Mesozoic Murder (14 page)

“So where does that leave me?”

Dorbandt fixed her with a stern stare. “It leaves both of us waiting for the lab results. Won't come quick. Got to push them through on the sly. Want to change your mind and file a report?”

“No. Maybe my sketch will help.”

Dorbandt opened the folder. “When was the last time you saw Evelyn Benchley?”

“I saw her yesterday at the museum.”

He looked up. His cool blue eyes were intense. “About what time?”

“I arrived around five and left by five-thirty.”

“Why did you see her?”

Ansel swallowed. “I went to talk to Evelyn about Nick. I found out, by accident, that Nick and she had an affair.”

Dorbandt's eyes narrowed. “Tell me about it.”

Ansel explained the series of events that had led her to get the key to Nick's apartment, how she'd seen that Nick's fossil collection was gone, and how surprised she'd been by Evelyn's unexpected entrance. She also informed him how she had identified the missing paperweight Evelyn took from Nick's glass collection and what she had learned from Evelyn.

Dorbandt listened, but his expression darkened every minute. “Why didn't you mention this at lunch?”

“Evelyn begged me not to. She was afraid it would ruin her reputation. It wouldn't have made any difference if I'd said anything at lunch. Evelyn was dead.”

“I'd prefer to decide what's important to my investigation, Miss Phoenix.”

Ansel crossed her arms defensively. She didn't like his tone. “Something odd was going on with Nick before he was killed,” Ansel declared. “He used Evelyn to get access to museum computers. He worked with software to evaluate and reconstruct digital images of fossils. Evelyn never knew what he was working on. Nick was secretive about it.”

Dorbandt scribbled some notes in his file. “When did this happen?”

She had his full attention again. “During their affair from June to December last year. When Nick didn't need the computers, he dumped Evelyn. She was devastated.”

“His having a pet project and his getting killed might be coincidence.”

“I might agree if it weren't for Nick's missing fossils. I'm talking about a life-long collection he loved. Nobody seems to know what happened to it.”

“Maybe he sold it.”

“Some of his specimens were very rare. Nick would have thought long and hard before selling them. The only items in his apartment of interest are new Baltic amber pieces with plant and insect inclusions. Nick never expressed any interest in fossil resins to me.”

Dorbandt shrugged. “I saw the amber. There wasn't much of it. Capos was desperate for money and sold everything else. End of story.”

Ansel thought about Leslie Maze. Had Nick borrowed money for daily expenses? It made sense, but... “It's not that simple. Nick was a fanatical collector. Yes, he might have sold the collection, but he also changed the direction of his hobby interests for some reason. Did you take Nick's fossil files and field notebooks?”

“Why?”

“Because a clue to what he was doing may be in them.”

“I've got them, but I haven't gone through them.”

“I can help you,” Ansel volunteered. “Everything in them would be familiar to me. I'd spot inconsistencies.”

Dorbandt placed the pen and folder in his briefcase. When he turned around, his face was pensive. “I'm more worried about other inconsistencies in this case. How did you feel when you learned about the affair between Capos and Benchley?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“You slept with Nick. I'm wondering what your reaction was.”

“I was disgusted. I felt used. And they had also risked causing problems for the Pangaea Society with their behavior.”

“So you went to the museum and confronted Evelyn. The next morning she's discovered dead there. You spent time with Capos before he died. As far as I know, you're one of the last people to see either victim right before they were murdered.”

“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 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.”