Page 11 of Sinful Memory

“Homicide,” I conclude, though I really should tell the detectives first.

Acknowledging my duty, I pick up my phone and unlock the screen, but I study Fifi’s face. Her expression, broken with this new knowledge. “Are you good to stay at work? Or do you want to go home for a couple of days?”

“Go home?” she asks sharply. Her attitude unsurprising, considering she works almost as obsessively as I do. “Why would I go home?”

“Because you knew the victim.” I smile, but it’s small and without any true humor. “I’d stay too.” Hitting dial, I bring the phone to my ear. “Call the detectives, Fifi. Let them know your part in all this.”

The line connects, so I cop an earful of traffic and noise and shouting voices from somewhere far away. “Archer?”

“You okay?”

He drills in instantly on the one question he insists on asking.

While Fifi pushes out of my visitor chair and clutches her files as she heads through the door, I bring my attention back to my computer screen and sigh.

“Minka?”

“I’m okay. I just had Seraphina in my office. She knew your vic.”

“She did?” He huffs. “Jesus. I swear, everyone knew her!”

“Yeah, well… Fifi danced with her, apparently. I dunno. I told her to call you guys and make a statement.”

“Good. Thanks. Have you talked to the mayor yet?”

“No. I was going to call him, but then Fifi came in and derailed me. I’ll do that next. Where are you? And why is it so noisy there?”

“Walking toward your office,” he answers above the din. “There’s been a car accident, so traffic is backed up, and every asshole is in the street, arguing with each other. Fletch and I aren’t on traffic duty, though, so we’re pushing through the chaos and leaving it to the unforms. If you wait ten minutes, I can be there for your call with the mayor. Skip over Ms. Guthrie and get a minute with the guy.”

“Maybe he’ll hang up when he finds out you’re here,” I counter. “There has to be a reason he’s not taking your calls.”

“Yeah!” Archer explodes. “And whatever those reasons, his avoidance sure as shit makes him look guilty of a crime. He’s lucky we haven’t declared—”

“It’s homicide,” I cut in, silencing him with my simple, two-word sentence.

My heart aches, because everyone around me knew this woman. Some had a relationship with her, others were fans. But her death affects them all.

“Tox reports came back, Archer. She had a lethal cocktail of oxycodone, alprazolam, methylphenidate, and dextroamphetamine in her system.”

“I don’t…” He stops, and swallows so I hear the sound. “That’s a lot of big words.”

“Oxy for pain relief,” I tell him. “Alprazolam for anxiety, maybe. Methylphenidate is used to treat ADHD, as is dextroamphetamine. These pills can all be prescribed to the same person, to be taken at the same time, assuming the patient is closely monitored by her prescribing doctor.”

“So… it could still have been accidental? She’s sore, she’s anxious. She’s tired but her ADHD is out of control. She’s just trying to get on top of everything, and takes a few too many pills.”

“A reasonable theory,” I concede. “If not for the occurrence of benzos, long after the first round of medication entered her system.”

“I don’t understand,” he grits out. “Give it to me in plain English, Chief.”

“I’m saying the first cocktail of meds should have been enough to shut her down. Send her to sleep and potentially kill her. She would have been weak and dizzy. If left untreated, she might’ve died overnight anyway. But a second cocktail was ingested approximately one hour after the first. No way she took those on her own.”

“So… her killer dosed her up?” he growls. “Sat and watched, and decided it was taking too long, so he gave her more?”

“That’s what I’m seeing. I cannot declare this suicide, either accidental or on purpose. It would have been impossible for her to dose herself a second time without assistance, her motor skills being what they no doubt were, with the first round in her belly. Archer…” I pause. “Ihaveto rule this homicide.”

“Shit.” He scratches his stubbled chin so I hear the coarse movement of his short hair. “Fuck. Dammit, Mayet.”

“I’m sorry to have to deliver this difficult news,” I recite, the way I long ago learned on the job. “Anna Switzer did not do this to herself.”

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