Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “I used to be, but I traded in my .38 for a spray nozzle years ago.” She briefly pressed herself harder against me and then drew away mischievously.

  “Well then, if you’ll come by my apartment Thursday morning, I’ll take you to one of Dr. Odum’s field sites that will answer your question.”

  “I’m intrigued.” Which was true in more ways than one. I wondered who had been objectified, to borrow Carol’s term. It wasn’t clear to me whose body had been used—and what it would mean for each of us in a couple of days.

  “Good. I have the upstairs apartment at 410 Dana, a couple blocks south of campus. Be there by seven or I’ll leave without you,” she called over her shoulder as she walked back to her tiny trees.

  I headed into the forest, the return to my truck being easier on the lungs and harder on the knees. I had one more stop to make on this side of the Bay before calling it a day. I drove back down to the Berkeley campus and made my way to Wellman Hall, an impressive granite building. This was the one place I could find without asking directions, as I’d been there several times.

  The Essig Museum of Entomology hosted “Insect Safaris” at various sites around the Bay, and Tommy loved these outings. The museum staff would bring display cases of fantastic insects, along with some live hissing roaches and giant millipedes to get people fired up. Then they’d provide a brief description of the habitat and its insect community and send folks out with nets for a couple hours of collecting, after which the entomologists would identify the specimens. Tommy had befriended an energetic young fellow from the museum—unlike most taxonomists, who seem to have been somehow born as sixty-year-old men—who had a remarkable knack for working with kids. So Tommy and I had made it part of our routine to check out the public displays at the Essig at least a couple times a year and drop in on his pal.

  Once in the building, it was easy to find the museum by following the scent of naphthalene. A series of dark-stained office doors with pebbled glass lined the hallway across from the insect collection, and I knocked on the one with the name “Scott Fortier, Associate Curator” stenciled on the glass.

  “Come in,” he called, and I poked my head through the door. Scott unfolded himself from his chair. The man must have been at least six foot four and couldn’t have weighed more than 170 pounds. “Riley! It’s great to see you. Where’s Tommy?” he asked, coming around his desk, which was buried in piles of papers and unopened mail. Scott had a crooked-toothed grin on his long, horselike face. His hair looked like blond steel wool. He was homely as hell but irresistible in his warmth and enthusiasm.

  “He’s at home, Scott. We were just here a few weeks ago, so I didn’t bring him along.”

  “That’s right, you two dropped by in July. It was the weekend of the Fourth, if I remember correctly.”

  “You’re good.” How a fellow could keep track of such details amid the utter chaos of his office was beyond me. Tables on either side of his overflowing desk were covered in wooden boxes, cardboard trays for pinning insects, microscope slides, and books opened to elegant line drawings of insect anatomy.

  “So what brings you to this side of the Bay?” he asked, shuffling sideways between his desk and a waist-high stack of scientific journals, the top one being The Coleopterists Bulletin with a photograph of a dung beetle on the cover.

  “I found a beetle that I’m struggling with,” I offered, knowing that Scott loved a challenge almost as much as he adored beetles. He led me down the hall, past the public displays, to the main collection. The room was filled, floor to ceiling, with wooden cabinets forming a maze of narrow walkways. There must’ve been several hundred thousand insects perfectly pinned, carefully labeled, and lovingly stored. Scott sat down at one of the dissecting microscopes, and I pulled up a chair.

  “Okay, let’s see your tricky insect,” he said. I pulled out the vial and handed it to him.

  “They’re pretty banged up, but at least there’re enough pieces to work with,” I said. He scowled, placed them in a glass dish, and pushed them under the microscope.

  “The tarsal formula is that of the coccinellids,” he murmured.

  “That’s where I got stumped,” I said, not wanting to equate my amateurism with his expertise.

