by Sarah Lovett
"First, I'd like a quick review of the facts pertaining to Dr. Douglas Thomas's death," Hess added. "LANL's deputy director of internal security"—he nodded at Drew Dexter, not so subtly sharing territory—"has offered to bring us up to date."
Dexter cleared his throat, and then his soft Louisiana accent filled the room. "Before we get to Dr. Thomas, I need to quickly address the issue of surveillance. The lab is weighing employee safety—the protection of personnel—from various perspectives, with multiple considerations, most of which are not easily understood by nonscientists." He paused, his glance sweeping the faces. "I don't think I need to add, we've got very clear legal directives in this matter."
But they didn't, Sylvia thought—that was part of the trouble. And he'd just insulted a room full of federal agents. Way to go, Drew.
"With that said," Dexter continued, "Doug Thomas's blood and tissue work came back from Lawrence Livermore's forensic path lab, showing contamination by an unidentified strain of neurotoxin. The symptoms are consistent with toxins being studied by Palmer's project group." Dexter pushed back in the cheap plastic chair so that he was supported by two metal legs. "We still don't have a definite vehicle for contamination—we don't know if the pathway was ingestion, topical, aerosol, all of which are possibilities." He shifted weight and the chair's front legs audibly touched ground.
"Which fits Palmer's pattern," Sweetheart said after a brief silence.
Jeff Hess nodded to Sweetheart and Strange. "This is our profiling team. They've been working with behavioral sciences in Virginia, and they're going to give us a preliminary profile on the Target—with the aim of aiding any interrogation situation that arises. Along the way we're going to look for ways to facilitate that happening."
In other words, to find ways to push Palmer's buttons, to impel her to action, Sylvia thought, hearing Sweetheart's introduction.
"It's going to be a cram session," Sweetheart said, shooting Sylvia a quick glance. "You'll need to take notes, give us feedback, and you'll probably want to keep the coffee pot brewing. Let's get started. Dr. Strange?"
"Before we talk about your target, I'm going to brief you on the basic profiling data that's available on poisoners." Sylvia was ready with the summary handout she'd prepared over the past twenty-four hours. The investigators leafed through the pages as she began to speak.
"You're holding an outline of the data we'll cover. We plan to move quickly, so ask questions when they come up. We'll do our best to provide answers."
She scanned their faces, and when she was sure they were along for the ride, she said, "Let's begin with the fact that Christine Palmer edited The Handbook on Criminal Poisoning and Forensic Toxicology. Most of you are familiar with that landmark text from your academy training."
Heads bobbed—point taken.
"Well, Palmer wrote the book, as they say. The literature on poisoners is surprisingly sparse," she continued. "Westveer, Trestrail, and Pinizzotto authored one of the few peer-reviewed papers on poisoners. They looked at available data from the Uniform Crime Report—issues of gender, race, class of poison (chemical or narcotic), homicide rate by population, and circumstance. They analyzed just under three hundred criminal poisonings."
To keep her thoughts flowing, she began to pace a short track in front of the sliding glass door that gave access to the balcony. Outside, visible through a small space between blinds, the blue-and-white Truchas Peaks spiked the turquoise sky. Whipped-cream clouds hovered just above the peaks.
"A third of their cases fall under the category 'victim related to offender'—either within the family or outside, as in acquaintance, friend, sexual partner. Two-thirds of the study cases are categorized as 'victim-offender relationship unknown.'"
She stopped moving and faced them to deliver the first major proviso: "The study included only those cases in which the investigating agency determined poison as the COD. The problem's obvious, right, guys? Nobody knows how many homicidal poisonings don't make the books. Somebody—investigator, medical examiner, coroner, family member—looks at the corpse and says 'disease,' 'natural causes.'" She shrugged. "It's a safe bet a number of poisoners are getting away with murder."
And so the basic cram session began.
As she moved through the statistical data, including information on categories created by gender and racial breakdowns, nobody seemed surprised to hear that the poisoners in the study were predominately white, or that offenders stayed within racial boundaries—white killing white, so on and so forth.
