The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,76

Not much coffee left in Milo’s cup but he nursed it, letting the silence congeal.

Will Burdette said, “Don’t want to rude, guys, but I’ve got a load of paperwork.”

Milo said, “Just a few more questions, Doctor. I’m sorry if this offends you but in tough cases we need to be thorough. Do you use fentanyl in your practice?”

Sandra’s eyes widened.

Will’s tightened. “You bet I do. It can be very effective with animals. You guys ever read Herriot?”

I said, “The Yorkshire vet.”

“You’ve read him?”

I shook my head.

Will Burdette said, “Great writer, I started off wanting to do human medicine, his books changed my mind. He’s got a thing in one of them about sick animals he thought were terminal being revived just by relaxing them and controlling their pain. You deal with the pain and it stops this self-destructive cycle that leads them to give up.”

I said, “Stress reduction. Giving the body a rest.”

“The body and the soul because let me tell you, guys, animals have souls. I know fentanyl gets a bad rap because the Chinese are cranking it out and pushing it over here and people have weak wills so they’re dying all over the place. But animals don’t get addicted, they just get better. So if I can save a sheep or a cow with fentanyl or any other drug, I’m going to use it. I’m assuming you’re asking me because fentanyl had something to do with that poor girl’s death.”

“It may be a factor.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Will Burdette. “So you’re wondering if this country vet took dope from his own heavily documented supply of controlled substances and it somehow ended up in a stranger who crashed his son’s wedding. No offense, but that’s some fantasy.”

“Unbelievable,” said Sandy, kneading her husband’s shoulders.

He said, “Mmm, feels good.”

Milo said, “Like I said, tough questions, Doctor. If you don’t mind, we’d like to know who has access to your controlled substances and could you please show us where you keep them?”

“I don’t have to show you, right?” said Will. “You’d need a search warrant or something along those lines.”

“We sure would.”

“The Constitution, Lieutenant. It’s a wonderful thing.” He stood, handed his coffee to his wife, and said, “C’mon, nothing to hide. But let’s make it snappy.”

CHAPTER

30

Sandra remained in the house as we followed Will outside. Next to the unmarked was another Ford pickup, blue with an extended cab, big mag wheels, and a sign on the door advertising his practice.

He veered toward the small pen, where the goats and sheep clamored to greet him. Petting and nuzzling, he laughed and said, “Catch you later, kids, pun intended,” and continued to the mini-me cabin.

Up close it was a solidly built little structure, the red clapboard smooth and freshly painted, a sliding white barn door in perfect plumb and secured with a dead bolt and a beefy brass padlock.

“This secure enough for you?” Pulling out a big chromium key ring, he used one key to spring the lock, another to release the bolt. Then he slid the door to the right, reached in and flipped a light switch, and stood aside.

“After you.”

The interior was larger than Suzanne DaCosta’s garage but not by much, white-walled with a drop ceiling and a black linoleum floor.

No office equipment, just tools for the art of healing animals.

The largest fixture was a steel-topped examining table with a green, triangular base. Growing up in the Midwest, I’d seen a lot of that green: John Deere tractors. Protruding from the base was a steel tilt level and a red foot pedal. At the head of the table stood a surgical lamp; off to the side were two forbidding metal chairs.

The facing walls housed unoccupied wire kennels. The wall perpendicular to the cages was a white metal floor-to-ceiling cabinet with side-by-side doors each sporting a Red Cross decal.

Another pair of locks. Medecos; serious hardware. Will Burdette rotated his key ring and opened them.

Inside were metal shelves holding bottles and boxes neatly stacked and arranged. Rubber gloves, IV setups, disposable surgical tools, syringes of varying size, pills, powders, liquids.

He drew out a box at the top of the pile and another sitting next to it.

“This one’s fentanyl patches and this is the liquid we use for infusions. There are also inhalers available—that’s what screws up a lot of human addicts, too easy to get high. But I’ve found them tough to use on horses and cows.”

Replacing the boxes, he brought out two others. “These are my