“Are you a fellow entomologist?” Trepler politely inquired, leading the way into the living room.
Holy shamrocks, Batman! The entire space was plastered in wallpaper consisting of dancing four-leaf clovers.
“No, I’m here scouting around for someone with an interest in the Mendocino area,” I responded, purposely remaining noncommittal.
As far as I was concerned, I was telling the truth. After all, Dr. Mark Davis had requested that I look into the disappearance of his colleague.
“In other words, you might be requiring my services?” Trepler probed with the deft touch of a skilled surgeon.
“It’s certainly possible,” I concurred.
“Then let me properly introduce myself. Bill Trepler, former director of Conservation Biology at the University of Nevada. And you are?”
“Rachel Porter,” I responded, shaking his hand.
“All right, Miss Porter. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll give you some background on the Lotis blue.”
I sank into a sofa that seemed to have no springs, its cushions enfolding me like a large cocoon.
“First of all, what do you know about the bug?” Trepler questioned, as if prepping me for an exam.
“That it was the first of six butterflies to be placed on the endangered species list and is extremely rare.”
“Well, you’re right about that. These days it’s the rarest butterfly in all North America. One major problem is that its territory is restricted to the Mendocino area. There’s no other habitat for the Lotis blue anywhere else on earth. At least, as far as we know. I believe it was Vladimir Nabokov, the novelist of Lolita fame, who said lepidopterists have more information about butterflies in deepest, darkest Africa than they do those living along the coastal stretch of the western U.S. from Mendocino northward. Strange, isn’t it?”
“How long has this particular butterfly been around?” I asked, wanting to pump him for all the information I could get.
“The Lotis blue was first discovered in 1876, when two specimens were caught. It was described as a new species of Lycaenidae, a family that includes the blues, coppers, and hairstreaks.”
I hate when experts slip into scientific jargon. My mind inevitably begins to drift.
“Okay. Then as far as collectors know, the Lotis blue has been in existence until just recently,” I affirmed, determined to keep myself on track.
“Not quite. The butterfly disappeared for fifty years shortly after its initial discovery.”
“What do you mean disappeared? They literally vanished?”
“Exactly.”
Trepler pumped a bicep while plucking a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, and I knew he was trying to impress me.
“It wasn’t until 1935 that a colony of Lotis blue were once again stumbled upon by a man living right here in Mendocino, a naturalist who had no idea what he’d found. He spent the next eighteen years showing specimens to lepidopterists in the Bay Area, none of whom had a clue as to what they were, either. Finally in 1953, an entomology professor came to visit and identified the butterflies as the mysterious Lotis blue.”
Trepler lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and promptly broke into a coughing fit. I waited as he grabbed a tissue and hacked up whatever had settled in his lungs. He spit out some phlegm and looked at it. No wonder the guy was living alone.
“So, what happened after that? Did collectors come in and wipe out the colony?” I impatiently asked, wanting to move the story along.
“Absolutely not. The exact location was kept secret for that very reason. However, Professor Tilden did trade some of his samples for other butterflies that he wanted in his collection. He also gave a number of specimens to several museums. In fact, Tilden is responsible for the lion’s share of Lotis blue butterflies that reside in collections today. It wasn’t until years later that he revealed the location to a graduate student, who then made several trips to the site. That’s when word finally began to spread. But stop and think about it. Here was a butterfly that had been seen by only four men in over a hundred years, up to that point.”
“So then, this grad student was ultimately responsible for the butterfly’s demise,” I concluded.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. He ended up working as a biologist for the Fish and Wildlife Service. In fact, he petitioned for the Lotis blue to be listed as an endangered species.”
“What happened after that?”
Trepler shrugged. “Not much. Only twenty-six adult Lotis blue butterflies have been spotted since 1977. The last one to be seen was in 1983. After that, nothing.”
“Where were the butterflies usually found?” I questioned, refusing to give up.
“Near their food plant, the Lotus formosissimus. It’s a diminutive weed just a few inches high that produces a pretty little yellow-and-purple flower.”
“Then what’s been responsible for their disappearance?” I prodded, beginning to feel enormously frustrated.
“Who said they’ve disappeared?” Trepler responded with a crafty smile. “After all, they were only ever collected at seven sites, ranging from wet meadows to sphagnum bogs. Maybe people have just been looking in the wrong spots. I happen to know of a number of coastal bluffs where small marshes occur as the result of numerous springs popping up. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve seen Lotus formosissimus growing profusely in those areas.”
Trepler emitted a throaty laugh while puffing on his cigarette. It was probably because I was staring at him with my mouth hanging open. He seemed to interpret it as a sign of concern.
“Don’t worry. I’m not suggesting that you’ll have a problem with development in this region. Quite the contrary. You won’t. Not if you use my services.”
Trepler leaned in so close that I could smell not only cigarette smoke, but also stale coffee on his breath.
“You see that car out there?” he asked, pointing through the Bay window to his driveway. “Let’s just say the Lexus came as a thank-you from a very satisfied customer. That should make you more comfortable about what I’m able to deliver.”