"What about age data and victimology?" S.A. Hoopai asked.
"Victims ranged from less than a week old to seventy-five-plus years."
"Age and known offender data?"
"Two offenders were under age fourteen, seven were older than seventy-five, most were between the ages of twenty and thirty-four."
"Keep in mind," Sweetheart interjected, "we're covering only known offenders."
"Let's talk circumstances." Sylvia snapped her fingers and said, "Fifty-one of the poisoning homicides in the study were related to the drug trade, two were related to rapes, and five to other sex crimes." The stats rolled off her tongue, interrupted by questions here and there.
Special Agent Simmons raised her hand to shoulder height. "Any data on victim gender in lovers' triangles?" she asked.
Sylvia nodded. "We've got some general stats. Wives—with or without the help of their lovers—poisoned husbands three times more often than husbands poisoned wives."
"Well, yeah." Hoopai drew out the phrase with a shrug. "Men just shoot their wives."
Agent Simmons raised one eyebrow. "Wives poison the husbands because it's slow and painful. She feeds him his favorite dish laced with arsenic and asks, 'Did you get enough to eat, hon? Want seconds?'"
Everybody laughed—to neutralize the mood, to forget they were analyzing the ways people kill the same people they'd once professed to love.
When they'd refocused, Sylvia said, "You handed me the perfect segue, S.A. Simmons. I'm sure some of you have picked up on similarities between bombers and poisoners. Delay between death action and actual death. A fascination with technology and science, be it wiring devices or toxic mixtures. The collection of paraphernalia. And finally—especially in cases of product tampering, like the Tylenol deaths back in the nineteen eighties—no need for proximity with death. But that last point is the exception."
Sylvia stood, arms at her side, late-morning sun casting shadows across her shoulders. "Which brings us to the crucial point," she said, studying the faces of the investigators.
"Ultimately, poison is different from other crimes. It's never committed in the heat of passion. It takes cunning, intentional deception, planning—and often the ability to administer the toxic dose repeatedly, over a period of time, with complete disregard for the suffering of the victim. Intelligence and the ability to detach and compartmentalize are qualities that Christine Palmer has in spades."
She took a deep breath, glancing at her wristwatch. "If there aren't any questions, let's break for lunch. See you back here at one o'clock."
Sylvia filled her time with a run along the back roads of Los Alamos. She knew that Palmer was at her lab—under surveillance—so there was little danger of another accidental encounter.
She cut uphill, breathing deeply, taking perverse pleasure in the sharp pain in her side. It was one way to wake herself up again, to clear her mind, to prepare for the next portion of the day. To blot out conscious thought, she kept her eyes on the charred hills, the burn areas that were unavoidable evidence of the Cerro Grande fire, evidence that would last for decades and, if you looked closely enough, centuries. The blackened trees jutted from the earth like crude spikes. Erosion had left deep veins in the soil. But here and there, new growth was already evident.
The last mile of the run was a study in regeneration. Internally, Sylvia tried to wear off her sharp edge. She was only hours from walking away; she'd gotten her wish, a big case, and now she couldn't wait
to finish.
By one o'clock, she was back in uniform: Levi's, boots, a silk pullover sweater, a hasty touch-up with powder and lipstick. She was also ready to take up where they'd left off.
When everyone was settled again—fast-food cups on the table, jackets off, sunglasses stowed—Sylvia faced them. Behind her, a six-by-six-foot expanse of bare wall.
"I want you to close your eyes for a moment and consider this description of the stereotypical poisoner," she said. "She's connected with the medical profession or the sciences. She's a loner, with above-average intelligence, educated, nonconfrontational. She has a cowardly temperament. She's a daydreamer and a game player. She's vain, avaricious, and remorseless. An underachiever. She's probably childish, immature, one of those people who never grew up. To top the list off, she feels entitled. If you stand in her way, be careful what you order for lunch."
As they laughed, Sweetheart quietly clicked on his laptop, and a visual instantly filled the wall: a life-size image of Dr. Christine Palmer.
From here on, it was his show.
