Dark Sundays

by Donn Cortez

  Even after being forced to take a suspect’s life in self-defense. That shooting had shaken him personally, but his core beliefs still held. He had not killed the man out of anger or fear; it had been a matter of survival, with no other choice available.

  Still, the words “First, do no harm” rose in his mind more often since the shooting, a reminder of his obligation to uphold life. Doing so by putting criminals behind bars might not be as direct as doing so by saving a patient’s life, but it ultimately accomplished the same goal. The intellectual satisfaction thus derived was, in some ways, more fulfilling than the emotional.

  But then, his specialty was forensic pathology. He had usually been at least one step removed from the process of saving lives. . . and had always been oddly comfortable with that.

  Maybe that was why he didn’t mind his office’s proximity to the morgue.

  Then again, it might just be Doc Robbins’s company. He and Robbins had found common ground in a number of areas—rare blues music among them—and took turns in supplying the soundtrack to whatever autopsy was currently being performed. “If the bodies that pass through our hands wind up crossing the River Styx,” Ray had told Robbins one evening, “there’s no reason they can’t enjoy the sounds of the Mississippi Delta first.”

  Ray was currently listening to a little Muddy Waters on the sound system of a crime lab Denali as he drove through the desert night. He was on his way to meet Catherine Willows, supervisor of the lab’s night shift and Gil Grissom’s replacement, at a facility a few miles outside Vegas city limits. They had a somewhat unusual crime scene to process, and Catherine had told Ray his background might come in handy.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a long, low-slung building with two separate wings. The Nevada Neurological Studies Institute didn’t look much like a medical facility—let alone one that did cutting-edge research—but Ray’s experienced eyes spotted the dark outline of an incinerator’s smokestack, used to dispose of medical waste.

  He parked, took out his customary oversize CSI kit on its rolling luggage stand, and wheeled his way to the front entrance. He noted that Catherine was already there, parked right out front.

  There was no receptionist on duty at this time of night, but a security guard met him at the front door and directed him to one of the wings. The hallway was long and dimly lit, reminding Ray of night shifts when he was an intern; he’d always enjoyed that sensation of stillness, of being one of the few people awake and alert deep in the A.M. There was a certain serenity to it.

  He heard voices up ahead, one of them Catherine’s. He turned a bend in the corridor and saw broken glass scattered at his feet, the remains of a shattered sliding door that sealed off the ward. The sign above the entrance read “Secure Area.”

  Catherine Willows, dressed in a blue CSI windbreaker and ball cap, was talking to a balding, bearded man in a white coat.

  “—didn’t think he was violent,” the man said. His attention shifted to Ray as he walked up. “Hello. I’m Dr. Hiram Wincroft.”

  “I’m Ray Langston from the crime lab. Hello, Catherine.”

  “Hi, Ray. Ray here is being too modest; he’s an MD, too. Hopefully that’ll be an asset for our investigation.”

  “What, exactly, are we investigating?” Ray asked.

  “Two of our patients have escaped,” said Wincroft. “Two of our more. . . unusual patients. One of them used an office chair to smash through this door— The other is much more passive.”

  “How about security?”

  “The guard was making his rounds at the time. He came running when he heard the crash, but they were already gone.”

  “What can you tell us about the patients?”

  Dr. Wincroft paused, then loosened his tie. “Damn air conditioning must be on the fritz again. Hot enough to fry an egg in here. All right, the one who busted the glass is John Bannister. Formerly Sergeant John Bannister, now discharged. Served in Iraq and wound up in a coma for a week after a bomb he was defusing went off. He began to present some very unusual symptoms at the VA hospital where he was getting poststress counseling. They were having trouble diagnosing him, so they sent him here. We eventually figured out he was suffering from corticobasal degeneration syndrome.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Only forty-two. We still don’t know what causes CBDS, but it rarely shows up in men his age. But he started displaying limb rigidity and gait disorder—he walks very stiffly.” Wincroft paused. “Sometimes it almost looks as if one of his goddamn feet is nailed to the floor. Doesn’t so much walk as lurch, like a goddamn zombie.”

