The Poisoned Pawn

by Blair Peggy

  He picked up the receiver in one of his huge hands. Ramirez heard the metallic buzz of a woman’s voice. The police chief frowned.

  “When?” O’Malley asked, making a note on a pad on his desk, the yellow pen almost disappearing in his thick fingers. “When will that decision be made?” Then, a few moments later, “Let me know, will you, Celia? Give me a heads-up. Thanks.”

  He hung up the phone.“Well, Inspector, maybe it’s a good thing you’re here after all.”

  Ramirez waited.

  “As you may have gathered, that was Celia Jones. Another Canadian tourist died in Havana about an hour ago. Same symptoms as Hillary Ellis and that woman from your station. That makes three dead women in less than a week. The Chief Medical Examiner’s Office says the Public Health Agency is getting very concerned. Our Foreign Affairs Department is planning to issue a travel advisory.”

  “Warning people not to come to my country?”

  O’Malley nodded. “If those deaths are related, they don’t really have a choice.”

  “When would they do that?” Ramirez asked, worried. Thousands of tourists would cancel their winter holidays. Maybe hundreds of thousands. It would devastate the Cuban economy. Castro would be furious.

  “They told Celia it could take twenty-four hours to get the paperwork through. Maybe a little longer, because some of the staff are still on holidays. And by the way, speaking of paperwork, she said to tell you she can’t get your pathologist the medical results he requested unless the family consents. There are objections from the next-of-kin, apparently.”

  The next-of-kin, thought Ramirez. That would be Michael Ellis. And the only reason he would possibly refuse to agree to the release of medical reports was if he feared that something incriminating might be found in them. But what? The dead women had nothing in common except Havana. Or did they?

  O’Malley rubbed his thick fingers over his smooth scalp. “Did Celia tell you what was going on with Michael? His mother-in-law’s been making some pretty crazy accusations to the media. She thinks he killed his wife.”

  Ramirez nodded without commenting. He wasn’t quite so convinced that the allegations were crazy.

  “Well, at least this will get this story out of the press. This proves it. Michael had nothing to do with his wife’s death.”

  Three deaths, thought Ramirez. We have a flock.

  TWENTY - NINE

  Another corpse lay stretched out on a hospital gurney. Like Rita Martinez, her lips were blue, her skin deep pink. Sunburn? Apiro wondered. Or the effects of a poison?

  “She collapsed across the street from the Parque Ciudad,” the taller of the two paramedics explained to Apiro.

  “Unconscious within minutes,” the stocky one nodded. “We did what we could. Oxygen, fluids. It was faster this time. But then, it was hotter today. Witnesses said she staggered down the sidewalk like a zombie before she fell. We tried to revive her, but we lost the pulse. Dr. Ortega pronounced her dead at Emergency. We thought you should know about it. It looks so much like the other one.”

  The paramedic was observant, thought Apiro. Heat elevated the heartbeat. The circulatory system moved more quickly. A toxin would be absorbed faster.

  “I appreciate you contacting me,” said Apiro. “This could be extremely important.”

  The hospital administrator, Marguerita Stanza, had hovered anxiously beside them when Apiro arrived.

  “The Canadian authorities want this woman’s body returned immediately, Dr. Apiro,” she said firmly. “The insurance company has a private plane waiting at the airport. Dr. Ortega has already signed for the release of the remains. This woman’s death is not our responsibility. It has nothing to do with us.”

  “But I need samples,” Apiro protested. He explained why.

  “My God,” Stanza said, shocked. “Then take what you need. We can delay them for perhaps an hour, no more. After that, the phones will start ringing. Assuming they’re working, of course.”

  Even the paramedics had appeared tense as they wheeled the gurney into an empty room and waited outside the door. Of course they are, thought Apiro. They know we are all in danger until I can find out what’s going on.

  O’Malley excused himself; he had a meeting to attend. As Ramirez waited for Charlie Pike to retrieve him, he asked Clare Adams if he could borrow a telephone to make a long-distance call.

  “Of course,” she said. “You can use the chief’s office.”

