Poisoned Justice
Page 27
I went into Morley’s office, opened the blinds just enough to cast some light into the room, and put my briefcase on his desk. I pulled the oldest-looking book from his shelves and sank into his plush chair. The book was bound in maroon leather with the title in gold lettering: The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea, Arabia, Egypt & Nubia. The pages were brittle, which I took to mean that the book was really old and probably valuable. The illustrations of ancient temples were quite impressive and the text was surprisingly readable, as opposed to what passed for interesting lecture topics at the university. Maybe today’s academics could learn something from the old guard. I’d begun to settle into the author’s enchanting account of the temple at Luxor, when I heard a key in the lock.
Morley came into the room and turned on the overhead light in one continuous movement. A caricature of a professor, the pompous ass was decked out in a tweed jacket complete with elbow patches, maroon bow tie, and brown corduroy pants. Just the sort of pansy to require both cream and sugar in his coffee. Morley started toward his desk, but when he saw me in his chair he stopped mid-stride. For a fleeting moment, a look of surprise—maybe even fear—crossed his face. But this was quickly replaced by a sneer. He continued toward the desk, set a pile of books on the edge, put his hands on either side of the stack, and leaned forward.
“Who the hell are you?”
So, he didn’t remember me as his friendly neighborhood exterminator, which had been a concern. I could’ve worked around it by saying something about having scoped him out earlier, but this made things neater. I smiled warmly. “Who let you in?” he asked menacingly, which struck me as funny, so now I was grinning. “Sarie!” he shouted. I hoped she wouldn’t answer, as I wanted to keep her role in this little drama to a minimum. Either she didn’t hear him, which seemed unlikely, or she had the good sense not to respond.
“My dear Mr. Morley, please slow down. There’s no reason to be upset. Your assistant let me into your office after I explained that I was an old friend who wanted to surprise you.” He leaned further over the desk and glared.
“I have no idea who you are. What do you want?” Before I could begin to answer, he continued, “No, better yet just leave.” He stood up and gestured toward the open door.
“You don’t know me or the syndicate that sent me, but I think you’ll want to hear their offer.” He raised an eyebrow, suggesting that I had his attention.
“Put down that book and get out of my chair,” he hissed, closing the office door and coming around to the side of the desk.
“I just love a good travelogue. And the pictures are great,” I added, snapping the volume shut and rising to my feet.
“Careful, you cretin. That book is more than a century old and is worth a thousand dollars, at least.” Good to know that my powers of deduction were on the mark. “The pictures, as you call them, are the artwork of David Roberts, one of the most important painters of Egyptian archaeological sites.”
“Right. But let’s talk about real money.” As Morley sank into the leather seat, I ignored the low chair intended for visitors and perched on the edge of his desk. He was used to being in control, so I wanted to put him on the defensive. I knew that being both close to and above him would make his type uncomfortable. To add to a sense of my contempt, I toyed with an ostentatious cherrywood pen holder inset with a brass medallion from the Society for American Archaeology. Morley pushed his little treasure to the other side of the desk.
“Get to the point. I’m a busy man,” he snarled.
“The point is that I represent a business interest in the Bay Area that has a keen understanding of your little extracurricular enterprise. My employers know that your reputation was—how should I put it?—tarnished by some contaminated inventory,” I said in the most condescending way possible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. . . . ?”
“O’Toole,” I lied.
“A mick. I should have figured.” So, Morley was a bigot who wanted to play games. No surprise. I slid my briefcase across his desk and popped the latch. It was time to up the ante.
CHAPTER 43
Rene Morley was used to being treated with deference by students and colleagues. And if Sarie’s account was true, then he’d been one of the biggest fish in the pond when it came to the drug trade in this area. But I’d seen a flash of apprehension when I mentioned “my employers.” He’d been able to intimidate little fish, but Morley knew there were sharks in the water—and when they smelled blood, things could go bad in a hurry. At least that was the story I was selling to get him talking.
People interest me, especially criminals. Most of them are simpering cowards, anxious to blame society, their childhood, or anything else for their crimes. Every so often, though, I’d come across an assassin or a thief who decided for himself that this was who he was. These sorts warranted respect. Not forgiveness, but a kind of appreciation for a man who learned a craft and refused to cut corners. I didn’t figure Rene Morley for such a man, as I’d never met an honorable drug dealer. I was curious how ivory tower intelligence translated into street smarts, and I wanted to hear Morley in his own words. I wanted to know that he deserved what was coming.
Morley glared at the briefcase I’d laid on his desk, as if it was an affront to his tidy world. He certainly didn’t appreciate my intrusion on his morning. But he was the one who’d decided to play games.
“Perhaps this will remind you of your little problem,” I said, lifting the bottle of paraquat by the lid and setting it between us. “It seems that your customers were a bit put off by being poisoned.”
“It wasn’t my doing. The goddamn U.S. government took it upon themselves to douse Mexican fields with herbicide.”
“Let’s be frank, shall we? Those planes sprayed fields of pot, Mr. Morley. The ATF boys weren’t going after avocados.”