I remembered again what my boss had said. Trepler’s job was to make certain that endangered species didn’t bring construction projects to a halt.
“Well, you certainly seem to know a lot about this particular butterfly,” I admitted.
“I know a lot about many things,” Trepler responded and nonchalantly crossed his legs. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
“Then let me play devil’s advocate for a minute,” I suggested. “What if the Lotis blue were found on a particular tract of land that my employer was interested in? What then?”
Trepler flicked his ashes into a dirty coffee cup that sat on top of an old wooden chest.
“I’d say the butterfly was just passing through the area at the time. It would be my word as an expert against people who don’t know half as much.” He smiled, exposing a set of stained yellow teeth.
So that was how the game was played. It couldn’t have been any more clear that Trepler was a high-priced “rent-a-scientist,” or what detractors had nicknamed a “biostitute.”
“That all sounds well and good. There’s just one problem. Rumor has it that Fish and Wildlife recently hired a top-notch conservation biologist from Stanford to perform an extensive search for the Lotis blue in this area. I hear they’re also clamping down on the illegal collecting of butterflies.”
“So, is that what they’ve turned into now? The butterfly gestapo?” Trepler snorted contemptuously. “That agency does nothing but go on witch hunts. Hell, they use a bunch of thugs masquerading as agents, who are nothing more than eco-Nazis. Fish and Wildlife’s an ignorant, self-serving government group that would rather spend taxpayer dollars on trumped-up charges than focus on issues that really matter. Hell, those jokers wouldn’t know a Mission blue from a Lotis blue if they tripped over one.”
Ouch! That jab hit a bit too close to home. Mainly because it was partially true.
“The whole lot of them are out of control, running amok while attempting to play Big Brother,” he continued to rant. “If our government had any backbone, they’d immediately shut the Fish and Wildlife Service down.”
He certainly didn’t bother to mince words.
“As for endangered species? Let me give you my philosophy on that topic.”
Trepler slid an arm along the back of the couch until it was lodged directly behind my head. For one brief paranoid moment, I almost believed he knew my true identity and planned to knock me off. The Mister Softee jingle flit through my mind as I once again looked down a gun barrel and broke into a light sweat.
“Please do,” I murmured, and pushed myself forward until I was perched on the edge of the seat.
“When a creature is endangered, it’s usually for a helluva good reason. If something isn’t smart enough to adapt and survive, then it deserves to become extinct,” Trepler lectured, building up a head of steam. “I don’t believe in this do-gooder Endangered Species Act nonsense that’s got every frog, gnat, and fish on a must-save list, no matter the cost. Not if it means that a person can’t do whatever he wants on his own damn land.”
Trepler must have interpreted my silence as agreement, because he cracked his knuckles again and began to relax. Then he stared at me and slapped his knee, as if having made a momentous decision.
“Come with me into the next room. I want to show you something.”
I followed him into what seemed to be an office as well as a workspace. A pile of papers sat neatly stacked on a desk in one corner, while an old oak table dominated the center of the room. Covering its surface were all the necessary accoutrements for mounting butterflies. There was a pair of scissors, along with a slender tweezers, glassine paper, a container of stainless-steel insect pins, and a bottle of relaxing fluid. A piece of Styrofoam had a groove cut through its center, making me wonder if it were some sort of spreading board. Most likely the furrow held the butterfly’s body in place while Trepler worked on its wings.
Trepler didn’t stop at the table, but walked over to five wooden cabinets that were lined up against a wall. Each contained fourteen shelves. He opened one of the drawers and pulled it out for me to view. The interior was a display case filled with row upon row of breathtakingly beautiful butterflies.
“Butterflies only live for about a two-week period. So, what’s the harm in harvesting some of them ahead of time? Tell me why collectors should get a bad rap, when so many other factors kill large numbers of them much more efficiently. Take habitat destruction, for example.”
That struck me as darkly funny, considering the role that Trepler, himself, played in it.
“Or how about suburban sprawl?” he continued. “Then there are the pesticides that people use in their gardens to keep their flowers and plants bug free. What do you think that does to them? The same goes for farmers who have chemicals sprayed all over their fields. And don’t forget about automobiles. How many butterflies do you suppose end up smashed against car windshields each year? At least people get to enjoy them this way.”
Maybe so. But ultimately a butterfly is a living thing. Not something to be pinched, gassed, or frozen out of existence in order to be displayed under a sheet of glass. Besides, how many more butterflies would there be if Trepler had allowed those in his collection to live and breed? These specimens had no more life to them than a colorful set of inanimate stamps.
He opened the remaining drawers and I felt slightly ill staring at what must have been thousands of impaled butterflies, each with a pin thrust through its thorax. I chose instead to focus my attention on the four tiny tags that were attached to each individual bug’s leg. Trepler noticed my interest and seemed to be pleased.
“Those are labels. Would you like to get a closer look at them?”
I nodded and he lifted the glass.
