Bee Conspiracy, page 3
“I’ll be the judge of that,” replied Kelso.
“Nice to meet you. I am Detective John Wayne.”
Kelso was not sure if this was another joke. Brader helped him out on this one. “Yes, that is his name. But you can call him Duke, like the rest of us do.”
Kelso reached out for a handshake and Duke met his open palm with a fist bump. “Nice to meet you, Duke.”
Captain Brader’s phone beeped and he walked off for another appointment. Duke turned to Kelso. “I checked a vehicle out of the motor pool so we might as well hit the road.” Kelso nodded and followed Duke down the hall. He noticed a soda machine and made a pit stop, feeding it a couple of dollar bills and hitting the button for an orange Fanta in exchange.
Duke fired up his assigned, unmarked Dodge Charger and revved the engine. Kelso ducked into the passenger seat and sipped his soda. “How do you know the stiff?” Duke asked callously.
“The stiff was my friend from college,” Kelso replied.
“No kidding? Sorry didn’t know this was personal. Where did you go to school?”
“Department of Entomology at the University of New Hampshire.”
“Insect school?”
“That’s right.”
“Had you spoken to your friend recently?”
“No, but he recently reached out. Next thing I know he’s dead.”
“He say anything leading you to believe he was in trouble?”
“No. He just...sent me something.” A fly buzzed around in the car.
“Dammit!” Duke said and picked up a folded newspaper out of the side compartment. He drove with one hand and flailed about swatting at the fly with the other. The fly was much too agile for him. He kept missing.
Kelso dipped his finger in the soda and held out his wet fingertip for the fly. The fly landed right on his finger and lapped up the sugar water.
“Nice!” Duke said. “That’s a good trick.” He waited for Kelso to swat the fly or pinch it dead between his fingers, but he did no such thing. When Duke stopped at a light Kelso opened his window and let the fly soar off, free.
“You like flies?” Duke asked, incredulous that Kelso sought to preserve the creature’s life.
“I like all insects,” Kelso answered as he rolled up his window.
Duke shook his head. “I gather your dead friend didn’t share your enthusiasm. He worked for a pesticide company.”
“Yeah. He got trapped by the money,” Kelso lamented. Duke floored the Dodge’s engine and merged onto the 405 Freeway.
***
The early morning sunshine lit an industrial orchard in southwest China, filled with rows and rows of pear and apple trees. The trees burst with color, their bright pink blooms popping, saying “come pollinate me” to any nearby butterflies, bees, hummingbirds that might be hovering nearby. But there were no pollinators visible. There was a pregnant silence where normally we would hear the buzz of bees hard at work, carrying the fluffy pollen from one tree to another, helping with the cross-pollination that was so crucial to the life cycle of these plants and their ability to bear fruit. Normally the wind would also be a factor too, helping to blow the pollen from one tree to another. But there was no wind today. So the trees could not complete their “handshakes” or their “love kisses” however you wanted to call it.
The orchard was right next to a large highway. Not far off in the distance were some large farm vehicles. Additionally, there were discarded containers of pesticide. But perhaps the pesticides had worked too well considering the lack of insects? At that moment a large contingent of farm laborers descended upon the trees. Normally a crew of this size would be there to harvest the fruit and pack it away for shipment to consumers. But today the laborers were here for a different purpose.
They carried buckets and climbed ladders, but they were not picking anything. Their buckets were filled with pollen and they carried paintbrushes. The laborers took to the trees and daubed their brushes into the buckets of pollen. They swiped the brushes over the pink blooms. This was a case of humans doing bees’ work: Human hand-pollination of the trees. The farmer stood nearby and frowned at the scene. But he had no choice. It was do this or let his crop die.
The chairman of the UCLA entomology department stopped the video of the haunting, dystopian scene. His class of students were eerily silent. Actually, it was not his class. It belonged to one of his professors by the name of Howard Skulberry. Professor Skulberry had not shown up nor called in today, so the department chair was filling in. The students were a bit stunned by the footage he had shown them. This was the effect he wanted to create.
