Mesozoic Murder

by Christine Gentry

  “I’m a suspect?” Ansel blurted, incredulous.

  “Everyone’s a suspect until I make an arrest.”

  “A man tried to kill me yesterday. I’m the one in danger.”

  “So maybe you’re setting up the victims or just leading the killer to them. Either way, people die after they’ve been with you.”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “Prove it. Don’t withhold information. It’s counterproductive. And stay out of the sleuthing business. That’s probably why you’re in danger.”

  Ansel fumed. He was totally disregarding her observations about Nick’s inexplicable new interest in Baltic amber and the disappearance of his fossils. She wanted to shake Dorbandt off his blue-steel pedestal. Why wouldn’t he listen to her?

  “Get that sketch done as soon as possible. I’ll get back to you about the lab reports.” Dorbandt rose from the couch in one swift movement.

  “You know where to find me, Detective.”

  “Aren’t you coming? You shouldn’t be here alone.”

  “I’ll be leaving in a few moments.”

  “I’d advise that you do. Good night.”

  “Goodbye,” Ansel said.

  Dorbandt left. Ansel heard the airplane hangar door open and close. Sheer stubbornness prevented her from giving him the opportunity to herd her off her own property as if she were a helpless female in need of male supervision. Ten minutes later, she had locked up the workshop and grabbed some extra clothes. She drove toward the Arrowhead, feeling hurt and angry. Damn Dorbandt. All she wanted was a good night’s sleep.

  Ansel was tired, but not so tired that she failed to notice the unmarked patrol car pulling out to follow her truck. It escorted her more than ninety miles until she safely reached the Arrowhead Ranch.

  Chapter 18

  “The rains are cold and bone chilling... Without the rain, we would not live.”

  Evening Rain Calling Crow, Cherokee

  The Montana Monitoring Cooperative was housed in a small concrete block building. Dorbandt pulled the sedan into one of eight parking slots outside the windowless gray structure. His watch read nine o’clock. The morning drive from Mission City to Glasgow had gone faster than expected.

  He went through the dusty glass door decorated with gold decals and stopped before a yellow counter. Stacks of agricultural pamphlets and fliers held down by small slate rocks fluttered underneath a ceiling vent. The front room was tiny and functional, containing two church pew benches set against whitewashed walls covered with insect and plant identification charts.

  “Welcome to the Cooperative. Nice morning outside.”

  Dorbandt estimated the woman behind the counter to be somewhere in her thirties. Her brown hair was cut short and freckles dusted her cheeks. A broad smile hung beneath a glitter of gold wire-rim glasses and silver earrings.

  Adhering to western etiquette where conversations with strangers began with the weather, Dorbandt said, “Heard there’s a storm coming.”

  “We could use the rain. I’m Dottie. What can I help you with?”

  “Lieutenant Dorbandt. I have an appointment with Dr. Stoopsen.”

  Dottie leaned toward him, fingers playing with a bone button on her blue western blouse. “Bet you’re here about Nick. Any idea who killed him?”

  Dorbandt avoided the question. “Did you work with Capos?”

  “Gracious, yes. I don’t know why anyone would hurt him. He really knew his plants, and he was smarter than smart. Had that sexy dark and dangerous look going for him, too.”

  “Was he?”

  Dottie’s face scrunched up. “Was he what?”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said, pushing the glasses up her nose. “Nick was a nice fella and very polite. Never had a bad day or snapped at anyone. Doctor Stoopsen lost a real asset when he quit.”

  “Is Doctor Stoopsen in?”

  Dottie’s thoughtful look dissolved. “Sure is. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  The woman moved through a door behind the counter. Dorbandt looked over the printed handouts and shook his head. EPA soil regulations, BLM irrigation district rules, Federal Court cattle management laws, Conservation & Reinstatement Act land acquisition forms, Department of Agriculture pesticide use rules, and National Forest Service system guidelines.

  Such was the world of a rancher living in the twenty-first century American West. He wondered how Chase Phoenix managed to keep his business running while fighting a losing battle against the federal government.

