Crossroads Revisited (5 page)

“Hmm, well, your mother took the
notebook. Did you receive it?”

“No, I did not, sir, but I haven’t seen
to my mother yet today.”

“I suggest you contact her tonight and
retrieve your notebook.” He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I
sensed she’s worried about you.”

Rand’s heart thudded. “You did? Did you
tell her anything else, sir?”

“Now what else would I tell her, that
you watch meadowlarks mate instead of participating in class? Hmm? Should I
have told her that?”

“No, sir, she would be upset with me.”

“As am I, young man.” His tone softened.
“Does your mother have a husband?  Perhaps I should speak to your father about
your latent distractions and boredom in class. I’m certain he’d want to know
how his money is being frittered away.”

“Not anymore.”

Flashbacks of his father rose behind his
eyelids, and tears surfaced. He fought them back and looked into McBride’s
eyes. “He died about six years ago, shot during a bank robbery.”

The man stilled and studied him. “I’m
sorry to hear that, but I don’t think he’d be proud of your behavior these
days. Hear me well, Mr. Brennan, I won’t tolerate sloth. If you don’t plan to
be an active member of my class, I’ll be forced to ask you to withdraw.”

“It won’t happen again…that thing with
the meadowlarks. I promise to improve. You can count on that, Doctor McBride.”

“Good, do we have an understanding?”

Rand nodded.

“One more thing and you may leave. As
you know, I’m new to Johns Hopkins, and although I don’t personally know the
young men who recently died, what do you attribute it to?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“It’s a simple question. Do you believe
the students walked into the Patuxent like the police claim or do you think
nefarious undertakings are underfoot?”

He hesitated and wondered which answer
the man wanted. Deciding to go with his gut feeling he said, “I don’t believe
it’s possible that five men, about the same age, would die under the same
circumstances in the same city without some assistance.”

An interminable amount of time passed
before McBride spoke. “In other words, you believe, as do others, a serial
killer stalks the streets of Baltimore?”

“Yes, sir, I think it’s more than
likely.”

“Very well, Mr. Brennan, our little
tête-à-tête is over. Remember what I said about participating in class from
this day forward.”

“You can count on it, sir.”

With that, Rand scrambled from the desk
and rushed out the door of the classroom, too horny at the moment to think
about anything but jacking off in the restroom.

Chapter Four

Frank picked up his briefcase, closed
the door to his office, and stopped at his assistant’s desk. “I’m leaving for
the day, Grace. I have several stops before I meet Hayworth at my home.”

“You have an appointment at eight bells
in the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Dondelinger.”

“The name rings familiar. Who are they
again?”

“Husband and wife from New Jersey. Their
eighteen-year-old daughter disappeared two months ago.”

He chewed on his lower lip. “Oh, yes,
after prom.”

Grace nodded. “You spoke to them on the
phone a week ago and promised to sniff a piece of her clothing, see if you can
channel a location where they might find her.”

“Very funny, Grace. Must you use the
word
sniff
?”

“What’s wrong with that? I think in
another life you were a wolfhound or perhaps a tracker.”

“See you at eight,” he said with a shake
of his head.

He didn’t really have several stops to
make, but he wanted to get home, dim the lights, and channel his Inner Spirit.
With any luck, something would cut through the dissimulated messages. He’d have
to meditate before Hayworth arrived, and of course, Rand would be home at
seven.

He parked the Denali in his usual underground
parking spot, locked it and, too tired to tackle the stairs, took the elevator
to the main level. After dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table, he lit
the candles in the great room, left the lights off, and settled into the La-Z-Boy.
Without an object in his hand, he’d have to delve deep into meditation, place
himself in a subconscious state, and hope something—anything—would materialize.

Five minutes into a series of deep belly
breaths, his sixth chakra opened—the Inner Eye. He willed his muscles to relax
and closed his eyes, studying the shield that always appeared. The screen
wasn’t important, but rather the images that, with any luck, would appear. A
kaleidoscope of colors writhed before him—white, red, and yellow—similar to the
longitudinal
stripes on garter snakes.
He focused on the twisting ribbons
without attempting to interpret them right now. That step came later when his
consciousness shifted, and hopefully he’d slip into a dreamlike state. Only
during that stage would his mind be malleable enough to connect with his Inner
Spirit, the channel pitching him into a higher level of awareness.

Scenes flashed through his head, a
montage of vague distortions. Snapshots of the victims rushed forth, hazier
than the water they floated in. Their arms akimbo, their legs flaccid, there
could be no doubt they were dead.

Frank placed his fingers to his cheeks
to ease the sudden pain to his sinuses. He struggled to breathe, and in the
next instant developed a full-blown nosebleed. Warm and sticky, the blood
trickled into his mouth and stained his shirt.

“Jesus,” he said, jumping up from the
chair. He swore again with the realization the sudden, intense onset of a
bloody nose had jolted him from his meditative state.

In the process of ripping a paper towel
from the dispenser on the kitchen counter, the doorbell rang. Clutching the
towel to his nose, he answered the door. “Sorry, Hayworth, little problem
here.”

“Good God, man. Here, tip your head
back,” he said, leading him to the sofa. “Lie back. I know a little about
nosebleeds, used to get them all the time as a child.”

Frank put his head back and realized
he’d sat down on the paddle. He shifted his weight, and with one hand holding
the towel, used the other to stuff the instrument between the cushions.
Hayworth dashed into the kitchen, grabbed another towel, and exchanged it for
the bright red one under Frank’s nose.

