“Within a night. I thought it was a fluke at first, so I didn’t mention it, but it’s been long enough now that I’m starting to feel like myself again.”
If something as simple as a different bed would cure fatal insomnia, doctors would have figured it out long ago. Presumably the first thing they suggested to people who were struggling to sleep was to avoid caffeine, keep their room dark at night, and get a better mattress. The prison would have been noisier than his home, and the mattresses probably weren’t nearly as comfortable as whatever Clement had at home. He should have slept worse, not better.
An underlying undiagnosed medical condition like restless leg syndrome or hyperthyroidism also wouldn’t have cleared up simply because he ended up in prison, either.
The doctors said it wouldn’t spontaneously correct itself, though, so something must have caused the change.
I rubbed at my temples. Maybe it would work some ideas to the surface. “Can you think of anything that’s changed other than your surroundings?”
“The food’s better at home.”
I couldn’t hold back a snort-laugh. Hospital food and airline food were usually the butt of jokes, but I had to think that was only because most people had never eaten prison food. It’d be ironic if the prison food healed him instead. But the only way that was possible was if he had an allergy.
Problem was, I didn’t know if allergies could cause insomnia. I texted the question to Mark.
It’d be rare, he answered almost immediately. But possible. Gluten most common.
If it was an allergy, it’d be an undiagnosed one. “Is it the flavor that’s better at home, or are you eating different types of foods here?”
Clement had his hand on his beard again. “The flavor. Everything here tastes like it came pre-packaged or they cooked it in a vat.”
Snorting wasn’t professional, so I swallowed this second one down. That’s likely exactly how the food was made. From the sounds of it, however, a food allergy wasn’t likely if he was eating the same types of things here as at home. “I’m going to request you undergo some allergy testing, but is there anything specifically you can think of that you had at home that you don’t have here?”
“Beer.” Clement jerked his shoulders up and lowered them down slowly in an awkward shrug. “But I haven’t even had any of that at home since the insomnia started. My doctor said alcohol could hinder proper sleep patterns. They have sweets here, but I don’t eat them. Darlene and I gave up desserts when the doctor told us in the spring that her sugars were borderline and my cholesterol was high.”
My spine went as straight as a table leg. High cholesterol. Like Russ. That meant he would also be taking medication the way Russ did. “Since you’ve been here, have you been receiving your cholesterol medication?”
He nodded. “The prison doc doles them out and makes sure you swallow them. I guess they don’t want people storing them up.”
My brain was slotting the pieces into place almost faster than I could get the words out. “Did you have to bring in your own medications, or how does that work?”
“Darlene brought my bottle to the police station when we were waiting for the bail hearing.” His eyebrows drew down into a line level with his glasses. “Those ran out about the same time I came here, and the ones I take now come from the prison dispensary.”
I could see the moment he figured out what I was thinking. His eyebrows jumped up and dropped down.
“You think it was my medicine,” he said.
I thought it seemed like the most likely cause, but that presented us with a problem. Either his family doctor had prescribed him something that would create insomnia instead of managing his high cholesterol, or Darlene was swapping out his pills at home.
I wanted the doctor to seem more likely. It would destroy Clement to find out Darlene betrayed him and was trying to murder him. It wouldn’t have been that difficult for the doctor to do it. Not really.
A pharmacist wouldn’t know what the customer had been diagnosed with, only what they’d been prescribed. If the medication didn’t come with dangerous side effects and didn’t have potential negative interactions with something they were already taking, some pharmacists didn’t even discuss them with the patient before handing them the medication. Any time I’d picked up something at the pharmacy, Saul told me he’d put paperwork in the bag explaining the medication and all the side effects and that I should call him if I had any questions.
The specialists Clement saw for insomnia wouldn’t have seen his actual pills. They’d have only looked at the list of medications Clement wrote up himself. Clement would have written down the high cholesterol medication he thought he was on.
As soon as I got Clement to sign the medical release, I’d go to the pharmacy and find out from Saul exactly what Clement was prescribed. Then I’d know whether to investigate his doctor or Darlene.
I sent a text to Anderson’s secretary to fax the forms to the prison. Anderson said I could assign her administrative tasks for this case if I needed to since we were co-counsel and he’d be receiving payment for the case the same as I would.
“I’ll look into your medication. I have a couple of theories about how it might have happened if we’re right, but I don’t want to go into it right now in case I’m wrong. You need to keep this between us. Have you told Darlene your suspicion?”
Clement’s hands were stretched out on top of the table, and he was staring at them like they didn’t belong to him. He didn’t answer my question.
“Clement?”
“If we’re right, I killed Gordon.”
17
My heart did a funny, sickly flutter beat that made me feel queasy. I opened my mouth to object, but I couldn’t. He was right. If someone was trying to kill Clement by inducing fatal insomnia, they’d also indirectly killed Gordon Albright. The odds that someone had killed Gordon and tried to frame Clement for it at the same time as someone was trying to kill Clement were unreasonably slim.
Unless Gordon and Clement had both angered the same person and the same person tried to kill them both?
Clement still stared down at his hands.
I tapped the table. “Look at me, okay?”
He brought his gaze up, but red ringed his eyes.
“We have to take this one step at a time. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against both of you? Or were you ever both together and witnessed something unusual?”
“No. No one. Gordon and I spent so much time together at work that we didn’t socialize on weekends. When we did, he always came to my house, and it was just the three of us.” Clement brought his hands up and pressed his fingers into his forehead, right above his eyebrows. “The only people we interacted with together were patrons of the museum, and we haven’t had an altercation with anyone except for the occasional rowdy group of bored teenagers in the summers.”
I highly doubted rowdy teenagers would have the patience or resources to plan two such complex crimes.
“What about strange interactions when you purchased something for the museum? Did you use a different supplier for anything?”
“Everything’s been normal.” Clement rubbed tiny circles into his forehead. “Why would the person who wanted to kill me also try to frame me for Gordon’s death? They could have killed him and dumped him in the lake with a lot less risk of being caught.” He shook his head. “I had to have been the one who killed Gordon.”
