A Cruel Season for Dying (10 page)

The solution ran off like thin blood. The excess dripping into the steel pan as the man hung the photographs to dry. His fingers
appeared detached from his hands, moving like small white worms in the brothel red light of the developing room.

But that was only an illusion, for his flesh pressed against him with increased vigor. No matter how often he bathed, he could
smell himself. The odor of decaying fruit. And the feel of it. That, too, was more acute than ever. Arms. Legs. The sack of
skin attached to muscle. The connection of tendon to bone. The flush of blood. He had an absolute consciousness of every cell
in his body. Every molecule. Every atom. Every nucleus of every atom.

That the level of communion with his physical self had grown these last months did not surprise him. Nor that he had plunged
to the very edge of sensation. It was an expected consequence of awakening.

What was still a mystery to him was if there were others of his kind who had awakened. Or was he the only one on the physical
plane fully conscious of what he was? It made the burden greater. But no matter, he knew what must be done.

He looked down at the last of the prints floating in the pan. A blowup. A tight profile. It was unquestionably the best shot
taken from the roof. His single perfect happiness in so many months.

“Zavebe,” he whispered to the photograph.

T
he men’s room in the basement morgue had the feeling of a crypt and smelled like fake maraschino cherries. Sakura splashed
his face with water from the tap and wondered who had decided that a germicidal disinfectant should cloy your throat with
the sweetness of sugared fruit. There were no paper towels in the dispenser. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket
and dried his face, observing himself in the mirror. He looked hollow-eyed in the greenish light that brought out the sallowness
of his skin.

The autopsy on Westlake, which he had just witnessed, had proceeded identically to those of the first two victims. Dr. Linsky
had insisted on delaying any discussion of the case to a meeting that was to follow in his office. Folding and replacing the
handkerchief in his pocket, Sakura headed there now.

The medical examiner was already waiting for him in the small but miraculously neat space. He sat behind his desk, its surface
clean except for a stack of current cases and a framed portrait of a young and pretty wife—mail order from Moscow according
to department rumor. Sakura took the chair offered him, plunged in. “What did the lab come up with?”

Linsky looked at him. “Nothing that could be the mechanism of death.”

The overpreciseness of language was interesting. The medical examiner was making a careful distinction between the mechanism,
or agent, and the cause of death, the actual physical effect of that agent
within the body. Obliqueness was not Linsky’s style. He was enjoying this. The case had risen to the level of his interest.

The M.E. surprised him by asking, “Have you found any evidence that the victims knew each other?”

“No,” Sakura admitted. “And so far, there’s no indication that any of the victims were into weird sex.”

“I see.” Linsky settled back in his chair. “Death is always a messy business,” he began again. “The body releases its fluids.
Lividity indicates that these victims died in their beds, and yet the bedclothes are pristine except for the small amount
of blood leaking from the incisions he made to insert the wings. There’s no doubt the killer cleaned up, including washing
the bodies. We found traces of alcohol and cotton fibers.”

Sakura nodded. “Part of his ritual,” he said. “Or a concern with eliminating physical evidence.”

“He wasn’t totally effective. There were still some traces of adhesive on the skin.”

“Semen?” Sakura asked.

Linsky shook his head. “I doubt there ever was any. The reports were all negative, including the oral and anal swabs.”

Sakura was only marginally surprised. Serial murder was usually a sex crime, but it was not all that rare for the killer to
fail to ejaculate at the scene. “You said the lab didn’t find anything that could be the mechanism of death,” he said. “But
I believe you know what killed them.”

Linsky actually smiled. “
Know
is too strong a word,” he said, “but there is virtually no substance that can remain undetectable to a complete battery of
tests. By process of elimination, the killer must have injected something that is
too
detectable. A substance that can hide in plain sight.”

“What kind of substance?”

“A potassium compound. Most probably potassium chloride.”

“You said it could hide—”

“There’s potassium in every cell of the body, Lieutenant. The moment that death occurs, the cells begin to break down and
potassium is released in massive quantities. Whatever amount the killer injected is going to be masked by that.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Heart failure. Potassium is vitally necessary for cell functioning, but only within a certain range. Too little or too much
and the result is the same, arrhythmia and cardiac arrest. There is no physiological damage to the heart. The muscle simply
stops pumping.”

“It seems a strange way to kill, especially if you’re not trying to hide the fact that your victims were murdered,” Sakura
said.

Linsky shrugged. The gesture was oddly elegant in the starched coat. “Potassium chloride, as you probably know, is one of
the drugs used in lethal injection. Perhaps there’s some significance in that.”

“There were two needle marks,” Sakura remembered. “Was the second injection also potassium chloride?”

