We two men shake hands.
“Call me John,” the chief says. “Okay if we stay informal and I call you McGee? I am familiar with your outfit—McGee and Associates, right?”
“Correct on both counts,” I say.
Then, we get down to work.
“This is what we found, Sybil, McGee. The print is a good one, fortunately. It is from the thumb of a real nasty known to certain highly selected members of the counterterrorism world as “Waterloo” for some reason. His real name—or more likely one of his known aliases—is Viachaslau Mazurkiewicz, a Byelorussian mercenary wetwork agent. You two have stumbled on a print that could not have been expected for any proper reason in the United States, and could not bode well for anybody in a place where his print is found.”
“Nice work, John—thanks,” Sybil says sincerely. “Maybe not, Sybil. Look at this.”
John’s computer screen opens to a large insignia of the United States Department of Homeland Security with a flashing message, “ACCESS DENIED. CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET.”
“Hmmh,” Sybil hums subtly.
Unaccustomed to subtlety, I barge right in, “You have to have gotten around that little impediment, John. That is nice work.”
Both John and Sybil give me an indulgent smile—one reserved for the family’s awkward but harmless teenager.
“And beyond your need to know,” Sybil says, giving me a bit of a look.
I nod my understanding and the acceptance of the implicit scolding.
“Well—a long story made short—we did get some information on him. You can have the redacted printout, but you cannot tell anyone how you got it. In fact, it would be much the best if you didn’t tell anyone anything about the information or its source.”
“Mum’s-the-word,” I say clumsily.
Sybil gives John the in-group acceptable nod.
“You can read the stuff at your leisure and in a secure place—
I presume—but I have to warn you that while you will learn things about this consummate thug, there is nothing in here that relates to your victim or to the United States at all, for that matter. He doesn’t seem to hold any official intelligence position. As far as we know he is a merc whose services are available to the highest bidder. He has a near-perfect record: he gets an assignment, and someone sloughs his mortal coil or simply disappears.”
“Any hope that we will be able to establish that he killed Decklin Marcus or how?”
All of the geopolitics aside, that is my main raison d’état for being here.
“My assistant and I are meeting Jack Tamaguchi at the New York mortuary this afternoon to go over the autopsy results—hands-on—and to get tissue and bone marrow samples from the body for toxicology. They still have blood, urine, stomach contents, brain tissue, and segments of bowel we can work with. I’m pretty confident that if it was poison, we’ll find it. It’ll take a few days to get all of the results back; this is not a television CSI show where the whole thing gets wrapped up in an hour with a third of the time being taken up by ‘product reviews’ as Madison Avenue puts it these days.”
“We appreciate everything,” Sybil tells him. “We’ll be patient.” I feel impatient but keep quiet. I am sure that any more of my extraneous comments and enthusiasms will not be appreciated at this juncture.
John continues, “Look, you guys. You are playing with some heavy hitters. Homeland Security does not take kindly to interference, meddling, or hacking into their affairs. If your Decklin Marcus is part of some investigation of theirs, you can bet that you will have a visit. McGee, I suspect that a couple of large and unsmiling HS special agents will pay you a visit in the very near future. Sybil, I think you are likely to hear from Secretary Carter from Homeland or maybe even the president. Just a heads up.
“One thing to note in the report I gave you is that nice Mr. Mazurkiewicz—or whatever his real name is—has been known to be in the employ of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. He might even have been involved in the sniper killing of ‘Grandpa Hassan’ a few years ago.”
I make my face into a question mark.
“The Russian Mafia … and ‘Grandpa Hassan’ was reputed to be the king of the mob. He was killed in a power struggle within the mob,” Sybil explains.
“Heavy hitters,” I say. “What has our poor little rich boy gotten himself into?”
“That will be the question of the day, and presumably what your current employers are going to want to know,” Sybil says.
“They did say that they wanted the unvarnished version. I’ll wait until the toxicology data are back before I start giving them the details,” I answer.
Chapter Four
On the fourth and eighth days after our supposedly secret visit to the NCTC, two important things happen. The first—on day four—is that John Smedley from the NCTC and Jack Tamaguchi, the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, repeat the autopsy on young Decklin Marcus. That produces very probative results immediately and more convincing findings once the toxicology results return from the NCTC Forensic Database Section. The second memorable thing—four days later—is a visit meant to instill an enduring impression on me and my associates.
Ivory White and I attend the second autopsy while Caitlin continues to flesh out the lives of the Marcus family and their friends and contacts. The original autopsy had been done exactly according to the book, and no fault could be found in that. The original tox screen was thorough and standard and even included a few extras. There is no question about the results of either the autopsy or the toxicology evaluation.
