. “Where should I put this?” The reception area was quickly filling up with sparkling crap.
“Go ahead and put that in the employee lounge,” Cindy told me. “Then I release you from this torture.”
“Sorry. It’s hard to pretend everything is normal.”
“I understand. But we can’t think only of ourselves. We need to think about our clients and patients. It’s not going to help them for us to sit here and cry.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I replied begrudgingly. Draping the glittering garland around my neck in place of a stethoscope, I turned to my receptionist. “Is that better?” Almost crashing into one of the waiting room chairs, I twirled around as if in a fashion show.
Of course she laughed at me, and darned if my spirits didn’t feel a speck lighter. Even the tiny animals and cupids danced a bit.
“You know,” Cindy said as I began to leave, “in mythology, Cupid fired two types of arrows. One was tipped with gold and made you instantly fall in love. But the other was coated with lead and forced you to turn away from your suitor.”
“I guess that explains it,” I told her. “He’s been getting the lead out with me.”
As I moved down the hallway, I heard Mari banging something in the storage closet. A few more steps and I’d reached the employee lounge. Calling it a lounge was a compliment since it basically was a collection of well-used furniture plus a table and chairs for sitting and snacking. The garland around my neck ended up taped to yet another chair railing and sort of tucked behind one of the bulletin boards. This particular board held all the government declarations, EPA safety updates, and various veterinary news items. Articles were two and three deep, as newer postings were pinned over older articles.
Taking a detour to the side-by-side refrigerator used to store our human snacks and foods, I searched around for an apple I’d left on one of the shelves. The banging noise stopped. As I took my first bite, Mari appeared.
“How’s it going?” I asked her, sitting down at the table so I wouldn’t make a mess everywhere.
“Okay.” She scrunched her lips up.
I didn’t need a dictionary to read that something was wrong. “Just okay?”
“This isn’t much, but I found one of the spray cleaners for surgery stuck behind a bunch of regular cleaning products.”
It didn’t seem like a big deal, but it was. The hospital bought cleaning and sanitizing products in bulk then transferred the contents into smaller spray or squirt bottles. Each of those needed to be properly labeled with the product name, the date it was filled up, and where in the hospital it was assigned. Cindy had a system, of course, with each product designated for a specific place and task. That way there was no frantic hunting around for which bottle you needed.
And because it was Cindy, they were also color keyed.
“Did you touch it,” I asked?
“No. I was so surprised to see it there that I froze.”
“We need to get Cindy, ASAP.”
The three of us stood in silence, staring at a clear plastic spray bottle half full of blue liquid. A red band of tape provided the product name, usage, strength, and date of refill.
“Where did you find it?” Cindy asked.
“Right here in the treatment room, shoved behind the autoclave.” Mari pointed to a part of the countertop used for washing and sterilizing surgical instruments. “Almost out of sight.”
Our office manager ran a tight, organized ship, as I knew Babs had.
“Any chance Babs forgot where it went?”
“No chance in hell,” Cindy replied. “It says SURGERY right on the front, plus it’s got a red identification band on it.”
“So…” I began a thought, only to stop.
“Only one of two people put it there: Babs or the person who killed her.” Cindy’s perky voice took a dark turn. “I think it must have been Babs. She wanted to let us know something was wrong.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. In disbelief, I told both my friends about a conversation with Babs in which she mentioned if anyone tried to kill her she would leave clues.
Mari spoke up. “She sent us on a wild-goose chase the day she died. Her last text sent us to the wrong address.”
“Could that have been a call for help? Maybe she started to feel threatened and knew you two would head back to the hospital.”
“Cindy,” I began, “I’m positive this is a clue from Babs, but I’m not convinced the police would agree that an out-of-place spray bottle was deliberate.”
Anger fueled her response to me. “I don’t care what they think. She left us a message. I’m sure of it. Don’t touch anything. I’m calling the chief.”
Chapter Fifteen
Although it was Sunday morning, one call from Cindy had a police car in front of the hospital in fifteen minutes. Mari and I peeked out the window, but the officers stayed in their vehicle until a large police SUV pulled in, and Bobby Garcia got out. His normal pallor had temporarily vanished thanks to his family vacation in Florida with both his and Cindy’s families. I felt sorry for them coming back to this mess.
Cindy met her brother-in-law at the front door. He leaned down, and she whispered something in his ear. Meanwhile, Mari and I pretended to be busy.
