In the Land of Milk and Honey (18 page)

“I'm sorry,” I interrupted. “Can you get to the part about the milk sickness, please?”

“Oh, I do apologize.” Mrs. Roberts blushed. “Occupational hazard.
Anyway
. The point of that section is how the Native Americans knew the land because they'd been living there for centuries, but the pioneers and homesteaders tried to treat it like the land they were used to on the east coast, or even back in the old country. And that could be quite dangerous. They often let their cattle just roam, for example, and they'd end up eating toxic plants that the homesteaders didn't even know existed. You know, thousands died of milk sickness before they figured out what was causing it. Lincoln's mother was the most famous victim but, gosh, it wasn't at all uncommon back then.”

“I see. And how many students a year do you teach this section to?”

Mrs. Roberts had to think about it. “Let's see. I have about thirty students in a class and three history classes a day, plus two semesters . . . I guess about a hundred and eighty students a year.”

“And you've taught about milk sickness for how many years?”

Mrs. Roberts looked a little abashed. “Well, of course, I do upgrade my class materials every single summer, but the core of it stays the same. I would say I've been discussing milk sickness
in my American West unit since I came to this school, eleven years ago now.”

That was quite a lot of students to follow up on, especially considering that it was only tangentially related to the case. Hernandez and I exchanged a hard look.

“You said on the phone you had some class materials you could share with us?” Hernandez spoke, his voice soft.

“Yes! I made copies for you.” Mrs. Roberts went over to her desk and picked up two manila folders. She passed them to Hernandez and me like she was passing out an assignment. It gave me an uneasy sense of déjà vu. “There you go! I won't even make a crack about a pop quiz.” She tittered nervously.

“Do you recall any particular student who had an interest in milk sickness?” I asked.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Roberts looked thoughtful. “It is a popular lecture. You know, I find that anything death-related perks teenagers right up. But that's natural for kids. In fact, there's a paper due at the end of that section, and several of my students wrote theirs on milk sickness. It does grab the imagination.”

I sat up straighter. “Do you keep those papers, Mrs. Roberts?” I tried not to sound too eager.

“Well, no. Once they're graded, and the grades entered into my computer, I hand them back to the students.”

Damn it.

“Any chance you remember the students who did a paper on milk sickness?”

“Yes, let's see. . . . I'm pretty good with students' names. And
of course, some of them you
never
forget!” she said warmly. Then she muttered in a drier tone, “Even if you'd want to.” She laughed at her own joke, and I smiled. “But let's see . . . milk sickness. As I recall, a boy named James Westley did a very good paper on milk sickness. A bit morbid, but well researched. He was a straight-A student, James was.”

“Do you know what year that was?”

“Yes, he was a senior two years ago. I suspect he's off to college somewhere now.”

“And what did he write about milk sickness, do you remember?”

Mrs. Roberts sighed. “I read so many. Let me think. . . .” She went quiet, her eyes turning inward. A minute later, she smiled. “Yes, I remember now. James Westley wrote that the Native Americans could have used white snakeroot to poison whole pioneer communities, by deliberately feeding it to their cows, and the settlers would have been none the wiser. In fact, there were some deaths he'd researched that had unknown causes that he attributed to just that—deliberate poisoning by the local Indian tribes. Very imaginative boy, James! He did take care to separate fact from speculation. It was an excellent paper, especially considering the grading curve here. We have a lot of students who—”

I clicked off my phone and stood abruptly. “Mrs. Roberts, thank you so much for your time. If you remember anything else, any other student who expressed a strong interest in milk sickness, or wrote a paper on it, will you please give Detective Hernandez a call?”

Mrs. Roberts looked a little taken aback. “Ah . . . of course.”

“Thank you. I imagine the office has records of past students and their contact information?”

“I'm sure they do.”

“You've been very helpful.” I took her hand again and pressed it warmly. “Thank you again.”

Mrs. Roberts nodded, but her brow furrowed in a worried frown.