  Wincroft abruptly shrugged out of his lab coat, tossing it aside. “Lord, it’s hot in here. You ever see a zombie movie? Dead people rising from the grave, trying to eat people’s brains . . .” He laughed. “Not that most people use them, anyhow. Most people don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain!”

  A look passed between Catherine and Ray.

  “Doctor,” said Catherine, “are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine, absolutely fine. Must be that chicken I had for lunch, making me a little scattered. Chickens have extremely small brains, so you have to be careful about. . . uh, catalytic metabolism refraction.” He began to unbutton his shirt.

  Ray stepped forward and peered into Wincroft’s eyes. “Doctor, have you taken any medication recently?”

  “What? No, I haven’t.”

  “Your pupils are fully dilated. Your skin is flushed and you seem to be overheating, but you’re not sweating.”

  “Really?” Wincroft frowned, clearly trying to concentrate. “Yes, of course. That explains why my thinking is so. . . what were we just discussing?”

  “I’ll see if I can find a nurse,” said Catherine.

  Ray had Wincroft sit in a chair, then conducted a few basic tests. He found that Wincroft’s heart rate was elevated, his mouth dry, his vision slightly blurred. He displayed both muscle weakness and a heightened stretch reflex.

  Catherine returned, a nurse in tow. “Ray, I think we have a problem.”

  The nurse, a leggy blonde in her thirties, had stripped down to her underwear, white stockings, and orthopedic shoes. She looked at them blankly, then giggled.

  The doctor and the nurse weren’t the only ones affected. It soon became apparent that everyone on the ward was experiencing the same symptoms—the CSIs were forced to move them all to a different part of the building and isolate the entire wing.

  Fortunately, the total affected was less than a dozen people. The Institute was primarily a research facility, with few patients staying there full-time. Both CSIs changed into hazmat suits before returning.

  “What do you think, Professor?” Catherine asked as they surveyed the broken glass through the transparent plastic of their face plates. “Epidemic or mass poisoning?”

  “Chemical exposure is my guess. The onset of symptoms is too sudden and uniform for anything bacterial or viral—people don’t all get sick at exactly the same time and in exactly the same way.”

  They made their way down the hall. “I’ve got a break room over here,” she said. “Coffee urn, some pastries. I’ll take samples for a tox screen.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to check Bannister’s room.”

  Ray continued down the hall until he came to an unlocked room marked 2C. He pushed it open.

  The room was spare and simple, with a hospital bed, a dresser, and a small table with two chairs. There was a window with reinforced safety glass but no bars. Ray turned on the small lamp over the neatly made bed, then searched through the dresser drawers. He found only some clothes and a few toiletry articles.

  He looked around the room, trying to see things not through the eyes of a doctor but as a CSI. He looked under the bed, behind the drawers, beneath and behind the dresser itself. Nothing.

  Then he looked up and noticed the air vent near the ceiling.

  He stood on the bed and examined the vent. There were scratches on and around the heads
of the two screws that held it in place. He took a multitool—he’d learned quickly how essential it was always to have one on hand—undid the screws, and pulled the grille off.

  He peered inside. He could see something round and metal, pushed far back into the duct. He reached in, grabbed it, and carefully pulled it out.

  It was a small, green metal canister, with a U.S. Army insignia stenciled on one side and “BZ-4598” on the other. The end was capped with an aerosol nozzle, jammed open with a safety pin. He heard no hissing noise—the canister appeared to be empty.

  Catherine hefted the canister in her hand. “Feels empty. Whatever BZ-4598 is, it’s not in here anymore.”

  “No,” said Ray. “It’s all around us. The ventilation for this building probably branches out to each wing from a central location; it only spread in one direction, from the point of release outward.”

