Death Takes a Gander
Page 13
Angela stared at the papers. “What are you saying?”
“It’s like it’s biodegradable.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lark said. “Are you sure?”
Covyduck waggled the paper in his hand.
“Any idea why that is?” Angela asked.
Covyduck shook his head. “Unless someone is developing a new type of shot.”
Lark frowned. “What would be the point?”
Covyduck shrugged. “A lot of hunters don’t like alloy shot.” He picked up his glasses and twirled them. “Steel has a lower density that negatively affects the shot string. In other words, it doesn’t perform very well in the field.”
Spoken like a true hunter.
“Okay, I get that,” Lark said. “What I meant was, it’s illegal to hunt with lead shot.”
“Unless… ” Angela reached for the report. “Could it be something else?”
Covyduck chewed on the stem of his glasses. “Anything’s possible,” he said. “But the damage to the organs, and the symptoms, are consistent with lead poisoning.”
While he talked, Angela skimmed down the page. She hoped to find a clue and ended up disappointed. The contents spoke volumes on the condition of the bird and its vital organs but imparted scant information relative to the shot.
“Where does that leave us?” Lark asked.
Covyduck shoved his glasses back onto his nose. “Waiting for the final lab results. Meanwhile, Angela, is there any chance you can trace the shot?”
“I wish it were that simple. Do either of you have any idea how many birds die every year in the United States from lead poisoning?”
“A few hundred thousand?” guessed Lark.
“More like two million.” Angela handed back the report. “Almost none of the cases are solved.”
Covyduck whistled.
Lark shifted in her chair. “So what would it take to unravel this one?”
“Luck.” Angela could see that wasn’t the answer Lark was looking for. “First, we would have to locate the source. The fact that the shot characteristics appear to be unique helps. It gives us a comparison.”
Covyduck picked up the report and rustled it in the air. “Do either of you have any idea what a biodegradable shot that emulates lead in field trials would be worth?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Millions.”
“Except you’re forgetting one thing,” Angela said. “Lead or not, the stuff’s still toxic.”
Covyduck’s words stuck with Angela on the trip back to the hospital. Millions of dollars provided a possible motive for the attacks on Eric and Ian, if the attacks were related to the waterfowl poisonings and the waterfowl poisonings related to the development of a new type of shot.
In any event, they would know soon enough.
Her mind flitted back to the night Ian died. What had happened to the swan? She didn’t know. Her memories consisted of gruesome images—Ian swinging in the wind, his body on the ground, a black body bag being zippered shut—but she vaguely remembered that someone had taken samples from the bird. Would they have been stored somewhere, or discarded?
She made a mental note to check with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife lab on Tuesday. In the meantime, taking Ian’s immortal advice, she would “keep working the problem.”
“Whoever developed the shot has to be testing it somewhere,” she said. “Maybe at a trap-shooting range?”
“Or a hunt club.” Lark was twisted sideways in the passenger seat.
Most hunt clubs were open to members only, which would make the shot harder to trace. Club owners would be able to test the shot privately and get feedback at the same time.
“How many do you think there are along the Front Range?” Angela asked, trying not to show dismay.
“Too many,” Lark said.
“So maybe we can narrow it down?”
“Any suggestions?”
Angela glanced sideways at Lark. “The vegetation from the goose’s stomach indicated the bird fed in a wetland area, right?”
Lark nodded. “And somewhere near a cornfield.”
“The area around Barr Lake fits that description.”
“Right, along with twenty other lakes or ponds along the Front Range.”
“True, but so far nobody has died at any of the others.” The reference to Ian’s death popped out, then Angela thought of Eric, clinging tenuously to life, and instantly felt bad. “Sorry, I—”
“No,” Lark said. “You’re right. It’s a good place to start.”
Angela parked the truck, then traipsed into the hospital behind Lark. Since Angela had conjured the image of death, the women had been silent. If only she could snatch back her words.
Lark headed straight to the back. Angela stopped at the front desk.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked, buzzing Lark through.
“No business this afternoon, Betty? The last time I was in here, the place was packed.”
“We cleared them all out. Had to send a few new cases to Denver, but not many. Just two homeless guys who must have been dumpster diving at the Drummond, and a six year old. Seems like the rest are getting better.”
“What’s the count up to?”
Betty’s pen paused in midstroke, and the woman looked up. “Sixty-seven.”
About half of the banquet attendees. Angela wondered how many lawsuits had already been filed. She was stunned by the number of cases. Were the biodegradable properties of the shot causing the toxin to hit the bloodstream faster?
“May I use your phone book?” she asked.
“Elk Park?”
“Greater Metro.”
Betty clunked a thick volume on the counter. Angela thanked her, picked it up, and moved to a chair. Settling onto the cushioned seat, she flipped open the tome and pored over the index. The effort proved a bust. There were no categories for shooting ranges, firing ranges, or gun clubs. She did find one listing under “Trap and Skeet Ranges,” but the address placed it near downtown Denver, too far away from a water source.
