Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  On the way home I dropped by O’Donnell’s Pub for a quick bite and to close the day with a glass of Connemara single malt. I considered the Bushmills twenty-one-year-old. I’ve always found it odd that a good whiskey is as old as the people who can legally drink it—and there’s something screwy in a country where you can be sent to die in a war before you can have a drink to toast your own descent into hell. As smooth and tempting as the Bushmills was, it only offered 80-proof therapy, and I needed 120. Brian served me a generous pour and we chatted for a while, as old friends will. But he sensed that my heart wasn’t in it and graciously went back to polishing the glassware. The Connemara was a perfect match to Cynthia’s shepherd’s pie. She cooked with the simple grace of the home country. Modern life has its advantages, but new isn’t always better when it comes to what a woman cooks. Or what a man values.

  CHAPTER 40

  The morning was crystal clear, the sort of San Francisco day that makes you forget about the summer that never lives up to its name—at least in terms of warmth. A chance for postcard photographers to frame the Golden Gate Bridge, the Transamerica Building, or Alcatraz Island against a blue sky. A chance for the Chamber of Commerce to deceive tourists. A chance for residents to delude themselves that the thick winter fog and days of gray drizzle are not our fate for the next five months. It’s the lies that make life bearable for most people.

  When I got to the office, Carol was on the phone. She had on a sweater with horizontal stripes of fall colors. It only took a moment to decide that the burnt orange stripe was my favorite, at least in terms of location. Had she noticed, Carol would’ve given me a failing grade in Sexism 101, but the quiz was unreasonably difficult. I’d never be an A-student, but I had passed the test with Sarie—if a guy is allowed partial credit.

  I went to my office and looked up some figures in a four-inch-thick handbook that had everything you’d want to know about pesticides—including how to avoid (or ensure) poisoning. I grabbed a vial from the warehouse and headed to the front door. It didn’t feel right to rush out without checking in with Carol. She’d been carrying the ball around here, and I wanted to be sure that nothing important was falling between the cracks.

  “Look, here’s how it works,” Carol was explaining to the caller. “There’s fast, there’s good, and there’s cheap. You can pick any two of these, ma’am. If you want one of my guys out there this morning doing a good job, it won’t be cheap. If you can wait to the end of the month, we can clean up the infestation for about half the price I quoted. And if you want somebody who can come right away at the low price that your neighbor told you about, then I can give you the name of some other exterminators, but I won’t guarantee the quality of their work.”

  There was a pause, as Carol listened and rolled her eyes in my direction.

  “Okay, ma’am. I can see where you can’t stand having fleas in your carpet for another day. You’re right, the bites are terribly itchy and it’s kinda gross knowing that they’re sucking your blood.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, we guarantee our work.”

  Pause.

  “All right then, just give me your address and I’ll have a technician there before noon.” She filled out the work order, hung up, and looked at me expectantly.

  “How’re things going around the shop?” I asked.

  “Better than when you’re here to muck up schedules and orders. There are some potential customers that need your attention, but they can wait for a day or two. Do you have a sense of when your project will be done?”

  “It’ll all be over by midweek, one way or another.”

  “I should be able to keep things rolling until then.” She cocked her head. “Especially with some musical encouragement.” She had turned down the radio to take the call, but not far enough to mute the insistently repeated request to “Shake your booty”

  “Gotta love KC and the Sunshine Band, eh?” she teased.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “C’mon Riley, these are the guys who gave us ‘Get Down Tonight.’” She did one of those disco dance moves in her chair and sang, “Make a little love, do a little dance, get down tonight.”

  It was almost palatable coming from Carol. “Ah, yes,” I interrupted. “I remember hearing those lyrics over and over again, which seemed to be the entirety of what KC and his untalented group managed to commit to memory and foist upon the world.”

  “You’re just a sourpuss on a Monday.” She frowned and turned up the radio again, but it was just an ad with a bunch of flower children singing about wanting to buy Coke to bring utopia to the world. I couldn’t follow the logic. At least KC wasn’t suggesting that booty-shaking was the path to world peace.

