Her question went ignored.
“Yes, of course. Please, come into my office,” Drake said, trying his best to keep the smile on his face.
The woman pulled herself to her feet, and Drake followed her into his office.
He frowned when he saw the still open bottle of Johnny on the desk and the two glasses. Hurrying around the woman, Drake quickly replaced the cap and put the bottle and glasses in the top drawer of his desk.
“I hope you’re still capable of functioning, Damien.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry for the wait. Now, how can I help you?”
Mrs. Armatridge eyed him from across the desk.
“I see that your office is full, and I suspect that you had more than a few visitors yesterday as well.”
Drake admitted as much.
“I think you’re smart enough to know that that was my doing, Damien.”
“Yes, of course. I want to thank you for your support, Mrs. Armatridge.”
Another hmph.
“And I just wanted to remind you that I was here first, and I expect that my… how can I say this… my case takes precedence.”
“Of course.”
Drake had no problem swallowing his pride. Four ten thousand dollar checks would do that to a man. And yet something told him that this wasn’t the only reason for the woman’s visit.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mrs. Armatridge?”
The woman’s thin fingers went to the pearls around her neck, and Drake realized that she was nervous.
“I’ve been reviewing the video from your home.”
Her eyes shot up.
“And?”
“And, unfortunately, I have nothing to report at this time.”
Mrs. Armatridge’s face drooped, and Drake immediately raised a hand to calm her.
“But, I assure you, I’ve been following the movements of your maid… of Miss Ortiz… very carefully. So far, she appears to be doing nothing but keep the place clean, and look after your husband, of course.”
The mention of her husband made her expression harden.
Mrs. Armatridge stood and started toward the door.
That’s what this visit was about… a fishing expedition. She wants something to be wrong. She wants me to find something, and won’t be satisfied until I do.
“Remember, Damien, how important I have been to your business. And think about how quickly it can all be taken away.”
“Yes, of course. I will let you know as soon as I notice something out of the ordinary.”
Mrs. Armatridge left his office, and when he heard the outer door open and close, Drake took a deep breath.
“Screech! Send the next one in,” he shouted, trying to put the fake smile back on his face.
Chapter 30
Beckett leaned over the man with the black spectacles and lab coat.
“Anything?” he asked, trying not to get his hopes up.
The lab technician shook his head.
“Nothing. The man had some alcohol in his system, and traces of marijuana. But nothing at levels that would incapacitate him. Gerald was, however, HIV positive.”
Beckett swore and took his hands off the back of the man’s chair.
So Gerald was relatively sober when he died.
Tests from the gun lab hadn’t come back yet, but Beckett would be shocked if the gun at the scene wasn’t the same one that had fired the bullet that had exploded the top of his skull. His wallet was still in his pants, and inside Beckett had found eighty dollars—four twenties.
It didn’t look like a robbery was the motive. What it looked like, quite frankly, was a man who was down on his luck. A man who was HIV positive, who was turning tricks for cash and who had just lost the will to live.
And who had ended it all with one bullet.
Beckett rubbed his forehead.
Only that wasn’t what happened. What happened was that someone had murdered Gerald Leblanc and made it look like a suicide. Just like what happened to Eddie and the man in the bathtub with the slit wrists, the drunk who asphyxiated, and the woman who OD’d and then drowned in Central Park.
He just had to find something that could link the cases, anything that might indicate that their wounds weren’t self-inflicted.
“What about the girl in the pond?”
The man in the glasses turned back to his computer and typed away.
“High levels of diamorphine—heroin—in her system. If she hadn’t drowned, she most likely would have OD’d.”
Beckett swore again.
“And the drunk? The one—ah, fuck it. Never mind,” he patted the man on the shoulder, and he jumped. “Thanks for your help.”
He turned and started toward the door, intent on leaving the lab.
“Dr. Campbell? Can I ask why you are so interested in these suicides? I mean—”
“No, you may not,” he said, without turning back.
***
Beckett stood in the morgue, the four bodies laid on metal gurneys before him. He had found the man from the first image—Trevor Gobbets—and the man in the tub—Nick Thanos—and had reviewed the files from the junior ME as well as the bodies themselves. And his results and conclusions were the same as they had been with Gerald and Eddie.
His gaze skipped from one naked body to the next, his eyes barely focusing on their pale white flesh. That is, until his eyes landed on Eddie’s light-brown skin. He shook his head and sighed.
“Goddamn it, Eddie. God-fucking-dammit.”
Five murders, all within two weeks.
He loved puzzles, but this one seemed wholly unfair. It was as if all of the pieces had been cut square.
“C’mon Beckett, find something to help Chase out. To help Eddie out.”
Beckett snapped on his gloves and went to the first body, repeating the same process he had done at least a half dozen times already.
