Terrorbyte (13 page)

Chlorine gas. I knew I'd read something about weapons' grade chlorine. Russian. Maybe it was in a reference book or a James Bond-type novel. Then I remembered: it was a documentary on unusual assassinations and carrying unusual devices through customs. A documentary on assassination attempts and the tools used.

“A Russian assassin carried chlorine gas into Britain in her luggage. It was disguised as a spray deodorant. If sprayed normally it was deodorant. When the top was struck hard against something it blew out the false base and released liquid chlorine. Chlorine gas is liquid under pressure; it resumes its gaseous state quickly. It's also flammable.”

In my mind I could see a scenario play out. Selena underestimated the force of the rain and the wind as she flung the door open and bolted from the car. While running away she threw the lighter back, expecting it to land, burning, in the car. The flame would ignite the chlorine and dispose of all evidence of her and the crash victim. 

But the car door blew shut or almost shut in the wind, as soon as she bolted from it. For whatever reason she couldn't go back to finish the job – perhaps she didn't want to – in case she was caught in a late blast. Or had time constraints.

I was hugely thankful Mac couldn't see inside my head.

“Okay … What's one and one?”

I smiled. “I have no proof that one and one makes two.”

“Reasonable people would say it's two.”

“I guess reasonable people wouldn't follow a hunch, either?” I was trying to hold the sharp edge back from my voice.

“Probably not,” he said. “Do you feel that strongly about this?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And one more thing … why the hell did he stay in a car filled with gas unless he was already unconscious and, how did she get away?”

“You said one more thing, that's two,” Mac said.

So now he can count?

I offered an idea. “She'd have to have been in the car to release the gas and would need a breathing mask. Somewhere on that road will be a mask and probably her clothing.”

“She wandered naked down the road?” There was a touch of incredulity to his tone.

“No, she went up. We went down and found zilch. She went up.”

Mac leaned back against the wall and jammed his hands into his jeans' pockets.

“Ellie, you're obsessing. How long can you afford to spend off on a tangent in the middle of a case?”

Mission Impossible
music rattled through my head. What tangent? We could be talking national security here.

“I am not spinning off on a tangent.” How rude.

“I have a suggestion,” he said. He gave me the benefit of the slow, calm voice of reason as he talked me down from the ledge. “You should call Homeland Security and tell them your concerns, then we can get back to this case.”

Yes, that was reasonable and sensible. And exactly what I should do.

My eyes met Mac's. Was it possible to literally become lost in someone's gaze?

A voice in my head spoke, ‘Snap out of it, Ellie, you're not making sense and that odd glint in Mac's eyes is worry, not romance. Hand this over to Homeland and let it fuc'n go! Just get on with it.'

I looked at his face and my eyes traced fresh lines by his eyes.

Do it now! I told myself, before he looks at you like that again. Make everything okay.

I pulled my phone from my jeans' pocket and retrieved the picture of the dead man. He was familiar. Dammit!

“Mac.” I did know something. “As crappy as passport photos are, I think this is the guy who tripped me in Richmond.” I scrutinized his face imagining him puffy, with an auburn toupee, instead of lean with very tidy short black hair.

“You're sure? I thought you said he was puffy-faced with piggy eyes and a bad red toupee?”

“He was. What would make someone puff up? Allergies? A reaction to medication? Or could a person do that on purpose to disguise themselves, like the wig,” I asked, not expecting any answers.

Mac's brow creased with thought. “You covered some winning ideas. I have nothing to add.”

“Take away the puffy medicated look and the toupee, it's the same person I spoke to in Richmond. He was a foreigner… as in Eastern Bloc … maybe a Russian. That doesn't mean he isn't a naturalized New Zealander but it's odd …” I searched my brain, replaying the incident in the street. “Markov. He said his name was Markov. Why would a stranger lie to me?”

His left eyebrow rose. “And we find him dead on the road with a different name. What are the odds?”