"Now take a good look," Sweetheart said, "and meet the Target. How well does she match the stereotype?" He let them study the projection, a photojournalist's portrait of Dr. Palmer in the field. Intelligent, focused, striking—charismatic even on film.
"She is connected to the sciences, yes. She's also highly educated, extremely intelligent, but she's not your average loner. Palmer is single, sexually active, and she's had a series of heterosexual relationships. She also maintains an international social network. A hundred people will vouch for her genius, her loyalty to the profession, her willingness to undertake research that carries personal risk."
He tapped a key on his laptop and the image changed: another photo of Palmer, this time on horseback.
"Is she a daydreamer and a game player? Yes." Sweetheart closed his eyes, as if picturing her face. "But perhaps no more so than others in her profession. She is ambitious, analytical, highly intelligent—and her research is theoretical as well as practical. So, yes, she knows how to daydream. If she didn't, she wouldn't have received so many awards for her research."
Click. Christine Palmer on-site in Africa during one of the worst Ebola outbreaks.
He said, "The target is clearly not an underachiever. Her work is her world. Remorseless? Perhaps. But take a good look at this photograph—clearly, she's been willing to put herself at risk, apparently to help others." He paused. "So . . . how are you going to begin to understand her? And how the hell do you talk to her?"
The investigators were leaning forward in their seats, paying very close attention.
"We all know the basics of interrogation—power, appeal, persuasion—but in this case, they ain't gonna cut it, not without a whole lot of finesse, because Christine Palmer doesn't recognize your power, she's not afraid of you." He paused, drawing an even closer focus. "We're talking about someone who has a hundred ways to kill at her fingertips. She knows the power of life and death."
"So she's got some sort of God complex?" Drew Dexter said with a derisive snort. "So she's untouchable?"
"Not a God complex." Sweetheart shook his head. "We're not talking about a psychological concept—we're talking about the actual ability to kill without detection. She's done it six, ten, fifteen times already. And she's walked away."
"That's not just a self-perception of power," Sylvia interjected. "Christine Palmer has empirical evidence that she can get away with murder."
Sweetheart nodded, saying, "So when you're face-to-face with her, when you're conducting an interview, your job won't be to psych her out, your job won't be to confront her illusions or deal with her delusions—Palmer isn't crazy." Sweetheart's eyebrows arched. He made eye contact with every person in the room before he continued. "You'll have to stand your ground. Don't let her take control of the interrogation. Because if she does, it's over."
S.A. Simmons spoke up. "So we've got to be smarter than she is—but make her think she's in control."
"She is in control," Sylvia said sharply. "Don't forget that for a minute."
"And don't try to challenge her intellect," Sweetheart said. "She's smarter than you—she's smarter than anybody in this room."
"By the same token, she's more narcissistic than anybody in this room," Sylvia said. "So challenge her ego. But do it honestly. If you try to outmaneuver her—if you try to pull a hustle—she'll catch you in the act, and she'll dismiss you completely."
"So where's her jugular?" S.A.C. Hess asked softly.
It was the perfect lead-in.
"You've all heard the expression Curiosity killed the cat." Sylvia's lips curled up in a mean little smile. "If you want to find Palmer's weak spot, pique her curiosity. Ask for her expertise."
She was standing near the rheostat, and she dimmed the lights. "Imagine a day when you wake up with a slight headache. Within the next hour or so, you know you're getting the flu. You try to remember who you've been in contact with lately who was sick. A coworker? Your accountant? Your neighbor's child? But your thoughts are scattered, you have trouble concentrating."
She moved slowly around their chairs, her voice barely above a whisper. "Soon your nausea is accompanied by intense abdominal cramps and diarrhea—you don't make it to the bathroom in time, and you mess yourself. Your feet and hands begin to itch. You ache all over. It's agony to move a muscle. Breathing becomes difficult. You're coughing, but it's a dry cough. You're restless, you can't sleep, you can't find a comfortable position. Your head feels as if it will explode . . . you're starting to get scared."