On Saturday morning, I dragged myself from bed at eight
A.M.
, which was late enough but still far too early. My body wanted more sleep. I'd gotten home at eleven the night before, which wasn't too bad. But it had taken hours to wind down, and for a long time I'd lain next to Ezra in the darkness of the bedroom unable to shut off my internal dialogue. I'd considered waking him and making love—that would have hopefully been diversion enough for my case-soaked brain. But he was sleeping deeply, and it felt like a selfish thing to do. I was also not entirely sure I'd be welcome.

There was coffee on in the kitchen, but Ezra wasn't there. The sun was shining in through the windows, and the sky was a clear blue. I decided to wander out to the barn in my robe. I found
Ezra mucking out stalls. I didn't dare leave the central aisle in my bare feet.

“Mornin',” Ezra said, taking in my robe with a slight smile. “Glad you slept in. You worked such a long day yesterday.”

“Too long.” I stepped up to the half wall of the stall and leaned against it, pursing my lips.

Ezra came over and gave me a kiss, but he leaned into it warily. “I'm a mess from muckin'.”

“Your mouth looks very presentable, if you ask me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He kissed me again, still leaning forward so the only part of us touching were our lips. But at least he lingered this time, kissed me with tongue and with heart. My toes curled on the rough wooden floor.

He broke the kiss, a twinkle in his eye. “Give me forty minutes, and I'll come in and take a shower. Make you some breakfast if you like. Or provide some other useful service.”

I smiled at his sexy tone, feeling a trickle of delight in my tired body. “God, I'd love that. But I have to work to—”

“Damn it, Elizabeth!”

I drew back from his anger. “I'm sorry, babe! But we have a big lead. We found this kid yesterday who wrote a paper on milk sickness and how it could be used to poison people. We tracked him down last night. He goes to college at PSU. This morning we're going to drive up to State College to talk to him face-to-face.”

Ezra leaned against the pitchfork he was holding and let out a long sigh. “You shoulda told me. I could at least have had
breakfast with you this morning, made sure you got something to eat. Now I'm . . .” He looked down at his filthy clothes.

“It's all right. I don't have much time anyway. I'll just grab some toast. And I'll try not to be late tonight. Okay?”

Before Ezra could answer, I leaned forward over the stall to give him another quick kiss. I turned back for the house.

Twenty minutes later, I banged out the front door with a thermos coffee mug in one hand. I wore a gray suit and my hair, still wet from the shower, was up in its policewoman bun. Glen was waiting for me in the driveway, leaning against the passenger's-side door of his car. We'd decided last night that we didn't need to drive two cars up to State College, which made total sense. But as we pulled out of the farm, I noticed Ezra in the barn's doorway watching us, hands folded over his chest. He did not look happy. At all. Maybe having Glen pick me up wasn't the best idea I'd ever had.

I'll make it up to him tonight
, I thought, but I felt a stab of guilt knowing I'd probably get wrapped up at work again.
I'll make it up to him as soon as this case is done
, I told myself more firmly. And I damn well meant it.

—

“Guy's name is James Westley. He has no criminal record. His dad works in management for Westinghouse, mom is a homemaker, two younger siblings, good student. He came in third place in a state-level competition for science projects when he was a senior. Guess what his science project was on?”

Glen glanced at me curiously as he drove. “Um . . . milk sickness?”

I huffed. “Wouldn't that be nice? No, sorry to get you excited. It was about digging for Native American artifacts in Pennsylvania, which apparently is something James did regularly. Sounds like he's really into Native American history, given how he suggested that they could have poisoned the settlers using white snakeroot.”

“Sounds pretty on-target to me. Our guy has to be smart. So do you plan to arrest this James Westley today?”

“No. All we have right now is proof that he would have known
how
to do it. I just want to feel the guy out, in person. And I want to see what he's got in the way of alibis for the times those cows were poisoned.”

