The Best Laid Plans

by Gary Clifton

Even draped in her blood-soaked green lab coat amidst a sea of naked cadavers atop morgue gurneys, Dr. Ann O’Hara was pleasantly attractive as she peered over gold half-glasses.

“You called, Doc. Murder by Botox?” Ten years a Homicide cop, McCoy thought he’d seen every means of murder possible.

O’Hara rolled the flabby body up on its side. “This dude was shot up with enough botulinum to kill an elephant. He was a patient at Silverglade, that nip and tuck Botox clinic on Singletary. They brought him in as a heart attack, but this is no natural death.”

“Botu... what?”

“Botulinum. It’s what they concoct cosmetic Botox from. Deadly poison, if not diluted. A heavy dose left an irritant mark at the injection point here on his right buttock. Blood test confirms. It’s murder, McCoy... and sort of a clumsy one at that.”

McCoy looked at the chart. “Freddie Rose from New Orleans. This guy’s face shows recent cosmetic surgery... which is why he was in Silverglade. Maybe just an accidental overdose?”

O’Hara shook her head, “McCoy, somebody killed this mope. We already printed him. AFIS says his name is Freddie “Dead” Rosetti, a mafia thug from New Orleans. Silverglade is notorious for altering the faces of folks who want to disappear still standing up.”

“The symptoms at death, Doc?”

“Painful, probably caused him to cry out, but paralysis would occur in seconds, including voice loss. Helpless... Lungs suffocated him by contraction.”

* * *

Several bandaged or bruised people lounged around the lobby of Silverglade in the early afternoon.

“I’m Helen Morris, Clinic Manager,” the shapely blonde said.

“Owner?”

“Uh, no, Dr. Lloyd... He’s in surgery. Out in ten minutes or so.” She ushered him into a small room.

“Murder,” she gasped. “Great God, Mr. Rose was strong as a horse. Demonstrated all signs of a classic coronary failure. I was a surgical nurse until I assumed management of this clinic two years ago.”

McCoy said, “The morgue says somebody gave him a massive dose of” — he flipped his notebook — “Botulinum Toxin A. Who gives routine shots?”

“Detective, two patients were prescribed mild pain injections: Mr. Rose and Mrs. Marylyn Lloyd, Dr. Lloyd’s wife. She’s in for a chin tuck. Four others received injections for sleep. No Botox involved.”

“Shots... who?” McCoy repeated.

“Ralph Duplessis, a new tech we hired just two weeks ago. My God, you aren’t suggesting Ralph—?”

“I need to talk to him, please.”

Helen buzzed an intercom on the desk. In seconds a slender man, thirty, with black shoulder-length hair and a pair of forearms decorated with prison tattoos, appeared.

McCoy motioned Helen out and Ralph to a chair. “Freddie Rose, the man you injected last night did not have a heart attack. You gave him a lethal dose of Botulinum A. Tell me the procedure for evening shots.”

“Jesus, I didn’t... man, six patients required injections at bedtime for sleep or pain. Both Mr. Rose and Dr. Lloyd’s wife received identical doses of pain medication, the other four received only sleep aids.”

“Did you load the needles?

“Yeah... and tagged each one.”

“Anyone else have access to your medical tray?”

“Helen Morris, the clinic manager was in the drug dispensary takin’ inventory. She inspected my labels.”

“You aware, Freddie Rose is actually a New Orleans hit man named Rosetti? Where are you from?”

“Uh... Baton Rouge, but I dunno Rose.”

The veteran cop read “lie” in Duplesis’s dark eyes.

“They have your fingerprints on file here. We run them and catch you in a lie, it’s your ass.”

A graying man of fifty in green surgical garb burst in. “Murder?” he snapped officiously. “This is an outrage. We use all professional caution.”

“And you’d be Dr. Lloyd?” McCoy head motioned for Duplessis to leave.

“Duplessis says he labels each patient’s needle, doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Where are the needles?”

“Medical waste. Already disposed of. Sorry.”

Helen Morris barged in, agitation apparent. “Charles, we should call our lawyer,” she looked at the doctor intently, then reached out and touched his shoulder. McCoy watched without comment.

With a copy of Duplessis’ fingerprints in hand from clinic records, McCoy thanked the doctor and left, armed with a theory of what led to the death of Freddie Rosetti.

* * *

McCoy had seen evidence carelessly handled before. At just past midnight, he was flashlight dumpster-diving behind Silverglade.

In an hour, he evidence-bagged two hypodermic needles, one tagged “Rose”, one tagged “Marilyn L.”, plus four others.

Ann O’Hara sleepily met him at the morgue. McCoy called the FBI.

At nine-thirty, the following morning, the FBI called his cellular.

At ten, O’Hara called with gold. In thirty minutes, McCoy was sitting in the little conference room with Helen Morris, Dr. Lloyd, and Ralph Duplessis.

McCoy began. “Your affair with Dr. Lloyd is not difficult to see, Ms. Morris. A wife in the way? Maybe Duplessis here stepped away to the john? Somehow, you refilled the needle meant for Mrs. Lloyd with enough death to kill a hippopotamus. Only trouble is, Duplessis, a New Orleans low-level mob guy sent to bodyguard Freddy Rosetti, can’t read, according to FBI records. He confused the needles, gave Rosetti the overdose, and now he’s gotta explain to the mob. Rosetti, looking for a new identity, got permanent relocation instead.”

“Fairy tale!” Dr. Lloyd roared.

McCoy held up the lab report. “DNA from Helen Morris, Ralph Duplessis and your wife are all on the same needle in your own dumpster. Helen’s DNA is not on any other needle used that night. Somebody shoulda walked six dumpsters farther to hide the murder weapon.” He stood. “Helen Morris, you’re under arrest for the murder of Freddie Rosetti and attempted murder of Marilyn Lloyd.”

Dr. Lloyd reacted. “My God, Helen. Detective, it was me. I ordered the switch. Helen’s innocent.”

“Then you’re under arrest, too, doc. Oh, and Duplessis, you’re under arrest for parole violation. You’re not allowed to leave Louisiana.”

Three patrolmen stepped in. Helen and Lloyd embraced tearfully. Duplessis cried, too.

McCoy grinned. Murderers’ farewells were so touching.