Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  “Try me,” Dingman said.

  “Besides a viral infection promoted by an undefined enzyme, they found a derivative of LSD. It appears our dead friend Lickshill was tripping out. I also sent in some undigested stomach matter that looked like grain, maybe oatmeal. Turns out the organic matter contained Ergotamine. It’s from the Ergot fungus that grows on damp grain, rye usually, and can make people very sick. Here’s the interesting part; Ergotamine is a close cousin of LSD and under the right circumstances could cause the same reactions. It must be hydrolyzed with specific agents, though, to work. I’ve done some research on the Internet and haven’t come up with anything in the environment that could cause this. Perhaps it’s a result of protein enzymes from the infection.”

  “Hmm, could we possibly have a sample of the brain tissue? We have sources who can analyze it more closely and come up with insights at the DNA level,” Dingman said.

  “Be my guest. It’s over there.” Sulkin led the group to a stainless-steel laboratory sink containing three quart-sized bottles. “This one has the brain, and this has the stomach contents.”

  “And this? What’s in this one?” Kottle said, pointing to the third bottle.

  “My little experiment. It’s just some brown wheat I found out near the Lickshill place.”

  “So, this might have Ergotamine in it, right?” Kottle said.

  “Yes, I’ve got a theory I want to—“

  “Hah, you think Lickshill was eating the grain and went crazy? Or, maybe the deer are eating the grain and going crazy as well? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Let the man speak, reporter,” Dingman said, frowning.

  Porter glanced at Kottle as he diligently took notes and shook his head.

  “She’s a smart one. If I can recreate the circumstances for how Ergotamine is transformed into LSD and ingested by the deer, then I think we might have solved the mysterious accidents and incidents taking place in the last couple of weeks. Normally it takes Hydrazine or something similar to perform the cleavage of molecules necessary.”

  “What about people eating the infected deer meat? Would they get sick as well?” Kottle asked.

  “I’m trying to find out. I’ve contacted the County Medical Examiner, and he put the DNR on notice, but doesn’t want anyone to panic just yet.”

  “We were attacked by two large bucks on the freeway near here. One, with eight horns, rammed our car, destroying a fender and tire in the process. Might this be related?” Kottle asked.

  “You mean antlers, deer have antlers not horns. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maintain your objectivity,” Dingman said, giving Kottle a sour glance.

  “Really, two deer jumped you unprovoked? I heard the sheriff was having a problem with rutting deer. Hmm, I think it’s time we tracked down the doe in the woods,” Sulkin said. “You folks staying overnight? Maybe you want to go out there with me.”

  “No thanks, we are heading back tonight, but we would like to hear from you if you find it. Can we get a sample of the brain tissue and the contents of these other bottles as well?” Dingman said.

  “Sure, but be very careful with this stuff. You don’t want to get it on your hands. You’ll end up looking like this.” Sulkin pointed to his head.

  “Thanks for your gracious help,” Dingman said, while receiving three small tightly capped plastic vials from Sulkin and slipping them into his coat pocket. “I will let you know what our lab says in a few days. I have a few university contacts, and will see what I can uncover relative to Ergotamine and how it works.”

  “My pretty boy is going to make me famous,” Sulkin said, patting Lickshill’s coffin as the three reporters headed for the back door.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mr. Sulkin is a bit daft, eh?” Dingman said.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” Kottle said.

  “Sure, what is your pleasure?”

  “Why can you use a recorder to take notes, and we have to use notebooks and pencils?”

  “I didn’t see you take any notes in there.”

  “Porter takes the notes, I observe, then we collaborate later.”

  Porter weakly nodded in agreement.

  “You do, eh? What color were Sulkin’s shoes?” Dingman probed.

  “Brown.”

  “How many storage units on the back wall?”

  “Eight.”

  “What color was Lickshill’s suit?”

  “Gray flannel, white shirt and blue tie with yellow dots.”

