Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  I turned off the radio once I got into campus traffic around Berkeley. As a matted calico dashed across the street, I thought that cats were probably the most likely animals to enjoy classical music. Certainly the scruffy feline expending one of its nine lives sprinting across Oxford Street would have appreciated Andrew Lloyd Weber’s arrangement of “Memory” sung by a scraggly old cat no longer touched by people. Moreover, feline intestines were never used for “catgut” strings, although barnyard animals might be justifiably appalled by violins and cellos.

  Having failed to find any street parking between the downtown and the university, I pulled into a lot alongside University Hall—one of the uglier buildings on campus—and found a spot marked “Reserved: University Service Vehicles.” I placed my “On Job” placard on the dashboard, a ploy that avoids a ticket about half the time when used in combination with the magnetic “Goat Hill Extermination” sign which I stuck to the door of my pickup.

  I walked a couple blocks west of campus, found People’s Pancakes which I assumed was a reference to politics not cannibalism, and enjoyed a short stack. They had no sausage or ham because in vegetarian breakfast joints pigs are evidently people, too. Then I headed onto campus, through the eucalyptus grove and towards the Essig Museum of Entomology to find my good pal, Scott Fortier. Along the way, I mentally tallied posters proclaiming the Berserkly students were variously anti-nuke, pro-choice, anti-PCB, pro-PLO, anti-apartheid and pro-whale. By my count, Palestinian whales planning to have abortions came out on top.

  ~||~

  I’d called Scott before I headed across the Bay, but he greeted me like my arrival was a wondrous event. Curators of insect collections don’t have many groupies, and my brother Tommy was the honorary president of Scott’s fan club so I qualified for an enthusiastic welcome.

  “Riley! How good to see you.” Scott put down the latest volume of Systematic Entomology. I glanced at the title of the article he’d been reading and wondered how much arcane knowledge was stored under that blond Brillo pad of unruly hair. Like an insect pulling itself out of a cast skin one appendage at a time, Scott unfolded his gangly body from behind a gray, steel desk covered in a half-dozen teetering stacks of scientific journals and esoteric identification guides. As he came around to greet me, he knocked one of the piles with his elbow which caused the top volumes to slide onto the adjacent stack triggering a cascade onto the floor. He shrugged and gave me a handshake much firmer than one would expect from a human scarecrow.

  “Always happy to visit,” I said.

  “And I’m delighted to have you, although even more so when you bring Tommy.”

  “He’s looking forward to your ‘Roly-poly Roundup’ in a couple of weeks.” As Scott became exuberant, I worried about further avalanches.

  “We’ll take folks up into the hills,” he declared, swinging his arm in what was presumably the right direction. “They’ll start with finding isopods and then hunt for any arthropod with more than six legs to show folks that entomologists are open-minded. There should be plenty of soil mites, millipedes, centipedes and whatnot to find even on a cold, rainy day.” He gave a crooked-toothed grin and sighed like a kid looking forward to a birthday party—which is probably why Tommy, a middle-aged man with the brain of an eight-year-old, connected so deeply with the scientist.

  “Now then,” he said, taking a few rangy strides next door to a preparation room for the museum, “you said on the phone that you had some lice in need of names.” I caught up to him, as he was settling himself in front of a high-end Olympus stereo microscope.

  “They came from a fellow who thought he was infested with insects, and all I can say is that whatever’s in this sample doesn’t look like any lice I’ve seen.” Scott dumped the baggie onto a sheet of white paper and used a camel’s hair brush to lift the specimens onto a petri dish which he slipped under the microscope. He hummed to himself with evident pleasure.

  “Well, these are most assuredly lice,” he said, “but not likely a species that would afflict a human host. Look here.” Scott leaned over so I could see through the eyepieces. “Human lice are in the suborder Anoplura. And as you noted in our conversation, they have little heads. What’s more, they also have one big claw at the end of each leg to latch onto hair. The fellas you’re looking at under the scope have big ol’ heads and two tarsal claws.” The triangular heads and body hair of the lice were reminiscent of a tackle on my high school football team, a thickset Swedish fellow with a blocky noggin, who might’ve made a passable louse if reduced in size by about a million times.

