GD00 - ToxiCity

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She remembered her first meeting with Doyle, clutching his pipe like a surrogate male appendage, refusing to look her in the eye. She should have known it would be tough. But she was flattered when they offered her the job; she was only the second female officer to join the Glenbrook PD. The first quit to marry a commander.

  Breaking a sweat, she turned around and headed back. As she skirted a paint store near the station, a commuter train rumbled past. She stared at the darkened windows, envying the passengers their escape to the city. It might be squalid and gritty, but there was less pretense there, less need to cling to a sanitized reality.

  It was different when she met Matt. Back then the suburbs were a haven of hope and renewal. She’d been on the force a month, her uniform still carefully pressed, her shield burnished bright. Pulling up next to each other in the parking lot, they had climbed out of their cars at the same time and looked each other over. She’d felt an instant attraction but hid it until she saw the approval in his eyes.

  It had been a bumpy ride. They broke up when Matt worked his first homicide. She still didn’t know why, but she was happy when he came out of it; happier still when he decided to resume their relationship. Except now he was up against it again, and it was worse: not one but three coolly orchestrated homicides.

  And they were homicides, despite what the ME said. Someone had systemically killed three people, moved their bodies, then dumped them in the garbage. Made things nice and tidy.

  Only in the suburbs.

  ***

  Matt and Stone battled rush hour traffic on the Kennedy heading down to the University of Illinois. UIC was the headquarters for Toxicon, an academic toxicology consortium that served as a resource for poison specialists all over the state.

  Stone munched on a bagel. Deanna made him give up his beloved donuts – among other things— and though he’d grumbled, he was in better shape. Gulping a swig of coffee to wash down the bagel, he started to brief Matt on Landon’s autopsy. “Preliminary cause of death was septicemia.”

  Matt shaded his eyes against the sun. “What’s that?”

  “Blood poisoning. Massive infection of the bloodstream. Caused by some type of pathogenic organism or toxin. It was a total meltdown, partner. Every major organ. Even I could see it. The kidneys were swollen and soft, his liver had turned a nutmeg color, and the heart —”

  “I got it.”

  “Sorry.” He braked behind a silver tank truck that had come to an abrupt standstill. “But we did find something interesting on his left thigh. A red, swollen area. When they looked more closely, they found a tiny puncture wound. The tissue around it was totally destroyed. Along with the lymph nodes.” He switched lanes and stepped on the gas. “Something was injected into his body.”

  Matt’s stomach lurched. “They know what it was?”

  “Not yet.”

  Matt stared through the window. Stone switched lanes and came abreast of the tanker. A distorted image of the unmarked was reflected on the huge silver cylinder. “They won’t find anything,” he said grimly.

  Stone maneuvered across two lanes, leaving the tanker behind. “Look, I know you’ve been working these cases, but I’m just starting. Play along with me just for a while. For laughs if nothing else.”

  Matt smiled in spite of himself. He was pleased—relieved even—to be working with Stone again. He respected the way Stone’s brain worked: incrementally piecing together bits of data, then sifting and prioritizing until the accumulated bits led to an indisputable conclusion. No one in Glenbrook was as seasoned except Doyle, and he had a different agenda. Curiously, he wasn’t the only one who admired Stone’s methods. Doyle had popped in that afternoon to say that the Bureau backed off when they heard the cases were consolidated under Stone.

  The street sign for Adams loomed ahead. “There is something I’ve been thinking about.” Stone shot across a lane of traffic, narrowly missing an SUV barreling toward the exit.

  Matt tightened his shoulder strap. “What?”

  “We found Landon’s body on Tuesday, but the ME thinks it was there for a while. It might have been dumped as early as Sunday.”

  “We found Romano on a Monday. Simon too.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Our killer works nine to five. Off on weekends.”

  “Or knows his victims do.” They drove south on Halsted, a block past the Greek restaurant where Stone’s wedding dinner had been. “People let down on the weekend,” he continued. “They’re ready to party.”

