Ruthie thought she'd prepared herself. But the sight of Monica simpering up at Dean, standing too close to him, sent hot blood coursing through her face like a fever. Ever since they were teenagers, she'd watched that look render one guy after another powerless, hopelessly under her spell. And it looked like Dean was no exception. At least saying Monica's name helped snap him out of it. His brows had jumped up, then lowered into a creased frown. He obviously hadn't known who he was talking to.
Monica looked at Ruthie for a moment, her expression unreadable, then she returned her attention to Dean. "I'm sorry, Agent; I never introduced myself. I'm Monica Nelson." She stuck out her hand. Dean hesitated a moment before shaking it, a frown on his face. Then she turned back to Ruthie, and her whole demeanor changed. Shoulders hunched, her eyes fell to the floor. She spoke in a soft, subdued voice, so unlike her usual sparkly tone. "I was starting to think I'd never see you again."
Ruthie definitely hadn't prepared herself for this contrite Monica. The anger surging through her system had nowhere to go with a greeting like that. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Sam stepped forward, God bless him. "I'm Dr. Ulrich," he said while he shook Monica's hand. "Nice to meet you." He didn't smile. He turned to Dean. "Agent Hetfield, are you ready to debrief with me and Ms. Trujillo?"
Dean took a half step back from Monica. "Uh, yeah. Let's debrief."
Ruthie gestured toward the exit. "This way, gentlemen." She sneaked one last look at Monica, who was still peeking up from a bowed head, the picture of repentance. But her green eyes lingered on Dean. Ruthie raised her chin and marched toward the door. Sam and Dean's footsteps followed her.
As soon as they were outside, Sam came alongside her. "You okay?" he asked in a low voice, while nodding to a passing doctor.
Limbs trembling, she nodded, but it was all she could do not to burst into furious tears. She thought the damage had scarred over, that Monica's betrayal couldn't hurt her anymore. But seeing her, especially looking at Dean that way, had ripped the scab away, revealing the still-raw wound just underneath. She whipped around to Dean. "What did she say to you?" Her voice lashed out like a sharpened blade.
Dean loosened his tie, eyes darting back toward the hospital entrance. "Not much. Uh, she did say the same as a lot of them, that he'd been tired. And he told her his wife started acting weird after the wedding."
Dean shifted his feet, still tugging at his collar. Ruthie realized her hands were balled into fists, her jaw clenched tight. If she looked half as angry as she felt, no wonder he was acting so uncomfortable. She told herself to pull it together. Hadn't she lectured Dean about staying professional? She took a deep breath and tried to relax her tense muscles. "Amy?" she asked. "Weird in what way?"
"Suspicious of him. Paranoid. Said he was worried about her."
The three of them exchanged a look.
"How well did you know Amy?" Sam asked.
"We were friendly, but not close. Monica knows her a lot better than I did." Saying that name left a bitter taste in Ruthie's mouth. She tried not to let it show. "They work together."
Dean patted his jacket, over the inner pocket. "I've got her number. We should pay her a visit."
Sam's phone chirped. He answered it, "This is Dr. Ulrich." He listened for a moment. "Yes, Dr. Connors, thank you so much for calling." Another pause. "Right now? Sure." He gave them a thumbs up. "Okay, see you soon."
Time to break the tension, to prove to the boys—and herself—that she could handle working this case. "Wow," Ruthie said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Phyllis didn't waste any time." She gave him an exaggerated wink. "I bet you could get a date out of this."
"Shut up."
They piled into the Impala, and she filled Dean in on the way.
Dr. Connors' brick, ranch style house sat in a quiet neighborhood shaded by big trees. Sam tapped a brass knocker three times, and a silver-haired, sharp-eyed woman came to the door. She wore stylish pants and a navy blazer. "Ah, Dr. Ulrich, I suppose?" she asked.
"Yes." Sam indicated Ruthie, then Dean. "These are my colleagues, Ruthie Trujillo with the CDC, and Agent Hetfield with the FBI."
"Come in, come in." She waved them inside, and they followed her into a tidy living room. She motioned for them to sit on a flowery sofa across from her mauve armchair. "Tea?" she offered. After they each accepted a steaming cup, she addressed Sam. "So, I believe you're here to discuss a particular case from twenty-five years ago?"
Sam swallowed his first sip and set his teacup onto its saucer. "Yes. We have a case now, and it sounds like it's almost identical to the one you had back then. With the hospital records lost, you're the only one who can tell us about it."
