Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  A couple years ago, while I was doing a treatment in a cramped basement, the rubber gasket in my sprayer failed and I was soaked with insecticide. I hurried back to work, showered, and changed clothes. I felt dizzy and nauseous for a few hours. Nothing bad enough to go to the hospital, but I made the mistake of telling Beth about it. She called me a “macho idiot,” saying that if I’d been far from a hospital and hit with a bigger dose, I’d be dead.

  The next day Beth gave me a vial of atropine and a couple of syringes that she swiped from the hospital. She insisted I keep this stuff in a cooler when I went out on jobs, which I did for a few weeks. Eventually it became too much of a hassle so I stored it in the fridge. Beth also wrote a note card with simple instructions on how much of the antidote to inject in case of acute poisoning. Atropine didn’t counteract every insecticide, but it worked for the most toxic ones I used—and it was this medicine that the doctors had used to reverse the stupidity of the organic gardeners. I figured it was probably still good since it had been kept cold. At least that’s what Miss Botha and I would be counting on if things went badly.

  On my way out to solve some “While You Were Out” crises, Carol’s radio was blaring a singularly artless account of sexual exploits that featured the lyrics “afternoon delight.” This struck me as painfully ironic, since the first stop was at the projects in Pacific Heights to check out a rat bite. I detoured through Chinatown and grabbed a few egg rolls from the House of Hong. I finished the last one just as I double-parked behind a city car at the projects.

  A representative from the San Francisco Housing Authority had a handful of unhappy people gathered around him. The tired-looking, middle-aged black man introduced himself as Leon Jones. The fellow had the look of an idealist worn down by bureaucracy. The mother of the child who’d been bitten was a three-hundred-pound mountain of black fury demanding that “something be done.” She was holding a crying child in one arm while waving the other menacingly. The little boy, who was sobbing either out of pain or fear of his mother’s rage, had a series of bloody gouges on his thigh. The mother might’ve been hysterical but she had a good reason. There was no question that the kid had rat bites. His cries increased as his mother grew intent on inciting a riot.

  The woman’s neighbors began to trickle out onto the sidewalk to see what the commotion was about, and things started to degenerate. Jones tried to calm the situation by assuring the crowd that the Housing Authority would be “assessing the situation and taking appropriate action.”

  “We don’ want no ’propriate action, we wanna live in our homes without being attacked by rats,” she shouted. I thought she had a point, and given that folks were getting more fractious by the minute, I tried to defuse the situation.

  “Ma’am, I think that’s why I’m here.”

  “Who you be?” she sneered.

  “I’m an exterminator. I kill rats. And I think the Housing Authority is going to hire me to clean up your apartments. Isn’t that right?” I asked Jones, who seemed relieved to have an ally.

  “Yes, absolutely,” he said, nodding with grave authority.

  I opened the binder I was holding. “And right here is the contract between my company and the city. Let’s get this paperwork taken care of, and then I’ll have my crew out here as soon as possible.” I filled in a few blanks with my eyeball estimate of the job and passed the binder to Jones, who nervously scanned the documents.

  “I’m supposed to get a second bid,” he whispered.

  “Just sign the contract,” I murmured. “If you get a better bid by next week, I’ll let you off the hook. But for now let’s save our skins and worry about the niceties of administrative policies later.”

  As he signed the papers, I announced to the crowd, “So when you see a truck from Goat Hill Extermination, remember these guys are on your side.” I knew how unfamiliar vehicles in the projects could sometimes fare, so I thought I’d lay a bit of diplomatic groundwork for Larry and Dennis.

  The mob dispersed amid grumbles and curses. Jones got back into his city car, and the mother lumbered back toward the apartments with the sobbing kid, hopefully to find some merthiolate or iodine. Nobody was happy. I wasn’t keen about killing rats—bleeding to death internally from warfarin poisoning can’t be a great way to go. But there was a job to be done and I wouldn’t shed any more tears for rodents than I did for the criminals I put away. Exterminators and cops understand the reality of necessary evil. It’s nothing personal. Rats are just being rodents and sociopaths are just being humans. But somebody has to make sure that innocent people aren’t hurt by these creatures, and that means using force. Sometimes even deadly force. The more I thought about it, the more I settled into my plan for Sarie Botha.

