The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “Anyone trapped down there?”

  “Don’t think so. But it’s hard to tell. We’re not going to know until we get it emptied.”

  Julie watched as three men rigged a generator and pump, pulling hoses toward the interior shell of the building. Soon the water from the room was gushing from a hose through a sophisticated set of filters back into a large holding tank on the back of a truck.

  “Evidence. We keep everything if we think it might help,” the chief explained. “And, believe me, you never know.”

  Most bystanders had left the scene after the cockroach episode. A few hardy souls watched from across the street, but even those were asked to move when the Orkin personnel arrived. Two men in bright yellow rubber suits and matching helmets pulled hoses from their truck, then checked with the chief before fanning out, nozzles in hand, to spray the parking lot.

  “Will you be able to get all of them?” Julie asked the man closest to her.

  “We’ll use chlorpyrifos. It should do the trick.”

  Julie watched as the lethal mist settled into crevices, and those black insects who had not reached freedom suddenly flipped on their backs, legs wiggling in the air.

  The chief had left the truck to walk back toward the building. Two firemen struggled to lift an awkward bundle wrapped in canvas over the threshold before putting it down in the parking lot. A body, Julie thought. She motioned to the cameraman, but he was already getting footage from his vantage point beside the Orkin truck.

  “Has there been an identification?” Julie asked the chief when he returned.

  “The owner, Anthony Chang.”

  “Cause of death?” She thought he hesitated.

  “This is speculative. I’ll say I never said it if you quote me, but the victim suffered a blow on the head and that could have—”

  “Intentional?”

  “Now you’re asking questions the coroner will have to answer.”

  “But he died from a blow on the head?”

  “I didn’t say ‘died’ from the blow. In all probability, he drowned. He was floating in that underground room we found.”

  + + +

  “Good luck or good planning?” Douglas Anderson stood in front of Bob Crenshaw’s desk.

  “A lot of good luck Did you know he had a computer room below ground?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “It could have worked against us. We were damn lucky,” Bob said.

  “Are the coroner’s findings complete now? Death by drowning after suffering a blow on the head more than likely caused by the explosion of lab chemicals?”

  “Yeah. As far as I know. Sit down. Let me check with Julie Conlin. She’s been on the story from the start.” Bob pressed Julie’s extension and flipped the conference call button.

  “Julie. Anything new on that fire story? Or is everyone satisfied that Mr. Chang was the victim of his own lab’s volatility?”

  “That was the last word I got. There was a report in this morning’s Journal about the neighborhood being up in arms over the roaches. Hopefully, you have stock in Orkin,” Julie said.

  Bob laughed. “I’ll check with my broker. Thanks.” Bob switched the phone off. “Satisfied?”

  “We squeaked by this time. My God, that could have been a disaster,” Douglas said.

  “Don’t dwell on it. Our lives are charmed. A year from now we’ll be laughing ...”

  “Yeah, yeah, all the way to the proverbial bank,” Douglas finished. “Don’t knock it. I haven’t seen you turn down money recently.”

  “I just hope to hell you’re right,” Douglas said.

  Both men turned at the two short knocks before the door opened, and Julie walked in.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone with you. I just wanted to leave a copy of the transcript of my interview with the coroner. Thought it might be helpful.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be tied up awhile, but I’ll catch you later.”

  “Of course. My apologies for interrupting.” Julie smiled at Bob and the older man in the meticulously pressed pinstripe suit then closed the door behind her.

  + + +

  The old man sat leaning against the mud wall of the hut, his legs crossed in front of him, and stared at Johnson. Johnson didn’t have a good feeling. He found the missing patent loafer that morning stuck in the chimney of his wood stove. But not until after he had smoked the house up by lighting a fire. He didn’t believe that it had gotten there as a prank. Plus, he had begun to hear voices. So, here he was making arrangements with the medicine man to get rid of the spell—cast out the witches from his life.

  Johnson sat in front of the man on the ground. The dampness and cold began to make him uncomfortable. His dress slacks started to feel clammy and stick to his backside. He shifted his weight. He knew the old healer would take his time, think about the ceremony that he would need to perform, and then set a date. This was just the first step.

  For the cure, the old man would put two tail-feathers of the red-tailed hawk on his upper lip. This enabled the medicine man to see witches even in darkness and swoop down upon them with the speed of the hawk. He would wear a bear paw complete with claws on his right arm. No witch could survive his power. These men were known as tsiwi or “those of the sweeping eyes.” They saw all.

  “In ten moons.” The old man spoke. Johnson wondered what date that was. Ten nights from today.

  “Follow the ways of your people. Pray to the Po wa ha to guide you. Let the akon gein stand guard.”

  Why should he let dogs stand guard? Was it that bad? His life was in danger. But, hadn’t he known that?

  “There will be one more death before the dying ends, before death’s house is full. But know, my son, not all death is due to cowardice or accident or anger; some are valiant in death—leaders remembered by all.”

