by Gregory Ashe
“I don’t see any sign of bite marks. I don’t see any sign of animal involvement at all, in fact. What am I missing? Why am I here?”
Castorena retrieved a tray from one of the rolling tables. On it lay a slim length of metal about eight millimeters long. She let Tean take the tray and offered a pair of forceps. He used them to pick up the piece of metal. One end was clearly broken. The metal was hollow, like a tube.
“This is the broken tip of a needle.”
“Ding ding ding.”
“You didn’t need me to tell you that.”
“I spotted that on the x-ray; it was embedded in a rib. The rest of the needle is gone, and I’m guessing it won’t be recovered at the scene.”
“It would take a significant amount of force to drive a needle into the bone like that. Do you think she was stabbed?”
“What if I told you that there’s inflammation in the surrounding tissue, similar to what you’d see after a penicillin injection, and that a preliminary series of tests revealed porcine antigens on the recovered tip of the needle?”
Tean’s eyebrows went up. “That sounds like ZonaStat.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, a couple of things. ZonaStat is the name for an injectable contraceptive. It’s a vaccine, technically, although it’s not a permanent contraceptive. A glycoprotein, porcine zona pellucida, is extracted from pig ovaries. It’s accompanied by an adjuvant. It’s used to control wild animal populations in different formulations. ZonaStat-D for deer. ZonaStat-H for horses. And, the reason my mind jumped immediately to ZonaStat is that it’s administered with a dart syringe and a CO2 injection rifle—they have to shoot the animal from a distance because wild deer and mustangs aren’t going to let you walk up and poke them.” Tean frowned. “What I don’t understand is why a human would be injected with this kind of immunocontraceptive. I honestly haven’t even heard about something like that; there are much, much safer contraceptives for humans.”
“Could a CO2 rifle produce the force to lodge the needle in bone?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Especially at close range.” Tean hesitated. “You think someone used a dart syringe as a weapon? I don’t see a needle mark—is it on her back?”
“I think one of these gunshot wounds was intended to cover up the needle mark.”
Tean played through the sequence of events. “Someone shoots this girl with the dart. Then she’s killed. The needle mark is strange and likely to be noticed, so the killer retrieves the dart, not knowing that the needle’s tip has broken off and is lodged in a piece of bone. Then the killer attempts to hide the wound by shooting another bullet at the needle mark.”
“Something like that.”
“Gosh.”
“Do your conservation officers use ZonaStat?”
“No. We don’t currently have an excess population of deer. But it’s possible that the Bureau of Land Management does. They manage the wild horse herds, and I know they’ve struggled to keep the herds from getting too big.”
“The BLM is in charge of the herds?”
“The BLM is in charge of almost twenty-three million acres of public land in Utah. Over forty percent of the state is administered federally. That includes the herds and a whole lot else.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Then you haven’t talked to a hunter or angler recently. Nine times out of ten, they’ll spit it out in the first five minutes. They’re usually not happy about it.”
“Are there any of those herds near Salt Lake City?”
“Yes, actually. There’s one in Tooele—the Onaqui herd.”
They talked for a few more minutes, but the conversation died quickly, and Tean excused himself. As he drove back to the DWR offices, though, he kept turning it over in his head. He tried Jem’s phone again, and it went to voicemail. Tean left another to go with all the ones from the night before.
9
It was easy to break into Antonio’s apartment—a garden unit in a run-down building of yellow brick. Tinajas had provided the address after a quick search on the motor vehicle registry. Jem parked the Kawasaki in back, an asphalt lot broken up by weeds, some of them growing knee-high. A privacy fence screened him from the abandoned video rental store to the north, the Kroger to the east, and the shoebox-sized pharmacist to the south. A few cars were scattered through the lot, domestic sedans mostly, one boxy Saturn that looked like it had come out of a kid’s Lego set. Where two sides of the privacy fence met, someone had piled music stands, their black paint long since flaked away, a dried snake of rust showing the path of runoff the last time it had rained.
