Buck Fever (16 page)

“We’re discussing the questions we should ask Sulkin,” Kottle said.

“Good. Please enlighten me.”

Kottle hesitated. “Has he sent Lickshill’s brain sample in for testing? What are his thoughts about infected deer? Have there been any more accidents, deaths or bizarre incidents? You know, questions like that.”

“Good start. Keep it coming.”

Kottle tugged slightly on Porter’s jacket. Porter pulled a notepad from his pocket and read questions he copied from the storyboard the day before.

“There, my friend, you are going to make it—good follow through,” Dingman said, pointing at the notepad. “Plan the plan, write it down, then do the plan. Are you getting it now? No off-the-cuff questions. Spontaneity can get you into big trouble.”

“Look and learn,” Kottle said, blushing.
I have
to learn to keep my mouth shut
, she thought.

~ ~ ~

“We are here to see Mort Sulkin,” Dingman said to the receptionist inside the funeral home. “Is he available?”

“I don’t know; you’ll have to go around back and check for yourselves. He doesn’t tell us what he’s up to or where he goes,” the teenaged receptionist said.

“Okay, let’s go around back,” Dingman said.

“Perhaps you should know, he’s a little...well, he hasn’t been himself lately...” She made an ear-winding hand motion.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh nothing, I just wanted to warn you. I guess I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Maria!” a voice shouted from a nearby office. “It’s none of your business.”

“Erk,” the receptionist mumbled, zipping her finger across her lips.

“Got it.” Dingman winked and escorted the reporters out the front entrance.

~ ~ ~

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Kottle asked, as the three walked the sidewalk around to the back of the building.

“Do not know, but will find out soon, is my motto,” Dingman said.

Time to shut up
, Kottle thought.

Dingman banged his knuckles against the metal doublewide service door behind the building. Seconds later, a disheveled balding man opened the door. Red blotches adorned his head and face.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Hi, Mr. Sulkin, we’re the reporters, Jeb Porter and Katie Kottle, introduced to you by Bob Sanguini of the West Branch Herald. Remember us from last week?” Porter said.

“Ah, the Detroit Times’ people, please come in.”

“Hi, I’m Louis Dingman.” Dingman offered his right hand.

“You’re the reporter who called late yesterday, right?” Sulkin said, holding out his right hand after he slipped off a rubber glove. Dingman nodded.

Kottle jabbed her elbow into Porter’s side.
He called for an appointment. Damn it, I was supposed to do that.

“You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I had a little accident. Got some infected brain matter on my skin,” Sulkin said. Kottle reacted, jerking backward. “Don’t worry, it’s not catching.”

“We have a series of follow-up questions to ask you. Can you spare twenty minutes or so?” Porter said, taking out his notepad.

“Hold on,” Sulkin said, turning around to look at another white-coated person, hands busy inside a coffin. “What are doing? Get away from there, you idiot.” The person looked up and stuttered, “I...you told me...to adjust his face, and that is...what I’m doing.”

Sulkin walked over to the coffin.

“I told you to adjust the pillow lace, not his face. His lips look screwed up now. Get out, get out,” Sulkin said, waving the person toward an inner door into the funeral home. “Damn idiots around here. They don’t have the first clue how to finesse an embalmed body.” He gently worked his hands over the cadaver and patted its face. “Come here and take a look. Tell me what you think?” He motioned for the three reporters to join him.

“Aah...eee...who is it?” Kottle said, repulsed by the cartoon-like face, eyes open, staring back at her. A ball of straggly hair covered a missing portion of the upper skull. The face appeared flattened. The nose sunk into the skull, with lips pulled into a round smile.

“You don’t recognize our friend, Lickshill? Ain’t he a hoot? What? What did you say?” Sulkin lowered his head over the bizarre-looking face. “You like your new look? Of course you do. You must keep your eyes closed, though.” He gently rubbed his hand over the staring eyes, closing them.

Kottle glanced at Porter and Dingman. Each gave the other a concerned look.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a little crazy to put all this effort into making Mr. Lickshill look good, but he’s been a great source of pleasure to me lately. The man has literally changed my life for the better.”

