I’m packing my laptop into its case, about to call it a day, when my phone buzzes. I glance down to see POMERENE HOSPITAL blink on the display and I hit SPEAKER. “Burkholder.”
“Hi, Chief. It’s Doctor Megason over at Pomerene. I thought you’d want to know.… Jeramy Kline died about an hour ago.”
Surprise takes a swipe at me. “What was the cause of death?”
“That’s the thing, Chief. I don’t know. He went into respiratory failure, so we put him on a ventilator. He suffered with uncontrolled gastric bleeding. We couldn’t get him stabilized. Heart began to fail. He coded twice this morning. This afternoon, he coded again and we couldn’t get him back.”
“You ran a tox screen?”
“It came back negative. No drugs. No alcohol.”
“Healthy middle-aged men don’t fall ill and die without cause,” I tell him.
“Rarely.”
“Doc Coblentz is going to want an autopsy to determine cause and manner of death,” I tell him. “So do I.”
“I figured that would be the case, so I went ahead and notified him.” He pauses. “Kate, we may run into some resistance from the family. When I notified the deceased’s next of kin, his wife, Abigail, wanted to take him home immediately.”
In the state of Ohio, the coroner doesn’t need permission from the deceased’s next of kin before performing an autopsy in order to determine cause of death. “I’ll talk to her,” I say.
“As you can imagine, she’s pretty broken up.”
“Is there someone there with her?”
“Nice Amish family arrived just a few minutes ago to take her home.”
“Good.” But my mind is already plowing through all the murky possibilities of what might have led to the untimely demise of Jeramy Kline. “Doctor Megason, if you had to take a guess on what killed him, what would you say?”
“I hate to speculate on something like that. But if I had to, I’d venture to say he came into contact with some kind of toxin. Something he ingested, more than likely. A pesticide perhaps. Whatever the case, it was very lethal. Jeramy Kline didn’t stand a chance.”
We chat for a few more minutes, then I thank him and end the call. The timing of Kline’s death bothers me. He’d been a person of interest in the Leroy Nolt case. I’d connected the two men through Abigail Kaufman. Is it coincidence that he fell ill and died less than a week after the discovery of Leroy Nolt’s remains? Or did someone want him dead and make it happen? If that’s the case, what’s the motive? Did Kline know something about Nolt’s death? Was someone afraid he’d talk to the police? Or am I looking at this all wrong?
I pick up the phone and call Doc Coblentz. “I thought I might be hearing from you,” he begins without preamble.
“Doc, I need to know the cause and manner of death of Jeramy Kline.”
“You and me both. I’ve cleared my schedule and plan to perform the autopsy day after tomorrow.”
I’d been hoping he could do it sooner, but I’ve learned not to push. “Doc, is there some type of comprehensive tox screen you can run?”
“Are you looking for something specific?”
“Not really. But Doc Megason thinks Kline may have come into contact with some kind of toxin.”
“Such as?”
“Since Kline was a farmer, I thought we could check for pesticides. Or any farming-related poison that may have been absorbed, ingested, or inhaled.” I think about Jeramy Kline’s being Amish, their predilection for folk remedies, and add, “Is there a tox you can run that will isolate a toxin that’s plant in origin?”
“I can send samples of tissues, blood, and urine for a poison screen.” He pauses. “There are many toxins that don’t show up if we’re not looking for it. It would be tremendously helpful if you could be a little more specific.”
“I wish I could,” I tell him. “If you could just run everything you can think of.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“In the interim, I’ll talk to Abigail Kline and see if she can shed some light on the matter.”
“Kate, there’s one more thing: I performed the autopsy on the infant child Lucy Kester this morning, and I found some irregularities you need to know about.”
For a terrible moment I think he’s going to tell me that the little girl died at the hands of a first responder, after being mishandled, not knowing that first responder was me. “What did you find?” Closing my eyes, I brace.
“I don’t believe the child died from injuries sustained from trauma related to the tornado, as we’d initially assumed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cause of death was a subdural hematoma—”
“What is that?” I interject.
“A hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”
“Brain injury?”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. There were several irregularities I noticed right off the bat. In the course of my preliminary examination of the body, I noticed a slight protrusion of the anterior fontanelle—”
“Doc, in English…”
“The soft spot on top of the head,” he says. “There was a slight bulge. So I had an MRI performed, and there was, indeed, a hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”
“Is it possible it happened in the tornado? Doc, that mobile home was off its foundation and lying on its side. I found the baby beneath a playpen, but there was a sofa and television and a chair in the room. Any one of those things could have crushed that child.”
The pause that follows tells me he’s just realized I was a first responder. “Kate, normally under these circumstances I wouldn’t look twice at something like this. There’s no doubt that in the course of a violent storm the child had been tossed about inside her home. But the injuries I’ve described are not crushing injuries.” He sighs unhappily. “I also discovered retinal hemorrhage in both eyes. X-rays indicated two healed rib fractures.”
