Molon Labe! (39 page)

No longer, however, thanks to the example of Krassny. Freedom may not survive this generation, but at least it would not expire without a fight.

The USG is astonished by the Krassnyite phenomenon, just as the Nazis were astonished by the Warsaw ghetto uprising of April 1943, and just as the Romans were astonished by the slave revolt under gladiator Spartacus. Bullies are always amazed when their victims resist.

Their first thought is
No fair!
They actually believe their violent control is a right. When aggression is left unchecked — challenged evil is indignant. Serial murderers winking at bereaved families during trial is what happens when good people, out of cowardice, refuse to defend themselves against street punks.
SS
death camp commandants shouting
Heil Hitler!
before their execution is what happens when citizens, out of cowardice, refuse to resist thugs hiding behind uniforms and politicians.

The man reaches his car parked two blocks over.
I wonder how the Senator is feeling right about now
he muses as he drives off into the frigid February night.

By the time Hengel steps out of the elevator, his sudden wheezing frightens him. He tells himself it's just chemical sensitivity to the freshly painted hallway, but he's never had a reaction this severe. The tightening of his chest worsens with each passing second.
Heart attack? Impossible! Not after a lifetime of jogging and healthy diet!

Down the hall from Ostergaard's door Hengel staggers, dropping the wine bottle and vomiting onto his Gucci loafers. He can see nothing but the fuzzy-edged door . . . suddenly hard and reassuring beneath his pounding fists.

"Br —
Brian!
"

The secondhand chair squeaks noisily as Louella Davis leans forward to place the black Jack on the red Queen. She should be reading that lovely new mystery novel instead of playing — Canfield, but she can't concentrate.

If only the Senior Center were open tonight! She could play Bridge with her girlfriends, nattering about their lost youth — anything to forget about her cramped condo and a widow's loneliness. She knew that her nights at the Senior Center were just a temporary fix, but as she completed her "final lap" they sufficed to push away the drabs.

A hallway noise makes her jump.
Someone yelling for help outside?

Heart pounding, Louella pushes herself stiffly upright. Though she lived in a comparatively safe Georgetown, violent crime often seeped in from outside.
Damn politicians! Can't keep the Center open, or the streets safe in the nation's capital . . .

The shriek sounds like it's
right
outside.

Louella scurries to the door and peers through the peephole. Through her milky cataracts she can make out a man crumpled in the hallway. Heart attack, or maybe a stroke like Jerry, dying in the bathroom without so much as a chance to say good-bye after 46 years of marriage.

She takes a deep breath, unlocks the door, and flings it open, her mouth agape in shock. She sees her creepy-nice neighbor in whorey Marlene Dietrich drag. At first, Louella thinks that Mr. Ostergaard is kissing the fallen man, but then she realizes that it's lugubrious CPR.

"Ms. Davis, the Senator's stopped breathing! Call 9-1-1!" screeches Ostergaard, his mint-green nightgown splayed open.

Dear God!
Louella bolts back inside her apartment for the phone. As she dials the three-digit number for the second time in her life, she somehow knows that it's a waste of time. Death she has seen before.

Junior EMT Nick Booker quickly ascertains that their unresponsive DOA with the Hill haircut and expensive shoes is an important senator.

They'd arrived within minutes of the call to find pupils fixed and dilated. Defibbed him three times anyway with the screaming queen boyfriend in full freakout mode, and for what? Damn doc tells them to hang a bag of lido and keep him on Code A on their way back to the hospital.

Even the D.C. Metro cops, who have seen it all, are pretty stunned by the senator's lousy timing. Dying on the doorstep of your lingerie-clad gay lover was no way to go.

Being on cash retainer with
National Enquirer
hardly makes up for the worry about accidental needle sticks from these patients. Still, the call Booker was about to make was worth an easy two or three grand.

The man switches his scanner to the EMT frequencies and soon hears the DOA call on Hengel. Cardiac arrest, a paramedic says. Barring a detailed toxicology screen, his death will be ruled as natural causes.