“Huh?” Kottle murmured, blushing.

Dingman looked inside the coffin and pointed at Lickshill’s chest.

“Is this where he got hit? What’s your prognosis? Murder or angry animal? What happened to the brain? Have you tested it? Can we see the results? Mind if I record your answers?” Dingman slipped a small recorder from his jacket pocket, waited for a head nod by Sulkin, and then pressed the record switch.

“I’m convinced the chest perforations were made by deer antlers,” Sulkin said, making a ramming motion with one hand into the other. I sent a cross section of his brain to a lab in Lansing. You won’t believe what they found.”

“Try me,” Dingman said.

“Besides a viral infection promoted by an undefined enzyme, they found a derivative of LSD. It appears our dead friend Lickshill was tripping out. I also sent in some undigested stomach matter that looked like grain, maybe oatmeal. Turns out the organic matter contained Ergotamine. It’s from the Ergot fungus that grows on damp grain, rye usually, and can make people very sick. Here’s the interesting part; Ergotamine is a close cousin of LSD and under the right circumstances could cause the same reactions. It must be hydrolyzed with specific agents, though, to work. I’ve done some research on the Internet and haven’t come up with anything in the environment that could cause this. Perhaps it’s a result of protein enzymes from the infection.”

“Hmm, could we possibly have a sample of the brain tissue? We have sources who can analyze it more closely and come up with insights at the DNA level,” Dingman said.

“Be my guest. It’s over there.” Sulkin led the group to a stainless-steel laboratory sink containing three quart-sized bottles. “This one has the brain, and this has the stomach contents.”

“And this? What’s in this one?” Kottle said, pointing to the third bottle.

“My little experiment. It’s just some brown wheat I found out near the Lickshill place.”

“So, this might have Ergotamine in it, right?” Kottle said.

“Yes, I’ve got a theory I want to—“

“Hah, you think Lickshill was eating the grain and went crazy? Or, maybe the deer are eating the grain and going crazy as well? That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Let the man speak, reporter,” Dingman said, frowning.

Porter glanced at Kottle as he diligently took notes and shook his head.

“She’s a smart one. If I can recreate the circumstances for how Ergotamine is transformed into LSD and ingested by the deer, then I think we might have solved the mysterious accidents and incidents taking place in the last couple of weeks. Normally it takes Hydrazine or something similar to perform the cleavage of molecules necessary.”

“What about people eating the infected deer meat? Would they get sick as well?” Kottle asked.

“I’m trying to find out. I’ve contacted the County Medical Examiner, and he put the DNR on notice, but doesn’t want anyone to panic just yet.”

“We were attacked by two large bucks on the freeway near here. One, with eight horns, rammed our car, destroying a fender and tire in the process. Might this be related?” Kottle asked.

“You mean antlers, deer have antlers not horns. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maintain your objectivity,” Dingman said, giving Kottle a sour glance.

“Really, two deer jumped you unprovoked? I heard the sheriff was having a problem with rutting deer. Hmm, I think it’s time we tracked down the doe in the woods,” Sulkin said. “You folks staying overnight? Maybe you want to go out there with me.”

“No thanks, we are heading back tonight, but we would like to hear from you if you find it. Can we get a sample of the brain tissue and the contents of these other bottles as well?” Dingman said.

“Sure, but be very careful with this stuff. You don’t want to get it on your hands. You’ll end up looking like this.” Sulkin pointed to his head.

“Thanks for your gracious help,” Dingman said, while receiving three small tightly capped plastic vials from Sulkin and slipping them into his coat pocket. “I will let you know what our lab says in a few days. I have a few university contacts, and will see what I can uncover relative to Ergotamine and how it works.”

“My pretty boy is going to make me famous,” Sulkin said, patting Lickshill’s coffin as the three reporters headed for the back door.

~ ~ ~

“Mr. Sulkin is a bit daft, eh?” Dingman said.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Kottle said.

“Sure, what is your pleasure?”

“Why can you use a recorder to take notes, and we have to use notebooks and pencils?”

“I didn’t see you take any notes in there.”

“Porter takes the notes, I observe, then we collaborate later.”