  “And so?”

  “So these are in the suborder Mallophaga. They’re chewing lice, rather than sucking lice.”

  “And they wouldn’t be chewing on people?”

  “Well, not so fast. Most of the species in this group feed on birds, but there are a few notorious pests of dogs and cattle and such.” He reached for a paperbound Key to the Mallophaga. “I’m pretty sure I recognize these beasties from my medical and veterinary entomology course, but that was more than a decade ago.” He began flipping through the identification guide.

  “I’m getting the sense I ought to settle myself into one of these comfy chairs,” I joked, pulling up a wobbly plastic seat perched atop of a metal pole that was presumably adjustable at one time.

  “Why don’t you pour us some coffee,” Scott said, gesturing toward a coffeemaker atop an insect cabinet. “I’ll take two sugars and a large dose of creamer.” I filled a couple of Styrofoam cups, took a sip from mine, and decided to follow Scott’s lead in attempting to mask the burnt bitterness with granulated sugar and white powder.

  “Here you go,” I said, setting his coffee next to the microscope. But Scott was in a trancelike state, mumbling about maxillary palps, concealed antennae, and abdominal spiracles.

  “Alright,” he declared after a few moments, taking a sip of coffee and wincing at the flavor or the heat or both, “these are definitely in the family Menoponidae.”

  “Which means?”

  “Not a whole lot. Most of the species in this family feed on birds, but a few feed on mammals. So, we need to figure out the genus,” he said, rubbing his hands together with nerdish glee.

  “Do you have the right taxonomic key?”

  “In principle, yes. In practice, no. I’m not an expert on louse anatomy, and the diagnostic structures get pretty technical. So it’s time to switch to the tried-and-true tactic of taxonomists.”

  “Picture books?” I asked, based on how often a good diagram had led me to an identification. A smile spread across Scott’s horsey face.

  “Spoken like an experienced collector. But I’m going to do one better,” he said. Striding like a man on a mission, he disappeared around a stack of wooden cabinets and returned in a couple of minutes with a box of microscope slides. “There’s nothing better than comparing an unknown critter to a set of identified specimens.” He settled into his chair and systematically slipped prepared slides of lice under the microscope. I tried to drink the coffee. His task was more enjoyable.

  “Kind of an entomological lineup, eh?” I observed. Scott nodded and hummed. Actually, this approach to identifying a suspect is pretty much a joke. Any detective worth his salt can provide a witness with the necessary cues to pick out the right guy without violating official protocol. If you can read body language and hear subtext well enough to pick up a one-night stand at closing time, you can figure out who the perp is in a lineup.

  “Check this out,” Scott said, leaning away from the microscope to give me a view. On the stage was a slide with a louse and next to it was one of Linford’s specimens. The match was perfect. “As I suspected, you’re looking at the common chicken body louse. They chew on feathers—or technically they feed on blood by gnawing through the quills and skin.”

  “So, the lice in the baggie didn’t come from a human?”

  “Well, they might’ve been provided to you by a human who was working at a poultry operation. These lice ar
e abundant in a mangy chicken flock. But they aren’t infesting your client unless he lives on Sesame Street and wears a Big Bird costume with real feathers.” I doubted that any of the Linfords had ever been to a poultry operation, but I suspected that Lane might have been less than forthcoming in our conversation.

  “What would’ve happened if he’d sent specimens to the Cal Academy—or to the Essig?”

  “Standard protocol. We’d return the samples and direct him to contact the County Extension folks who probably would’ve just told him that these were lice. The Academy would just toss the stuff into the trash. My former student manages the collection. You met him a couple of times. Really nice guy. On his own time, he helps out with field trips that the Essig organizes for the public. But his lab doesn’t have the time or responsibility to identify insects that people find in their homes and gardens.”

  “Or their chicken coops?”