  “Canister says it’s from the army. Nerve gas?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. BZ is the common term for three-quinuclidinyl benzilate. It’s an incapacitating agent developed by the U.S. military. The good news is it’s nonlethal; it was designed to disorient enemy troops, not kill them.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “It has a host of neurological side effects and a long duration—up to ninety-six hours.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Four days? That’s one hell of a trip.”

  “And not necessarily a pleasant one. In its later stages, BZ produces extremely lifelike illusions, three-dimensional hallucinations that seem absolutely real to the person experiencing them. None of the staff has demonstrated that particular symptom yet, so I’d say they’re still in the early stages—they were probably exposed less than four hours ago.”

  “What’s the next stage?”

  Ray shook his head. “Stupor and loss of consciousness, I believe. I’ll have to do some reading up on it—it’s not exactly a common condition, so I can’t recall all of the particulars at the moment.”

  Catherine smiled. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up—nobody can memorize every esoteric scientific detail in existence, no matter how big an expert they are. I’m just glad we have your expertise on tap.”

  “All I need is Internet access. I can log on to a medical database and get the information quickly.”

  “There’s a workstation at the nurse’s desk.”

  Catherine walked up to the nurse’s station, where Ray sat staring at a computer screen. “I sent the canister to the lab and did a search of the other rooms just to be safe. Didn’t find any other canisters. About the only unusual thing I discovered was a torn sheet in one of the rooms.”

  “Maybe used to bind a wound? We didn’t find any blood drops, but one of them could have cut themselves on the broken glass.”

  “Maybe.”

  Ray nodded and leaned back. “All right, here’s a brief overview of the effects of BZ and an approximate timeline. It‘s a glycolate anticholinergic, developed after World War Two. It’s odorless, stable in most solvents, and extremely persistent—it will stay on some surfaces for up to three weeks. However, its efficiency rapidly diminishes once it’s no longer aerosolized.” He took off his hood. “The air should be safe, and don’t worry about coming into contact with objects that have been exposed—any accumulation will be too small to have an effect.”

  “Good to know.” She took off her hood, too.

  “BZ works by competing for acetylcholine at receptor sites for exocrine glands, cardiac and smooth muscles, and neurons. This produces dry mouth, inhibits sweating, and causes an initial rise in heart rate. Body temperature rises, making the skin flush.

  “But these are all secondary. BZ’s primary effects are to the central nervous system and may be delayed as long as four hours after the initial exposure. Stupor, lack of muscle coordination, and hyperthermia are the next phase, which lasts to around the twenty-hour mark.

  “Phase three is where the party really starts. Confabulation, delusions, hallucinations that seem utterly real. The subject will frequently deny that anything is wrong. Attention span is shortened, and mood can swing from quiet contemplation of imaginary objects to sudden bursts of aggression.”

  “Dr. Wincroft seemed fairly cooperative.”

  “He’s still in the first stage. But he was already demonstrating some of the more pronounced CNS effects—inappropriate profanity, use of clichés in language, disrobing.”

  “So this chemical turns people into frat boys?”

  “There’s also slurred speech, overuse of colloquialisms, deterioration in handwriting. . . so, yes.” He paused. “But there’s another symptom that’s even more troubling. Folie a deux.”

  “A. . . folly of two?”

  “A madness shared by two. It’s a rare syndrome, also known as shared psychotic disorder, where two or more people have the same set of delusions. Under the influence of BZ, this extends to shared hallucinations.”

  “Wait. Are you telling me two people exposed to this chemical can both see the same thing. . . that isn’t there?”

  “Precisely. I know it sounds surreal, but subjects dosed with BZ have been observed doing such things as playing an imaginary game of tennis. Both players saw—and reacted to—a ball that existed only in their minds.”

  “Must have made calling line shots hard.”

  “If both of our escapees have been exposed—and I think we have to assume that they have—then whatever illusions they’re experiencing. . . they might be experiencing together.”