  “Not bad. “

  “So why can’t junior reporters use recorders or better yet a computer tablet with video and audio? I feel like we’re ten years behind the technology curve most of the time.”

  “Notebooks and notepads are a handy way of being prepared. You can list all the questions you want to ask before your meeting. Plan the plan, do the plan. Know what I mean? There is something about writing it down on paper that jogs the memory like no technology can do. Best to carry a small notepad around to be discrete and add your notes to a larger notebook later. Of course, you can always transfer your notes to your laptop later. Nobody said you have to carry a large notebook around, just a notepad for quick notes. Imagine if you had to text notes into your cellphone or a computer tablet while someone is talking to you—very rude and…” Dingman continued his rant as Kottle’s eyes stared off in the distance.

  Another lecture coming, Kottle thought. Time to shut up.

  Porter glanced at her, flipping over several notepad pages of questions the three had planned to ask during their meeting the day before.

  “Look and learn,” he said.

  Dingman laughed. Kottle grimaced.

  Chapter 26

  It’s probably just a misunderstanding, Jack Hermanski thought driving up to the garage and pressing the remote. His wife had a tendency to speak her mind and probably made blunt comments about the drapes and furniture to the claims adjuster. He had to bail her out of several misunderstandings with the house builder last year.

  “Mandi, the door is locked; I don’t have a key,” Hermanski said, rapping on the door to the kitchen. He pounded twice, waited, and pounded again.

  He walked out of the garage and into the back yard. Rusty greeted him wearing a shock collar and yelped as he approached the limit of an underground electric fence.

  “Here’s my boy,” Hermanski said, bending over to stroke the dog. “Where’s Mommy?” Rusty looked toward the house, whined, and barked. Hermanski walked swiftly to the patio door and peered in. Rusty came from behind and jumped up against him. “Down boy, I’ll pet you later.” The empty kitchen seemed in order. Rusty ran to the large living-room bay window, jumped up, and barked. “You see her, boy?” Hermanski followed and held his hands around his face to peer inside.

  “Oh, God, no!”

  ~ ~ ~

  This is how you found her?” the police officer asked, standing next to Jack Hermanski in the living room. Two emergency-medical technicians hovered over Mandi, assessing her unconscious body. She lay flat on the carpet, face up with eyes open, arms outstretched and breathing erratically. Her right hand held a broken wineglass stem, her left held pinking shears. Several yards of severed drape material lay by her feet.

  “Hmm, I’ve seen a lot of domestic violence, but nothing quite like this.” The officer surveyed the furniture. Every chair and sofa had a similar pattern of rip marks. “You two have a fight?”

  “Fight? No, I just got home. She was here by herself all day. I got a call at work from a claims adjuster—we had an accident on the carpet—and he said my wife was acting strange. Something about the drapes and furniture being damaged. I’m stumped; she was fine this morning, but did complain of hot flashes. Maybe she had a stroke, or maybe someone broke in and vandalized the place.”

  “Does your wife have a drinking problem?” the officer said, bending over to observe the red blotches surrounding the broken wineglass in her hand.

  “No more than a drink or two at suppertime. Nothing that
would lead to this.” He lied. Mandi would binge drink when she felt depressed, but would normally go to bed and sleep it off without incident.

  The two medical technicians lifted Mandi’s limp body onto a body board and strapped her tight.

  “What hospital would you like us to take her to?”

  “I prefer Troy Beauford,” Hermanski said.

  The technicians carried the woman outside into a waiting ambulance.

  Hermanski, feeling helpless, followed them to the front door.

  “Should I go with them?”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “Okay, I’ll need help, though, putting the patio door back into its track.”

  “So, maybe a stranger broke in through the patio door?”

  “No, I forgot my house key and removed the door. Here, Rusty, come on boy.” The dog scrambled through the door opening and downstairs to the basement.

  “Maybe your dog clawed up the furniture?”

  “I doubt it. He’s never done anything in the past. Plus, the rips look more like they were done with a fireplace poker.”

  “Maybe this?” The officer held up deer antlers.

