“All I know is what I heard on the radio,” Garcia said. “They think Bork was poisoned. Probably had that wreck because of that.”
“Do you have the number for the coroner who did the autopsy? I think you said the pathologist was still old Dr. Saunders. That right?”
“Yeah. It’s Roger Saunders,” Garcia said. “Just a minute and I’ll dig out his number for you.”
Leaphorn dialed it, identified himself to a secretary, was put on hold, was told by another older-sounding woman that Dr. Saunders wanted to talk to him and could he hold another minute or two? He held. He switched the phone from right ear to left to allow his aching arm to dangle for a while. He looked around for a shady place to stand out of the warm autumn sun, found one that also allowed him the comfort of leaning on a car fender. He heard a voice saying hello and shifted the phone back to his better ear.
“Dr. Saunders,” he said, “this is Joe Leaphorn. I wondered—”
“Great,” Saunders said. “Aren’t you the cop Garcia told me about? The one who had suspicions about that Bork death? I’ve got some questions for you.”
“It’s mutual then,” Leaphorn said. “You want to go first?”
“What made you suspicious? That’s the big question. It sure as hell looked like just another guy driving too fast, skidding down into the ditch. The crash would have killed him even if he hadn’t been poisoned.”
“Mel was investigating an arson fire. Well, it had been ruled not arson, but it was suspicious-looking, a man burned in it, and just a bit before this wreck happened, a death threat turned up on his answering machine.”
“Death threat,” said Saunders, sounding both pleased and sort of excited. “Really? Tell me about that. Who was doing the threatening? I know he had been up in the San Francisco Peaks area talking with somebody up there just before it happened. Was that who was making the death threats?”
Leaphorn sighed. “A lot of this we don’t know yet,” he said. “When we find out, I’ll fill you in. But what I need to know is how the poison got into him, and how fast it might have worked. Things like that.”
“This is likely to sound odd,” Saunders said, “but it appears that Mr. Bork managed to eat, or possibly drink, something we used to call ‘rat zapper’ back in the days when it was legal to use the stuff. You know anything about toxicology?”
“Not much,” Leaphorn said. “I know arsenic is bad for you, and cyanide is worse.”
Saunders laughed. “That’s what most people know, and I guess that’s why the books on the subject are full of cases using those, and a few others about as popular. The stuff that killed Bork is sodium monofluoroacetate. People have trouble pronouncing that, so toxicologists just call it compound ten-eighty. Back when it was on the public market it was called Fussol, or Fluorakil, or Megarox, or Yancock. For the past thirty years or so, owning it has been illegal except by licensed varmint-control people. We’ve never run into it here before, and none of the people I know in this business have either. You know, I think this case may get me invited to do a paper on it at the next meeting of our national association of folks who poke into corpses.”
“This has me wondering how the poisoner got his hands on it,” Leaphorn said. “Any suggestion?”
“Wouldn’t be too hard out in this part of the world,” Saunders said. “Lots of ranchers and farmers and so forth used it routinely to keep down the rat, mice, and gopher populations. They even used it in coyote bait in some places. Easy to use. It’s based on a extremely toxic substance called…” Saunders paused, “—you ready for some more impossible words? Called dichapetalum cymosum, which they get out of a South African plant. If you found it in a drawer in an old barn, it would probably be in a box, or mason jar, and it would look a lot like regular wheat flour. Very easy to use. Just a tiny amount would be lethal.”
“How tiny?” Leaphorn asked, thinking of Tommy Vang and the fruitcake cherries.
“Well, say you had about the volume equal to the amount of sulphur on the tip of a kitchen match. I’d say that would be enough to kill about ten or twelve men the size of Mr. Bork. But look, Lieutenant, if you want to know more, you could call the absolute national expert on it, a Dr. John Harris Trestrail. Lives in Michigan. I could give you his telephone number. Or you can get it out of one of his books. Best one I know about is called Criminal Poisoning, and it’s sort of the international guide for forensic scientists. People like me.”
“I’ll look for it,” Leaphorn said. “But you have any thoughts about how that poison got into Bork?”
“Something he ate, probably. Maybe something he drank.”
