Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “We didn’t leave the hotel yesterday with so much happening at the conference. Everything was going great. I was so excited with all the talks, and meeting people from around the world. Everybody seemed to know Professor Odum.”

  “You didn’t have any clue that he was ill?”

  “Of course I knew he was hypersensitive to environmental toxins. But he’d made sure our room was free of all synthetic chemicals that could trigger a reaction.”

  “So, what happened last night after your conference was over?”

  “We went back to the room around six, watched the news, and rested for a bit. Then we got dressed for the banquet. It was a decent dinner, nothing too special. I met up with some students from Mexico, Brazil, and Thailand. We went out for some drinks. And I’ll admit that I had too many, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of the others.”

  “I know how it goes, kid. I can’t keep up like I used to.” I took a sip of my Jameson. These days quality trumped quantity.

  “Yeah, well, I was lucky to find my way back to the room around midnight. Professor Odum was sound asleep. I’d seen him leave the banquet around eight, and I guessed he was headed back to our room.”

  “One of those early-to-bed, early-to-rise types, eh?”

  “That was him. He was always watching his health, and he said that sleep was the best detoxifier. I suspect that he’d worn himself out during the day, given how amped he can get about science. He’d chaired a major symposium all afternoon with Mr. Srisai, a colleague from Thailand’s Ministry of Forests and Wildlife. They were collaborating on a project, and Professor Odum seemed totally hyped about this new study.”

  I needed to nudge him back on track. “Okay, so what did the room look like when you got in? At least what you can remember.”

  “Everything seemed normal. Normal for Professor Odum, that is. He was a very systematic man. Everything in its place, you know.”

  “How about the door out to the garden and pool?”

  Howard paused, as he suddenly realized he was giving a deposition instead of just telling a new pal what had happened. “Why does that matter to your new line of business?”

  Damn. After having put him at ease initially, my questioning had broken the spell. I needed to lull him back into that reverie. “Sorry about that, it’s just that I’m trying to get the whole picture. I’ve been told that one of the big things to worry about at a death scene cleanup is the insects. You can imagine what it’s like if a client comes back into the house and there’re flies everywhere. So I’m just trying to figure out that side of the job.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” I hid my relief. He took a draw on his beer and settled back into his story. “As usual, he’d left the sliding glass door open and the screen was closed. He thought the indoor air of the hotel built up harmful vapors.”

  “Not too worried about intruders, eh?”

  “Only guests can access the courtyard, so I guess he didn’t figure there was much to worry about. We kept the room closed up during the day, but we both liked some fresh air at night. I just didn’t want the room filled with moths, given that the professor insists on having a nightlight in the bathroom. He has to get up to use the facilities pretty often.”

  I cringed at having missed the nightlight. In the old days, I’d have made a mental note of this detail. “And so you figure he just got back to the room and went to bed?”

  “Not quite so simple. I’m sure he followed his routine.”

  “Which was?”

  “Let’s see. Every night he’d take a shower, even though he took one in the morning. He said it was important to wash off the airborne toxins, especially in Los Angeles. Then he’d brush his teeth for like twenty minutes, take a set of assorted medicines in a careful sequence, squirt some fluid up his nose to wash out his sinuses, put drops in his eyes, and apply a bluish lotion to his hands and feet and a yellow one to his face and neck.”

  “When I was in the room earlier, I saw the bathroom counter. Looked like somebody had opened a drugstore.” There’s nothing like injecting a bit of empathy to keep a fellow talking.

  “It was like rooming with a pharmacist. After all of his treatments, he put on fresh underwear and used a roller covered in sticky tape to clean any toxic fallout from his sheets and pillow. Then, he’d sit bolt upright in a meditative position on his bed with his hands on his knees and his fingers in some contorted position. After about a half hour, he’d finally turn off the light and lie down. I’d learned not to be around when he was going through his ritual.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. So he was just laying peacefully on his bed when you arrived last night?”

