“Here it is,” he said. “Ketamine. Have a look.”
He put the notebook on the desk between them, turned it so that Goncalves could read, and pushed it closer.
Unlike many doctors who treat people, Polo had a fine and very legible hand. Goncalves ran his finger down the column with the dates. The records for the drug went back more than four years.
“How long did you say Edson has been here?”
“Three years.”
Goncalves turned the pages. Each entry was in the same handwriting. Nothing was crossed out or obliterated. Nothing appeared to have been altered. He turned to the last page and checked the final listing.
“It says here,” he said, “you have seven vials on hand.”
“And I do.”
“Would you do me a favor and check?”
The vet stood up, went to a grey cabinet standing in the corner of his office and used his key to open it.
“Here,” he said. “Count them yourself.”
Goncalves did. There were seven. He took one out and examined it.
“Would this be enough to put a human being to sleep?”
“I’m a vet, remember? Not an anesthetist. But I can tell you this: there’s enough Ketamine in that vial to knock out ten medium-sized dogs. If I used it all in one syringe, it would do for a horse.”
“Thank you, Doc-Laerte. I appreciate your cooperation. Could I see Edson now?”
“Certainly. Stay here. I’ll send him in. Then I’ll go try to satisfy my mother’s curiosity.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Goncalves had no preconceived notion of what Mello’s partner might look like, but he certainly didn’t expect what he got.
Edson Campos was a hollow-chested slip of a man with thinning brown hair and a wart on his chin. In a suit and tie, he might have looked at home in a bank; in his light-brown scrubs, he looked like someone trying, unsuccessfully, to look as if he belonged in a veterinary clinic.
Goncalves introduced himself.
Edson’s reaction was immediate.
“Goncalves? My partner told me about you. You’re the one who went to his office and harassed him.”
“Harassed him? He told you I harassed him?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I did’t.”
“He said you did.”
“And I’m saying I did’t. Could I see your identity card, please?”
“I can’t imagine why he’d tell me you did, if you-”
“The card, please.”
Edson searched his wallet, located the card and handed it over.
Goncalves made a note of Edson’s RG-his national registration number-and checked his date of birth. The vet tech was thirty-three, but appeared to be older. He also appeared to be nervous.
“I have sixteen cages to clean before I go home,” he said.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Goncalves said. “Are you familiar with the drug Ketamine?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Goncalves considered telling him to stop beating around the bush and to answer the question. But then it occurred to him he’d probably get more cooperation if he told him about the syringe. So he did.
Edson folded his arms protectively across his hollow chest.
“It seems to us,” Goncalves went on, “that someone who elected to use Ketamine is likely to be someone familiar with veterinary medicine.”
“And you think that might be me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think I stole Ketamine from Doctor Polo?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing missing from Doctor Polo’s stock; I checked that already. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The source of the drug isn’t the key issue here.”
“What’s the key issue?”
“The knowledge of Ketamine: what it is, and how it works.”
“I know what it is, and I know how it works. I’m a vet tech, for Christ’s sake. But if you think I had anything to do with the abduction of that woman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m no kidnapper.”
“No?”
“No. First you persecute my partner and now you’re persecuting me. What is it with you people?”
“Do you know Juraci Santos?”
“Yeah. I know her. Her poodle, Twiggy, is one of our patients.”
“Not any more.”
“What?”
“Twiggy is dead. The kidnappers killed her.”
Edson looked shocked.
“Killed her? Killed Twiggy? Why? She was the sweetest little thing. And she wouldn’t have posed a threat to anyone.”
“We don’t really know why they killed her. But they did.”
“How… how did they do it?”
“Broke her back, apparently.”
Edson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. For a moment, Goncalves thought he might cry.
“Jesus,” he said. “Poor Twiggy.”
Goncalves paused for a few seconds, then said, “Could we get back to the Ketamine?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure. The Ketamine. Well, what you’re suggesting…”
“Yes?”
“It’s just ridiculous. I’d be scared to use that stuff on a human being.”
“You would?”
“Anybody would. Anybody who isn’t a doctor. Ketamine is an anesthetic. You give someone too much of an anesthetic, and it’ll kill them.”
“How much is too much?”
“For a person? I have no idea. Ask me about a dog. Or a cat. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Let’s move on.”
“Move on to what?”
“The secondary issue: sourcing. Suppose you couldn’t steal the stuff from a clinic, and you needed to get your hands on some Ketamine, how would you go about it?”
“I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.”
“Not you. Some other guy. A kidnapper.”
Edson uncrossed his arms, rubbed his chin, gave some thought to the question. “He might try a disco.”
“A disco?”
“Yeah. Drug dealers hang out in discos. So do drug users. Ketamine isn’t only used by vets. It’s a recreational drug. They call it Special K.”
“How come you know that?”
“Everybody knows that.”
“No, Senhor Campos, not everyone knows that. As a matter of fact, there are many, many people who don’t