  “Right. But for you—and Tommy—we make an exception.” Scott gave me an aw-shucks smile and viselike handshake, reminded me to bring my brother next time, gave me some photocopies of articles he thought would interest me, and sent me on my way so he could get back to reading about a new genus of midge from Bhutan.

  ~||~

  When I got back to my illegal parking spot, I was delighted that my sign had worked or the students employed by the university’s parking office hadn’t found my truck. Or more likely, one of them found the truck, saw the signs, thought about writing a ticket to punish a capitalist (whose taxes subsidized the university), but realized he’d met his quota so slipped into the eucalyptus grove to smoke a joint.

  On the way back to the City I tried to piece together a story of how the Linfords ended up with chicken lice. I didn’t come up with anything, although thinking about lice made my hands and wrists start itching again. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to the music program being played on the radio. I get that we’re supposed to appreciate other cultures. I love most ethnic food (although I can’t fathom the allure of the kimchi Mrs. Park brings to church potlucks that Nina and my mother expect me to attend), and I can even sit through the occasional Eastern European folk dance performance at St. Teresa’s. However, there is no way that a classical station should expect listeners to tolerate an hour of sitar. I’m sure that Ravi Shankar plays a mean sitar, just like Mrs. Park can rot cabbage and ferment radishes with the best of them, but the result isn’t palatable in either case.

  At the office, I called Lane Linford to set up a visit for tomorrow morning. He asked about the subject of our meeting, and I told him that a sample collected by his grandfather had yielded a most interesting specimen—and some associated questions. I wanted to build anxiety in his mind. Uncertainty and inner turmoil are potent allies during an interrogation. Lane became wary and said he had a morning commitment of indeterminate length. I told him I’d swing by in the late morning and wait for his return to the house. There was a long pause on his end before he mumbled that I might be there awhile. I told him I was good at waiting. He hung up.

  Carol had noticed my itching—not much gets past her—and found a tube of hydrocortisone cream in the first aid kit. I appreciated her caretaking if not her music which featured a bunch of guys expressing their plaintive and insistent desire for Elvira. I took Carol’s advice and called my mother to see if Tommy had a rash on the assumption that we’d contacted poison ivy over the weekend. No dice; the kid was fine. The reddish bumps extended to the palms of my hands, as if I’d grabbed whatever was causing the reaction. I couldn’t think of any suspicious plants we’d encountered, although I’d handled Tommy’s trophy millipede—he’d been too excited and jittery to get it into the killing jar—and these creatures can release some nasty chemicals. But then, so can exterminators.

  CHAPTER 8

  I caught 3rd to Market and then made my way into Chinatown. Dr. Chen’s office was just a few blocks down Stockton from the Hang Ah Tea Room, which claimed to be the oldest Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. Who am I to argue? I’d taken Nina there for lunch a couple of times after her sessions with the good doctor, so I knew it was affordable—as confirmed by the customers being mostly shopkeepers and cops.

  I grabbed a table and waited for a woman who looked like a Chinese psychologist, which turns out to be a challenge in Chinatown. After a couple of false leads resolved with minimal embarrassment and confusion, a very pretty, very intense woman wearing a sharply tailored gray suit, black silk blouse, and necklace of jade beads came in and glanced around, evidently seeking a lunch mate. I stood up and introduced myself as Dr. Carroll.

  “Dr. Carroll, my secretary led me to believe you were a woman. My apologies for looking surprised,” she said with enchanting grace and a firm but feminine handshake.

  “And you were also probably expecting a fellow practitioner who wanted to talk shop,” I said. Her face went from warmth to ice.

  “I was, and if you’ve deceived me I shall be leaving.” She stiffened and half-turned to the door.

  “Please hear me out, Dr. Chen. I’m Nina Cabrera’s boyfriend.” The term invariably strikes me as odd given that I’m more than three decades from boyhood. She paused, turned back toward me and raised an eyebrow. “And what I need from you could be a matter of life and death,” I continued.

  “Is this about Nina?” Deep lines of concern furrowed her perfect skin. She looked to be well into her thirties but her complexion was that of a teenager.