  I swung by the library at the end of the day to see if the foreign papers had any more on the South African poisonings. They added some details, but Bino’s account was on the mark. The assassins broke into the hotel rooms of their political enemies, applied a thin layer of parathion-laced petroleum jelly to their undergarments, and waited for the poison to do its work. The symptoms were diffuse enough for physicians to attribute the deaths to metabolic syndromes, heart attacks, and unspecified infections. After one of the activists flew to England for a lecture and collapsed, a doctor in London figured out the scheme by collaborating with South African authorities. Nobody knew how many anti-apartheid leaders had been killed.

  That evening I reheated leftovers and poured a full glass of Black Bush after doing the dishes. I put on Mahler’s Ninth Symphony—a selection that fit the task before me. I made some calculations based on my best estimate of body weight and nicotine concentration, then repeated them twice to be sure. I was used to having a more precise sense of a job, and I could’ve figured out an exact dose if I’d been willing to use one of the insecticides in the warehouse. But I couldn’t bring myself to consider using a product of my trade for the purpose I had planned.

  Satisfied with my mathematics, I sipped the whiskey and began to make a list of materials I’d need for tomorrow night in addition to the tobacco extract and atropine.

  The last notes in Mahler’s final movement were slowly dying away. The orchestra took heartrending minutes to play the few final notes which are said to prophesy the composer’s death without him ever having heard his final symphony performed.

  CHAPTER 34

  I slept remarkably well, given what I had planned for the day. At least the morning would give me a chance to feel human. I began with an early breakfast at Gustaw’s Bakery. Ludwika cut me an enormous slice of mazurek.

  “It should only be for Easter,” she apologized, “but we are now Americans, and our customers adore this cake.”

  Gustaw poured some of his thick coffee for me and noted, “There is reason to celebrate with a special treat.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “Monday marks the thirty-seventh anniversary of the Polish Underground State,” he said with pride. “The resistance never surrendered to the Nazis. The Soviets will fare no better.”

  Ludwika scowled. She’d often scolded Gustaw for mixing politics with business. I thought it wise to let the subject drop, although I was confident that not many of the locals enjoying a Saturday breakfast were going to side with the commies. I wiped up the marzipan and drained my coffee. Then I paid my bill and headed down the hill to get my truck from the fenced lot behind Goat Hill Extermination.

  The day was crystal clear and Tommy was waiting on the front porch with his collecting gear. We headed out to Baker Beach. It isn’t my favorite spot, although it has some great views to the north. That end of the beach has been taken over by nudists, and a mile further is the Golden Gate Bridge. What mattered this morning, however, was that Tommy and I had found at least three species of tiger beetles lurking in the beach grass back in July.

  I spread out a blanket below the dunes while Tommy stalked the beetles. Tiger beetles are as nimble as they are beautiful, and it takes either phenomenal quicknes
s or heroic patience to net them. Tommy’s awkward dives and frequent tumbles into the sand made it clear that he couldn’t rely on agility. But what my brother lacked in athleticism he made up for in perseverance. I’d brought along Ludlum’s latest book, The Gemini Contenders. The story was pretty engaging, what with the elements of religion, politics, and family. It probably wasn’t great literature, but I could escape into an imaginary world where, however messy things got, in the end good triumphed. I couldn’t help but think about the Odums, Paul’s students, and Sarie Botha—and I wasn’t at all sure who was a hero and who was a villain. Or who was going to triumph.

  My reverie was broken by shouts from Tommy, who’d finally nabbed a beetle. He came lurching down the dune with his net wadded up. “I got one, Riley!”