  Dottie appeared and waved him through a swinging half-door. “He says come on in.”

  Dorbandt walked into a narrow hallway. Dottie pointed to an office. A black plastic nameplate read Dr. Barclay Stoopsen.

  He walked into another sparsely furnished room. Its walls were covered with color charts and posters brimming with educational information on dangerous plants, endangered grasses, and agricultural dos and don’ts.

  Barclay Stoopsen remained seated behind a gray desk holding only a white remote phone and a huge monthly calendar blotter. A single green folder lay across the month of June.

  “Good morning,” he said, glancing at a gold watch on his right wrist with a perfunctory quickness.

  “Lieutenant Dorbandt. Lacrosse County Sheriff’s Department.” He took a seat in a battered, brown office chair.

  Dorbandt surveyed Stoopsen carefully. He was a small man with neatly barbered salt and pepper beard, hair, and moustache. The white lab coat over his down-home, red plaid shirt was starched to a painful-looking crispness. Dorbandt took his time pulling out his pen and notebook. Then he gazed at Stoopsen again with a steady, unblinking stare. Dead air pressurized the room as he waited for the man to speak.

  Stoopsen cleared his throat. “A terrible thing about Nick. Let’s get started.”

  Dorbandt shot an obvious look at the folder. “That Capos’ personnel file?”

  “Yes, but I’ve told you all I know on the phone.”

  “Actually, I’d like to know what your position is and how long you’ve been here.”

  Stoopsen couldn’t hide his surprise. He hesitated, then said, “I’m a USDA agronomist and the chief researcher. I’ve been here eight years.”

  “What type of work is conducted at this facility?”

  “This is an Agricultural Research Service field station for monitoring local rangelands, forestry parks, and other areas used for livestock ranching. We study plant ecologies to assure federal lands are not destroyed by overgrazing.”

  “What do these studies entail?”

  Stoopsen’s jaw clenched. “What has this got to do with Nick?”

  “It’s routine.” He shot Stoopsen a solicitous smile.

  Stoopsen’s fingers tapped a nervous staccato on the blotter. “Vegetation studies are conducted on lands where suspected over-grazing by cattle and sheep needs investigation. Lab testing is performed on samples, and a report is written with recommendations for improvement. My job is to assign research duties, oversee their progress, and review and approve the final recommendations.”

  “How many people work under you?”

  “Three. Dottie Clausen, the receptionist. Jack Kittredge, a researcher. And Dan Morgan, an assistant researcher.”

  “Are Morgan and Kittredge here?”

  “No. They won’t be in the lab until this afternoon. They’re attending a day-long forestry seminar in town.”

  “The lab’s in this building?”

  Stoopsen nodded. “Behind these offices.”

  Dorbandt made a note. “What did Capos do?”

  “Nick was employed as an assistant researcher. He collected plant samples in study areas, then conducted specific experiments or tested them using standard laboratory techniques. He was also responsible for general laboratory maintenance. He made common lab solutions and stocked supplies.”

  “What happened with Capos’ test results?”

  “He sent the information to Jack Kittredge. Jack compiled
a report based on the lab data and other factors. I approved the final draft.”

  “How long did Capos work here?”

  “Five years.”

  “What kind of employee was he?”

  “Overall, he was quiet, reliable, and very good at lab procedure and interpretation. I don’t think his talents were being used to their fullest. Nick had an IQ of one hundred sixty, but he never showed any interest in career advancement. Claimed he liked the outdoors and fieldwork more than the office grind a job promotion would have entailed.”

  Dorbandt gazed carefully at Stoopsen. “How did you get along with him?”

  “I didn’t see Nick much. I’m not in the office a lot, but I liked him. Everyone did.”

  “You had problems with Capos, though. Explain that.”

  Stoopsen inhaled deeply. “I didn’t have any difficulties with Nick until the last few months of his employment.”

  “When was that?”

  “About twenty months ago. October I believe.”

  “What happened in October?”

  “Nick started coming to work late. Then he failed to make study deadlines. In particular, his lab reports for range investigations weren’t completed on time.”

  “Anything else?” Dorbandt asked, scribbling.

