The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [24]
“MDMA?” I asked.
“Methylenedioxymethamphetamine,” Dr. Cutler explained.
“Ecstasy,” the lieutenant put in. “The drug of choice at raves …”
“Raves?”
“Club dances. Users mix it with Viagra or Cialis and call it sextasy.”
Dr. ffronche nodded knowingly. “Then there is what we must call ingredient X. I will not speculate on it now. It will take more research and even then we may never be sure. Alas, our resources are limited.”
I sighed. “It’s very possible then that we have a rogue researcher at large in the lab.”
“Or several.” Dr. Cutler glanced at his watch. “Assuming the ‘cocktail’ originated in the lab. As Dr. ffronché has just noted and as the report surmises in its conclusion, there may be one or more unidentified substances that catalyzes the others or acts as a synergizing element, perhaps boosting bioavailability and reducing blood-absorption time.”
“And,” Dr. ffronche added with an emphatic gesture, “something that stimulates that most important sex organ in the human body — the brain.”
We had a few questions for the Medical Examiner and his colleague. In the course of these, he noted that Dr. Woodley, who was taking a nitrate-based prescription for hypertension, died from the consequences of a catastrophic drop in blood pressure. Professor Ossmann died of a heart attack apparently because he had a weak heart to begin with.
When Drs. Cutler and ffronché departed after vigorous handshakes and expressions of appreciation on our part, the lieutenant and I went over the less arcane facts of the case.
I raised an obvious point. “Wouldn’t it be wise to check with all the Chinese restaurants in town to see where they might have gotten the snacks they had that night?”
The lieutenant’s nod was an indulgent one, the kind a professional gives an amateur. “We’ve already done that.”
“And …?”
“And. None of the thirteen ethnic Chinese restaurants in Seaboard or the surrounding communities reports sending takeout to the lab at that time. They keep very good records, and they all cooperated to the fullest.”
“Was it strictly ethnic Chinese food?” I asked, thinking for some reason of the Green Sherpa.
“It was, but we checked all the restaurants that have Chinese-like food, you know, the Thai place downtown.”
“And the Green Sherpa?”
The lieutenant reached into his case and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He ruffled through them. “And the Green Sherpa.”
“Perhaps one of them brought the food from home. Leftovers.”
“Right. Or the stuff you put in a microwave. No go. Mrs. Ossmann, who did not seem particularly bothered by what had happened to her husband, said neither of them knew how to do as much as make boiled rice. And they didn’t keep anything like that in the freezer. But yes, they did occasionally go to Chinese restaurants, usually with friends. Ditto for Ms. Woodley’s widower, a Walter Gorman. He was very shook up by the whole thing.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “But what about the staff refrigerator? Leftovers get left in them all the time.”
He nodded, took out his notebook. “I talked to a guy named Baxter. He was down on a list for keeping the refrigerator clean. It was his turn that week, and he’s positive that there was no fresh or leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator when he left for home that night. He says he left late, about six forty-five. Woodley signed in at seven eighteen and Ossmann at seven thirty-two.”
“So it would be unlikely but not impossible that someone came in and left the food in the refrigerator during that time.”
“Possibly. But there’s something else.”
I waited.
The lieutenant shifted in his seat, the gunmetal eyes in his ruddy face taking on a sudden sharpness as he leaned forward. “At first it didn’t seem significant.” He paused. “We found no evidence of food wrappers, cartons, plastic forks, or anything like that at the scene. I went