Trevor Gobbets had been a homeless man for more than two decades. No family, no friends, no job, no money. The only way they had identified his body was from his fingerprints from a shoplifting charge seven years prior. His corpse showed all the telltale signs of long-term alcoholism: sunken eyes, a pallid complexion, abscesses on his hands and feet. Tox had revealed that he had a blood alcohol level of 0.37. He was so drunk that when he fell on his neck, he didn’t wake up.
Or at least that was the way it was made to look.
“How does a homeless alcoholic find enough alcohol to get that drunk?” he wondered out loud. He made a mental note to ask the tech about the specific type of alcohol later. After combing the man’s body, and not finding anything in the way of evidence of foul play, he moved on to the next.
Nick Thanos was an obese man who had just recently divorced from his wife and had lost custody of his two children. The narrative was simple: the man was depressed, his life was falling apart, so he decided to off himself by slitting his wrists in the tub.
The cuts on his wrists were deep—deep enough to slice through the tendons. There were three slashes on each wrist, working their way upward, nearly to his elbows. Beckett was about to move on to Eddie next, when he noticed something on the inside of the man’s right hand. Sliding down the body to get a better look, he grabbed the mans forearm and carefully lifted it.
There were callouses on the inside of his thumb and the side of his index finger.
He’s right-handed, Beckett thought. He inspected the cuts on his right wrist next, then those on his left. Something wasn’t right.
The slashes on the right wrist were strong, deliberate, while those on the left weren’t quite as deep, and there appeared to be hesitation marks.
Beckett wasn’t positive, but if he were a betting man, he would put his money on the fact that Nick had cut his right wrist first, then the left. Which, being right-handed, would be very unnatural, indeed.
It’s not much, he figured, but it was something.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lowered the corpse’s arm ba
ck to the gurney, pulled off his glove, and answered it.
“Yeah?” he said, surprised at how tired he sounded.
“Dr. Campbell? It’s Zeke.”
Zeke? Who the hell is Zeke?
“Who?”
“Zeke? From the lab? We just spoke ten minutes ago.”
“Ah, sure, Zeke. What is it?”
“So I was taking another look at Trevor Gobbets’s tox?”
He had Beckett’s full attention now.
“And? What did you find?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s anything, but I was looking at the numbers again, and it looks like he had trace amounts of methanol in his system.”
“Methanol? You sure?”
“Yep. I’m sure, I mean it could—”
“Thanks, Zeke, big help,” Beckett said and then hung up the phone.
Then he immediately dialed Chase’s number.
It appeared as if the puzzle pieces had finally acquired a familiar shape.
Chapter 31
“Wait, slow down, Beckett. Methanol? What does that mean?” Chase asked in a hushed tone. As she waited for Beckett to reply, she rose and went to her office door and closed it. Then she opened two sets of photographs—one from the crime scenes, and one from the forensic pathology exam.
Beckett continued after a deep breath.
“Most people don’t know this, but the ethanol used in labs is spiked with five percent methanol to prevent people from drinking the damn stuff. And our first vic, Trevor Gobbets, had some in his system. The way I figure it, whoever killed him wanted to get him super drunk, super fast and added ethanol to his drink.”
Chase mulled this over.
“He was poisoned then?”
“Looks that way. There’s no way of proving that Trevor didn’t just come across the ethanol on his own, but it’s a start. And there’s one more thing. The man in the bathtub? He’s right-handed, and yet I’m pretty sure his right wrist was slashed first.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Try it. Grab a pencil or something.”
Chase picked up a pencil in her right hand and instinctively brought it to her left wrist. And then she understood.
“Yeah, it would be natural for a right-handed person to cut his left wrist first.”
“Exactly.”
Chase stared at the pictures as she spoke, trying to imagine Nick’s last thought before he cut his wrists. A shudder ran through her.
“It’s no smoking gun,” she said at last. “But you’re right. It is something.”
“Enough to take to Rhodes?” Beckett asked.
Chase sighed. It wasn’t enough, not even close. She suspected that they could have a confession from a convicted murderer and that still might not be enough.
“Yes,” she lied. “Enough to take it to him, anyway. Whether he goes for it, that’s another story.”
There was a long pause, during which time Chase scooped up the pictures and put them back in their respective folders.
“Beckett, you still there?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to take it to Rhodes. I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said as she made her way toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing? Remember when I asked you about the photographer at the Central Park vic?”
Chase thought back to that night, of the scuba diver who broke the surface of the water and gave her the ironic thumb’s up sign.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Did you ever manage to get the pics?”
“No, I couldn’t find him, actually. We have the pics that the officer took when you were there, but not the ones from before you arrived.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I think I’m more interested in the photographer now than the pictures,” he said at last. “Anyways, see if you can find him. And good luck with Rhodes. Call me afterward.”
Chase hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Then she stepped into the hallway and made her way toward Sergeant Rhodes’s office.
***
“No—no way in hell, Chase. Besides, three of these deaths have already been ruled suicides or accidents.”