  She took the inspector inside and excused herself, leaving him in private. Ramirez phoned the Havana police switchboard and asked to be transferred to the morgue.

  “He’s not there,” said Sophia. “Dr. Apiro is at the Manuel Fajardo Hospital. Shall I page him there and have him call you?”

  “Gracias.” Ramirez gave her the number on the phone on O’Malley’s desk. While he waited, he read an old magazine from December 2005. Even one year out of date, it had information in it that was new to him. The death of John Paul II he knew of, and the trial of Saddam Hussein, but not the bombs in the London Underground that exploded during the G8 summit.

  Everyone in Cuba, though, had heard about Hurricane Katrina and the devastation in New Orleans. Castro had offered to send a thousand doctors to the United States to help with its aftermath but never received a response.

  A few minutes later, Clare poked her head in the door. “There’s a call for you on line two, Inspector. Just push down the red button that’s flashing.”

  Apiro sounded dead on his feet. He apologized, explaining he hadn’t slept for almost thirty hours.

  “I’ve just heard the news, Hector. Another death?”

  “Yes, I’m at the hospital now. And you are not the only one to track me down. I have just had an extremely uncomfortable discussion with the Minister of the Interior about all of this. He is not enjoying the New Year so far, I can tell you that.”

  “I can imagine. Tell me what you know about the third victim.”

  “Her name was Nicole Caron. She was another Canadian woman, travelling alone. She lapsed into a coma on the sidewalk in front of the Parque Ciudad Hotel. Unlike the others, she died on the spot. The Canadian authorities insist on conducting the autopsy themselves. Something to do with her travel insurance. The remains are already on their way to the airport. I was able to take some blood and tissue samples. I had less than an hour to work on her. I was lucky to get that.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” If anyone could have discovered the cause of the woman’s death, thought Ramirez, it was Apiro.

  “The minister has practically ordered me to sever any link between the two Canadian cases. He is extremely worried about the travel advisory the Canadians are threatening to impose. So, I understand, is the acting president.”

  “I don’t blame them. It could close down the entire tourist industry in Havana.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Ricardo, but I don’t have the means to do what they want. Hillary Ellis died on Canadian soil, so I have no test results from her autopsy. As for Señora Caron, I have just the samples I was able to obtain before her body was taken away. The only complete set is what I collected during Rita Martinez’s autopsy. I will do what I can with what I have. But I don’t know how quickly I can find answers.”

  “Do you really think the deaths are linked?”

  Apiro sighed heavily. “Of course. Any epidemiologist would say that three such similar deaths in such a short period is no coincidence.”

  “Caused by what? Do you still think it could be food poisoning?”

  “My guess is that all these women ingested something toxic shortly before they died. But I have no idea what or where. We can almost certainly eliminate the airplane itself. Señora Caron and Señora Ellis were on different flights, and Rita Martinez, of course, never flew anywhere, which rules out the airport. What’s bothering me is that so far it’s only women that have succumbed. Except for some of the hormones, chemicals don’t usually discriminate by gender.”

  Then a tourist advisory sh
ould be issued, Ramirez thought. And one warning Cubans to be cautious as well. He shuddered to think that a member of his family, or anyone he knew, might die from their puny amount of rations. Starvation, maybe. But food poisoning?

  “It’s an impossible task,” said Apiro. “An epidemiological investigation takes dozens of investigators and resources that we simply don’t have. And there’s nothing obvious to look for.”

  “What are the possibilities?” asked Ramirez. He thought of his own wife, his children, afraid that any one of them could collapse and die while he was so far away.

  “Some mushrooms produce a toxin. There is also an algae found in barracuda, which is sometimes served in tourist restaurants under other names. And then there are pesticides, although those seem unlikely. These days, there is nothing very toxic in the food chain, Ricardo, which is why this is such a mystery. We rarely use pesticides now that we can no longer import chemicals easily. Our scientists have developed organic methods of dealing with pests. The new idea of pest control is recycled banana stems covered with honey to collect ants. ‘Rational pest management,’ they call it, causing me to wonder how one manages irrational pests.”