  “Best as I can remember. Nothing struck me as unusual. At least until morning.”

  “That’s when you found that he’d died?”

  “Yeah. Given that I was pretty smashed from the night before, I didn’t wake up until a little after nine. I might’ve slept even longer except for the smell.”

  “Pretty bad, eh?”

  “If you were in the room you know what I mean. Professor Odum had what might be politely called ‘intestinal problems.’ He was a strict vegetarian, and took all sorts of supplements. In any case, you wanted to give the bathroom a good half hour after he’d used it.” Howard took a swig of his beer.

  Even in the shade I had sweat running down my neck, but I suspected that the heat worked along with the ordeal to put Howard into something like a trance. I’d seen it plenty of times with witnesses recounting a traumatic event. Now, having paused, it was like he could hear what he’d been saying. So the kid tried to backtrack so as not to sound callous. “Geez, I hate to say this stuff about him. He was really a great adviser.”

  “It’s all right. You’ve been a big help to me. Anything else I should know before I decide to get into the cleanup business?”

  “Well, being an exterminator you’re probably used to the flies. But the damn things freaked me out. Buzzing around his body and all. I figured they squeezed past the screen somehow, so I closed the glass door before I left to keep any more from getting in.” That explained a roomful of flies without an open door.

  “I’d have done the same thing,” I commiserated. The kid’s story was plausible enough. If anything it felt a little too neat. But I figured he’d given it at least a couple of times to the hotel management and the police. I didn’t have any good reason to doubt his account. “I guess that covers it. Thanks again, Howard. Do you need a ride back up the coast?”

  “No, I’m going to drive Professor Odum’s car and drop it off at his house. My stuff should be at the front desk soon, if it’s not there already.” He drained his glass and we shook hands. As he headed back into the lobby, I savored the last few drops of my whiskey, knowing I’d have to settle for less extravagant refreshments back home.

  The trip back to San Francisco gave me time to mull over Howard’s story and what I’d found in the hotel room. I had taken the Ford pickup that I preferred over the Chevy vans the guys used for the business. The vans were pretty flashy, featuring our logo painted on the sides. One of Carol’s artsy friends had drawn it for us—a goat standing on its hind legs, holding a pump sprayer in one hoof, a dead roach dangling from the other. I thought the image looked demonic, but everyone else liked it. The rusting F-100 had nearly 200,000 miles to its credit and the corrosion had eaten away chunks of the door and side panels, but it has been my truck since I took over the business. As I headed out of Los Angeles, the thrumming of the engine, the sun pouring into the cab, and the Bach cantata on KUSC put me into a mood for mulling over what I’d learned about Paul Odum.

  There was no obvious reason to treat Odum’s death as suspicious. At least, I couldn’t imagine that the LAPD would. Given his health problems, the plausibility of Howard’s account, and the inevitable backlog at the coroner’s, I was sure the medical examiner would rule it a death by natural causes and store the body until a funeral home brought it back to San Francisco. The cop on the scen
e wouldn’t have noticed them, but those dead flies had me wondering. And I had a nagging sense that something in the room didn’t fit the kid’s story, but I was damned if I could figure what.

  If there had been foul play, then Howard was the obvious suspect. Always start with whoever knew and was last seen with the victim. Most often, people are killed by their lovers, friends, spouses, and presumably students, rather than strangers. But unless I could come up with a hole, the kid had a watertight story. And it’s a lot harder to fabricate a coherent lie than most people imagine. What’s more, Howard gave every indication of lacking what it takes to commit murder, although I’d learned not to underestimate the quiet, awkward types.

