Chapter 5 A Sudden Realization
A Sudden Realization
Atropa belladonna. The words ring in Margaret’s head.
Why hadn’t she seen it before? Why had it only come this morning when her alarm went off at five fifteen? (Apparently, she had slept for a few hours after all.)
It was in those nine or ten seconds right after she’d touched the alarm into silence and put her bare feet to the floor that the image had come again of Dr. Deaver: his jaw slack, his hair matted with blood, his open eyes so soulful and dark they looked depthless.
She stood quickly.
More images came to her then: the overturned photo, Dr. Deaver’s precious jacket on the floor, the top three buttons of Professor Deaver’s shirt undone, the empty scotch bottle in the trash and the missing cocktail glass. The Diet Coke container. Dr. Deaver never drank Diet Coke.
What if? What if? The question echoed in her mind, and she rushed through her routine, practically running to her truck and almost leaving her thermos and lunch behind.
Now she is in the lab on her phone listening to the campus police department’s hold music, a horrible mixture of clapping, clanking and synthesizer moans. Even if you hadn’t committed a crime, it made you want to.
It was Dr. Deaver’s eyes that had set off Margaret’s suspicion. Well, that and, perhaps, Joe the custodian’s mention of the casualties of war.
Atropa belladonna, or deadly nightshade: a toxic perennial herb with dark-green leaves and purple-black berries whose signature trait in those whom it has poisoned is the dilation of the victim’s pupils.
You couldn’t work in a botany lab without knowing about Atropa belladonna. Named by the ancient Greeks after one of the three Fates—Clotho, who spun the thread of life, Lachesis, who measured it, and Atropos, who cut it—its noxious properties caused it to be viewed with both fear and reverence.
Death by Atropa belladonna was horrible. Those who ingested the poison suffered from a rise in body temperature, flushing of the skin, dry mouth, hallucinations, rapid heartbeat and the telltale dilation of the pupils.
“Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet and mad as a hatter,” was the adage used to diagnose belladonna poisoning.
What was even more alarming was that, while difficult to obtain in the modern world, there was a bottle of the purified chemical, atropine, which is isolated from the Atropa belladonna plant, in a locked cabinet in the lab.
Margaret grips the phone as the atrocious music finally stops and a curt voice announces, “Bianchi.”
Who is so busy they can’t say their full name and their title when they answer the phone?
“Yes, this is Margaret Finch, research assistant II for Dr. Jonathan Deaver.” She will show this fellow how to identify yourself properly. “And I want to report a possibly important development in the death of Professor Deaver yesterday, March 13.”
Margaret works to sound measured and professional even as her mind races.
“OK. Sure.” Officer Bianchi sounds as if he’s already figuring out a way to end the call.
Margaret launches into a recitation of the effects of Atropa belladonna poisoning and what she observed in the room, including Dr. Deaver’s dilated pupils, the partially unbuttoned shirt and open windows, which would indicate overheating, along with the Diet Coke bottle and missing cocktail glass, which suggested someone else had been in the room.
She can’t help herself. The words race out of her mouth.
“Dilated pupils, you say?” Bianchi asks.
“Yes. It’s a hallmark of the plant’s effects.
Venetian courtesans in the 1500s reportedly put Atropa belladonna drops in their eyes to dilate their pupils and achieve the attractive doe-like appearance their benefactors craved.
Of course, the side effect was that their vision became so blurry they could only identify their companions by voice. ”
Margaret knows she should stop but she can’t.
“Witches in the late Middle Ages too. It was said they would make an ointment with belladonna and other plants, then rub it into their skin to achieve hallucinations and sensations of flying. Which would explain the disheveled state of Dr. Deaver’s desk.
Hallucinations are common in belladonna poisonings.
Also overheating, as I mentioned before. ”
“Well,” Officer Bianchi says.
“Are you writing this down?”
“Of course,” he says but in a way that makes Margaret certain he is not.
“Have you ordered a toxicology screen? That would be a way to confirm my hypothesis.”
There is a long pause from the other end of the line.
“I appreciate the input, Ms. Finch, but how about we let the coroner handle those details? The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow and if anything turns up suspicious, other than Professor Deaver’s bad heart, we’ll be sure to check back with you.”
Margaret is now sure he’s labeled her a crank.
How many times has that happened in her life?
Her ungainly body, her plain face, her fussy ways, seem to invite people to dismiss her.
Even in science, where objectivity is supposed to rule, she finds herself being cataloged as odd or unimportant and then ignored.
Four months ago, she’d stood in a reception line for a wealthy inventor turned philanthropist, practicing what she would say to the famous man.
When she’d put out her hand, however, and said, “Your advances in electron microscopy have changed the face of science, sir,” he’d turned to the next person in line—a young and attractive postdoc—and said, “And what’s your name?
” as if Margaret had never spoken. Margaret is a large person.
Would he have missed a Sasquatch standing in front of him?
Would he have been offended by a compliment regarding his contribution to knowledge? Margaret thought not.
“You should also know there’s a bottle of atropine, which is extracted from the Atropa belladonna plant, in the locked cabinet in our lab,” Margaret continues.
“As I said, why don’t we let the coroner handle this?
” Bianchi says. “The university and I want a finding as much as you apparently do. Right now, however, it’s pretty clear from what’s been said by your colleague and his wife that Professor Deaver’s heart defect may have finally caught up with him.
My grandpa died the same way. He was watching the Bears play the Packers, stood up to get another beer and, boom, he was gone. Hit his head too. Just like your boss.”
“But what about the other things I mentioned? The Diet Coke, which he never drinks, the note on his computer indicating a possible appointment. Plus, the missing cocktail glass.” Margaret is feeling desperate.
“Do you think someone would feel their heart start to beat wildly and take the time to wash out a glass and put it away somewhere? That makes no sense. Someone else must have been there.”
“Our investigation is underway, Ms. Finch.” Bianchi now sounds as if he’s explaining quantum physics to a nursing home patient.
“We’re doing all we can. There are procedures and protocols that must be followed.
It’s not like on TV. We can’t wrap everything up in sixty minutes, which is what everybody expects now.
You need to be patient and let us do our job. ”
“But you’ll look into Atropa belladonna, won’t you?” Margaret asks, but the only reply is the sound of empty air. Bianchi has hung up.
“Well,” Margaret says.
She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a small black notebook.
It looks as if she may have to do this herself.