Death Roe (30 page)

60

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

LANSING, INGHAM COUNTY

The report package had not yet gone to Syracuse and Service and Denninger had spent the previous night and all morning trying to pull it together when the call came for them to report to Chief O'Driscoll's fifth-floor office in the Mason Building.

“Your part of the case is finished,” the chief said. “Effective January fourth, you're both transferred back to the DNR. Officer Denninger, I've already talked to your sergeant and lieutenant. You'll have a couple of pass days and go back to duty next Friday. Call your area supervisor to discuss details.” The chief looked at Denninger and said, “Can you give Detective Service and me a moment alone?”

Denninger left.

Service had a bad feeling in his gut. O'Driscoll said, “Clay Flinders is threatening to retire and he's saying it's your fault, that he's being railroaded. He swears he's done nothing wrong.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Go talk to him, hear him out. He's in his office.”

Service found the Fisheries chief looking like someone had knee-capped him. Flinders said nothing when Service walked in and sat down. “I heard from Lorne you're thinking about retiring.”

Flinders shrugged. “Time for me to go. I never wanted this job.”

“You haven't been at it very long.”

“Long enough to get my butt caught in a backfire.”

“Look, for what it's worth, we don't see you as part of this case, except that some of the people involved report up to you. I'm sorry about showing up at the meeting at the Anderson Building.”

“I think we both lost it a little up there,” Flinders said. “If I stay with the job, they'll get me anyway.”

“Who's
they
?”

“Certain Natural Resource Commission members appointed by Bozian, the new director, whoever. I was chosen for the job by Teeny. That automatically makes me shit, and Piscova just adds to my problem, even if I just caught the tail end of it on my shift.”

Flinders had assessed the situation fairly realistically, and Service couldn't find anything to say that might appease the man. Flinders understood the politics a lot better than he did. “I just wanted you to know,” Service said, ending the meeting.

“Appreciated,” Flinders said with a tone Service couldn't decipher.

61

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

ANN ARBOR, WASHTENAW COUNTY

Rogers had called at 5 a.m. “I think this is a blind alley, but an FDA inspector named Arlette Arwaddy inspected Piscova's Elk Rapids facility on May ninth, 1997. She never filed a report and resigned in June from the agency. She's part of Pfizer's FDA Liaison operation in Ann Arbor now, been there since July 1997.”

“Why'd she quit?”

“Not known.”

“Performance problems?”

“Not clear. My contact in Syracuse says we could subpoena personnel records from the Chicago regional office, but we don't have time, and what's the point?”

“If she ruled the eggs safe and legal, and there's a report to that effect in Piscova's files, it could be a major problem for the case. If she didn't, it helps us. Something stinks on this one.”

“You think I should fight for more time to file reports?”

“Probably wouldn't hurt.”

“How long?”

“Extra week or two?”

“I'll try, but no promises.”

“I'll try to meet her as soon as I can.”

Which turned out to be that afternoon. The pharmaceutical giant's global research was based in Ann Arbor on a grassy, landscaped campus at the corner of Plymouth Road and Huron Parkway, the company's property abutting University of Michigan land. The building where Service was to meet Arlette Arwaddy was a stone facade and glass monstrosity that looked like a parking ramp

Arwaddy met him in the lobby, a tropical atrium minus birds and animal life. She was tall, well groomed, and carried herself with a straight back, chin tilted upward.

He introduced himself as working for the U.S. Attorney out of Grand Rapids, made a production of setting his recorder on the table in front of them and clicking it on. “I don't want to waste your time. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Ms. Arwaddy.”

“It's
Dr
. Arwaddy,” she countered, correcting him and declaring formality for the conversation.

“You did a plant inspection at Piscova's Elk Rapids plant on May ninth, in ninety-seven,” he opened.

“I was with the agency for ten years. I did innumerable inspections.”

“You never filed a report, Doctor.”

“I'm certain I did,” she said after a pause. “I scrupulously filed reports in a timely manner.”

“It's not in the FDA's files. How do you explain that?”

“The agency's incompetence in such administrative matters is not without substance or precedent.”

“Odd that the report's not in their files. Do you remember the inspection?”

