Toward the end of the chapter I found information on the white lines on the fingernails. The cause is a damaged nail root in which the new nail tissue is formed with calcium deposits that impart the white color. The precise role of Nandrolex in this process isn’t understood, but it is supposed that “…the drug inhibits or enhances the activity of any of several enzymes critical to the process of nail growth.”
I spent the next hour reading about other anabolic steroids. Most had the nasty side effects of Nandrolex, but nowhere else could I find a mention of the white striations.
A voice asked, “Would you like some coffee?” I’d nodded off just moments before Charles and Dr. Peters returned. The book I was reading lacked plot. “Ah, I’ll bet you’ve been reading about Nandrolex,” said Peters, glancing down at the book, not waiting for my reply to the coffee question. “A good idea, Dagny, because Troy Stanton has the telltale striations. Barely visible, mind you, but Dr. Clarke and myself agree that that’s what they are. We removed a couple of fingernails for analysis.”
“Could Nandrolex be the cause?” I asked.
“Possibly, but not for sure,” answered Peters. “I’ve asked a friend of mine, Jeanette Briggs, to come down for a couple of minutes. She’s a pharmacologist and she may have some insights to share with us.”
The intercom buzzed. Peters flicked a switch. The receptionist announced the arrival of Dr. Briggs. “Send her in, please.”
In a moment, a head of blond curls peered around the door. “You in here, Bob? Jesus, this place gives me the creeps!”
“Come in, Jeanette. The bodies are all put away,” said Peters.
The rest of Dr. Jeanette Briggs came through the door. Thick glasses with heavy rims gave an otherwise handsome face a studious appearance. A starched white lab coat hid most of the rest of her from view, though I could tell she was wearing a blouse and skirt underneath. Her calves were thick, not from exercise, but because some women are built that way—piano legs is the unkind term for it. Her hands had a powdery look; the unpolished nails were cut short and she wore no jewelry: clues that she was a frequent wearer of disposable gloves.
Peters made brief introductions. We shook hands, Briggs holding Charles’s a moment longer than I thought necessary. I couldn’t blame her.
Peters summarized events succinctly, starting with Judy’s death and autopsy. I was impressed. He told Briggs nothing irrelevant, wasted not a single word, and yet was comprehensive. When I mentioned it later to Charles, he said it comes from long years of reporting medical results to a tape recorder, a practice in which conciseness is at a premium.
“Did you look for signs of steroid abuse?” asked Briggs.
“No signs of abuse, eh, Charles,” said Peters, “but we’re relying on your lab to test for Nandrolex.”
“The effects aren’t always obvious,” noted Briggs. She rubbed her chin with the back of her wrist. “What mystifies me is why in both cases the striations appear to have originated close to the time of death. I know of nothing toxic that’d both kill and leave the white lines. Besides, both died as a result of hanging?” She looked to the doctors for confirmation. Both nodded.
“We didn’t find any toxicity in any event,” added Charles. “Liver, pancreas, adrenals, kidneys, spleen, brain, all appeared normal. Of course we’ll have to wait for the rest of the lab results.”
Now Peters was chin-rubbing.
“Maybe we should talk to someone at Wellex,” I chimed in. They all looked at me. “Isn’t Nandrolex manufactured by Wellex?” It was a rhetorical question. “Maybe they have some ideas about what else might cause the changes to fingernails.”
“Yes, of course,” said Briggs, as much to herself as to us. “I forgot that Nandrolex is a Wellex product. It’s a little out of their specialty.”
“What is their specialty?” I asked.
“Deriving drugs from natural sources. Their scientists spend as much time in Angeles National Forest as they do in their labs. Nature’s drug store is as impressive as man’s, and Wellex has exploited its bounty.”
“And Nandrolex is a synthetic, non-natural drug, is that the point?” I asked, rhetorically, again, since I’d just read up on it.