  “Nothing I could put my finger on. He just seemed disinterested in the job.”

  “Did you talk to him about his performance?”

  “Several times. He was apologetic and promised to pick up the slack, but he didn’t. After a while I gave Nick a warning that he’d have to improve or he’d lose his job. A week later Nick gave two weeks’ notice without animosity. He worked his remaining days, picked up his last paycheck, and I never saw or heard from him again.”

  “Did Capos have problems with his co-workers?”

  “None that I know about.”

  “How about his case studies? Any problems with the people whose property he investigated?”

  Stoopsen shook his perfectly trimmed head. “No. Sometimes ranchers and farmers get upset when the Cooperative is contracted to do environmental studies on their land, but nothing ever happens except they cuss us out. Our studies are quick and unobtrusive. We don’t hassle landowners.”

  “Did Capos ever confide in you about personal problems?”

  Stoopsen grimaced and looked at his watch. “I never saw him depressed or heard him complain about anything.”

  “You mentioned that Capos was responsible for maintaining chemical solutions and supplies. Is strychnine used in any of your lab procedures?”

  Stoopsen glowered. “Now I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t like it.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No. We don’t even have strychnine in the lab.” His voice grew louder.

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Absolutely not. The Cooperative is not responsible for Nick’s murder.” His face turned a light shade of red.

  Dorbandt looked at the folder on the desk. Stoopsen hadn’t cracked the cover.

  “I want to see Capos’ file.”

  “Sorry, I can’t do that.” The researcher picked the folder up with fastidious speed.

  Dorbandt made a show of glancing around the room. Everything was very neat: books aligned in rows, surfaces free of dust, and papers bound or filed in organized niches. A real bureaucratic neatnik.

  Too bad the real world didn’t work this way. In the real world, chaos ruled. It was his job to wade neck deep through the shit and garbage and find a bright shiny spot people could stand in and be proud of. He didn’t like Stoopsen on principal.

  Dorbandt closed his notebook, capped his pen, and pushed both items into his jacket before fixing Stoopsen with a gaze icier than a Canadian Northeaster.

  “Why can’t you show me the file?”

  “Because Glasgow isn’t in your county jurisdiction. Not to mention our employment records belong to the Cooperative Board. The file simply isn’t mine to give you.”

  “Your Cooperative Board won’t appreciate your obstruction of justice, and I doubt that your high-dollar University of Montana and BLM contractors would like your entanglement with a murder investigation. In fact, I think you should have Dottie photocopy Capos’ file while I get a friendly tour of your lab.”

  Stoopsen’s face turned to stone. “I think you should leave this office right now.”

  “Don’t call my bluff. Fold your hand, or you’re going to see my aces the hard way.”

  “Which means what, Lieutenant?”

  Dorbandt stood and leaned forward on Stoopsen’s picture-perfect desk, making sure his shoulder holster was visible. He towered above the agronomist, his lean, athletic body adding to his intimidation factor.

  “Two people have died from strychnine,” Dorbandt began, his voice frighteningly calm. “They convulsed in agony. Their backs arched, heels to head, so long that they beat their arms and legs into bruised pulps. They finally died by suffocating in their own lung fluids. Do you seriously think that I will leave this office willingly without that file? If I do, I’ll come back and search this lab with so many sheriff’s deputies, and TV reporters to catch it all on film, that you’ll wish you’d gift wrapped the file, put a big, red bow on top, and given it to me the first time I asked. Are you following my lead, Doctor Stoopsen?”

  Stoopsen’s face went progressively whiter as Dorbandt spoke. He sat frozen, staring at the detective in horror. Finally he looked toward the door. “Dottie, come here.”

  Dottie rushed in, grinning gaily. “Sure thing, Doctor Stoopsen. What do you need?”

  “Photocopy this while I show him the lab.”

  “All of it?” Dottie asked as she accepted the bulky file from his shaking hand.

  “Just do it.”

  “Be done in a jiffy.” She glanced at Dorbandt as she turned for the door. “It’s starting to rain. Gonna be great for the ranchers.”

