Beneath the Cracks (36 page)

"If I weren't dying?"

Three voices rose in protest before Maya
broke out in a wicked grin.  "Stop tiptoeing around it,
guys.  I have cancer.  It's not the end of the
world.  In fact it's barely the beginning of the fight. 
You wanna take my bet, Briscoe?  Go ahead."

One curt nod, "You're on."

"Cassava is used to make flour, for one
thing," Maya said, "but you're probably used to the name of its
most famous incarnation, at least in this country."  She held
out one hand.  "I don't take IOU's or credit."

"What is it already?"

"Tapioca."

Tony's jaw dropped.  "That shit is made
from cyanide plants?"

"They're not cyanide plants, Tony," I
explained.  "Cassava is a root, a starchy root, that is a
basic staple in many parts of the world.  South America, parts
of Africa, Asia."

"And they all eat this shit and don't
die?  You're talkin' about some backwater places."

"If the root is properly prepared by soaking
or drying, or even fermentation will release the hydrogen
cyanide.  Now, would you like to hear what else I can tell you
about it?" I asked.

"I think you better make sure this is real
simple to understand, Eriksson."

"Glad to do it.  Right after you pay
Maya what you owe her and we get out of here so she can get her
rest."

"Helen, you don't have to rush off," she
protested.  "It's been a rather long and lonely day around
here."

That finally drew a grunt and normal
behavior – for Briscoe anyway.  "You can sure keep a secret,
can't you, Winslow?  I can understand why you'd keep the
cancer stuff under wraps, but this thing with Forsythe was a step
too far.  Hell, if we'd known you were lookin' –"

"Tony," I scolded him softly. 

Crevan focused on the cyanide. 
"Exactly how lethal is this plant?  Are we talking about one
whiff of the stuff and you're dead, or is it more of a eat the
whole spud sort of proposition?"

Maya shrank into her pillows. 
"Helen?"

"Drought makes the roots more potent. 
Processing cassava so it's safe to eat is fairly simple.  It
usually involves soaking it in water for a day or so or
fermentation."  I took the file from Maya's lap and reviewed
Billy's results.  "Maybe you can help me with this,
Billy.  It looks like what you found in Denton's stomach was
unprocessed root."

"Yeah, diced, like onion."

"And the rest of his stomach contents looked
like…"

"Ham, egg, onion, cheese, potato, some sort
of pasty flour-like substance that had started to digest.  I
won't have the results for –"

"A breakfast burrito," Tony said. 
"Apparently, that's what was in the bag the guy on video in our
cop's uniform delivered to Denton, though he must've figured out
some way to remove what Denton didn't eat before he skedaddled on
outta division.  We didn't find jack in that cell other than
some regurgitated food and the body."

"So not much of this cassava root will kill
a person," Crevan said.

Maya's voice was weak.  "Bitter cassava
root produces more potent cyanogenic glucosides.  It's an
evolutionary adaptation to discourage pests from killing the
plants.  They don't feed because doing so kills."

"Exactly how potent is this stuff?  I
mean, you're all dancing around it.  What?  A nibble, a
bite?  A cup of the stuff?"  Crevan's eyes darted from
Maya to Billy.

"Roughly 40 milligrams will kill an adult
cow." 

I wasn't sure if Billy realized that his
comparison hit home with those of us involved in the murder of
Detective Cox and the homeless men, that it was a dairy farm where
Denton worked.

"A cow weighs roughly what, a ton?'

"Eleven hundred to fifteen hundred pounds,"
I said.  "Full grown.  Some breeds are a little lighter,
others a little heavier."

"And how much of the root would equal 40
milligrams?" Crevan asked.

I cleared my throat.  "I'm
thinking…what, an ounce, maybe two?"

"One point six ounces," Billy said.  "A
little more than three tablespoons."

"So we're talking about a negligible amount
of this stuff in Denton's breakfast," Tony scratched his
head.  "If that don't beat all.  What would you say
Denton weighed, Helen?  One forty if he had pockets full of
change?"

"He weighed sixty-two kilograms," Maya
said.  "Remember?  I observed the autopsy this
afternoon."