“That’s right,” said Briggs, “though they may have learned to modify a naturally occurring chemical to make it. However it’s made, it’s company-confidential. You can count on that. Pharmaceutical companies are very proprietary, very protective of their sources and manufacturing methods.”
“Couldn’t we ask them for help?” I persisted, though I’d already added a visit to Wellex to my ever-growing list of things to do.
Briggs answered, “As I said, they’re secretive. Their scientists wouldn’t discuss their products with me. They’d get fired if they did. You might be able to approach the management.”
Nobody else seemed able to shed light on the matter. All agreed the coincidence of the striations was remarkable; no one had an explanation.
The conversation changed to medical small talk and hospital chitchat. Before leaving, Charles had to sign some documents regarding Troy’s autopsy. Dr. Peters promised to send him a complete report including lab results.
I gave out business cards with the usual request. Dr. Briggs promised to call if she thought of anything significant.
We got back to Santa Barbara around dinnertime. I didn’t want to say goodbye to Charles quite yet, though my mind was swimming with worries about Lucy and ideas about Judy and Troy.
We opted for a seaside restaurant called The Beach House for dinner. At a secluded table, we were reminiscing about the weekend and Charles was saying some very sweet things. I took his hand, to put it to my cheek. As it passed under the light of our table lamp, I cried out in surprise. “Charles, your fingernails!” White striations were starting to form at the roots of the nails of the thumb and index finger of his right hand.
Chapter 14
Charles was calm. He asked for my pocket “torch.” I got it out of my purse and handed it to him. He examined each of his nails carefully under its light. He furrowed his brow a little deeper each time he found the beginnings of a white line. In all, five nails showed the signs.
My first thought was that Charles was going to die. My brain reversed the temporal order I’d observed of death followed by striations, to striations followed by death. Aloud I wondered, “How can this be?” Our minds converged instantly on Charles’s whereabouts three days ago, and on what he could possibly have in common with the two dead students. At the same time I looked at Charles’s face. His abrasions were healing but they were still visible even in the dim light. And then it hit me. With a heavy thud, one ugly piece of the puzzle fell in place.
Judy and Troy were murdered. They were knocked out by a dart from a tranquilizer gun, as Charles had been in the goldmine. Knowing how instantly Charles went down, I would guess neither victim felt a thing. They were hanged while unconscious, thus leaving no traces of a struggle.
But not no traces at all. Thanks to a power outage and a meticulous medical examiner, the singular effect of the fingernail striations came to light.
Realization struck us both at the same time. I retrieved my phone and called the Worthingtons again, full of a sickening fear for Lucy, and hoping beyond hope that she had called again. She hadn’t. I handed the phone to Charles so he could call Peters at home to fill him in.
While he talked, I sipped on my gin and tonic and tried to deduce what Peters was saying, based on Charles’s half of the conversation. That was difficult because Charles was mostly listening and nodding every few seconds. Peters had a lot to say and by the end of the call, a good ten minutes later, I was squirming with curiosity.
“What’s up with Peters? He talked a long time.”
“He thinks he knows what happened. The lab, with Dr. Briggs’s help, found the metabolic remains of a thio-pentobarbital compound.”
I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
“Something akin to sodium pentothal,” explain
ed Charles. “You know, the stuff they call truth serum in old movies. It’s a potent anesthetic that produces rapid unconsciousness for short periods. It’s used in hospitals because it puts the patient under instantly and comfortably, after which the longer-lasting gaseous anesthetics can be administered.”
“Did they find any Nandrolex?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Even though they left Troy off the ice, they took bodily fluids while they were fresh. He was full of the bloody stuff.”
“But why both drugs? I don’t get the steroid part of the formula.”
“Ah, that’s what Peters was going on about. He and Briggs put their heads together and have a hypothesis. The Nandrolex retards the metabolization of the anesthetic, thus extending the period of unconsciousness long enough for the victim to be hanged and asphyxiated.”
“Then that does it. We know Troy’s a homicide. We can go to the cops.”
