A Murder Mystery-The Clearing

People looked at me as if I might suddenly lose it and start throwing stuff. Depression--like my ex-wife--is a sorry bitch. I'll never understand why depression is considered madness.

To be honest, my hand itched to throw a paperweight at Constable Jimson’s smirking face.

My wife had left me and taken our two kids with her. After two months, I was finally back to work and assigned the case nobody wanted to touch.

I went through every page in the file. They had chalked it up as a natural death. But I didn't buy it. Something didn't feel right.

Mark Woodbridge, a fellow officer, had dropped dead one day after having his coffee. Everyone was stunned. It seemed inconceivable, and after searching his effects, it seemed even more improbable. He led a blameless but paranoid life full of delusions of persecution. He worried so much about dying that he forgot to live.

I searched through his desk files and found a second logbook lodged in the middle of a bulky file. It was an illuminating read.

The log book mentioned Mark’s suspicions against Eileen, a woman he had dated. But he was a conspiracy theorist who liked to write down his movements and thoughts. He always had a feeling he was being followed. We found it hilarious, some of the others going as far as to add white powdery sugar to his coffee just to see him flip out.

I would have dismissed his accusations were it not for the fact that Mark had written an amusing anecdote from his first date with her. About how he always carried his coffee in a personal pink flask after he bought it from the corner coffee shop. So that nobody could put white powder in it.

The day of his murder, Mark had seen her at the coffee shop.

There it was in black and white. A woman he dated and suspected had the opportunity to tamper with the coffee he died after drinking.

Now that I had concrete evidence, I went to the chief. He found it incredible, but agreed to get a warrant.

We searched Eileen’s house, finding nothing at first. I was making a fool of myself.

Thankfully Constable Jimpson's father was a gardener. Jimpson saw something and yelled. ”Monkshood!”

I caught her. I was so happy, I skipped my pill that day.

Exhumation of Mark’s body confirmed Aconite poisoning.

Further inspection of the garden revealed a veritable treasure of poisonous plants--Foxglove, oleander, snakeroot, hemlock and belladonna. Cross-checking against the state records found four other possible victims.

Eileen Smith had worked in a school near them. Five murders with five different weapons?

The search for Eileen, however, proved fruitless. There was a statewide alert to find her. Jimpson had grumbled about working on a Sunday while replenishing his supply of gum. Being so close to glory, to finally getting some respect, I had to find her. It seemed like she was taunting me, making this harder than it should be.

The captain took all his weary men to the pub. I didn’t drink.

I was never really there. I was thinking of Eileen.

I saw a flash of white and went outside. It was her. She was trying to write a note. She looked up and smiled. Then as if she realized who it was, cocked her head to one side, like scrutinizing an interesting specimen.

I ran after her.

But she was faster.

She went across the mountain trail into the woods. All the while, she snuck looks at me.

We reached the clearing.

“Listen to me” she pleaded. But I advanced towards her. She stumbled backwards. “Please!” Her voice was desperate.

I’d heard criminals begging before, but this was different.

“How are you? Have you had your medication?”

I laughed. The only person who has asked about my well-being was this woman. This serial killer. Nobody has asked me that in two months.

Maybe she was stalling for time.

“You have no idea!” She was shaking and looking intensely at me.

There was a log behind her. I did not warn her. Perhaps, I should have.

Perhaps.

If I was seen with a dead woman, I’d be taken to the nearest asylum. I could get away with this. There was no evidence. I tried to pry the note from her hand, being careful not to leave prints. But I'd have to break her fingers to get it. I tore off what I could.

Swallowing two pills, I headed back to the bar. I doubt if I was missed by the drunk lot.

The next morning, I got the call I’d anticipated and arrived at the clearing. It looked innocuous enough. But as I walked farther, I saw the body behind the log. A woman wearing a white dress, her neck at an awkward angle.

“It’s her.” Constable Jimpson had a remarkable ability to state the obvious while chewing an endless supply of gum. He has this annoying habit of chewing loudly as if to emphasize that he had quit smoking.

“There’s a piece of paper in her fist.” Jimpson said after a peremptory examination.

I waved tersely and tried again to extract it, but the dead woman held on to her secret.