“The bee is at a crisis moment right now. In some places, we are seeing a widespread die off of the honeybee to the point where farm laborers are brought in to pollinate fruit trees by hand, as you see in this film.”
A hand in the class shot up. The chairman called on this over-eager student. “What is causing the die off?” the student asked.
“We are not sure,” the chair answered. “There are a number of theories, for instance colony collapse disorder. There is also a surge in bee parasites like the zombie fly, the Varroa mite and numerous fungi that penetrate hives. Climate change may play a part.”
“Isn’t there any natural selection for bees that are not susceptible to these factors?”
“As conventional European honeybees die off in greater numbers due to parasites like the zombie fly, the Varroa mite, fungi and other possible causes of colony collapse disorder, we are seeing an increased presence of the Africanized honeybee, which is much less susceptible to these threats. The bad news is that the Africanized honeybee is highly aggressive and prone to attack humans at the slightest provocation.”
“What about pesticides?”
“Numerous studies show these are likely not a factor in the problem,” the chair quickly retorted.
“Doesn’t this department do some work with a company that produces pesticides?” another intrepid student asked.
“We do have some sponsored research grants, yes. It’s how we keep our labs open. The company we work with ensures their products only perform surgical strikes against pests, not beneficial insect fauna.”
“A surgical strike? How do you apply a poison surgically?” the intrepid student asked.
The chairman’s cell phone vibrated. He glanced down at a text message and then directly addressed the students. “I’m terribly sorry. I must cut this chat short. I just found out that a member of our faculty has passed away,” he said. He rose from his chair and headed for the door.
***
A sign off the 405 Freeway read:
Use D-Con IV To Kill Lawn Pests!
It featured a cartoonish drawing of dead sow bugs, dead ants and a multi-legged creature that looked like a caterpillar. Kelso shook his head as their unmarked Charger passed it by. Duke took the next exit at Roscoe Boulevard and the car rolled around the offramp loop and headed east towards the sun. Kelso put on his sunglasses to reduce the glare in his eyes. His head turned as he noticed a single-family home covered in a large, red-striped tent. Clips made sure it stuck tightly to the structure. A termite truck pumped pesticide into the tent. The sign on the side of the truck read: Termite Terminator!
“No shortage of pesticide companies out here in the Valley, huh?” Kelso asked.
Duke turned and looked at him. He didn’t register Kelso’s disdain. “They’re expensive, too! I had my kitchen sprayed for ants last week and it cost me an arm and a leg.”
“You must have left some food out.”
“I suppose I did. What’s that got to do with it?”
“The ants were looking for food. If you removed the bait, they wouldn’t come in your house.”
Duke pulled the car into the driveway of the bee victim’s house. “Huh. Anyway, here we are.”
A uniformed cop was parked in the driveway to guard and preserve the integrity of the crime scene. Kelso hopped out of the car carrying his insect forensics kit. He ducked under the police tape and noticed the chalked outline of the victim’s body. The lawnmower was still on the lawn too.
“He was driving the mower and didn’t see the beehive up there.” Duke pointed towards the tree and the desiccated beehive which the fire department had doused with fire retardant foam. “He tried to escape as they attacked, but the rider-mower rolled over his foot and he fell here.”
“I don’t need the play-by-play,” Kelso replied, curtly. He was not interested in the rider-mower, but he was very interested in the dead hive. He walked towards the tree and stared at the hollow where the beehive had been built. Or had it been?
“Suit yourself,” Duke replied.
“You people have ruined this scene.”
“What do you mean? I’ve had a beat cop here 24/7 to protect the evidence.”
“Yeah, but you killed the bees.” As he walked his feet crunched the carpet of dead bees still on the ground.
“Of course! What did you expect us to do when a bunch of killer bees were buzzing around?”
“You should have waited for an expert.” Kelso put down his kit and climbed the tree. He fearlessly stuck his hand in the tree hollow and pulled out the beehive. He had not a hint of concern that he would be stung. He inspected the hive closely. “This hive was planted here.”