Terrible images flash in my mind’s eye. The sweet face of a helpless baby girl. A tiny body in my arms, warm against my breast. Darker, disturbing images of an adult, a temper run amok. At the same time, the guilt that had been pressing down on me since the moment I heard of her death transforms into a slow, seething outrage.
“Doc, are you telling me that child was abused?”
“I strongly suspect the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.”
I think of Nick and Paula Kester and I wonder how a young mother or father could do something so heinous to their own child. “My God, she was only four months old.”
He heaves a sigh. “Look, Kate, shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community. In light of the circumstances of this infant’s death, and before I can rule on cause or manner of death, I need to bring in a forensic pathologist for a second opinion.”
Shaken baby syndrome. My God.
“Let me know the instant you get that second opinion,” I tell him.
“Count on it,” he says, and ends the call.
* * *
I leave the police station immediately after my conversation with Doc Coblentz. Our conversation follows me, his words taunting me with terrible possibilities.
… the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.
… shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community.
I think of Lucy Kester, so tiny and vulnerable, and I wonder how anyone could inflict violence upon a baby. What kind of person does something like that? But the part of me that is a cop, the part of me that has dealt with individuals who’ve hit bottom—people who for whatever reason are incapable of exercising restraint or feeling even the most fundamental human emotions—knows those people are part of our society and things like this happen far too often.
It’s dusk by the time I arrive at the Kline farm. Somewhere along the
way I managed to put the news of Lucy Kester in some small compartment for later, so I can deal with the situation at hand with a clear head.
I’m surprised to find the farm deserted. When there’s a death in the Amish community, friends and neighbors converge upon the bereaved in droves. The women clean and cook and care for the children. The men take over the running of the farm, feeding the livestock and taking care of any crops. When Big Joe Beiler’s datt passed away a few years ago at the height of harvest season, Amish men came from miles away, most leaving their own crops in the field, to cut and bundle forty acres of corn.
I go to the front door and knock anyway. No one answers, so I stroll to the edge of the porch and look out over the yard and field beyond. A pleasant breeze caresses my face, bringing with it the smell of new foliage and the scent of honeysuckle, and I breathe in deeply. To my right I see Abigail’s garden. Beyond, countless rows of corn sway in the breeze. Pulling one of my cards from my pocket, I go to the front door and slide it between the screen and the jamb, but it slips out and flutters to the floor. I’ve just stooped to pick it up, when I notice the wicker basket shoved against the wall, beneath the porch swing. It’s the one Abigail was using to pick dandelion greens the other day. Oddly, it’s still full of wilted greens.
I pick up the card. I’m about to rise, when something in the basket snags my attention. Not all the greens are dandelions, but the reddish stems of what looks like miniature rhubarb. Only it’s not. My mamm grew rhubarb and regularly made strawberry-rhubarb pies, so I know what it looks like. I stare at the red stems, and a distant memory whispers unpleasant tidings in my ear. I remember my mamm telling me there are certain plants you don’t ever pick when you’re harvesting dandelions. If it’s red, put it to bed.…
Kneeling, I pluck the questionable plant from the basket. The leaves are saggy and wilted, but the stem is still firm and red.
If it’s red, put it to bed.…
I pull a small evidence bag from a compartment on my belt, tuck the stem into it, and drop it in my pocket. Leaving the basket, I rise and take the steps to the side yard. The grass is freshly mowed, probably by Jeramy before he fell ill. I cross the gravel driveway and head to the horse pen and barn. The grass is knee-high here with a profusion of goldenrod and thistle with lavender tops. Closer to the barn, I see another plant that’s thigh-high with a reddish stem, egg-shaped, pointed leaves, and clusters of tiny white flowers. I go to it and kneel to study the stem. Sure enough, it’s the same as the one in the evidence bag.
If it’s red, put it to bed.…
Pulling on my gloves, I remove the small knife from my belt and cut off about a foot of the plant, capturing the stem, leaves, and flowers. An ink-like liquid the color of blood drips from the cut, and another quiver of uneasiness runs through me. I’ve seen this plant before. I was warned away from it by my mamm because it’s poisonous. It’s known by many names: nightshade. Cancer jalap. Pokeweed. There are certain times of the year when you can eat the new leaves safely, but they must be thoroughly boiled, the water tossed, and boiled again. Some Amish use the berries in pies and even harvest the tubers for canning, but you have to be very careful. My mamm never took the chance and forbade us to touch it.
Is it possible Abigail Kaufman harvested pokeweed with her dandelions and poisoned her husband? Was it accidental? Or did she harvest the green knowing fully they could kill him?
* * *
I met Chuck Gary when I was attending Columbus State Community College a few months after I left Painters Mill. I’d just earned my GED and enrolled in the hope of graduating with a degree in criminal justice. After what happened to me at the hands of Daniel Lapp when I was fourteen, I swore I’d never be a victim again. After a detective came to the college to speak about a career in law enforcement, I made the decision to become a police officer. It was a long and arduous journey for an Amish girl fresh off the farm. I was working part-time as police dispatcher at a substation in a not-so-nice part of Columbus. I was broke, homesick, and lonely when Chuck, then my Biology 101 instructor, befriended me, helped me land a second part-time job in the campus bookstore, and somehow persuaded me to stick it out until I got my degree.