  “What about jutia? Could they be the connection? At one time, they were being poisoned, weren’t they?”

  The jutia was a large rodent found almost everywhere in Cuba until it was hunted almost to extinction, first by mongooses and then by hungry Cubans. The tree rat, as some called it, had returned to parts of the island. Francesca cooked them with nuts and honey, sometimes with tomatoes, green peppers, onions, and garlic. It was not unusual to see Cubans walking down the highway with three or four of the dead rodents slung over their shoulders, tied together by their tails.

  “Castro halted all extermination efforts a few years ago. Some think it’s so the rats can be used as a source of protein,” said Apiro. “But it’s a good idea. Secondary poisoning could be the cause. These women may well have consumed something that was once poisoned itself. I’ll check into it.”

  Ramirez thought for a moment. “There are rats all over Havana, too. Maybe the deaths are related to the chemicals used to control them.”

  “We don’t control rats, they control us,” said Apiro. He laughed, but Ramirez heard the stress in his voice. The frequency of Apiro’s small jokes and puns increased with the severity of the situation. It was how he, and Ramirez, survived. “That’s another good suggestion, Ricardo. I’ll check with the Office of the Historian; I know they have a program to reduce rat populations. Havana is the worst affected because the housing here has deteriorated so badly.”

  “The Office of the Historian is involved in rat control?”

  “To protect Old Havana’s cultural integrity. The rats, apparently, are now considered part of Cuban infrastructure. If we kill them off too quickly, our buildings might fall down.” Another staccato laugh.

  Ramirez shook his head. Less than twenty-four hours in Canada, and he already missed his country’s inane bureaucracy.

  “If Rita Martinez hadn’t also died, I would think a restaurant was responsible,” said Apiro. “But you know how unlikely that is.”

  It was illegal for turistas to eat in private homes. But it was also illegal for Cubans to eat at tourist restaurants.

  “Besides,” Apiro said, “Rita was working at police headquarters when she became ill.”

  Ramirez could see why Apiro was having problems connecting the dots, when one victim was Cuban and the other two were tourists. They occupied parallel worlds, ones that rarely intersected.

  “Maybe you can get Espinoza to find out what hotel Señora Caron stayed in, Hector. That might narrow down a geographic area at least. But I hope you are wrong about a connection, my friend. Because if you’re right, there could be more deaths.”

  “Not to mention the harm this could cause our flourishing economy,” Apiro joked. The strain in his voice caused him to croak.

  Ramirez laughed uneasily. “Something like this could ruin us.”

  THIRTY

  Charlie Pike exited from the highway onto a wide, busy street called Bronson Avenue. “The RCMP headquarters is about twenty minutes east of here, off the Vanier Parkway,” he explained to Ramirez. “We’re going to have to take a detour through downtown to avoid the Queensway. There’s a ten-car pileup there; traffic’s bumper to bumper all the way to Lees. It’s going to be bad today and tomorrow. There’s a big storm moving in.”

  Pike drove north until the road ended at a junction.

  “That’s the Ottawa River over there,” said Pike. “On the other side, that’s Quebec. This is all unsurrendered Algonquin territory. Even Parliament Hill.”

  “Another First Nation?”

  “You’re learning fast,” Pike smiled. “The Algonquins used these lands for hunting and fishing. They never gave them up, never signed a treaty. They have a land claim with the federal government. It’s been in negotiations for maybe ten, fifteen years. The federal and provincial governments have it on a fast track. Might get it settled in a century or two if they can keep up the pace.”

  Pike signalled and turned the big truck right on Albert, then left on Bay. They drove down Wellington, past the Supreme Court of Canada, the Justice Building, and the Parliament Buildings. These were massive structures, strung with bright Christmas lights, as was every tree along the route.

  But as they drove past Ramirez’s hotel and through the downtown core, it was the advertising that shocked him. Billboards with signs for Coca-Cola, new cars, laser eye surgery, even women’s lingerie.