I wanted to know what was in that note. I had to solve the biggest case this state had ever seen. To redeem myself. Nobody wanted to be associated with a depressed person. A loser. I surreptitiously popped another pill and took calming breaths.

“Alright boys, looks like the chief will be buying a few more rounds today.” I said in a false hearty voice. They all laughed and went about their job.

I looked back at that woman. A woman who had killed five men. Why? She didn't seem mad; she was a well respected teacher. Yet she’d killed those men.

The obvious question that hung in the air was, as usual, asked by Jimpson. “Who killed her?”

I got back to the station and got out all the Eileen Smith case files. The men were seemingly unrelated. A bank officer, a professional football player and a principal? It sounded like the start of a bad joke.

The principal seemed promising. A teacher and a principal were likely to cross paths.

Yes, Eileen had worked at his school and she had run into some trouble with him over laboratory usage.

It took me a while and lots of digging but by night, I was able to establish Eileen’s motive.
I was disappointed. Resorting to poison to seek revenge was too tame.

My gut told me there was more. Twenty years on the police force taught you about criminals. She did not seem like the passionate revenge driven woman. But all the men in question had slighted her.

The bank officer who refused a loan for her laboratory. A football player who went to her high school who had played a cruel prank on her. But why would she kill over such trivial things?The fourth victim was a well known scientist, Henry Gerrard. I could find no connection to Eileen.

Gerrard had done extensive work in the study of Hippoquam. “What the hell is Hippoquam?”

Siri heard me and said, “Hippoquam, an antidote that can work against a number of poisons but not used medicinally as it causes slow death. Henry Gerrard achieved a recent breakthrough in mice by using a controlled dosage.”

Poison? Why does it keep cropping up? An idea began forming in my mind. It was strangely exhilarating. What if she was trying to study Hippoquam in humans? It seemed improbable, but not impossible. But I needed proof, or I’d be dismissed as another lunatic like Mark.

I went back to the bank officer’s file. Eileen had applied for a toxicological laboratory.

Again, I questioned my sanity. But I had to solve this. By God, if I was right...

Where were her files? Where would a scientist keep her files?

I raced towards the school.

In the biology lab, I forced open the lock to her desk and found it. It was a thick file.

Subject A was administered 1 mg aconite in his first beer and 5 mg Hippoquam in his second. Hippoquam intensified aconite poisoning symptoms. Subject died in 20 mins.

Beer. But the date was last year.

There were detailed notes on physical symptoms and some photographs.

There was a footnote: I wonder if the idea-stealing bastard tried this dose on his mice.

Ah, so Henry Gerrard stole her life’s work. Strangely,I felt sorry for her. I have never felt sympathy for criminals but she was different. Her motive felt strangely appropriate. I looked around. If someone were to hear my thoughts…

She puzzled me. I glanced through the file. It was gruesome, but it seemed like she was getting closer to it. This woman was meticulous, methodical and ruthless.

I took the files and went to the bar. I stood outside, looking in. Like always. Like her.

Strangely, I felt closer to the madness of that women than my fellow men. I didn't want to go inside. They wouldn't care!

Jimpson came staggering outside, clutching his stomach.

I rolled my eyes. Why does he drink when he can’t take it?

“Alan, you’ll never guess what was in the note.” Jimpson said.

Wrong.

I knew the part I had torn from her hands yesterday.

-bis.

“Post Mortem no. The rest was torn. Was it her idea of a joke? That we shouldn’t do a post mortem? Always nosing around. She hit on me the other day.” Jimpson said.

But only one word registered for me. I did not know Latin. I took Jimpson inside.

I knew the meaning of post mortem. It took Siri’s help to find the meaning of nobis, but it didn’t make sense.

In frustration I searched the entire phrase.

Beyond the Grave. That was the note.

I was lost in the thoughts of a woman who had sent a message from beyond the grave.

I spat out the pill I had just taken. It had a miniscule red mark on it. There were others with blue marks.

--

Jimpson died of poisoning due to an excessive amount of Nicotine in his Nicotine gum. I found it ironic. There were also some gums marked in blue that had an unidentified chemical--a derivative of Hippoquam.

I lived.

The scientist had completed her experiment yet died while watching it come to fruition.

---

Thanks to the @thewritersblock for help with the editing and the lovely picture belongs to @bex-dk