We lost touch over the years, though I still get Christmas cards from him, updating me on all the goings-on with him and his family. At some point he landed a tenured position at Kent State University and moved to North Canton, which is an hour or so northeast of Painters Mill. Last Christmas, he informed me that he was not only a grandfather for the first time but the senior research scientist in the biological sciences department and part-time professor of horticulture. Hence, my call to him this evening.
“Katie Burkholder! Good golly, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?” His voice is exactly the same as I remember, as large and booming as a Broadway actor’s.
I fill him in on some of the things I’ve been doing over the last few years since we last spoke.
“I followed the Slaughterhouse Killer case from beginning to end,” he tells me. “Dreadful business.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I always knew you’d make a fine police officer—and an even better chief.” He makes a sound reminiscent of nostalgia. “I like to think I had something to do with that.”
“You did. If you hadn’t taken me under your wing, I’d have dropped out of school and gone back to Painters Mill with my tail between my legs.”
“You don’t do anything with your tail between your legs. But had you gone back, it would have been quite a loss to the English world now, wouldn’t it?”
Though he can’t see my face, I smile, and for the first time in years, I miss him. “Chuck, do you have a few minutes? I’m working on a case and I need your expertise.”
“Ah, words like that will motivate an old curmudgeon like me, though I can’t imagine what puzzle you couldn’t solve on your own.”
“Are you familiar with American pokeweed?”
“I saw Elvis Presley sing ‘Polk Salad Annie’ in Las Vegas in 1970. Does that count?”
I laugh.
“I coauthored a piece that was published a couple of years ago in the Horticultural Science journal on the use of Phytolacca americana by herbalists and other nontraditional medicinal uses and folk remedies. It’s a fascinating plant surrounded by an abundance of folklore.”
“Is the plant poisonous to humans?”
“Very much so, particularly the tubers or root.”
“And yet people eat it?” I say. “Poke salad?”
“That’s one of the things that makes this plant so fascinating. The young leaves can, indeed, be eaten and enjoyed, but only if they’re ‘thrice boiled,’ with the water changed between boilings. People have been known to use the berries for pies. Women used the ink to add color to their lips.” He lowers his voice. “Just between you and me, I’d avoid the poke salad altogether.”
“It’s palatable?”
“I’ve heard it tastes like asparagus or spinach.”
I think about that for a moment. “If a person were to mix pokeweed with dandelions or some other green, would it still be toxic?”
“Toxic as hell but a lot more tasty.”
“What kind of symptoms would the victim have?”
“The patient would initially experience esophageal irritation. Within an hour he would develop severe abdominal pain and vomiting, followed by prolific bloody diarrhea. Later, he would suffer tachycardia. Elevated respiration. Once he was taken to the ER, the attending physician would note that the patient was hypotensive—”
“Low blood pressure?” I ask.
“Correct,” he replies. “Due to the vasoconstriction of the large vessels, the physician would more than likely introduce pressor drugs to elevate blood pressure. If the patient was in respiratory failure, a ventilator would be introduced.”
“What’s the typical cause of death? I mean, even with medical attention?”
“A combination of maladies, any one of which could be catastrophic or
fatal. Hypotension, cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular fibrillation, and severe respiratory depression.”
“In the course of an autopsy and in terms of a toxicity screen, what specifically would the coroner need to look for?”
“That’s beyond my realm of knowledge, Kate, but if I were to venture a guess, I’d say a general organic screen would pick up the toxins. In terms of the autopsy, bleeding and ulceration of the stomach and intestines would be found. Liver damage would be present.” He pauses. “It sounds like you have another interesting case on your hands.”
“If the tox or autopsy comes back with proof that my victim ingested pokeweed, how do I tell if the weed was picked inadvertently or purposefully included with the intent to poison?”
“As a fan of the classic mystery, I’d say it all boils down, so to speak, to motive.”
CHAPTER 24
It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive home. As I pull around to the rear of the house, I notice that Tomasetti left the back porch light on for me, and something wistful and soft unfurls in my belly. I’ve missed him, I realize. I’ve missed the simple happiness of being with him. Of just loving him. Easy Sunday afternoons. Saturday mornings in bed. I’m midway down the sidewalk when the kitchen light flicks on and the door opens. Tomasetti, dressed in faded jeans and a Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt, steps onto the porch.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he tells me.
I take the steps to the porch and stop a foot away from him. “You, too.”
I expect him to pull me into his arms or maybe lay a kiss on me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back and opens the door to usher me inside. “Tired?”
“Yup.” I step into our cheery, brightly lit kitchen, noticing the box of cereal on the table next to a bowl and spoon. “Another romantic dinner?” I quip, as I remove my equipment belt and drape it over the back of the chair.