“Just don’t touch the wings. They’re very fragile.”
No problem there. I was much more interested in gathering incriminating data.
Leaning down, I discovered that every butterfly had its own story to tell. Trepler’s neatly printed handwriting revealed not only the name of its collector, but also the exact date and precise location from which each had been gathered. Still other tags indicated those butterflies that had been bred and reared by hand. Their labels meticulously noted the date that chrysalis was formed as well as when the adult emerged and how it was nurtured.
I was beginning to realize how maniacal butterfly collectors actually could be. More than a hobby, it was a full-blown obsession.
Trepler replaced the glass and gently closed the drawers. Then he led me toward a large safe.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’d appreciate if you’d look away for a moment.”
I did as instructed, listening while Trepler spun the safe’s lock like the wheel of fortune.
Click, click, click! The tumbler giddily sang out.
The safe emitted a deep groan as its door slowly swung open.
Turning back around, I watched Trepler remove a small display case and reverently place it in the middle of the oak table.
“That’s it right there,” he revealed in a hushed tone, gesturing toward the one and only specimen it held. “The Lotis blue.”
Maybe it was because I’d heard so much about the mysterious bug that I heard myself gasp, the sharp intake of breath making me momentarily woozy. My heart sped up as I gazed at what amounted to near perfection. How could something so small, so insignificant, carry this much impact? I felt myself pulled into the deep violet blue of its incredibly delicate wings, their margin outlined in a seam of black before ending in a feathery burst of luminescent white fringe.
“It’s probably difficult for you to see, but a wavy band of orange spots borders the subtermen of the hindwings in between two rows of sinuous black lines.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, and I didn’t care. Instead I concentrated on scrupulously examining the specimen, hoping to imprint the butterfly forever in my brain.
“The Lotis blue seems to have a somewhat mystical effect upon many people,” Trepler observed with an understanding smile. “Perhaps it’s viewing an object so beautiful and knowing that only a privileged few will ever be granted such an opportunity. The butterfly looks almost alive, don’t you think? To my mind, preserving specimens like this makes them seem somehow immortal. Possibly that’s the allure. It’s as if there’s no such thing as death, but rather the subject is simply asleep, having been suspended in time and space.”
All I knew was that I’d become totally captivated by a winged creature as insubstantial as a piece of tissue paper.
“Remember, what you’re looking at is exceedingly rare. There are only fifty specimens of its kind in existence, and almost all of those are in museums.”
How odd. I noticed that the Lotis blue had only one tag attached to it rather than the usual four. It listed the date of capture and nothing else. JUNE 19, 1975. What a stroke of luck. Had it been gathered one year later, the butterfly already would have been placed on the endangered species list, making it illegal to own. Of course, there was always the chance that the actual date of capture had been tampered with for that very reason. If so, Trepler would have been in contempt of the law. Unfortunately, no one would ever know.
“Needless to say, this is the crown jewel of my collection. The Lotis blue is the butterfly that every collector yearns to possess.”
“All right, you’ve succeeded in making me curious. How did you manage to end up with one?” I asked, deliberately trying to keep the inquiry lighthearted.
A flurry of goose bumps ran up my arms as Trepler turned his head and pointedly stared at me.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of what curiosity did to the cat. Perhaps it’s best if you don’t ask, but simply appreciate the beauty of this specimen that I’ve so generously shared with you.”
Trepler was totally oblivious to the fact that he’d just waved a
red flag in front of my face.
“If it’s so valuable, then you must worry that someone might try to steal it,” I said, having noticed the house lacked a security system.
“Anyone who knows anything about me is fully aware that I’d track them down and blow their fucking head off.”
Not a pleasant fellow—but with a reputation that, I imagine, was highly effective. Perhaps it was time to get back to the original reason as to why I was here.
“I hate to sound skittish, but do you know if that Fish and Wildlife consultant has checked many spots in the area?”
Trepler looked at me oddly, and I was afraid that I might have somehow tipped my hand.
“Don’t misunderstand. I realize you’re exceptional at what you do. It’s just that I’d like to know what we’re up against.”
“I’m telling you not to worry, Miss Porter. That should be enough. I know for a fact the fellow hasn’t done diddly-squat.”
“And why is that?” I asked, wondering how Trepler could be so certain.
“Because nearly all the sites where the Lotis blue were once seen are on private land, and nobody’s going to grant a government lackey access. Without that, he doesn’t stand a chance. Now you really ought to stop stressing about the nickel-and-dime stuff. Trust me. You’ll live longer.”
“Then would you mind answering just one question? Can you tell me where the Lotis blue was last spotted?”
“Sure. That would have been on Old Man Baker’s property, a place he called the Sanctuary. The Lotis blue’s territory was a four-acre plot of land. However, they tended to congregate around a bog about the size of this living room.
My pulse began to race and my skin felt flushed. I only hoped that Trepler didn’t notice. I knew it wasn’t wise to ask any more questions, but I simply couldn’t stop myself.
“So then, it’s possible that the Lotis blue is still around?”
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