Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  “No. no one was even here last night, except for the burglar. And the animals, of course. It’s … well, I’ve told you about the other things that were stolen. You might as well know about the Blue Goodness also.”

  Michael’s brow furrowed. “Blue Goodness? What’s that?”

  Royal took on a solemn expression. “Blue Goodness is our euthanasia solution. It’s used to put terminally sick animals to sleep. That’s not the official name of the product, of course, but we veterinary doctors have called it that for as long as I can remember. Probably, once upon a time, some vet used the term facetiously, and the euphemism stuck and spread.

  “Blue Goodness is a liquid that contains pentobarbital sodium and phenytoin sodium as the active ingredients. Fluorescent blue dye is included in the formulation to help prevent us from grabbing the wrong bottle and injecting an animal with the poison by mistake. None of the medications we use—antibiotics and such—look anything like Blue Goodness. In addition to having a garish blue color, the liquid is quite thick and syrupy.

  “I phoned Metro as soon as I discovered my supply was missing, because if anyone mistakenly thinks it’s a narcotic and tries to get high on it he could kill himself. It’s an extremely dangerous substance to be out on the streets in the wrong hands.”

  Michael let out a low whistle. “Wow. That is a serious matter. I hope the thief can be found before he—or someone else—gets killed.”

  Mark sat down on the couch next to Michael. “What else was taken last night, Dr. Royal?” he inquired. As the veterinarian listed the stolen items, the detective made copious notes on a lined yellow legal pad.

  An accusatory look crossed Mark Caruso’s face. “Dr. Royal, why didn’t you keep those things locked up, out of harm’s way?”

  “They were locked up,” Royal protested vigorously. “Right over there.” He pointed to a metal cabinet similar in size and shape to a bookcase. The sliding glass doors on the front had been shattered.

  Mark shook his head incredulously. He knew that storing drugs in a glass-front case sitting in full sight of everyone who entered the clinic was tantamount to giving the thief an engraved invitation to steal. “That cabinet wasn’t secure enough,” he commented disparagingly. “The burglar just broke the glass and helped himself to the contents.”

  Royal seemed perturbed by the suggestion that he might have been negligent. “Well, all the law requires me to do is keep the controlled substances under lock and key and maintain a log of the items received and dispensed—which I did. My clinic has been inspected countless times by people from the Board of Pharmacy. They never complained about where I kept the controlled substances.”

  Mark knew there was no point in belaboring the issue. If regulations needed to be tightened, it would be up to the Board of Pharmacy to do so and not him. “Does this building have a burglar alarm?”

  “Yes, of course,” Royal replied. “The storm took the power out, but still, the alarm should have sounded when the front window was broken—that is, the bell should have rung until the system’s back-up battery died. I guess nobody heard it because of the storm. The alarm company never called me at home. I don’t know, maybe they did. Maybe the phones were out, too. I had no idea someone had broken in until I came to work at seven this morning and discovered the front window smashed.”

  Mark tapped his note pad rhythmically. “Let’s see. You had tranquilizers, hypodermic syringes, and hypodermic needles stolen. That suggests the perp might have been a junkie. On the other hand, a prostitute—or perhaps a pimp—could have been after the ketamine. Perhaps some bodybuilder wanted the steroids. Any one of the three types of prime suspects could have taken all of the items. They might have figured they could sell whatever they couldn’t use themselves. I don’t understand why a person would want to steal the Blue Goodness, though, unless he was planning to murder someone.”

  “I don’t think the thief knew what Blue Goodness was used for, Detective Caruso,” Royal opined. “My guess is, the person who ripped off the drugs just grabbed everything in the cabinet and ran.”

  Mark shook his head sadly. “That’s even worse. The thought that someone is walking around with a bottle of deadly poison and doesn’t know what he’s got—maybe a teenage kid who might think he and his friends can get high on it—scares the hell out of me.”

  Royal was well aware of the gravity of the situation. “I agree. My sympathies certainly don’t lie with the burglar, but I wouldn’t want to see him—or anyone else—get killed. I hope the police can get the Blue Goodness back before someone tries to use it.”

  Caruso let out a long sigh. “We’ll try, Dr. Royal, we’ll certainly try.”

  Michael had been silent while Mark was questioning Dr. Royal. Now, he spoke out. “Perhaps I can be of some help,” he volunteered.

  One of Mark’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? How’s that, Michael?”

  “This isn’t the first time someone has stolen something only to find out later that what he took was extremely onerous or hazardous. A veritable Pandora’s box, so to speak. I’ve heard of several instances where containers of radioactive material or contaminated medical waste, such as amputated body parts, were pilfered.

  “Last year we reported in the Times about a widower and his girlfriend who came to Las Vegas to get married at one of the wedding chapels on the Strip. While the couple slept in their motel room, someone broke into the trunk of the man’s car and stole an urn containing the cremated ashes of his late wife. He and his new bride had planned to go to the Grand Canyon the next day and spread the remains over the Colorado River. There’s no accounting for tastes. That certainly isn’t my idea of how to spend a honeymoon.

