Deadly Messengers (35 page)

O’GRADY CONCENTRATED ON THE SCREEN, trolling through the dozens of multiplex videos they’d commandeered, looking for a man who resembled the windshield cleaner inside the mall. He still wasn’t certain if he was anything more than what he appeared to be. Completely focused on the task, O’Grady didn’t even notice Allen enter the room, until he heard the voice from behind.

“Good morning and good news.”

O’Grady jumped, and swung his chair around to face the video tech.

“It better be good news. I just lost five years.”

Allen seated himself in the chair next to O’Grady.

“Those films from the Tavell and Benson cases came back. I had them enhanced.”

“I thought you said the images were as good as we’d get?”

“Correct, they
were
as good as
we
could get. I like a challenge. The minute they installed this equipment, it was outdated. A buddy who’s genius with this stuff created this wicked app. It compensates for poor light, reimaging unrecognizable areas using awesome algorithms. His program’s not commercial yet, but it’s magic on a chip. When it finally hits the Apple store, he could be one rich dude.”

“I’ve been here too long checking through the Kate Wilker footage. And I’ve got nada. I got a hunch, that’s it.”

Allen slid a thumb drive into a computer slot and began hitting keys. A still from the Benito Tavell video from the time he left the café, before he went back to the Kenworth Home facility, came up on the screen. A second later the image came to life. The recording was miraculously improved, clearer and brighter. Remarkable, actually.

“I’ve already viewed them at my bud’s. You’re correct in thinking something isn’t right. It isn’t.”

Allen squared his body to the screen.

“See Hoody here approach Tavell? Two things can be seen now which were blurry before. See there?” He pointed to the screen. “Tavell bends his head down to look at the paper—which, from this detail we now see is a map.”

O’Grady moved closer to the screen. Allen pressed a key, and the video ran backward a few seconds. He pressed another key to run it forward, this time at a tenth of the speed.

“Hmm. I think you’re right.”

What was also visible was that just as Tavell leaned down to look at the map, Hoody flicked the paper gently. The video now so sharp even the flex in the paper he held was visible.

“Then,” Allen went on, “note how Hoody leans back at the exact same moment. There
is
something happening with the paper. Whatever it is, Hoody doesn’t want to inhale or get it on himself. If that’s a map and he really was asking for directions, why would he lean back from Tavell at the very moment he should be looking down to follow directions?”

The same question now played in O’Grady’s mind.

“Now, here’s the really freaky thing. Check this out.”

Allen zoomed in on the map clutched awkwardly by Hoody, his hands askew on each side of the paper. The way Allen tapped at the keyboard, O’Grady got the idea he could do this in his sleep.

The video moved on.

“What is that? That’s definitely not right. The stuff coming off the paper, right into Tavell’s face, that is some weird shit.”

Allen was right. It was
definitely
weird. A faint white mist rose from the paper, like fine ash dust. Without the magnification, it was easy to miss, especially if you weren’t looking.

“Yeah, what is it?” O’Grady frowned. “Play it again a few times.”

Allen complied, belting a few keys. This time he placed the few seconds of footage on a slow loop. They both watched as the white substance floated up repeatedly.

“Tavell definitely inhaled the stuff. Some kind of poison, maybe? Or a drug?”

A drug. The idea settled in his mind. He rolled it around, pushing at it.

What did it mean, though? How did it all fit? He’d actually been thinking a completely different scenario. He’d thought, somehow, the three killers knew this contact, that Hoody had met with each one and given them instructions. He hadn’t considered they’d been drugged and Hoody was actually a legitimate stranger, the map a ruse to administer some kind of drug.

What kind of drug had this effect?

Every witness reported the killers as methodical and in control. Not a drugged person’s standard behavior. A frightening thought: was this a new synthesized drug?

The video stalled on the screen.

“And there ends the enhanced footage. Not much more footage, anyway.”

O’Grady sighed. “Still can’t see Hoody’s face.”

“Too dark to get a good look at the guy’s face. Reasonably low crime area, not much call for security.”

To find this map clue, but still have little information to identify the stranger was frustrating.