“They had no business being there. The whole program was a monumental disaster. Nobody knew which fields had been sprayed, so contaminated dope was mixed in with hundreds of shipments.”
“I’m not sure the government was much worried about the quality of your product. I imagine their goal was to reduce the quantity.”
“The program didn’t even put a dent in the supply. Okay, a few of the beaners might’ve gone out of business and decided to crawl across the border to scrub toilets in San Diego. But most of the greasers are back to producing like before.” The real Morley was showing through beneath the tweed.
“The only result that concerns my employer is the gap—let’s call it a business opportunity—that was created when people figured out that your pot was making them sick.”
“Yes, eventually those stupid college fucks put together enough of their surviving brain cells to associate my product with their breathing problems and coughing fits.” He chuckled in contempt. “For a while it was working itself out. The college potheads could take a few hits and if their lungs burned, they’d just sell the rest to even dumber high school dopers.”
“No problem there, eh?” I gave him enough rope to hang—or redeem—himself.
“Problem? Hell, I was making the world a better place. The country would save a bundle on welfare payments if a few of those worthless punks scorched their lungs before they grew into full-blown junkies.” As far as I was concerned, Morley had taken the rope, tied a noose, and stepped onto the trapdoor. I wasn’t going to enjoy killing this vermin, but neither was I going to regret it.
“But as you say, even the dopeheads put two and two together. While you were scrambling to find another source, somebody had to fill the demand and restore our industry’s reputation. That’s when the syndicate stepped in.”
“Tell your bosses that they have my gratitude for keeping the customers high and happy. I worked long and hard to build that market. And now that I’ve found a reliable source, I’m back in business.”
“And that, Mr. Morley, is the problem. You’re trying to muscle into turf that’s no longer yours. Now please understand th
at my employers appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit, the dreams of the small businessman.” I knew that he’d broken into the big leagues and would consider this an insult. As he started to object, I raised my hand to silence him. Morley was fuming. “You’ve done an admirable job for an amateur,” I assured him in my most patronizing tone while leaning over his desk, “but I’m afraid that others are much better positioned to meet the growing demand.” If he was intimidated, he didn’t show it. I would’ve taken his disdain for guts, except I knew that it grew from pure arrogance.
“Make your point, so I can send you on your way.” Morley sighed, leaning back in his chair as if he’d grown tired of a dimwitted student.
“I’m prepared to offer you a generous buyout. You take the money and get out of the business. I assure you it’s enough, if well managed, to sustain the standard of living to which you’ve become accustomed.”
“Not interested,” he sniffed.
“Ah, Mr. Morley, please don’t be so hasty.” I reached across the desk, took a pen from the fancy holder, and pulled one of his business cards from a monogrammed silver tray. I wrote “$250,000” on the back of the card and slid it to him.
His eyes dropped for a moment and then he scoffed, “If this wasn’t a joke, I’d be insulted.”
“My employers are generous and patient men. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to see you dealt with in the same way you handled your competitors, but they have their limits.”
“What do you mean by that?” Morley stole a glance at his wristwatch—a gold-toned Rolex with a jet-black face.
“I believe that a colleague of yours on campus suffered a most sudden and tragic death in Los Angeles. I don’t believe that he threatened your professional status at the university based on what I’ve learned about your rather eminent position. Rather, it’s my understanding that his outside interests conflicted with yours.”
“How do you know about Los Angeles?” I said nothing. Sometimes silence is power. I’d induced more confessions by remaining quiet than most of my fellow detectives pried out through harsh questioning. “That bitch,” he spat, “I’ll deal with her later.” He’d lost the veneer of a cultivated academic and confirmed Sarie’s story in one move. “So you’re threatening me, eh?”
“That’s such a harsh way of phrasing a business offer. Let’s put it this way. We can imagine that a big cockroach might not put up with a little silverfish eating his crumbs. Fair enough. What I’m saying is that the cockroach might want to think about whether he should stand his ground when the homeowner hires an exterminator.”
“Very clever, Mr. O’Toole. You may leave now.” He flicked his hand dismissively. “But let your boss know two things. I have no intentions of abandoning a lucrative venture.”
“And?”
“And I don’t entertain offers from messenger boys.” He had salvaged a veneer of power, but it was a petty insult. I could tell he was rattled. When he looked at his watch again, I figured it was time to bring down the curtain.
“Look, Mr. Morley.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t want to be a pest. I just came to extend an offer.” I rose slowly from the edge of his desk and closed my briefcase. Just as I was beginning to think that Sarie had missed her cue or lost her nerve, there was a soft knock at the door between her office and his.
“Come in,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry about your coffee being late, Professor Morley. I knew you had a visitor and didn’t want to disturb you.” Sarie set the mug on his desk blotter, careful not to risk leaving a ring on his furniture. She turned to me. “Would you like some coffee?”
“He’s leaving,” Morley answered.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss Botha. I gather that you’ve been talking about confidential matters concerning my affairs.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She looked scared, even knowing that he’d soon be unable to hurt her.
“Go.” He gave her the same dismissive flick. “I’ll deal with you later.” She backed out of the room and shut the door.