  Even with all this in his favor, I couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t quite right. I hoped it would come to me, like when you can’t remember the name of a movie or a person and you work and struggle until it’s hopeless—and then a few hours or days later it just pops into your head. At least, it works that way sometimes. I didn’t see how this case had any upside for me other than satisfying my own curiosity. And that doesn’t pay the bills. On the drive home, I didn’t yet know about the bill that was coming due at St. Teresa’s. And even if I had, there’s no way I’d have figured that Paul Odum’s gruesome death would soon provide an answer to my mother’s prayers.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was good to sleep in my own bed, although the situation with Tommy made for a restless night. I woke up late, grabbed a quick shower and shave, and headed down the hill to Gustaw’s Bakery. I looked forward to a raspberry-filled paczki and a cup of his coffee, which was nearly as strong as the old Pole himself. The morning was as clear as a glass of the finest Polish vodka, which Gustaw swore by—but never before noon. He was a grizzled character with a perpetual squint, who’d grown up working the docks in Gdańsk before immigrating to San Francisco, where the waterfront reminded him of home. His wife looked like she’d been a knockout thirty years ago but had put away enough pierogis over the years that she’d come to resemble the Polish dumplings. Ludwika drew the line for her hardworking, hard-drinking husband. I couldn’t blame him for avoiding Ludwika’s wrath after watching her deal with a kid who tried to steal a babka from the counter. He’d evidently heard about the rum sauce, and when you’re an adolescent, alcohol in any form is a serious temptation. However, I suspect that being lifted off your feet by your ear courtesy of a babushka who’s threatening to carry you down to the precinct, so that “the police mens will lock you away in jail for good,” might be just the sort of experience to turn a boy into a teetotaler.

  Between the caffeine and the walk back up the hill, and then down the other side to Goat Hill Extermination, I was wide awake when I pushed through the front door of the office.

  “Our fearless leader returns,” Carol mocked. She was as cute as ever. A pageboy haircut framed her smiling face, and a pair of utterly distracting half-erect nipples pushed against her silvery blouse. I’d never seen a woman who seemed so constantly stimulated and perpetually off-limits.

  “Back to save the city from ravaging pests, and the business from marauding competitors,” I replied, trying not to stare but finding it as difficult as usual. She noticed my struggle and took the opportunity to continue my education.

  “Riley, what have I said about objectifying women?” That was the term I couldn’t remember when trying not to admire Linda back at the hotel.

  “Uh, it’s bad,” I tried. She rolled her eyes.

  “And why?”

  “C’mon, Carol, gimme a break.” She just glared, although I knew she wasn’t really mad at me. “Okay, women aren’t just objects for the sexual gratification of men,” I answered, like a kid having memorized a catechism lesson.

  “My prize pupil!” she announced with mock pride. I should’ve left well enough alone.

  “But I’ll be damned as to why this means I can’t appreciate a beautiful woman,” I added. After all, a cantata can be sensuous—and it can also be technically complex, historically profound, and intellectually engaging.

  “At least you’re trying,” she sighed. I shrugged. “And I am flattered by your schoolboy crush,” she said, leaning over her desk to give me a kiss on the cheek and hand me a stack of papers. “You can’t have what you’d really like, so you’ll have to settle for the accounting report and work log.” On her radio, some moron was singing “Don’t go breaking my heart,” as if to taunt me.

  “Great. A cold shower of numbers.” Carol knew how much I hated this stuff and how little attention I paid to such details. I trusted her completely with the finances. She was the most honest and competent office manager imaginable. As least she fulfilled one dream, because the other fantasy wasn’t going to happen.

  “Sweetie,” she murmured in a sultry voice, “I’ve told you before, if I ever decide to convert you’ll be the first to know.” The radio had switched to another would-be crooner declaring that he’d “really love to see you tonight.” It was like being in the world’s most idiotic musical.

  “You’d become a Catholic just to please my mother?”

  “I’d be more likely to get on my knees in a pew than for a man,” she laughed. Unlike most of the businessmen I knew and generally admired, I had no problems with her being a lesbian. Hell, I liked women, so I can hardly complain that she had similar tastes. I wouldn’t have given a damn if she’d been a one-legged Indian if she could keep the place humming. And her lack of interest in men as romantic partners actually made the whole place run smoothly. With none of the guys hitting on the babe in the front office, there was no drama to screw up the place.

