Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “Looks like you fellas have it pretty much worked out.”

  “Not even close. Our project was going to be a study of how to restore clear-cut forests in acidic, nitrogen-poor soils. Nobody understands the full complexity of these ecosystems.”

  “So, Professor Odum hadn’t done much along these lines?”

  “He was the leading expert on restoring coastal forests, like here in California. But the tropics are another world. He had some really cool models that we were going to adapt to Thailand. These programs were our first attempts.” He waved his hand toward the bookshelf and paused. He sighed deeply and slumped a bit. “Now it’s all up in the air.”

  “You have a lot to deal with, so I won’t take much of your time. What can you tell me about Professor Odum? I’m particularly curious about any recent changes in his demeanor.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Was he unusually tired, happy, or distracted in the last few weeks?”

  “I can’t really help you, there. He seemed his typical self.”

  “Any changes in his pattern of movement, when he came or left?”

  “Nothing noticeable.” John gave off plenty of signals that he was being less than forthcoming. He kept his eyes on one of the posters to avoid looking at me. His left arm was across his belly, propping up his right elbow so he could rub his beard along the jawline. Academic types are supposedly seeking the truth—maybe that’s why they make awful liars.

  “So, there wasn’t anything about him that struck you as out of the ordinary?”

  “No, not really.” He continued to silently proclaim his acute discomfort. It was time to press.

  “Look, John, I’m not playing a game. There are two corpses, and I’m trying to make sure there aren’t more.”

  “Two?”

  “That’s right. Don’t worry about the other one, but there’s good reason to think that another death is connected to Odum’s.”

  “I don’t know if you’re some kind of private investigator, but I know that you’re not a cop. So I don’t have to answer your questions. I’m busy with a ton of crap.” He turned back to his desk and started rummaging through some papers.

  “That’s right, I’m not here in any official capacity. But the way things are unfolding, I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody shows up with a badge. Now, if you and I can have a chat, then maybe I can get things figured out before they spin out of control.”

  “Jeez, I don’t know,” he said, swiveling halfway between his desk and me. “It’s not like I have much to offer. But being dragged into some criminal investigation will be the deathblow for any chance of getting on with another faculty member.” I reached over to the door and swung it shut.

  “Just tell me what you know. Whatever you say is between us.”

  “Shit,” he whispered. “I guess there’s not much choice. Here’s the thing. Dr. Odum was obsessed with Ed Abbey’s new book, The Monkey Wrench Gang. Do you know it?”

  “No, what’s it about?”

  “A bunch of regular people who are sick of corporate greed go out and destroy the machines and infrastructure that rape and pillage the natural world. They throw a monkey wrench into the engine of ‘progress.’ Get it?”

  “I see. So Odum wanted to give it a try himself?”

  “Something like that. At first, we had these longs talks about what we might do. It was like daydreaming or something. We weren’t serious, just imagining how to monkey-wrench around here. But the more we talked, the more he moved from fantasy to reality.”

  “How so?”

  “Okay, this would get my butt kicked out of the university, but a couple times he and I did some stuff.”

  “Go on.”

  “Nothing major, just some small-time sabotage. One night, we pulled up the survey stakes for a new road through Tilden Park. And another time, he torched a couple of billboards along Highway 1 while I kept a lookout. He wanted to put sugar in the gas tanks of some backhoes parked at Ocean Beach where they were putting in storm drains, but I chickened out. There were too many people around, even in the middle of the night.”

  “So a few acts of vandalism. Probably not enough damage to add up to a felony, except maybe the billboards. It’d be a bit problematic if somebody found out, which they won’t. But I take it there’s more.” John was rubbing the back of his neck and stopped to stare up at the ceiling.

  “I can’t be sure, but I think Dr. Odum was planning something really big. After I bailed on the backhoe job, he became much more reticent. He stopped talking to me about monkey-wrenching, and things went pretty much back to normal for us. But as time went on he’d drop hints that he wasn’t done.”