  “Meaning any irrational or aggressive behavior could be amplified?”

  “It’s possible. Each will validate the other’s experience, providing reinforcement for the entire scenario. For whatever world they’re living in . . .”

  4

  “MS. FYNELL,” SAID NICK, motioning for the woman to take a seat on the other side of the interview table. “Thanks for coming in. I know it’s late, but—”

  Emma Fynell batted away his apology with a casual wave of one elegant hand. Her nails were a glossy black, encrusted with tiny spirals of rhinestones that glittered in the artificial light of the interview room. She wore a long black coat, high-heeled stilettos, and sheer black stockings. If she had anything else on under the coat, Nick couldn’t tell. Her hair was long and dark with streaks of violet, and she wore just enough makeup to emphasize the fact that she really didn’t need to wear any. “Not at all. I was still up, and just a little bored. Now I have something to do.”

  Nick smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I was hoping you could tell me about the party you attended tonight.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one in the penthouse suite of the Panhandle.”

  “Oh, the interesting one. Flaming aircraft and rogue grizzlies.”

  “That would be the one, yes.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Where were you during the aircraft incident?”

  She thought about it, idly scratching her wrist with one shiny black talon. “At the far right of the railing. Next to this sweaty little man with a cigar.”

  “Did you notice which direction the aircraft came from?”

  “From the north, I think. Someone shouted—a woman—and everyone turned around and stared.”

  “Did you see anyone with any kind of mechanical device in their hand?”

  “Like a cell phone? Practically everyone. Snapping pictures, mostly—even me. Would you like to see?” She dug into the small purse she’d tossed on the table when she first arrived and pulled out a tiny, slim phone. “Here. It’s a bit blurry, but then, so was I at the time.”

  She handed it to him. “Can you send these pictures to me?” he asked. “I’m going to be collecting as many as possible.”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled and took back the phone, her nails brushing his hand as she did so. “Just give me your number . . .”

  “Did I see someone with a remote control? No,” said the short, swarthy man on the other side of the interview table. He smelled strongly of
cigar smoke and appeared to be still a little drunk. “But how the hell would I know? I was busy watching other things, you know?” He gave Nick a leer that suggested those things had little to do with burning zeppelins.

  “Sure. Mr. Carvonas, did you happen to notice anything or anyone else at the party that seemed out of place?”

  “Hey, I’m not one to judge. But as far as weird goes, the mummy in the wheelchair was kinda odd.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Big guy, too—musta been three-fifty, easy. All wrapped up in bandages like he just escaped from King Tut’s tomb. Or maybe a Weight Watchers meetin’ in Cairo. Heh.”

  “Let me get this straight. You saw a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound man in a wheelchair, completely wrapped in bandages?”

  “Yeah! And he had his own private nurse with him, too—cute little thing in a white outfit. Strong, though—she was pushing that wheelchair all by herself. Didn’t see ’em for long, though. They disappeared pretty quick.”

  “Did you notice them talking to anyone else?”

  “Nah. I mean, I wasn’t really payin’ attention. And then that joker zips by in the Goodyear blimp—well, maybe the Goodweek blimp, it wasn’t that big—and kablooey.” Carvonas paused. “Come to think of it, I never noticed that mummy guy afterward, either. We all had to leave by the fire stairs—wonder how he got down?”

  “That’s a very good question,” said Nick.

  “All right, got it.” Greg snapped his cell phone shut. “Nick says nobody on the roof saw someone climb over the wall, though most of the guests were on the other side of the party watching the zeppelin. Nobody saw anything like a remote control being used, either.”

  Sara stared down at the pool. Underwater spots threw rippling blue light across her face. “Maybe the controller was concealed. Do any of the penthouse rooms have windows that face that way?”

  “We can check that side of the building. But that’s not all Nick had to say . . .” He told her about the large, bandaged man in the wheelchair and his nurse. “Someone saw them heading for one of the bedrooms. Worth checking out.”