True Intent

by Michael Stagg

  “No reason. Lifting first or info?”

  “Info.”

  “Come with me.” Olivia led me back to her office. It was a curious space for a gym, with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books on training and philosophy, a state-of-the-art computer system complete with enough monitors to guide air-traffic, and a battered desk that looked like it came from a gym teacher’s office. There was a brown folder on her desk alongside a pile of paper that was about a foot and a half tall. Olivia was an investigative whiz and, because she was an expert at finding electronic secrets, was paranoid about emailing me anything important. “Here you go,” she said, gesturing. “That’s the basics on your client, Phillips, and his company. Hard copy and thumb drive.”

  I leafed through the top of the pile. It looked like a week’s worth of reading, at least. “Can you give me the highlights?”

  Olivia offered me a water, which I declined, cracked one for herself, and sat down. “We’ll start with your client. Liselle Vila grew up in the small town of Poplar Bluff in southeast Missouri. Family lived out in a small place surrounded by the woods in the Ozarks. Unremarkable family. Lost her dad when she was young, mom worked in a small auto parts shop to keep the family afloat. Took up track in high school and turns out she can run like the wind. She parlayed that into a track scholarship to Washington University in St. Louis and studied woodland biology. Ran a fifth year and picked up a masters that led to a grad assistantship and a Ph.D.”

  “I feel dumber just sitting here. She said something about patents?”

  Olivia nodded. “Three, all having to do with a process for crossbreeding trees and creating hybrids. Do you want the details?”

  I thought. “Not right now.”

  “Good because I didn’t understand a lick of it. As a result of it though, the University wanted her to stay and do research and a bunch of companies tried to bring her in house but by all accounts, she wanted to work out in the field so she moved back to southeast Missouri, essentially created her own position with the National Forestry Service and the Missouri Department of Natural Resources, and has been working in the Mark Twain National Forest ever since.”

  I nodded. “That's consistent with what she told me.”

  Olivia put down one manila folder and picked up another. “Richard Phillips, son of Lawrence Phillips, and, along with his brother Stephen, the heir to the Doprava Company. He's worked at the company since he was young. Went to Penn and Wharton for his business training before coming back and working under his father until he took over and led the company to unprecedented prosperity. Under his watch, Doprava became an international conglomerate involved in everything from agri-science to plastics to pharmaceuticals. Personally, he was married for twenty-four years to his wife Sharon before they divorced five years ago. Son Andrew, daughter Bre, both currently in their twenties and waiting for their turn to manage the family fortune.”

  “So what does the company do?”

  Olivia shook her head. “I couldn’t begin to list it all.” She held up a glossy magazine. “I got ahold of their last annual report which gives you a pretty good picture, but I'm not kidding—they’re involved at every level of the supply chain of their products from R&D to manufacture to retail to delivery. It’s literally a corporate maze.”

  I sighed. That reading was going to be dry, dry, dry. “And you checked out the organizations Liselle is involved in?”

  Olivia nodded. “There were quite a few.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Some are exactly what you'd expect. Gateway Animal Rescue is pretty typical. It’s the one who held the Furball where Liselle met Phillips.”

  “The Furball?”

  “A charitable gala to support the rescued animals.”

  “Ah.”

  “The State Natural Resource Board, also pretty typical and more of a government actor than anything else.”

  “Sound like typical organizations for a woodland biologist to belong to.”

  A pause. “True.”

  I’d known Olivia a long time. “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ there.”

  Olivia ran her hand through her spiked white hair but instead of pushing it out of the way, she teased it down around the left side of her face. “She's a member of the Forest Initiative. Has been for a long time.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s one of those organizations with a reputation for extremism but not one that has ever been proven.”

  “Extremism?”

  “Back in the seventies, they were rumored to be spiking trees to thwart loggers. When the logging industry in the US began to replant more aggressively, it seemed that those efforts faded away.”

  “Corporate change having been effected.”

  “Right. In the nineties and the aughts, it seemed that they shifted to fighting deforestation internationally. A lot of deforestation in the Amazon is done with fire and there was more than one incident of buried fuel cannisters blowing up and bulldozer treads being cut. The Forest Initiative was thought to be responsible again.”

  “What did they say to that?”

  “That it was all propaganda ginned up by the big corporations to fight the effort to protect the forests and waterways. Again, the extreme stuff was never proven. Instead, the public face of the organization is that it’s the leader in replanting trees in almost every state, including Missouri and Michigan.”

  I considered what Olivia had found. “How involved was Liselle with it?”

  “There’s no indication that she was ever involved in anything criminal. She’s planted thousands of trees, though. By herself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. She appears to be very dedicated.” Olivia flipped through one more folder. “There are a couple more organizations but those are the main ones.”

  “Any of these ever come into conflict with Doprava?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  I remembered my conversation with Pearson. “Pearson mentioned a protest at Ribbon Falls. Something to do with a fracking dispute. Can you check that out too?”

  “Sure. Does it really matter?”