The second autopsy is about small things—attention to very fine detail. Dr. Smedley literally goes over Decklin’s skin with a magnifying glass. He shaves Decklin’s armpits and groins. That produces the first and only anatomical finding. When he finds it, Dr. Smedley calls the rest of us over to have a look through his magnifying glass. None of us, including Dr. Tamaguchi, would have ever found the lesion.
“You see that little pinpoint hole in the skin? It was completely obscured by his pubic and upper thigh hair. I can tell you that it occurred antemortem.”
“What occurred, doc?” Ivory asks.
“I think I can be quite precise but not able to swear to it until the tox screen comes back. This is an injection site; a tiny needle—probably a 30 gauge—was used to inject a large concentrated dose of a rapidly acting neurotoxin and cardiac toxin like TTX. Mr. Marcus was almost certainly paralyzed immediately; and, presuming that the dose was high enough, within minutes he likely suffered a complete respiratory paralysis and a ventricular arrhythmia which killed him instantly. Although there is a tiny area of reddening around the puncture site indicating pressure from the tip of the syringe, there are no other signs of struggle or defensive acts on Mr. Marcus’s part. The scenario I just described is the best explanation for the extant facts: no physical signs of struggle, negative regular toxicology screen, no organ damage on the internal anatomical evaluation, and nearly sudden and unexpected death in a healthy young man.”
“I know something about TTX, Dr. Smedley, but how about a tutorial to teach or refresh those of us who wouldn’t have thought of this?” Sybil asks.
Both pathologists contribute to the “tutorial,” which is absolutely fascinating and eye-opening to both McGee and Ivory and a serious review for Sybil.
Dr. Tamaguchi leads off, glad to have an opportunity to appear to be something more than just a spectator in his own domain.
“TTX [Tetrodotoxin] is an extremely potent sodium channel blocker from Tetraodontiformes, a marine order that includes such diverse species as pufferfish, balloon fish, porcupinefish, ocean sunfish or mola, triggerfish, and horseshoe crab. Federal standards list the LD50 dose which produces a 50 percent mortality rate for a 170 pound man to be something on the order of 25 milligrams—nine ten thousandths of an ounce—if taken by mouth, and only eight to twenty-five micrograms if injected. The toxin has a very narrow therapeutic index and is almost always fatal when given in high
doses. An assassin with access to refined TTX could just as easily inject a large dose as a small one. Dr. Smedley and I think the departed victim received something on the order of four MLDs [Minimum Lethal Dosages]. Mr. Marcus didn’t have as much of a chance as the proverbial snowball in hell.”
Ivory White interrupts again, “Sorry to interrupt your flow, doc, but isn’t this the stuff the voodoo witch doctors in Haiti add to their potions to create zombies?”
Tamaguchi laughs. “It has been suggested by would-be ‘experts,’ but there is no evidence. Most potions—which are powdered mixtures of any number of insects, prescription and recreational drugs, and alcohol—have been shown not to have any TTX usually, and if present, to be in miniscule and nonlethal doses.”
“Oh,” says Ivory, “thanks.”
Dr. Smedley continues, “This is the poison best known for causing fugu poisoning from the consumption of the Japanese delicacy, pufferfish. You have to know what you are looking for in order to get the correct studies. Once you stumble onto the idea that this could be fugu, the lab problem is not particularly difficult. Tetrodotoxin may be identified and quantified in serum, whole blood, and/or urine to confirm the diagnosis of poisoning. Our NCTC Forensic Database Section lab has the mass spectrometrometers and gas and liquid chromatographic separation equipment necessary for the forensic investigation of fatal overdosages. I am convinced that we are on the right track. It is a pleasure working with Dr. Tamaguchi. I will keep all of you posted as the results come in. Good detective work, by the way.”
Sybil Norcroft and I give each other a small appreciative nod.
Four days later, Dr. Smedley calls Dr. Tamaguchi and the DCIA with his report.
“We were right; I am my usual modest self when I report this. But I have to say that the NCTC lab geeks went a step further. They established the manufacturing process of the injectable poison used. You may not know but the pufferfish and other TTX producers do not actually make the poison. Instead, it is produced by some bacteria which are symbiotic with the fish’s cells and chemical makeup. In this case, the lab proved that a mixture of refined cultures of Pseudoalteromonas tetraodonis, and some species of Pseudomonas and Vibrio were used. That made an extraordinarily intense and rapidly acting toxin.”
“How did this guy, Viachaslau Mazurkiewicz, come by such a sophisticated poison?” Sybil asks Dr. Smedley.