  “What, the…maybe…I guess. These were downstairs. I don’t get it, why would she do this? Or, maybe the dog brought them upstairs. God, I don’t know, I’m so confused.”

  The police officer helped Hermanski replace the patio door and escorted him out the front door. Hermanski looked back inside and felt tears run down his cheek as he gently closed and locked the front door.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Does your wife take any medication other than for thyroid? She’s showing several enzymes in her blood as a result of an anti-depressant,” the doctor said.

  “Not that I know of. She’s been a little depressed lately, but isn’t taking anything. She seemed fine this morning except for hot flashes. Should I be worried?” Hermanski said.

  Mandi Hermanski lay sleeping in a nearby hospital bed. A plasma bag hung over her connected by a tube to her wrist. She breathed erratically. Her eyes roamed endlessly under closed eyelids.

  “She’s in a coma, but I expect her to wake up within the hour. See, she’s dreaming. It’s more like a drug-induced blackout than a coma,” the doctor said, pointing to her eyes. “Can you tell me what she had to eat or drink today?”

  “She had a big breakfast: fried deer meat, eggs, coffee and toast. I bagged a deer last week and she wanted some venison steaks for breakfast. Beyond that, I don’t know. She held a broken wineglass in her hand on the floor, so she probably had a glass or two.”

  “You went deer hunting? Was it a nice buck? Since interning here, I don’t have time to hunt anymore.”

  “It was an eight-pointer. Actually, I didn’t shoot it. A couple of friends were with me when we found it up north near West Branch. Turned out to be the buck shot by the guy from Port Huron who was in the papers. You might have read about him, he had an asthma attack and his buddy carried him out of the woods.”

  “Really? What a coincidence. I heard he went off the deep end for a while as if he was reacting to a psychedelic drug. Hmm, I wonder...”

  “What’s on your mind, Doc?”

  “I’d like to see the results of blood work for this Port Huron fellow. If his blood contains similar enzymes to your wife’s blood, then maybe there’s a connection.”

  “Connection? How? You think it might have something to do with the deer?”

  “Have you felt at all strange in the past week since hunting? How about you’re hunting pals?”

  “I’ve felt fine. One of the guys with me did have several episodes of dizziness after the trip, but his doctor determined it was from an allergy drug he was taking. We did have a weird incident with the dog and the deer head. The dog apparently rummaged through the garbage and...” Hermanski continued and explained the events leading up to having an insurance adjuster visit Mandi.

  “Now I’m very intrigued. Did your hunting partner encounter any strange dreams along with his dizziness?”

  “He said he had several dreams where he felt like he was running with the deer and a hunter was shooting at him. He’s also developed a curious ability to add numbers quickly, or so he says. I haven’t witnessed it, though. Doctors don’t usually think beyond their current patient’s problems, so why the interest?”

  “I interned two summers in Africa for the World Health Organization chasing diseases along the Nile. I’ve learned to see the big picture. Could you provide me with the telephone numbers of your friend and the fellow from Port Huron? I would like to get them in here for blood tests. I’m going to run a couple of additional tests on your wife’s blood. These are costly and your insurance company probably won’t pay for them, but I think I can get them covered through National Disease Control testing funds.”

  “If there is some connection to the deer, then Mandi might have ingested something from the deer meat, right?”

  “An outside chance; I suggest you don’t eat more of it.”

  “There is one thing I forgot. A police investigator did a test on the deer blood because of the deer-head incident and told me it contained antibodies similar to those of a man in West Branch who was gored to death. But, he didn’t make a big deal out of it, just another coincidence.”

  “You mean the Lickshill killing? Detroit Times printed a story about all the coincidental accidents happening in Ogemaw County.”

  “Yes, I believe his name was Lickshill.”

  “Do you know the name of this police investigator?”

  “Josh Morris—out of Troy.”

  Chapter 27

  “Should we see if Bob Sanguini is in his office?” Kottle asked.