“Not so easy. The coroner isn’t convinced there’s a link. She says the metabolic traces could’ve been left over from some thio-pental he took as a downer. The poor fool also had heavy traces of tetrahydrocannabinol in his bloodstream—you know, the active ingredient of marijuana, often called THC. It makes him look like a druggie.”
“But what about the Nandrolex?” I protested.
“Peters pressed that point with the coroner, but Troy could’ve been using it for bodybuilding, and it’s common knowledge that you can buy steroids on the Internet. There isn’t actually any direct evidence that the Nandrolex does indeed interact with the anesthetic. It’s a bit hypothetical.”
Charles paused in thought, wrinkling his brow, and then continued, with tension in his voice, “The damning thing is that if we had similar results for Judy, then once both coroners saw the identical pattern, they’d jump on it. As it is, they’re not going to stick their necks out. Damn, if I’d only looked sooner for the Nandrolex in Judy! As it is, the striations alone aren’t sufficiently convincing. What a carve up!” He massaged more wrinkles into his forehead.
“Charles, darling.” I took his hand in both of mine. “Don’t lay a guilt trip on yourself. If you hadn’t noticed Judy’s fingernails we’d be totally clueless.”
“We are totally clueless.”
“No, we’re not. We know that two deaths that were supposed to look like suicides were actually homicides. We know the MO. We know there’s a Churok connection, either through the gold mine or in some other way. We know that they, whoever they are, know we know something.”
“Which reminds me,” Charles interrupted, “that you must be very careful. I’m not so sure that you weren’t the target in the mine.”
“I’m not sure, either. I think we both need to stay alert. Can you shoot?”
“Actually, yes. My father thought a gentleman should know how to shoot a shotgun and a pistol—the one for grouse, the other for other gentlemen.”
“I’m going to lend you John’s Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. It’s a heavy, ugly brute, 20 years old, but it’ll do the job. Even if you miss, the bang will scare most people away.” Charles looked at me narrowly but didn’t go into a big macho act and refuse.
“Funny,” he said, “but I have the right to carry a concealed weapon. I guess they consider medical examiners auxiliary law enforcement. Thanks for the offer.”
“Great, I’m breathing easier already. Look, here’s what I want to do. First, I’m going to make myself believe Lucy’s okay and is having a good time shacked up somewhere with Captain Wonderful. I’m not going to worry about her for twenty-four hours. In that time, I want to find out whether that friggin’ gold mine’s worth killing over. You mentioned something about assayers when we were driving up to San Fran. Do you have any ideas as to what I can do?”
“I hadn’t thought of it before, but there’s a bloke named Dave MacAllen who works in our lab. He’s an avid rock collector and amateur geologist. He loves geology, but makes a better living as a biochemist. Let’s put your question to him.”
He looked at his watch. It wasn’t very late. Out came the cell phone. Charles placed the call and used a conversational style that I call the small talk sandwich. Charles first made some small talk with MacAllen: weather, sports, wife’n’kids. Then he got to the meat of the call. He hand-signaled me for a pen and took some notes on a paper napkin. Some further small talk completed the sandwich and he was finished.
“Dave says to check with the State Bureau of Mines. Since Santa Barbara’s the county seat, they have an office in town. It’s an address on State Street.” He gave me the napkin. I folded it and put it in my bag with the intention of going there first thing in the morning.
After dinner I suggested we drive to John’s office. He kept the .357 in a desk drawer and I wanted to give it to Charles that night. I’d learned a lot from John about how to move safely from building to car and car to building, and how to detect a tail while navigating around the city. Our adversary was unwilling to commit out-and-out murder, at least so far, and the tranquilize-and-kill approach, with the ambiguity of suicide, was less effective in public or against two people.
The parking lot outside the Beach House looked harmless enough. Charles drove, bemused at my directions that spiraled us toward downtown. It made spotting a tail easy, but there was nothing suspicious.
There were several phone messages on the office’s answering machine, but none from Lucy or the Worthingtons. I didn’t even listen to a message once I knew it wasn’t about her.