“So? So, what? There are no statutes on murder and this wouldn’t be the first time that a suicide was deemed a murder after the fact.”
Sergeant Rhodes leaned forward, and planted his elbows on his desk. He interlaced his long, thin fingers, a gesture that served no other purpose but to unnerve and annoy Chase.
It worked; she could feel the blood starting to flood into her cheeks.
“Please, Detective Adams, feel free to lecture me further on the minutia of the law. Go on, don’t be shy.”
Chase clenched her teeth together, trapping a snide remark behind them. Rhodes blinked slowly, his eyes bulging slightly from behind his round spectacles.
“Ah, good. Now, you want to know what I think?”
Chase figured that the question was rhetorical, and didn’t answer.
“I think,” Rhodes continued after a prolonged delay, “that you’re getting a bit antsy. I think that after Dr. Kruk, you got an inkling for serial killers, hmm? Maybe you think that media attention is the only way to the top?”
Chase swallowed hard.
Inkling for serial killers? Is he fucking serious?
“Mm, hmm. Things are too calm for you? Too quiet? Not interested in gangbangers shooting themselves for crack money?”
Chase squinted hard. She felt a pressure building deep in the pit of her stomach. She was about to explode—if Rhodes continued on this line of patronizing bullshit, the consequences of her actions might soon become an afterthought.
Thankfully, the diatribe changed directions.
“Look, Chase. I like you, and I think you are an excellent detective, which is why I promoted you to first grade faster than anyone in the history of this department. I’m going to let you in a little secret. I won’t be Sergeant much longer. And this is going to leave an opening, an opening I think that you would be more than qualified to fill.”
Rhodes paused and stared at her. Chase wasn’t sure how to respond, so she elected to say nothing.
After a few moments, he continued.
“As a Sergeant, and with a recommendation from the newly instated Lieutenant, and maybe even the mayor, I’m sure it would be no problem to transfer to Quantico, if you catch my drift.”
Chase exhaled.
Rhodes knew about her aspirations for the FBI, her growing interest in criminal profiling. She wasn’t sure how, but the bastard knew. And now he was blackmailing her with this information.
“Do you understand now, Chase?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.
Unfortunately, Chase did.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I understand.”
She nodded and stood. When she reached across the desk to grab the folder of photographs, Rhodes pulled it out of her reach.
“I think I’ll keep these, if that’s all right with you.”
Chase hesitated.
But then she nodded and left the room.
Oh, she understood alright. She understood that the only thing Rhodes gave a shit about was his own career.
Fortunately for her, Chase also cared about the lives of the New York City citizens.
Chapter 32
Beckett had just sat down at his desk at NYU Medical, when a frustrated looking Chase burst through the door.
“That bad, huh?”
“What a fucking asshole,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“Yeah, that bad.”
“Drake was right about him,” Chase said, although it wasn’t clear if she was simply verbalizing her internal dialog, or if she was expressing her feelings to Beckett.
“Don’t blame him, though,” he offered.
Chase’s eyes darted up.
“What? What do you mean?”
Beckett laid out the photographs again.
“I mean, shit, I know there�
�s a killer out there. But what do we have other than these coincidental images and a few discrepancies? In fact, there are fewer loose ends with these suicides than with many of the other suicides I’ve cleared over the years.”
Chase looked incredulous.
“Tell me you aren’t backing out of this now?”
Beckett shook his head.
“Hell no. But with what we have, I’m not surprised that we aren’t going to get support from the department, Rhodes or no Rhodes.”
Chase looked around the office.
“Where’s Suzan?” she asked.
“In class. She’s going to do some more digging afterward, though. More digging into Dr. Mrs. Kevorkian.”
“Who?”
“Tracey, the woman who took the initial photographs.”
Chase nodded.
“Is there anything else, Beckett? Please tell me you have something else.”
Beckett sighed.
“I’ve got nothing.”
To his surprise, Chase took this in stride. In fact, it seemed to sober her and her eyes became focused.
“So, what do we have, then?” She moved around behind Beckett and pointed at the first photograph. “A dead drunk,” she moved to the next image in the sequence, “a depressed obese man, a hanged doctor, a male prostitute who was shot in the face. And then we have a junkie who drowned in Central Park. So…”
“Yeah,” Beckett said quietly. “We’ve got a little game of which one of these isn’t like the others.”
Chase nodded.
“Your doctor student. The others are drifters, people that wouldn’t be missed by society. But Edison… why him? Why kill a young doctor?” Chase asked.
Beckett felt his throat tighten as he heard those words.
Why kill a young doctor?
He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he felt partially responsible for Eddie’s death, suicide or not.
If it hadn’t been for—
“He’s the key, Beckett.”
Beckett reluctantly agreed.
“But why kill anyone at all?” he asked. Realizing that his comment was bordering on philosophical, he quickly followed this up with, “I mean, who’s the killer? What are his motives?”
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