  “Sorry.” I pulled up a chair and leaned my elbows on her desk. She came around behind me and dug her fingers into the base of my neck.

  “Geez, you’re tense,” she said, kneading the muscles into something between excruciating pain and exquisite pleasure.

  “Long weekend. But the ball is rolling and everything will come together or fall apart soon.” I winced between her massage and my anticipation. “Then I can get back to work around here. You’ve been great covering for me.”

  “I know you’re just doing what you figure you have to. From what I know of you, Riley, whatever it is won’t be pretty, but somehow things’ll be a little more right than they were before you got involved. Not perfect, but better. And that’s something. Besides, business is going well, what with Isaac’s attitude improving.”

  “That’s good news. The kid just has to get over the great American lie.”

  “Which is?” Her thumbs were now busy trying to separate ligaments from muscles in my shoulders.

  “Follow your dreams and you’ll be rewarded with money and glory. Here’s how it works: do whatever you think is right, but don’t count on anyone giving a damn, paying you for it, or praising your work. The world doesn’t care what you think and you should return the favor. Do it because it needs doing.”

  “You are a grump.” She squeezed hard enough to make me flinch. “It’s probably best that you’re not around impressionable young people anyway. Get out of here and go do what ‘needs doing.’” She’d lowered her voice to imitate me and then pushed me toward the door.

  I started up my truck and drove to the east end of Warehouse Row on 17th, where I knew a guy who wholesaled pesticides to the smaller exterminators. I had my own warehouse, so I didn’t have to rely on him for my usual chemicals. But this morning I was after something that wasn’t in my inventory. Using an organophosphate would have been just punishment, but I respected the tools of my trade. On the other hand, herbicides weren’t part of my business. To some, a pesticide is a pesticide, but that’s like saying Jameson Limited Reserve is the same as Schlitz beer. I had my professional principles, and my plan would have its own poetic justice.

  I parked next to the loading dock and went into the cramped sales room, which was furnished with a dust-coated artificial plant, a fading poster promising “Better Living . . . Through Chemistry,” a battered folding chair with “First Baptist” stenciled on the back, and a cracked Formica counter running the length of the room. Nobody was there, but a buzzer had sounded when I came in. Norm pushed open a swinging door behind the counter and shuffled in looking annoyed. I’d known him for years, and he’d always looked like he was about seventy and needed a shave—or a drink. He took a drag on his cigarette and grumbled, “Whaddya need?”

  “Nice to see you too, Norm,” I replied, leaning on the counter.

  “Riley? Shit, sorry, I didn’t see it was you.” He squinted and ran his fingers through the wisps of yellowing white hair on either side of his head, as if that would somehow improve his vision.

  “Don’t worry about it, Norm. I just came in to get some paraquat.”

  “Paraquat, eh? That’s not a product in yer line of business. Or’ve ya conquered the roaches and rats and decided to expand into weed control?”

 
; “No, I have my hands full with the beasts. I need it for a little job of my own.”

  “That’s good, cuz y’know they’re talkin’ about makin’ it a restricted-use pesticide. Wouldn’t be able to sell it to someone without their havin’ a license. Supposed to be dangerous, but hell, more people drown in the Bay than get killed by paraquat. Maybe the government oughta require a license before tourists go in the ocean.” He gave a raspy laugh, which sent him off on a coughing binge that ended with his hawking up a wad of mucus and spitting it somewhere behind the counter. “Sorry, kid. So whatcha planning for the stuff?”

  “I’m going to spray a swath of hillside along the fence behind my shop,” I lied. I had an answer ready, because I knew that Norm would have questions. He was a crusty old bastard, and though he wouldn’t admit it, he was lonely. Ever since his wife died in a car accident on Route 17, he’d been coming into O’Donnell’s three or four times a week. At first I wondered if he was taking up booze, but he’d nurse a couple of beers for an hour. Norm would start up conversations with whoever was on the next barstool. Baseball, fishing, politics—anything was fair game. It wasn’t about getting into an argument. Just the opposite, in fact. I’d seen him one night agreeing that Gerald Ford was the man to lead the country and the next week slapping a guy on the back and shouting, “Carter’s the man!” He wanted someone to talk to and disagreement tended to end conversations.