I unlocked the drawer with the .357 and got it out for Charles, along with a couple of dozen rounds. “Have you ever fired one of these?”
“This particular model, no.”
“This sucker kicks like a mule with the .357 cartridges. The two or three times I used it, I loaded it with .38 specials. They’re far easier on the hand and they’ll stop a person as quickly as the .357s. Of course the .357s will also stop an elephant, but I for one am in favor of avoiding elephants, not shooting them.”
I handed him the weapon. He hefted it and turned it over a few times, releasing, spinning, and reseating the cylinder, cocking and decocking the hammer. Finally he flipped open the cylinder again and filled it with six of the mini-dynamite .357 rounds. I hoped fervently he would not be obliged to shoot anything.
I had Charles drive me home. We circled the block carefully. Over his mild protest I made him drop me off. I needed an evening alone to think, and a good night’s sleep. Before exiting the car, I reached in my bag and withdrew my semi and cocked it. I promised Charles I’d call him in the morning. I bootlegged the baby Glock on my hip like a quarterback on an end-run, and scurried to the front door and safety of John’s house.
The light on the answering machine was blinking. I was hoping one of the messages would be from Lucy. No such luck, but when I played the last message, Tommy’s basso boomed out of the tiny speaker.
“Dagny, this is Tommy. I don't remember if I told you that Starry Night has a daughter. She joined the Peace Corps a year before her mother died. She came by the house Sunday. She said she didn't know why, but she had an urge to see me. I told her about your visit and she’d like to talk to you.”
There was a pause, as if he were collecting his thoughts, or wondering how much he should tell me over the phone.
“She's a lot like her mother. Very intuitive, very tuned-in. She wanted to…oh, never mind, this is too long for the machine. I think you should come back up and meet her. Call me as soon as you can. Call any time.”
I tried to get everyone's ages into perspective. Starry Night died twenty or so years ago. Kids went into the Peace Corps when they were in their late teens or early twenties. The daughter must be in her forties. I wondered why she hadn't followed in her mother's footsteps, or how she felt about Tommy, or whether she knew Akrich—no, how well she knew him. And who was the girl's father? I was thinking of her, older than me, as a girl because I was thinking of her as she was back in the '60s.
I called Tommy. He had related the entire course of events
that brought me to the Churok reservation to Melanie—that was the daughter's name. “She wants to talk about this very much,” said Tommy. “If you can't drive up, maybe you can call.”
I’m not high on telephone interviews if I can avoid them. I prefer to read the face, the eyes, and the body as I listen. I wanted to speak with Melanie in person.
“I’d like to drive up,” I told Tommy. “I’m not sure when, exactly. Let me get back to you.”
At nine o’clock sharp the next morning, I was at the door of the California State Bureau of Mines. A wiry, tanned man in gray slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt unlocked the door for me. A network of milky blue veins crisscrossed the browned sphere of his bald head, which was dotted with aging spots. He spoke with the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker.
“I’m Harry Wagner. How can I help you, uh, miss?” His eyes darted to my left hand, then back to my face.
I introduced myself, showed my P.I. license, and began to fib a little. “I represent the family of Judy Raskin. She’s the young woman who committed suicide last week. You may have read about it.”
“Yes, I remember. Terrible thing. Made me think of my own three daughters. C’mon back here and sit down.”
He was talking as he ushered me down a corridor toward his office. “The youngest would be about your age. She was depressed once and tried to kill herself. It was a hard time to get through.”
“Is she okay now?”
“She’s fine. Got two boys herself—go ahead and sit right there—one just graduated junior high school, one just graduated elementary school. Sounds kind of funny, graduating elementary school, but they had a ceremony, gave him a diploma, the whole she-bang.”
He took a chair behind a government-issue oak desk. I let him wind down on how bright, clever, handsome and devilishly charming his grandsons were, inserting clucks, smiles, and nods where appropriate.
The Evil That Men Do Page 13
