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Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Davey sat in the music pub listening to the country and western singer, her voice lifting over the tinkle of the honky-tonk piano. The little calculated catch in her voice was effective for all its artifice, as she hopped from one note to the next. Behind her, the bass player plucked away at his instrument, a bored expression on his face. She clung to the microphone with both hands, her moist, open mouth so close that it looked as if she were about to swallow the microphone. The thought made his forehead burn, and he felt the familiar prickling sensation in his groin. He took a sip of beer and looked around the room to distract himself.
The bar’s clientele was the usual varied mixture of races and generations, a kaleidoscope of society. New York City was just
more
of everything, he thought—good people, bad people, delights and distractions, hassles and headaches. The city could be salvation or damnation, depending upon how much energy you had to meet its incessant, drumming pulse.
Onstage, the singer scooped to the next note, sliding up to it as if she were stealing second base.
The stars are falling from the sky above
I heard the trees whispering that you’ve been untrue
My friends say I’m a fool for love
I have a heartache from lovin’ you
How trite can you be?
Yet he had to admit the words and melody struck home, in spite of their simplicity—or maybe because of it. He gazed at her as he sipped his beer. She was young enough, certainly, but would her blood be pure enough? He had heard that singers and musicians often took drugs or drank excessively. He came up with a plan. Offer to buy her a drink, and see how much she consumed, then make up his mind from there.
He drained his beer and rose from the table to get another. As he threaded his way through the crowded bar, a large man in a tasseled leather jacket and cowboy boots bumped into him, sending Davey sprawling into a table of young women. The man’s bleary-eyed gaze and slurred speech left no doubt as to his state of intoxication.
“Hey—watch where you’re going!” he bellowed, his face bloated with alcohol and rage. He grabbed Davey by the collar and pulled him close. His bloodshot eyes were small and blue, with blond lashes, and he exhaled waves of stale liquor and onions.
“Sorry,” Davey muttered, trying to wriggle free.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you,” the man snarled.
“I’m—s-sorry,” Davey repeated, struggling to get the words out as terror paralyzed his tongue. Everything was moving in slow motion, and he could feel the blackness closing in on him.
A girl in cowboy boots tried to intervene by grasping the man’s arm. “Come on, Travis, leave the kid alone.”
But that didn’t deter him. The man stared at Davey with even more hatred in his little red eyes.
Davey felt a warm sensation in his pants, and the last thing he remembered was hearing one of the other young women at the table giggling. “Oh my God—he wet his pants!”
And then everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“This might not smell too good,” the chief toxicologist remarked as she opened the stainless-steel door of the specimen freezer.
The freezer smelled like death. Its thick metal door opened into a room filled floor to ceiling with specimen jars of various sizes and shapes. An old metal exhaust fan rattled creakily from the freezer’s ceiling, but did little to dispel the overwhelming stench of decay that assaulted Lee’s nostrils. The smell reminded him of the rotting corpses of animals he had come across while hiking in the woods—deer or possum or rabbits, piles of scattered bones and skin settled in gullies or underneath trees, quietly decaying as the seasons of spring and summer came and went, to leave their ever-shrinking carcasses to the cold snows of winter, until finally their bleached skeletons were all that remained.
He and Butts were on another pilgrimage to the lab to get the tox screen on Liza Dobbins’s blood—what was left of it. Ivana Jankovic emerged from the freezer, holding a small vial of red fluid. In her other hand she held a vial of yellow liquid he assumed was urine.
“Here it is,” she said, closing the heavy door behind her. Lee stopped holding his breath and sucked up a lung full of fresh air—or at least as fresh as the air in the New York City toxicology lab could be.
Ivana took the vial of blood over to the mass spectrometer, poured a couple of drops into the top of the machine, then flipped a switch. The machine whirred and hummed, then began spitting out information on a graph sheet hooked up to an old-fashioned dot matrix printer.
She went around to the other side and studied the printout as it emerged from the mass spectrometer. When it had finished, she ripped off a section of paper and held it in front of Lee and Butts.
“Here,” she said, pointing to a sharp spike in the horizontal line. “That indicates the presence of diazepam in the blood.” She held up the other sheet. Again, another steep spike was visible in the middle of the page. “And we see the same pattern in the urine. Valium,” she said in response to Butts’s blank expression. “And a fair amount of it, too. Thirty milligrams—enough to cause ataxia.”
“What’s that?” asked Lee.
“Loss of muscular control, basically.”
“So that’s how he incapacitates them,” Butts mused. “How fast would it take effect—a coupla hours, you said before?”
“Peak levels are approximately one to two hours after oral ingestion,” she replied.
“But how does he get them to take it?” Lee wondered.
“Maybe he dissolves it in something they drink,” Butts answered.
“Would that make it take effect sooner?” Lee asked Ivana.
“It might—especially if they take it on an empty stomach.”
“Liza was dressed for jogging,” Butts pointed out. “People don’t tend to exercise right after eating, so her stomach must have been pretty empty.”
