“Dr. Saunders,” he said, “this is Joe Leaphorn. I wondered—”
“Great,” Saunders said. “Aren’t you the cop Garcia 160
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told me about? The one who had suspicions about that Bork death? I’ve got some questions for you.”
“It’s mutual then,” Leaphorn said. “You want to go first?”
“What made you suspicious? That’s the big question.
It sure as hell looked like just another guy driving too fast, skidding down into the ditch. The crash would have killed him even if he hadn’t been poisoned.”
“Mel was investigating an arson fire. Well, it had been ruled not arson, but it was suspicious-looking, a man burned in it, and just a bit before this wreck happened, a death threat turned up on his answering machine.”
“Death threat,” said Saunders, sounding both pleased and sort of excited. “Really? Tell me about that. Who was doing the threatening? I know he had been up in the San Francisco Peaks area talking with somebody up there just before it happened. Was that who was making the death threats?”
Leaphorn sighed. “A lot of this we don’t know yet,” he said. “When we find out, I’ll fill you in. But what I need to know is how the poison got into him, and how fast it might have worked. Things like that.”
“This is likely to sound odd,” Saunders said, “but it appears that Mr. Bork managed to eat, or possibly drink, something we used to call ‘rat zapper’ back in the days when it was legal to use the stuff. You know anything about toxicology?”
“Not much,” Leaphorn said. “I know arsenic is bad for you, and cyanide is worse.”
Saunders laughed. “That’s what most people know, and I guess that’s why the books on the subject are full THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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of cases using those, and a few others about as popular.
The stuff that killed Bork is sodium monofluoroacetate.
People have trouble pronouncing that, so toxicologists just call it compound ten-eighty. Back when it was on the public market it was called Fussol, or Fluorakil, or Mega-rox, or Yancock. For the past thirty years or so, owning it has been illegal except by licensed varmint-control people. We’ve never run into it here before, and none of the people I know in this business have either. You know, I think this case may get me invited to do a paper on it at the next meeting of our national association of folks who poke into corpses.”
“This has me wondering how the poisoner got his hands on it,” Leaphorn said. “Any suggestion?”
“Wouldn’t be too hard out in this part of the world,” Saunders said. “Lots of ranchers and farmers and so forth used it routinely to keep down the rat, mice, and gopher populations. They even used it in coyote bait in some places. Easy to use. It’s based on a extremely toxic substance called . . .” Saunders paused, “—you ready for some more impossible words? Called dichapetalum cy-mosum, which they get out of a South African plant. If you found it in a drawer in an old barn, it would probably be in a box, or mason jar, and it would look a lot like regular wheat flour. Very easy to use. Just a tiny amount would be lethal.”
“How tiny?” Leaphorn asked, thinking of Tommy Vang and the fruitcake cherries.
“Well, say you had about the volume equal to the amount of sulphur on the tip of a kitchen match. I’d say that would be enough to kill about ten or twelve men the size of Mr. Bork. But look, Lieutenant, if you want to know 162
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more, you could call the absolute national expert on it, a Dr. John Harris Trestrail. Lives in Michigan. I could give you his telephone number. Or you can get it out of one of his books. Best one I know about is called Criminal Poisoning, and it’s sort of the international guide for forensic scientists. People like me.”
“I’ll look for it,” Leaphorn said. “But you have any thoughts about how that poison got into Bork?”
“Something he ate, probably. Maybe something he drank.”
“You could mix it into a cake batter? Something like that? Put it in coffee?”
“You could put it in, I’m sure, because it’s water soluble. Maybe not coffee. It’s odorless, but it might give the coffee a wee bit of an acidic taste. Cake? I don’t know if the baking heat would have any effect.”
“How about one of those fat maraschino cherries like people drop into their cocktails,” Leaphorn asked. “Or stick on top of little cakes. Could you inject a little shot of that stuff into one of those?”
“Sure,” Saunders said. “Perfect. In a cherry the victim would never taste it. Or not until it was too late. Soon as it hits the bloodstream it starts screwing up the nervous system, shutting down the heart. Victim goes into a coma in a hurry.”
“From what I know about this case, the poison must have acted awfully fast. He left the house of a man he’d been questioning outside of Flagstaff and was driving home. He’d been given a lunch bag there while he was leaving, and he only got about twenty miles down the road before he ran off into the canyon. Now, given the fact he was a retired cop, and a very experienced moun-THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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tain driver, I’d say it would be a matter of a very few minutes.”
“Well, I’d say that fits very well,” Saunders said. “And when you catch the man who doctored up the cherry, I want to hear about it.”
16
While this conversation was winding down, Leaphorn had been keeping a casual eye on various auction attendees milling in the parking lot, hoping to see someone he recognized from his distant past, and failing at that. But as he slid the cell phone back into his jacket pocket he noticed that a young-looking man seemed to have taken an interest in his pickup truck. He was standing right beside it now, peering into the truck bed.
Leaphorn crossed the lot at something close to a trot, passed the hulking Ford 250 King Cab parked at the end of the row, an equally bulky Dodge Ram, and an SUV whose heritage he didn’t identify. Beyond was his pickup, with a slender man leaning way into its bed, and then coming out of it looking at something in his hand.
The man was Tommy Vang, and Tommy Vang was holding a paper sack, carefully unfolding its top, preparing to open it.
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“Ah, Mr. Vang,” Leaphorn said, “Professor Bourbonette told me you might be coming here to see me.” Tommy Vang had spun with remarkable agility. He stood, feet spread, facing Leaphorn; his eyes were wide as he sucked in a breath.
“And what have you found there?” Leaphorn asked.
“That looks like that lunch sack you so kindly prepared for me at your place.” Leaphorn was talking slowly, intent on Vang’s expression. It had varied from stunned to an unreadable blank.
“That was very polite of you,” Leaphorn added. “I’m sorry to say I’ve been too busy to enjoy it.” Vang nodded, holding the sack against his chest, looking like a little boy caught stealing.
“What caused you to think of making me a lunch?” Leaphorn reached for the sack, lifted it from Vang’s un-resisting hand. “Professor Bourbonette told me you had come to see me in Shiprock. She said you might come here looking for me. Is that correct?” Vang had regained his composure. He swallowed.
Nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I came out to here hoping I could talk to you.”
“Why?”
Vang swallowed again. “To tell you that your friend—
that Mr. Bork who came to see us just before you came.
To tell you he was killed in a car accident. I thought you should know about that.”
Leaphorn waited, eyes on Vang. “Oh?” he said.
“Yes,” Vang said, producing a smile. “You had come to our house looking for him. Remember?”
“Did Mr. Delos send you?”
Vang hesitated. Thought. “Yes,” he said. Grimaced.
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