The CDC had continued to refine the windows when they thought the cows had been fed the white snakeroot. Unfortunately, the windows were pretty wide open with the Hershbergers and Kindermans, over twenty-four hours. But with the Levi Fisher case we were in luck. They'd been able to get dated milk containers for every milking from the day of the Philadelphia outbreak moving backward. The first appearance of the tremetol, and also its heaviest concentration, was in the milk from Tuesday morning the fourteenth. Based on the research the CDC did on how long it took substances to go from a cow's stomach to her milk supply, they'd narrowed down the ingestion to Monday the thirteenth, sometime between eight
P.M.
and midnight.

That time frame made sense with the traffic at the farm too. It
would be easiest for the perp to avoid getting caught if he did it after sunset. It was over a two-and-a-half hour drive each way from the town of State College to the Fisher farm in Bird-in-Hand. If James Westley had driven it that evening in order to poison the Fisher cows, he would have been gone for hours. Someone might have seen him leave or come back.

“Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll do a runner,” Glen said. “Or you could offer him a glass of milk and get him to confess.”

I tsked. “Black humor from you, Doctor? I'm shocked.”

“Oh, yeah?” Glen smiled at me slyly. “I'll have to strive to achieve that more often. I like shocking you.”

It was only a mildly flirtatious comment, easy enough to ignore. But maybe I'd been ignoring Glen's little forays too much. I remembered Ezra's face as he watched us pull out of the driveway this morning. It was time to remind my temporary partner that I was in a committed relationship. “Glen—”

As if he knew what I was going to say, he cut me off. “So has Hernandez had any luck tracking down plant sources?”

I cleared my throat. “There's an herbal nursery that grows white snakeroot near Lancaster, but they have a small supply and say they haven't sold any in bulk or had any go missing. Unfortunately, there are a number of heirloom seed places online where you can buy the seeds. Apparently, some people use it in perennial borders. Hernandez has been tracking them all down and asking them for lists of sales in Pennsylvania in the past few years, but that will take a while to check, especially the PO boxes.”

“He seems like a good guy, Hernandez,” Glen said. “I've
actually been impressed by your department overall. I like Grady too.”

“So do I. He's a great boss.”

Weirdly, Glen didn't look too happy about it. He frowned at the road. “There are good people in DC too.”

“I'm sure there are.”

He started to speak, hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Are you
really
happy here, Elizabeth? In such a rural area? With . . . with a man who . . . who is basically a farmer? I know it's none of my business, but I guess it's pretty obvious that . . . I'd like a shot with you. You're intelligent, beautiful, and dedicated. I think you deserve better.”

Well there it was, all laid out. And I found that I didn't feel conflicted at all. I liked Glen, and it had been flattering to be the focus of his attention. But the only thing I felt in my heart was a longing for the man who had kissed me in the barn this morning, the man who worked hard at his craft, could put together a mind-blowing potato salad, and still made my toes curl.

“I have everything that I want right here.”

He sighed and shook his head. “If you ever change your mind . . .”

“I won't,” I said, and smiled.

—

Jam
es Westley was a wiry kid with lumpy brown hair that was cut short but still managed to be in disarray. We found him in his dorm room, where he was playing a video game with another
guy, the door wide open. James clearly wasn't thrilled about being interrupted during his Saturday morning playtime.

“Detective Harris from the Lancaster Police and Dr. Turner from the CDC. We're here to ask you a few questions.” I showed James my badge.

“Wow. I'm out of here,” his friend said. “Whatever he did, I wasn't there.” He seemed to be joking.

“Asshole!” James shouted at the guy's back as he took off down the hall. James was apparently also joking. Or perhaps not. He flushed when he looked back at Glen and me. “Um . . .”

“We can step inside, James, or would you prefer to talk here in the hall? Or perhaps you'd like to go down to the lobby?” I suggested briskly. Not talking to us at all was not an option I mentioned.

James stepped aside and let us into his room. He gave a nervous glance down the hall before shutting the door.