“What does the
PM
report say about her stomach contents?” asked Ivana.
PM
was shorthand for postmortem.
“They’re still working on it,” said Lee. “But my guess is they won’t find much.”
“You think that’s why he chose her?” Butts asked. “He knew it wouldn’t take much to put her out?”
“That could be part of it,” Lee said. “Or maybe it’s more directly related to the fact that she exercises—if he’s using her blood for something specific.”
“You mean he wants healthy blood,” Butts said.
“Yeah.”
“Gentlemen, as interesting as this is, I must get back to work,” Ivana said, heading back toward her office, her heels clicking on the tiled floor.
“Of course—thanks for getting us those results,” Butts said, watching her swaying behind as she walked.
“You’re welcome. I’ll send over the complete tox screen later this afternoon.”
“Great, thanks.”
Later, as they stood watching the cars whiz up First Avenue, Butts remarked, “Good-looking woman, huh?”
“Yes, she is,” Lee agreed, glancing at him.
The detective wore a sly little smile. “I dig that accent of hers. Don’t worry,” he added hastily, “I’m a happily married man. I’m just lookin’—that’s still legal, last time I checked.”
The problem came, Lee thought, when people took it into their heads to do something other than look.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A late-summer thundershower shook the heavens as Lee and Butts made a dash for the subway. Jagged shafts of lightning streaked across the sky, and great claps of thunder crackled and crashed overhead. When the rain arrived, the droplets were heavy and as big as quarters. Within minutes the two men were soaked to the skin.
“Jesus!” Butts cried as an enormous roar of thunder reverberated through the nineteenth-century brownstones of Murray Hill. He followed Lee down the steps to the No. 6 train, grabbing the railing so as not to slide on the slippery stairs.
Once on the train, they joined the other soggy passengers for the long ride uptown, changing to the No. 5 train at 125th Street. The rain had dimmed to a steady drizzle when they got off at the Simpson Street Station, but it hardly mattered. Butts pulled his jacket collar up as they walked to the Major Case Unit, muttering all the way.
“Where’s a damn ark when you need one?”
When they arrived at the station house, Sergeant Ruggles was sitting at his usual post in the lobby.
“Hey, Ruggles, how’s your band doing?” Butts said. “Got any concerts comin’ up?”
“I don’t do that anymore, sir,” Ruggles replied.
“Naw?” said Butts. “That’s too bad. I woulda liked to hear you play.”
Lee couldn’t tell if he was teasing the sergeant or genuinely interested. Knowing Butts, it was probably a little of both.
“Oh, speaking of which, I found out where your UNSUB got the song lyrics,” Ruggles said.
“Yeah?” said Butts. “Where?”
“They’re from a steampunk band called the Calibrated Instruments. They’re out of Boston, and are becoming quite popular all over the East Coast.”
“Good work, Ruggles,” said Lee.
“Thank you, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of putting their website address on Captain Morton’s desk. He’s downtown in a meeting at present, but Detective Krieger is waiting for you in the conference room, I believe.”
As soon as they entered the room, she plunged straight into business, without pausing for the usual niceties of greetings.
“I have been doing linguistic analysis on the work of Herman Melville,” she said, leaning against the front of Chuck’s desk. She wore a formfitting black skirt and crisp white blouse with a single strand of pearls, simple but elegant. It was hard not to stare at her, no matter what she was wearing.
“Yeah?” Butts said, removing his sodden jacket before flopping down into a chair. “What’d you come up with?” He alone seemed impervious to her charms.
“Well, leaving aside the obvious connection with postmodernism—”
“Whoa, Nellie,” Butts said. “Wha—”
Just then Chuck entered, looking distracted. His nose was red and his eyes looked swollen; he carried a box of Kleenex in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in the other.
“Hi,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Want to fill me in on what I’ve missed?” He sat at his desk and swallowed a couple of Tylenol, chasing them down with coffee.
“Detective Krieger was just about to fill us in on the postmodernist elements in the works of Herman Melville,” Lee commented dryly.
“
What
?” Morton said, frowning.
“Excuse me,” Krieger said, reddening. “I only mentioned that in passing in case it was of interest to anyone. What I was
going
to say is that there is a strong element of nihilism in Melville, which might be one reason our UNSUB is attracted to him.”
“I don’t see where this is going,” Butts grumbled, squeezing rainwater from his tie into the trash can.
“Well, for one thing, a familiarity with the works of Melville would indicate a certain level of education,” Lee said, “which probably corresponds to a certain socioeconomic status. That narrows it down quite a bit.”
“And the nihilism?” Chuck asked, blowing his nose.
“Since my specialty is forensic linguistics,” Krieger said, “I thought it would be useful to examine the nature of—”
“I don’t see how,” Butts muttered.
“All
right
, Detective, knock it off!” Chuck bellowed. “Either we work as a team, or not at all—understand?”
