Read Online Hangman's Root by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Women Detectives, Herbalists, China (Fictitious character), Bayles
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pipe under a filthy scrub sink. A bag of apples had broken. Moldy fruit, much of it gnawed by rats, was scattered across the floor. A shelf held a litter of file folders and papers—animal records, I supposed.
I looked around, incredulous at the dirt, the neglect, the wretched conditions. The sight dispelled any myths I might have held about how scientists treated their animal subjects. "God," I breathed. "This isawfulV
Dottie stepped forward, aimed the camera at the bank of guinea pigs, and shot. The flash was blinding in the dark room. "It's worse than awful," she said, cocking the camera. "I assume that Harwick is holding the guinea pigs for his experiment. The rest—the frogs, the reptiles, the rodents—are headed for his vertebrate anatomy lab." She recocked and took a close-up of an open feed sack in which a dozen disgusting cockroaches were having lunch. "He insists on having students prepare dissections themselves, under his supervision. Which means starting with live animals."
I frowned. "What else would he start with?"
"Prepared specimens from supply houses. That's how most
departments handle it." She bent over and took a shot of a cage that contained a huddle of white mice, the waste tray beneath overflowing. "Normally, only about a dozen cages are kept here. The number of animals here now is far more than the room can accommodate. They're not being cared for, either." She straightened, gesturing sharply, her anger building. "Look at this mess. The cages are unspeakable. Some of the animals have no water. The ceiling paint is flaking, the spigot leaks, the floor drain has backed up, and that vent up there in the ceiling is rusted shut. There's no air circulation at all, not even a—"
The door behind us opened. "Who are you?" a high-pitched, tremulous voice demanded. "How'd you get in? What are you doing with that camera?"
I whirled. The speaker was a slender, intense young man of twenty or twenty-one, in white tee and dirty jeans. His dark eyes had a look that bordered on panic, and the corners of his mouth trembled under a straggly brown mustache. His long, tapered fingers were closed around a pipe wrench. He raised it.
I took a step back. The kid was scared, and sometimes scared people react violently. But Dottie stood her ground, wielding a natural authority that was far more intimidating than the pipe wrench.
"/ am Dr. Riddle," she said imperiously. "I let myself in with a key from the chairman's office so I could document this mess. Who the hell arej/ow?"
The young man stared at her uncertainly, his upper lip twitching. Then he turned to the sink, dropped to one knee, and applied the wrench to the trap under the sink with a surprising strength. "My name is K-K-Kevin Scott," he said, twisting the wrench as if he were wringing somebody's neck. "I work here." I wondered if he ever cursed the fate that had saddled him with a name he couldn't say without stuttering.
Dottie's tone was caustic. "If by 'work here' you mean that
you're responsible for this facility, you're doing a piss-poor job. There are at least a dozen violations of the USDA animal care code. Drainage, ventilation, lighting, sanitation, cage space, food storage—and that's not the end of it. An inspector would throw the book at you."
Kevin stood up, blinking rapidly. His face was pasty and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I couldn't tell whether he was scared to death of Dottie, overwhelmed by the presence of two aggressive-looking women, or borderline psychotic. He spoke with deliberate slowness, trying to control his nervous stuttering.
"I'm only p-p-paid for t-ten hours a week. I've got to hold another job to stay in school, so I can't afford to spend extra t-time here. In t-t-ten hours, it's all I can do to feed, change the water, and clean the worst c-c-cages." He gnawed at his lip. "The c-c-cage washer broke down in January, right after I was hired. They haven't b-b-bothered to fix it."
"Why doesn't the
I looked around, incredulous at the dirt, the neglect, the wretched conditions. The sight dispelled any myths I might have held about how scientists treated their animal subjects. "God," I breathed. "This isawfulV
Dottie stepped forward, aimed the camera at the bank of guinea pigs, and shot. The flash was blinding in the dark room. "It's worse than awful," she said, cocking the camera. "I assume that Harwick is holding the guinea pigs for his experiment. The rest—the frogs, the reptiles, the rodents—are headed for his vertebrate anatomy lab." She recocked and took a close-up of an open feed sack in which a dozen disgusting cockroaches were having lunch. "He insists on having students prepare dissections themselves, under his supervision. Which means starting with live animals."
I frowned. "What else would he start with?"
"Prepared specimens from supply houses. That's how most
departments handle it." She bent over and took a shot of a cage that contained a huddle of white mice, the waste tray beneath overflowing. "Normally, only about a dozen cages are kept here. The number of animals here now is far more than the room can accommodate. They're not being cared for, either." She straightened, gesturing sharply, her anger building. "Look at this mess. The cages are unspeakable. Some of the animals have no water. The ceiling paint is flaking, the spigot leaks, the floor drain has backed up, and that vent up there in the ceiling is rusted shut. There's no air circulation at all, not even a—"
The door behind us opened. "Who are you?" a high-pitched, tremulous voice demanded. "How'd you get in? What are you doing with that camera?"
I whirled. The speaker was a slender, intense young man of twenty or twenty-one, in white tee and dirty jeans. His dark eyes had a look that bordered on panic, and the corners of his mouth trembled under a straggly brown mustache. His long, tapered fingers were closed around a pipe wrench. He raised it.
I took a step back. The kid was scared, and sometimes scared people react violently. But Dottie stood her ground, wielding a natural authority that was far more intimidating than the pipe wrench.
"/ am Dr. Riddle," she said imperiously. "I let myself in with a key from the chairman's office so I could document this mess. Who the hell arej/ow?"
The young man stared at her uncertainly, his upper lip twitching. Then he turned to the sink, dropped to one knee, and applied the wrench to the trap under the sink with a surprising strength. "My name is K-K-Kevin Scott," he said, twisting the wrench as if he were wringing somebody's neck. "I work here." I wondered if he ever cursed the fate that had saddled him with a name he couldn't say without stuttering.
Dottie's tone was caustic. "If by 'work here' you mean that
you're responsible for this facility, you're doing a piss-poor job. There are at least a dozen violations of the USDA animal care code. Drainage, ventilation, lighting, sanitation, cage space, food storage—and that's not the end of it. An inspector would throw the book at you."
Kevin stood up, blinking rapidly. His face was pasty and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I couldn't tell whether he was scared to death of Dottie, overwhelmed by the presence of two aggressive-looking women, or borderline psychotic. He spoke with deliberate slowness, trying to control his nervous stuttering.
"I'm only p-p-paid for t-ten hours a week. I've got to hold another job to stay in school, so I can't afford to spend extra t-time here. In t-t-ten hours, it's all I can do to feed, change the water, and clean the worst c-c-cages." He gnawed at his lip. "The c-c-cage washer broke down in January, right after I was hired. They haven't b-b-bothered to fix it."
"Why doesn't the
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