Death Takes a Gander

by Goff, Christine

“Our pleasure,” responded Leo. “Welcome to Denver International Airport”

  Despite the fact they were okay, rescue personnel insisted on transporting Lark and Angela to the hospital. Except for a few minor lacerations, bumps, and bruises, both had emerged unscathed. The Denver County sheriff and investigators from the Federal Aviation Administration had asked a few questions, then they were allowed to go.

  “How’s Coot?” Angela asked, pausing in the doorway on her way out.

  “He’ll live,” the sheriff answered.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  The FAA investigator looked up. “We’re working on that.”

  Angela bristled. Was he trying to stonewall her? “I’m a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Special Agent—”

  “And a witness in this investigation,” the FAA man said. “Close the door behind you.”

  Annoyed by his dismissive tone and the sheriff’s smirk, Angela exited into the hallway. There was no point in arguing. But, borrowing a phrase from her Italian grandmother, there was more than one way to peel a grape.

  A scan of the emergency room whiteboard showed Coot in cubicle seven. She flashed her credentials at the guard posted in front of the curtain. He allowed her to pass.

  The lights were dimmed, throwing the tiny cubicle into twilight. The counter next to the sink was littered with cotton balls and blood-soaked gauze. Coot sprawled on the narrow gurney, a stream of wires connecting him to a bank of monitors on the back wall. Asleep on his back, his feet dangled over the end of the bed, and his short hospital gown crept toward indecent.

  Angela averted her eyes and looked for his chart. It was where it belonged, tucked safely at the foot of the bed. She made a quick perusal of the chicken scratch on the chart.

  His vitals looked good.

  She flipped a page and found what she was looking for. A small notation in the doctor’s handwriting read, “Patient is suffering from toxic poisoning.”

  “May I help you?”

  The voice startled Angela, and she bobbled the chart. “Yes. No. I… ”

  The male nurse snatched the medical chart out of her hands. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Special Agent Dimato,” Angela said, introducing herself. “The guard let me in.”

  “No one but a nurse or the doctor is allowed to handle his chart.”

  “Fair enough. Would you mind reading it then, and telling me how he’s doing?”

  “It’s hard to say. It sounds like he’s lucky to be alive,” the nurse said, jotting a note in the chart. Angela figured he was writing her up.

  “I was one of the people in the plane with him.”

  “Yeah? Then you’re lucky too.”

  Being friendly wasn’t working. Maybe it was time to try the official tack. “When will I be able to question him?”

  The nurse slapped shut the chart and jabbed it in the direction of the makeshift interrogation room. “Lady, from where I stand, those two dudes are ahead of you in line.”

  Angela glanced over her shoulder. The sheriff and FAA investigator were standing in the hall. Angela ducked behind the curtain too late. The FAA investigator had spotted her.

  He charged across the linoleum and crowded into the cubicle. “What the hell—?”

  “I’m leaving,” she said.

  “Damn straight you are. You’re lucky I don’t put you behind bars.” The FAA man turned to the guard at the door. “Take a good look at this one. She doesn’t get in. If she shows her face again, arrest her.”

  Kramner was even less kind. Dorothy had picked up Angela and Lark at the hospital and dropped Angela back at her pickup. She had called her mother from her cell phone, left a message saying she was alright just in case Verbiscar aired a story about the plane crash, then went straight from there to the duty station.

  “I’m pulling you out of the field,” Kramner said. “I want you in here come Monday morning, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  She watched him pace, the fluorescent lights sparkling off the bald spot on the back of his head, creating the illusion of a disco ball on parade. His thick, black glasses perched on his nose above nostrils flared with anger.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked, stopping in front of her.

  The lyrics from another country western song popped into her head, and she banished them to the recesses of her mind. “I was doing my job, sir.” A spark of fear filtered into her consciousness. “You aren’t serious about the desk job.”

  “Dead serious.”

  “You can’t pull me off this case.” She had worked too hard. She had too much invested to see it handed off to someone else.

  “I can, Dimato. I did. I suggest you take the rest of the week off, recover from your ordeal, then report in here on Monday morning.”

  “I don’t want a day off.” She wasn’t giving up without a fight. “You gave me permission to investigate.”

  Kramner resumed pacing. “I never authorized a charter flight. And I certainly never authorized a crash.”

  “I figured it was better to try and land the plane, sir.” She swallowed. “I heard Coot was poisoned.”

  Kramner swiped a hand through his hair. “The FAA faxed me a preliminary report. It seems your pilot ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

  “Not by any chance goose paté?”

  “No. Try a goose-meat sandwich.”

  Angela perked up. She was being facetious, but Kramner meant what he said.

  “It seems your pilot helped himself to a snack while he waited for the coffee water to heat up.”

  “He suffered from food poisoning?”

  “It appears that way. According to the sheriff, the kitchen boy at the club ended up at the hospital the same afternoon.”

  By “kitchen boy,” Kramner had to mean Radigan’s son. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s got a bellyache.”

  The important thing was it played to her theory that the bird poisonings and the two locations were interrelated. Angela skipped through the events of the previous four weeks. Ian’s death, Eric’s accident, the Drummond food poisoning, and the potentially fatal plane crash all had one thing in common—sick birds.

