Manner of Death and Means of Murder

Lone Star Tick Image from
dailynewsdig.com

“Death by misadventure,” a phrase describing manner of death catches my ear and stimulates my imagination. “Unintended consequences” does too. Both spring from the concept of “accident” but imply some sort of human intent, though not necessarily “good” intent or “well considered” intent.

The idea of someone meriting a Darwin Award by bumbling into their own death does not make for a good murder mystery, in my opinion. However, if a third party bumbles into someone’s death while that third party is involved in some nefarious activity – now I’m interested. Or if the dead person colluded in the crime. Or some other crime.

If the dead person were an innocent, and the murderer a jealous lover or crooked business partner or a crazed serial killer, the story very well may not be a mystery at all, but a news story. And those stories can and do inspire murder mystery writers.

All murder mystery writers understand that the most dangerous animal in the woods is homo sapiens sapiens – modern humans. Naturally, the fact that most murder mystery readers are modern humans makes them inordinately interested in what their confreres do or have done to them.

As to “means of murder.”

Agatha Christie was particularly fond of poison. Check out the Agatha Christie section of Torre Abbey Gardens in her hometown of Torquey, England. (May have to add Torquey to my Bucket List.) John LesCroart’s The First Law uses guns – up to and including a major shoot-out. (Maybe I should put San Francisco on the Bucket List.) Nevada Barr in Ill Wind takes advantage of a geologic peculiarity. (Definitely should put Mesa Verde on the ole Bucket List. It’s a lot closer to my house.)

My husband’s education and a lot of his professional experience is in the field of Veterinary Medicine. He says “The most dangerous animal in the woods, after man, is the tick.” Just imagine a man with a tick.

What an intriguing thought. Ticks, as described in Wikipedia, will make your blood run cold and reach for the DEET. And that’s just reading about them.

They have eight legs like their arachnid relatives, spiders and mites. They meet all their nutritional needs by sucking blood. They can carry disease-causing bacteria, viruses, and protozoa. Indeed, they can carry more than one pathogen at the same time making diagnosis and treatment more difficult.

In far southeast Arkansas, where we had a veterinary clinic, my husband provided blood samples from our patients with ehrlichiosis to Dr. Sidney Ewing at Oklahoma State University School of Veterinary Medicine. Ehrlichiosis is caused by members of the genus Ehrlichia, a genus of bacteria named for the German microbiologist Paul Ehrlich. One of those little beasties is Ehrlichia Ewingii, named for OSU's Dr. Ewing. (Rather a perverse honor, I think – having a disease causing agent named for you.)

Ehrlichiosis in dogs and humans has long been successfully treated with Doxycycline but some of our cases were proving to be drug resistant. And untreated or unsuccessfully treated, the disease is lethal.

The important thing in treating any tick-borne disease is beginning treatment immediately which requires early diagnosis or at least awareness that the sufferer has been exposed to a tick so treatment can be started. 

Just think, if the intended victim had not been in the woods – maybe did not even live in an area known to be a tick-bite risk area . . . .

The murderer could acquire the ticks elsewhere. Overnight by UPS then give the little buggers easy access to a blood source to keep them alive – say a mouse the murderer is not particularly fond of. And then access to the victim -- say in the hair behind the ear.

The local medics wouldn’t know to ask about recent tick bites or look for ehrlichia or promptly start proper treatment. Voila – Murder by Tick.

We'll Be Fine -- Flash Fiction

image from autoglassnews.co.uk

We’ll Be Fine

“We’ll get everything all set up before the boys get there. We’ll be just fine,” she said.

And we were. For two-hundred and fifty-three miles. Then we stopped for a late lunch on the north side of the lake.

“Just a hop, skip, and a jump,” she said as we pulled away from Red’s on the Lake Café where the elite meet to eat, according to the sign.

Most of the trees still had their leaves, but the fall colors had faded to a uniform brown promising winter. At least there wouldn’t be any chiggers or ticks. And the way the temperature was dropping, the snakes should be denned up.

Then it rained. Freezing rain slashed across the windshield. The defroster and windshield wipers were helpless in the onslaught.

“Can you see?” I asked.

“Not very well, dear.” She slowed to little more than a crawl, which seemed recklessly fast to me.

“Maybe we should turn back,” I suggested.

“It’s closer to go on. We’ll be fine.”

Forty-five minutes of adrenalin induced gut twisting on some God-forsaken country road finally dumped us out in front of the cabin. After that drive, it didn’t look so bad.

“It won’t take us long to get the lights on and the heat.” She pulled up close to the porch. “We don’t need to bring everything in tonight. Just the things that might freeze.”

I’d never gotten so wet and cold as quickly as I did from the car to the door.

She flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. She flicked it several times. Still no light.

“Probably just the breaker, dear.” She rummaged in her purse until she found a flashlight. “Just put that stuff down on the table. It won’t take a jiffy.”

But it wasn’t the breaker. The power was off.

“Probably a tree down on the lines. Or ice.” She opened the cabinet and brought out a kerosene lantern. She waved her flashlight toward the fireplace. “Bring me one of those matches. We’ll get some light in here and start a fire. We’ll be fine.”

The lamplight flickered and sputtered as she opened the back door letting in a gust of arctic air. And again when she reentered with both arms full of firewood. She skillfully laid the wood, strategically placing slivers of fat pine. She applied a match, and it caught. The tension across my shoulders relaxed and I sat on the quilt-padded bench before the fireplace.

Then the fire belched sending clouds of suffocating, eye-burning smoke into the room.

“Just the damper, dear. Silly me. I had it closed. Help me open the windows.”

Cold wind blew through the cabin while the fire danced, merrily mocking us.

“With the power off we’ll have no water, but there’s an outhouse thirty feet or so from the back door. As cold as it is we sure won’t dawdle if nature calls,” she said, laughing.

“At least the bears should be hibernating,” I said, trying to join in her eternal optimism.

“I don’t think Oklahoma bears hibernate, dear.”

No, the way things were going, they probably didn’t.

I made a quick trip to the outhouse and a quicker trip to the car to get a bottle of very nice pinot noir. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight or a chamber pot, but I had brought wine.

We’d be fine.