"That's all well and good, but what does it
mean in English?"

"Tony, he weighed about 136 pounds. 
Only a tenth of what was needed to kill an animal weighing fifteen
hundred pounds would've killed Denton.  If there was a
teaspoon of raw cassava root in his breakfast, it would've been
more than lethal."

"Right," Maya's head rolled with a pathetic
nod.  "But the amount of this that was in the stomach contents
showed they wanted to make sure the dose was lethal.  Plus,
without additional testing on a root that hasn't been partially
digested, it's hard to say if the plants were within the normal
range of toxicity.  Remember what I said.  Drought makes
these plants more poisonous."

"I don't get it, " Crevan started pacing at
the end of Maya's bed.  "We've got the manic scientist who
claims he's researching telomeres, out hiring homeless guys to work
for him at a dairy farm, some of said homeless men turning up dead
with drug screens off the charts with methamphetamine, and a dead
undercover detective who was overdosed against his will.  It
doesn't seem like any of this could possibly be related."

"Don't forget our dead biker who linked
Denton to hiring the homeless men," I said.  "But I see your
point, Crevan.  Now on top of everything else, we have
poisonous plants."

"Do we have any idea what killed the biker
informant?" Maya asked.

"They hadn't removed the body yet when we
headed over here," Crevan said.  "Helen climbed up to get a
closer look and didn't see any obvious trauma."

"Maya, you need to rest and let us worry
about the case for now.  I'll come back tomorrow and fill you
in as things progress if you like, but for now, I insist that we
leave and let you get some rest."  I reached out and squeezed
her hand.  "You're officially off this case, my friend. 
Your health must come first."

Lids fluttered shut.  "As long as you
at least keep me in the loop, I'll go along with that.  Would
you stay with me a little longer, Helen?"

"Of course."  I pulled the keys to the
Expedition out of my pocket and dangled them at Briscoe. 
"Could you bring it over here and let me know where you
parked?"

"Sure, Eriksson.  So long as you give
me your absolute, under pain of death promise that you will not
leave here and go back to Uncle Nooky's without proper backup," he
said.

"Pain of death, eh?"  I couldn't help
grinning over his theatrics.  "I promise.  I will not go
back inside Uncle Nooky's bar tonight without proper backup."

Then again, that promise didn't cover doing
a little undercover observation on my own.

"Do me one favor, Tony.  I still need
to look at the photos you took at Dupree Farm this morning. 
Could you please email them to me before you go home tonight? 
I'm going to be here with Maya for awhile, but I can access my mail
from the iPhone."

"You're stickin' to that promise,
Eriksson.  No interviews with Nooky's customers, no sneakin'
out to Dupree Farm to get inside Denton's lab, no monkey business
without us backin' you up.  Right?"

I nodded.  "Like I said, I won't enter
a building or speak to a soul without you guys there."

"All right then."

Sometimes men are so stupid.

Chapter 32

Billy Withers sent me a text message around
midnight, just after I slipped out of Maya's hospital room.

Are you still with Maya?

I dialed the number for the
morgue. 

"I just left.  She's resting. 
What's going on, Billy?"

"Branch just emptied Batshit Crazy's stomach
contents."

"And?"

"Cassava roots."

"That's a good enough link for me."  I
paced in front of the elevator doors on the surgical unit waiting
for the car.  "Did you tell Briscoe and Conall yet?"

"I figured you would.  If you want me
to call –"

"No, I'll take care of it.  You should
go home and get some rest too, Billy."

"Helen, you should know that Dr. Branch
estimates the biker's time of death to the approximate time that
Denton died.  They might've been poisoned with the same
tainted food."

"It makes sense that whoever is behind this
would take out the two potential information leaks at the same
time."  It made me wonder briefly, if Denton recognized the
man who delivered his breakfast, why would he eat it?  Why not
scream for help? 

"I thought you should know.  I heard
you were pretty upset when the body was found tonight, like maybe
you blamed yourself for not getting back to this guy fast
enough."

