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TwitThisAn Excruciating Ordeal
Beaupre, a Vietnam veteran who once spent nine weeks in the hospital with meningitis, wasn't about to go to the emergency room for a little stomach bug. He spent Sunday night at home, his wife, Louise (who has never tasted coffee in her life), keeping him hydrated with Gatorade. On Monday, says Louise, "when they called and told me about Reid's death, I said to Lester, 'Okay, this is it. Put your clothes on.' " On the way to the hospital, Lester remembers, the snowbanks looked purple. "That's when I knew this was serious," he recalls.Arsenic travels rapidly to every organ in the body, where it slows the conversion of oxygen to energy. Without energy, the heart's electrical activity falters, lungs fill with fluid, kidneys fail, nerve tissue is damaged, and the brain starts to short-circuit. Arsenic can affect almost anything and everything in the anatomy, which is why symptoms can range from cardiac arrest to seeing purple snow.
The most effective proven antidote is a drug known as British anti-lewisite, or BAL. It attaches to the arsenic molecules, drawing them out of the bloodstream and into the urine. It's a nasty drug to administer; the only way to ingest BAL is by mixing it with peanut oil, then injecting the greasy solution directly into muscle tissue -- an excruciating ordeal.
It's also expensive, costing hundreds of dollars per dose. The price, and the rarity of arsenic poisoning, explains why BAL is not lying around on hospital pharmacy shelves. But with foresight that now seems miraculous, in the wake of the 2001 terrorist attacks Dr. Tomassoni had persuaded Maine's Bureau of Health to purchase BAL doses for the state's largest hospitals.
As the victims endured painful treatment and round-the-clock fluid testing, more bad news came on Friday: Church member Daniel Bondeson, a 53-year-old bachelor potato farmer, nurse's aide and high school ski coach, fatally shot himself in the chest. In his farmhouse, where he was discovered by his brother Carl, was a note in which he implicated himself in the tragedy, according to police.
The victims were stunned. "Danny was a friend of ours," says Dick Ruggles. Lester Beaupre had gone to high school with Bondeson; he still describes him as "probably the nicest person you'll ever meet."
Bondeson, a former member of the church council, was a quiet man, but active in the community. Dr. Harrigan had run in races with him. Another victim, Ralph Ostlund, often skied with him. Says Erich Margeson, "Danny was always interested in helping people if they had a problem." Louise Beaupre, who describes Bondeson as "pleasant but shy," says, "My feeling is he just snapped. There's no logical reason. It's beyond comprehension."
But why?
"We're all scratching our heads," Erich explains. Police have not released the text of Bondeson's suicide letter. But Alan Harding, an attorney representing Bondeson's estate, told local newspapers that in the note Bondeson said he wanted to give five church members a "bellyache" like they had given him. Harding also said the note indicated Bondeson did not know the poison was arsenic. Lieutenant Appleton won't comment on Harding's statements except to stress that the lawyer has not personally seen the letter. One theory is that Bondeson was angry because his family had given the church a communion table that wasn't being used. "There were some hurt feelings," says one church member. But arsenic? "It's hard to think about," says Erich Margeson.
As the community struggled to understand, police dropped another bomb: Bondeson, they said, without offering additional details, did not act alone. Church members say they have no idea why police would have come to this conclusion. Anyone could have entered the unlocked church kitchen during the Saturday bake sale or before Sunday service. When residents of New Sweden, many of whom didn't even own keys, were advised to start locking their doors, and a police guard was posted at the hospital, Alana Margeson says, "the air in the community was so heavy."
Months later, New Sweden hasn't lightened up much, and detectives are no closer to an arrest, although they say they have one or more suspects.
Meanwhile, doctors can only speculate on the survivors' long-term prognosis; elevated cancer risk is one scary possibility. Fran Ruggles had a painful outbreak of shingles that lasted weeks. Dick still has back pain that might be nerve-related. And many survivors deal daily with crushing fatigue. Lester Beaupre was the last victim to be released from the hospital, almost five weeks after the poisoning. The tubes that kept him alive injured his throat, and he had a tracheotomy during his hospital stay. He still feels numbness in his face and extremities.
The community is also numb. "We're not innocent anymore," says Louise Beaupre. Healing, in every sense of the word, will take time. On a bright summer Sunday four months after the poisoning, victims were again gathering with their neighbors to pray at Gustaf Adolph church. Fran Ruggles helped serve communion as sunlight filtered through the church's stained-glass windows. Erich Margeson, Lester Beaupre and other victims recited from the Book of Psalms: "Who among you loves life and desires long life to enjoy prosperity?" At the bottom of the day's prayer list was the simple line "For the arsenic victims." And resting on the counter of the adjoining kitchen, plainly visible from the pews, was a new coffee urn.
It is an uncomfortable reminder of the tragedy, but more visceral is the knowledge that Danny Bondeson's accomplice could be in the next pew. That makes worship understandably difficult, even for the most forgiving of souls. Admits Lester Beaupre, "You look around at church and wonder who did it."
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