  “Do you have any idea about what he had in the works?”

  “No. He was very cryptic. Saying things like, ‘You have to cherish knowledge to be a good scientist, but a fellow has to cultivate courage to make a really big impact in the world,’ and ‘In the end, we only really regret the things we didn’t do.’ He’d also allude to the Hindu god Vishnu, calling him ecology’s deity because I guess he was the destroyer of worlds. Sometimes he scared me, but mostly he just made these tangential references.” John’s veneer of confidence had melted away. Now he turned toward me and just looked lost.

  “I can see why you were keeping this to yourself. It couldn’t have been easy to be both his student and co-conspirator. You were in a tough spot, and I’m not looking to make things any worse.” He was as fragile as Howard had been at the hotel. I could see why universities coddle the eggheads. They wouldn’t last a day on the streets.

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Riley. I don’t know what all you’ve found out about Dr. Odum’s death, but I’m afraid he might’ve been out of his league.”

  “In what way?”

  “Look, I’m no expert on politics and economics or whether environmentalists are really a threat to industry. But I suspect that things can get pretty nasty when somebody puts a company’s profit or equipment or whatever at risk. There’s a reason that these people have armed guards at their plants and factories.”

  “You think Odum’s plan might’ve leaked out and somebody decided that the best defense was a good offense?”

  “God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything really. It’s just fiction, but read The Monkey Wrench Gang. I think maybe Ed Abbey comes closer to reality in some ways than many people imagine.”

  I thanked him again and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The tiny office had become unbearably stuffy, and it felt good to be outside and walk across campus. I made my way to the university bookstore and picked up a copy of Abbey’s book. The protesters had dispersed, leaving their chalked slogans on the plaza: “The Personal is Political,” “ERA NOW,” and “Hear me Roar!”

  On the way back across the Bay Bridge, I caught the end of Puccini’s Tosca. It matched my increasingly dark mood. I tuned in as the hero was being led off to prison. As I made the turn onto the Embarcadero to avoid the freeway congestion, the heroine realized that what she thought was the faked execution of her lover was actually the real deal. As I pulled into the fenced lot behind the shop, Tosca leapt to her death when the double-crossing villain came for her. Things weren’t going quite that bad for me. Yet.

  CHAPTER 23

  When I got back to the office, something resembling music was coming from Carol’s radio.

  “What’s playing?”

  “Riley, you’re hopeless. That’s the theme from S.W.A.T.”

  “Well, it’s better than those songs with the asinine lyrics. Maybe there’s hope for pop if it sticks with instrumentals.”

  “Right. And you’re surely just the right person to be advising the American music industry.” She nodded in mock sincerity, then handed me a message. “Your mom called earlier and asked me to pass this along to you.”

  I thanked her and read the note on the way back to my office. She wanted me to pick up Tommy and her at the church this evening after a special program. I
remembered that a visiting organist was going to play some Bach fugues, which would’ve been great to attend, but I had more pressing matters. My mother didn’t like walking even the couple of blocks from the church to her house in the evening. She wasn’t so much worried about crime in the neighborhood, but her night vision was getting worse all the time and Tommy was easily frightened in the dark.

  As I flicked on the lights in my office, I heard the frantic scurrying of tiny feet. The guys had delivered the mice in a couple of deep plastic pails. The rodents couldn’t get out, despite their desperate attempts. If Carol came into the office, I didn’t feel like explaining what I was doing with a garbage bag of clothing and buckets of mice, so I looked through some mail until I heard her call out a good-bye and leave for the day.