  “So…”

  “So our friend makes contact on a Friday, wins their confidence, and then— Hold on.” Matt stopped. “The woman with Simon at the East Bank bar. That was on a Friday.”

  Stone flicked his eyes toward Matt. “What do you know about her?”

  “Aside from having dark hair, not much. We can’t find her.” He changed the subject. “What did you find out about Landon?”

  “The techs went over every inch. Wastebaskets, sink traps, garbage cans, medicine chest. The place was clean.”

  “He have any visitors on Friday?”

  “Not that we know about. His neighbors say he wasn’t around much. Consumed by work.”

  At the southern edge of the UIC campus, Stone swung west onto Maxwell Street, cruising past a construction site with a sign proclaiming it would soon be a high-rise condo.

  Matt gazed at the twelve-story skeleton of steel girders, cables, and mud-caked ground. For nearly a century émigrés and settlers had depended on the pushcarts and open-air stalls on Maxwell Street for their livelihoods. Now the wrecking ball was systematically destroying it, and the only ones turning a profit were the developers.

  Stone gazed at the site. “I told you about the dog, didn’t I? At the Feldman site?”

  Matt shook his head.

  Stone explained about the dead puppy. “I took it to a vet, who thought the mutt had parvo. But the tests didn’t confirm it. At the time I thought it was part of all that CEASE bullshit.” He fell silent.

  Matt shifted in his seat. “And now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As they passed the dumpster on the construction site, Matt’s eyes narrowed. “You found Landon in a dumpster?”

  Stone turned to his partner. “That’s right.”

  Matt explained how they’d found Romano and Simon on RDM-owned property. “I talked to the owner of the place. And his son. But I didn’t find a connection.”

  “But we found three bodies in garbage dumpsters and landfills,” Matt said. “There’s got to be a connection.”

  ***

  Stone and Matt mounted the stairs to the Medical College. Ahead of them were a boy and girl, their bodies tightly glued together, large clumsy backpacks slowing their progress.

  “You know where Professor Van Thorsen’s office is?” Stone asked as they got to the third floor together.

  The boy blinked, but the girl giggled and detached herself from his side. “Doctor Doom? He’s down there.” She waved toward the end of the hall.

  The Detectives exchanged glances and walked down a linoleum-tiled floor. Van Thorsen, an ER physician with a specialty in pharmacology, was on staff at Rush, and he consulted with the FBI from time to time. Vaughan had given them his name.

  At the end of the hall was an open door. Matt peered into a small cramped office whose walls probably hadn’t been painted since the Vietnam War. Files, books, and monographs cluttered every surface. A computer on a credenza generated abstract shapes that uncoiled across the screen. Matt frowned. A discussion of lethal poisons seemed inappropriate in this environment, where the pursuit of knowledge was supposed to deepen the meaning of life.

  He checked his watch. “You think he’s a no-show?”

  “Let’s give him a few minutes.”

  Five minutes later a tall man with carrot-orange hair and beard to match strode into the office with a sunny, open smile. “Detectives. Sorry to keep you waiting.” He held a plastic coffee cup with st
eam rising from the lid. “Have to get my daily dose of poison,” he chuckled.

  The flap of his white coat fell away, and Matt caught a glimpse of faded Levis and a blue oxford button-down shirt. His eyes were as blue as his shirt. No gnarled wizard here, stooped and bent from years of studying noxious substances. Doctor Doom, indeed. The guy could probably bench press a Cadillac.

  He started to wave them into chairs, then stopped when he realized they were filled with papers and books. “Sorry.” Setting his coffee cup down, he gathered the papers and dropped them on the floor. “There you go.” He beamed.

  As Matt sat he noticed two photos behind Van Thorsen’s desk. One was obviously his family: a trim pretty blonde and three kids, all with flaxen hair and freckles. The other was Van Thorsen, grinning at the camera with his arm around another man. Both men, sweaty and disheveled, wore running shorts with paper numbers pinned to their tank tops. Van Thorsen followed Matt’s gaze.

  “My brother,” he said. “He died two years ago. AIDS.”

