Chaos in Death edahr-42 Page 8

  “He’s been stabbed a whole bunch. It might even be more than Bickford, but it’s hard to tell. He’s missing his nose.”

  “What does that say to you?”

  “It’s another quiz. This time I want a grade. It says to me Billingsly won’t be sniffing around anymore. Maybe around Arianna, maybe around something else—something lab related. The note’s addressed directly to you this time, so he knows it’s our case—and that Billingsly wasn’t a popular guy around here.”

  “I’d say A minus.”

  “A minus?” Both insult and sulk piped through Peabody’s voice. “I want A plus.”

  “For an A plus you’d need to observe, identify, and relate the teeth marks in the vic’s face and throat.”

  “Teeth . . . oh jeez.” Observing and identifying them now, Peabody swallowed hard. “He ate him.”

  “Just here and there. He’s accelerating,” Eve concluded. “This time blood wasn’t enough. He wanted a taste of flesh.” She scanned again, noted the open door on an empty cabinet. “Did the killer walk in on the vic, or the other way around?”

  “If this is extra credit, I want a review of my earlier grade. Let me think.” To help herself do that, Peabody looked away from the body. “I can’t think why Billingsly would be here. He and Rosenthall aren’t pals, and this isn’t his area—not only sector-wise, but professionally. Maybe if Rosenthall asked him to come in—but I don’t buy it. He’s not going to do his competitor any favors. He’d come if Arianna asked him, but that puts her in this, and it just doesn’t fit well for me.”

  Pausing, she made herself look at the body again. “If he came here—which, okay, obviously, he did—it was to get something on Justin, or screw with something, or poke around looking . . . Poke his nose in!”

  Eve took the cloned key card and recorder out of Billingsly’s pocket. Hit Play.

  “Justin Rosenthall.”

  “Billingsly tried a little B&E,” Peabody commented.

  “That’s an A plus.”

  “Yay!”

  “Billingsly keys in using the dummy card and the recorder. He’s poking around. The killer is already here—looking for something, doing something, waiting for something. Billingsly sees him, and that’s the end of Billingsly. The killer chews on him, stabs him, amputates his nose, wrecks the lab, takes time to leave the message, then boogies out. They’ve got him on disc, so we’ll be able to track his movements.”

  “That’s a break.”

  “For us, not for Billingsly.” Eve opened her field kit again, crouched by the body. “Let’s verify ID, get TOD.”

  “If there are bite marks, they should get some saliva, and the impressions, too,” Peabody began.

  “We got better.” Eve lifted Billingsly’s lifeless hand. “We got skin under the nails. Billingsly got some flesh, too.”

  Nine

  Eve put on microgoggles for a better look before she bagged the hand. “Tinted green flesh, so that’s our guy. We’ll get DNA.”

  “And see if one of our main suspects shows some recent scratches.”

  Eve looked up as Roarke came back in. “McNab’s working with Security,” he told her. “Everyone in the lab logged out, Rosenthall being the last at eleven twenty-six. The log shows Rosenthall swiping in again at twelve oh-seven, but the discs show Billingsly swiping in at that time, clearly entering alone.”

  Eve held up an evidence bag. “Billingsly had a clone swipe and a recording of Rosenthall’s voice.”

  “Nosy becomes very apt. No one else entered the lab after the last log-out at eleven twenty-six except Billingsly. No one exited until your Dr. Chaos at one fifteen.”

  “Well, he didn’t just materialize.”

  “TOD,” Peabody announced before Roarke could comment, “twelve fifty.”

  “That’s a lot of time between when Billingsly entered and TOD. It didn’t take that long to kill him. Contact the sweepers, and the ME,” Eve ordered, then, avoiding blood and debris, did another long study of the room, walked over to the break room area.

  “Peabody! Get us a warrant for these lockers. Six, digital locks.” Looking up, she studied the open ceiling vent. “There’s his access. It’s big enough for a man to get through.”

  “Low tech,” Roarke commented. “But classic.”

  “I need the ventilation layout. But for now . . . boost me up.”