  Then I went back to the shop and grabbed three more buckets for my experiment. I lined up the containers along the wall of my office and deposited a couple of mice in each one. No longer feeding off the group’s panic, the pairs were much calmer. Next, I retrieved the bag with Odum’s laundry from the truck and put on a pair of rubber gloves. It seemed most sensible to divide the clothes into types. So I put his underwear into one pail. The other mice were given his T-shirts, socks, pants, or shirts. I was concerned that rather than rummaging through their newfound bedding, the mice might use the clothing to launch escapes. So, I cut some wire mesh from a roll in the shop and covered the buckets. I wanted the little guys to have plenty of contact with Odum’s laundry. If there was a chemical on his clothing that was potent enough to poison him and Marissa, I figured the mice would let me know by tomorrow which of the garments were guilty.

  I headed over to Tommaso’s for a plate of pasta and a glass of Chianti. I liked the North Beach area almost as much as Potrero; it had the same sense of ethnic identity and pride. The Italians are happier than the Irish, having once ruled the civilized world and having avoided famine in modern times. They live on as if the Roman Empire still calls the shots and their duty is to introduce good food and wine to the barbarians. Maybe they’re not so far off. The homemade ravioli with a simple marinara sauce was unbeatable, and the din of shouted orders, animated conversations, and clinking plates was soothing. I’d brought along The Monkey Wrench Gang and read through the first few chapters over dinner. Exploding bridges, burning billboards, and George Washington Hayduke’s defiance made for a helluva start to a book. I could see how Odum might’ve been drawn into the crazy world of Edward Abbey. Even in my police days, I had more respect for the criminal who acted out of his own sense of right and wrong—however twisted it might be—than for the by-the-book cop who followed orders without thinking for himself.

  After dinner, I headed to St. Teresa’s. I stood in the back of the sanctuary, happy to have arrived in time for the last strains of Bach’s Great Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor. Father Griesmaier was standing placidly outside the confessionals. I hated to disturb him, but given the diverse ethnicities of his parish, I figured he might be able to shed some light on the nationality of Howard’s mysterious lover. I caught his eye and nodded toward the rear doors. He smiled and followed me into the entryway.

  “And what can I do for you this fine evening, Riley? Having called me away from the confessionals, I assume that you’ll not be seeking absolution tonight?” he teased.

  “Uh no, Father. Not that I couldn’t use some forgiveness, but it’ll have to wait until a better time.”

  “My son, that could be difficult to explain before the Lord should you find yourself in His presence. Not having time for the sacraments may not go over so well.” He shook his head in semi-serious disappointment. I would’ve loved to please the gentle and well-meaning priest by going through the motions, but pretending about things that were so important to him and my mother would have been disrespectful. If what seemed like mumbo jumbo to me brought meaning to him and serenity to my mother, then I wasn’t going to make a mockery of their faith.

  “I’m hoping that the Almighty is mighty forgiving,” I tried.

  “Sometimes you understand more than you know, Riley. Now then, you didn’t come for catechism class, so how can I help you?”

  “Father, I’m trying to help out a friend.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “And, well, to help her with this problem, I need to figure out the identity of another woman.”

  “Ah, infidelity. How sad.” He sounded genuinely hurt.

  “No Father, it’s more about finding a woman who might have some answers about a tragic death.”

  “I see. It’s all a bit distasteful, eh? I trust that you are acting out of compassion. After all, you are Marie Riley’s son.” The priest gave me such an intense look that if I had been scamming him I would’ve confessed.

  “I am truly trying to do the right thing. My mother says you’ve served other churches with lots of immigrant parishioners, and St. Teresa’s certainly has its assortment of folks.”

  “So this person you’re seeking has some feature that might be associated with a foreign nationality?”

  “Exactly, Father. She used the term ‘dop’ when asking for a drink. And she sprinkled her conversation with the expression ‘is it?’ when the other person was speaking.”

  “It sounds like she is South African. I served with Father Walsh, a priest from Johannesburg, when I was at Our Lady of Sorrows in Chicago. He liked his evening libation and often said he’d have a dop. It was weeks before I realized that he was not mispronouncing ‘drop.’ His glass certainly held more than a drop.”

  “That’s great, Father.”