“You could mix it into a cake batter? Something like that? Put it in coffee?”
“You could put it in, I’m sure, because it’s water soluble. Maybe not coffee. It’s odorless, but it might give the coffee a wee bit of an acidic taste. Cake? I don’t know if the baking heat would have any effect.”
“How about one of those fat maraschino cherries like people drop into their cocktails,” Leaphorn asked. “Or stick on top of little cakes. Could you inject a little shot of that stuff into one of those?”
“Sure,” Saunders said. “Perfect. In a cherry the victim would never taste it. Or not until it was too late. Soon as it hits the bloodstream it starts screwing up the nervous system, shutting down the heart. Victim goes into a coma in a hurry.”
“From what I know about this case, the poison must have acted awfully fast. He left the house of a man he’d been questioning outside of Flagstaff and was driving home. He’d been given a lunch bag there while he was leaving, and he only got about twenty miles down the road before he ran off into the canyon. Now, given the fact he was a retired cop, and a very experienced mountain driver, I’d say it would be a matter of a very few minutes.”
“Well, I’d say that fits very well,” Saunders said. “And when you catch the man who doctored up the cherry, I want to hear about it.”
16
While this conversation was winding down, Leaphorn had been keeping a casual eye on various auction attendees milling in the parking lot, hoping to see someone he recognized from his distant past, and failing at that. But as he slid the cell phone back into his jacket pocket he noticed that a young-looking man seemed to have taken an interest in his pickup truck. He was standing right beside it now, peering into the truck bed.
Leaphorn crossed the lot at something close to a trot, passed the hulking Ford 250 King Cab parked at the end of the row, an equally bulky Dodge Ram, and an SUV whose heritage he didn’t identify. Beyond was his pickup, with a slender man leaning way into its bed, and then coming out of it looking at something in his hand. The man was Tommy Vang, and Tommy Vang was holding a paper sack, carefully unfolding its top, preparing to open it.
“Ah, Mr. Vang,” Leaphorn said, “Professor Bourbonette told me you might be coming here to see me.”
Tommy Vang had spun with remarkable agility. He stood, feet spread, facing Leaphorn; his eyes were wide as he sucked in a breath.
“And what have you found there?” Leaphorn asked. “That looks like that lunch sack you so kindly prepared for me at your place.” Leaphorn was talking slowly, intent on Vang’s expression. It had varied from stunned to an unreadable blank.
“That was very polite of you,” Leaphorn added. “I’m sorry to say I’ve been too busy to enjoy it.”
Vang nodded, holding the sack against his chest, looking like a little boy caught stealing.
“What caused you to think of making me a lunch?” Leaphorn reached for the sack, lifted it from Vang’s unresisting hand. “Professor Bourbonette told me you had come to see me in Shiprock. She said you might come here looking for me. Is that correct?”
Vang had regained his composure. He swallowed. Nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I came out to here hoping I could talk to you.”
“Why?”
Vang swallowed again. “To tell you that your friend—that Mr. Bork who came to see us just before you came. To tell you he was killed in a car accid
ent. I thought you should know about that.”
Leaphorn waited, eyes on Vang. “Oh?” he said.
“Yes,” Vang said, producing a smile. “You had come to our house looking for him. Remember?”
“Did Mr. Delos send you?”
Vang hesitated. Thought. “Yes,” he said. Grimaced. Shook his head. “No,” he said. “He has gone to hunt for another elk. But I thought I should come when I heard on the radio how Mr. Bork died.”
Leaphorn unfolded the sack, looked in, saw a neatly made white bread sandwich wrapped in waxed paper and a Ziploc kitchen bag containing what seemed to be a V-shaped slice of something that must be fruitcake.
“This cake of yours looks very good,” he said. “But remember what I told you and Mr. Delos, I never eat it very much because—” he smiled at Vang, and rubbed his stomach “—because for some reason it makes me sick. Ever since I was a boy. We Navajos never did eat much fruitcake. I guess we’re not used to it.”
Vang nodded, looking less tense, suddenly looking pleased. He held out his hand. “Then I am glad you didn’t eat it,” he said. “I will take it back now. It will be stale pretty soon.” He shook his head, frowned disapprovingly. “Not so good anymore anyway, so I will take it away and get rid of it.”
