Chapter 55 Sara Batcher
Sara Batcher
“Hair can retain traces of certain substances—drugs, heavy metals, even some poisons—for months, sometimes years, depending on exposure. But it’s a delicate process.
We have to send it to a specialized lab, and turnaround time can be anywhere from four to eight weeks, assuming the sample’s viable and they don’t have a backlog. ”
Sara had forgotten all about Brody Pitt. She answered the detective’s questions to the best of her limited recollection and wrote down the name on a pad that she found in the dresser.
Brody Pitt.
She underlined the name three times and doodled an asterisk as the dot in the i of his last name.
Brody Pitt had been, best she could remember, a negligent-death case that David’s company had been involved in.
Something about a heart valve that had failed.
He’d had to testify in court; that was the only reason she’d even been aware of it.
It had been around the time Sara’s company was going through acquisition pitches, so she’d been focused on that and not the latest screwup in David’s life.
Still, maybe there was a potential suspect there.
Brody had been nine years old. Emotions always ran deep with a child’s passing.
Maybe the parents had gone after the medical device that had failed their son and chosen a vigilante approach with the salesperson responsible for the use of that device.
“And we’ve sent off the hair for testing, so we’ll have those toxicology reports in two weeks. That will help us rule out poison,” the detective continued.
Her pen stalled on the pad. “Oh?” she managed. “That’s good.” Beside her, Maggie twisted toward her in concern, her eyes widening.
David’s skeleton had been a dry mess of bones and clothes. Sara tried to remember his skull, turned to one side. Had there been hair on it?
Fucking man and his vanity. Half bald and he’d been so desperate to keep the few hairs he had left.
How many times had she told him to shave it all off?
She should have just done it herself during one of his drug-induced sleep sessions.
He wouldn’t have remembered it, and she could have blamed it on him.
“I’ll keep you posted,” he promised, and the thought filled her with dread.
“Okay, thank you.” Sara ended the call and caught Maggie up on the conversation. “Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right.” Maggie rubbed her temples. “We’re fucked.”
“Maybe not. We don’t know what the toxicology reports will show. His hair is, what—five years old? I mean, how intact could it be? He was underground or underwater or whatever. I mean, let’s not freak out about this yet.”
“I thought we were clear of this.” Maggie flopped back on the bed. “I mean, Sara, he was alive when he left here that morning.”
“I know. We didn’t kill him.”
“Are you saying that to convince me or you? Because if you say it like that to the cops, it doesn’t sound convincing.” Maggie winced. “Oh my God, this is not good for my hangover. We drank too much last night.”
“Agreed.” Sara pushed to her feet. “Okay, even if they can prove that we were medicating him—”
“Poisoning him,” Maggie corrected. “Whether we meant to or not, that’s what it’s going to look like.”
“Okay, but they still won’t be able to prove that’s the cause of death, right?” Sara paced, her bare feet creating a path through the thick carpet.
“I’m more worried they won’t be able to prove it’s not the cause of death,” Maggie said quietly, and she was right.
No blunt force trauma—that was what the detective had said.
No broken neck or other damage. It wasn’t like they could check his heart or neck muscles or see if he’d been stabbed in places that missed major bones.
“I need to call Ian,” Sara said. “He’ll know what to do.”
Maggie rolled onto her belly and stood. “I’ll go downstairs and fix us something to eat. And take a migraine pill.”
“Save one for me.” Sara scrolled through the address book, then clicked on Ian’s name. Bringing the phone to her ear, she listened to it ring.
Ian would know how to handle this. He knew how to handle everything.