“What do you mean?” Duke asked.
“The cells and the honeycomb are desiccated. If the bees had located this hive themselves, it would be moist. It would also stick to the trunk of the tree much more easily.” He pulled the hive right off the tree and looked inside. He found a bee that was still barely alive. It convulsed in the throes of death.
“Are you saying that someone could have planted that hive in the tree? To kill?”
“That’s right. You smell that banana odor?”
Duke inhaled deeply. “Come to think of it, I do. I hadn’t really thought of it until you mentioned it. Smells like those flavored taffy candies.”
“That is alarm pheromone.”
“Pheromone. You mean like that Spanish fly stuff that puts ladies in the mood?”
“No. A pheromone is a chemical substance produced by a mammal or an insect that it releases into the environment to affect other animals’ behavior.”
“Like I said...”
“The alarm pheromone triggers bees to attack. Someone sprayed it all around this crime scene.”
“Right...if someone wanted this guy dead, why get bees to attack him? Why not just shoot him?”
“Because they knew someone like you would see a bullet and start a murder investigation. But if he were stung by bees, you would just write it off as an accidental death.”
“They used a beehive as a weapon?”
“Looks that way.”
“Wait til the Captain hears this.” Duke did an about-face and walked back to the Charger. Kelso climbed down from the tree, put the beehive in a specimen bag and followed.
***
Detective Michael Peters sat down at his desk with a bowl of Wheat-Os cereal, a half-pint milk carton and a spoon. He noticed Kelso staring out the window at the concrete and glass buildings of downtown LA.
“You the fish cop?” Detective Peters asked.
“I am a special agent for Fish and Wildlife,” Kelso corrected. “My area is wildlife, specifically endangered insects.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. No offense. Take care of our Duke okay? He’s been on edge lately. The ad leave is really getting to him.”
“Why do they call him that?”
“His last name is Wayne, mother named him John. She was a fan of the old Westerns back in the day. So the nickname fit.”
“At least his mother didn’t name him Bruce. Then he’d be Batman.”
Peters nodded and poured milk over his cereal. He dug in with his spoon and placed the food in his mouth, but something caught his eye in the bowl. He immediately spit out the cereal into his hand.
“You okay?” Kelso asked.
“That’s the second time this week I’ve got a dead roach in my cereal! I think the Captain needs to have this placed sprayed again.”
Kelso sauntered over and took a look at the bowl. There was a tiny black beetle body in there. Kelso picked it up and studied it intently. “That’s no roach,” he said. “It’s a grain weevil. Do you have the cereal box?”
Peters wiped his mouth with a napkin and pulled a box of cereal out of his desk drawer. Kelso took the box and poured the cereal all over the desk. “What are you doing?” Peters asked, annoyed.
Kelso sorted through the pieces of cereal as if it were a jigsaw puzzle. He piled up a dry crumbly powder on a corner of the desk. “The entire box is infested with weevil larvae and eggs.”
Peters gagged a little bit but then got a hold of himself. “But I’ve already eaten three bowls of that cereal!”
Kelso shrugged. “Oh, well. It’s just a little extra protein.”
Peters shrunk back down into his seat and groaned. He put his hand on his queasy stomach.
***
Captain Brader’s office was immaculate. Ever since they moved into the new building, he had taken pains to keep the new eco-friendly wood paneling oiled and dust free. He had a couple of floating shelves adorned with small, framed photographs of his estranged wife and son. The bureau had a couple of bronze award plaques Brader had accumulated over the years. The bronze was polished to a T.
Duke stood before this backdrop and pled for mercy, “The guy’s crazy, sir. Certifiably nuts.”
Brader heard a commotion out in the squad room. He opened the privacy blinds on his inner window just a tad and looked out to get an idea of what the ruckus was about. But everything looked tranquil, as if the staff had quickly resumed the apparency of working rather than eavesdropping on Duke’s reprimand. “So you’re a psychologist now?”
