16. A Very Different Murder

Poison puts in its ugly head...

THE BODY IN THE BED

16. A Very Different Murder

Doctor Grimm looked as grim as his name suggested he might be either at work or at home or even in bed with his equally grim lady wife.

“The latest chunk of flesh you’ve sent to me,” he muttered, “the lad you had down as a tasty suicide…”

“David Grimshaw,” corrected the DI who thought that even the dead ought to be given their own names rather than lumped together as chunks of flesh or whatever else the pathologist felt like calling them.

Grimm grinned at him. “That’s the fellow,” he said chirpily, “I reckon you’d best examine your diagnosis. The lad may have a stab wound and lost a drop or two of his blood, but that’s not what killed him. It wouldn’t even have killed a lad with a feeble disposition, and he wasn’t one of those. No sir. He’d had a rough life, there could be no doubt about that, but it wasn’t the knife, which I agree may well have been self-inflicted, that did for him.”

Ian looked somewhat nonplussed. He had it fixed in his mind that David Shrimpton had taken his own life when he realised that he would be in serious trouble now the truth was coming out that he had committed a double murder.

“You’re sure of that?” he asked, “there was a lot of blood and he looked as if the grim reaper was knocking at his mental door.”

Doctor Grimm scowled at the DI and shook his head. “Are you saying I don’t know my job?” he asked, “because if you are I’ve a thing or two I’d say about a senior detective who assumes a cause of death because the sight of blood gives him the shivers. No, the poor man passed away after being drugged by a rare but not unknown serum evolved, I believe, in Africa, and he will have suffered a fairly lengthy period of living in a nightmare before he passed away.”

“Oh,” sighed Ian, “then I’d best do a bit of rethinking, doc. And you’ve given me quite a lot to think about.”

“As long as you take it seriously, Ian,” smiled Doctor Grimm, “and if it helps I was surprised when I originally concluded the stabbing was the cause of death because he simply hadn’t lost anywhere near enough blood for that to be the case. But toxicology tests proved helpful.”

“That makes me feel less of a fool, then,” grinned Ian, “but tell me: the toxin. What do you know about it?”

“It’s a new one on me,” he replied, frowning again, “apparently it’s on a list of nasties that have a biological origin. Some tree sap or something like that cunningly modified, possibly to be used as a weapon.. Anyway, I found a puncture mark on the poor bloke, on his leg, so he was injected with the stuff. Not in the hospital, I add: it has a long half life and takes hours to get in to the brain and even longer to switch it off.”

“So I’ve got to find a killer just as I thought the dead man was the bloke I wanted.”

“Better look for someone with access to very dubious medicines then,” suggested Doctor Grimm, “and may I suggest you might not have so far to look? I’ve run a few tests on the bundles of flesh you sent me the other day and I’m pretty sure I found something like the stuff in tiny quantities lurking almost undetectable in the blood. So look close to home, eh?”

Ian nodded, thanks the pathologist, and made his way to his office.

“I reckon we’re on the brink of closing this case,” he said, wishing it were true even though his experience taught him that nothing is ever as simple as it seems at first. “The poor lad in hospital was, it seems, poisoned after he’d stabbed himself, if indeed he did stab himself. From what the doc said it’s a pretty nasty concoction. So we’d best keep pur eyes open.”

“So that means the young fellow isn’t our main suspect?” sniffed Sergeant Puller, “I was hoping the case would be wrapped yup before the weekend.”

“It still might be. What we need is a small quantity of something that looks as if it might be nasty, and then we’ll be on our way,” said Ian soothingly.

“And evidence pointing to the person who used it,” pointed out Constable Megan Braintree.

“That’s the point, Megan, and well thought,” approved the DI. “And go easy with handling anything suspicious. The answer might lie in fingerprints.”

“What about the woman?” asked Megan, “the boy’s mother? I mean, it isn’t common for women to murder their offspring, but it’s not unknown.”

“The poor lad was half killed by his own father when he was a nipper,” sighed Ian, “so it might be poetic if his mother finishes the job.”

“I don’t like it,” sighed Megan.

“Neither do I,” agreed Ian, “but if we lived in the sort of perfect world where I liked everything then none of us would have a job. So come on, let’s get down to it. It’s late now, but if we attack the problem with fresh minds tomorrow, who knows what we might unearth? My Daisy promised me something special for dinner tonight and that may be all my brain needs to make me see something that ought to be obvious, but isn’t.”

He gathered a few things together and marched out to the car park whilst Megan went to her computer and carefully closed it down. Then she picked up a jacket, which was all she needed bearing in mind the mildness of the weather, and made her way to the door, almost colliding with the figure of Doctor Grimm as he hurried from the direction of the pathology lab.

“Where’s the DI?” he asked, “I’ve got a little sweetmeat for him!”

“He’s gone,” replied Megan, “but if you like I’ll get whatever it is to him.”

“You will? That’s more than kind of you, dear lady,” he replied, “tell him to look out for very dark, maybe even black, make-up. There were traces of it on the puncture mark on the lad’s leg. I’d say it’s of African origin, and was transferred from the syringe when the dread deed was done.”

“That’s interesting,” murmured Megan, “yes, sir, I’ll pop into his place on my way home. I know he’ll understand what it means…”

“Good girl,” grinned the doctor, “well, I’m off to my corner of paradise. See that the mighty Inspector gets the information.”

“I most certainly will,” smiled Megan as the doctor made his way out, whistling tunelessly.

© Peter Rogerson 11.06.23

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