The White Carnation (10 page)

A heavy-set man separated himself from the rest of the men and walked over to him.

“Sergeant Phil Rodgers, Cambridge PD. I take it you're Detective Halliday?”

“Yes. Thanks for getting here so fast.” Rob reached out his hand to shake Rodgers's extended one.

“You're out of your jurisdiction, Detective. Why don't you tell me why you're here?”

“Ms. Lewis is my former fiancée. She discovered a murder victim yesterday. I was supposed to be here at nine to take her to the station to sit down with a sketch artist. But I slept through the alarm.”

Rodgers surveyed the room and then stared at him. “Quite a mess. Lots of anger here. Any idea who might have done this?”

“Yesterday's victim's apartment was trashed like this. I'd say whoever killed her thought Ms. Lewis had something he wanted,” Rob hedged, not wanting to share too much with the burly, middle-aged detective.

The man nodded. “I see. Well, the lab team's on its way. Care to explain why you were so late getting here?”

“I'm the Boston PD liaison on the Harvester case. I had to go to Beverly.” He'd never forgive himself for being late. If he'd been here an hour earlier …

Rodgers pursed his lips, frowned, and shook his head. “I heard you found another one last night. That makes four. Are you guys any closer to finding the monster?”

“Maybe. We're pursuing another angle.”
At least I am, and this is a critical part of it
.

“How did you get in?”

“The door was open. The door knob latch sticks. She should have gotten it fixed.” He swallowed his own guilt in that regard. “Your team will find my prints pretty much all over. I was here last night until my lieutenant called me away.”

“So, at what time did you leave her?”

“Just after eight.”

“And you got here?”

“Around a quarter to eleven.”

The sergeant nodded. “That gives us a fourteen-hour window.” Rob's hope he'd gotten to her in time plummeted. She could've been attacked last night for all he knew. Any DNA left behind might be too degraded to test. Why hadn't he called Cambridge PD before going to Beverly? A rookie would've known enough to be concerned about the safety of a potential witness, but thinking the Harvester might be back had taken precedence and he'd left.

The paramedics came out of the bedroom with Faye, wrapped from head to toe in her own sheets, lying on a rolling stretcher between them. “Where are you taking her?” Rob asked, unable to hide his anxiety.

“Mount Auburn. It's closest,” the paramedic answered. “I checked for signs of trauma, but I didn't find anything. She's unresponsive. There's a puncture mark on her leg, and her vitals are low, but she's holding her own. They'll transfer her to Mass General if they have to.”

“Thanks.” Rob turned to the sergeant beside him. “I'm sure this is linked to my murder investigation. She needs around-the-clock protection. I want a guard on her. No one but essential personnel goes in until I get there.” The authority in his voice was unmistakable.

“Done.” The sergeant called to one of the officers, “Jenkins, you and Smith follow the ambulance and stay with the victim. Detective Halliday is right behind you, and I'll send a team to replace you before your shift ends.” The two officers on the door followed the paramedics.

Rodgers closed the small notebook he held, reminding Rob of Pierce, the FBI man on the case. He'd have to call him. He'd forgotten they were to meet at eleven. There was no way he'd make it to the precinct to help interview the teenagers who'd found the body in Beverly.

“I'll recommend two men on her as long as she's in there,” Rodgers said. “I'll suggest to my lieutenant that we consider this a joint investigation until you can eliminate any ties to your murder. In the meantime, I'll have the techs copy you on whatever we find.”

“Thanks.” Cooperation between the Boston and Cambridge police departments was nothing new but usually involved a fair amount of red tape. “I appreciate whatever help I can get with this.”

“Not a problem. You've got your hands full with the Harvester. I'll keep someone posted here as well in case our perp decides to pay a return visit.” The sound of the departing ambulance siren split the air. “Do you want one of my officers to take you to the hospital?”

“No. I'll drive. I'll need my car,” Rob said, moving toward the door.

