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shelter by one of the volunteers who had involved the police because three of his “regulars” had been missing from the food line. He had found out from their associates, not the most reliable for telling the truth, that they had all apparently died from a drug overdose. While he assured Gonzalez that the life span of most of those who frequented his shelter - or just came over for food - was pretty short, it was the first time he had lost three in one week.
    Detective Gonzalez said he would look into it and check with the Dade County Coroner to see if they had indeed been taken to the morgue. At least, that way, they could find out if they hadn’t just picked up and moved on. He finished taking down their names and descriptions in his notebook, secretly looking forward to picking up a plate of carne mechada and fried plantains and a “marroncito”, one of those strong Cuban coffees which was a secret vice of his, and going back to the cool of his office where he could work the phones. While he said nothing to the volunteer, alarm bells were going off in his head. These three new deaths would bring the week’s toll to over thirty. The Coroner had already started examining some of the bodies and had found they had all died from heroin laced with strychnine. He bet that the three reported by the kindly Salvation Army volunteer would fall into that same group. Somebody, somewhere, was selling poisoned dope - as if it weren’t poison enough already - and the addicts were dropping like flies. He had seen drugs cut with all sorts of chemicals from PCP, which made them crazy and violent, to talcum powder and household cleaners. Sometimes his job really shook his faith in human nature, especially when he saw some of the heinous acts perpetrated on the vulnerable and desperate. He wondered how long it would be before the press got wind of it all… and what they would make of it.
    Later, back in his office, he learned that the three Army shelter junkies were “cooling off” down at the morgue. He was talking to the Coroner’s secretary on the telephone when his colleague tapped him on the shoulder.
    “Hey, Gonzalez.”
    “What’s up Hofstein?” Gonzalez covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
    “I overheard your conversation. One of the guys from Vice just came back from a vacation in Bermuda. He said they’ve had three deaths there. Two of them were drug overdoses. Heroin, I think. Any chance this could be connected?”
    “Hey, Sharon. Thanks. I’ll call you back.” He replaced the receiver.
    He turned to his colleague. “Dunno, but it’s worth checking out. Maybe I’ll get an all expenses paid trip to Bermuda! Can you find out who’s handling the case?”
    “You can just look up the Bermuda Gazette’s website. That’s their largest newspaper. It’ll probably have his name in the article. If not, we can go through the regular channels.”
    “Thanks, Hofstein. That’s helpful. I’ll let you know what I find out. Might be worth checking some of the other county sheriffs too to see if they’ve noticed anything like this in their neck of the woods.”
    Lighting a cigarette and exhaling a pall of grey smoke, Detective Gonzalez leaned forward in his chair and with both stubby, nicotine-stained index fingers, slowly began to type on his computer. What he read in the Bermuda Gazette began to make his blood circulate just that little bit faster. He could feel a tendril of curiosity beginning to take shape and nudge at his brain. “What if this is not just a coincidence? What if this is much bigger than it seems; what if this is a case of global proportions? Drugs get shipped all over the world. What if people start to die in Europe and Asia? This could be worse than bird flu. What if it was backed by terrorism or the Aryan League?” Gonzalez’s imagination was running away with him. Little did he know how close he was to the truth.
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 10
     
    “Think of a number, and then double