  “I don’t know who was more upset—the newlyweds, or the thief, when he discovered what he had acquired.

  “Dr. Rex, I’ll use the resources of the Times to get the story of your burglary out to the public. With luck, whoever’s got the Blue Goodness—or someone who knows who has it—will see that it’s turned in.”

  MICHAEL TOOK THE STEPS leading to the Times newsroom two at a time, with Loxen tugging at the leash all the way upstairs. E.J. Geller was anxiously pacing back and forth, waiting for the two of them to arrive. The beagle bounded over to her master, pulling Michael after her.

  “Where’ve you been, Michael? Where’ve you been?” Geller asked grumpily. “It’s nearly lunch time. I thought something was wrong.”

  “Well, you were right, E.J. Something was wrong,” Michael countered.

  Geller reached down and picked up his dog. “What do you mean? Loxen’s all right, isn’t she?” He removed a dog biscuit from his pocket and slipped it in the animal’s mouth.

  Michael relinquished the leash. “Oh, yeah, Loxen’s fine. But Dr. Royal’s clinic was burglarized last night.”

  Geller looked puzzled. “Burglarized? Did the burglar take anything? Were any of the animals stolen? Were any of them hurt?”

  “No, nothing happened to any of the animals. Someone broke into the cabinet where Dr. Royal kept his medications and stole the narcotics. Even worse, they took a bottle of euthanasia solution—something Royal calls ‘Blue Goodness’.

  “Mark Caruso, from Metro’s homicide division, was at the clinic this morning to investigate. He’s worried the thief may think Blue Goodness is some new kind of drug and kill himself experimenting with it. I told Mark we’ll publicize the matter in the Times. Hopefully, someone who has knowledge of the incident will see my story and turn the Blue Goodness in before anyone gets killed.”

  “That’s a good idea, Michael, a good idea. The Times will offer a $500 reward for return of the—what do you call it? Blue Goodness?—to us here at the newspaper. No questions asked, no questions asked. Put that in your article.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Call the TV newsrooms, too. I never like to share a scoop, but this is different. We might be able to save someone’s life. Make sure the stations announce, however, that the Blue Goodness has to be turned in to us
here at the Times offices, else the reward won’t be paid.”

  Michael looked at his watch. It was almost noon. If he didn’t hurry, the people who needed to be contacted at the television stations might be out to lunch and he might miss the deadline for the paper’s afternoon edition. “Do you know where Kimberly is? I’ll have her make the phone calls while I’m writing the article.”

  “I think she’s in your office. That’s where she was a short while ago, anyway. And Michael, one more thing—”

  “Yes?”

  A big smile crossed Geller’s face. “I’m really proud of you. You’re starting to take this newsgathering business seriously. I can tell, I can tell.”

  Four

  DR. GUNTHER HOGG—Gunther Hogg, DVM—reached deep into the Burger King bag and retrieved the last of three Whoppers. Hogg was a big man with a big appetite. Not that he was very tall—only five foot seven—but he weighed 270 pounds. Most of his weight, it seemed, was concentrated around his middle in what is commonly referred to as a beer belly. True to his surname, he had a porcine countenance, with beady little eyes, puffy cheeks, fleshy jowls, a short flat nose sporting large nostrils, and thick lips. He kept his stringy brown hair tied in a ponytail, punk rocker style. Hogg didn’t ride horses—he detested the large, stupid beasts—but, nonetheless, instead of shoes he always wore a pair of cowboy boots.

  Juice from the hamburger dripped down the front of his white smock. It didn’t really matter, for the garment was already heavily soiled with animal fecal matter, urine, and blood. Perhaps tomorrow he would put on a different smock and toss this one in the washing machine. He might as well, for he had run out of clean shorts and socks and he could wash everything at the same time.

  It was different just a month or so ago. Then, his wife would have taken care of his clothes. But ever since she caught him in bed with his girlfriend she refused to do anything for him. No dinners. No laundry. No sex.

  Gunther remembered when he first met the girlfriend. It was on a Friday, late in the afternoon. She had brought her French poodle in for boarding. The woman said she was going away for the weekend and had no one to watch the animal. He’d never seen such a high-strung, temperamental, neurotic canine. Phideaux—that was the dog’s name—took a nip at him every time she had a chance. But Gunther had his revenge. He kicked the bitch whenever no one else was in the clinic.

  The woman brought Phideaux in often, always just before the weekend. Once, Gunther’s curiosity got the best of him and he mustered up enough nerve to ask her suggestively if she was going out of town with her boyfriend for a weekender. She smiled sweetly and said no, she didn’t have a boyfriend, and gave him a come-hither look. He thought it was strange she didn’t have a boyfriend, for she was a damn good looking broad. Sensual features, big boobs, and one of the nicest butts he’d ever had the pleasure of ogling.

  After the fourth or fifth visit—he didn’t remember which—when the woman came in to pick up the mutt she was crying. She said someone had mugged her and stolen her purse and she didn’t have the money to pay for the boarding. Gunther had been about ready to tell her it was okay, she could take care of the charge next time, when out of the blue she asked if he would like to take the bill out in trade.