  Van Thorsen planted his elbows on the desk. “So. If Cecil Vaughan sent you, this must be serious.”

  Stone leaned forward. “We think we have three poisonings. But we can’t prove it.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  When Stone finished, Van Thorsen pulled the sleeves of his white coat off his wrist, a bemused expression on his face.

  Stone frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Sorry. It’s just my aberrant sense of humor. Misplaced I know. But what you’re telling me isn’t anything new.” Stone looked puzzled. “See, I subscribe to the theory that all deaths with no visible signs of trauma are the result of some pathogen until the facts prove otherwise.”

  Matt and Stone exchanged glances.

  “I assume you’ve eliminated arsenic, cyanide, and strychnine. The Big Three account for forty-six per cent of all poisonings.”

  Matt nodded. “We’ve done tox screens and cultures on two of the victims. Microhistologies too. But we haven’t come up with anything.”

  “Of course not.” Van Thorsen sipped his coffee, then placed it at a precise angle to his blotter. “The problem isn’t the poison. It’s the process. If labs don’t have the right analytical guidelines, the pathogen will remain undetected.”

  “Even with gas chromatography?” Stone asked.

  “Garbage in, garbage out.” Van Thorsen said. “I’d be willing to wager your perpetrator knows that too.”

  Matt looked over. “How do you figure?”

  “When undetectable poisons are involved, you’re dealing with a very intelligent person. They know what they’re doing. Including how to get away with it.”

  Stone raised an eyebrow.

  “Let me give you some perspective.” He settled back in his chair. “In terms of poisons, you’re almost always looking at a chemical substance. Now these chemicals can be divided into three broad groups.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Agricultural or industrial, drugs and health care products, or biological pathogens.”

  “Biological?”

  “Poisons from plants or animal sources.”

  Matt pulled out his notes. “One of our vics died from acute gastroenteritis, one from respiratory failure, and one from shock, probably through an injection.”

  The doctor nodded, “You already know the weaponry is virtually unlimited. For example, take the gastroenteritis. You’re looking at so many different pathogens it would make your head spin. Heavy metals, caustic corrosives, bacterial toxins, bad mushrooms… the list is endless.”

  “What about an aerosol pathogen? That you inhale?” Stone asked.

  “Again, you could be talking about chlorine gas, other types of fumes, nerve gas, insecticides…” He laced his hands behind his head. “You won’t isolate poisons by elimination. Especially if an exotic plant or animal substance is involved.”

  Matt slumped.

  “I understand your frustration.” Van Thorsen ran his tongue around his lips. “But there is one interesting aspect. When you consider the cases as a whole.”

  “What’s that?” Matt felt like he was grasping at straws.

  “The most common venues to administer poison are ingestion, inhalation, and injection. You’ve got all three, now, don’t you? It’s almost as if they were orchestrated. Choreographed, if you will. As if someone wants you to know they have a choice.”

  Stone leaned forward. “Assuming the same person was responsible for all three,” Stone said.

  “Yes. Now, this is pure speculation, but there are toxins, that depending on how they’re processed, are versatile enough to be used in each of the ways you mentioned.”

  “So one poison could be responsible for all three deaths?”

  “Theoretically. Particularly with biological agents. Black locust, for example, is a source of robin, which can be processed in different ways. Rosary pea, which produces abrin, is another. And there are some non-plant substances too. Cationic detergents, perhaps, like fabric softeners. Or disinfectants. Even something like parathion, which is similar to nerve gas.”

  Matt splayed his hands. “We can’t test for everything.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “So what would you suggest?”

  “What you’re already doing. Take it from the other end. Refine your victimlogies. Find out what they have in common. Who wants to harm them. Or had anything to gain from their death. But keep in mind who and what you’re dealing with.”

  “What about trying to profile the killer?” Stone asked.

  “I’m sure VICAP can help.”

  “We’re interested in your take, not the Bureau’s.”

  “I don’t want to tread on the FBI’s turf.”

  “Okay.” Stone smiled. “Now that we’re done with the disclaimers…”

  He smiled back. “You’re dealing with someone who’s cunning and highly motivated. But to the external world, they might seem reserved, even cowardly.”