  In Cuba, there was no advertising for goods or services. The only billboards on Cuban highways were state-owned. Most had cartoon pictures of either Fidel Castro or George Bush. Bush was usually portrayed with a small black moustache, like Adolf Hitler. Sometimes blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, like a vampire.

  Edel and Estella would love to see the Christmas lights, the spires of the Gothic churches. Francesca, she of the handmade Christmas bells and stars that still decorated their small apartment, would be amazed at how much energy was spent on Christmas lights when their own electricity supply was so precious, so often disrupted.

  There were only a few people walking about. They were bundled up like the Egyptian mummies on display at the Museum of Universal Arts in Havana.

  At home, even this early in the day, the streets would be full of people, tourists coming and going from bars, jineteras calling softly to potential customers.

  Pike turned on the wipers to clear the falling snow. Ramirez was amazed by the flat, intricate shapes. Tiny lace doilies melted on the windshield.

  “It must have warmed up,” said Pike. “It was too cold to snow last night. Only minus twenty today, and no wind chill.”

  “So this is snow. It is quite beautiful.”

  It did feel warmer, Ramirez thought. Cold, it seemed, was a sensory illusion.

  “They say that no two snowflakes are the same. I’m not sure how anyone could ever know that without seeing every single one of them. But yes, this is it, alright. You’re here at the very worst time of the year, Rick,” Pike said, as the windshield wipers thwacked back and forth. “We have at least three or four months of really cold weather in the winter. But January is always the worst. Well, that and March. And February can be pretty bad, too.”

  Ramirez laughed. “Appreciating your weather may take me a little time. How long have you been with the Rideau Police Force, Charlie?”

  “Since 1995. O’Malley talked me into joining up when he got appointed chief. He was with the Winnipeg Police before he came here. That’s in Manitoba. Another province. Believe it or not, it’s even colder there than it is here. O’Malley was a beat cop when I first met him.”

  “You knew him before he took over this police force, then?” “Yeah, I’ve known him since I was fourteen.” Pike turned to look at Ramirez. He grinned. “He caught me breaking into an apartment. That was my lucky break.”

  “Lucky? Why?”

  “I
t was his apartment.”

  THIRTY - ONE

  “I was with my best friend, Sheldon Waubasking. We ran away from school up north, hitchhiked all the way to Winnipeg. We were supposed to be staying with Sheldon’s sister, but we ended up living on the streets.”

  Inspector Ramirez looked at Charlie Pike with interest.

  “Did Chief O’Malley charge you?” He wondered how someone with a criminal record could become a police officer.

  “No. I think he felt sorry for us. He took us under his wing. Although he made me buy him a new radio to replace the one I broke when he hauled me out the window he caught me coming through. Me and Sheldon, we were headed on the wrong path back then; he turned us around. Although back in ’84, when all that happened, he scared the heck out of me. He looked like a biker who stole someone’s uniform. He was even bigger then, if you can imagine. Built like a bull and just as bald. That scared me, too. My mother was Mohawk, but my dad was Ojibway. The Anishnabe only shave their heads when someone dies.”

  “Mohawk is another Indian tribe?”

  “Part of the Iroquois Confederacy. The Haudenosaunee. They’re called the Six Nations, too. Under Confederacy laws, I’m supposed to be Mohawk, not Ojibway, because my mother was Mohawk. But the Canadian government doesn’t recognize Haudenosaunee laws. We don’t recognize theirs, either. We use our own passports when we travel.”

  “It sounds complicated.”

  Pike shrugged. “I guess so. It’s always been that way.”

  “I like him, your Chief O’Malley.”

  “He’s a good guy. He grew up in Northern Ireland. He told me once that even though he was an atheist, the street gangs there used to chase after him. They’d ask him which god he didn’t believe in, the Protestant one or the Catholic one. And then they’d beat him up, whatever he said. I don’t think he was joking.”

  Ramirez laughed. “In Cuba, we believe in every god rather than picking only one. The Yoruba slaves who were brought to Cuba to work on the tobacco and sugar plantations gave their orishas the names of Catholic saints so that they could practice their religion under the noses of their masters.”