  Gunther was somewhat taken aback by the unexpected offer, but jumped at the opportunity. He canceled his afternoon appointments and locked the offices. They went to the nearest motel. He decided he received the best of the deal; she was a fabulous lay. He especially liked the way she gave head.

  Gunther found out why the woman was so experienced in bed the next time they were together. She confessed that she made some money on the side working as a call girl. She wasn’t a streetwalker, she emphasized, nor did she ever pick up tricks in bars. Everything was arranged very discreetly, she said, and she always met the johns in their hotel rooms.

  Gunther couldn’t care less who else she screwed as long as he was getting his. Once, when he noticed her body was covered with deep purple bruises, she confided that a john had become unexpectedly violent and had beaten her savagely. She asked Gunther if he had anything she could use for protection.

  He did. He told her about ketamine and taught her how to use it. He gave her a small bottle of the knockout drops. From then on, every time she saw him she asked for a refill. He never questioned why she needed so much of the drug or what she was doing with it. That was her business and not his. He was glad to supply her. He kept her stocked with valium, too, and she kept him satisfied with plenty of nooky.

  There was a downside to the relationship. The broad was as moody as her poodle bitch. One afternoon, a day or so after his wife caught them together, they had a bitter knock-down, drag-out fight—over an accident that happened to her damn dog, as he recalled. She stopped dating him after that. In a way, Gunther was relieved. The hooker had become more demanding day by day, and he knew a continued relationship was going to be nothing but trouble. It was time to move on.

  It didn’t take long to find a replacement. The very next afternoon he was on his way to make a house call, driving his red and white Toyota pickup, when he stopped to give a ride to a young blonde hitchhiker. Jennifer. From St. George, Utah. A runaway. Jennifer was only eighteen (or so she said—actually, she had not yet turned sixteen) and he was forty-four, but the age difference didn’t seem to mean a thing to her. Perhaps, he thought, she liked going with someone who was much more experienced, a professional, someone who could teach her all about life. A father image.

  And teach her he did. They were in bed together at Motel 6 within an hour of their first meeting, and he porked her every time they had a chance thereafter. Jennifer was totally uninhibited and readily accepted every kinky thing he wanted to do to her or he wanted her to do to him.

  He set up a cot in the back room of his veterinary clinic, and Jennifer crashed there for a few days. One morning his wife came into the clinic to hit him up for some money and narrowly missed running into the teenager. Right after that he moved Jennifer to a nearby by-the-week furnished apartment and helped her get a job at the neighborhood Burger King.

  Gunther still slept at home, even though he was spending less and less time there. Whenever he and his wife were together they fought constantly; brawled would probably be a better way to describe their altercations. But Gunther wasn’t about to move out and give his wife the satisfaction of having the house all to herself. There would be no telling what she might do if he wasn’t around. For years, Gunther suspected his wife had a lover on the side and he wasn’t about to make it easy for her to move him in.

  The phone rang. It was Jennifer, as he had guessed it might be.

  “Hi, daddy, whatcha doin’?” Jennifer asked.

  “I was just going to phone the answering service and have them take messages for me the rest of the day. I have to make a few house calls.” Gunther would be glad when his new partner started work. Having someone else around to help mind the store would make it easier for him to take time off whenever he wanted to get away from the clinic for a while.

  “I have a better idea,” Jennifer told him. “Phone the service, but forget about the house calls. You can make them later. I just got out of the shower and I’m lying on the bed nude and I’m very horny. I need you, daddy. Come on over now. Please.” Her tone was more than seductive, it was positively salacious.

  Her entreaty worked. The animals could wait, Gunther decided. He was out of the door within minutes.

  MICHAEL PLANNED TO TAKE KIM with him to review a new barbecue restaurant in Green Valley. But when Myra called and said the travel agents had taken off on their own and she would be able to leave work at five and have dinner with him after all, Michael made his excuses with Kim.

  Kim’s feelings were hurt by the change in plans, for often the three of them had dinner together, and she was miffed because she was being left out this time. Michael assuaged her by explaining that lately he and Myra hadn’t been able to spend much time together—just the two of them—and th
ey had some personal matters to resolve.

  Michael’s comment raised Kim’s curiosity, but she decided not to question him right then about what he meant. It would not be the prudent thing to do. She’d be able to worm it out of him tomorrow.

  The meal at Porky’s Barbecue—“The Place to Pig Out” was their motto—turned out to be a disaster. The Kaplans did not keep kosher at home, even though Myra had once expressed a desire to do so when they got married, but she was utterly nauseated by even the thought of eating pork.

  Michael was hungry and downed his barbecued beef plate quickly, though the brisket was stringy and overly fat; the baked beans were mushy and laced with too much cumin; the iced tea was weak—barely colored water—and served with circular slices of lemon, too thin to squeeze into the beverage; and, the accompanying dinner rolls were stale and cold. Myra picked at a barbecued chicken sandwich, but the meaty aroma pouring forth from the smokers in the kitchen had turned her stomach. Michael paid the bill and they went home.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Myra asked. She looked tired and had dark circles around her eyes.