Death Takes a Gander (12 page)

“It’s hard to tell from my vantage point. But, you realize, he was clinically dead when they found him,” said the doctor.

Lark reached for Angela’s hand and squeezed until Angela’s fingers hurt.

The doctor toyed with the end of his stethoscope. “The firemen revived him, but we want to warm him up slowly. The slower the better. We’ll have a better idea of his injuries once he starts coming around.”

“Have you seen other cases like this, Doctor?” Angela asked, hoping for reassurance.

“Personally? No. But I did some calling around. There was a similar case in Denver involving a man about Eric’s age a few years ago. He remained in a coma for three weeks. He suffered a few mental and physical impairments from the accident, but he survived.”

“Eric’s going to be fine,” Lark said. Her tone challenged either of them to argue.

The doctor dropped his bedside manner. “I’m not sure you understand the severity of his injuries.”

Lark squeezed down on Angela’s fingers again.

“Can she see him?” Angela asked.

“Of course.” The doctor looked relieved not to have to say anything more and turned back down the hall. “Follow me.”

Eric’s room was three doors down on the left. The doctor gestured for them to enter, instructed them to keep their visit short, then excused himself. Lark entered first and Angela followed. Inside, white walls met a white floor, and white bedding covered Eric from head to toe. Tubes snaked from his arms up to an IV pole dangling fluid bags, and a row of machines overhead monitored his vital signs.

Lark rushed to the bed. Angela stood off to the side.

He looked better than he had the last time she’d seen him. His face still held a blue tinge, but there was a smidgen of color in his cheeks, and his chest gently rose and fell beneath the blankets.

Angela watched him breathe in and out, matching her own breathing to the rhythm. Then her breath caught in her throat. Getting in here to see him had been way too easy. Someone had tried to silence him earlier. What if the same person wanted to finish him off?

Angela left Lark at
the hospital, standing guard, and went in search of Bernie Crandall. She found him at the Drummond questioning Velof.

“What’s up, Angela?” he asked, clearly annoyed by her interruption.

She pulled him aside and asked him why there wasn’t an officer watching Eric’s room. “If anything happens… ”

The sentence dangled, then Crandall keyed his radio and barked an order to the officer who answered. “Done. Now, do you have anything else for me, or can I get back to Velof?”

That was her cue to leave. “Thanks.”

Velof wasn’t so anxious to be abandoned. “He’s grilling me about the phone call from Frakus, Angela.”

And your point is?
What did he expect her to do about it?

“I told him what I told you. Frakus, or someone claiming to be Frakus, called and asked to speak to you. When I told the caller you were out, he asked me to relay a message. Which I did.”

“Velof did track me down to tell me Frakus called.”

Crandall glanced between them, then his gaze settled on Angela. “Do you know why someone might have pretended to be Frakus?”

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be him.”

“And I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Eric.” Crandall scuffed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. “Any chance someone was after you?”

The question caught her off guard.

Velof’s eyes opened wide. “Are you suggesting the phone call was a ruse?”

Crandall seemed to take to the notion and consulted his notes. “You said the call came in around five thirty a.m.
,
right?”

Velof nodded.

“Frakus says he was meeting Donald Tauer and Nathan Sobul at the time. Could you hear the caller clearly?”

“No.” Velof shook his head. “It sounded like he was standing outside. The wind howled through the receiver.”

“Anything else?”

“I thought I heard talking in the background, but it sounded from a distance.”

“Like someone passing by?” Angela asked. If the caller had used the Visitors Center’s pay phone, it could have picked up voices from campers using the public bathrooms. There had been a few lights on, and she remembered passing someone on the path. The grandpa of the boy who’d caught the undersized fish the first day of the tournament. Had he seen something?

Angela mentioned the camper to Crandall, who jotted the information down. “I’ll ask him what he saw. In the meantime, don’t either of you plan on going anywhere too quick.”

“Thanks,” Angela said. She felt good about Crandall’s posting a guard to Eric’s room and relieved there were still avenues of investigation left unexplored. Velof just seemed relieved to get everyone out of his office.

She collected her things from her room, stood through a line at checkout, then headed to the lake. She had a commitment to oversee the fishing until noon—the official end of the Elk Park First Annual Ice Fishing Jamboree.

By afternoon, Angela was dragging. Packing her gear into her truck, she headed back to the hospital and was relieved to find a policeman posted at the door, with Lark still sitting beside Eric’s bed.

“How’s he doing?”

Lark stroked his arm. “I feel so helpless.”

“You’re doing what you can.” It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but it was the best Angela could muster. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Lark’s eyes lingered on Eric’s face. “Why is there a guard at the door?”