  Stone interrupted. “Is that why most poisoners are women?”

  “Actually that’s a misconception, Detective. The majority of poisoners who’ve been discovered turn out to be men.”

  “But what about those who weren’t—discovered?”

  Van Thorsen aimed a finger at Stone. “Good point. We’ll never know how many women, or men, for that matter, got away with it.”

  “What else?”

  “Curiously, we’ve found that a lot of poisoners have an artistic bent. Actually, if you think about it, it’s not so strange. Their plans are designed in as much detail as if they were writing a script for a play. They’re methodical, they’re patient, and they’re sure they’ll get away with it.”

  “So premeditation isn’t an issue.”

  “Your murderer cleans up afterwards, right?” ‘

  Stone nodded.

  “You tell me. Anyone who takes the time to clean up afterwards has to be a pretty cool customer.”

  “One more question.” Matt took off his glasses. “Do you have any statistics on solved cases? How many inconclusive deaths end up identifying the pathogen used?”

  A shadow passed over Van Thorsen’s face. “It’s not good. Most of the inconclusive cases—if they ever are solved—take years. And,” he paused, “they usually require exhumations.”

  Matt put his glasses back on.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Georgia idled under the shower, hoping the hot water would purge her resentment. Toweling off, she pulled her hair back and threw on clean sweats.

  Not even noon. The yawning emptiness of the day loomed, a black hole of time, with fat stolid hours curving back on themselves. Wandering into the kitchen, she thought about the quart of rum she’d stashed in the cabinet. The box of sugar cubes lay on the counter. She dug into the box and popped one into her mouth.

  She sucked on the sugar, the sweet sensation filling her mouth. She shuffled back into the bedroom. She picked up the phone and called her answering machine. A ping of excitement shot throug
h her when the digital voice said there was a new message. Whoa girl, she thought, as she punched in her code, thinking she must be hitting bottom if a phone message was the high point of her day.

  The female voice was unfamiliar. “I—I hope I got the right number. This is Clark.” Georgia stiffened. “I’ve been thinking about you. Did you ever find the woman you were looking for? I’m—well, I’d like to hear from you.” She recited a number with a downtown area code.

  Georgia slammed down the phone. How dare this woman call her, invade her privacy? Snatching up the phone, she started to dial Clark’s number. Half way through, she stopped. She was over-reacting. Just erase the message. Forget about it. She put the phone back on the base.

  She ran her hands down her sides, as if smoothing out a wrinkled dress. The irony was that had she been in a relationship with anyone except Matt—even a woman—she’d still be a cop.

  She threw herself onto the couch. The walls were closing in. Matt was working. She ought to be working too. God knows they needed the help.

  Undetectable poisons. Ingested, inhaled, and now, possibly injected. Someone ought to be looking at all the possibilities. She raised herself on her elbow and gazed at Matt’s desktop computer on a nearby table. Now that he had his laptop, he rarely used this one.

  ***

  Two hours later she was still hunched over the keyboard and mouse. She’d started with “undetectable poisons”, pulling down lists of poisons and crosschecking them against their characteristics and symptoms. The list was overwhelming. She wouldn’t get far that way. Refining the search, she entered “poisons—ingest.” That was better. She started to read. She did the same with “poisons—inhale” and “inject.” Slowly the list shrank. There were still hundreds to check, but a pattern seemed to emerge. The majority of toxins that fit all three criteria were largely derived from plant or animal sources.

  One toxin in particular surfaced more than once. Biological. Easily available. Easily processed. She kept going.

  Toxins were classified by level, based on the amount needed to cause a fatal reaction. Marijuana and Tylenol, she learned, were low level, meaning it would take a shitload of each to do any harm. Surprisingly, aspirin was a level four, but this one was a level six—up there with doomsday material like plutonium and botulism. Six thousand times more toxic than cyanide, a cloud of it dispersed over a populated area could kill hundreds of thousands of people. It was considered the third most toxic substance in the world. She shivered.