The next day, María visits the Río Rosa Zoo. It was a sunny, humid day with the lingering stench of animals in the air that sent a have of nostalgia through her. Before she even reached the front doors, the peacocks could be heard squawking. As she enters the front doors, she sees the lines of families waiting their turn to get tickets for entry and the gifts in the shop promoting various types of animals through the medium of trinkets.
María reaches the ticket counter. “Good morning, Special Agent María Ortiz and I’m here to meet with Dr. David Skipa,” she flashes her badge.
“Oh!” the young woman behind the counter seemed shocked by the presentation of the badge. “I suppose you can go in. Do you know where his office is?” she asked
“I know where the building is, yes,” María explained and headed into the zoo.
The layout was familiar, but the sights were different than what she remembered. New posters featuring new animals. Banners showcasing exhibits. Advertisements for food creations she wouldn’t even think to put together as a child. She made her way to the east side of the park and found the herpetology building that houses a variety of reptiles and amphibians. She walked in and through the crowds of families there before her; looking into the glass enclosures holding snakes, frogs, turtles, and lizards.
“Special Agent Ortiz!” a man cried out. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Dr. David Skipa,” he extended his hand.
María was caught off guard by the sudden recognition, yet unfamiliarity, of the man. She met his hand with hers and said “Dr. Skipa. Yes… thank you for meeting with me.” The confusion from being identified quickly had washed away from her face. “Please, call me María.”
“Only if you call me Dave,” he laughed. He must have noticed the confusion across María’s face because he said next, “Didn’t mean to catch you off guard there! I knew you were coming and, well, you don’t really blend in with the surroundings,” he gestured broadly to the crowd. “Some animals want to be seen and others don’t, but they all stick out when they’re not in the right environment.”
She looked down at her black blazer and pants, noticed it didn’t blend in with the families wearing colorful clothing, and blushed a little, embarrassed she didn’t fit the part of someone enjoying a day at the zoo. “May we talk in your office?” she snapped back into her professionalism.
“Absolutely!” Dave exclaimed excitedly for any excuse to talk about his life’s work.
They both took a seat. María pulls out a notepad and pen for notes.
“I’m not in any trouble, am I?” Dave laughed awkwardly. He was just an awkward man in general.
“No, sir. I have a couple questions pertaining to an ongoing case. I can’t share many details, but I need to know about batrachotoxin,” she explains.
“Wow!” Dave shouts. “That makes a lot more sense now. I knew none of my animals were missing and that child bitten by Randy had a waiver filled out and medical bills covered…” he trails off.
María was unimpressed by the story of the bitten child.
“Randy is our blue-tongued skink. Harmless creatures that we… I guess used to… let kids handle with supervision. The bite didn’t even break the skin. Just scared the child…You were saying?” Dave looks at María.
“Bat-,” María starts.
“Batrachotoxin! Yes!” Dave interrupts. "It’s a naturally produced toxin by many frogs in the Phyllobates genus here in Deidadios and throughout South America. It actually isn’t natural to the frog itself but from its diet. The working theory is these frogs eat beetles that contain the toxin and absorb it. It’s extremely hard to do field work on these kinds of things, but frogs in captivity and given a “normal” diet of other insects and grubs do not produce the toxin," Dave rambles on.
María jots down the notes. “The frogs don’t produce the toxin?” she asks.
“Not naturally, no. Kind of like how flamingoes turn pink from their diet. The frogs wouldn’t produce the toxin without eating this beetle. For instance, none of our dart frogs in house are toxic. I handle them all of the time, but we never let children play with them. We don’t want to promote interactions between these frogs and humans in the event they come across them in the wild. We do a lot of conservation work trying to preserve the frogs’ habitat. And the unfortunate reality is that as humans expand into the wild and natural environment, encounters tend to increase in frequency,” Dave spews out.
María just listens.
“But I haven’t heard of any cases where someone was poisoned by a frog. Skin absorption would take copious amounts; more than a threatened frog could produce, and that would be on top of catching the damned thing. Elusive little bastards,” Dave huffs.
“What about ingesting the poison?” María trying to keep the conversation on track.
“I would hope no one would eat one of these creatures,” Dave frowns.
María rolls her eyes. “Could someone use the toxin produced by the frog to poison someone’s food or drink?” María getting to the point of her being there.
“OH!” Dave exclaims. “It is theoretically possible, but would be extremely difficult. Like I said, catching the frog is quite the task even if you are looking for it. Then I shutter to think what the frog would have to go through to produce enough of the toxin,” Dave shivers. “Tribes that used the frog for its namesake would basically torture the poor things to get it to produce the toxin. One frog would be plenty to take down an animals or a human, but that’s with a dart, not forcing someone to ingest the toxin.”
“So, the poison collected from a single frog could be put into someone’s food or drink, ingested by the target, and enough to cause death?” María trying to get straight to the point.
“Again, theoretically possible. Not how I would do it… Not that I would!!… it’s a very inefficient way to go about that method. The toxin breaks down and loses potency as its diluted and heated. You wouldn’t be able to cook with it. Something like 100°F is the maximum active temperature. You could mix it into a nice vinaigrette, I suppose,” Dave trails off in thought.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Skipa,” María starts to leave.
“Would you like to see our specimens?” Dave offers.
“Sure,” agrees María. She figures she should be thorough in her visit.
“Right this way,” Dave leads her to the enclosure of beautifully colored frogs. “That’s Nancy. And that’s John. And that’s Bartholomew. And that’s….”
Her mind trails off and stops listening as she observes the one golden poison frog in the enclosure. It almost appears to stare back at her with its large black eyes. Its golden skin contrasts strikingly against the green leaf it has perched itself on. Droplets of mist sit on its back. It turns away from her and jumps behind a log, disappearing with one hop, as if it didn’t want her eyes upon it.