This was definitely weird, twilight zone and Stephen King weird. I couldn't gauge the expression in Mac's eyes. Was he humoring me?

I considered what I had said earlier. “I might have been a bit off with the whole Mossad thing.”

“Maybe, maybe not … life isn't like it was pre 9-11.”

I realized then that I had seduced Mac into my psycho-prophetic web of theories and decided it was time to act rationally. “The State Police who attended the crash will hand the info on to the appropriate agency – if they suspect something out of the ordinary,” I said, with more faith than I really had.

“You're sure?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I've got a killer to catch. But I still think he was the man I met in Richmond: Markov, a Russian. Both of them could be Russian. And we found a lighter with a Russian emblem.”

I sat down at my desk and began the arduous task of sorting crime-scene information into manageable chunks and timelines.

I spread photos of the victims over the desk. Mac marked the crime scenes on the wall map of Virginia.

“Where'd you hide the poetry book?” I asked.

I'd run out of time down in Richmond to read it, or even remember that Mac was bringing it to me.

He pulled it from a backpack leaning against my desk. “Right here.”

I flipped through a copy of our book until I found the poem. I read it through four times. The killer was taking passages, out of order, to write them around the crime scenes.

Stolen
.

When the world has done

Lost in time too tired to run

A safe place came to be…

Feeling your words surround me

Letting tears cascade…

Hoping my dues in life are paid.

Memories stolen by the night

Time sliding dividing light

Jumbled thoughts trapped inside

Who I was suddenly died…

Flashing pictures on a screen

Unsure reality dripping through a dream.

Darkness folding images like cloth

Wrapping the past in a gilded bow

Storing away the horror show

Letting tears cascade…

Hoping my dues in this life are paid.

Mixed emotions confusion reigns

Holding love in shaking hands

Touching a heart giving hope

Flashing pictures on a screen

Unsure reality becomes a crazy glued dream.

“I have our gold bow.”

“Where?” Mac asked. He perched on the edge of my desk and glanced at the book.

“‘Wrapping the past in a gilded bow
.
'” I pointed to the relevant stanza.

“No mention of anything being cleansed?”

“Nope.”

“Why this poem?” Mac asked.

“Maybe because of the content, because the Unsub could twist it to suit, or interpret it however …”

Mac's brow furrowed then he grinned. “I love it when you talk jargon to me.”

“Idiot!”

“Say it again.”

I trotted out my sexiest voice and repeated, “Unsub.”

“Dang, ya give me chills.”

A glimpse of a shadow caught my eye in the long thin window in my door. I cleared my throat. Mac turned in time to see Caine open the door.

“How goes the fight?” he asked.

“We're making some progress,” I replied. I could tell Caine thought something was going on.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“Nope.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

“Mac?”

I rolled my eyes, hoping neither of them saw it. Was my word not good enough?

“I was giving Ellie some flack, is all.”

“I see.” Caine's mouth formed a cold slit in his weathered face.

I diverted Caine's attention from Mac. “Everything okay with you?”

“We're still knocking our heads against the wall with the new budget. I'm going to be tied up for at least a week.”

“Okay. I'll copy you on anything of interest.”

“You handling this? It's a rough case from what I've heard.”

“We're good. Mac, Sam, Lee and I make a good team.”

Caine nodded wisely, as if it had been his plan all along. Maybe it was. He was like that: sneaky.

“I'm back into the fray.” With that, Caine left.

We carried on with the search for more information, sticking pieces together and hoping they fitted. It was nightfall before we headed home for some much-needed rest.

I could feel my inner strength ebbing away. I didn't get much sleep. I was hoping being back at the office bright and early would help. But Wednesday morning brought no answers and there was a live performance in my head. Even though I sensed that I was the only one who could hear Elvis, my mouth opened and words tumbled out, “Shut it!”

Mac's hand landed on my forearm. “Who are you talking to?”

“Elvis.”

Without so much as a blink, he asked, “What's he saying?”

“He's singing. ‘Marie's the name of his latest flame'.”