  “Whatcha got against some grass and weeds?” he asked, flicking his ashes onto the floor behind the counter.

  “Kids have been hanging out there after school. It’s their new smoking place.”

  “Cigarettes?” he asked with a wink.

  “Mostly. Doesn’t really matter to me, but they’re going to set the hillside on fire someday. And the last thing I need is to have those drums that I store inside the fence go up in flames.”

  “Kinda late in the year for using a herbicide, doncha think?”

  “There’s still plenty of green. At least it’ll help to spray now, and I can hit it again next spring.” He wasn’t giving me a hard time, just hoping to keep the discussion going.

  “That makes some sense, I guess. Easier than tryin’ to keep kids from smokin’ and dopin’.” He started with a gurgling chuckle but stopped before it could degenerate into another coughing fit. “How much you need?”

  “A pint should be plenty for now, and then I’ll just hang on to the rest.”

  He shuffled back through the door behind the counter and returned with a translucent plastic bottle. “Stuff’s a beautiful blue,” he said, holding it up. “But sea snakes are the prettiest reptiles you’ll ever see and deadly as hell. I ever tell ya about the time a guy in my platoon got bit during an amphibious landing on New Guinea? The poor sonofabitch . . .”

  “Norm, I have to run, but next time I see you at O’Donnell’s I want the whole story. Okay?”

  “Sure thing, Riley. It’s a helluva story, lemme tell ya.”

  “Send Carol the bill for the paraquat,” I called over my shoulder. In the cab of the truck, I transferred some of the pesticide to a vial and headed out to make a delivery. To Sarie Botha.

  CHAPTER 41

  Midmorning traffic over the bridge was light, and I was at the doors of Kroeber Hall in under an hour. It was nearly ten a.m., so I figured classes would be out soon. Right on cue, a mass of students began to pour out of the building, giving me the perfect chance to make my way up to Sarie’s office unseen by anyone in the main office who I’d met last week. The last thing I needed was to run into one of the secretaries or the department head and get drawn into faking my way through discussing a donation of artifacts to the anthropology museum.

  Morley’s office was dark, but I could see light through the frosted glass in the door of Sarie’s adjoining office. I knocked softly, the flow of students down the hall having diminished to a trickle.

  “Come in,” she called. Sarie looked up from her desk with an odd mixture of relief and anxiety. The sort of expression that I imagine a doctor sees every time he walks into an examination room. I closed the door behind me. The morning sunlight streamed through the south-facing window, making the scraggly plants on the sill look like a verdant jungle.

  “This won’t take long,” I said reassuringly. “Let’s go over the plan.”

  “Riley, I don’t know if I’m up to this. I’ve been thinking. What if something goes wrong? If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

  “Do as I say and nothing will go wrong.” She shook her head. Whether it was denial or confusion, I couldn’t tell.

  “Look, doll, like I said at breakfast yesterday, you bought into his scummy world. You’re a big girl and it was your choice to make. But getting out isn’t free. At least what I have planned is simpler than what you pulled off in LA. And if your conscience is acting up, consider that Odum deserved your toxic touch less than Morley does.”

  “And the little girl, Marissa. She didn’t deserve anything.” Sarie sounded wistful, like it had all been a bad dream. “How do I know it’ll stop with Morley? That nobody else will . . .” She trailed off.

  “Get killed? It won’t happen. We’re preventing deaths, not spreading them like he does.”

  “Isn’t there another way?”

  “Sure. But you’ll just be getting somebody else to clean up your mess. Morley’s at the core of this and you’re an accessory. You want to start making up for what’s happened, then now’s the time.”

  Her head dropped forward and she drew a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s my cuck, so what do I need to do?”

