I ran down the stairs and after Damien. I was slightly flustered; I had
just agreed to something close to a date with Micah, yet I felt I should be
a little more excited about it.
"What took so long?" Damien asked as I caught up with him.
The question snapped me out of my reverie.
"Nothing," I lied.
Sherlock didn't look convinced. Great, now what? He could mind read too? I didn't say much on the ride to the scene and neither did Damien. I had no idea what his problem was, but mine was keeping something from the one person I had always been honest with. Yet why should he care?
We pulled into a very large house in the suburbs, one of those houses you would see in some magazine it was so nice. Three stories, in ground swimming pool, various greenhouses and gardening sheds and massive well kept gardens, this place looked like it must have cost a fortune. Chief Hawthorne met us at the door.
"Good to see you kids," he said pleasantly.
It always amazed me how officers could handle themselves so normally around death. I guess I was learning to but it was a forced effort. Maybe theirs was too.
"Victim was 62 year old Albert Willmont. He apparently went to bed after having a nightcap and then went into convulsions and died. His son found the body and called the police. He was a very healthy man with no real physical problems, which is what raised our suspicions in the first place. There was no one in the house except possibly his son and a housekeeper who lives downstairs. There also is a gardener on the premises who would have had access to the house."
"So you think it was the alcohol that was poisoned?" Damien asked.
"It's being tested, but if I had to give you an answer right now I would say that would be where my money is," Hawthorne said.
Sherlock turned to me.
"If you were going to poison someone's alcohol, Shell, what would you use?"
"A gun," I said, "poison always seemed like the cowardly way out, but with those symptoms I'd say it was definitely a narcotic poison and I would say probably strychnine. It's easier to get your hands on than the other ones that produce those effects."
"Rat poison," Sherlock said, "they use it for rat poison."
"It dissolves better in alcohol," I added.
"Check and see if anyone bought any rat poison lately," Hawthorne said, stopping a nearby officer.
"Was Mr. Willmont getting along with everyone?" Damien asked.
" With his son, no. Yesterday Albert and his 23-year-old son, Dillon, had a 'slight disagreement' according to him. According to the housekeeper, Rosa, it was more like a shouting match culminating in Dillon banging out of the house and not coming back home until early this morning. He doesn't have an alibi, he said he was 'just driving around', he's got a key so that means he could have come back at any time to get the poison."
"What about the housekeeper and gardener?" I questioned.
" Rosa said she was in her room watching television from after dinner onwards, and the gardener, Glenn Thomas, was in his small house on the property," the Chief said.
"I want to talk to everyone," Damien said.
Hawthorne motioned us to wait and I sat down on a sofa. Sherlock was too busy thinking to pay much attention to me so I picked up a photo album and began flipping through the pictures. There were ones of Mr. Willmont when he was young; ones of Mrs. Willmont and her husband together, ones of a little blond haired boy who I guessed to be a young Dillon. They looked like a perfectly happy family.
The young boy in question was ushered into the room revealing himself to be a thin, pale young man now. Dillon looked upset and nervous and about ready to bolt. He tentatively seated himself one the edge of a couch.
"I'm telling you I just went out for a drive," he said insistently, "I didn't know he was going to die."
"What was the argument about?" Sherlock said, snapping into mode.
"He didn't like the crowd I was hanging out with, he said they were a bunch of young punks. I told him I was old enough to do what I wanted and he said not while I was still under his roof. We were both upset and I said I'd move out. Then I left. When I got back he was dead," Dillon said in a stricken voice.
"Did you fight much?" Damien asked.
"No, hardly ever," Dillon said sadly, "the last time I saw him I was yelling at him. I'm never going to forgive myself."
At that moment a police officer walked over to Chief Hawthorne and said something to him.
"It comes to my attention that you purchased some rat poison in the last week, would you mind telling me why?" Hawthorne asked.
Dillon looked highly uncomfortable.
"Glenn said that rats were getting into the sheds so I went and bought some poison for him."
"Did you inform him you'd bought it?" Damien asked.
"No," Dillon said as he squirmed, "I just stuck it under the sink and forgot about it."
"You can go Mr. Willmont," Hawthorne said.
As Dillon left Sherlock looked at me as if to say "what do you think?" I just shrugged. He seemed sincere enough, but that didn't mean anything.