  Obliging, Roarke hooked his fingers together. With her foot in the hammock of his hands, Eve bounced up, gripped the edge of the open vent. “Yeah, the grille’s in here. Maybe he initially planned to go back out this way.” She took a penlight out of her pocket, shined it in the skinny ventilation tunnel. “Tight squeeze. I see some scuff marks. So he logs out, comes back in somewhere else. Through the health center area, maybe the visitor’s lodging, pretty much anywhere. Scoots and crawls along. Pops out, then—”

  “Are you going to solve the case while I’m holding you off the floor?” Roarke wondered.

  “Hmm? Sorry.” She jumped down. “Pops out,” she continued. “Maybe gets into his gear here. Lockers, bathroom. Sweepers could find traces of the makeup. Would he be stupid enough to leave something in a locker?”

  “Shall I open them?”

  “When we get a warrant.”

  “Stickler,” he said and made her smile.

  “I could claim they’re part of the crime scene, which they are, so the PA could probably hold that line. But a defense attorney would make noises, so a warrant keeps it clean.”

  She set her hands on her hips, turned a slow circle. “Was he meeting Billingsly here? In it together, there’s a disagreement, death ensues. I don’t like it. This guy works alone. Billingsly got nosy, then got dead. The killer wasn’t expecting company. He came in for the serum, and he got it. Billingsly’s a bonus round.”

  “Why didn’t he go out the way he came in?”

  “Too hyped up from the kill to care,” she concluded. “By then, leaving where he’d be caught on disc—if he thought of it—just added some fun. Look at me!”

  Peabody came to the doorway. “I tagged Cher Reo,” she said, speaking of the APA. “She was about to call me a very bad name, but I showed her the body.”

  “Good thinking,” Eve told her.

  “She’s all over the warrant.”

  “Okay. When the morgue gets here, I want the skin sent to the lab asap. I want that DNA the same way. I need something for a bribe. Something really good,” she told Roarke. “For Dickhead.”

  Chief Lab Tech Dick Berenski wouldn’t drag himself to work in the middle of the night for less than a first-class bribe.

  “Two tickets, skybox, first game of the World Series, with locker-room passes.”

  “Excellent, but we’re still in play-offs.”

  “Wherever it is—transpo included.”

  “Nice. I’ll start with one, let him squeeze me for the second ticket—which he will. I’ll tag him on the way to Security. I want to see those discs. Peabody, wait for the morgue and the sweepers. I want that skin hand-carried to the lab. And I want to know as soon as the warrant comes through.”

  In Security, Eve studied the screen, the movement, the face. She ordered magnification, ordered freeze, replay.

  “Gotta be a new strain of Zeus, or something like it. Along with some serious prosthetics. Nothing’s quite right about him. It’s almost as if his whole body’s disjointed.”

  She magnified again to study the hands. Gloved, she noted, with long, sharp nails slicing through the tips. Then went back to the face.

  “He couldn’t have taken those bites out of the vic wearing that gear. So he didn’t put it on until after the kill. Or he can manipulate it, because the bites had puncture marks like those pointed incisors he’s got. What is his deal?”

  “Totally freak show,” was McNab’s opinion.

  Eve glanced at the e-man, and Peabody’s cohab. He wore his long blond hair in a tail secured with silver rings that matched the half dozen hanging from his earlobe. His skinny frame
vibrated with color from the many pocketed baggies in Day-Glo orange that picked up the zigs in his shirt.

  The zags were nuclear blue.

  “You’re wearing that getup and talking freak show.”

  He grinned. “Easy to find these pants in the dark.”

  “It’d be easy to spot them on Mars in the night sky with the naked eye.”

  “They blind the bad guys,” he claimed, still grinning. “Anyway, Dallas, it looks real. This guy, I mean. He looks real.”

  “Nothing about this guy looks real,” she corrected. “I want you to take this in to EDD for a full anal.”

  She looked down at her com when it signaled. “Warrant’s in. Let’s open those lockers.”

  “You’re not going to like this,” Roarke said as they walked back. “But I agree with McNab.”