  Dorbandt gave her a genuine smile. “Downright perfect, Dottie.”

  Chapter 19

  “It is from Wakan-Tanka that the holy man has the wisdom and the power to heal and to make holy charms.”

  Flat-Iron, Oglala Sioux

  At three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, Ansel arrived in a middle-class suburb where all the houses looked cut from the same head on a giant Cab-Mate mineral-faceting machine. Mortimer Peyton had made a stab at individuality, painting his home beige with brown trim. She parked on a concrete drive behind a customized yellow Isuzu Trooper.

  Her morning had been spent on presidential correspondence. While she wrote letters to society members and other organization leaders about the murders, her father moved her living-room furniture back into place. Pearl donated a large rope-braid rug to throw on the bare living-room floor. After these tasks were completed, she’d called Mortimer Peyton. He had agreed to meet her that afternoon.

  Peyton lived in Poplar, a small northeastern agency town for the Fort Peck Indian Reservation. Poplar traced its beginnings to an Indian trading post and a freighting center for the Great Northern railroad. The town’s claim to fame was the tribally owned A & S Industries, which manufactured camouflage netting and medical chests for the U.S. government.

  Ansel went up to the door and rang a buzzer. On the phone, Peyton had been cordial and anxious to meet her. Suddenly a rail-thin, elderly man stood in the doorway. He smiled and a fluffy white moustache twitched. It reminded her of an albino Woolly-Bear caterpillar that might have crawled under his nose in search of shade.

  “Welcome, Miss Phoenix.”

  “Hello, Mr. Peyton. I appreciate you seeing me on short notice.”

  When he moved back to allow her entry, Ansel stepped into a small living room. She didn’t know whether to stare at Peyton’s cottony hair and long, ladle-shaped sideburns or at the eclectic decor, which had a noticeable bent toward a historic, western motif. She settled for stopping beside a brown Naugahyde couch, over which hung a pair of Texas longhorns wider from tip to tip than she was tall, and wa
tching Peyton’s eyes sparkle like polished topaz nuggets.

  Peyton closed the door. “Any friend of Freddy’s is a friend of mine. How about something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Peyton. I’d really like to get this over. Freddy didn’t tell me much. Just to show you the bracelet.”

  “Before I take you to my office, I want to tell you a little about myself.”

  “That’s not necessary. I trust Freddy’s recommendation.”

  “You’re as nervous as a snake in a hog pen, and I don’t want you upset by what you’ll see or imagine me to be. I’m just a regular guy working forty hours a week as a construction foreman, collecting his pay, drinking Wolf Pack beer, and watching TV. You’ve got to listen without thinking I’m a crazy ol’ crackpot. The fact is, I don’t solicit my services, and I don’t try to convert anyone.”

  Peyton eyed her silently. His likeness might have been that of an aged sheriff or a weathered wagoner of the 1800s. A leathery, paternal face and dignified mannerisms captivated her and radiated a character brimming with self-reliance, truth, and wisdom. What in the world was she going to see? she wondered. Chasing down information about Egyptian utchat charms and New Age spiritualism was so alien to her compared to the grounded academia of earth sciences.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Peyton.”

  Peyton’s gray snakeskin boots scuffed the wood flooring as Ansel followed him past a wagon wheel ceiling fixture, white cedar pole end tables and coffee table, cowhide throw rugs, and bucking bronco lamps. They entered a kitchen rich in gingham accents. When Peyton opened a basement door next to the magnet-encrusted refrigerator, Ansel smelled cinnamon incense.

  They descended a white birch staircase into a much cooler realm. At the bottom, Ansel stifled a gasp. This wasn’t the average cellar outfitted with tool benches, rec-room pool tables, or storage boxes. In fact, the basement was unlike any she’d ever seen.

  Two-foot-square white marble tiles covered the floor. The walls were solid panels of white birch. Every basement window had been draped with white velvet. There was no furniture, only an enclosed expanse filled with a veritable jungle of live potted flowers and plants. From somewhere behind the wall of greenery, the relaxing cadence of tumbling water echoed across the room.