  “These aren’t typical ladybirds, but I think I’ve seen them before.” He pushed back from the microscope and stared at the ceiling, as if the fluorescent fixture would provide the answer. Then he closed his eyes and it looked like he was in pain. I remained dead still, hoping he was deep in concentration rather than having a migraine. Suddenly he jumped out of his chair, sending it crashing backward to the floor. I set it back on its legs and followed him into the maze of cabinets. He began running his finger down the labels on the drawers and pulling them out to peer inside, each time shaking his head in annoyance. Finally, he pulled out a drawer at about chin height for him and peeked over the edge.

  “That’s the one. I had the genus as Harmonia, but I couldn’t remember the species.” He lifted the glass cover from the drawer and removed a tray of beetles from somewhere near the back corner. Now I could see about two dozen specimens neatly aligned on pins. Scott carried the tray back to the microscope in his office and set my beetles next to the museum mounts. I waited while he examined the insects and hummed happily, if not melodiously.

  “Are they the same species?” I finally asked.

  Scott leaned back in the chair, clearly pleased with himself. “Yes, they’re all Harmonia axyridis. But the species has three color forms.” He explained that some were reddish orange with black spots, others were black with four red spots, and a few were black with two red spots. My beetles were a perfect match to the last ones.

  “Are they rare?”

  “Not really, at least in a global sense. The only reason I remembered this species is because the Department of Agriculture sent us a series of specimens a few months ago. My assistant was on vacation so I worked them into the collection myself.”

  “So they’re pests?” It seemed peculiar for ladybird beetles, but I knew that a few species attacked crops.

  “Quite the opposite. The boys at the USDA are planning to import them from Southeast Asia as predators of aphids, and they wanted to let us know so we wouldn’t be caught off guard. Where’d you get these?” Now I was in a tough spot. So I fibbed enough to avoid the messy details of my investigation. It’s always best to evade with a half-truth, as it is very difficult to create a convincing full-blown lie without careful planning—as plenty of suspects have discovered in the course of an interrogation.

  “Well, it’s a bit awkward. Let’s just say a friend of a friend found these in a baggie of dope.”

  “Ah, the old ‘friend of a friend’ eh?” He figured I was being evasive, but no harm there. “Well, it makes sense. Marijuana is a great food source for aphids and whiteflies. And these beetles would find easy pickings in a field of pot.”

  “So you know about pests of marijuana, eh?” I teased in return.

  “That’s what I’ve been told by a friend,” he replied, giving me a knowing smile. “And it looks like your friend has latched onto some pretty good stuff.”

  “How so?”

  “The stuff from Burma, Cambodia, and Thailand is pretty choice. Or so I’ve been told by those who have experience with these sorts of things.” I didn’t know what Scott thought about me, but it wasn’t important. What mattered was that he’d added a piece to the puzzle. I thanked him and promised that next time I’d have my kid brother with me. He seemed delighted at having solved my entomological mystery and at the prospect of a visit from Tommy.

  As I drove back to San Francisco, KDFC was playing a program of modern classical music. This made it easy to think because I have no problem disengaging from the works of John Cage and Philip Glass. The ladybird beetles had ratted out Odum as having dope from Southeast Asia. This might somehow fit with his project in Thailand, but it didn’t help to link him with the woman from South Africa. And none of this helped explain
the poisoning. At least tomorrow held the promise of making some progress on what role AmeriChem might’ve had in Odum’s death. I had plenty of pieces and some even fit together, but I still couldn’t see the whole picture.

  I was frustrated, so I grabbed a quick bite and spent the evening pounding the heavy bag, working the speed bag, and heaving a medicine ball with an aging has-been who’d once dominated the local fight scene. During a break, I leaned on the apron of the ring and watched a couple of young turks bang away. Marty came over, an unlit cigar stub clenched in his teeth.

  “The white kid’s strong,” I said.

  “Sure is. And his footwork is top-notch,” Marty replied without a hint of enthusiasm.

  “But?”

  Marty shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “But the Mexican kid has heart.” The white guy had landed a wicked jab-and-hook combination that sent his opponent against the ropes.