“You'll have to leave that.” Rodgers indicated the picture frame Rob had forgotten he held in his hand. “Wrap your hand in some toweling and have someone look at it. It seems to be bleeding pretty badly. You don't want it to get infected.”

Rob stared down at the damaged frame, watching as the tracks of his blood trickled across Faye's smiling face.

Disheveled, feeling like anything but the cool, calm, and collected police detective he normally was, Rob drove through the streets of Cambridge, his mind not on his driving but on the woman in the ambulance ahead of him. He used the siren, broke at least a dozen speed and traffic laws, and he'd be damned if he'd take any flack for it.

His shirt and jeans had blood on them—his blood, thank God, and not Faye's. It was a small consolation, reminding him things could've been much worse. Faye was alive, and that was the most important thing. His heartbeat slowed to a rhythm slightly higher than normal, but his blood pressure was probably still through the roof.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to set his emotions aside like he did at any crime scene and look at the evidence objectively. Last night, when he'd suggested his theory that the Harvester was fathering the children, he hadn't quite resolved how the bastard might be doing it. He had some idea about that now, but there were still too many unanswered questions.

Tom was right about one thing. There were thousands of women in the area, so how'd the Harvester narrow the field to the ones he wanted, especially when none of them, other than Mary and Faye, had anything in common.

Where and when did he make his move? Once he selected them, he had to be observing them, biding his time before approaching, and after he did, he had to watch them again, making sure they got pregnant. He might even have to go back more than once to get the deed done. Faye's birth-control pills must have pissed him off since making a baby was step one in his cursed plan and he'd probably wasted his load this time.

Disgust mixed with fury filled Rob. If he'd failed in his objective this time, he'd have to return and do it again. But the son of a bitch wasn't as smart as he thought he was. He hadn't counted on Rob showing up, finding her, and whisking his prize away.

All of the other victims, like Faye, lived in apartment buildings. People were in and out of those buildings, even secure ones, all the time, and no one noticed them—the cable guy, a maintenance worker, or a delivery man. He'd asked Cambridge PD to check traffic cams for service people in the area last night and this morning.

Since there'd been no sign of forced entry, Faye had probably opened the door to him. How had he overpowered her? After Mahoney's attack on her a few years ago, she'd taken self-defense courses. Rob had sparred with her a few times down at the gym. There was no way she'd go down without a fight, but he hadn't seen a bruise on her. The puncture wound was on her leg, so the man could have bent down, maybe ostensibly to remove his shoes, and injected her with a fast-acting sedative, but what?

During his stint in vice, Rob had worked closely with a couple of undercover guys in narcotics. There'd been that one case where the coeds at a frat party had been drugged with Rohypnol, but although the details had been vague, all of them remembered enough of the sexual violations to charge the boys involved. None of the dead women had filed any kind of assault charges. Why?

He'd heard of other drugs, such as Ketamine, which could be used to make women complacent—not too long ago, his buddies in narcotics mentioned something new making its way onto the streets. Rob didn't know much about date-rape drugs, but he knew someone whose husband specialized in educating people about their dangers.

Turning into the hospital lot, he parked in the designated spot for police. The ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance, and he watched as they unloaded Faye from the back. He forced himself to sit in the car and let the EMTs do their jobs. He needed some answers; he suspected Faye had been raped and needed the doctor's help to prove it. What he wanted done was an incredible invasion of her privacy and an abuse of his power, but he didn't have time to find a judge and convince him, without an ounce of proof, to order the tests. Rob had to know if he was right, and this was the fastest way.

He pulled out his wallet and the card Mira had given him and dialed her number on his cell. She answered on the third ring.

“Hello. Dr. Kane speaking.”

“Mira, it's Rob. I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“No, I just got the princess down for her nap. Actually, I'm glad you called. I couldn't get you out of my head last night, especially once I got the body cleaned up.”

“Why was that?” he asked, hoping the ME had seen what was so obvious to him now.