  Johnson waited but there wouldn’t be anything more. The old man made a motion to dismiss him. Johnson stumbled when he tried to stand. One of his legs was completely numb. He hobbled toward the door and out into the gray, overcast day and walked back up the road to his office. Mary had put a copy of the Journal on his desk, but he pushed it aside. He couldn’t stand to read about Tony Chang another time. The victim of an accident. Maybe Johnson knew differently. Somewhere deep down, he knew that Tony had known too much. Had been a threat. Had been taken care of.

  Johnson walked to the bookcase, now without the protective glass doors, and pulled out a dictionary. Flattened between the pages in the middle was the packet of pumpkin seeds he had taken from the hospital lab. Maybe it was time to put his plan into operation. His insurance plan. He sat at his desk, picked up a pen and began a note.

  + + +

  “Say that again. Did I hear seventy thousand dollars?” Sandy sat forward, elbows on his desk.

  “Here’s the brochure.” Ben pointed to a picture of a boat like Johnson’s.

  “Nice.”

  “Somehow I can’t see Johnson bucking the waves at the Butte in that or anything else.”

  “I know. Me, either.”

  “Julie thinks the money had to have come from some deal involving the casino.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m going to find out, but I’m not too sure I’m comfortable going after the governor of the pueblo. One of these days I’ll be able to start that alcohol program in the community. He could make my life miserable if we’re wrong.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I guess I’m relying on Julie to do most of the work.”

  “Preston Samuels is holding on one.” Gloria waved hello to Ben from the doorway.

  “Thanks, Gloria.” Sandy picked up the receiver. “Ben, stick around. This could be interesting.”

  “Pres, what’s the good news?”

  “Well, I think it falls more in the category of bad and maybe not so bad.”

  “Great choice. What have you found?” Sandy asked.

  “Let me just say that I wished I had this person on
my side. I could use someone with expertise like this. I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be behind it?”

  “Not so far. Sounds like you think we’re looking for a specialist.”

  “He or she would have to be. For instance, the kernels of the four pumpkin seeds that you sent me had been treated with minute particles of an altered viral agent known to be most threatening to people over forty years of age. For the elderly, it acts suddenly and lethally.”

  “A synthetic?” Sandy asked.

  “Not entirely. Here at the CDC, we’ve been in possession of Hantavirus strains from samples taken in Japan, China, Scandinavia, India and even New Orleans. This particular strain’s origin was the Korean striped field mouse. As a rule, it carries hemorrhagic fever. Outbreaks are almost always in adults. Especially those forty years of age or more. Children seem almost immune.”

  “We lost around two hundred soldiers in the Korean war to the virus, right?”

  “Right. And because your virus was attacking lungs and not kidneys, we didn’t suspect a Hanta at first. It was only after we found evidence of a Hantavirus in rodents from the area that we were sure. Then, of course, it also started showing up in human tissue and blood samples.”

  “Let’s go back a bit. You think someone altered the virus to attack the lungs?”

  “We’re sure of it. The chemical makeup of the saliva from the Korean striped field mouse is alike in type with that found in the bandicoot—”

  “Bandicoot?”

  “Large rat like the brown wharf rat but is found in India. We’ve had rats in our coastal towns in the U.S. test positive for Hantaviruses for some time now.”

  “Comforting,” Sandy said.

  “One of the things that made us suspect human intervention is the use of saliva from the bandicoot. If they’d just stayed with the domestic brown rat, we might still be stuck. But the bandicoot saliva gave it away. That’s definitely an import.”

  “How was it done?”

  “I can tell you what we think happened, but it may be years before we unravel the biochemistry behind it. Remember New Mexico’s L-tryptophan scare in ’89? We discovered the agent, an impurity from a Japanese lab, but we’re still working on why the contamination worked the way it did.”

  “I can live with a guess,” Sandy said.

  “I hate educated guesses but, frankly, that’s all we may have for awhile. We’re probably working with a bacteriophage virus. A virus that preys only on bacteria cells.”

  “Complete with little spike-like feet that act as receptors,” Sandy said.

  “You’re getting the picture. As you know a bacteriophage injects its own DNA into the cell and converts the cell’s reproductive machinery into a virus factory.”

  “And if the virus acquires bits of the cell’s own DNA in the process, the virus can mutate and evolve into a new form very quickly.”

  “Exactly. Take the bandicoot, a carrier of a Hantavirus that no specific illness has been associated with yet, and cross its genetic material with that of the Korean striped field mouse, known to carry a virus deadly to older adults; you then have a new virus, in this case one which attacks the lungs of older people.”

  “Amazing. Wonder how long it took someone to come up with this?” Sandy asked.

  “I doubt if the person had the good luck to marry these two right out of the chute and get what he wanted. More than likely, we’re looking at years of research and possibly some trial and error using human guinea pigs.”

  “You’re not exactly painting the picture of a humanitarian.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Any explanation for why it stopped preying on the elderly and started attacking younger people?”

  “Another alteration. We’re running tests now, but we think initially the pumpkin seeds could infect a host, in this case human, through their ingesting the seeds; then, the originally doctored seeds were eaten by a genus-related species, in this case deer mice, and the virus, now altered once again, reverted to a pattern of indiscriminate infection no longer bound by its DNA to attack primarily one age group. The mice had become a reservoir allowing the new-type virus to jump to other animal species like humans.”