He signals right and pulls over. Leaving the engine running, he gets out and walks around to the rear passenger side. A storm grate is next to the curb. The man squats down and reaches inside his shirt pocket. From a little metal tin he produces something about the size of a marble.

It is a clear capsule full of purple crystals. Potassium permanganate (KMnO
₄
) makes a mildly astringent antiseptic when dissolved in water, sometimes used by hospitals as a douche for fungal conditions. The capsule is tightly nested in a half capsule filled with clear liquid — glycerine (C
₃
H
₈
O
₃
).The half capsule is secured by a piece of tape around the circumference. Sticking halfway through the purple capsule is a straight pin.

The man pushes the pin through the crystals and into the glycerine, then withdraws it. The glycerine slowly seeps among the purple crystals, turning them a muddy brown. He places the capsule in the ZipLoc containing the rubber sachet and powdered charcoal, and then drops the baggie through the grate onto a concrete shelf four feet below. Instinctively he steps back.

For a few seconds nothing happens. Then, a small
pop!
A plume of hissing white smoke pours from the punctured capsule. The hissing grows louder — echoing within the concrete chamber — and suddenly the capsule turns blindingly white hot. The chamber is uncannily lit as if by magnesium flare. He can actually feel the heat and turns his head. It burns like rocket fuel for about ten seconds and then abruptly dies out. The whole package is nothing but a smoking black pea.
Bye-bye Hengel. Bye-bye evidence.

Just as the man is walking around the Lexus — just as he is about to drive away — a D.C. Metro cop turns a corner and slowly approaches.

Shit!
The man forces himself not to react to this random bad timing.
Stay cool and everything will be fine.
He is just reaching for the door handle as the cop pulls up and asks from an open window, "Everything all right, sir?" His breath is a vapor in the cold evening air.

In a luxury automobile and tailored suit, the man is well protected during a routine police encounter. D.C. Metro avoided stepping on powerful toes. He waves and smiles pleasantly as he opens his door to get in. "Every-thing's fine, officer. One of my tires felt a bit low on air and I wanted to check it out. But thank you for stopping. Good night, officer."

Reassurance. Respect. Reason. Gratitude. Closure.

Control.

The cop nods. "Good night, sir." His patrol car is already moving.

As the man drives away he grins tightly. He had parked so that the tailpipe was just behind the storm grate, thus hiding any escaping capsule smoke with his car's exhaust. The cop hadn't seen a thing.

Hengel had gone quite smoothly, and was certainly much less work than Gray. He'd considered abducting the Senator, but the discovery of his homosexual affair provided far too tempting an opportunity. The media will have fresh meat for many days of story.

And, with any luck, Brian Ostergaard's firm, the rabidly anti-self defense Policy Center on Violence, will be tar-babied with the scandal. Let
them
swat a few flies for a change. The PCV was a noisome bunch using concocted statistics, phony polls, and specious arguments to stampede the public into supporting unconstitutional and ineffective "gun control." The sexual and political collusion between a PCV lobbyist and the senatorial sponsor of the
DWA
would be too outrageous for even the national media to ignore.

It's always better to scratch two itches at once
, the man thinks.

The FBI Special Agents on site at Brian Ostergaard's condo are taking special care. Although no foul play seems evident, Senator Hengel ranked #18 on the KK risk list. His Mercedes was already being taken to the crime lab. His body would shortly be autopsied by one of the FBI's best forensic pathologists. The condo building's front door, stairwell, elevator, and third floor hallway have been dusted for fingerprints. There had been no doorman on duty and no witnesses of the Senator's movement from car to hallway.

Mrs. Davis was of little help. She hadn't seen Hengel until opening her door. She thought that he was arriving rather than leaving, but wasn't sure.

Ostergaard had wisely changed his attire before the FBI had arrived, but neglected to remove every last trace of his makeup. A bit of eye shadow could still be seen.

A junior agent is taking Ostergaard's statement for an FD-302. "Sir, was Senator Hengel carrying anything when you found him in the hallway?"

"No, no, I don't think so. Not that I saw, at least."

"What about the bottle of wine we found in the hall?"