  “Let’s see, pal.” He showed me the pouch at the bottom of the net, below his clenched fist. “I’m impressed. That’s a beaut!” And it was quite an insect, with long spindly legs, bulging eyes, and an iridescent green body sporting vivid yellow spots around the edge.

  “Do you want me to put it in the killing jar for you?” I asked.

  “No, I can do it.”

  “It won’t bother you?”

  “Not so much,” he said as I unscrewed the lid and he slipped the net over the mouth of the jar. He held it up and the sun glinted off the insect.

  “Why not?”

  “Cuz it’s not a butterfly. It’s an etter.”

  “An etter?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Scott from the museum told me.” He set his jaw defiantly, and I knew we had to work this out.

  “Hmmm. Did he maybe say ‘editor’?” I couldn’t figure out what editors had to do with insects, but it was the closest thing to Tommy’s word.

  “That’s it,” he announced. “The ones that eat others. Editors.”

  “Ah, you mean ‘predators.’ They eat other insects.”

  “Predators,” he repeated, furrowing his brow in deep concentration. “I’m not good with new words, Riley.”

  “Don’t worry, pal. We figured it out, and you’ll remember it next time.”

  “I’m going to catch another one,” he shouted, stumbling back up the hill. His right leg swung wide and carved arcs into the sand. It was late morning by the time I finished a couple more chapters and Tommy scored another tiger beetle—a rust-colored specimen with ivory swirls. He had an important event to attend at eleven, and I knew he wouldn’t want to be late.

  We headed back to the neighborhood and stopped just up the street from the church at a pink stuccoed house with white-framed windows. A brass plate on the front identified it as St. Teresa’s Rectory. I’d not reminded Tommy of Father Griesmaier’s invitation, as the kid would’ve been too distracted to enjoy his morning at the beach. But when we pulled up, it was clear that he knew what was up. Tommy jumped out of the truck just as I came to a stop, hit the sidewalk in a jumble, struggled to his feet, and lurched his way toward the open front door.

  “Father, Karsa, I’m here!” he shouted as I caught up to him. The jovial priest and Tommy’s best friend from the adult daycare met him at the door. Karsa was blinking hard and rolling his shoulders, signs that he was as excited as Tommy.

  “Come in, Tommy,” the priest said with undisguised delight. “I have the couch set up for you and Karsa, so you won’t miss a minute of the game.”

  “And snacks?” Tommy asked.

  “Of course. Hot dogs, popcorn, chips, and root beer.” The priest stepped aside to let the two men hug and head into the living room with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders.

  “Thanks, Father, this means so much to him.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Riley. They’re fine fellows doing the very best they can. We could all learn something from their approach to life.”

  “Just the same, I know that aside from Mass, watching Notre Dame football is as sacred as it gets.” I didn’t add that he would also have to forgo his Trumer Pils in the presence of Tommy and Karsa. Trading root beer for his beloved Austrian beer on game day was as close to martyrdom as it got these days around St. Teresa’s. But he insisted that a man of the cloth needed to set a good example.

  “Indeed,” he smiled. “And your mother will be by to pick him up around two, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think he’ll last that long. We had a busy morning at the beach, so he’ll probably doze off by halftime.”

  “Ah, the Fighting Irish will keep him enthralled,” the priest assured me. He headed into the house and Tommy came to the doorway to tell me good-bye. I drew him aside.

  “What’s the word for animals that eat other animals?” I asked in a whisper. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. I was starting to wish that I’d left him to enjoy Karsa and the party, but I knew he’d be thrilled if he could remember.

  “Predators,” he declared triumphantly. I gave him a hug and he headed back into the living room shouting, “Notre Dame is going to be the predators today, Father!” The priest laughed uproariously. I headed back to the truck, wondering how predators were going to fare in my slice of the world.