The rumor mill in the city knew no
bounds.  I sighed.  "The thought entered my mind, Billy,
but in all honesty, Denton said something after we picked him up
Friday night that made me realize that anybody who talks about
whatever is going on, or anyone who learns too much is pretty much
destined to meet a singular fate."

"And that doesn't worry you?"

I laughed softly.  "I suppose that's
the goal of all terrorists.  Make people too frightened to act
at all."

"But this isn't terrorism."

"No."  Or was it?  Thoughts
started bumping together in my brain, pieces that didn't seem to
fit making odd connections.  Had I seen any of this
before?  Seemingly random and unconnected clues that really
pointed to a specific source…the large infusion of cash Briscoe and
Conall witnessed, a research scientist trotting out a bogus project
that an eccentric employer was gullible enough to buy, drugs and
men willing to do just about anything to get their supply…did it
point to a deeper motive?  And the cassava root, it didn't
really fit into the context of any of it.

"Helen?"

"Yeah, sorry.  I must be more tired
than I realized."

"You should go home and get some rest
too.  I don't know how you guys do this all the time. 
One all nighter this week, and I'm spent."

"Let me know if Branch finds anything else
during the autopsy."

I clicked off the call and checked my email
again.  Briscoe finally sent the pictures he'd taken from
Dupree Farm.  I scrolled through them quickly.  Nothing
particularly unusual jumped out at me right away.

The elevator was half way to the lobby of
the hospital when a chilling similarity descended.  I pulled
out the phone.  The pictures were too tiny for close details
to be observed, but even on the small screen one thing was
obvious.  I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. 
In a way, I had noticed but…

The guards at Dupree Farm, the man who
threatened me at Uncle Nooky's bar, the one that Demetrius Kostas
described as dumping Batshit Crazy's body, the man caught on video
at Downey Division with the bag of poisonous food – they shared a
few similar features.  I stared at the photographic evidence
in my hand. 

Skinheads?

It couldn't be.

The elements of my conversation with Billy
lingered.  I thought of the Kostas family, terrorized because
they were Greek (or Italian as the biker's epithets had
presumed).  The entire neighborhood was locked down in
fear. 

A cop was killed with no regard for the
consequences.  The whole case started, not to mention quickly
became cold, because homeless men died and were discarded with the
neighborhood's refuse.

Uncle Nooky's words rippled through my
memory:
Honey, those guys are invisible to the whole world
outside these neighborhoods.  Why the hell would we notice
more'n where to step over the drunks in the gutter?
 

"Cassava root," I muttered.  How in the
world did that fit into this scenario in any way?  The two
varieties of the root – bitter and sweet – derived their
designation because of two-fold circumstances.  One was
literally bitter and the other literally sweet.  Bitter was
the more lethal of the two, and oddly, the preferred variety for
cultivation because of its inherent built in pesticide.

"Shouldn't Denton and Batshit Crazy have
been able to taste something bitter in their breakfast
food?" 

I dialed the morgue again.

"Billy Withers."

"It's Helen again.  Shouldn't these men
have tasted the cassava in their food?"

Billy didn't respond for a moment. 
"Uh…you'd think."

"It bothers me that two men willingly ate
this stuff without the first clue that it didn't taste right."

"Maybe if it was prepared with the other
ingredients, the bitterness was masked.  This isn't exactly
something we can test, Helen.  I don't know anybody who would
willingly sample lethal food just to find out if it tastes
funny."

"Of course not.  We already established
that there wasn't a lot of cassava in Denton's stomach, right?"

"Enough to identify it, but there wasn't
more of it than the onion or pepper."

"Was it cooked?"

"Uh…"

"You're not sure?"

"I guess that didn't occur to me at the
time.  It looked a little different than the onion, which was
why I was able to identify it so quickly, but yeah, it
seemed…sautéed, I guess.  Does that matter?"

"I'd think cooking would reduce the toxicity
of the plant."

"So that would mean there should've been a
greater amount of the root present in the food versus the smaller
amount that was found," Billy said.  "Is it possible that this
root was produced under such dry growing conditions that it
might've been more potent than the average crop of cassava?"