“Let me show you,” Cindy said before bringing him back into the treatment area. We noticed the other officers stayed put in the parking lot.
“What should we do?” Mari whispered to me. She noticed an unopened cardboard box stacked near the prescription diets and gestured to me to open it.
“Don’t eavesdrop, for one thing,” I whispered back. “I’d rather not see or hear anything I’d have to testify to.”
The box contained one of the medical diets prescribed for urinary tract infections. While I helped unpack the cans, Mari entered the shipment into the computer inventory and placed the shipping order on Cindy’s desk. By the time we finished stocking, Chief Garcia walked past us and opened the front door, a look of annoyance on his face. Cindy discreetly followed a moment later.
“Well, he’s not happy, but I couldn’t let it go,” Cindy said. She picked up the shipping statement and gave it a cursory glance. Automatically, she filed it into the marked hanging folder in her desk drawer. “Mari, will you set aside six cans for Buttons McCavitt, please?”
“Sure,” Mari said. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Sorry, ladies, but you’ve both got a date with the chief.”
The chief interviewed each of us separately. Later, when Mari and I compared notes, we found his questions were simple and similar. He went over our daily routine, quizzed us about our cleaning rituals and who did what, and asked how our house calls work.
When it was my turn, he asked my opinion of Cindy’s theory that the surgery spray bottle was out of place on purpose.
Although freshly back from his vacation, Chief Garcia still showed gray patches under his eyes. No wonder. Three people dead in Oak Falls while he’d been frolicking on the warm sand and drinking cold margaritas.
He waited for my answer, the jowls on his face giving him a hound-dog look.
“I’ll try to explain. It’s important for the treatment and surgery suite to be clean and organized,” I began, “because we never know what kind of emergency might show up. When you’re evaluating a critical trauma case in front of you, there’s no time to waste searching for something.”
Chief Garcia tilted his head and made notes in his pocket notebook. Cindy said he liked to gather his thoughts before typing them into his computer.
“If it helps,” I continued, “we always clean up and put things back in place at the end of the day. Babs only worked here for five days, but the way she worked felt very similar to Cindy’s. The reception desk was clear of paperwork when we closed up, and the hospital set up for the next day’s appointments.”
None of this seemed new to the chief.
“On Friday, you and Mari came back from your house calls,” he said. “Was there anything out of place that you noticed when you came in?”
My mind slid back to that horrible afternoon. “Not at first. Mari couldn’t reach Babs by text or phone, very unusual and upsetting. We thought she’d gone for the day—except her car was still parked out front.”
“Did you normally turn the alarm system on during office hours?”
“No. I set it after we close each night.”
“Does that include the indoor and outdoor cameras?”
“Yes, always.”
Again the chief took his time and scribbled more notes. I stared out the window, curious about what else he wanted to know.
Outside, the sun played hide-and-seek with the growing gray clouds. Shadows danced across the parking lot.
“What did you think of Babs?”
He calmly watched as I tried to compose a cohesive reply.
Smart, I thought, and organized, like Cindy. It was hard to define someone in a few words, someone you didn’t know that well. “One thing I can tell you,” I said with more certainty, “She was nobody’s fool.”
After Chief Garcia and his officers left, taking multiple pictures and the infamous spray bottle with them, Cindy, Mari, and I closed up the hospital. My vet assistant and I doubled-checked the treatment room windows, kennels, and employee lounge, leaving Cindy to clean her reception area and the front storage/outpatient drug and food cabinets. I threw out an old cardboard pizza takeaway box. Only one other room to go. Surgery.
“I already cleaned it,” Mari protested.
“But the police went back in there. We’ll make it quick.”
I figured Mari was thinking the same thing I was. Seared into both our brains, the sight of Babs lying still on the surgery table. Maybe Gramps had a point about PTSD.
“They probably made a mess,” I said, referring to the police.
“Probably.” Mari sounded unenthusiastic.
“We’ve got surgery scheduled for tomorrow,” I told her. “I don’t want any surprises, so let’s get it over with.”
“The only surprise would be if Babs jumped out and yelled April Fools!” my assistant said.
I hoped that image wouldn’t visit me in my dreams tonight. “That would be a surprise, considering we’re in the early days of February.”
“Bad joke.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s get this done.”
We pushed open the doors to find very little mess, just some powdery stuff near the storage cabinets. The countertops shone, and both anesthesia machines were stowed in place.