He walked the exterior hallway once, ignored the apartment’s door, which was taped shut with yellow and black lines of DO NOT CROSS, and made a circuit of the building. No police on site. Alone in the back lot, Jem hunkered down, worked the tip of the barrette he carried between the window and the frame, and turned the latch. The window opened inwards; with some wiggling, Jem got it free of the frame completely, and then he dropped inside.
Antonio’s bedroom was filthy. A pile of basketball jerseys. A pile of basketball shorts. Sneakers formed a crumbling pyramid, with a lone Adidas Ultraboost Uncaged sliding down from the top. A pizza box dark with grease stood open on a child-sized dresser, a few strands of cheese fossilized inside. On the bed, the sheets looked like they hadn’t been changed in years. Jem regretted not bringing disposable gloves; this was the kind of place you could get tetanus just by looking around.
The bedroom door opened onto the main living area, which held a cream-colored sofa spotted with stains and a Barcalounger that must have been thirty years old, the upholstery torn in places, a fat tongue of yellow foam sticking out. It was obvious that the police had taken a great deal of the room’s contents, probably anything and everything that might possibly hold DNA evidence, trace evidence, or fingerprints. A lone numbered marker, 37, had been forgotten behind the Barcalounger, where a tech had collected something. Blood spatter stained a triangle of carpet and a four-foot section of wall.
Jem moved into the kitchen. An ancient Amana refrigerator stood at one end; at the other, an electric range held the gravelly remains of food crusted under the burners. Jem used a paper towel to open cabinets: Froot Loops, unopened Red Bulls, powdered strawberry-lemonade drink mix, moldy hot dog buns, cans of Progresso soup. Antonio loved chicken and wild rice; maybe some clever attorney could spin that to show a wholesome side to the accused murderer.
On one side of the refrigerator, a magnet for Magna U-Choose Auto Parts and Salvage held a strip of photos, the kind that you got in a booth. Four photos. Black and white. Antonio in a flat-billed Jazz cap. A blond girl on his lap—Andi, all grown up, the ghost of the girl Jem had known peering out through her eyes. She made a funny face. She made a pouty face. She kissed Antonio on the cheek. She arched her back, breasts out, obviously trying for a smoldering gaze. Antonio in love. Antonio in love. Antonio in love. Antonio in love. The way he looked at her, that’s how Jem knew. He’d seen the same dumb look on his own face once or twice. When he rode shotgun in a white Ford. When he passed a mirror in one particular Central City apartment.
Love wasn’t the same as innocence; Jem knew that. He still took the strip of photos. In the back lot, he propped it at an angle on one of the music stands, so that air could flow around it more easily, and rolled the wheel on a Bic. A yellow flame sprang up, and he ran it back and forth along the edge until the paper caught. It burned for a few seconds before the breeze fluttered the paper, lifted it, and carried it over the privacy fence. A tiny red bird with burning red wings.
He was getting back on his bike when his phone buzzed. It was Brigitte; he sent mommy dearest to voicemail, waited, and played the message.
“Jeremiah, dear.” That brittle voice. “Gerald and I would love to have you over on Pioneer Day. You could meet the children. Would you like that?” She rambled on for almost a minute with the details and finished wi
th, “Gerald really does want to know about the checks, sweetheart. He just needs to know if you’re getting them. Call me?”
Jem deleted the message.
The phone buzzed again, and he considered tossing it in the pile of music stands, but he checked the screen instead. On the fifth buzz, he accepted the call and held it to his ear, silent.
“Could you please call me back?” Tean said. “I’m really worried.”
“Or I could talk to you now.”
“Oh, I thought I got your voicemail again. Where are you? Are you ok?”
“I’m at the mall.”
“City Creek?”
“No, the South Jordan one.”
“Why?”
“They have a better pog collection.”