Strike one.
Returning the book to the desk, she thanked Betty again, then waited to be buzzed through. Walking the hall toward Eric’s room, she heard Ian’s voice in her head. Work the problem.
It was time to come at it from a different direction. What had Eric figured out about the poisonings? He must have come up with something. What other reason would someone have for shoving him through the ice?
From the time she found him until he was transported, she couldn’t remember anyone doing a thorough search of his clothes. Maybe there was a clue in one of his pockets, something his would-be assassin or the firefighters missed. It was worth taking a gander.
She nodded to the guard at the door and stepped through the doorway. The bright white glow of the morning was gone. Now, with the shades drawn and the lights dimmed, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
Lark sat beside the bed, her back to the door. Eric lay still, his face ashen against the pillow, his brown hair splayed out, his eyes closed. Angela imagined him sleeping, though his condition had never officially changed. He was stable but comatose.
“He looks better,” she said, hoping she sounded encouraging.
“He’s going to be fine,” Lark replied, keeping her eyes focused on her boyfriend’s face.
Angela refrained from comment and sidled over to the closet. A large puddle seeped out from the crack under the door. Was it coming from Eric’s wet clothes?
Keeping one eye on Lark, Angela eased open the closet. Someone had hung his clothes up to dry, and the cuffs of his pants dripped onto the floor. She checked the pockets of his khakis, his wrinkled shirt, and his heavy coat, and came up empty-handed. Not even a wallet.
Then she thought of another place to try. Some of the new uniforms had hidden inside pockets, like the lapel pocket on a man’s sports jacket. Her hand sought the slit. Her fingers struck paydirt.
“Will you take me home?�
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Angela jumped at the sound of Lark’s voice and jerked her hand back.
“What are you doing?” Lark asked.
Caught red-handed, Angela opted for the truth. “I was looking for clues.”
“Did you find any?”
“Maybe.” Angela reached back in and pulled out the prize. It was a small plastic bag stuffed with two small plastic containers. Rectangular in shape, the containers measured three inches by one-quarter inch by one-half inch in size. A notation had been scrawled on the front of the bag in black felt marker. Eric had been collecting evidence.
“What is it?”
“The note says he found these in the debris left at the edge of the ice in the area where Frakus had plowed the dead geese.” Angela held up the bag.
“They’re fishing-sinker containers!”
“Maybe that’s why he was down on the ice?” Angela said. “Maybe he was searching for clues.”
The question is, who would have known he was there? And why would they care that he’d picked up two fishing-sinker containers?
Covyduck didn’t mention anything about Eric’s heading down to the lake. Had he called and said something to one of the volunteers? Then again, it was possible someone had seen him arrive at the lake. Frakus. Tauer or Nate. Or any one of the fishermen camped out in the parking lot.
“I’ll have them run for prints,” Angela said. “With luck, we’ll turn up something.”
Lark stopped beside the bed on the way out, and by the time the two of them reached the truck, the day was spent. Stars dotted the eggplant-colored sky, and light twinkled from the streetlamps.
Angela stuffed the plastic bag into the glove box and started the truck while Lark climbed into the passenger seat and laid her head back. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of the carriage house next to the Drummond.
“Here you go.”
Lark sat up, taking a moment to get her bearings.
“Damn!” she said, once she realized where they were.
“What?” The stricken expression on Lark’s face caused Angela’s blood pressure to rise. “Did you forget something?”
“I forgot to cancel the EPOCH meeting.” The panic in her voice seemed out of proportion to the problem.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Lark. I’m sure they’ll understand when you don’t show up.”
“You’re missing the point, Angela. The meeting’s here.” Lark waved her hand toward the house, and the lights in the living room winked back. “Come in with me?”
“No.” Joining was not something Angela did. Not even the Brownies, in second grade, with all of her little friends. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not much of a joiner.”
“You don’t have to make it official. It’s just… I could use the backup.”
Lark’s choice of words struck at Angela’s core. The last person who’d asked her for backup had wound up dead.
CHAPTER 13
Lark took a firm grip on Angela’s arm, screwed up her courage, and managed a weak smile for the EPOCH members assembled in the kitchen. She felt a little guilty pushing Angela to stay. Mostly she was grateful for the support.
“There you are,” Dorothy said. The older woman was seated at the kitchen table. Two bright dots of rouge colored her cheeks. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
“You look like you could use some tea, dear” Cecilia said, clattering a tea cup on the table. “Have you eaten anything?”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Lark said, then on second thought, she turned to Angela.
“I’m fine.”
“Oh my, you girls have to eat. Here, have some banana bread.” Cecilia shoved a plate toward an empty place in the center of the table. Everyone had a plate in front of them. Andrew Henderson was the only one eating.