“As I said, there were so many.”

He let a little silence set in and said, “The company insists you ruled that mixing mirex-contaminated salmon eggs with Michigan eggs was safe and legal.” This was like fishing. Throw out the fly, let it sit, twitch it slightly. “Is that right?”

The woman seemed to swell. “I made
no
such finding,” she said through clenched teeth.

Hook-set time
. “I thought you didn't remember the inspection.”

“I remember it,” she admitted. “I found the eggs being mixed and knew the New York eggs were contaminated. I recommended that the agency charge the company with adulterating a product intended for human consumption.”

Hook set, it was time to smack it hard and set it deep. “They're still mixing eggs,” Service said, “which makes it hard to believe you recommended they stop.”

“I resigned to express my displeasure,” she said.

“Because the agency didn't take action?”

“There was no DNA footprint for mirex then. I made my recommendation because I found New York containers and was told by employees they were mixing eggs. My supervision reprimanded me for inadequate and improper analysis lacking the requisite supporting scientific data. This was not my first clash with supervision, and I had had enough.”

“Do you have a copy of your report?”

“I think I should consult my attorney.”

Service clicked off his recorder. “Send it to me overnight; otherwise, there will be a subpoena from the grand jury. I'm after Piscova, not you.”

The woman's face was suddenly splotched. “If this becomes public, my position here will be compromised.”

“Why? According to you, you did the right thing.”

“I
did
do the right thing,” she insisted.

“Shouldn't be a problem then.”

“You don't understand the complexity and nuances of liaising with a federal bureaucracy.”

“I know this: go along to get along. Did your report go to the DNR?”

“Not from me. Procedure required that it come from another department at FDA. I don't know if it was sent or not.”

“What happens if a report isn't accepted? They just throw it away?”

“No; it goes into a permanent historical file on the company.”

“Meaning it should be there, even if they took no action.”

“Correct,” she said.

Service wondered if Fagan's tentacles were embedded in the FDA as well as the DNR, and the thought made him cringe at how far Fagan's activities might reach. If only he would be allowed sufficient time to flesh it all out and expose everything, piece by piece.

He handed her his card. “Overnight mail.”

He sat in his truck for a long time, thinking. He'd been focused on the DNR, but this new evidence seemed to point to the Food and Drug Administration. Maybe Arwaddy's report did not go to DNR, but to the state agency responsible for food, the Michigan Department of Agriculture. Unable to think of anyone else to talk to, Service called acting director Cecil Hopkins in Lansing.

“Sorry to bother you,” Service said when he finally got through.

“Lorne says you're wrapping up the case,” Hopkins said.

“Yessir, we're just trying to nail down some details. I've learned that an FDA inspector recommended closing down Piscova's caviar line in 1997 because she learned of the egg mixing. She filed a report, but no action was taken by the FDA. Would we have gotten the report?”

Hopkins paused. “She's required to file her reports jointly with her own agency and the Michigan Department of Agriculture. Our getting a copy would depend on who in the MDA got the report, and what they decided to do with it.”

“How do I find that individual?”

“Why do you need to do that?”

“For the case.”

“Do you have the FDA report in question?”

“A copy's being sent to me.”

“Reference it in your narrative and append it to the report. Use it as a footnote to make your point. If you're thinking there's hanky-panky at the FDA and the MDA, let that be investigated downstream as a separate investigation—otherwise, you'll never finish what you've started.”

“This is like drinking from a spittoon,” Service said, and Cecil Hopkins laughed.

“I imagine it is,” he said, still chuckling. “Just make sure you get a copy and put it in the report. Anything else?”

“Nossir.”

“I wouldn't like to see this leaked to the media,” Hopkins said.

“Me either,” Service said.

“There's been enough turmoil, Detective. Let's get this case into the courts and let the process work.”

“Yessir,” Service said. He was tempted to call Beaker Salant, but restrained himself. The DNR was already roiling at a slow boil. The governor didn't need a riled-up Ag Department as well. Hopkins was right. It was time to put this thing to bed and be done with it.