“Am I supposed to pinch my nostrils?”
Frank said, the words echoing inside his head.

“I don’t think so. You’re supposed to
just let it flow and keep your head back.”

Almost as suddenly as it had started,
the gushing of blood ceased. “Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever had a nosebleed.”
Frank kept the towel under his nose and gazed up at Reuben. “Ah, shit, you’ve
got blood all over your white shirt.”

“Not a problem,” Hayworth said with a
smile. “I brought others.”

Lightheaded, the paper towel still under
his nose, Frank staggered to his feet, and stretched his arm out. “Take it off,
and let me put it to soak. You’re supposed to do it right away when it’s
blood.”

“Really, it’s not a―”

“I insist.”

Hayworth shrugged. “All right, but I’ve
had much worse on my shirt, I assure you.”

Frank took the shirt from his hand, put
it to soak in the kitchen sink with some Dawn dish soap and motioned for
Hayworth to follow him. “My computer is all set up in my bedroom. We can spread
the file out on the bed.”

“Suits me, but are you sure you’re up to
looking at it? I can return tomorrow.”

“Nah, I’m fine now. Stressful day, I
guess. 

Several minutes later, the documents had
been sorted by Hayworth into neat little piles. “Everything is here—toxicology
and autopsy reports, recent snapshots of the men, and crime scene photos
arranged by victim according to the date they were found.”

Kneeling by the bed, Hayworth handed
Frank the first set of papers. He flipped through them while standing over
Reuben’s shoulders and his knees buckled. “They died from cardiac arrest
secondary to drowning?” He searched frantically for the autopsy report. “Jesus,
self-induced heroin?”

Hayworth handed him the next pile.
“That’s the ME’s findings after all the toxicology reports, tissue samples, and,
after examining the heart.” Reuben rubbed his forehead. “Specific gross
physical signs from drowning aren’t visible, unless they were strangled or
assaulted in another manner.”

“Did they drown or not?”

“Sometimes determining that the victim
drowned is difficult, and often another diagnosis arises only through
exclusion. The circumstances of death are more important than autopsy findings.
If there is no evidence of trauma or natural disease to explain the death, and
if the victim is found in water, an inexperienced ME might state the death came
from drowning in and of itself.

“The reason for the confusion is because
few if any pathological findings at autopsy will indicate that the person
drowned.” Papers exchanged hands as Hayworth handed Frank the reports on victim
number three. “Thank goodness, the ME who worked on the case is one of the top
in her field and didn’t assume they died from drowning alone, but conducted
extensive toxicology tests.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Five men
injected heroin, left the bar of their own volition, walked into the river and
drowned?”

“They were alive when they entered that
water.”

“How do you know?”

“The heroin injected wasn’t enough to
kill them, but incapacitated them, and the rest is complicated, Frank.”

“Try me.”

“If the victim is conscious when he
enters the water, he struggles to breathe and this causes a great deal of
pressure to the sinuses and the lungs. The ME would expect to find hemorrhaging
into the sinuses and airways as well as debris from the water, which is then
sucked into the sinuses and lungs while attempting to breathe.”

Frank snorted. “As in bloody nose?”

Hayworth glanced over his shoulder and
looked directly at Frank’s nose. “Yes,” he said. Measuring his words he added,
“That’s why you had the nosebleed, isn’t it?”

“Bingo.”

“Did you see anything else while you
were…”

“No, the pain in my sinuses came sudden
and intense. Next, the blood gushed and pulled me out of my meditative state.”

Hayworth handed him a small plastic bag
filled with pebbles and algae. “From victim number four, and there’s a similar
bag for number five.”

“What does this suggest?”

“That the victims were alive when they
went into the water. Plants or rocks from the bottom of the river were found in
their hands—presumptive evidence that they grabbed them during their struggle
to survive.”

“And the heart attack occurred next?”

Hayworth nodded again. “They panicked
and the heroin in their system didn’t help.”

“You’re the special agent, just lay it
out.”

“The heroin injection wasn’t enough to
kill them, but would definitely hinder their physical and emotional faculties
if placed in a life-threatening situation.”

“So they didn’t have the cardiac arrest
from an overdose?”

Hayworth shook his head. “The Medical
Examiner doesn’t believe so at this point.”

“And they had the wherewithal to function
as long as they weren’t...”

“Dumped into the river.”

“A minute ago you said, ‘the heroin
injected.’ You didn’t say
they
injected it.”

“Your prior time as a cop is shining
through, McGuire.”

“Yeah, comes from too many
interrogations and cherry-picking words.” Frank glanced at his watch and
thought about Rand. He should be arriving any minute. “What are we going to
tell the parents tomorrow night?”

“I need more time, Frank. We can’t tell
them someone injected them with heroin and tossed them into the river. Holy
fucking panic would break out, not to mention we’d be alerting the killer.”

“Any suspects?”

“I’m afraid so, and I hate to be the one
to break the news to you.”

Frank’s heart thrummed in triple beats.
He felt the cloud descend faster than a veil of black satin thrown over his
eyes. “I prefer my bad news straight up.”

“I’ve done a little snooping into your
past.”

“Why, for Christ sake? Do you suspect
me?”

“Of course not,” Hayworth said. “A
cautious man by nature, I’d rather know everything about people before I work
with them.”

“How did you know I’d work with you on
this case?”

“Once I told you someone of particular
interest is involved, I figured you’d come around.”

Frank didn’t say anything, but felt as
though someone had siphoned all the blood from his veins.