Porter weakly nodded in agreement.

“You do, eh? What color were Sulkin’s shoes?” Dingman probed.

“Brown.”

“How many storage units on the back wall?”

“Eight.”

“What color was Lickshill’s suit?”

“Gray flannel, white shirt and blue tie with yellow dots.”

“Not bad. “

“So why can’t junior reporters use recorders or better yet a computer tablet with video and audio? I feel like we’re ten years behind the technology curve most of the time.”

“Notebooks and notepads are a handy way of being prepared. You can list all the questions you want to ask before your meeting. Plan the plan, do the plan. Know what I mean? There is something about writing it down on paper that jogs the memory like no technology can do. Best to carry a small notepad around to be discrete and add your notes to a larger notebook later. Of course, you can always transfer your notes to your laptop later. Nobody said you have to carry a large notebook around, just a notepad for quick notes. Imagine if you had to text notes into your cellphone or a computer tablet while someone is talking to you—very rude and…” Dingman continued his rant as Kottle’s eyes stared off in the distance.

Another lecture coming
, Kottle thought.
Time to shut up
.

Porter glanced at her, flipping over several notepad pages of questions the three had planned to ask during their meeting the day before.

“Look and learn,” he said.

Dingman laughed. Kottle grimaced.

Chapter 26

I
t’s probably just a misunderstanding,
Jack Hermanski thought driving up to the garage and pressing the remote. His wife had a tendency to speak her mind and probably made blunt comments about the drapes and furniture to the claims adjuster. He had to bail her out of several misunderstandings with the house builder last year.

“Mandi, the door is locked; I don’t have a key,” Hermanski said, rapping on the door to the kitchen. He pounded twice, waited, and pounded again.

He walked out of the garage and into the back yard. Rusty greeted him wearing a shock collar and yelped as he approached the limit of an underground electric fence.

“Here’s my boy,” Hermanski said, bending over to stroke the dog. “Where’s Mommy?” Rusty looked toward the house, whined, and barked. Hermanski walked swiftly to the patio door and peered in. Rusty came from behind and jumped up against him. “Down boy, I’ll pet you later.” The empty kitchen seemed in order. Rusty ran to the large living-room bay window, jumped up, and barked. “You see her, boy?” Hermanski followed and held his hands around his face to peer inside.

“Oh, God, no!”

~ ~ ~

This is how you found her?” the police officer asked, standing next to Jack Hermanski in the living room. Two emergency-medical technicians hovered over Mandi, assessing her unconscious body. She lay flat on the carpet, face up with eyes open, arms outstretched and breathing erratically. Her right hand held a broken wineglass stem, her left held pinking shears. Several yards of severed drape material lay by her feet.

“Hmm, I’ve seen a lot of domestic violence, but nothing quite like this.” The officer surveyed the furniture. Every chair and sofa had a similar pattern of rip marks. “You two have a fight?”

“Fight? No, I just got home. She was here by herself all day. I got a call at work from a claims adjuster—we had an accident on the carpet—and he said my wife was acting strange. Something about the drapes and furniture being damaged. I’m stumped; she was fine this morning, but did complain of hot flashes. Maybe she had a stroke, or maybe someone broke in and vandalized the place.”

“Does your wife have a drinking problem?” the officer said, bending over to observe the red blotches surrounding the broken wineglass in her hand.

“No more than a drink or two at suppertime. Nothing that would lead to this.” He lied. Mandi would binge drink when she felt depressed, but would normally go to bed and sleep it off without incident.

The two medical technicians lifted Mandi’s limp body onto a body board and strapped her tight.

“What hospital would you like us to take her to?”

“I prefer Troy Beauford,” Hermanski said.

The technicians carried the woman outside into a waiting ambulance.

Hermanski, feeling helpless, followed them to the front door.

“Should I go with them?”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Okay, I’ll need help, though, putting the patio door back into its track.”

“So, maybe a stranger broke in through the patio door?”

“No, I forgot my house key and removed the door. Here, Rusty, come on boy.” The dog scrambled through the door opening and downstairs to the basement.

“Maybe your dog clawed up the furniture?”