“I know people, Captain. This guy’s a few eggs short of a dozen.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’m just going to file the FIR report as-is. Accidental...”
Brader didn’t hesitate a single moment. “No. You’re going to work the case with him.”
“Sir. You are kidding, right?”
Brader stared at Duke dead center. “You can’t trust these Feds. You never know who their connections are. The last thing I need is him to get a bug up his ass – no pun intended – and start ringing some bells in DC so some special investigator comes out here to get into my business.”
“What kind of special investigator?”
“I don’t know! Does it matter? Any of the three letter agencies! IRS, CIA, FBI, NSA, EPA, whatever!”
“Captain, I...”
“Do you want to get back on regular duty, Duke?”
“Yessir.”
“Then indulge me. Conversation over.” Brader opened the door and made a beeline for the restroom. Duke sat shell-shocked in his chair.
Kelso poked his head in. “You guys done? We need uniforms to canvas the victim’s neighborhood. I want all available camera coverage. Emails, his phone records, his credit cards...,” he handed over a written list to Duke.
“What gives you the idea we have the resources for this kind of an investigation?” Duke asked.
Before Kelso could answer Detective Peters swooped by and grabbed Kelso’s list out of his hands. “I’ll get you the records you need,” he said.
“Thank you,” Kelso replied.
“You saved me from eating any more of those awful weevils,” Peters replied. “For that I am truly grateful.”
Duke sunk back down in his chair, completely chagrined.
***
Duke drove the Dodge Charger up the Pacific Coast Highway. They pulled up to a stoplight at Topanga Canyon. Kelso rolled down his window. There was a slight offshore breeze that blew the salt air through his hair. It was a nice change from the deserts of Arizona. The light turned green and Duke floored it. The car took off like a rocket and the palisades on the right and the beaches on the left flew by. Soon they reached the tiny town of Malibu. Duke did not stop in the town center but kept going until he reached the intersection of a narrow road that led up the hill and into the mountains above. A small sign read:
Resolutions.
Duke drove the car up the windy road. He looked over at Kelso, whose skin appeared sallow, as if he were queasy. Good. Duke took the next corner even harder, doing his best to nauseate his passenger. Maybe that would make him leave town sooner. Kelso looked out the window at the ocean. Perhaps he was trying to ease his motion sickness by staring at the horizon. Below them the buildings and homes in Malibu town center became smaller and smaller. The road straightened out and a gated Mediterranean style mansion with well-manicured gardens loomed. This was some kind of Shangri-La above the Shangri-La of Malibu.
In fact, it was Resolutions Rehab Clinic, a destination for wealthy celebrities and socialites who sought to curb their addictions in style. Detective Peters had found it as the temporary residence of Howard Skulberry’s wife.
Duke took in the surroundings. He couldn’t help but think about how Detective Peters was so eager to help Kelso out. Why couldn’t he partner with him? But he understood. The Captain was trying to punish him, to have him make amends for what he considered to be reckless driving. Duke considered it skillful precision driving, but they obviously had a difference of opinion.
Duke pulled the car into the circular driveway and hopped out. He was a man on a mission. He wanted to get this wild goose chase behind him. He would go through the motions, nothing more. If he could get rid of this Fish and Wildlife guy without any negative PR, then the Captain might release him from purgatory.
The two officers trudged towards the front door of the mansion. There were bikinied sunbathers by the pool, their habitual Mai-Tais replaced by bottles of mineral water. Cabana boys (or were they drug counselors?) ran to-and-fro, checking on the guests. Duke rang the buzzer and the intercom came alive. “Yes?” a lyrical voice asked.
“LAPD detectives. We are here to see Mrs. Skulberry,” Duke announced.
“Do you have some form of ID?” the intercom asked. Duke did not have his badge per se, since he was on ad leave, they had taken it for safekeeping. Duke turned to Kelso and noticed the Fish and Wildlife badge on his jacket. He unpinned it from Kelso’s chest and flashed it at the camera.