  “Are they running tests on the meat?”

  “We sent the samples to the lab this morning.”

  Her brain flashed on the swan at Barr Lake. “Sir, did they ever run tests on the swan we found the night Ian died?”

  Kramner swiveled his head like an owl, staring at her while he paced. “I don’t think so, why?”

  “Because this is the third ‘accident’related to waterfowl poisonings in nearly as many weeks. It’s too coincidental.”

  “‘Coincidence—the remarkable happening of similar events by chance,’” he quoted.

  “Unless they weren’t by chance. What if all the events were intentional?”

  That stopped him dead in his tracks. “You give me one good reason why someone would kill another human being over a flock of Canada geese.”

  “I’ll give you a million.” Angela produced the sample vials from her pocket and held them out. “Before he died, Ian was investigating a number of waterfowl poisonings in the Barr Lake area.”

  “That’s old news.”

  “I think he figured out how the geese were being poisoned.” She pushed the vials toward Kramner. He reached for the plastic containers and held the brackish liquid up to the light.

  “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” he asked.

  “If you mean, do I think Charles Radigan has something to do with this? Yes.”

  “He’s a powerful man, Dimato.”

  “The partial report on the geese die-off in Elk Park shows the deaths may have something to do with the development of a biodegradable shot. Covyduck, the vet who handled the necropsy, says the new shot emulates lead and that the formula could be worth millions, provided it’s not toxic to the environment.”

  “And you think it is.”

  “I do.”

 
“Which makes the formula worthless.” He shook the vials, then set them on his desk.

  “You have to admit, it makes for a secret worth keeping.” She pointed to the samples. “Those came out of the wetlands at the Barr Lake Hunt Club. I’ll bet money the shot inside matches the shot from the geese in Elk Park.”

  “Are you having tests run on the shot?”

  “Yes.” She felt a flicker of hope. “Chuck Radigan is hiding something, sir. I think Ian got too close. He talked with Eric before he died, then Eric reads Covyduck’s report and ends up pushed through the ice.”

  “And Coot? Do you think that was intentional too?”

  “I don’t know.” It seemed hard to believe Radigan would risk harming his own son. “But if our plane had gone down, we wouldn’t have those.” She pointed to the vials. And I wouldn’t be around to keep forcing the issue.

  “So you’re suggesting Radigan poisoned the pilot?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What about his son?”

  “That had to be an accident.”

  Kramner rocked back and forth on his heels. “Are these samples legal?”

  “Yes, sir, they are. Radigan gave his permission. Ask Lark Drummond.”

  “It’s still a reach, Dimato.” He clasped his hands behind his back and headed for the window. “Can you physically connect Chuck Radigan with Elk Park?”

  “He competed in the fishing tournament with his grandson.”

  “Was he signed up before the geese ended up on the ice, or after?”

  Her stomach tightened. “Before, sir.”

  “And what about the lead you found scattered on the ice?”

  She explained why the sinkers couldn’t have caused the poisoning. “There wasn’t time. We think someone scattered them to throw off the investigation.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Dimato? I thought you and I were working this investigation.”

  Angela felt her face flush. “I’ve been talking with Lark and some of the EPOCH members.”

  Kramner pursed his lips. “Okay, what about the person you saw collecting geese off the ice? What was that all about?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet, sir.”

  Kramner made a few more laps, and Angela waited.

  “It seems like you have a few loose ends to tie up,” he said at last. “But, for argument’s sake, let’s say your theory’s correct. Other than these three samples, do you have any proof?”

  “There is some circumstantial evidence.” She explained how they had come up with the migration pattern of the geese and located the Barr Lake Hunt Club, and reminded him about the necropsy samples Covyduck sent to the lab. “If the shot matches, and the vegetation and soils match, I think we could make a case.”

  “Maybe a thin one.”

  “Bernie Crandall is running fingerprints on two small vials believed to be containers for the fishing sinkers we found. Eric had them in his pocket. He’d picked them up from among the debris left on the ice from the night of the goose rescue operation. If we get a match there, we could have a strong case.”

  Kramner looked skeptical.

  “It’s thin,” she admitted. “But I’m still building it.”

  He pivoted, then stopped. The second hand on the clock made half a sweep. “I’m sorry, Dimato. You’re off the case.”

  His words numbed her. She figured once she presented the facts he’d reconsider.

  “From my chair, all you’ve accomplished is to stir up a hornet’s nest,” he continued. “I received a phone call from Washington this morning. Linda Verbiscar went public with your aerial stunts and inferred on national television that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is investigating Charles Radigan.”

  “We are,” Angela said.

  “Radigan’s lawyer contacted the director. Do you have any idea who Charles Radigan is?”

  “He’s a local businessman.”

  “He’s a powerful man. What do you know about his company?”

  She felt the heat rise in her face. “Not much.”

  “You should have done your research, Dimato.”

  “I will. Just let me—”

  “No.” Kramner moved back behind his desk. “Face it, Dimato. You’re lucky you still have a job. Your judgment in this matter is clouded.”

