Sampson looked troubled and puzzled. "Doesn't look like an overdose," he said. "Too violent. These two suffered."
"John," I finally spoke in a quiet voice, "I think they might have been poisoned. Maybe they were supposed to suffer."
I made a call to Kyle Craig and told him about the Parkers: We had solved part of the Silver Spring robbery, but at least one killer was still out there.
Chapter Twelve
A rush-rush autopsy confirmed my suspicion that Enrol and Brianne Parker had been poisoned. The ingestion of a massive dose of Anectine had caused rapid muscle contractions and led to cardiac arrest. The poison had been mixed into a bottle of Chianti. Brianne Parker had been sexually violated after she was dead. What a mess.
Sampson and I spent another couple of hours talking to the hang-arounds, the homeless, the junkies living in the abandoned project buildings on First Avenue. No one admitted knowing Errol or Brianne; no one had seen any unusual visitors at the building where the couple had been hiding.
I finally drifted home for a few hours' sleep, but I was restless in my bedroom. I got up and hobbled downstairs. I was thinking about Christine and little Alex again. It was four a.m.
Nana's latest refrigerator note was posted. It read, Never once," did she wanna be white," to pass," dreamed only of being darker. I opened the fridge and took out a Stewart's root beer, then I wandered out of the kitchen. The poem from the refrigerator door drifted through my head.
I flicked the television on, then off. I played the piano in the sun room "Crazy For You' and then some Debussy. I played "Moonglow," which reminded me of the best times with Christine. I imagined ways that we might fix the relationship. I'd tried to be there for her every day since her return to Washington. She kept pushing me away. Tears finally welled in my eyes and I wiped them away. She's gone. You have to start over again. But I wasn't so sure that I could.