Mesozoic Murder

by Christine Gentry

  Well, she thought despondently, at least her trip to see Karen Capos wouldn’t be a total waste. She couldn’t wait to ask Nick’s wife if she knew anyone named Griffin.

  Chapter 5

  “It matters not where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many.”

  Chief Seattle, Squamish

  Goosebumps spiked on Dorbandt’s arms as he reviewed the last page of Nicholas Demetrius Capos’ autopsy report. He’d seen some gruesome murders in his job, but few had been carried out with such calculated malice.

  Opinion: It is my opinion that Nicholas Capos, a thirty-two-year-old male, died as a result of a subcutaneous injection into the neck of 200 mg of strychnine poison in aqueous solution. The poison entered the circulatory system causing respiratory paralysis of the lungs and secondary pulmonary arrest of the heart due to lack of oxygen. The cause of death was strychnine poisoning. The mechanism of death was asphyxia. The manner of death was homicide.

  Dorbandt probed his memory. What he recalled about strychnine had been learned from academy training. Strychnine was most often used to control varmint populations. In Montana, a lot of farmers and ranchers used strychnine-based pesticides, but poison-dusted seeds or grains were effective only when ingested. Somebody had used a hypo on Capos. Very unusual.

  He also knew that strychnine was a slow-acting poison. Once injected, within the hour a series of tetanic-like convulsions contracted the body muscles into a locked, arched-back position. Only the head and feet touched the floor. A muscular facial grimace, risus sardonicus, pulled the lips back in a contorted grin. The deadly seizures, often triggered by the slightest sound, could go on for hours.

  Dorbandt noted the coroner’s opinion on the date of death. Dr. Dickerson Howdun stated that due to the moderate 50- to 70-degree Fahrenheit temperatures, the lack of rain, the burial, and the small number of larval insects, pinning down Capos’ date of death was impossible. However, going by the post-mortem swelling, leaking fluids, and advanced bacterial decomposition, he guessed that Capos had expired approximately three weeks prior to discovery.

  Dorbandt looked at his desk calendar. Capos probably died between June first and June eighth. Canvassing witnesses and determining who last saw him alive might closer pinpoint the day.

  “God damn it.” His heartburn fired up again and he rubbed his chest.

  “How’s it going, Reid?”

  Captain Ed McKenzie materialized by his desk. The division chief had perfected his cat-footed approaches into a bureaucratic art during his many years in the Homicide Division.

  “Capos was murdered with strychnine.”

  “Somebody used rat bait?”

  Dorbandt tossed the folder on his desk. “Something like it, but as a concentrated liquid. I saw the autopsy yesterday. Messy. A lot of self-inflicted damage because of the convulsions. Never seen a corpse munched on by sand scorpions either. No defensive wounds. Capos probably knew the perp.”

  “You think you’ve seen it all, then a case makes your hair stand on end. Remember that lady in Fort Peck growing poison Panther mushrooms in her garage, grinding them up, and feeding them to neighborhood kiddies in heart-shaped cookies? She thought she was providing a community service. A miracle nobody died. Just made them sick as hell.”

  Dorbandt nodded. “This perp is better at covering tracks. Maybe I can trace the injectable poison.”

  “Got anything solid?”

  Dorbandt shrugged. “Wasn’t a robbery. Capos had his valuables on him. According to DMV, he owned a 1997 silver Subaru Outback. I talked to his landlord this morning. Adam Knapp owns the Sky View Apartments in Wolf Point and says the Outback is parked in the garage: unlocked, keys in the ignition. I’m leaving to check it out.”

  “So the killer rode with Capos to the farm and returned the car, or transported Capos in his car,” McKenzie figured.

  “Ground’s dry so I couldn’t find treads worth casting. Access to the property was gained via a utility road on the south side. Fencing was pulled down. The owner, Feltus Pitt, didn’t see or hear a thing. What nags me is why Capos was buried at the pig farm. Killer went out of his way to put the body there. I’m checking into Pitt’s background.”

  McKenzie rubbed his jaw. “Maybe Forensics will find something on the Outback.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Suspects?”