  Succinct and to the point. But the bottom line was, Kramner didn’t like the press.

  “Maybe, but my eyesight is twenty-twenty.”

  He didn’t argue, but surprise caused his eyes to widen behind his thick lenses.

  “With all due respect, sir, I think I’ve earned the right to follow through with this investigation.”

  “We’re done here.” She started to argue, but Kramner held up his hand. “You are not ready to be on your own, Dimato, and a birdwatchers’club full of amateur sleuths does not make a team. Your actions indicate you need direct supervision in the field, and, unfortunately, I’m a man short. And besides, we can’t afford anymore accidents.”

  She chose to ignore the insinuation. She couldn’t force him to make the connections anymore than she could ignore them. Her strategy now had to be in convincing him she was close to solving the case.

  “If you’ll just run the samples—”

  The intercom buzzed, and Kramner punched a button on his phone. “I’ll take it from here, Dimato.”

  His tone was dismissive. She moved toward the door.

  “And if you find out I’m right?” she asked.

  “All the more reason to have you riding a desk. You’ll be safer there.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Elk Park Town Board met the third Wednesday of the month, and the town hall was crammed full of people out for blood. Chairs overflowed with parents and grandparents, their coats nestled on their laps, sour expressions pinching their faces. Kids, who should have been home with babysitters, wrestled in the aisles. And several teenagers, more interested in flirting than listening, lounged on the windowsills. The last time there had been a turnout like this was when Mayor McNamara had been recalled.

  Bruised and battered from Tuesday’s ordeal, Lark tucked herself securely into a corner at the back of the room. From there, she had a clear view of the proceedings but was close enough to the doors for a quick getaway. Across the room, Mayor Jane Lindor and eight board members sat fidgeting in stiff-backed chairs, sandwiched between a row of cafeteria tables and a bank of flags.

  Lark could empathize. She’d sat on their side of the tables before. She didn’t envy them. Too often those in attendance wanted resolutions outside of the law.

  “This looks official,” Angela said, slipping into the tiny space between Lark and the door.

  Lark experienced a momentary sense of panic over having her escape route cut off, then forced a smile. “Are you here for the show?”

  “No,” Angela said, patting her gun holster. “I’m here to escort you to safety should things turn ugly.”

  Lark started to laugh, then reconsidered. Her ribs ached, and there was too much truth in the comment. “Thanks.”

  Angela flashed white teeth. “Looks like all the players are here.”

  “And then some.” There were more people in the room than attended church in Elk Park on Christmas Day.

  Mayor Lindor banged a gavel on the table.

  “Let’s get started.” The noise level dropped only slightly, and she pounded again. “I said, quiet! We’re ready to start.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  Someone coughed. Someone else sneezed. Then the mayor set down her gavel and picked up a sheet of paper.

  “The first item on the agenda is the town treasurer’s report.”

  There was a collective groan from the gallery.

  “But… ” Her gravelly voice carried over the rumble. “Since you’re all here for the items at the bottom of this list, I’m going to dispense with normal procedure and move right to new business.”

  A wave of approval undulated through the room.

  �
�The board has received a petition requesting the town secure a permit from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for removal of the remainder of the Elk Park geese.”

  “I make a motion we do it,” Frakus yelled.

  “Second,” someone hollered near the back.

  The buzz in the room grew, and Mayor Lindor slammed down the gavel. “I have a motion on the floor. And a second. Is there any discussion?”

  The room erupted. People shouted comments from all sides. Lark shrank back against the wall and tried to make herself look small.

  “One at a time,” yelled the mayor. “Brett?”

  The room quieted again. Everyone turned to look at Brett Bemster. A Tiger Woods wannabe, he was decked out in corduroy slacks, a light-blue oxford shirt, and a navy-blue sweater vest. A yellow cashmere scarf was twisted around his neck, clashing with the olive tones in his skin. His face—tanned to the texture of shoe leather from too many days at the Brown Baby tanning salon—glistened with sweat. Blotting the shine off his brow, he played to the crowd.

  “The geese are a health risk.”

  “They are dirty,” said a woman near Lark, someone she had never seen before.

  Mob mentality struck, and the crowd coalesced.

  “That’s right,” Bemster said. “They’re pooping in the water.”

  “Not to mention what else,” Angela whispered.

  Lark choked and shook her head. No sense feeding the frenzy with sarcasm.

  “That’s not true,” challenged Gertie, standing up in the second row.

  “Shut up, Gertie,” a voice in the back yelled.

  “That’s right,” shouted someone else. “Sit down.”

  “Booooooo.”

  The crowd joined together, and the knot in Lark’s stomach tightened. Mob mentality frightened her. Even when she was leading the mob, like she had been the other night. When passions were aroused, a crowd took on its own energy. This group rallied in fear.

  “You’ll all have your turn,” Mayor Lindor said, pleading for order. She glanced at the sheriff’s men near the doors behind her.

  Was she looking for help, or did she plan on bolting?

  Brett flipped his hair and started again. “Canada geese are medically proven to cause disease. Studies show their crap contaminates the water supply, putting us all at risk.”