  Carol’s only serious flaw was her devotion to pop music, which she played endlessly thanks to some tinny AM station with inane disc jockeys punctuating the musical atrocities with their pointless yammering. I swear, if I ever see another busker down by Fisherman’s Wharf—a place I generally avoid, although cioppino at Alioto’s makes the world right on a blustery January day when the tourists have headed down to San Diego and Tijuana—doing that stupid robotic “dance,” I’m gonna deck the guy. A jury of my peers would not only acquit me but nominate me for a public service citation.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the bottomless pot that Carol maintains, along with answering phones, setting schedules, billing customers, figuring payroll, keeping inventory, and whatever else keeps this place running. The coffee’s nothing like Gustaw’s, but Carol’s too frugal to buy the good stuff. Anyway, not much business comes through the front door, so impressing potential customers isn’t the point of the coffee pot.

  In fact, the front office isn’t much: Carol’s gray metal desk, a wall of mismatched filing cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs next to a low table to serve as a waiting area, and a water cooler with those conical paper cups. (I’d like to meet the guy who thought it was a good idea to put water into a paper cone, but the idiot’s probably dancing like a robot on the Wharf.) All this opulence is surrounded by dark wood paneling with a few posters from various chemical companies (“Raid Kills Bugs Dead”—as if there’s some other result of killing). The room’s illuminated by whatever light leaks through the metal grate covering the glass door and pulses down from the fluorescent fixtures.

  I’ve offered to let Carol spiff up the place and even tried talking her into a new desk. But she insists that it’s “comfortable.” I bought her a new chair last Christmas, but it didn’t turn out like I expected. She cried when she found the thing with a red bow behind her desk. It was just a damn chair. I can’t figure out dames of any sort.

  After thumbing through a couple of the trade journals on the table, I poured myself another cup of coffee and headed to the back of the shop. I stopped at my office to toss the papers onto my desk and went down the hallway out to the warehouse. I was met by a sulfurous odor emanating from the insecticide drums, and a familiar greeting.

  “What’s up, boss?” Larry called as I came through the door. He and Dennis were sitting in a couple of overstuffed cha
irs with the foam spilling out from the cushions.

  “Not you two, or profits, from what I can tell.”

  “We’s sorry, boss man. You be back from vacation and ready to crack the whip.” Dennis loved to play the role. “My people been getting it from you honkies ever since you hauled our black asses over here.” I smiled and gave him what he was looking for.

  “If I didn’t have Larry overseeing your lazy black ass, the hardest work you’d do would be filling out a time card.”

  “Shiiiit.” He drew out the word in a thoughtful way, stretching out his lanky frame and putting his feet on the wobbly coffee table. “If you think I can’t outsmart and outwork some crazy Vietnam vet, then you’re dumber than the cockroaches we’re spraying this morning at Luigi’s Grill.”

  Larry smiled in his deeply ironic way. “Dennis, my boy,” he replied, looking at the arching girders above and lacing his hands behind his nearly square head atop his truly square shoulders, “anytime you want to try fragging an officer in this unit, just know that we’re harder to kill than cockroaches—and they’ve been around for a million years.”

  The two of them had been working together for almost ten years. And the only thing they loved more than busting each other’s nuts was busting mine. My father hired them because he’d give anyone a chance to prove he could pull his weight. Along with Carol, the guys were the most valuable assets of the business. The whole place could burn down and I’d be better off than if I lost these people. Dennis could push my buttons with his righteousness at times and Larry was prone to the thousand-yard stare some days, but they knew and gave an honest day’s work. And I tried to return their loyalty with genuine respect, decent wages, and time off when they needed to unwind—at least if it wasn’t during the busiest months.