  “Doesn’t look like heart’s going to help him tonight,” I observed as the Mexican fighter tried to cover up.

  “Nope, but my money’s on him for the long haul,” Marty rasped.

  “If he survives.”

  “He’ll survive all right. He’s just like you were when you came here as a kid. Except he has talent.”

  “Gee, thanks, Marty.”

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way. Look, you didn’t have hand speed and you were forever crossing up your feet. But if you survived the first two rounds of a fight, then there’d be hell to pay in the third.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I can teach technique, but heart has to come from the fighter. The white kid, he’s had lots of coaching in a fancy gym in Pacific Heights. He’s just here cuz they’re closed for remodeling.”

  “When are you going to remodel, Marty?”

  “And lose this ambiance? Never,” he grunted. “But you see, that kid’ll go back to his hoity-toity trainer and equipment where he’ll apply his skills in the ring every week so he can win some trophies and add a line to his college application. Luis will stay here and use his skills in the streets and maybe win enough money to buy his way out of being a dishwasher at his uncle’s restaurant.” The bell rang, and the fighters headed to their corners.

  “So you wanna bet on Luis? I got five bucks that says he’ll be on the canvas in the next round.”

  “No bet. But give it a year. And if these guys meet and it goes past the second round, the smart money will be on Luis.”

  Marty turned and shuffled back toward his office. I went back to the heavy bag and wondered whether the smart money was on me when it came to solving Odum’s murder before time ran out.

  CHAPTER 26

  I rolled out of bed with that deep and pleasant soreness that reminds a guy he can still push his body hard. A scalding shower melted some of the ache out of my neck and shoulders. I figured this could be a long day, so I fried up four eggs and toasted a stack of bread. My coffee wasn’t as stout as Gustaw’s but it did the trick. I glanced through the paper—the Communists were busy launching cosmonauts and burying Mao Tse Tung. Good riddance on both counts if you ask me. Meanwhile, NASA had unveiled its space shuttle, demonstrating that the American government has no clue about the value of money in a recession. Space isn’t going anywhere, so what’s the rush? Maybe the world was going to hell, but it turned out that in my little corner of the universe, things were working out. I dialed my favorite hotel in Los Angeles and got lucky.

  “Thank you for calling the Hyatt Regency, this is Linda. How may I help you?” she intoned.

  “Drive up to San Francisco and have dinner with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You wouldn’t disappoint your old friend Riley, would you?”

  “Riley!” I could hear the excitement in her voice, and then she whispered, “I can’t take personal calls at work. You’ll get me in trouble. What are you doing calling me?”

  “Just wanted to hear your lovely voice,” I tried.

  “Save it, Casanova. What do you need, and make it quick before the manager catches me talking with you.”

  “Okay sweetie, Odum’s death has gotten complicated, but nothing that will make trouble for your hotel. I need you to pull the registry for the week of that science convention and see if you can find a guest named Sarah.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  “Sorry, you said to make it quick.”

  “Yeah, just like a typical man—only too happy to make it quick. Hang on, let me see what I can find.” She put me on hold and I listened to an orchestrated version of a Beatles tune. Leave it to the music industry to take one of the few pop groups with a modicum of talent and make their songs unlistenable.

  “You’re lucky. My manager is tied up with a guest who managed to scald himself in the shower and is threatening to sue.”

  “Thank God for stupid people. What did you find?”

  “There were no guests registered as ‘Sarah’ for that meeting. However, there was a Sarie Botha who paid the conference rate.”

  “Can you spell that?” She did and then struck gold.

  “Hold on, there’s more. She had a reservation through Friday, but she checked out on Wednesday.” Linda’s voice trailed off.

  “The day Odum was found dead.”

  “So it would appear. Do you think she’s connected to his death?”

  “Maybe. At least I’d love to ask her some questions. Do you have her address or phone number in your records?”

