“What about the potassium chloride?” asks Susan. “Did that lead you anywhere?”
“It was just like Grady told me,” I nod toward him. “Google it, and it’s everywhere. Of course, you need a prescription, even for pets, but all the wives were in close proximity to prescription pads. I’ve checked all the local pharmacies. Nothing. . I’ve also put calls in to the top mail-order Canadian pharmacies online, but all are refusing to release customer records. And, since it’s a different country, I don’t have any leverage.”
“Helen would have easy access to it at the hospital,” Grady says. “Don’t discount that. She would also have the knowledge.”
“Yeah, but I Googled murder and heart attack and about a hundred sites came up that advised using potassium chloride.”
“Either this country has a lot more murderers than I imagined, or everyone is writing a detective novel,” says Susan. “I suspect the latter is true.” She pauses for a moment, then asks, “How long does it take someone to die after they’ve been injected with potassium chloride? Did your research tell you that?’
“In sufficient amounts, it can cause nearly instantaneous death,” I say. “Apparently, though, a person can survive for a little while if the injection isn’t enough to kill them immediately. They’d feel pretty awful, though.”
Susan taps a pencil against her Diet Coke. “Okay,” she says, dismissing me. “Keep us in the loop, Sam. You’re doing good work. But if we don’t get a break on this case soon, I’m going to call in the Santa Clara County detectives. Those boys have been itching to get their hands on this since the beginning. This is too high profile to go unsolved.”
38
Helen
THEY SAY THE PRESENT IS rooted in our past. Perhaps. Perhaps I was conditioned from birth to fall for a fraud such as John. Me being so well trained by my father to accept both abuse and affection from the same person. It is a mortifying thought. But then I have this child growing inside me. Yes, I keep reminding myself. This is real. It is a true source of joy. Unlike the past.
When my mother was pregnant with my little sister, I was old enough—there were nine years between us—to sense her ambivalence about being pregnant at 42. My father would alternately rail at her to get an abortion, and lay his head against her belly, even when it was too early to feel the baby move. I wondered how she could take such badgering, but she maintained her calm throughout.
My mother was a librarian at the Minneapolis public library, and would take me to work with her. I was always a good child. She could trust that I would do my homework, then safely amuse myself in the stacks. Occasionally she would stick her head down the row of shelves where I would be sitting cross-legged, reading, and smile. The legions of homeless people who would eventually overtake the place had not yet shown up. Those were magical hours. No worries about my father storming in, kicking the book out of my hands or, worse, appropriate it and force me to listen to him read it out loud. His voice was raspy, hard on the ears. John’s voice was so different, so soothing, so rational. And yet John turned out to live the crazier life.
My father was highly educated, and charming, and loving. Most of the time. But then he would change. Something would trigger his temper and he’d rise and heave the kitchen table over while we were trying to eat. We’d have to wipe mashed potatoes and meatloaf from every crevice in the kitchen. Later he would weep and beg our forgiveness. Once I began my medical training, I realized that of course he could have been helped by medication. But back then I just accepted it—life had provided me with a gentle, caring mother and a violent, caring father. What I know now to be the toughest combination of all. What it has done to me is my own secret. I don’t turn over tables, but I do have a temper. On those rare occasions when I lose it I am filled with remorse and suffer for days. I only allow myself one apology, though—I will not be my father, begging for forgiveness. Dignity is essential. I leave the room to prevent myself from groveling before the person I’ve injured, the unfortunate nurse or orderly or, on a rare occasion, the parent of a dying child.