“Very unlikely. One injection would be quite sufficient.”

“Then what?”

“Lysergic acid diethylamide.”

“LSD?”

“Yes. We found high levels of the drug in the first two victims.”

“It could be coincidence,” Sakura thought aloud. “There’s a lot of LSD use…. But injected by the killer?”

“It would logically have to be injected first. Potassium chloride kills very rapidly.”

“But why would the killer give them LSD?” Sakura asked.

“I only work on bodies, Lieutenant. It’s not my job to know what the murderer is thinking when he kills them.”

Sakura nodded. That job description was very precisely his. “How soon can we get the blood work on Westlake?” He looked at
the medical examiner.

“It’s top priority, Detective Sakura.” Linsky managed to sound collegial. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

Sakura left the morgue and headed back to police headquarters for yet one more unpleasant task. Since yesterday’s discovery
of the third homosexual victim, the serial-killer story had spread to every media outlet in the city. Pressure on City Hall
from the gay community was increasing by the hour. A press conference had been scheduled for later this morning, at which
he would have to speak. It was a duty he accepted with any high-profile case, but he didn’t have to enjoy it.

Zoe Kahn smoothed her tight French twist, draping her black cashmere coat over the back of the seat. She sat near the front
of the auditorium, a gray room, that had the effect of making everyone feel trapped in the blankness of a television screen.
She’d arrived early at One Police Plaza when talk of a hastily thrown together press conference was still in the rumor stage.
Crossing her legs, she resettled her purse on the floor. A green knit dress ignited the gold in her hazel eyes and contrasted
with her bright red lips, only recently collagen enhanced for the second time. Zoe took considerable time with her appearance.
Nature had been generous, but she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

The press conference was going to be well attended. Extra folding chairs were being brought in. Everyone was hungry for the
latest on the murders now that the count was up to three. She turned and spotted Ralph Gunner, from
Left Hand,
a gay-activist rag. She blew him a quick kiss.

The hall quieted as Phil Doss came up to the podium. Doss was the typical media-relations flunky who didn’t have a straight
answer for anything. He droned on for a few minutes, then introduced the chief of detectives. Zoe didn’t especially like Lincoln
McCauley, but she admired his grit. Men with far greater gifts had failed in the system. Long hours in a gym had squeezed
the chief into the confines of a dark designer suit, but his beefy face seemed to explode from the starched collar of his
shirt. He remained a relic, a throwback to the decades when the Irish had predominated in the hierarchies of the New York
City Police.

The chief read a tersely prepared statement, his voice holding an edge that was more than bureaucratic irritation. He warned
against the press corrupting what he called “the purity of the investigation.” Then flatly refusing questions, he passed the
mike to James Sakura.

Center stage, she knew, was not a place the gold-shield detective relished. Yet he appeared cool, in control, almost indifferent.
That could spell trouble. A cop without passion could mean a cop who didn’t care. Zoe knew that wasn’t true, yet perception
was everything. He was talking about setting up meetings so that the public could communicate
more directly with the police. This was more than assuaging gays; the investigation was going proactive, she realized. Cast
out the net and see what you drag in.

But for her, playing the gay trump card was wearing thin. She knew if the story was really going to get hot, heterosexuals
had to feel threatened. Thanks to her sources, she had gotten a tip on the Westlake murder almost as soon as it was called
in. The head start meant an exclusive with the model’s mother. But everybody was fishing in the same pond now. Maybe she needed
to go proactive herself. Bait the killer, draw him out, like Breslin had done with Berkowitz.

Unfortunately, Sakura wasn’t giving her much that was new. She glanced over her shoulder. Gunner was standing, breaking protocol,
asking Sakura if the victims had been straight, might not the killer already have been apprehended. The atmosphere iced over.
Sakura seemed to stiffen, but neither his tone nor his words betrayed any weakness.

“The race, gender, creed, or sexual orientation of any victim has never impeded the aggressive actions with which the officers
of the NYPD pursue an investigation,” he said.

In those few moments when he’d spoken, some unplayed script, some ill-defined undercurrent, seemed to lend a great importance
to everything. McCauley stepped back, away from the podium, absorbed by the grayness of the room. Perhaps the rumblings she’d
heard about the Palace Guard wanting to replace Sakura with an officer of higher rank were true. The bureaucrats were capable
of almost any idiocy. But Lieutenant James Sakura was the best the department had.

Gray clouds hung in the sky like drapery. The traffic was never really light, but for a gloomy Thursday afternoon, it moved
along smoothly enough. And after the rigors of this morning’s press conference and a sandwich snatched while going over the
latest reports on his desk, Sakura did not entirely regret this time away from his office. He would not regret it at all if
this afternoon’s interview panned out.