62

Thursday, December 30, 2004

SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

They had spent all day yesterday putting together the report, and Denninger was now hard at work on an inventory of supplies and equipment to be submitted to Anniejo Couch once the investigation was formally concluded. Leukonovich was still with them, working on her part of the case.

Karylanne called around lunchtime. She was back to her bubbly self, filling his ear with baby trivia, including the nitty-gritty of breast pumps and nursing, details he had no desire to hear. Nevertheless, he tried to listen with one ear while his mind kept sweeping the case, looking for holes and weaknesses. The FDA report from Arwaddy had arrived by messenger that morning, and was just as she had claimed. She had recommended shutting down Piscova, and her report referenced similar problems for the company's operations in Wisconsin, New York, and California. He had nearly fallen off his chair as he read Arwaddy's words. Having this document at the start of the investigation would have let them cast their net a hell of a lot more widely. It felt like the case as it was would hit only the tip of the iceberg, and the realization made him angry.

“Say hi to your Bampy,” Karylanne said, jarring him back to the phone call.

“Bampy?”

“It's an old East Coast Canadian term of endearment for grandpas,” she said.

“Leave that shit on their side of the border,” he growled.

“What
do
you want your granddaughter to call you?”

“Grady,” he said.

Silence. “That's not very grandfatherly.”

“Exactly.”

“We'll let her decide,” Karylanne said, trying to get in the last word.

“Just as long as it's not Bampy.”

He was smoking on the balcony, getting more and more worked up over additional crap that apparently had gone on for a long time under Bozian, when he heard a crash inside. He turned to see Denninger falling backwards and someone on top of her, flailing away. He fumbled to open the sliding-glass door just as Denninger brought a knee sharply upward between the attacker's legs, the blow resounding like a bocci ball dropped on a tile floor. Denninger rolled out from under the man, popped to her feet, blood pouring from her nose, legs apart, knees bent, hands up, ready to fight, but Zhenya Leukonovich walked calmly over to the man, leaned down, and took hold of his neck with some sort of pinch-hold. The man let loose a short, intense shriek and blacked out, his head thumping the bare floor.

Service saw that it was Captain “Fast Track” Black, went over to him, pulled his hands behind him, and cuffed him. Leukonovich looked down at Black, shrugged, and sat down to continue her work. Denninger was panting with adrenaline, blood all over her chin and shirt.

“What the hell happened?” Service asked.

“He came through the door, called me ‘cunt,' and knocked me off my chair.”

Leukonovich looked up, said, “He will begin to recover in less than one minute,” and went back to typing on her computer.

Black's first mumbled words: “I'm so sorry.”

“I would be too,” Service said, “if a couple of girls kicked my ass.” He looked at Denninger. “Dani, you want me to call the county deps?”

She was sitting with her head down, trying to stanch the nosebleed. “Just get him out of here.”

“Charges should be pursued,” Leukonovich said. “Such behavior is no doubt part of a long-term behavioral pattern. Without punishment this creature will continue to mistreat women.”

“Just get him out of here,” Denninger repeated.

Service helped Black out to his car, put him inside, buckled his seat belt, and leaned down close. “You're retiring. Be satisfied with that. For my part, I wouldn't have called the county. I would have taken you out back, kicked your fucking head in, and left you there . . . but I guess that's a guy thing. Leave it to women to have level heads.”

He stood in the doorway until Black had recovered sufficiently to drive away. He turned back to Leukonovich. Denninger was in the bathroom. “What the hell was that hold you used?”

“I haven't always worked for the IRS,” she said, leaving her statement hanging in the air.

Denninger came out of the bathroom, opened a can of Diet Pepsi, uprighted her chair, and sat back down to work.

He looked at her. “You need anything?”

“A better early-warning system?” she said, laughing and gingerly touching her nose. “It's not bleeding anymore.”

Service watched the women nod to each other in recognition of what had happened. They were grinning. “Thelma and Louise,” he said.

“We required no firearm,” Leukonovich said, which made Grady Service laugh out loud.

Denninger looked up at him. “Did you call us a couple of
girls?
”

Service held up his hands in submission. “Slip of the tongue, I swear.”

Denninger looked at Leukonovich. “Sexist pig.”

“Possibly salvageable,” the IRS agent said.