It takes several more messages before the doctor on call the night Parsons was brought in calls Steve back. She confirms what was in the report. Parsons died from a laryngospasm—he suffocated from a hyperallergic reaction to peanuts. The reaction would have been almost instantaneous. Something containing peanuts was ingested, and his throat swelled closed.
Steve jots: peanuts, scene? in his notebook.
“Do you think Mr. Parsons knew of his allergy?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t have made it to forty-nine if he didn’t. Anyone with an allergy as sensitive as Mr. Parsons would have been very aware of their vulnerability.”
Steve writes: previous attacks?
“I need to remember to tell Lynn,” the doctor mumbles.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, just reminding myself of something I need to do because of Mr. Parsons. Are we done here?”
Steve rolls his eyes and sighs silently through his nose. “Mind sharing?” he asks.
“Sharing what?”
“What you need to remember to do because of Mr. Parsons.”
“It’s really not relevant.”
“I’d like to know anyway.”
“Fine. I’m fairly certain the last thing Mr. Parsons ingested was orange juice. Typical of the kind of reaction he suffered, some of the contents of what he was eating at the time of the attack didn’t make it past his swollen esophagus and were therefore still in his mouth.”
“Orange juice contains peanuts?”
“Not typically, but peanuts, peanut oil, and peanut extracts are used in a lot of foods as an organic additive because they’re full of protein and vitamins and low in carbohydrates. Flavored drinks, yogurts, cereal—people like Mr. Parsons need to be very careful.”
“So you think the orange juice caused his attack?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
No. You said you needed to tell Lynn something. “And?” he says.
“And nothing. My niece is also allergic to peanuts, and I was just reminding myself to tell my sister to be careful about the orange juice she buys.”
Bold letters in the notebook: PEANUT POISONING! MY ASS! He underlines it three times, his nerves buzzing.
He calls back the Inyo County sheriff.
“Barton here.”
“Afternoon, Sheriff. It’s Agent Patterson.”
Silence for a beat, which causes the buzz to grow, wondering if the sheriff knows more than he’s letting on. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m calling again about Parsons.”
“Man’s dead. What more is there?”
“I believe his death might not be as open-and-shut as it seems.”
Another slightly too long pause. “Sir, I’ve been fair to you asking questions, but what that man died of is, pure and simple, God’s will. And considering what he’s done with his life, I can’t say I’m sorry. Must be more important things for the FBI to be doing than poking around the death of a man not worthy of a prayer over his grave.”
Steve nods. He gets it. Judging by Parson’s record, his death doesn’t deserve to be mourned. But that doesn’t change the fact that a crime might have been committed. The law only works if it’s enforced for everyone. It’s the reason Steve created this division within the bureau, and when nobody wanted to head it up, it’s the reason he stepped down from his position as assistant director to do it himself.
“I understand your feelings, Sheriff, but it’s my job to investigate crimes against sex offenders, and unfortunately, I think that could be what we’re looking at. I’m not trying to step on toes, but I need you to seal off the scene until I can get out there with my team.”
Steve listens to the sheriff breathing.
“Tell you what,” he says finally, “how about I save you a trip? Let me take a look around, and if anything turns up that looks fishy, I’ll give you a call.”
“Sorry, Sheriff, I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Seal off the scene. I’ll be there in the morning.”