  “Sorry, I can’t help on that one. We give guests a card at check-in, but most folks don’t fill it out.”

  “You’ve been a huge help. And I was serious about the dinner. I’ll be back in LA sometime. And San Francisco is a very romantic city just a few hours to your north, if you’re looking to get out of the smog.”

  “I don’t know what I see in you. But inscrutable exterminators have always been a weakness of mine.” I laughed and her voice dropped in pitch. “Riley?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. This whole thing sounds like it’s getting creepy. Remember curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m an old alley cat. It’s the mice that need to watch out.” In more ways than she imagined. We said our good-byes and I headed out the door, hoping that my luck would hold when it came to finding Sarie Botha.

  I drove over to the Mission Station, where I’d been assigned in my early days on the force. Some of my best buddies, including a fair number who stood behind me in the tough times, were still there. I dropped by every so often to catch up on news and remember just how bad police station coffee could be. The grimy gray stonework, and the palm trees flanking the heavy columns leading to the entrance, made the place look like it had been lifted straight out of Havana and plunked down on Valencia Street. I went in and told the desk officer that I was looking for Kelly Madsen. Without looking up from his crossword puzzle, he waved me down the hall.

  Kelly was a fiery redhead who worked in the Records Division, and we’d had a brief but intense affair. Neither of us found what we were looking for, except in bed where she was incredible and I managed to barely keep up with her inventiveness. But we didn’t have much else in common, so our dates consisted of stilted conversation over a rushed dinner followed by a luscious dessert in her bedroom, or kitchen, or even the elevator. It’d been a while since I’d seen her, but there were no hard feelings, so I hoped I might be able to plead for a favor.

  “Hey doll, how’s life treating you?” I asked, admiring the way she stretched the buttons on a police-issue blouse.

  “Well, well,” she replied, her green eyes sparkling. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from my favorite Irishman?”

  “I need a favor, Kelly. I’m trying to find a person.” She liked to get down to business—at work and in bed.

  “And why, pray tell, would I use police equipment for a private matter?” she purred, just to remind me of what I’d given up years ago.

  “For old times’ sake?
”

  “Mmmm. There were some fine times, Riley.”

  “So how ’bout it?”

  “Maybe I can sneak in a special favor without getting caught,” she said coyly. “The sergeant has been on the phone all morning arguing with his wife’s lawyer about who gets the boat, so I have a bit of latitude if you know what I mean. What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to find a woman named Sarie Botha. She’s likely a foreign national from South Africa.” Kelly was jotting notes on the back of a punch card.

  “What else have you got?”

  “That’s it,” I admitted.

  “Not much to go on, but I’ll give it a run.” She started clacking away on her keyboard, punch cards rolling across the face of the machine. Watching those long freckled legs unfold from beneath her desk brought back some very fond memories. She took the cards and dropped them off at a window on the far side of the room and sashayed back. Kelly sat back down, crossed her legs, and rotated her foot in long slow circles. I leaned against her desk and we managed to talk about life—her vacation to San Diego last month and my collecting trip to Mexico in June—in a way that we’d never managed when we were together. A buzzer sounded on her desk and she headed back to the window. Kelly returned looking disappointed.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Didn’t find a match, but I didn’t think it’d be easy.”

  “I know, it’s not much. But it’s pretty important to me. Well, to a friend of mine.”

  “Don’t try to explain or you’ll just end up lying. I only ran her name through outstanding warrants. There’re a bunch of tricks I can use—different spellings, immigration records, things like that.”

  “So, you can keep trying?”

  “You know me, Riley, I was never one to quit when things got hard.” She leered at me. I was tempted, but I knew as good as it’d be for a while, I’d get burned by this rekindled flame.

  “That’s for sure, doll.” I glanced at my watch. “Hey, I have to run. Give me a call if you find anything?” She looked disappointed that I hadn’t taken the bait, but her pout was too perfect to be authentic.