Morley swiveled to face me. “She’ll pay for her disloyalty.”
“That’s no concern of mine,” I shrugged. “I’ve done my job, and I’ll let the syndicate know that their offer was rejected.”
Morley lifted his coffee cup and took a sip to test the temperature. Satisfied, he took a deep draw and looked at his watch. “I have important matters to attend to, Mr. O’Toole,” he said and began gathering some papers. I’d started to head to the door, as he rose from his chair. “Hold on there. Take this with you.” He held out the bottle of paraquat that I’d left on his desk.
My ploy had worked nicely. I figured that with his compulsion for neatness, he wouldn’t tolerate the bottle on his organized desktop. Things would’ve been fine if he hadn’t grabbed the container, but his fingerprints would make a nice touch for the investigators. I took the bottle by the cap, put it into my briefcase, and gave Morley a nod on my way out. He was too busy gulping down his coffee to bother acknowledging my departure.
I headed down the hall, slipped into the men’s room, and listened at the door. A couple minutes later I heard footsteps and a metallic ding announcing the arrival of the elevator. I figured Morley wouldn’t take the stairs. His sort expected to be carried. I returned to Sarie’s office and found her standing at the window. I put my arm around her. The sweater was nearly as silky soft as her skin.
“Well done,” I said with a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder. She gave me a wan smile and turned back to the window. The morning sun painted elongated shadows of trees across the sidewalk running along the east side of the quad. A few students were strolling with books tucked under their arms. Two guys in cutoff jeans and T-shirts were tossing a Frisbee on the green, while their girlfriends sat in the sun pretending to enjoy the boys’ antics.
Morley was making his way deliberately along the sunny sidewalk that bordered the west side of the lawn. He slowed and stopped. The famed archaeologist took a handkerchief—silk, no doubt—from his pocket and wiped his face. He took another few steps, then paused and looked about, trying to decide whether to go on or return to his office. He looked lost. A group of students passed by and he stepped onto the grass. Morley took a few weaving steps back in the direction of Kroeber Hall. Dropping his embossed leather briefcase, he started to lurch toward the center of the quad.
The students who had passed him stopped to stare, and the girls watching the Frisbee game shifted their attention toward the staggering professor. Morley raised his face toward the window, as if seeing his office would allow him to escape his fate. His head cocked ever so slightly and his eyes settled on the two of us. A fleeting moment of surprise, followed by recognition. His face twisted in rage.
Morley teetered and fell to his knees, the handkerchief pressed to his mouth. As the students—the “stupid sheep” whom he’d been so cavalier about poisoning—approached him, Morley vomited and began convulsing. Through the window we could hear the shouts for help. A couple of the young men ran toward the nearest building.
CHAPTER 44
Sarie turned away from her tormentor’s writhing on the lawn and looked to me for reassurance. I couldn’t tell whether she was more horrified or relieved. In any case, her sensitivities would have to wait. There was little chance that anyone would be coming to Morley’s office soon, but I wanted to be sure things were ready just in case. I guided her through the doorway and put the finishing touches on the scene. He had, of course, put the expensive book back on the shelf, so the office was just as I’d found it first thing this morning. Nothing was out of place to catch the eye of a savvy investigator or snoopy secretary. Snapping open the briefcase, I pulled the rubber gloves from beneath the maps and pads of paper. While Sarie watched over my shoulder, I took a piece of paper from Morley’s drawer and loaded it into his typewriter. Then I hammered out the sort of note that suicidal people tend to leave behind:
My Dear Sarie,
&n
bsp; My fame and the adulation of lesser scholars is not enough to sustain me. I cannot live without you. You say that you cannot continue your work here knowing of my love. But without you, life is unbearable. This is the best way for a man of my stature and dignity.
Rene
I pulled the sheet from the typewriter and positioned it squarely on his blotter—the sort of thing he’d be sure to do. Next, I pulled the note that Sarie had written from the briefcase. I was glad I’d had her write it in her apartment, as she wasn’t in any shape for composing rejection letters to supposed lovers right now. I tore it crudely into pieces that could be readily reassembled and dropped them into the trash can behind his desk. One fluttered to the floor, and I decided to leave it there as a dramatic flourish. Anyone who knew Morley would infer that he must have been utterly distraught to leave a scrap of paper out of place. And the fragment would draw a person’s eye to the trash can, allowing even a bumbling detective to discover the letter, which would provide physical evidence to corroborate Sarie’s story.
I found the final element particularly clever. I lifted the container of paraquat from the briefcase and wiped the lid with a handkerchief to remove my prints. Morley’s would be all over the bottle, which would provide a nice touch if the detective wanted to dot an i or cross a t in his report. Morley had set his coffee mug on a coaster alongside the blotter, so I left the bottle neatly positioned next to it. The dregs in his cup would show that the distraught would-be lover had mixed the poison with his coffee—not an implausible approach to suicide at all. I took a moment to wipe my fingerprints from the obvious places that an overly curious technician might dust—the arms of the chair and edge of the desk. Everything was in place for the final scene. All that remained was to give Sarie her closing lines.