  “Yeah, I figure those pants could blind somebody if they stared at them too long.”

  “Something I try to avoid. I also have to agree with him that your killer doesn’t look as if he’s wearing a disguise.”

  “Because it’s a combination. Disguise and some kind of powerful drug.”

  “How does he blink?”

  That put a hitch in her stride. “What?”

  “If his eyes aren’t real, if he’s using devices for the size, the shape, how does he blink? He looked directly at the security camera at several points, and his eyelids closed and opened. He smiled, if you can call it that. His jaw shifted, his mouth turned up. And we both saw him contort his body in impossible ways, and move at considerable speed.”

  He did have a damn good eye, she thought.

  “If he’s a scientist—and he damn well is—he’s figured out how to devise something, and he’s taking something that boosts his adrenaline. Monsters exist,” she added. “But they’re flesh and blood. They’re human, just like the rest of us. It’s what’s inside them that’s twisted. This guy isn’t some Frankenstein monster.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of another classic. Mr. Hyde.”

  “You’ve got to lay off those old vids,” she commented, and led the way to the lab.

  “If you can believe a scientist can create devices and substances to disguise himself this way, why isn’t it possible for that scientist to create something that causes him to be this way?”

  “Because,” she said as they approached the door, “appearing and being are different things.” She paused outside the door. “Maybe—maybe—there’s been something going on in this lab that’s whacked. Something botched. And we’re going to salvage Rosenthall’s records and find out. But for now, we’ve got a killer on a spree, and none of my suspects pop out as a fucked-up science experiment.”

  “Maybe the more human face is the real disguise.”

  With that thought planted in her head, she walked into the lab.

  Police business moved forward, with sweepers and the dead crew already at work. With Roarke she headed straight back to the lockers.

  She thought of the destruction of the lab and the open, unbroken door of the serum lockup.

  “No point in busting them open since you’re here.”

  “None at all,” Roarke agreed.

  It didn’t take him long. As he moved down the line of lockers uncoding the locks, she called Peabody in for the search.

  And hit pay dirt in Pachai Gupta’s.

  Eve took out the silver pipe.

  “Weighted it for extra punch. And he didn’t even clean it thoroughly,” Eve noted. “There’s still some blood, some matter. It shows some nicks and dents where it hit bone.”

  “He loved her—Darnell.” Peabody shook her head. “It was all over him, Dallas. Love and grief, all over him.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first to destroy what he loved. But this is so damn stupid, so careless. Steal the serum by unlocking the cabinet rather than busting it up. Then just leave one of the murder weapons in your work locker?”

  “A frame-up? It makes more sense to me,” Peabody said. “I know I did the interview, and I hate thinking I missed anything, but a frame-up makes more sense.”

  “He’s got this in the locker, but doesn’t use it. Kills Billingsly, and unless he’s really stupid, knows we’ll search the lockers, knows we’ll question the fact the serum cabinet was opened with its lock code. He’s unstable, and the drug makes him more so, but he’s organized. Takes care not to be seen coming in—but does murder, then shows himself.”

  “Because he wanted us here,” Peabody concluded. “Following the bread crumbs to Gupta. No, not crumbs. Big, chunky hunks of bread.”

  “Reads that way. Seal it up, get the weapon taken to the lab for processing. And let’s have all our players picked up, brought in.”

  She walked out with Roarke. “A frame-up, if that’s what it is, that’s human. So’s screwing up and leaving evidence where it can be found, if that’s what it is. Either way, with the weapon, the DNA, we’ll lock it down.”

  “I have every faith. I’m going into the office.”

  “Now? It’s . . .” She checked the time as they stepped outside. “It’s shy of five a.m.”

  “Should I point out you’ve been working since shortly after two? I’ll get my own jump on the day, and as I’m curious enough, I may come down to Central later, watch you lock it down.”

  “If you need the car, I could—Guess you don’t,” she added when a dark limo glided smoothly to the curb. “I’m going to hit the lab first, give Dickhead a push. A DNA match will save the innocent bystanders from a round in the box. Thanks for the bribe.”