  “Let me have a look at Morley’s layout, for starters.” She got up and unlocked the door between their offices and flipped on the light. The room smelled of old leather, furniture polish, and expensive pipe tobacco. His office was meticulously organized. The bookshelves lining the walls were perfectly arranged. Every item on his massive desk was evenly spaced, letters and papers were all tucked into precisely stacked trays, and a Tiffany glass lamp was perched on the corner. I tucked away his compulsion for neatness, thinking that it could prove useful when the time came.

  Lying open beneath the lamp was his schedule book, opened to this week’s appointments. He had class tomorrow at eight a.m., and then he’d noted “CAS directorate meeting @ 11:00, Morrison Planetarium.” I knew from having taken Tommy to star shows on the weekends that the planetarium was part of the California Academy of Sciences museum in Golden Gate Park. The timing couldn’t have been better. Morley would have just enough time to host my unexpected visit before wanting to hurry off to his meeting in San Francisco.

  A floor-to-ceiling bookcase with glass doors loomed behind his desk and held an imposing collection of antiquarian volumes. Wooden blinds covered the windows on either side of the bookcase, keeping out all but the thinnest slits of sunlight. A small table to one side of his desk held a mechanical typewriter. Morley had opted to keep one of those heavy black throwbacks, rather than an electric model that might diminish the aura of sophistication. His choice suggested that anything longer than a letter would be passed to a secretary. The great man’s time was too valuable for such plebeian tasks. As with his need for order, I figured that the typewriter would come in handy tomorrow.

  Morley’s view of people was evident in his furniture. There was an uncushioned, armless wooden chair in front of his desk—the sort you’d expect in a Catholic school principal’s office. And behind the desk loomed a deep red, tufted leather-upholstered chair, complete with brass nails lining the woodwork. Intimidation was the game.

  We returned to Sarie’s office. I cleared a stack of papers from a chair and motioned for her to sit at her desk. I wanted to look into her eyes and assure myself that she was onboard. She looked resigned but attentive when I said, “Let’s review the plan.”

  “Okay, I’m ready,” she replied, picking up a pencil and pulling a notepad in front of her.

  “Don’t write anything down, for God’s sake,” I said, pulling the pencil from her hand. Her
grip on it was fierce, as if the pencil somehow kept her anchored to the world.

  “Relax, sweetheart.” I took her hand and felt the tension release as she gave a weak smile. “There’re only two things to remember. First, I’ll get here as class lets out, just like this morning. That way I can slip up here without being noticed. You’ll need to let me into Morley’s office. I figure it takes him at least a few minutes to get here from his class, eh?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly right.” She seemed to perk up now that we were talking about the nuts and bolts of tomorrow’s plan. “In his mind, the world waits for him. Only unimportant people need to hurry places.”

  “Very good. Once Morley arrives, you just make his coffee like usual.” There was a coffee maker on the long wooden table beside the door, and one of those tiny refrigerators underneath, presumably for her lunch and his cream. “Then all you need to do is listen for your cue.”

  “Which is when you say, ‘I don’t want to be a pest,’ right?”

  “Well done. You remembered from yesterday.” I pulled the vial of paraquat from my jacket pocket and set it on the desk. “Just pour this into his coffee, stir, and serve.” I’d noticed a slight ammonia odor when I filled the vial. I didn’t think Morley would notice, but I figured it’d be smart to cover it a bit. “You might make his coffee a bit stronger than usual and add some extra cream and sugar. That should mask any telltale taste. Plus, I’ll time things so he’s in a bit of a hurry and unlikely to be savoring his coffee. Is there any chance that he won’t drain the whole thing?”

  “None. He can be bloomin’ stroppy without his caffeine. And the man’s such a creature of habit that he’s constitutionally unable to move on with his morning until he’s had his coffee. He’ll drink it.”

  “That was my last concern. Our little drama should come off without a hitch.”

  “But Riley, I’m still not clear on how this whole thing is going to work. Won’t there be an investigation? Surely the medical examiner will discover that he was poisoned.” She gripped my hand harder and harder as she went on. “They’ll figure out that I did it. And then what—we make a plan?” The woman sure had some odd ways of putting things. I guessed that she was talking about coming up with some alternative approach. But that wasn’t going to be necessary.