Leaphorn opened the Ziploc bag, slipped out the slice, and inspected it. It was stiff, firm, multicolored from the fruits mixed into it. He noticed a bit of yellow, probably pineapple, and what might be a bit of apple, and a chunk of peach, and lots and lots of dark red spots. Cherry red, Leaphorn thought. And another cherry, a great big one, sat atop the slice.
“I must say it does look delicious,” Leaphorn said. “I think if I had taken it out and looked at it, I would have loved it.” Leaphorn spent a moment admiring the cake, smiling at Tommy Vang. “Where did you learn how to cook like this, like this wonderful cake? Mr. Delos told me that all of your cooking is excellent.”
Vang shrugged, produced a sort of shy, half-embarrassed smile.
“Mr. Delos, he sent me to cooking schools. At first when we stopped in Hawaii, and then again in San Francisco.” The smile broadened, became enthusiastic. “It was a great school there. We baked pies. All kind of pies. And muffins and biscuits. Learned how to bake fish, and make kinds of chowder, and stews with vegetables. Learned just about everything. Even pancakes. Even jackflaps.”
“And this fruitcake.” Leaphorn displayed the slice. “Is this your production?”
“Oh, yes,” Vang said.
“Well, it’s a very pretty piece of work.”
“All but that big cherry on the top. I chop up cherries and mix them in with the batter before I bake, but Mr. Delos, when it is for someone special, then he buys these big, expensive cherries and he decorates the top with them when I take the pan out of the oven.”
Leaphorn considered this a moment.
“This slice here, was this for someone special?”
“Yes! Yes!” Tommy Vang said with a huge smile. “That was specially for you. Mr. Delos came into the kitchen, and he told me a very famous policeman was coming to visit us. He had me take out the cake I had baked for Mr. Bork, and cut another nice slice of it, and then he brought in his bottle of those big cherries he use in his Manhattans, and he decorate it for you.”
“And this is one of those,” Leaphorn asked, touching the cherry on the slice with a fingertip.
Tommy Vang nodded.
Leaphorn removed the cherry, noticed it had lost some of its plumpness, turned it in his fingers, pursed his lips. “It looks delicious,” he said, and opened his mouth.
“Ah,” Vang said. “Mr. Leaphorn.” He held up his hand. “No, I think maybe those special cherries are maybe not carefully preserved. I wonder if maybe they are not so good after they’ve been in the bottle too long. If they haven’t been kept sealed up, in cold storage.”
“Why would you think that? It’s a very good-looking cherry,” Leaphorn said, and held it out toward Vang. “Did you notice this little puncture hole here in the side? I wondered what would have caused that.”
All the good nature was gone now from Tommy Vang’s face. And the tension was back. He leaned forward, staring at the cherry perched between Leaphorn’s thumb and forefinger.
“Right there,” Leaphorn said. “See the puncture mark?” The wind had become gusty now, blowing leaves across the lot, ruffling Vang’s hair. Leaphorn protected the cherry from the dust with his other hand.
“I see it,” Vang said. “Yes. A little hole.”
“Maybe you made it when you put it on the slice of cake. Did you use any sort of pin to do that?”
“No.” Vang said, sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. “Maybe when they put it in the bottle, the cherry people. Maybe that’s what did it?”
“I’ll bet they just pour them into the bottle. Wouldn’t you think? I can’t think of any reason they’d stick a needle into them.”
“I don’t know,” Vang said. He stood, arms folded against his chest, looking at Leaphorn with a sad expression.
Leaphorn replaced the cherry on the slice, deposited the slice into the Ziploc sack, zipped it shut, dropped it into the sack, and folded the sack shut again.
“You said you came to see me about something, Tommy. So let’s sit in my truck awhile, get out of the wind, and let me know what you want to talk about. And I’d like to know more about why you drove all the way out here looking for me. I don’t think it was just to tell me about Mr. Bork being killed because I bet you’d know I probably already had heard about that from the news broadcasts.”
Leaphorn opened the passenger side door, held it.
Tommy Vang stared at him, expression doubtful.
