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Authors: John J. Lamb
Tags: Mystery
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When he arrived, I pointed at the wireless phone in the pouch on his belt. “Do you have the number for the Baltimore City police preprogrammed into that thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Then press it and give me the phone.”
Five minutes later, a uniformed Baltimore cop arrived. Showing him my SFPD “retired” badge and giving him a very brief synopsis of what had just happened, I quietly told the officer that he needed to get some homicide detectives to the hotel and Mercy Medical Center immediately.
Six
I swear I wasn’t trying to get us involved in another murder investigation. The last time I’d done that, Ash and I had been almost killed twice in less than six hours, so I’d learned my lesson. I only wanted to discharge my citizen’s duty to make the Baltimore cops aware that this incident might deserve closer scrutiny . . . but at the same time, I’ll admit I was very intrigued by the possibility that Jennifer had been poisoned. It was only natural that I’d be interested; I’d spent most of my adult life investigating murders, and poisoning is an extremely unusual crime.
Most people are shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death.
During my career I’d only worked one killing caused by the deliberate use of a toxin, a case where a disgruntled wife mixed a massive dose of arsenic-laced grain into her philandering husband’s morning bowl of granola. His name was Jason and so, naturally, I christened the investigation, “Arsenic and Cold Jace.”
Like most homicide detectives, I embraced gallows humor as an emotional defense mechanism to cope with The False-Hearted Teddy
55
the hideous things I saw on pretty much a daily basis.
That’s how I came to give my homicide cases droll and, some might even say, macabre names. It was a harmless pastime—none of the murder victims ever complained.
That might sound like I’m about as cold and hard as that bag of spinach that sits forgotten on the bottom shelf of everyone’s freezer, but I learned during my police career that it’s far easier to be gloomy than cheerful. Cop angst—the entire woe-is-me-because-I’ve-seen- so -much-horror—is self-pity dressed in a blue uniform. The bottom line is that the cops that laugh the hardest, usually live the longest.
So, although it had been a couple of years since I’d nicknamed a case, it was just like riding a bicycle—you never forget how to do it. I was ready to suggest “Leaving in a Huff ” or “Gone With Her Wind” to the Baltimore cops.
I hadn’t been on scene much more than twenty-five minutes in that previous arsenic-poisoning case when it became clear to my old partner Gregg and me that the wife hadn’t quite thought this entire unsolvable “perfect” murder thing through: we found the empty rat poison box in the trashcan outside. The killer later told us that she hadn’t thought we’d look there.
However, if Jennifer had indeed been poisoned, this crime showed sophistication, knowledge of toxic chemicals, and more than a little advance planning. It also signified that there had to be a very compelling motive to kill her, because the suspect had taken a huge risk. Poisoning is one of those classifications of murder that usually leads to a sentence of death by lethal injection, which is kind of ironic or, if you’re of an Eastern philosophic bent, karmic, since it’s basically execution by poisoning.
Once the patrol officer called headquarters to pass along the information, he wrote down our names, address, and cell phone number, and asked where we could 56
John J. Lamb
be found if it turned out that the detectives needed to talk to us. But from the bored and slightly amused tone of his voice, I could tell he didn’t think that was likely. As far as he was concerned, I was a pathetic old former cop, grand-standing to recapture a couple of moments of glory.
“After we go upstairs and clean up, we’ll be in there.
Space number twenty-three.” I pointed to the entrance of the Har-Bear
“Yeah.”
“Then press it and give me the phone.”
Five minutes later, a uniformed Baltimore cop arrived. Showing him my SFPD “retired” badge and giving him a very brief synopsis of what had just happened, I quietly told the officer that he needed to get some homicide detectives to the hotel and Mercy Medical Center immediately.
Six
I swear I wasn’t trying to get us involved in another murder investigation. The last time I’d done that, Ash and I had been almost killed twice in less than six hours, so I’d learned my lesson. I only wanted to discharge my citizen’s duty to make the Baltimore cops aware that this incident might deserve closer scrutiny . . . but at the same time, I’ll admit I was very intrigued by the possibility that Jennifer had been poisoned. It was only natural that I’d be interested; I’d spent most of my adult life investigating murders, and poisoning is an extremely unusual crime.
Most people are shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death.
During my career I’d only worked one killing caused by the deliberate use of a toxin, a case where a disgruntled wife mixed a massive dose of arsenic-laced grain into her philandering husband’s morning bowl of granola. His name was Jason and so, naturally, I christened the investigation, “Arsenic and Cold Jace.”
Like most homicide detectives, I embraced gallows humor as an emotional defense mechanism to cope with The False-Hearted Teddy
55
the hideous things I saw on pretty much a daily basis.
That’s how I came to give my homicide cases droll and, some might even say, macabre names. It was a harmless pastime—none of the murder victims ever complained.
That might sound like I’m about as cold and hard as that bag of spinach that sits forgotten on the bottom shelf of everyone’s freezer, but I learned during my police career that it’s far easier to be gloomy than cheerful. Cop angst—the entire woe-is-me-because-I’ve-seen- so -much-horror—is self-pity dressed in a blue uniform. The bottom line is that the cops that laugh the hardest, usually live the longest.
So, although it had been a couple of years since I’d nicknamed a case, it was just like riding a bicycle—you never forget how to do it. I was ready to suggest “Leaving in a Huff ” or “Gone With Her Wind” to the Baltimore cops.
I hadn’t been on scene much more than twenty-five minutes in that previous arsenic-poisoning case when it became clear to my old partner Gregg and me that the wife hadn’t quite thought this entire unsolvable “perfect” murder thing through: we found the empty rat poison box in the trashcan outside. The killer later told us that she hadn’t thought we’d look there.
However, if Jennifer had indeed been poisoned, this crime showed sophistication, knowledge of toxic chemicals, and more than a little advance planning. It also signified that there had to be a very compelling motive to kill her, because the suspect had taken a huge risk. Poisoning is one of those classifications of murder that usually leads to a sentence of death by lethal injection, which is kind of ironic or, if you’re of an Eastern philosophic bent, karmic, since it’s basically execution by poisoning.
Once the patrol officer called headquarters to pass along the information, he wrote down our names, address, and cell phone number, and asked where we could 56
John J. Lamb
be found if it turned out that the detectives needed to talk to us. But from the bored and slightly amused tone of his voice, I could tell he didn’t think that was likely. As far as he was concerned, I was a pathetic old former cop, grand-standing to recapture a couple of moments of glory.
“After we go upstairs and clean up, we’ll be in there.
Space number twenty-three.” I pointed to the entrance of the Har-Bear
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