Sylvia had reached the back of the room, and she stood behind the investigators. "Your heart is racing, beating irregularly, which scares you more. Over the next few hours the fear comes and goes—at times you're just worried, at other times you're terrified." She kept her tone even, hypnotic. "Minutes or hours pass, you're not sure how much time goes by because you've lost your normal temporal sense—in fact, all your normal sensory perceptions are gone. You know you're too weak to move. You know this isn't right. You try to find the telephone to call for help. Your legs aren't working, your vision is blurred. Even if you find the phone, you can't remember how to use it or who to call. Your ringers are too stiff to dial. Eventually, the fear dissipates. You don't care that your blood pressure is dropping, your circulation is collapsing. You're paralyzed, but you know—even with the confusion, the light-headedness, the disorientation and dizziness—you know you might be dying. Still, there is an intense lethargy. A waking sleep. A paralysis of the mind and body. You're unable to move a muscle to save your own life." She paused, letting the pictures fill their minds.
"This is it, welcome to the world of neurotoxins," she whispered finally. "This is what happens when your body is exposed to any of a number of neurotoxins that can be found in LANL's BLS-three safety level containment laboratories—neurotoxins that Christine Palmer works with on a daily basis. And she's fascinated by them. She collects data, facts, details. She's obsessed with symptoms."
Sylvia closed her own eyes, picturing Samantha Grayson's features in death. When she spoke, her voice was again a whisper. "Now, think about the scientist—a woman whose life is dedicated to developing antidotes. Think about what has to be going on in her head to inflict this horror on another human being."
Sylvia stepped out onto the motel veranda. The air was cool, and there was the slightest breeze. In the distance, the scars on Santa Fe Baldy were visible, while the Truchas Peaks shone like blue-and-white teats.
She felt something that rarely bothered her—a craving for a cigarette. The candy bar she stashed in her purse for just this type of emergency made her feel better; the sight of her birth control pills made her feel worse.
She ate the candy without pleasure and took one more look at the view.
With her eyes on the mountain, she stepped back into the room and the stale air of a half-dozen individuals. The mood was somber and subdued. It was Special Agent Hoopai who raised the final, most pertinen
t question.
"After everything we've heard"—he shook his head—"The Target holds the cards. How do we get to her?"
There was silence. All eyes turned toward the profilers.
"You get to her through me," Sylvia said.
Sweetheart took an audible breath, but it was Hess who explained. "Dr. Strange has agreed to participate in a special operation. Christine Palmer is on alert, she's suspicious, this much is obvious. Dr. Strange called Palmer's office earlier today and left a message requesting a meeting. Ostensibly to discuss victim symptomology in contamination cases." Hess tipped his head. "With all that's occurred, this request can only be seen by the Target as a challenge."
"What if she doesn't bite?" Special Agent Hoopai asked.
The timing couldn't have been more perfect if they'd been onstage following cues. Sylvia's cell phone rang. It was Christine Palmer, saying yes.
Sylvia reached Cristo Rey School with fewer than three minutes to spare. It was a fitting end to three long days: she was exhausted, standing in front of a packed auditorium of sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-graders—and her mind had gone blank.
Time to forget serial poisoners, forget governments manufacturing biotoxins in the name of defensive research.
The chatter of teenagers and parents reached a deafening crescendo. They were restless. Sylvia opened her mouth, but her throat felt so dry she was afraid she would choke. She was saved by the sight of Serena smiling radiantly, emerging from the wings with a small plastic pitcher and a glass.
"Whoops," her foster daughter whispered into her ear, "we forgot your ice water."
Those words brought Sylvia back to the present. Gratefully, she swallowed the water, setting the glass on the podium, clearing her throat.
Sylvia began to speak. "Last month, a tragedy occurred: a Santa Fe seventh-grader died from an overdose of heroin . . ."
It was no accident that Sweetheart hitched a ride down the hill with Drew Dexter. It was the perfect opportunity to touch base and feel out the security division deputy director, test the pulse of the lab. It was Dexter who'd suggested the detour to Saints and Sinners, a local tavern on the outskirts of the town of Española. Dexter had taken a shortcut through pueblo land to reach the destination.