The Memory Killer Read Free

of the black locust, the second helps reduce the hallucinations.”
    I found it odd Morningstar used the word
we’re
and
us,
as if Kemp were her patient. The only course recommended for Morningstar’s standard “patients” was burial or cremation.
    “Where could you get these plants, Doc?” I asked.
    “Jimson weed grows wild across the country. Black locust grows in most states east of the Mississippi.”
    I made a pouring motion. “What … someone just dumped twigs and leaves into a blender and made this stuff?”
    “The active chemicals were likely extracted from the plant sources and concentrated. That would take a knowledge of chemistry. But probably basic.”
    “As basic as jurisdictions?” I said, growing puzzled by Morningstar’s request that I be here. A rape, though horrific, was not reason to call me, the FCLE’s specialist in psychotics, sociopaths and other mental melt-downs.
    “Jurisdictions?” she said.
    “You said Kemp was found by Miami-Dade cops, was in their Missings file. Why did you call me, Doctor?”
    Morningstar walked to the window and gazed down on the parking lot, forlorn in its dawn emptiness. Not only was I uncertain why I was here, I was also puzzled at her involvement. When she had solved the toxicology problem, her work was over, time to return to the dead. She seemed more like an attending physician than a pathologist.
    Morningstar turned back to me. “I, uh … it’s not a typical case, is it, Detective? The combination of substances seems so calculated and cold that it feels … evil.”
    Another anomaly
. Evil
was not a word normally used in the clinical halls of Morningstar’s pathology department. Had the bizarre methodology of the case unsettled the usually imperturbable pathologist?
    “So you’d prefer the FCLE to investigate? Me in particular?”
    “It’s your world, right, Detective? Who else but a psychopath might, uh …”
    Words failed and she stared at the body motionless amidst the tubes and wires, his thoughts turned to nightmares and even the nightmares burned away, perhaps forever, by a combination of toxins you might find in your own backyard.
    “Who else but a psychopath might turn common plants into Satan’s private date-rape drug?” I said.
    Morningstar nodded. “I figured you’d have the right words.”

4
     
    “You want to grab a case from Miami-Dade?” Roy McDermott said from behind his broad desk, patting down the straw-hued cowlick that immediately bounded back in defiance. “What? We don’t have enough cases of our own?” Outside his twenty-third-story window the Miami skyline was a study in muscular architecture. The FCLE was in the downtown Clark Center, and was the state’s top investigative agency, usually summoned when special expertise was needed. We stayed busy.
    “Doc Morningstar thinks it’s the way to go.”
    “Correct me if I’m wrong, partner, but she’s a pathologist, not an investigative professional.”
    “We can do it, right? Assert jurisdiction?”
    Roy nodded reluctantly. “We’re state, they’re local. But it’s basically a missing-persons case that’ll probably get filed as a sex crime. I don’t see the reason, Carson. It’s not like we’re begging for work.”
    My phone rang and I checked the caller: Morningstar. I made notes as she detailed her latest findings.
    “That was the good Doc herself,” I said when we’d finished.
    Roy clapped his hands in mock delight. “Goodie. Does she have any more cases to add to our list?”
    “She has a newly isolated agent in the tox combo. Something called raphides. Given the plant-based nature of the other toxins, Morningstar thinks it came from dieffenbachia.”
    “The houseplant? I used to have one in my office until it died. Probably had something to do with stubbing out cigars in the pot.”
    “Dieffenbachia is also called dumb cane. Seems the raphides cause paralysis of the vocal cords.”
    Roy spun to study the skyline. “So the perp drops this