  “I don’t know.” I told her about my concern about a lack of motive. “So I need to check everything they might use.”

  Olivia nodded. “I hear what you're saying, Shep. I didn't see anything on my first pass. I'll keep looking though.”

  “Thanks. Can I leave all this here until I'm done working out?

  Lizzie smiled. “I insist. You going to take the class today?”

  “Still not man enough. I'll stick with moving heavy stuff around.”

  “Your loss.”

  “I'm sure.”

  So the two of us stood up and got to work.

  I tossed my gym bag and the file folder from Olivia into the back of my Jeep. The thick brown folder seemed like a squat, ravenous beast, eager to devour a night of my life. Reading about a multi-national conglomerate didn’t really seem like the best plan for a fall night. I decided I had a better idea.

  I drove over to Best Buy, picked up three items and a gift bag, and then headed over to St. Wendelin’s. I checked in at the information desk, found my nephew’s room, and walked in to find James with his leg up in a winch and my sister-in-law Izzy sitting in the chair next to his bed.

  “Hey, Troll,” I said.

  “Uncle Nate!”

  I had to say that, although his leg looked awful, James looked pretty good. His color was back and his eyes looked clear and he smiled which was—well, it was fantastic.

  I pointed at his elevated foot, which had metal rods sticking out in a couple of directions. “Can you get the Lions game with that?”

  “With what?”

  “Those rods look like an antenna.”

  “What’s an antenna?” said James.

  Izzy laughed. “Yeah, old man. What’s an antenna?”

  Mid-thirties and over the hill already. Great. I held up the bag. “I suppose I could
just take this to some other kid who has more respect for his elders.”

  James’s face brightened. “You’re the best old person I know.”

  Ouch again. I handed him the bag. “Have at it, Troll.”

  James dumped the bag upside-down and a couple of boxes that were half-assedly wrapped in tissue paper fell onto his lap. He went for the biggest one first and tore it away. “Mom! Mom, it’s a Switch. Look!” He held out the box of the mobile game console.

  “Wow,” said Izzy.

  “You don’t have one, do you?” I said.

  “No. Thanks, Uncle Nate!” He started ripping the box open.

  “Nate…” said Izzy.

  I waved. “A broken leg should be worth something.”

  He had the box partway open before he remembered the other package and ripped the tissue paper off it too. “Mario Kart!” James reached up and I leaned down and he gave me a pretty big hug. I gathered the paper off his lap, stuffed it into the bag, and said, “Mark working tonight?”

  Izzy nodded. “He’s pulling a double.”

  “Why don’t you grab some dinner? I’ll stick around and watch the virtual races for a while.”

  Izzy looked at James, who was busy trying to break the plastic seal on the game. She nodded and stood.

  “Take your time,” I said. “I don’t have to be anywhere.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Need anything?”

  “I already ate.”

  Izzy nodded again and left. When she was gone, I pulled an unwrapped box out of my jacket pocket and held it out. It took James a moment to notice what I was holding, but when he did, his eyes grew wide. “Doomfarers?! Is that for me too?”

  “It is. Figured you’d have some time to unlock it all.”

  “Ha! I’ll be the first one done. Brandon’s had it for a week and he’s only beaten one boss.”

  I helped James set up the Switch, which means he set it up and I took the cardboard, ties, and plastic wrap from him when he was done. Then he loaded up Doomfarers (again with assistance from me in disposing of the garbage) and together we set up a character with bright red hair who had unknown parents, strange dreams, and a magic sword that led him on a quest into the Dryad Wood.

  We beat the first boss before his mom came back.

  21

  I decided to start my medical research by consulting Matthew Beckman, the toxicologist who’d helped me in the Hank Braggi case. It took about a week before he could fit me in to his schedule. You wouldn't think a toxicologist would be that busy but there you go. Fortunately, his office was right down at the University so when he finally had an opening, I made my way over to Medical Sciences Building and weaved my way through a warren of small offices and secretarial stations until I came to the pathology department, where a middle-aged woman led me through two more corridors to Dr. Beckman's office.

  It was a mess. Piles of folders and stacks of paperwork surrounded a cluttered desk with two computer monitors on one side and a whiteboard on the other. Once the secretary dropped me off, Dr. Beckman stood to meet me.

  “Good afternoon, Nate,” Dr. Beckman said as he unfolded himself from the chair. He was tall, with black glasses and stringy black hair that was combed over to the side and constantly fell in front of his eyes. He hesitated, then stuck out his hand as if he wasn't quite familiar with the gesture.

  I grasped it and said, “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Beckman. I've got an interesting one for you.”

  Dr. Beckman took two folders off the only other chair in the room, looked around a moment, then placed them in one of the only clear spots on the floor before he said, “Excellent. Not another murder, I hope?”

  “Well.” I smiled.

  “Goodness,” Dr. Beckman said and folded himself back into the chair. He hesitated then folded his hands on the desk. “So how can I help?”

  “What to do you know about St. John's wort?”