  “Sure, we can call the DNR from there. We need to fill him in as a courtesy anyway,” Dingman said.

  ~ ~ ~

  The three reporters walked from the funeral home to the West Branch Herald news office. Porter rapped on the front entrance door. Bob Sanguini, the editor they met previously, opened the door and welcomed the three into his office.

  “Hi, Bob, you remember Katie and know Louis Dingman from a phone conversation you two had last week.”

  “Yes, come on in. I’m just putting tomorrow’s edition to bed. You folks have any startling revelations to tell me? I take it you all think there’s more to the story than just a bizarre set of unrelated circumstances,” he said.

  “Here’s what we know,” Porter said, taking his notebook from his jacket. He read several notes he made regarding Lickshill and the Ergotamine toxin. Kottle described the deer-ramming incident on the freeway.

  “We have an appointment at two PM to talk to the DNR by phone. Want to join us?” Dingman said.

  “It’s two o’clock as we speak,” Sanguini said, looking at his watch. “Oh, you want to use my phone? Sure, what’s the number?” Porter handed him a piece of paper.

  “Hello, DNR Roscommon, Link Lawrence speaking,” said a voice over the speakerphone.

  “Link, this is Louis Dingman of the Detroit Times, along with...” Dingman said, introducing everyone. He continued, requesting information regarding the unusual behavior of the deer in the area, and any knowledge or concerns the DNR might have relative to diseases.

  “Nothing I can share with you at this time. We are assessing the situation regarding unusual behavior within the local deer herd, but have not found anything specific.”

  “There have been indications of Ergotamine poisoning within the local region related to a rotting grain fungus. Are you aware of this?”

  “Ergotamine? Never heard of it.”

  “It’s from the Ergot fungus, which attacks wheat and rye grains mostly, and can cause both human and animal health problems due to its toxicity. A local mortician, Mr. Sulkin, who does work for the Medical Examiner, briefed us about it. He said he told the Medical Examiner about it and they notified you.”

  “Really, I’ll make some calls.”

  “Okay, we will touch bases with you in a couple of days,” Dingman said and hun
g up. “Not much help there. With any luck, we will be leading the investigation on this. Have to love the news business. If not for us, the world would still be using leeches to solve medical problems.”

  “I hear their use is coming back as an acceptable medical approach for certain diseases,” Kottle said.

  “That’s what I mean; because some reporter wrote an article about an experiment using leeches, everyone thinks it’s a cure-all again.”

  “Well folks, you up to a late lunch? The place up the street grills a mean burger and fries,” Sanguini said.

  Dingman nodded. “A shell of Springer ale sounds good. Shall we go, then?”

  Sanguini and Dingman led the way to the front entrance with Kottle and Porter behind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle shoved the last bite of her Hunter’s Burger in her mouth. She marveled at the super-sized pickle adorning her plate and waved it briefly at Porter when Dingman and Sanguini looked away. Dingman held up his second glass of ale, observed the brown color and declared it perfect. He ordered a chicken sandwich. Sanguini ate a salad laced with chicken and Porter devoured a fish sandwich.

  “I eat the red meat, and you all order chicken and fish. What’s wrong with this picture?” Kottle said, smiling. She just finished a rare glass of beer. She usually drank wine, and only on weekends. “What’s in this meat? It tastes like ground filet mignon.”

  Sanguini pointed at a sign over the bar: “Our Hunter’s Burger is made from Black Angus beef ground with local venison.”

  “Huh? Oh, dear God, deer meat?” Kottle’s face turned red. “After seeing Lickshill, I don’t think I should be eating deer meat.”

  “It gives the burger a nice flavor don’t you think? The tourists love it,” Sanguini said.

  “I think I’m going to puke,” Kottle said. “Miss, could I have another?” She held up her glass. A voluptuous mid-thirties server responded with a full glass of beer. “This should get rid of the toxins.” Kottle lifted it to her mouth and chugged half the bottle.

  Porter half smiled, amused by her behavior. “She doesn’t get out much,” he explained.