Angela avoided eye contact, but there was no point in lying. Lark was going to find out sooner or later, and Angela figured she might as well be the one to tell her the truth. “Because there’s a chance that someone tried to kill Eric.”

Lark’s eyes widened. “That’s insane.”

“Maybe, but the fishing hut was locked from the outside, and there were obvious signs of a struggle. I had to break down the door to get to him.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt Eric?”

Crandall’s question rang in her head.
Any chance someone was after you?

“Maybe they didn’t,” Angela said. “But let’s face it. What happened this morning wasn’t an accident. I think it had something to do with the poisoned geese.” She told Lark about Ian and the swan. “My guess is there’s a correlation.”

Worry lines creased Lark’s brow. “Did Eric tell you he and Ian talked a day or two before the accident?”

Angela’s pulse quickened. “No.”

“Ian called. He wanted to know if Eric had been seeing an unusual number of sick birds coming in.”

“Had he?”

“No.”

Feeling deflated, Angela sat down on the radiator. She realized she’d been holding her breath, hoping that Ian had left Eric a clue to his case. “Did Eric say anything to you about going down on the ice?”

“No. After he left my house last night, he said he was going to stop by and see George Covyduck. That was around ten.”

It took a moment for Lark’s words to sink in, then the two of them registered at the same time.

“The lab results!” Both women shot to their feet.

“You better stay here, Lark.”

“No. I’m going with you.”

“It’s not a good idea.” Ian was dead. Eric was in a coma. What was the sense in making anyone else a target?

“I’m not doing Eric any good here.”

The plea struck a chord with Angela, and she felt herself waver. She knew how it felt to be sidelined.

“I can appreciate how you feel, Lark. Really, I can. But this is an official investigation, and we already have two victims.”

“How dangerous can it be going to Covy’s office? Wait! Don’t answer that.” Lark circled the foot of the bed. “Look, I can’t sit here any longer waiting for Eric to snap out of it. I have to do something.”

Against her better judgement, Angela caved in. “Okay, fine. You can come. But only because I need help finding Covyduck’s office.”

Lark moved to hug her, but Angela stepped back. “There’s one more condition.”

Now she was sounding like Kramner.

“Shoot,” Lark said.

“If this gets the least bit dangerous… ”

Lark nodded.

“You’re out.”

Covyduck’s office was a small A-frame on the north side of Main Street near the library. Ceramic dog and cat bowls in various shapes and sizes filled the window displays of a brightly lit storefront. Inside, gourmet dog food, rhinestone leashes and collars, and a variety of play toys and treats filled multiple display racks.

“This is a different kind of veterinarian office.”

“It’s a small town,” explained Lark. “The tourists are where the money is, but don’t let the façade fool you. He’s got a nice setup in back.”

Lark was right. Past the front counter, double doors opened into a state-of-the-art clinic. Three examination rooms with stainless steel tables for pets were along the left wall of the hallway. The first door on the right opened into a surgical area, and the second into a bathroom. At the end of the hall was Covyduck’s office.

He sat at his desk. A medium-sized man with gray hair and black glasses, he wore a white lab coat with “George” stitched across the breast pocket.

“Lark.” He stood up when he saw her. The lab coat fell open, revealing a plaid shirt. A pair of jeans bumped worn cowboy boots. He hugged Lark, and a number of surgical instruments jingled in his pockets. Then he grinned and shook Angela’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

The women exchanged glances. He hadn’t heard.

Lark broke the news about Eric. Covyduck sat down and slumped into his chair. “I just saw him last night.”

“Then he did come by,” Angela said. With luck, maybe Covyduck could shed some light on what happened. He waved them both to chairs.

“Yeah. We had a few beers. He wanted to know about the lab results.”

Angela scooted to the edge of her seat. “And?” At the risk of seeming insensitive, she was hungry for answers.

“And there’s not much to get excited about.” He dug through a pile of papers on his desk and produced a letter typed on stationery from the Colorado Department of Natural Resources’Central Animal Health Laboratory. “Basically, the report confirms what we already know. Based on the shape and condition of the organs, the cause of the poisoning is consistent with lead. I’m still waiting on the toxicology reports. The plant matter in the stomach is a combination of corn and wetland grasses, and there was shot present in the gizzard, most likely the source of the toxic poisoning.”

“Did you say corn?” Angela asked.

“Yeah.”

“What is it?” Lark asked.

“The closest cornfields around are fifty to one hundred miles east of here. That means the geese picked up the shot somewhere along the Front Range. Maybe we can figure out where.”

“
East
covers a lot of territory,” Covyduck said, skimming through the report. Pulling off his glasses, he pitched them on top of the desk and massaged the bridge of his nose.

Angela pressed. “What do we know about the shot?”