Mac didn't even flinch. “What does he know that we don't?”

I shook my head. Elvis gyrated across my internal screen.

“I dunno … but ever since that kid in Richmond, Elvis has been strutting his stuff on and off.”

“You run out of old television shows?”

“I hope so.” My voice slid into confession mode as I said, “I had a really nasty
MASH
incident during my checkup at the hospital.”

Mac draped an arm around my shoulders. I wondered how he put up with my eccentricity, which he always seemed to take in his stride and this time was no exception. One day there would be sainthood in it for him, or a straitjacket. The straitjacket will probably fit me better than him, though.

Saint Cormac, Patron Saint of the Twisted Mind.

“Could be worse, babe.”

True, it could be much worse than Elvis. He appeared, butterfly-like, with his capes and jeweled jumpsuits. Sometimes I love the way my outrageous imagination works: a butterfly, a freaking butterfly.

“Mac, we know the first Richmond victim was bipolar, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Rain pelted on the windows as Mac followed my mental meanderings. He took a calculated leap and arrived at the next synaptic stopping point. He pulled the laptop closer and tapped quickly on the keys.

“Anything turn up on the others?” Elvis fell silent. “Anything?”

Mac smiled at my impatience.

“Two others, from what family have said. We need more information; those two were supposedly on medication, both were prescribed Amitriptyline but no traces of any were found in their blood.”

“The Richmond woman?”

“She was definitely on her medication. She had Depakote on board when she was killed. There are also traces of Chlorpromazine.”

“Thorazine,” I whispered. “She was on an antipsychotic.”

Mac nodded. We'd both come across Chlorpromazine, under its more common name of Thorazine, thanks to our mothers' insanity.

“Nothing we have mentions Thorazine as one of her prescribed medications.”

Mac opened another folder then clicked on Julie's case notes. He scrolled through them and a few seconds later said, “You're right.”

“I have a theory,” I proffered. “They were drugged. That explained the serene expressions on their faces. They didn't die screaming, they died silently, stabbed while in a drugged stupor.”

“That makes sense.”

“Of course. Don't suppose the medical examiner found traces of chlorine in her hair or on her skin?”

“There is no mention of chlorine,” Mac said. “I'll ask them to double check.”

The phone rang. Lee's deep voice boomed through thundering rain, “We have another one.”

A calm certainty descended as I formed my first question. “Is her name Marie?”

All I could hear over the phone was the rain. A few moments later the noise eased and Lee bellowed, “Yes!”

“No need to shout,” I replied, holding the phone away from my ear. “Where?”

“Sorry. I didn't think you could hear me. It's on Vale Road.”

“We're on our way.”

“You'll see the police cars out front. A long driveway then there's a dwelling.”

“See you in a bit.” I hung up.

Mac had already grabbed our jackets and scooped up his handy backpack.

“Where're we going?”

“Vale Road. Seems Elvis knows his stuff. We have a Marie.”

I couldn't help thinking that it was too quick. Could be that the Unsub didn't get the buzz he did earlier and decided to step up his pace or someone wanted him blamed. A murder a day brings the Feds out to play.  Blood, guts and gore brings me knocking on your door. I controlled myself before a stupid smirk spread across my face. I definitely didn't need anyone knowing about my sick little rhyme.  

As soon as we hit the pavement, I knew it was going to take some time to reach the latest scene. Water lapped at the gutters and small waves spilled over the sidewalk. Wind howled and trees bent, almost scraping the soggy ground. It took huge effort to remain upright.

I zipped my jacket up to the collar and pulled my hood as far over my face as possible. We were on the wrong side of the river and the traffic was going to be murder.

In an effort to take my mind off the storm and Mac's driving, I flicked on the car stereo, cranking it up to drown out the rain. Rowan Grange powered through rock ballad after rock ballad, making me wish I could see him play live and soothing me in advance of the horror I knew I was about to face again. Even though it took forever, time seemed to fly while I was lost in the songs that gave me hope.