  Dorbandt’s esophagus filled with acid. “I’m drinking from a mud puddle, but it’s early. Capos’ background check was tame. No criminal records or court judgements. Graduated with a master’s degree in botany. He worked as a research assistant for five years until a year and a half ago. Then he quit and didn’t get another job. Married to Karen Davis Capos since 1997 and recently separated. Bank account records, credit history, and utility bills come in today or tomorrow. His employment records are being faxed. Since Capos didn’t have an income, I’m wondering how he paid his living expenses.”

  “Talk to the wife?”

  “Last night. She’s indifferent. I didn’t get any bad vibes. She’s got a new boyfriend living with her, though. Alexander King. Owns a pet store called Bird Haven. He’s on my short list.”

  McKenzie nodded. “He sounds promising.”

  Dorbandt grinned. “Hey, you’ll never believe who found the body.”

  “Who?”

  “Anselette Phoenix.”

  McKenzie’s face darkened. “Phoenix? You’re shitting me.”

  Dorbandt yanked McKenzie’s chain again. “Scout’s honor. She’s cute.”

  “Cute like a pygmy rattler,” McKenzie complained. “Chase Phoenix is nothing but a troublemaker. She probably is, too.”

  “She looks Indian.”

  “Half-breed.”

  Dorbandt noted the racial slam, and it justified his opinion that McKenzie was a certifiable idiot. “I’ve seen Phoenix’s wife in the paper. She doesn’t look Indian.”

  “Pearl Phoenix is his second wife. The Injun died. So where did Anselette meet Capos?”

  “A fossil club.”

  “Any chance she’s involved?” His piercing, hazel eyes gleamed.

  “She’s been cooperative. Right now everybody’s got potential.”

  “Check her out. Maybe it’s no coincidence she found the body. If they belonged to the same club, maybe they practiced extracurricular hobbies together. Maybe she lost it because he didn’t divorce his wife, and she decided to fossilize him. Poison is a woman’s weapon of choice.”

  Dorbandt remembered how Phoenix had avoided his gaze when he asked about her relationship with Capos. There was something she wasn’t telling. She was pretty cool under pressure but was she icy enough to watch a person die a slow, agonizing death?

  “If Phoenix is hiding something, I’ll find it.”

  “I need you to work fast, Reid. The media is hounding me. I’m short on manpower so this is your baby. I’ll reassign your cases. When you need a buddy, take Fiskar. Reporters want a statement soon, and Sheriff Combs needs the department to look good while he’s away. Don’t let me down.”

  McKenzie marched away. Dorbandt resisted the urge to shoot him the finger. The department, hell. McKenzie wanted to look squeaky clean, especially if Chase Phoenix got dumped into the mix. McKenzie couldn’t afford to look bad a second time.

  Now he’d been strapped into the hot seat. If he didn’t have something bigger on tap in forty-eight hours, the trickle of clues would go dry fast. If that happened, McKenzie would have tons of fuel to dump on him when Bucky Combs and the newsies needed a public execution. That’s when they’d torch the kindling around his feet.

  Dorbandt surveyed his desk. None of the crime scene reports or photos were back. He’d completed the tedious task of writing his initial and supplemental crime reports. Time for him to hoof it out to Wolf Point.

  Wolf Point was a nice town, and he’d often attended the Wild Horse Stampede, a large rodeo and Indian celebration known throughout the state. The city started out as a trading post where frozen wolf carcasses were
thrown in a pile near the river until they thawed. When Indians captured the landing one spring, the decaying meat stack became a landmark for Missouri steamboat captains. This trip wouldn’t be enjoyable.

  Dorbandt left his desk. Odie Fiskar was a bear of a man who rivaled Grizzly Adams in stature and girth. The neatly dressed, dark haired, and bearded detective barely fit into his puny rolling chair, even with the arms removed to accommodate his dimensions.

  Fiskar wasn’t overweight. He was toned muscle and tight skin. Better yet, his powerhouse body housed a megawatt brain. Dorbandt had seen Fiskar bench press three hundred pounds in twenty minutes and complete a New York Times crossword puzzle in under fifteen.

  “Odie, we’re going to check out an apartment and car.”

  Fiskar turned a huge, buzz-cut head. “Now?”

  “Right now. Capos case. Manager’s letting us in.”

  Fiskar’s eyes expanded. “The pig farm?”