“Please, Tommy. Get in. Something is bothering you. Let’s talk about it. It shouldn’t take long, and then you can go home again.”
“Home,” Tommy said, shaking his head. He climbed in, and Leaphorn took his own seat behind the wheel.
“What’s worrying you, Tommy?”
Tommy was staring at the windshield. “No worry,” he said. “No worry.”
“But it seems to me that something is just sort of bothering you?”
Tommy laughed. “I have a puzzle,” he said. “You are a policeman. You caught me stealing something from your truck. All you do is just talk to me, very polite. You could have arrested me.”
“For stealing a piece of stale fruitcake?”
Tommy ignored that. Just shrugged.
“Then I have a puzzle, too. I don’t know if you heard that the sheriff had an autopsy done to find out what caused Mr. Bork to let his car run down into that canyon. They announced that Mr. Bork had been poisoned. Apparently the poison gets the blame for his car running off the road. He didn’t die in the accident. He was already dead. Did you hear that? Did you think your cake might have made him sick?”
Tommy Vang was looking down, thinking.
“I’ve been wondering if you might have come here to warn me. Just to keep me from eating it?”
“Not the cake,” Tommy said. “The cake wouldn’t have hurt Mr. Bork. The cake I make is good.”
“Then is it the cherry? Is that it?”
“The cherry might be spoiled. Out in the heat. Fruits get rotted, not preserved properly,” Vang said, his voice so choked that Leaphorn could barely understand him. “Maybe that was what got the people sick.”
The people, Leaphorn thought. Other people? Tommy’s command of the nuances of English was somewhat shaky, but he seemed to have more people than just Mel Bork in mind. Leaphorn considered that, decided to let it wait and come back to that question later.
“Well, let’s not worry about that then,” Leaphorn said. “I’m curious about how you got acquainted with Mr. Delos. I guess he worked for our government in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War. Is that where you met him?”
“In Laos,” Tommy said, staring at the windshield. “In our mountains. A long, long time ago.”
Laos? Leaphorn considered that, wishing he had a better recollect
ion of Asian geography and the pattern of that war. If his memory was right, Laos would be on the border of about everything. It would fit Delos’s presumed role as a CIA operative. The CIA was working on all the edges there.
“Is that where you started working for Mr. Delos?”
“My father did,” Tommy said. “And my uncles, and—” he exhaled, shook his head, broke off his study of the windshield to look at Leaphorn “—and about everybody in our village. All the Vangs, and Thaos, and the Chues anyway. All the families except the Cheng men. They had mostly joined the Vietcong. And the Pham. I don’t know about them, but I think they were maybe working with the Pathet Lao.”
“You’re not Vietnamese, then?”
“We were Hmong,” Tommy said. “Our people were running out of China. Getting away from the wars that always went. Coming down into the Laos mountains, I think maybe same time Europeans were migrating into America. My older kinfolks still used Chinese words. But the CIA didn’t mind. They recruited the men in our village. We were already having to fight both the Vietnamese and the Pathet Lao. Trying to protect our villages. And then the Americans came in and wanted us to help them fight their war. That how I got acquainted with the colonel. He wasn’t Mr. Delos then. He was Colonel Perkins. He was recruiting my family members.”
“What did this colonel want you to do for him?”
Tommy produced a wry-sounding laugh. “I guess you would say he was a collector of information. He would come into our house, and my father and uncles, and the men from the Thao and Chue families would come in and talk. And Mr. Delos would tell each one of them where he wanted them to go, and what he wanted them to watch for. Mostly he would be sending them back into Vietnam to watch the trails the Congs were using. When they got back, Mr. Delos would come again, and they would tell him what they had seen.”
“Did he have you doing anything for him?”
Tommy shifted in his seat, wiped his hand across his eyes. “I was too young to be useful at first, and my mother wouldn’t let me go anyway. Then one night my uncle came back, and he said some North Vietnam soldiers had seen them and they had killed my father and my youngest uncle. Or maybe just took them captive. He wasn’t sure, and I never did find out. But after that, the Vietcong came to our village, and my mother and sister and I, we had to hide out in the mountains.”
The Shape Shifter Page 13