  “Never a problem.” He touched her cheek. “Take care, will you? This one gives me a very uneasy feeling.”

  “Too many old horror vids, and an Irish nature. I think I can handle some murderous scientist.”

  “Try not to punch him. You’ll set the healing on that arm back.”

  She watched him drive away, then went back in to talk to the head sweeper and get Peabody for the trip to the lab.

  Dick Berenski’s ink black hair was slicked back over his eggshaped head. Rather than his usual lab coat, he wore a multicolored floral shirt that would have made even McNab wince.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “Clothes. It’s five-fucking-a.m. I’m not officially on yet. And I want a bottle of single malt scotch for the game.”

  “We already agreed to terms.”

  “That was before.” He shot her a sour look, and since the last time she’d seen him he’d been scarily sweet—and in love—she assumed there was trouble in paradise.

  “Before what?”

  “Before I got here and found Harpo pulling an all-nighter.”

  “Why is that my problem?”

  “She’s on your hair—first murder—and you’re not going to like it.” He played his spider fingers over his comp. “She’ll come out here.”

  “What about my skin?”

  “She goes first. And I want that scotch.”

  “Fine, fine, if you give me something I can use.”

  “Oh, I’ll give you something.”

  Harpo, all spiky red hair and tired eyes, walked out from her section into Berenski’s. “Yo,” she said to Eve and Peabody, then dropped onto a stool. “You tell her?” she asked Berenski.

  “I said you’d do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. So,” she said, swiveling to Eve. “On one hand this is totally iced. On the other, it’s majorly fucked.”

  “What is?”

  “The hair. I’m the goddess of hair and fiber, and if I can’t ID it, nobody can. And I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry, I’ve been at this all night. I’m a little wired on Boost.” She gestured with the jumbo tube in her hand before she took a gulp.

  “Have you tried the new black cherry flavor?” Peabody asked her.

  “Yeah, but it’s got an aftertaste. I’m pretty well hooked on the Lemon Zest. It’s got a nice zing.”

  “I like Blue Lagoon. There’s something about
drinking blue that feels energizing.”

  “Excuse me,” Eve said, brutally polite. “This talk of flavors and favorites is fascinating, but maybe we could take a moment to discuss—oh, I don’t know—evidence?”

  “Sure,” Harpo said as Peabody cleared her throat. “I got hair from your crime scene. ID’d some from each of your vics, no prob. Got some not theirs, but no roots. So no DNA for you on that, but I started a standard anal. You want to eliminate animal—like a rat, or a stray cat, whatever. And I could—I figured anyway—give you some basics. Synthetic, human, if it was treated, color, and like that. But I can’t, ’cause it’s not.”

  “Not what, Harpo?”

  “It’s not synthetic. That’s solid. But it’s not exactly human and not exactly animal. It’s sort of both.”

  “It can’t be both.”

  “That’s right.” Harpo pointed a finger tipped with a metallic purple nail. “But it is.” She glanced at Berenski for permission, then used one of the comps to call up her file. “What you have here,” she said, tapping that bright nail to the image, “is human hair, and this”—she split the screen with a second image—“is ape.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Science says. See, on the human hair the cuticle scales overlap smoothly. On the ape hair, they’re rough—they, like, protrude. Get it?”

  “Okay, yeah. So?”

  “So this—” Harpo added another image. “Okay, this is from your crime scene. It clearly shows characteristics of both—rough and smooth—on one strand. What you got here, Dallas, is mutant hair. It’s like somebody mated a human with an ape, and here’s the hair of the result.”

  “Give me a break, Harpo.”

  “Science doesn’t lie. It screws up sometimes, but it doesn’t lie. I ran this through everything I’ve got and did the same with the other strands the sweepers sent me. Same result. About two this morning, I gave up and tagged my old man—”

  “Your—”

  “My father’s head of forensics at Quantico. Look, Dallas, it’s not like I go running to Daddy whenever I hit a snag. In fact, this is the first time ever because it’s way out of orbit, and he’s the best there is—anywhere.”