"Well, I'm not sure how much help I'll be. I'm just as flummoxed today as I was back then."
"You never know, Dr. Connors. Sometimes one small detail is all it takes. What can you tell us?"
"Knowing Phyllis, I expect she's already told you most of the pertinent facts." She gave him a mischievous smirk. "She's always had a taste for tall, handsome doctors."
Sam's neck flushed, and Ruthie hid her smile behind her teacup.
"Let's see." Dr. Connors peered up at the ceiling. "That would have been the summer of 1990. His name was Bennet, I believe. Steven Bennet. Thirty-three, white, a mail carrier out in one of the little forest towns northeast of here. Washington Mill, I think?"
Ruthie froze mid-sip. That was her hometown. She didn't remember ever hearing anything about a shriveled body. Of course, she'd only been four years old at the time.
Dr. Connors continued. "The hospital in Idaho City wouldn't accept the body. They were terrified it was some new plague. I wasn't too keen on doing the autopsy myself, to be honest. I demanded a hazmat suit."
"What was the body like?" Dean asked.
"Like a mummy. Leathery and gray and completely dehydrated."
Ruthie lowered her teacup, overcome with the image of Brandon as a withered mummy. From the corner of her eye, Dean shot her a concerned glance.
"What about the internal organs?" Sam asked.
Dr. Connors' hawklike eyes darted to him. "Desiccated, like the rest of the corpse. Blood turned to powder."
"Did you notice any wounds?" Dean asked. "Even small ones?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. I remember, because it was odd. I didn't know what to make of it. I found a very small puncture wound inside his upper lip."
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Ruthie made a mental note to ask about it later.
"Where was he found?" Sam asked.
"In bed, I believe. Or rather, on his bed. He was shirtless, but still wearing his pants. His housemate found him."
"Dr. Connors," Ruthie asked, "were you able to get a patient history? Speak to any family or friends, find out if he'd had any previous symptoms?"
The woman nodded. "His parents were both deceased, but I did speak with the housemate, as well as his girlfriend. The housemate—I can't recall his name; I'm sorry—told me Bennet had been behaving a bit erratically. Keeping odd hours, getting home from work later than usual, that sort of thing."
"And the girlfriend?" Sam asked. "Phyllis said he'd been about to propose."
Dr. Connors nodded. "I found the ring in his pocket. The young woman was a little surprised by that. She said she believed they'd get married eventually, but had no idea he already had a ring. She said he'd been acting strangely, too. Working longer hours, then being extra sweet and affectionate toward her. She and the housemate both said he seemed tired, and had complained of headaches and thirst in the weeks leading up to his death."
"Is there anything else you can remember?" Ruthie probed.
She paused for a moment. "There was one more thing the girlfriend said that stayed with me. She told me that about a week before he died, Bennet called her in the middle of the night, crying. He kept saying he was sorry, but he wouldn't say what for. She thought he must have been drunk. When she asked him about it the next day, he either didn't remember it, or pretended he didn't."
The quiet moment that followed was interrupted by a slurping noise. Ruthie shot a sideways look at Dean, who peered at her with innocent eyes over the rim of his teacup. "It's good," he mumbled.
After finishing his tea much more politely, Sam produced a business card and handed it across the coffee table to their hostess. "Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Connors. If you think of anything else, please give me a call."
She nodded. "And if you ever figure out what in the world the COD was on these, please give me a call. This has been the great unsolved mystery of my career."
"We'll do what we can," Sam hedged.
They thanked her for the tea and climbed back into the car. Dean spoke up first. "So, we've got patterns. They mean anything to you?" he asked Sam.
Sam frowned. "I've been racking my brain, but I can't think of anything. This is a new one."
"Guess we need to hit the books," Ruthie concluded. "Hey, what was with the puncture wound? Did you find one on Brandon?"
"In his mouth," Dean said. "Just below the tongue."
"Injection site?" Ruthie wondered. "Could this be some type of poison?"
Dean shrugged. "Can't rule anything out yet. Why the mouth, though?"
No one answered. None of them knew.
Dean pulled out his phone. "Let's see if the wife is up for a visit."
As he backed out of the driveway, Ruthie wanted to interrupt, to ask him if Monica had said anything else. She wanted to know why they'd been standing far more closely than professionalism dictated. She told herself it was just her hurt and anger making her overreact. Dean had looked displeased when he'd learned who he'd been talking to. She'd have to comfort herself with that.
Dealing with the barrier Dean had built between them was already bad enough. Putting him on the defensive might make him widen it.
She could handle anything but that.