"I want to see the housekeeper and the gardener," Damien said.
"What took so long?" Damien asked as I caught up with him.
The question snapped me out of my reverie.
"Nothing," I lied.
Sherlock didn't look convinced. Great, now what? He could mind read too? I didn't say much on the ride to the scene and neither did Damien. I had no idea what his problem was, but mine was keeping something from the one person I had always been honest with. Yet why should he care?
We pulled into a very large house in the suburbs, one of those houses you would see in some magazine it was so nice. Three stories, in ground swimming pool, various greenhouses and gardening sheds and massive well kept gardens, this place looked like it must have cost a fortune. Chief Hawthorne met us at the door.
"Good to see you kids," he said pleasantly.
It always amazed me how officers could handle themselves so normally around death. I guess I was learning to but it was a forced effort. Maybe theirs was too.
"Victim was 62 year old Albert Willmont. He apparently went to bed after having a nightcap and then went into convulsions and died. His son found the body and called the police. He was a very healthy man with no real physical problems, which is what raised our suspicions in the first place. There was no one in the house except possibly his son and a housekeeper who lives downstairs. There also is a gardener on the premises who would have had access to the house."
"So you think it was the alcohol that was poisoned?" Damien asked.
"It's being tested, but if I had to give you an answer right now I would say that would be where my money is," Hawthorne said.
Sherlock turned to me.
"If you were going to poison someone's alcohol, Shell, what would you use?"
"A gun," I said, "poison always seemed like the cowardly way out, but with those symptoms I'd say it was definitely a narcotic poison and I would say probably strychnine. It's easier to get your hands on than the other ones that produce those effects."
"Rat poison," Sherlock said, "they use it for rat poison."
"It dissolves better in alcohol," I added.
"Check and see if anyone bought any rat poison lately," Hawthorne said, stopping a nearby officer.
"Was Mr. Willmont getting along with everyone?" Damien asked.
" With his son, no. Yesterday Albert and his 23-year-old son, Dillon, had a 'slight disagreement' according to him. According to the housekeeper, Rosa, it was more like a shouting match culminating in Dillon banging out of the house and not coming back home until early this morning. He doesn't have an alibi, he said he was 'just driving around', he's got a key so that means he could have come back at any time to get the poison."
"What about the housekeeper and gardener?" I questioned.
" Rosa said she was in her room watching television from after dinner onwards, and the gardener, Glenn Thomas, was in his small house on the property," the Chief said.
"I want to talk to everyone," Damien said.
Hawthorne motioned us to wait and I sat down on a sofa. Sherlock was too busy thinking to pay much attention to me so I picked up a photo album and began flipping through the pictures. There were ones of Mr. Willmont when he was young; ones of Mrs. Willmont and her husband together, ones of a little blond haired boy who I guessed to be a young Dillon. They looked like a perfectly happy family.
The young boy in question was ushered into the room revealing himself to be a thin, pale young man now. Dillon looked upset and nervous and about ready to bolt. He tentatively seated himself one the edge of a couch.
"I'm telling you I just went out for a drive," he said insistently, "I didn't know he was going to die."
"What was the argument about?" Sherlock said, snapping into mode.
"He didn't like the crowd I was hanging out with, he said they were a bunch of young punks. I told him I was old enough to do what I wanted and he said not while I was still under his roof. We were both upset and I said I'd move out. Then I left. When I got back he was dead," Dillon said in a stricken voice.
"Did you fight much?" Damien asked.
"No, hardly ever," Dillon said sadly, "the last time I saw him I was yelling at him. I'm never going to forgive myself."
At that moment a police officer walked over to Chief Hawthorne and said something to him.
"It comes to my attention that you purchased some rat poison in the last week, would you mind telling me why?" Hawthorne asked.
Dillon looked highly uncomfortable.
"Glenn said that rats were getting into the sheds so I went and bought some poison for him."
"Did you inform him you'd bought it?" Damien asked.
"No," Dillon said as he squirmed, "I just stuck it under the sink and forgot about it."
"You can go Mr. Willmont," Hawthorne said.
As Dillon left Sherlock looked at me as if to say "what do you think?" I just shrugged. He seemed sincere enough, but that didn't mean anything.
"I want to see the housekeeper and the gardener," Damien said.