  Dorbandt flashed a cheery smile. “That’s it. Rise and shine.”

  “All right.” Fiskar put down his pen and stood a full six inches over Dorbandt. “Can we get something to eat?”

  That was the kicker with Fiskar. He was also an eating machine. Dorbandt looked at his watch. The station was located in Mission City, the county seat. There were plenty of places to grab a bite before heading for Wolf Point.

  “Hokay. What did you have in mind?” he asked while they walked toward a sign-out board.

  “The Chicken Barn. A bucket of chicken costs eight bucks. They’re open twenty-four hours.”

  The thought of all that grease made Dorbandt queasy. “You want to eat a bucket of chicken at nine in the morning?”

  “No way. I’m gonna need at least two buckets to make it through to lunch.”

  Dorbandt burped.

  Chapter 6

  “The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”

  Sequichie Comingdeer

  Ansel moved her head and winced. A headache hitchhiked a ride inside her skull. Last night she had drunk a glass of wine with her spaghetti dinner. That had led to another glass. Soon she had downed the jug of Carlo Rossi, then passed out on the sofa.

  She groaned, pulling the black lizard boot over her left foot. Afterward, Ansel put both hands on her skull, checking to make sure it wouldn’t blow off her neck. The knocking inside her brain was unbearably loud, and her stomach started doing a nasty trick. It twisted like a pretzel, then pulled as taut as a Gordian knot.

  At least she was clean and dressed. Stripping off yesterday’s clothes and taking a shower had been an incredible feat of willpower and coordination. Looking in the mirror, she realized her hair was uncombed. She reached for the brush on the bureau with a trembling hand. One stroke down her waist-length tresses and she groaned. Her scalp hurt. Was that possible?

  Since she couldn’t make a French braid, Ansel used her fingers to smooth down her wild-woman hair. She took a barrette and tenderly clipped the locks back in a ponytail. Good enough. She looked civilized even though lightning bolts of pain seared through her right temple.

  Her mother’s father had been an alcoholic. He spent most of his life on the Browning reservation lost in a nonstop haze fueled by Thunderbird whiskey. Once as a little girl, her mother had taken her to meet Grandpa Two Spots. Her only memory of the encounter was of a nice old man who smelled bad.

  Drinking got Ansel into trouble. She’d been drinking burgundy the night Nick visited her and ended up in bed with him. It was still hard to believe she’d been so stupid. That’s it, she vowed. Washing her problems away with booze didn’t work. When she was human again, she’d throw out every bottle of whiskey, beer, and wine in the trailer.

  But first, she had to get to Glasgow. The trip worried her. She had no idea what Karen wanted. Could Karen know about her one night with Nick? The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with an embittered wife.

  Ansel slowly walked from the bedroom to the kitchen. She spotted her sunglasses on the sofa and slipped them on. Light hurt. Once she made it to the kitchen alive, she decided to try a few swallows of milk, drinking the cold liquid from the container. Bad idea.

  As she spewed milk and acid bile into the sink, Ansel felt like her head was melting from the inside out. After she stopped vomiting, she felt better. She straightened up and adjusted her shades. What a mess. A quick clean-up and a couple spurts of lavender air freshener, and she headed for the door. The phone rang just as she grabbed her Stetson, leather jacket, fanny pack, and camera case. She ignored it. Those news jackals could find somebody else to pester.

  Glasgow was in the next county sixty miles away. Originally called Siding 45, the town began in 1887 as a wide spot alongside the Great Northern rails. Homesteaders and ranchers had turned Glasgow into a satellite town for nearby Fort Peck. The creation of the Fort Peck Dam and reservoir in the 1930s had invigorated the locale as anglers and holiday-makers flowed in to vacation and to fish.

  The summer season was in full swing, and Monday rush hour traffic was heavy on Highway 2. Ansel made a hectic drive across the Missouri River and through pancake-flat prairie listening to rock music on Glasgow’s KLTZ. She reached Karen’s house on Aberdeen Avenue ninety minutes later.

  Ansel had been here once before when she had picked Nick up for a fossil-hunting trek along the Missouri River. He had lived in the one-story house with a deck, two-car garage, and basement until his separation. Pine trees abounded, and a large lava garden decorated the ground near the front door. Ansel rapped a brass fleur-de-lis knocker.