  “And like the woman you’re seeking, he would also intersperse ‘izit?’ during a conversation. Enough so that the altar boys took to calling him Father Frog when he wasn’t around because they thought it sounded like ‘ribbit.’ Any other quirks that might confirm my identification?” I wanted to be sure, but I didn’t know how to tactfully broach the other term.

  “Maybe just one last thing.”

  “Maybe?”

  “It’s a bit awkward, and I’m pretty positive I understand the meaning. But I want to be sure.”

  “Ah, something lewd, eh? I’ve taken a vow of chastity, but I manage to keep up with such matters in the course of hearing confessions,” he smiled.

  “Okay. She referred to a man’s organ as ‘slup.’ I’m sorry if I’m being offensive.” Instead of being offended, the priest laughed explosively. The last notes of the fugue drowned out his howl.

  “Oh dear, Riley,” he panted, clasping his hands as if in prayer. “I hadn’t heard it used that way.”

  “Whaddya mean, Father?”

  “Well, Father Walsh used to rave about the french fries he’d get from a fish-and-chips place a couple blocks from the rectory. He’d say they were ‘slup chips,’ which I thought was just his term for fries. But a parishioner from Cape Town told me that he was praising the sogginess of the fries.”

  “I’m not sure I get it.”

  He chuckled at the thought of a priest having to explain such matters to another man. “You see, Riley, ‘slup’ means limp in Afrikaans. The woman was evidently unimpressed when she rendered that judgment.”

  “Well, that seals it. She must be South African.” The audience was beginning to come through into the entryway, pulling on jackets and sweaters. “Thanks so much, Father.”

  “I’m happy to help, as long as you use what you know to help a person in need. And I’d also be happy to see you in a pew some Sunday.” My mother and Tommy emerged from the sanctuary just in time to save me from trying to offer an excuse. Tommy was excited to tell me about the music, which he described as filling his head and shaking his stomach. Father Griesmaier turned to visit with an elderly fellow who seemed to have some pressing matter. I took my mother and brother back to their house, with Tommy chattering the whole way. My mother didn’t say a word. It was clear that she was basking in Tommy’s joy.

  When I got to my house, I heated up some leftovers and poured a tumbler of Black Bush. I laid ou
t Odum’s files on my worktable and then looked for Mendelssohn’s Octet for Strings in E Flat. Chamber music was an ideal background for reading, but I couldn’t find the record. So I opted for Brahms’s Sonatas in E Minor and F. The cellist was Jacqueline du Pré, with her husband, Daniel Barenboim, playing piano accompaniment. At the time of the recordings, they were in their early twenties and taking the world by storm. Sometimes it seems that God deals from the bottom of the deck. At least du Pré and Barenboim knew they were holding royal flushes and shared their winnings with the rest of us.

  Odum’s papers were mostly scrawled, telegraphic notes that made little or no sense. However, there were three lists that suggested John might have been right about his professor planning something big. On a sheet of notebook paper with a ragged edge torn from a spiral binding, he’d drawn up a table with three columns. The first entry in each row was the name and address of an industrial plant in the Bay Area, the second entry was a series of chemical names, and the third was a number between 1 and 10. Most of the plants had numbers between 3 and 6, but he’d put a star next to the names of two locations with scores of 9 and 10: CalAgri and AmeriChem Industries. And in the column next to AmeriChem, he’d repeatedly circled one chemical: chlordane. The next several pages were hand-drawn maps of a factory site labeled ACI along Oakland’s inner harbor.

  On another sheet, Odum had typed a list of names. Each name had a parenthetical notation and a dollar figure:

  Frank Moffett (NE gatehouse) $2000

  Ed Colter (grounds maint) $1000

  Bill Jackson (shift supvsr) $5000

  Steve Reiners (tank maint) $1000

  Scott VanDyke (bldg eng) $3000

  Kirk Schell (shift guard) $2000

  I also found a half sheet of newspaper. Odum had filed away the used vehicle section of the Chronicle from August 22. He’d circled four ads for VW vans and two for panel vans.