“Once it was apparent that the KRS thing was a form of misdirection, I asked myself how I’d go about creating a phony website like that. Rather than trying to invent the content from scratch, I’d do an internet search of terms like ‘white supremacist’ to see what was out there—what I could adapt or just plain steal. The next step—”
Thrasher interrupted their conversation. “Cadaver van’ll be here momentarily. Time of death I’d put in a window of forty-eight to seventy-two hours ago. I may be able to be a bit more precise when I get them open—day after tomorrow if nothing unforeseen occurs. Meanwhile it looks similar in both cases to the chemical preamble to the Jordan and Tooker homicides. I would expect our lab tests to reveal alcohol, metabolites of midazolam, and signs of propofol toxicity.”
“Why midazolam?” asked Gurney. “Aren’t the other benzodiazepines more readily available?”
“Generally, yes.”
“Then why—”
“Anterograde amnesia.”
“What’s that?”
“One of the special effects of midazolam is to impair the creation of memories. That might be advantageous to a perpetrator in a criminal situation—in case the victim survived. There could, of course, be other reasons for its selection. Up to you to sort that out.” He pointed at one of the bottles on the coffee table. “While you’re at it, I suggest you get an analysis of that raspberry liqueur.”
“Any reason in particular?” asked Gurney, his annoyance rising at Thrasher’s habit of doling out information in pieces rather than laying it all out at once.
“Midazolam is available as a syrup. Has a bitter taste. A strong, sweet liqueur might be an ideal delivery vehicle.”
“I take it there’s no chance of this being a double suicide?”
“I wouldn’t say
Gurney followed him. “By the way, I got your phone message.”
Thrasher nodded, peeling off his latex gloves.
“I’d like to know what this excavation mystery is all about,” said Gurney.
“When can we sit down and talk about it?”
“How about right now?”
Thrasher produced an unpleasant smile. “The subject is a sensitive one. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Then pick a time and place.”
Thrasher’s smile hardened. “Your house. Tomorrow evening. I’m speaking at the annual dinner of the Forensic Pathology Association in Syracuse. I should be passing through Walnut Crossing on my way there around five.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Thrasher rolled up his Tyvek coveralls, removed his shoe covers, stuffed everything in an expensive-looking leather bag, and left without another word.
Gurney returned to Torres in the living room, intending to resume his explanation of the likely KRS website creation process, when Garrett Felder came over, smartphone in hand, obviously excited.
“Look at this!” He held up his phone so Torres and Gurney could both see the screen. It displayed side-by-side photos of two thumbprints. They appeared to be identical.
“Clean, shiny, nonporous surfaces are a godsend. Look at these prints! Like they get on TV. Perfect!”
Gurney and Torres peered at them.
“There’s no doubt these two came from the same thumb,” continued Felder. “Different time, different place. But the same thumb. Print on the left I just lifted from the plastic bag of twenties in the desk drawer. Print on the right I lifted yesterday from an alarm clock in the loft of Dell Beckert’s cabin. It also matches a bunch of prints on his furniture, his faucets, his UTV.”
“Do we know for a fact those prints in the cabin are Beckert’s?” asked Gurney.
Felder nodded. “Confirmation yesterday from AFIS—from their file of active LEO prints.”
Torres seemed taken aback. “Jackson and Creel got that money directly from Beckert?”
“We know Jackson did,” said Felder. “Her prints and Beckert’s are both on the bag.”
“You took prints from Jackson’s body?” asked Gurney.
“Quick ones. Thrasher’ll do the official set at autopsy. Anyway, I’ve got more work to do now. Just wanted to clue you in.” Felder slipped his phone through a slit in his Tyvek coverall into his pocket and headed for a hallway off the side of the living room. On the wall next to the hallway there was a poster-sized print of a famous sixties radical thrusting an iconic black power fist into the air.
A moment later Paul Aziz came out of the same hallway. He announced that he’d finished. Patting his camera affectionately, he asked if Gurney or Torres had any special requests beyond the standard crime-scene collection. Torres looked questioningly at Gurney, who said no. Aziz promised to email them photo sets the following morning and was gone.
Torres turned to Gurney with a puzzled look. “This financial connection between Dell Beckert and Blaze Jackson . . . it doesn’t seem to surprise you.”