Allen attacked the keys again with swift, deft keystrokes.

“Ah, but don’t despair, my friend. Nightclubs are different. With the Café Amaretto killer, we have a bag of luck. He was coming out of a bar smack bang in the middle of the entertainment district, corner of North Park Street and Harter Road. Voila!”

Clear, focused images appeared on the screen. In this video, the stranger next to Benson was partially turned away from the camera, making it impossible to see his face. This guy was dressed differently. Still he wore something to conceal his face—a baseball cap. It might be Hoody. Identification wise, this video was as much help as Tavell’s. A probably, but nothing definite.

“Same guy, do you think?”

Allen grimaced, his head wobbling like a bobble head as he considered the question.

“I don’t know. Now the footage is clean, maybe. But look at this—”

He hit a few more keys. The still enlarged. Benson’s head and the piece of paper filled the majority of the screen. The video began to play, and O’Grady held his breath.

“Come on powder mist,” he whispered. If it was meant his instinct was right. That’s all he needed to open up this investigation. Proof.

Benson’s head bent to the paper. Yep, there it was. Clearly another map. For the beat of long seconds, nothing happened. Then, a flick of the paper. Minute particles erupted into the air. Benson’s head suddenly moved back as if in surprise. He’d seen something, too.

“Wow,” exclaimed O’Grady. “What a brilliant cover. Someone lost. A simple, innocent map.”

Allen slowed the video even more, moving the footage a frame every second. The club entrance’s multi-hued flashing lights behind the men turned their faces into colored, mottled shadows, but the surprise on Benson’s face was still discernable.

The stranger reacted in the same way as seen on the Tavell video. He stood back just before flicking the map, protecting himself from the powder fallout. Benson’s face, after his initial reaction of surprise, relaxed into an unalarmed, casual look. Then, just as Tavell had done, he walked off with the man as though they were buddies making their way home from the club. At the end of the street, they exited the camera’s range.

“Damn,” said O’Grady. “Tell me you picked them up elsewhere.”

“Since you asked so nicely, I will tell you.
I picked them up elsewhere.
Remember, I said this district was loaded with cameras. I pretty much have most of their movements for several blocks. I’ve joined the various camera feeds into one continuous footage.”

“Show me.”

Allen sped up the video to four times normal speed. The images of the men waddled up the sidewalk, rocking side to side like penguins. Phil slowed the video again.

“They walked four blocks, then stopped here in the recessed entrance of a women’s clothing store.”

Outside the closed store, Baseball Cap and Benson stood in the shadows. Baseball Cap reached into his pocket and retrieved something. A phone or an iPod, with ear buds attached. This was why he’d felt uncertain about his
stranger
theory and had paid little attention to checking through these other videos. From the start, the way they interacted these two seemed to behave innocently enough.

Baseball Cap handed the device to Benson, and then moved so the two were side-by-side. He motioned to Benson to place the buds into his ears. He pressed the screen of the device and waited. Benson stood still, appearing to listen intently to whatever played into his ears.

“Can you zoom in on Benson’s face?”

“Yep, I can.”

With three clicks, the well-groomed face of a man in his mid-to-late-twenties filled the screen. At this resolution, it was somewhat pixelated. Benson looked like a billboard model on a giant Jumbotron screen. Even so, his eyes appeared empty and emotionless, his face flat and unmoving, like he was in a trance. His mouth, though, moved, like he was talking to himself.

“He’s joined the zombies. Freaky. What
was
that stuff?” asked Allen, as though commenting on a TV show.

“I don’t know,” said O’Grady. “A drug this powerful, reacting that quickly, should really knock you out. Benson seems to be in control of his body. No staggering, no signs of intoxication. What’s the time stamp on this?”

“Ten-twelve.”

“So this guy introduces some kind of drug to Benson, plays him this audio, and, bang, less than thirty minutes later he’s performing the lead role in
American Psycho
. Then the same guy—I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy—approaches Tavell in the same way, in the same time period prior to the crime. Somehow, this drug gives this guy control over these people. If you told me about this, I would have said you were crazy.”

