Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

It was an hour before Joe Winder found something that caught his eyes: a series of color photographs of the voles. These were different from the glossy publicity pictures—these were extreme close-ups taken from various angles to highlight anatomical characteristics. Typed labels identified the animals as either “Male One” or “Female One.” Several pictures of the female had been marked up in red wax pencil, presumably by Will Koocher. In one photograph, an arrow had been drawn to the rump of the mango vole, accompanied by the notation “CK. TAIL LENGTH.” On another, Koocher had written: “CK. MICROTUS FUR COLOR—is THERE BLOND PHASE?” In a third photograph, the animal’s mouth had carefully been propped open with a Popsicle stick, which allowed a splendid frontal view of two large yellow incisors and a tiny indigo tongue.

Obviously the female vole had troubled Koocher, but why? Winder slipped the photos into his briefcase, and turned to the next file. It contained a muddy Xerox of a research paper titled, “Habitat Loss and the Decline of Microtus mango in Southeastern Florida.” The author of the article was listed as Dr. Sarah Hunt, PhD, of Rollins College. In red ink Koocher had circled the woman’s name, and put a question mark next to it. The research paper was only five pages long, but the margins were full of Koocher’s scribbles. Winder was trying to make sense of them when he heard a squeaking noise behind him.

In the doorway stood Pedro Luz—pocked, bloated, puffy-eyed Pedro. “The fuck are you doing?” he said.

Joe Winder explained that a janitor had been kind enough to loan him a key to the lab.

“What for?” Pedro Luz demanded.

“I need some more information on the voles.”

“Haw,” said Pedro Luz, and stepped inside the lab. The squeaking came from the wheels of his mobile steroid dispenser, the IV rig he had swiped from the hospital. A clear tube curled from a hanging plastic bag to a scabby junction in the crook of Pedro Luz’s left arm; the needle was held in place by several cross-wraps of cellophane tape.

The idea had come to him while he was hospitalized with the ferret bites. He had been so impressed with the wonders of intravenous refueling that he’d decided to try it with his anabolic steroids. Whether this method was effective, or even safe, were questions that Pedro Luz hadn’t considered because the basic theory seemed unassailable: straight from bottle to vein, just like a gasoline pump. No sooner had he hung the first bag than he had felt the surge, the heat, the tingling glory of muscles in rapture. Even at ease, his prodigious biceps twitched and rippled as if prodded by invisible electrodes.

Joe Winder wondered why Pedro Luz kept staring down at himself, smiling as he admired the dimensions of his own broad chest and log-sized arms.

“Are you feeling all right?” Winder asked.

Pedro Luz looked up from his reverie and blinked, toadlike.

Affably, Winder remarked, “You’re working mighty late tonight.”

Pedro Luz grunted: “I feel fine.” He walked up to the desk and grabbed the briefcase. “You got no authorization to be here after hours.”

“Mr. Chelsea won’t mind.”

Invoking Charlie’s name made no impression on Pedro Luz, who plucked a leaf out of Joe Winder’s hair. “Look at this shit on your head!”

“I spent some time in the mangroves,” Winder said. “Ate snake-on-a-stick.”

Pedro Luz announced: “I’m keeping your damn briefcase.” He tucked it under his right arm. “Until I see some fucking authorization.”

“What’s in the IV bag?” Joe Winder asked.

“Vitamins,” said Pedro Luz. “Now get the hell out.”

“You know what I think? I think Will Koocher was murdered.”

Pedro Luz scrunched his face as if something toxic were burning his eyes. His jaw was set so rigidly that Joe Winder expected to hear the teeth start exploding one by one, like popcorn.

Winder said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

Pedro Luz followed him out the door, the IV rig squeaking behind them. To the back of Winder’s neck, he growled, “You dumb little shit, now I gotta do a whole report.”

“Pedro, you need some rest.”

“The doctor wasn’t murdered. He killed hisself.”