Wine Glasses

By John A. Tures

“The last thing Professor Cavanaugh said was ‘wine glasses,’” Dr. Anna Westland said. She sighed, pulling back several strands of her curly red hair that had gotten loose from her bun, another factor of working the late shift at Cook County Hospital. Her pale blue scrubs still contained a few blood stains from another patient she worked to save in the E.R. “He came to us unconscious, briefly recovered enough to say those words, then closed his eyes for the last time.”

Detective Rozatti’s frown was clear to her even through the dull lights of the interrogation room at the nearest precinct. Then he proceeded with his take on Cavanaugh’s demise. “The poison was strychnine, mixed with the Burgundy. But the wine glass before him came up empty for prints. For good measure, we had the wine bottle examined too…no fingerprints. I’m thinking it was a suicide.”

He slid a photo across the table, a shot of a desk. Also in the picture, there was a wine bottle, wine glass, and a pair of eyeglasses, along with a typewritten sheet of paper.

Rozatti’s partner, Detective Curry, shook his head. “My guess is that it was a pro. The wine glass and bottle were wiped clean to hide all traces of seasoned killer.”

The doctor rubbed her eyes. “Detectives Rozatti and Curry…when Cavanaugh was brought in, he wasn’t wearing gloves, you know. But he was wearing his specs.”

Rozatti and Curry exchanged curious looks. “I fail to see how that’s relevant,” the former began, rubbing his glasses.

“Don’t you see, gentlemen?” The doctor’s tone tried to hold back her exasperation. “It was an amateur, probably a family member who came up for the book release party at the mansion, looking to speed up the will process and access to the old professor’s estate.”

Detective Curry laughed. “Okay, Dr. ‘Watson’…I mean Westland. We get a couple of wannabe sleuths who read mystery novels and can’t wait to crack their first case. But leave it to the professionals to find this hitman, if it is a killing and not a suicide.”

“In fact, I would check the optical prescriptions of Cavanaugh’s relatives who came up for the book release reception,” she added, a gleam in her eye.

How did she know?

“Cavanaugh’s prints weren’t on the bottle,” she pointed out. “Or on the glasses. He wasn’t wearing gloves. So how did he avoid getting fingerprints on either? I doubt he deliberately drank poison, wrote a suicide note, and then wiped fingerprints off both objects.”

Rozatti shifted in his seat as though he had an itch, but Curry pressed his case. “You can’t rule out a pro job, though. They’re always careful enough to wipe away any fingerprints.”

“In your experience, detective, would they wipe away the target’s fingerprints?” Her eyes bored into his. “Wouldn’t they put Cavanaugh’s prints on the glass and bottle? Wiping them off would call attention to the fact that he was poisoned and not a victim of a suicide.”

Curry suddenly found a knot in the wooden table very interesting, instead of her stare.

“And there’s the matter of Cavanaugh’s last word: glasses.” Now she was relishing the role of being the mystery-solver. 

“There was only one wine glass, so why imply two?” she continued. “The professor was calling attention to the pair of eyeglasses on the table. His own were on his face when they brought him in. Would you be so good as to bring in the other specs from the table?”

Curry muttered something but wriggled out of his chair and headed for the door. “The professor was near-sighted because…” she began, but Rozatti cut her off.

“How do you know that? ‘Cause he read a lot?”

“His glasses’ lenses were concave,” she explained. “I bet the others are convex, a different type of lens.”

Curry brought in the new pair, confirming Westland’s theory.

“So I’m guessing after poisoning Cavanaugh, the killer accidentally left them behind,” Anna hooked a finger under her lip. “The guilty person was probably stressed by the poisoning, focusing on wiping the prints off the bottle and glass, which ironically gave him, or her, away. I am betting that a relative of Cavanaugh’s who was at the party at his mansion for his latest book-release was far-sighted. It should reveal the killer.”

“I’ll go check the records now,” Curry gruffly stated. “We might be able to make the collar before the end of the day.” 

Anna slumped in her chair in relief and checked her watch. “Can I go home now? I’ve had a long night shift and my cat…”

“Dr. Westland, just one more thing,” Rozatti jumped in.

Her senses were now on full alert. “Yes…” she began wearily.

“From time to time, like now, we get crimes of a medical nature and maybe could use a little logic too.” The detective’s palms were now open. “Maybe you could help us out with some of them, as a paid consultant of sorts.”

She thought of her medical school loans and how this side gig could help them disappear. It’s why she was pulling the extra shift in the dead of night.

“Yeah, detective, I think I’d like that.”

“Care to discuss it over a glass of wine?”

“Glass of wine?” she sputtered. After all that just happened…plus the guy was probably old enough to be her father. Then she noted his toothy grin and the touch of his wedding ring. “Oh you…had me fooled, Detective Rozatti,” she laughed. 

“I gotcha there, doctor,” he chuckled. 

Anna smiled. “Yes, I’ll be glad to do some consulting, but I won’t ‘drink’ to your other offer.”