Read Online Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) by T.J. Purcell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T.J. Purcell
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unconscious or dead before he went in?” I said.
“Not bad!”
“But if he was dead before he went in,” I said, “then there would be no traces of river water in his lungs, proving he was murdered.”
“That’s one of the things we checked, of course. The river water was in his lungs. It was the cause of his death. There is one other thing about Preston that has been nagging me, though — something that should interest you. We found a pinprick in his carotid artery.”
“He’d been injected with a needle?”
“It’s possible. We are still awaiting the toxicology results. One potential scenario could be that Preston was drugged, then tossed into the water. Depending on the type of drug and the amount, that could certainly contribute to his drowning.”
“Things seem a little fishy to you?” I said.
“You know, in my line of work things always seem fishy until proven otherwise. I live in a world of certain or uncertain. Though all that we are discussing here now is pure conjecture, it is still in the realm of the possible that the manner of Preston’s death was other than suicide. I haven’t yet completed my autopsy report for J.W. but if I were to file it today I would classify the manner of Preston’s death as uncertain.”
“Other as in a potential homicide?”
Doc smiled.
“You said it, not I. I suppose you’re wondering, then, that if there is a potential homicide here, however slight the odds, then maybe the attractive young woman Erin Miller may not be so crazy as you originally thought?”
I smiled.
“Something like that,” I said. “And if Preston was killed then the killer may lead me to Erin, which is all I care about at the moment.”
“Well, you know that J.W. doesn’t have to rule the cause and manner of death as I would do it were it a case that happened within Allegheny County. In fact, it is unlikely he will rule it as I would. He often ignores much of the details I send to him.”
“He seems to have already made up his mind in that regard,” I said.
“Nothing I can do about that. But there is one thing I can do for you.”
“What’s that?” I said.
He opened his desk drawer and began rooting around.
“Offer you some beef jerky. I know I got some beef jerky around here somewhere.”
Chapter #18
“Kid, I think I may have something,” said Mick as I walked into the pub.
He handed me a printout of an email that was sent to Preston. It was sent by a man named Adam Clive:
“ John, I'm glad you finally got to see how a real man conducts a workshop, as opposed to the feminized ones you have forced on men over the years. Haven't men had enough of such garbage in our highly feminized culture?
“While I don't expect men to partake in our techniques on a daily basis, we employ them simply to shock the male spirit, to shock their primitive sensibilities, so that they can be restored to a natural equilibrium and balance. That is why we wrestle in the mud and drink whiskey around the campfire and make the occasional sojourn to exotic dancer clubs.
“The fact is you seemed to be enjoying yourself that night, and I applaud you. I saw that you engaged our favorite waitress in lively conversation. Erin is one of the prettiest young women I have ever seen — despite her short hair. I prefer women with long hair, another way to celebrate a woman’s distinction from men. Perhaps she’ll tell you her story some time. My heart goes out to her.
“Alas, John, I trust we can continue our dialogue. You're welcome to join us again to remember how real men live and breathe. Best, Adam.”
“Who the hell is Adam Clive?” I said.
“The name sounds familiar to me,” said Mick, “but I'm not sure.”
I retrieved Maureen’s laptop from the office and Googled “Adam Clive.” Several links came up and I clicked the first, a biography on him.
“Mick, he is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and self-described tough guy,” I said, scanning the biography. “In
“Not bad!”
“But if he was dead before he went in,” I said, “then there would be no traces of river water in his lungs, proving he was murdered.”
“That’s one of the things we checked, of course. The river water was in his lungs. It was the cause of his death. There is one other thing about Preston that has been nagging me, though — something that should interest you. We found a pinprick in his carotid artery.”
“He’d been injected with a needle?”
“It’s possible. We are still awaiting the toxicology results. One potential scenario could be that Preston was drugged, then tossed into the water. Depending on the type of drug and the amount, that could certainly contribute to his drowning.”
“Things seem a little fishy to you?” I said.
“You know, in my line of work things always seem fishy until proven otherwise. I live in a world of certain or uncertain. Though all that we are discussing here now is pure conjecture, it is still in the realm of the possible that the manner of Preston’s death was other than suicide. I haven’t yet completed my autopsy report for J.W. but if I were to file it today I would classify the manner of Preston’s death as uncertain.”
“Other as in a potential homicide?”
Doc smiled.
“You said it, not I. I suppose you’re wondering, then, that if there is a potential homicide here, however slight the odds, then maybe the attractive young woman Erin Miller may not be so crazy as you originally thought?”
I smiled.
“Something like that,” I said. “And if Preston was killed then the killer may lead me to Erin, which is all I care about at the moment.”
“Well, you know that J.W. doesn’t have to rule the cause and manner of death as I would do it were it a case that happened within Allegheny County. In fact, it is unlikely he will rule it as I would. He often ignores much of the details I send to him.”
“He seems to have already made up his mind in that regard,” I said.
“Nothing I can do about that. But there is one thing I can do for you.”
“What’s that?” I said.
He opened his desk drawer and began rooting around.
“Offer you some beef jerky. I know I got some beef jerky around here somewhere.”
Chapter #18
“Kid, I think I may have something,” said Mick as I walked into the pub.
He handed me a printout of an email that was sent to Preston. It was sent by a man named Adam Clive:
“ John, I'm glad you finally got to see how a real man conducts a workshop, as opposed to the feminized ones you have forced on men over the years. Haven't men had enough of such garbage in our highly feminized culture?
“While I don't expect men to partake in our techniques on a daily basis, we employ them simply to shock the male spirit, to shock their primitive sensibilities, so that they can be restored to a natural equilibrium and balance. That is why we wrestle in the mud and drink whiskey around the campfire and make the occasional sojourn to exotic dancer clubs.
“The fact is you seemed to be enjoying yourself that night, and I applaud you. I saw that you engaged our favorite waitress in lively conversation. Erin is one of the prettiest young women I have ever seen — despite her short hair. I prefer women with long hair, another way to celebrate a woman’s distinction from men. Perhaps she’ll tell you her story some time. My heart goes out to her.
“Alas, John, I trust we can continue our dialogue. You're welcome to join us again to remember how real men live and breathe. Best, Adam.”
“Who the hell is Adam Clive?” I said.
“The name sounds familiar to me,” said Mick, “but I'm not sure.”
I retrieved Maureen’s laptop from the office and Googled “Adam Clive.” Several links came up and I clicked the first, a biography on him.
“Mick, he is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and self-described tough guy,” I said, scanning the biography. “In
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