  “No, no. Nina is fine. In fact, she’s better than ever, thanks to her time with you.” She gave a slight nod.

  “I suppose that your attempt at flattery is preferable to deceit, mister ... ?”

  “Riley. Just ‘Riley.’ My father was Mister Riley. And I would sincerely appreciate your staying. I would’ve made an appointment, but I’m afraid that time is not on my side in this matter.”

  “I suppose that I have to eat lunch sometime, Mr. Riley,” she said without a hint of warming up to my charms. “What’s more, Nina speaks very highly of you. Apparently, some unseen virtues offset your propensity for lying.” Evidently my dashing good looks weren’t among them. I gestured to the table and we sat down as a petite waitress in a pleasingly too-tight floral print dress brought us water and menus.

  There weren’t a ton of options at Hang Ah like at some Chinese restaurants, but a man can eat only so many things at one sitting, so having a hundred items untried doesn’t add to the pleasure of a meal. Besides, I had a dinner date with Nina tonight, so I needed to keep lunch on the light side. Dr. Chen ordered a pot of green tea, glanced at the menu and set it aside.

  “What is this life-and-death matter that justifies your having brought me here under false pretenses?” she asked. For a professional who spent hundreds of billable hours listening to people make up shit about their childhoods, spouses, and dreams, you’d think that my little deception wouldn’t have been such a big deal.

  I gave her a quick synopsis of the Linford case—the flea collars, chemical treatments, what Lane had said about their fixation on being infested, and his diagnosis along with Papadopoulos’s speculations. I skipped over the chicken lice, figuring that detail might best be kept under wraps until I had an inkling of its relevance.

  “That’s all quite interesting,” she said as the waitress came to take our order. The place was too small to wheel dim sum carts around, so they fixed everything to order in the kitchen. She had the bok choy in garlic sauce and the Chinese broccoli in oyster sauce. I went with the barbeque pork bun and pot stickers. I figured that she was probably vegetarian—the oyster sauce notwithstanding—and I also figured on my being famished by dinnertime.

  Dr. Chen poured herself a cup of tea and continued, “But Mr. Riley, I don’t quite see that there’s a dire situation at the moment.”

  “Well,” I said pouring myself a cup of tea to stall for time, “I don’t suppose that anyone is about to die, but my business and employees have been dragged into the case through the insecticides used by the deceased, and that connectio
n could be lethal for our reputation.”

  She nodded. “I understand the importance of honor. And being a businesswoman, I know the importance of one’s professional credibility—at least in fields where practitioners have extensive training and certified expertise.”

  I was relieved—and offended. But I needed information more than pride at the moment. “Okay, we’re on the same page, then.” She gave the most subtle eye roll imaginable. I continued, “So, what do you make of the grandson’s diagnosis?”

  “Well, he’s unusually well informed about such a disorder.” I substituted ‘suspiciously’ for ‘unusually’ in my mind. “But I suspect he’s on the right track.”

  “So, being crazy is contagious? Could one of his grandparents have caught it from the other?”

  “Let’s begin with what you mean by ‘being crazy.’” Dr. Chen then schooled me on the proper lingo for mental illness—craziness not being among the accepted terms, and I assumed that nuts, bonkers and loony were likewise out.

  While waiting for our food, I was tutored on the subtle differences among delusions, illusions, and hallucinations. I also learned how they were triggered and absorbed the details of some famous cases, including—if I have the particulars right—a wave of near-panic that swept Seattle in 1954 with thousands of people reporting their windshields were being pitted by sand fleas (always blame an insect), cosmic rays or supernatural beings. But what can you expect from a city that thinks that a flying saucer mounted on a tower is comparable to the Golden Gate Bridge?

  The psychology lecture was concluded by the arrival of our lunch. The darling waitress refilled the tea pot and wriggled off to another table.

  “Okay, I get the big picture,” I said, dipping a pot sticker into a delicious sesame-scallion sauce. “But what about my customers who suffered from delusions? It would be a delusion, right? They had a false belief based on a misinterpretation their itchiness.”