The dorm room wasn't exactly neat, but it wasn't a pigsty either. The bed was made. Pillows slumped on the floor from where James and his friend had been gaming. A bag of Doritos and several energy drink cans were arranged on the desk, which seemed otherwise dedicated to a TV monitor and a PlayStation 4.

“So . . . you came up from Lancaster? I'm from there,” James offered with a reluctant attempt at friendliness.

“Yes, we know you are,” I said.

“So why are you here? Shit. Is this about my family?” James suddenly looked scared.

“No, James. As far as we know, your family is fine. We're here
about another matter. Have you heard about the recent deaths in Philadelphia and Lancaster County? The ones caused by milk?”

James's face lit up. “Yeah, I saw that online! You know, the weird thing is, I wrote a paper once on milk sickness. It was for a history class.”

I studied his face, trying to discern if he was playing me. “We know that. That's why we're here.”

James looked confused. “Huh. Well . . . I'm not an expert or anything. You should talk to my teacher, Mrs.—”

“Roberts. Yes, we did. We're not here to ask for your expert advice.” I managed to keep the verbal eye roll from my tone.

James's mouth shut, and he looked from me to Glen, a frown between his brow. “So what's this about then?”

“Do you have a car, James?”

“Yeah. Well, it's optimistic to call it a car, but it runs. I don't use it much.”

“When was the last time you were in Lancaster County?”

James looked uneasy. He shuffled from one foot to the other. “I, um, went down for Valentine's Day. That's my mom's birthday too, so it's sort of a family thing. Went down for the weekend.”

“You haven't been back there since mid-February?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed, my tone cool. “Because we will be able to track your car via the highway camera system.” It was a bluff mostly. Yes, we could look for his car on the video feed if he'd taken Interstate 76. But there were faster routes he could have taken that didn't have video coverage.

James folded his arms over his chest. “Of course I'm sure! I don't leave campus very often because gas costs money and I'm too busy anyway. You can ask any of the guys who live here, and they'll tell you. What's this about?”

I exchanged a look with Glen. I wasn't getting any guilty vibes from James. If he knew anything about the crimes in Lancaster, he was doing a remarkable job of faking innocence. I was disappointed, but I wasn't done yet. What at first glance seemed like a dead end could still have a hidden egress or two.

I chose my words carefully. “We have to investigate all possible causes of the milk sickness in Lancaster County, no matter how remote. That includes the possibility that someone is introducing the poison deliberately.”

I stopped there, watching his face. His brow furrowed deeper as he tried to figure out what I meant, then cleared. His eyes widened. “You think—” He stopped, biting his lip.

“Go on. What were you going to say?”

“You think someone's feeding the cows . . .”

“Go on.”

“. . . white snakeroot. Right? Is that what you mean?”

I just looked at him.

“Man, that is fucked up!” James looked worried but also scared. And his expression grew more scared by the moment as he studied our faces. “Look, if you think it could have been
me
 . . . I mean, that's nuts! Just because I wrote that stupid paper, like, years ago! I haven't even left campus. You can check.”

“Oh, we will,” I said smoothly.

“And I wouldn't . . . I mean,
Christ.
”

“The paper you wrote, James,” Glen said. “Did you read that out loud in class by any chance?”

“No.” He shook his head hard. “That's, like, grade-school shit. We just turned the papers in. We didn't have to get up and do a speech or anything.”

“Where did you get the idea?” I asked. “Especially the one about Native Americans feeding white snakeroot to the settlers' cows in order to poison them?”

James shifted from foot to foot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I dunno. It just occurred to me. The Indians knew about the plant. And eventually they told some doctor, and the settlers figured it out. So that made me think, like, did the Indians know before that, know that's why people were dying, and just didn't say anything? Like, ‘Ha ha, you took our land and now it's biting you in the ass, dickwad.'”

“So that was entirely your own idea? You didn't read it anywhere? Or maybe someone suggested it?”

“No. I told you how I thought of it.”