“That girl looked like Faye. You must've noticed it.”

He sighed heavily, pleased to have his assumption confirmed. “I did, and it came as quite a shock. The other victims just weren't as pronounced.”

“I know killers usually have a preferred type, but realizing this victim looked like someone I know gave me the creeps. Her hair was dyed, by the way. She's probably blonde.”

“Two of the others had their hair colored as well. Listen, Mira, the reason I called has to do with that research project your husband was on before you left the department. He was looking into date-rape drugs for the World Health Organization, right?”

“Yeah, the year before we got married. He spent most of his time in Colombia. Why?”

“Did he ever mention a drug that would not only make the victim compliant but would erase their memories, too?”

“Yes, but it's incredibly dangerous. An overdose can kill. Where are you going with this, Halliday?”

“I need to know everything there is to know about it.”

“My husband went to Colombia to look into the ramifications of scopolamine, the so-called zombie drug. It's odorless and tasteless and leaves its victims with no memory of what happened to them. Some people think it's just an urban legend, but he's convinced it might be the most dangerous drug out there today.”

“Is it injected?”

“It can be, but when used as a street drug, it's either put into drinks or blown into the victim's face and inhaled.”

“Holy shit! The stuff's that potent?”

“It is. It robs the victim of free will. There've been cases of people emptying their bank accounts, being raped or beaten, committing robbery, even murder, without any memory of it.”

“Where does the stuff come from? Is it cooked up in a lab like meth?”

“Not exactly. It needs some refinement, all drugs do, but it comes from the Borrachero tree, a plant found in Colombia. The street name for the drug is the devil's breath.”

“Why don't they just destroy all the trees if this stuff's so dangerous?”

“Because like every other drug, it does have medicinal value. Scopolamine is used to treat severe nausea and motion sickness, as well as some types of addiction. They give it to astronauts. It's usually prescribed as a patch that's replaced every three days. It was used early in the twentieth century to make labor and delivery easier—the doctors called it ‘twilight sleep.' Some anesthetists still add it to the cocktail they use to put people under for surgery, and I've just read an article suggesting it might help patients with bipolar disease.”

“So how is it used so that memory is impaired?”

“You have to understand the brain is relatively uncharted territory for doctors. We know a lot about it, but there's still a lot to learn. To make lasting memories, your brain has to release a chemical called acetylcholine. Too much scopolamine in your system will block the production of acetylcholine. It basically prevents the brain from making the memory in the first place. It's not a matter of forgetting—there's nothing there to forget.”

“So, if someone blows this powder into a woman's face, he can get her to do whatever he wants, even have sex, and she won't remember it?”

“Probably the worst aspect of the drug is that while it robs the victim of her free will and memory, it doesn't impair her cognitive function in any way. To a stranger, she'd look and behave normally. If a woman's under the effects of scopolamine, she's compliant, but compliance doesn't denote consent.”

“What if she gets pregnant?”

“Unless the bastard had been rough with her, there wouldn't have been any vaginal signs to show the sex was coerced. If she were sexually active, she'd probably put it down to the luck of the draw—no birth control method is 100 percent foolproof. On the other hand, if she wasn't involved and there was no trauma, she'd certainly have questions, but there'd most likely be shame and guilt realizing she's had unprotected sex with a stranger. That guilt would be compounded if they didn't have any idea where and when it happened. Date rape goes unreported more often than not because of this. And if the woman does report she's been sexually assaulted, trying to prove rape without any idea of who, when, or where is almost impossible.”

“Thanks, Mira. You've been a big help.”

“Wait, don't hang up. Aren't you going to tell me what this is about?”

“I can't yet, but when I can, I promise I'll fill you in on all the details.” He ended the call.

He looked down at his hand, which had started to ache only after Rodgers had indicated the blood. He'd wrapped paper toweling around it, but the cut was deep, and the damn thing wouldn't stop bleeding. He clenched his fist tighter and called his partner's cell phone.