  She surveyed the flat, suburban topography while she waited. This regional shale bed had been caught in a mountain-making vise and folded so tightly that the strata had metamorphosed into a slate bed. During the Paleozoic era, a small mud and clay inlet existed here. It had been home to marine trilobites, brachiopods, and corals.

  A woman opened the door and did a noticeable double take. Had she never seen an Indian before? As an invisible wave of Giorgio perfume enveloped Ansel, she smiled despite her still churning stomach.

  “Hello, Karen. I’m Ansel Phoenix.”

  “Ansel. Come in.”

  Karen stared once more out of wide, brown eyes haloed by sienna mascara and copper eyeshadow before turning abruptly. As Ansel stepped inside, she pulled the door shut with a resounding bang. Numerous limited edition bird prints rattled on their wall hooks. She winced as her head registered a stabbing complaint.

  Tall and sinewy, Karen looked like she’d stepped out of an Outfitters of the West catalog with a red plaid shirt, jeans, and black leather bullet belt. Observing Karen sashay through the foyer from behind was watching estrogen in motion.

  God, she’s stunning, Ansel concluded with a pang of jealousy. Even in that cowgirl getup, Karen moved like a graceful panther. There was no way Ansel could duplicate that long-legged, sexy stride. Her own body was short and thin, but any added weight went straight to her hips, which was great for straddling a loping horse or bearing broods of babies, but didn’t make her model material. She had the same narrow waistline, but her bust would never reach such fruitful proportions.

  Ansel followed her past a large verdigris bird cage standing on iron legs in the hallway. Inside two white birds cooed contentedly.

  “Alex gave me those,” Karen said. Her full lips were unsmiling beneath a glaze of beige lipstick and chocolate lip liner. “He’s such a romantic. Doves are supposed to be the messengers for Venus and good luck omens to lovers. They mate for life.”

  Annoyed at such a disloyal pronouncement to Nick’s memory, Ansel went on the offensive. “Who’s Alex?”

  “My boyfriend.” Karen smiled, then made a point of studying her manicured nails.

  So Cameron’s quip about Karen playing house was true. How did Nick feel about that? He’d never mentioned Karen’s lover. Ansel wondered what the deep red, iridescent nail polish coating Karen’s talons was called. Cardinal Sin? Bloody Murder?

  Ansel yanked off her sunglasses and side-stepped
the issue of Karen’s boy-toy by walking into the living room. The area was redecorated in pink and black art deco hues. Compared to the functional Sears furnishings of Karen’s married life, this was a quantum leap.

  “Nice house.” Ansel paced across a Berber carpet the color of Kaopectate.

  “You can sit anywhere.”

  Ansel selected a love seat upholstered in black crushed velvet. “I’d like to offer you my condolences and those of the Pangaea Society. If there’s anything we can do, please let me know.”

  Karen took a matching sofa. “I’ve put most of that fossil crap behind me. It ruined my marriage.”

  Despite Karen’s confrontational tone, Ansel smiled. “I know you and Nick had your differences but...”

  “We had more than differences. It’s one thing to have an obsession with old plants but Nicky quitting his job was the last straw. My work at the bank couldn’t keep a roof over our heads or food on the table.”

  Ansel’s mouth dropped like the operculum of a Paleozoic snail. She snapped it shut. Nick had talked about his job at the last society meeting. He had told her he enjoyed it. Realizing that he had lied through his teeth was a jolt. Just stick to the subject, Ansel coached herself. Karen was spilling everything, a perfect time to pump her for more information.

  “When did Nick quit?”

  “January. A year and a half ago.” Karen pulled a cigarette from a pack sitting on a chromed end table. The gold head of an eagle-shaped lighter flipped back to reveal hot blue flame. Acrid smoke curled around her head like Medusa snakes.

  “Why did he quit?”

  Karen shrugged. “Said he was tired of the job. Claimed he was looking for another. He did that museum gig around April last year, but it only lasted for a few months.”

  “What was he doing with all his free time?”

  “Sitting around the house. Working on his computer. We fought a lot. Nicky finally left last June. When he split, Alex moved in. I told that snoopy detective the same thing when he showed up. I have nothing to hide.”