For all practical purposes, Priscilla St. Ana had admitted to three counts of murder, and her candor made me squirm in the seat of my Jeep Cherokee. Why would she do such a thing? Cilia claimed she confessed her past crimes so I would believe her when she denied any involvement in Eli Jefferson’s death. Well, I didn’t trust that motive any more than I would an unsolicited stock tip. It wasn’t that I thought Cilia was lying—I believed every word she spoke. It was more like Cilia was telling too much truth. The conversation reminded me of this time when I was still a rookie riding with a field training officer. A suspect had walked up to our squad and without so much as an “Excuse me, Officer” confessed to a burglary that my partner and I had known nothing about. Except here’s the thing—the suspect was adamant that the crime took place at exactly 10:15 P.M. in Highland Park, which, according to the Ramsey County Medical Examiner, was the approximate time the suspect’s wife and her lover were being slaughtered in a downtown hotel room.
The Anoka County Coroner’s Office was located near Mercy Hospital in Coon Rapids. Except for a directory in the foyer that listed the names of the county coroner, five assistants, one chief deputy, seventeen deputies, and an investigative assistant, it didn’t appear much different than your typical outpatient medical clinic. Although, when I told the receptionist that I wanted to see Dr. Timothy Ronning, I was shooed into his office almost immediately. That was different.
It was Dr. Ronning who had performed the autopsy on Eli Jefferson. I reminded him of that when he shook my hand and asked how he could help me.
“Eli Jefferson, yes.” He shuddered as if he had just remembered a particularly shocking scene from a horror movie. “What about it?”
“I work for the attorney who’s representing the woman accused of the crime.”
“Then you know that I’m not at liberty to discuss my findings without a signed release of information form from the county attorney or next of kin.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“Dr. Ronning, I have evidence to suggest that before he died, Eli Jefferson had ingested GHB.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He was probably given at least two grams if the killer’s MO holds up.”
“If there had been even a trace of GHB in Jefferson’s system, it would have shown up in the urine drug screen.”
“I’ve been led to believe that this particular drug is a highly specialized analog, that its metabolism is so efficient that can’t be detected in urine two hours after it’s taken.”
“There is no such animal.”
“It was developed by a chemist working for St. Ana Medical.”
“Which doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Doctor, all I’m asking is that you take another look at Eli Jefferson. Confirm or refute my theory.”
“One. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your theory. Two. I don’t perform tests just because some guy walks in off the street and asks me to. If you have a problem, bring it to the county attorney or talk to a judge. Three—”
“Three,” I said. “If you don’t test for it, we’re going to ask you why. In court. In front of a judge and jury.”
Dr. Ronning barely concealed a yawn behind his hand. I don’t think he was too impressed by my threat.
“If, however, you do test for it and find it, you’ll be instrumental in helping to expose and capture one of the most clever, most heinous serial killers in the history of Minnesota.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Not to mention the publicity you’ll receive. People will be lining up to shake your hand. You’ll be asked to speak to every community group in the state. There might even be a movie or book deal in it—it’s happened before.”
Dr. Ronning looked me up and down as if I were suddenly interesting.
“You’re not trying to appeal to my vanity, are you, Mr. . . . McKenzie, is it?”
“Yes, Doctor, I am.”
“Well, you’re doing a fine job of it.”
“I’m not making this up, Doctor. If the GHB is there, it means that the woman who gave it to Jefferson killed at least three other men in the past sixteen years. Maybe more.”
“If it’s not there?”
“Then I’ll go away. No harm, no foul.”
Dr. Ronning stared at me some more.
“The standard urine drug screen is designed to detect certain classes of drugs—barbiturates, opiates, cocaine, heroin,” he said. “I suppose it’s possible that a light dosage of GHB might slip by. I could run a blood GHB-level test. Just to be sure.”
“Just to be sure,” I said.
“Oh, hell. How do I reach you?”
My cell phone rang as I was walking back to my Jeep Cherokee, and I thought, That was fast. It wasn’t Dr. Ronning, though. It was G. K. Bonalay.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“We most certainly do.”