“Okay,” Butts replied. “Sorry. It’s just that I don’t get—”
“What linguistics has to do with this case?” Lee finished for him.
“Yeah.”
“May I remind you that forensic linguistics led to the capture and conviction of the Unabomber,” Krieger said stiffly.
“Oh, come on—” Butts began, but Morton silenced him with a glare that was undermined by a violent fit of sneezing.
“It would appear you have contracted a cold virus,” Krieger remarked.
Chuck glared at her as he grabbed a fistful of tissues and blew his nose. “We’ve got no prints, no trace, no DNA so far,” he told Butts. “Let Detective Krieger speak, will you?”
The detective pursed his lips and stared at his shoes. A puddle of water had formed around him on the floor. Seeing it, Morton said, “Detective, would you like a change of clothes?”
“I’m okay,” Butts muttered.
“How about you?” Chuck asked Lee, who was shivering in the feeble air-conditioning.
“I’m fine.”
“So you think the UNSUB is a nihilist?” Chuck asked Krieger.
“I’m just pointing out that there are certain themes running throughout the works of Melville that might indicate—”
“But that’s assuming his choice of Melville’s grave meant something,” Butts pointed out.
“True,” Lee agreed. “But even if we can’t be sure, it’s better to assume it was on purpose, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Butts grunted, with a glance at Krieger, who was twisting her pearl necklace between her thumb and forefinger. Her long nails were painted bright scarlet. “So you were saying—about the nihilism?”
“His greatest novel was about a vain struggle with God and nature, or the forces of evil, depending on how you look at it,” she said. “And his greatest short story had at its center the first great fictional nihilist.”
“ ‘Bartleby, the Scrivener,’ ” said Lee.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Butts, “but what does that tell us about the UNSUB?”
“That he has experienced great isolation in his life,” Krieger said.
“But couldn’t you say that about all these guys?” Butts protested. “I mean, isn’t that pretty much a given?”
“There are different forms of isolation,” Lee replied. “And it affects people in different ways. There are some singular aspects to this UNSUB, for example.”
“Like what?” said Chuck.
“Well, he doesn’t sexually assault his victims. He doesn’t hurt them—”
“Unless you count draining their blood,” Butts remarked.
“What I mean is that he subdues them without using violence, and even the act of killing them isn’t rage driven. It’s perverse, but it’s oddly—”
“Antiseptic?” Chuck suggested.
“Yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. It feels like a form of avoidance. There’s something oddly passive about it.”
“Like Bartleby,” Krieger said with a smile.
“Yeah,” Lee agreed. “Like Bartleby.”
“I read that story in school,” Chuck said. “What was it he kept saying?”
“I prefer not to,” Krieger answered.
“Right—I prefer not to.”
“While you’re at it,” Butts said, “we’ve got somethin’ else for you to analyze.”
Krieger looked suspicious. “What?”
Without answering, Butts turned and pinned a copy of the song lyrics on the bulletin board. Krieger looked surprised. Then an expression of concentration came over her face and she stood studying them for several minutes.
Finally she said, “This is very interesting. May I take this copy with me?”
“Sure,” said Chuck.
“Sergeant Ruggles says they’re lyrics from a popular steampunk band,” Lee told her.
She cocked her head to one side. “Are they indeed?” Then, looking at her watch, she said, “Forgive me, but I have to go. I have a”—she hesitated, looking embarrassed—“a dentist appointment.”
Butts also had to be somewhere—something involving his son—so the meeting broke up until next time. After the others had gone, Lee stayed behind. He wanted to tell Chuck about the phone call about the red dress, but wondered if it was a good idea. They were already under a lot of pressure, and Chuck wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t want to add yet another thing for his friend to have to worry about—he had already put a trace on Lee’s phone.
Morton popped open a bottle of decongestants and looked up to see him lingering by the door. “What’s up?” he said, gulping down a couple of pills.
“Oh, not much,” Lee said, rethinking the notion of telling his friend about the call—surely Morton had enough on his mind as it was.
But Chuck leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’re a lousy liar, Campbell. Are you going to waste my time or just tell me what’s going on?”
“He’s calling me again.”
“Damn. You talk to the guys down at trace?”
“They said it came from a pay phone in Midtown.”
“That’s useless. Did it sound like anyone you know on the force?”
“Like who?”
“I’m just trying to think of people who would have inside information on that case.”
“It didn’t sound like anyone I knew.”
“Was he disguising his voice? Using a voice-altering device?”
“That’s the weird thing—I don’t think he’s making any attempt to disguise his voice.”
“That alone tells us something.”
“He’s not afraid of being recognized.”
“Yeah. Which is pretty scary in itself,” Chuck said, rubbing his left shoulder. During their days at Princeton, he had dislocated it more than once playing rugby, and it continued to bother him in rainy weather. “Lee?”
“Yeah?”
“For God’s sake, be careful, will you?”
“Okay.”
But even as he answered, Bartleby’s haunting words ran through his head.
I prefer not to....

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