“I don’t know what that means. Scipio, no, I just cleaned the glass.”
Ferocious barking in the background made Jem’s pulse shoot up. “Did he see a squirrel?”
“Of course. Jem, are you ok?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you got dragged into a police interview at the hospital last night, and you haven’t been answering my calls.”
“I’m sorry. Things just got busy.”
“Will you come over tonight? I’ll make those miniature apple pies you like.”
“That was an accident. You were trying to make miniature quiches.”
“But I remember how to do it.”
“I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”
“No Ammon. I promise I won’t try to make you be friends. Tonight.”
A minivan with one tire that was extremely low limped into the lot. The side doors slid open, and children poured out, screaming. It was like a clown car. Jem lost count at six because they were all milling around, and they all looked the same with bowl-cut hair and overbites.
“I could probably eat something before I get back to work.”
“Scipio and I are just hanging out. Come over whenever you want.”
After disconnecting, Jem made himself wait ten minutes; looking desperate never helped anyone. Then he left the rug-rat horde in the parking lot—there was still no sign of the minivan’s driver, and two of the rug rats were trying to fence with music stands, not quite strong enough to swing them easily—and drove to the closest CVS. He bought one of each of the theater-size boxes of candy, except Good & Plenty, because black licorice was a sin against God. Then he bought a pint of vanilla ice cream and a second pint of something that was called Peanut Butter Apocalypse NOW WITH MORE BROWNIE CHUNKS. He made sure it had been a full half hour before he drove to Tean’s apartment.
Scipio shot off the couch toward him, barking once and then whining with excitement. He hit Jem at the knees with approximately the same force as an icebreaker, and then he kept nosing into him, spinning around, crying a little and then slamming his body into Jem. Tean kept taking nervous half-steps toward them, but Jem waved him off and crouched to pet Scipio—well, as best he could with a bag in each hand.
At some point, Scipio seemed to decide Tean wasn’t excited enough because he ran across the linoleum and crashed into Tean before running back to Jem.
“Yes, ok, I saw. He’s here. I know, it’s very exciting.”
“You’re not convincing at all,” Jem said, heeling off his ROOS. “At least Scipio likes me.”
“I like you too. I like you a healthy, normal amount. The same way I like my fingernails. Or roasted cabbage.”
“More,” Jem said. “Because of my animal magnetism.”
“You’ve got one of those nose hairs again.”
“God damn it.” Jem said, but he smiled as he passed over the bag of goodies. “Put this away, please.”
While Jem took care of the offending nose hair in the bathroom, Tean called out, “This is a lot of candy for someone without dental insurance.”
“It’s not for me, dummy. It’s for you.”
“I don’t like candy.”
“Jesus, I wish sometimes you could hear yourself, actually hear what you sound like.”
“Peanut Butter Apocalypse? That looks . . . good.”
Another smile broke out, and Jem was glad he was in the bathroom and didn’t have to hide it. “Keep going.”
“Vanilla!”
Leaving the bathroom, Jem said, “I don’t know why you like vanilla so much. It doesn’t taste like anything.”
“It tastes like vanilla.”
“Fine, but that’s like the flavor equivalent of Elmer’s glue.”
“You know those aren’t real brownie pieces in there? They’re just some sort of weird processed product they call brownies.”
“I can’t hear you,” Jem said, putting his hands over his ears.
“Let’s go get dinner.”
“I’m having two Big Macs tonight.”
“Let’s go somewhere new.”
Jem groaned and fell forward onto the kitchen counter. “Please don’t do this.”
“We agreed that you’d try some new things.”
“I like trying new things. I love trying new things. I tried the McRib when it first came out, and I cried when they took it away. You’re the one that survives on a pinto bean, boiled for twelve hours, with a single grain of non-iodized table salt on top.”
“Jem—”
“Non-iodized because the iodine would give it too much flavor.”