Allen nodded, continuing to study the screen. He paused the video, tapped a key, decreasing the magnification. Again, a long shot of the two men filled the screen. Benson continued to listen to whatever was on the device, but Baseball Cap drew his attention.

That was the moment O’Grady knew his hunch had been right.

Baseball Cap scratched madly at his arm, like a dog scratching at fleas.

O’Grady thought back to the dreadlocked windshield cleaner, the image of him with his squeegee scrubbing, O’Grady lowering his window to pay him. He imagined Kate Wilker at her window, turning toward the cleaner, unsuspecting. A normal occurrence, no reason to feel endangered.

Kate Wilker’s windshield cleaner, Hoody and Baseball Cap were the same man.

They never are and never will be just coincidences.

No they certainly weren’t.

All the killers encountered this guy and his powder drug.

One puzzle piece now fit in place. What did they have? A plot from an
X-Files
episode. Where to search next?

“What’s on that audio? That’s what I want to know,” said O’Grady.

“Shame we’re not flies on the wall,” said Allen.

Suddenly, an idea struck O’Grady. “We need a toxicologist. While we’re at it, a lip reader, too. I need to know what he’s saying, and I don’t have days for a requisitions to come through. This guy could strike again.”

Allen turned to O’Grady, a wide grin on his face.

“The lip reader I can’t do, but a toxicologist, that’s easy.”

“You know someone?”

“Yep, so do you. Name’s Google.”

Allen shuffled his chair across to a computer to his left.

“Let’s try these phrases.” He typed words into the open search engine.

Drug. Zombie. Instant.

The first two results related to the television show
Walking Dead
. The next couple picked up
Zombie Hunger
, and why a new drug called “bath salts” could damage your brain (as if that wasn’t obvious anyway). After scanning two pages, still nothing matching the behavior. O’Grady was thinking he’d be better off heading to the club to interview the doorman. Perhaps he might know Baseball Cap/Hoody.

“Try
drug, instant, dangerous,
” offered O’Grady.

The second last entry on the first page was the winner. Within seconds of clicking through, O’Grady knew he’d found the answer.

10 Crazy Drugs You Don't Know (And Don't Want To)

#9 on the list was:

Seratolamine —The Drug Criminals Blow Into Your Face

“Bingo,” said Allen. “Good old Google, your corner toxicologist.”

“Let me look.” O’Grady shuffled the video technician aside, so he could sit directly in front of the screen.

Taking over the keyboard, albeit with a lot less dexterity, O’Grady read the short paragraph. He then copied and pasted
seratolamine
into the search engine. The top result came back from Wikipedia. He clicked through and quickly skimmed over the scientific description of the drug, its history, etcetera. It’s common name Zombie’s Breath seemed apt.

A sudden chill ran through him.

O’Grady needed to talk to Trip. If he was right, these people
weren’t
killers. Their friends and families were correct in their descriptions. They were just as much victims as those they killed.

Zombie’s Breath!
How the hell did he not know about this stuff?

“Great work.” He squeezed Allen’s shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Do me a favor, paperwork the lip reader. I’ll call the boss and get a rush on it. If this drug is here in our city, we’re in real trouble.”

Drug.

His stomach quivered. Doug McKinley’s report tabled a relationship between drugs and violence. That man seemed to know too much about drugs.

There are no coincidences
.

He saw those four words scrolling across a big, red neon sign hung before his eyes. As he rushed back to his desk, he ran the concept through, looking for parts of the scenario that might not fit. He wanted to be wrong. By the time he’d reached his desk he was convinced of a link between McKinley’s report and these killings. He’d remembered something else nestled amid the hundreds of pages of research.

He’d seen that name seratolamine before. He only skimmed. Some of the drug names, though, had stuck. He’d checked to see if any of them were the same as the ones his brother had been prescribed for the depression. The link between suicide and anti-depressants was personal for him. It had even crossed his mind, if he’d known this information before, his brother might still be alive. The idea had so involved him he hadn’t paid careful enough attention to McKinley’s other assertions that these drugs created mass killers. Seratolamine, though, had vaguely registered.