  I grabbed a quick lunch at my old hangout on Valencia. The diner took me back to my police days, which got me into the right frame of mind for what was to come. I swung by my house and dug through the bedroom closet. In the dark recesses, I found the outfit that Kelly had bought for me when we were tapping into the San Francisco nightlife. I pretty much hated the clothes as much as she adored the disco music. But to be fair, she couldn’t stand going to the symphony with me even though she was a knockout in an evening dress. I suppose I should have figured out sooner that any relationship built on mutual, alternating martyrdom couldn’t last, no matter how good the sex. In any case, a green leisure suit and a wide-collared polyester shirt with a Picasso-like print in yellow, brown, and burnt orange was the best I could do on short notice. I zipped the clothes into a suit bag and headed down the hill.

  At the office, I found that my little chemistry experiment had worked well. The heating pad had evaporated the water in the beaker down to what looked like a strong tea. I poured the liquid into a vial and tossed the tobacco residue in the trash. Then I filled out the rest of my list—atropine, cotton balls, rubber tubing, syringes, and latex gloves.

  Out at the truck, I transferred the supplies to the pocket of my suit coat, rezipped the bag, and headed toward the Bay Bridge and switched off the radio. I hated to miss Peter Allen announcing the Texaco-Metropolitan Opera broadcast of Verdi’s Aida, but I needed to carefully think through my next steps. I had two important visits to make before playing my gambit with Sarie Botha.

  CHAPTER 35

  As a detective, I’d learned that to understand a suspect you had to get a sense of their family, friends, and coworkers. From what I could tell, Sarie Botha didn’t have many of the first two, but at least I could make firsthand contact with her evidently unlikable boss. So, my first stop was on Spruce Street, a half mile beyond and at least a hundred feet above the Odums’ house. If Paul Odum had parlayed his extracurricular agricultural project into better digs, it was clear that Rene Morley had figured out an even better angle. Whatever his racket, this guy was living well beyond the means of a university professor.

  The Tudor-style mansion was faced in exquisite stonework and featured turrets and a glassed-in conservatory overlooking a sweep of perfectly manicured lawn. I parked on the circular drive, under a sprawling oak, where the truck could be seen but at an angle that the sign on the cab door wasn’t readable. No sense leaving a calling card.

  I headed through a stone arch and rang the bell alongside a massive front door. I’d picked off the name of Morley’s neighbor from a burnished brass sign announcing that the Pearlman Residence was next door. With that information, the shtick I’d worked out on my way across the Bay, and a bit of luck, I figured I’d get a sense of Sarie Botha’s boss—and maybe gain some insight about her. I was met by a dumpy, balding man with an air of utter disdain. He was dressed in a silk smoking j
acket with a pipe stem poking out from the side pocket, khaki pants with a crisp crease, and leather slippers worth more than any pair of shoes I’d ever owned. The guy looked like a cross between Danny DeVito and Hugh Hefner.

  “What is your business?” he demanded.

  “Funny you should put it that way,” I replied in my most accommodating tone. “I’m with Golden Bear Extermination.” I extended my hand. Morley looked past me toward the derelict truck and began to close the door. “Hold on, sir, your house may be at dire risk. At least, the Pearlmans wished they’d had an inspection before things got so bad.” He paused just a moment. I knew I had him.

  “What about the Pearlmans?” He opened the door a bit further.

  “Well, I know how sensitive these matters can be, so please say nothing to them. But my company is conducting a termite extermination of their house. Lots of subfloor damage, and they’ll have to call in a structural engineer.”

  “So?”

  “Well, termites are not good at staying put. And there’s a good chance they’ve worked their way into your house.” Morley looked annoyed and concerned.

  “What do you propose?”

  “A quick examination of the side of your house that faces your unfortunate neighbors should tell us if you have visitors.”

  “What’ll this cost me?”

  “An exterior inspection is twenty-five dollars. We’ll bill you, if that’s okay.”

  Morley sighed deeply and rolled his eyes in disgust. He flicked his hand at me. “Go, do whatever you do, but be discreet. I expect you to be gone in fifteen minutes, and should you find anything you will call before coming to my door again. Do you understand?”