Ostergaard then recalls the Shiraz. "Oh, well, that could have been his. I didn't see it, though. I found him unconscious on the floor and tried to revive him with CPR. I wasn't paying attention to what he may have been carrying."

"Was the Senator a frequent guest in your home, Mr. Ostergaard?",

"Uh, no, I wouldn't say 'frequent'." Nervous.

"Then tonight was some sort of special occasion?" Setting him up.

"Uh, uh, no — no special occasion," says Ostergaard, rattled.

"So, then he
usually
arrived with an expensive bottle of red wine during his
infrequent
visits?" Skewered.

"Look, I don't know if it was even his, or if it was why he brought it.

" Senior agent Paul Kinney has been listening in and is suspicious. He locates the wine which has already been bagged and tagged. He gingerly picks it up and looks through the thick polyethylene ZipLoc. The wine hadn't been opened and was in a brown paper bag. He notices an oily smear on the otherwise unsoiled and crisp bag.
Probably purchased this evening
.

The oily smear bothers him, however. On a hunch, he opens the evidence ZipLoc and ventures a sniff. Frowning, he sniffs again. Looking up, he asks Ostergaard, "Did you at any time handle this?"

Ostergaard is puzzled by all this sudden attention to the wine. "No, no I didn't. I didn't even
see
it until one of your agents found it in the hall."

"Sir, have you washed your hands since Senator Hengel was here?"

"Washed my
hands?
I can't see what — "

Kinney cuts him off. "Just answer my question. Have you washed your hands tonight?"

Ostergaard senses the mood change and it unnerves him. He replies a bit too forcefully, "No, I
haven't
washed my hands tonight.
Why?
"

"Good. Don't. We'll need to get some hand residue samples right now. Agent Ferris will take care of it."

Kinney turns and motions to another of his junior agents and quietly says, "Call Lloyd Moss down at CTU. I need the composition of that oily stain on the brown paper bag. Tonight. And get samples from all sinks and P-traps, as well as the bathtub drain."

The junior agent's eyes bulge. "Poison?"

"Very possibly," Kinney allows.

"Really?
Him?
" junior says, eyes darting to Ostergaard.

"Can't say for sure. If we can place Hengel here before seven, then, yeah, maybe. If we can't, then it might not have been Ostergaard."

The next day, Kinney, Ferris, and two junior agents meet in a conference room to discuss Hengel with Lloyd Moss from the CTU.

The Chemistry and Toxicology Unit of the FBI Crime Lab handles drug analysis, poison identification, arson evidence, and explosive composition. It enjoys some of the world's most sophisticated equipment, such as mass spectrometers, liquid chromatographs, and electron microscopes.

Not that such equipment assures fair and quality work.

The vaunted FBI Crime Lab was the subject of much scandal in the 1990s. Its reputation was shattered in 1997 by an 18-month government investigation which upheld allegations of serious malpractice. Lab examiners often worked backwards from the evidence to prove guilt, following no protocols, and ignoring precautions against contamination of evidence (
e.g.,
from carpeted floors and unfiltered air). Reports were altered or destroyed to enhance federal trial cases. The book exposé
Tainting Evidence
caused shock-waves throughout the Justice Department.

Little had been done since then to patch up the Lab's poor rep. Filters were installed and the carpeting removed, but not much else. Still, within the FBI, the Crime Lab examiners are cardinals of the Bureau vatican and highly regarded by field agents.

Lloyd Moss begins. "An identical solution was found on the brown paper bag, on the back of Hengel's right hand, and in his bloodstream. It was primarily CH
₃
SO, dimethyl sulfoxide. DMSO for short. No license is needed for purchase. It's an anti-inflammatory and pain reliever used as a liniment for arthritic animals. Available at all vet supply stores. Cheap, too."

"Is DMSO fatal?"

"Not in such a small quantity. But what it carried was. Strychnine."

"
Strychnine?
" the junior agents ask in unison.

"Yep, one of the most lethal natural poisons around. Quick, too. C
₂₁
H
₂₂
N
₂
O
₂
to us chemists, strychnine is a deadly crystalline alkaloid. It's extracted from the seed of the
Strychnos nux-vomica
, an East Indian tree."