“Like I said, we’re still waiting on the final shot report. From the prelim? The stuff’s consistent with shot sizes number nine to number nine and a half on the American Standard Shot Scale. Some pellets were magnetic, some type of steel shot. Other pieces weren’t. The nonmagnetic shot appears to be slightly smaller than the nominal diameter, which is consistent with what happens to lead skeet shot when it oxidizes.” He tapped the report. “The only strange thing is the pellets are breaking down faster than lead normally would.”

Angela stared at the papers. “What are you saying?”

“It’s like it’s biodegradable.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lark said. “Are you sure?”

Covyduck waggled the paper in his hand.

“Any idea why that is?” Angela asked.

Covyduck shook his head. “Unless someone is developing a new type of shot.”

Lark frowned. “What would be the point?”

Covyduck shrugged. “A lot of hunters don’t like alloy shot.” He picked up his glasses and twirled them. “Steel has a lower density that negatively affects the shot string. In other words, it doesn’t perform very well in the field.”

Spoken like a true hunter
.

“Okay, I get that,” Lark said. “What I meant was, it’s illegal to hunt with lead shot.”

“Unless… ” Angela reached for the report. “Could it be something else?”

Covyduck chewed on the stem of his glasses. “Anything’s possible,” he said. “But the damage to the organs, and the symptoms, are consistent with lead poisoning.”

While he talked, Angela skimmed down the page. She hoped to find a clue and ended up disappointed. The contents spoke volumes on the condition of the bird and its vital organs but imparted scant information relative to the shot.

“Where does that leave us?” Lark asked.

Covyduck shoved his glasses back onto his nose. “Waiting for the final lab results. Meanwhile, Angela, is there any chance you can trace the shot?”

“I wish it were that simple. Do either of you have any idea how many birds die every year in the United States from lead poisoning?”

“A few hundred thousand?” guessed Lark.

“More like two million.” Angela handed back the report. “Almost none of the cases are solved.”

Covyduck whistled.

Lark shifted in her chair. “So what would it take to unravel this one?”

“Luck.” Angela could see that wasn’t the answer Lark was looking for. “First, we would have to locate the source. The fact that the shot characteristics appear to be unique helps. It gives us a comparison.”

Covyduck picked up the report and rustled it in the air. “Do either of you have any idea what a biodegradable shot that emulates lead in field trials would be worth?”

Both women shook their heads.

“Millions.”

“Except you’re forgetting one thing,” Angela said. “Lead or not, the stuff’s still toxic.”

Covyduck’s words stuck with Angela on the trip back to the hospital. Millions of dollars provided a possible motive for the attacks on Eric and Ian, if the attacks were related to the waterfowl poisonings and the waterfowl poisonings related to the development of a new type of shot.

In any event, they would know soon enough.

Her mind flitted back to the night Ian died. What had happened to the swan? She didn’t know. Her memories consisted of gruesome images—Ian swinging in the wind, his body on the ground, a black body bag being zippered shut—but she vaguely remembered that someone had taken samples from the bird. Would they have been stored somewhere, or discarded?

She made a mental note to check with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife lab on Tuesday. In the meantime, taking Ian’s immortal advice, she would “keep working the problem.”

“Whoever developed the shot has to be testing it somewhere,” she said. “Maybe at a trap-shooting range?”

“Or a hunt club.” Lark was twisted sideways in the passenger seat.

Most hunt clubs were open to members only, which would make the shot harder to trace. Club owners would be able to test the shot privately and get feedback at the same time.

“How many do you think there are along the Front Range?” Angela asked, trying not to show dismay.

“Too many,” Lark said.

“So maybe we can narrow it down?”

“Any suggestions?”

Angela glanced sideways at Lark. “The vegetation from the goose’s stomach indicated the bird fed in a wetland area, right?”

Lark nodded. “And somewhere near a cornfield.”

“The area around Barr Lake fits that description.”

“Right, along with twenty other lakes or ponds along the Front Range.”

“True, but so far nobody has died at any of the others.” The reference to Ian’s death popped out, then Angela thought of Eric, clinging tenuously to life, and instantly felt bad. “Sorry, I—”

“No,” Lark said. “You’re right. It’s a good place to start.”

Angela parked the truck, then traipsed into the hospital behind Lark. Since Angela had conjured the image of death, the women had been silent. If only she could snatch back her words.

Lark headed straight to the back. Angela stopped at the front desk.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked, buzzing Lark through.

“No business this afternoon, Betty? The last time I was in here, the place was packed.”

“We cleared them all out. Had to send a few new cases to Denver, but not many. Just two homeless guys who must have been dumpster diving at the Drummond, and a six year old. Seems like the rest are getting better.”