“Yes, I got that. Jem, I know you don’t like reading the menus and not knowing what—”
“That’s not why.”
“Well, it sure seems like it because every time I suggest a new place that has a menu with pictures, you’re happy to try it, but when we went to that French place—”
“That wasn’t my fault. The waiter was snooty. And I don’t know why it’s such a big fucking deal that I read a fucking menu. I can’t even read fucking Dick and Jane Pushed the Widow Down the Well. Why does reading a menu matter so fucking much?”
After a moment, Tean ran his hand over the short hair on the back of Jem’s head. Jem made a noise.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mess up the line in your hair.”
“It’s called a part.” The doc’s hand continued to move lightly, scratching, playing with the buzzed hair, and Jem said, “Ok, sorry about that. I’m back. It’s all under control.”
“Doesn’t have to be under control. You’re allowed to be frustrated. And Scipio has decided that when you yell it’s a game, so he’s very interested right now. He’s trying to give you a rope.”
“I thought you were just happy to see me.”
Tean laughed quietly.
And then Jem told him. Not all of it. Not the specifics of what had happened at Decker, just enough to sketch out the relationship. And not the way Ammon had acted when it had just been the two of them. But knowing Andi at LouElla’s, and his conversation with Antonio, and his search of the apartment. Then he sat up, took the theater-size boxes of candy out of the bag, and lined them up on the counter. He opened each one as he went.
“Why did you burn the pictures?”
“I hate him.” Jem shrugged. “If he killed her, then the pictures didn’t mean anything. If he loved her, well, that fuckstick didn’t deserve her. He definitely didn’t deserve to be happy. So I burned them.”
Tean was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was cautious. “Manufacturing and/or transporting drugs in southern Utah makes some sense. There’s a lot of open land, and not a lot of people. Relatively empty highways. It’s also close to the borders of three other states. That part of the story seems plausible, at least.”
“Now the other shoe, please.”
“I’m going to skip over the part where I tell you that you shouldn’t have broken into a crime scene.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And skip over the part where I tell you that the fact that Antonio might have genuinely loved Andi doesn’t have any bearing on whether he killed her or not. The reality i
s that people and animals kill all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Do you know what the most murderous species is?”
“Humans.”
“Only if you include malice aforethought as part of the definition. If you take that out, and if you just think about murder as conspecific killings, I mean, killing members of the same species—”
“I know what conspecific means, Tean. I’ve been your friend for almost a year. Sometimes you say conspecific in your sleep.”
Tean’s face flooded with red.
“When we used to boink,” Jem added.
“Please don’t ever—”
“Glasses.”
Tean caught them at the last second, pushing the frame (still wrapped with electrical tape) back up his nose. His light brown skin looked like it had been set on fire.
“Try these,” Jem said, shaking out candy from the first box.
“I thought we were going to dinner.”
“We are. This is part of your ongoing education. If I have to go to some shitty five-star restaurant tonight and read some fucking menu in some fucking calligraphy shit, you have to do some learning too. Put it in your mouth. Oh my God, I honestly didn’t think you could blush any harder.”
Tean must have decided there were no productive responses because he shoved the candy in his mouth. He made a face. “Waxy. And why is it so crunchy?”
“Because they’re Nestle Crunch bites. And because crunchy is good.”
“Bleh. Crunchy is not good. Crunchy makes me think I’m chewing up tiny mouse bones.”
“Dear God, how did I get myself into this mess. No, don’t answer that. Now these.”
Another face.
“Even worse?” Jem said.
“Well, they’re not crunchy.”
“Dodged that bullet.”
“But they’re sour.”
“Only at the beginning. Then they’re sweet. They’re Sour Patch Kids.”
“That’s even worse. Why would you want it to change to sweet? And why would they make them anthropomorphic?”
“I’m sorry it’s not a single, shriveled grape that’s been mashed together with a drop of something that came out of a bee’s butt under a cold, moonless sky.”