  “It's an herbal supplement that's commonly used in a variety of remedies. Unlike a lot of these supplements, this one actually has a quantifiable effect. It’s typically used for general wellness, anxiety, depression, that sort of thing.”

  “Is it a poison?”

  Dr. Beckman started. “A poison? Goodness, no. It’s used in all sorts of things.”

  “So what could she mean?”

  “Who?”

  I realized I was just confusing the good doctor so I backed up. I told him about the wedding, about Liselle Vila and Richard Phillips, about his collapse, and the coroner’s autopsy and cause of death. I told him about Liselle’s arrest for murder and the seemingly clean toxicology report. I told him how I’d asked Victoria Lance why we were here and her answer of “St. John’s wort.”

  “Which is why I came to see you,” I said. “So it’s not a poison?”

  “No, definitely not. It has side effects.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything else, taking too much of it is bad. It can cause dry mouth, headache, fatigue, dizziness, even sensitivity to sunlight if you really go overboard.”

  “But not death?”

  “No, no, not death. Certainly not by itself. The real problem with St. John’s wort is its interaction with other medications.”

  Alarm bell. “Interactions? With what?”

  Dr. Beckman pushed his hair to the side. “It's been a while since I looked at it, but if memory serves, it can interact with certain blood pressure and cholesterol medications.”

  Double alarm bell. “Interact how?”

  “It can block their effectiveness.”

  “Certain blood pressure medications?” I asked. “Like beta blockers?”

  Dr. Beckman snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” His grin at solving the minor problem faded awkwardly as he saw I didn’t return it. “What? Does this have something to do with the case?”

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  I could see Dr. Beckman warming up to the problem. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Two things.” I handed him a drive with the medical documents on it. “I’d like you to take a look at the state’s toxicology report and autopsy and make sure that there are no signs of any substance that we would traditionally think of as poison in Mr. Phillips’ system.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Second, I'd like you to run an analysis on this.” I handed him two white pouches dangling from strings.

  “What are these?”

  “Teabags.”

  “Do you have a label with the ingredients?”

  “Homemade teabags. I’d like you to analyze what’s in them.”

  “I see. Sure.”

  Dr. Beckman balanced the drive in one hand and the teabags in the other hand, all sense of awkwardness gone. “And the state says these add up to murder?”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled. “We’ll see.” He lifted one paper, then another, then another before muttering something about a damn calendar. “I’m a little jammed up right now. A couple of weeks okay?”

  “That’s fine. Trial isn’t for a few months yet. I’d just like to know what I'm dealing with.”

  “I'll let you know as soon as I have results.” He looked up and the awkwardness returned. “Would I have to testify again?”

  “You might. It depends on what you find.”

  “Okay.” He blinked a couple of times. “What happened last time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did the jury find?”

  It was my turn to blink. Dr. Beckman had testified for me in a murder case involving a famous rock star. Coverage had blanketed the local and national news for a couple of weeks. “You really don't know?”

  Dr. Beckman shrugged. “I work a lot.”

  “Mr. Braggi was acquitted.”

  He blinked at me.

  “We won. Your testimony was a very important part of that.”

  “Well, that's good.”

  Dr. Beckman seemed like he was done speaking then so I stood and we bot
h awkwardly straddled files and stacks of paper until we shook hands and I made my way out.

  Dr. Beckman really was a great toxicologist. I chuckled to myself. It was a good thing.

  On the way back to the office, my phone buzzed. Olivia. “What's up, Liv?”

  “A potential problem,” she said.

  “Better than an actual problem. What is it?”

  “The Forest Initiative.”

  “The organization that Liselle belongs to?”

  “Exactly. You know how Liselle was employed by the National Forest Service and the Missouri Department of Natural Resources?”

  “I do.”

  “It looks like she was stationed in the Mark Twain National Forest.”

  “She’s mentioned that.”

  “That forest is different from a lot of other federally protected areas—it isn’t one solid stretch of land, like Yellowstone or Yosemite. Instead, it’s made up of seven separate pockets.”

  “Okay.”

  “So that means it’s got more borders that can be encroached upon.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “About five years ago, a huge deposit of natural gas was found on land adjacent to two sections of it. There was a pretty nasty fight over whether fracking on the private land should be allowed since it was so close to the national forest.”

  “Let me guess. The Ribbon Falls protest, right?”

  “Well shit, Shep, if you already knew about it, why’d you have me spinning my wheels researching it?”

  “Pearson mentioned it. I don’t know the details though.”

  “Doprava owned the private land and wanted to exploit it by leasing it out for fracking. The Forest Initiative opposed it, claiming that fracking would destroy the adjacent woodlands and the Ribbon Falls water supply.”

  “Was it settled in court?”

  A pause on the other end of the line. “Mostly.”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “The surveying crew had an uncommonly difficult time marking out the official boundary of the Doprava land.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Markers and pins kept going missing. Surveying equipment was mysteriously damaged.”

  “And this is relevant because?”