“Opal made it,” he said, jerking his head toward his wife. Opal grinned, her skin tight on her bones. Harry sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, and Gertie reigned at the head of the table, her plump arms folded across her chest, a sour expression pinching her lips.
Angela perched next to Harry. Lark took a place at the table.
“How’s Eric?” Harry asked.
“He’s going to be fine,” Lark answered, forcing herself to believe it. She had to keep hoping.
As if proving the point, Angela piped up, “He’s still in a coma. The doctor says it’s too soon to know.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have invited her in, thought Lark, glaring at her. Angela refused to make eye contact.
“We found a clue as to why he was on the ice,” Lark said.
This time it was Angela who glared.
“Tell them.”
Angela told them about the fishing-sinker containers. “I’ll give them to Crandall for fingerprinting, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. There are over two hundred fishermen out there this weekend.”
Andrew shifted in his chair, and the wood groaned. “Any word on the banquet guests?”
Lark felt the blood drain from her face. She’d been at the hospital to see Eric and had forgotten to ask.
Angela carried the moment. “The nurse told me most of them were getting better.”
“Whew!” Dorothy said. “That’s a relief.”
“What about the geese?” Lark asked. If the people were improving, maybe the birds were too.
“We lost all but sixty-two,” Dorothy said.
Harry looked surprised. “That’s better than I expected. By the time symptoms of lead poisoning present themselves in waterfowl, it’s usually too late. I figured we’d save ten percent at best.”
Lark’s mind flashed to the banquet guests. Did the same percentages apply to humans? “It’s possible it’s not lead that’s causing the problem.”
Andrew paused mid-bite. “What are you talking about?”
Lark explained what they’d learned at Covyduck’s office about the biodegradable property of the shot. “It’s possible it’s some other substance that’s making the birds sick.”
A frenzied discussion followed.
“Are you saying it’s some sort of natural product?” Andrew asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Angela said. “We’re waiting on the lab analysis.”
Lark was wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
Finally Dorothy chimed in. “Whatever’s causing it, the treatment appears to be working. Let’s not upset the apple cart by going off half-cocked.”
Mixed metaphors aside, Dot had a point. Except for the one mention on the report, all of the other evidence supported the lead poisoning theory. And certainly the fact that the lead poisoning treatment appeared to be working stood for something.
“Besides, regardless how many we save,” Andrew said, “Harry’s right. The secondary symptoms are the concern now. We would have been better off putting them down.”
The words struck Lark dumb. He wasn’t suggesting they quit now, was he? She opened her mouth to challenge him, when Gertie stepped in.
“What a horrible thing to say.”
“But true,” he insisted. “For one thing, the amount of money we’ve spent is phenomenal.”
“It’s not about money,” Gertie said, puckering her lips even more.
Lark’s eyes burned. Hot tears caused Andrew to swim. “I refuse to give up,” she said, her thoughts flashing to Eric. “Not after the price we’ve paid.”
Harry climbed off his stool and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Lark tried to find her voice and failed.
“Oh my,” Cecilia said. “Maybe we should have this meeting some other time?”
Angela stirred from her seat and took a flanking position on Lark’s opposite side. “As long as the geese are alive, we need to keep trying.”
It took a moment for her words to register.
“Why’s that?” Andrew asked. “I don’t see U.S. Fish and Wildlife footing the bill.”
A murmur circled the table, indicating the EPOCH members agreed with him there.
Lark couldn’t help but make the comparison between the geese and Eric. “Quitting is not an option. We’re not giving up.”
The strength of her words stunned even her. She blotted her eyes with her flannel shirt, and the smell of hospital antiseptic triggered another bout of tears.
Angela squeezed her shoulder. “Dorothy, are any of the surviving geese improving?”
“Quite a few.” She cast a hard look at Andrew. “In fact, some are nearly as good as new.”
“We got to them early,” Harry said, refilling Lark’s mug and redunking her tea bag. “That’s the key.”
Lark focused on Eric. Had Angela gotten to him in time? How long had he been in the water? She’d heard estimates of everywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. Still, there were cold-water drowning victims, dead longer, who had emerged to live normal lives.
The clock in the living room struck seven.
Again, it was Angela’s voice that broke through. “Any idea how many of the symptomatic birds had shot present in their gizzards?”
Dorothy’s answer was instant. “Two-thirds.”
“The two-thirds that are dying,” Andrew said, reaching for another piece of banana bread.
Opal swatted his hand.
“Shut up,” Gertie said. “You made your point.”
Lark wanted to hug her.
“What about leads on the source of the shot?” Gertie asked. “Do we have any?”
“No.” Angela gestured toward Lark, then herself. “We figure it came from a designated hunting area, more than likely a hunt club or skeet ranch. I checked the yellow pages, but there are no listings. I’m hoping the secretary of state’s office will have some sort of a registry.”
Gertie looked skeptical. “Most hunting clubs are privately owned. Would they even have to register with the secretary of state?”