  “Simple case of genetic and evolutionary modification in response to opportunities in their environment,” Sandy said.

  “Certainly answers the question of why it remained localized.”

  “Exactly. I might add we found traces of mouse droppings in the aluminum packet. Wherever it was kept, mice had access to it. So, at least, that part of the mystery is solved.”

  “Now what?”

  “Our findings have been turned over to the feds. There may be someone in the files whose MO matches what’s happened. Who knows? I’m just glad our part has been so productive.”

  “And we continue to trap rodents in the pueblo area?” Sandy asked.

  “Absolutely. Trap and test. We’ll expand our operation to include all of New Mexico and spot-test areas close by in Colorado and Arizona.”

  “Let us know if anything changes,” Sandy said.

  “You do the same.” Sandy hung up the phone.

  “Did you follow most of that?” Sandy asked Ben.

  “I think so. It’s difficult to think my grandmother was the innocent victim of some plot—that she just sort of accidentally got in the way.”

  “I know. Ten innocent people died and another half dozen came close.”

  The two men sat in silence. Ben thought of how his grandmother had died; how he had been cheated of spending time with her, living with her in the village, learning the ways of his people. Did she know that he had decided to work in Indian health?

  “I want to catch the murderer,” Ben said.

  “Listen, I think we just leave everything in the hands of the feds. You could get in the way of their investigation—”

  “Or help. I know the reservation. If Johnson Yepa is involved then they need to know. Julie can help. It’s important for me to do this.”

  “I understand but I wish I could talk you out of it. You’re valuable to us here, alive and well.”

  “Thanks. But I have to find out.”

  “Be careful. It wasn’t a bunch of born-yesterday cream puffs who came up with this plan.”

  “I know,” Ben said.

  “The evidence is conclusive? There really is someone out there who committed mass murder?” Julie asked when Ben stopped by her place later.

  “Yeah. Sobering thought, isn’t it? Why the pueblo was targeted, we don’t know. I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I keep coming back to Johnson Yepa’s seventy thousand dollar boat. Someone paid him to do something. They must have,” Julie said.

  “He could have gotten some kind of kickback for allowing the casino on Tewa land.”

  “Is that illegal?” Julie asked.

  “Probably not. There could be a problem if the tribe knew. Lining his own pockets possibly at the expense of others. But the feeling around the pueblo is that the casino will bring in jobs. Most people honestly support it. So if Johnson made something for bringing industry in, they’d probably look the other way.”

  “I could interview him about the casino and just see what he says.” Julie sat facing him. “That would be a good place to start. Just feel him out about what he hopes to do for the tribe by bringing this kind of industry to the pueblo.”

  “I suppose you should keep it low-key. You don’t want to scare him off. And, he may be perfectly innocent.”

  “You have to remember that I saw Johnson’s face when Lorenzo put the fake lab packet on his desk. He was traumatized. My gut feeling says he’s in it up to his gooey hairline.”

  “And we both know that Lorenzo can’t testify. So, what do we have?”

  “Not a lot.” Julie smiled ruefully. “Okay, back to square one. Are there any other leads besides Johnson? Anything we’ve overlooked?”

  Ben had borrowed Gloria’s scrapbook and moved to sit beside Julie on her co
uch. “Maybe if we look at the newspaper clippings.” Ben began to turn the pages.

  “Wait.” Julie reached out to turn back a page.

  “I’d almost forgotten about the little girl from Illinois. Wasn’t she the first survivor?”

  “Yeah. And more damning evidence for Johnson. The seeds that made her sick came from the governor’s office. I wish that packet hadn’t gotten lost.”

  Ben fell silent and closed the scrapbook. Finally, he walked to the fireplace.

  “What if I started a fire?” he asked.

  “Are you setting the stage for some big romantic evening at home?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “You forget I’m a working girl and it’s after eleven. If I’m going to meet you in Tewa at nine tomorrow morning, I need to get some rest.”

  “Parentheses reads ‘I’m not ready to be alone with a man I’m attracted to.’ Right?”

  “I think we decided that this relationship would have trouble working,” Julie said.

  “Maybe you decided.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was a shared decision.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a raincheck on the fire and romantic evening and a raincheck on a discussion of this relationship thing. See you in the morning.” He kept his voice light. He wasn’t sure that he didn’t agree with her—one thing was for certain, Ben didn’t trust himself to kiss her. And they both probably knew it wouldn’t stop there. Julie stayed on the couch as he let himself out.

  THIRTEEN

  The elm was a survivor, probably because its roots had found the septic tank. Shading the west side of his grandmother’s house, the tree had exacted a price from anyone who climbed it. Skinned knees and one broken wrist had been a part of the summers Ben had spent here.

  The piece of twisted sisal that hung from a thick branch had rotted and gave way easily when he tugged on it. He would use nylon rope this time, safer and longer lasting. Ben didn’t see the Miata pull up across the road from his house.