“That is the best question for detectives to ask. I can tell you this much: he did not come up with the idea himself, and he did not make the toxin himself or in his garage lab. This required university-level microbiologists using top-of-the-line research facilities and culture materials, and a lot of time to get the job done. I am of the opinion that this had to be a national project, since the costs would be prohibitive, and the availability of qualified personnel would be beyond the reach of any amateur manufacturer or highly knowledgeable and qualified assassin, however clever. So far as I know, only US, Russian, PRC, or UK lab facilities have all of the necessary ingredients.”
“And that says nothing about motive. I presume that if we can find the motive, that will lead us to the culprit and to his or her country and laboratory,” Sybil says with determination.
“Likely so, Madam DCIA. I would appreciate being kept in the loop. This is certainly a fascinating case and probably one that we will write up when the denouement is reached.”
“I will be more than happy to let you know what we know. For now—and probably for the next thirty years—this will have to remain top secret.”
Sybil calls me the same day.
“We have the toxicology report back, McGee. Your suspicions are altogether well-founded, and the experts’ concepts are likewise right on.”
She explains everything Dr. Smedley told her.
I ask her what she thinks was the scenario of the killing itself. “I have gone over this with my two closest confidants—who, incidentally, are a couple of the nicest guys who ever boarded an innocent ship and scuttled it after robbing all of the passengers, raping all of the women, then killing every person on board—and they agreed on a plausible scenario to fit all of the facts.
“Lacking any defense wounds and the great care taken to place the tiny needle hole in the most obscure location possible, this is how they think it went down: probably two killers gained access into Decklin’s apartment without having to resort to forced entry. One of them—probably Mazurkiewicz—got behind our victim and put him in a Brazilian jujitsu choke hold called the mata leão [kill the lion]. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes. I have had some Brazilian jujitsu training myself,” I reply, fully riveted by the scenario I can now envision all too well.
“The evil beauty of the hold is that it is quick. The victim does not strangle; so, he does not thrash around. He goes to sleep within half a minute and is rendered insensate and unable to defend himself. The hold leaves no marks. Mazurkiewicz then pulled down his pants, felt for the femoral artery pulse, and injected the sophisticated TTX solution directly into the arterial flow. With a presumably very large dose, Decklin likely did not wake up or suffer. He probably had a fatal ventricular arrhythmia almost immediately. Mazurkiewicz then made sure that there was no sign of blood, redressed Decklin, and put him on his couch; so, anyone but a highly suspicious expert forensic pathologist having access to a very sophisticated laboratory would come to the conclusion that this was some sort of fluke death—a cardiac arrhythmia in a healthy young man. It does occur, especially in athletes.”
“Thanks a million, Sybil. We will get on this today. Fortunately for us the Marcuses are made of money, which enables us to do whatever is necessary to get the answers.”
I arrive home late that evening after putting together a full report to give to the Marcuses. I am tired enough just to sit with my wife and watch Jay Leno for an hour then the late news before nodding off to sleep. The Marcuses can wait until tomorrow.
The rest is restorative, and I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I walk into my Manhattan office at seven thirty in the morning, ready to round up the troops and get them headed in the directions I need them to go.
My office manager is the only other member of the staff in the office that early. She looks anxious and not like herself.
I look into her face, squint, then ask, “Hey, Vera, what’s up? You look like you just lost your puppy.”
Vera does not answer—just angles her head and body toward my office and raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. That cannot be the harbinger of anything good, I think.
As soon as I step into my private office, four men in dark suits, white shirts, red power ties, sturdy soft-soled black shoes, and opaque aviator sunglasses march into my path. They all have short military cuts; they are all big and altogether fit; and the nerves to create a smiley face appear to have been surgically removed. They are obviously clones manufactured by the federal government. They could be more obvious if they had “FEDERAL AGENT” tattooed on their foreheads.
“What?” I ask.
I was about to ask, “Who?” as well, but the oldest of the clones peremptorily and impatiently interrupts me.
“We’ll ask the questions, Mr. McGee. As a matter of fact, we’ll do almost all of the talking in this brief little get-together we are going to have.”
I am still feeling put-off and feisty; so, I ask the “Who?” question anyway.
He ignores me.
“This is the way it’s going to be, McGee. I talk, you listen. I learn, you stay in the dark. First thing, you tell me everything there is to know about Decklin Marcus and what you have dredged up about that unfortunate boy who died of natural causes and nothing else. Second, you give us all of your records and then you stay out of the Marcus affair … way out … and forever. Third, you don’t share anything with the Marcuses, NYPD, or any federal office. Did you get that, or do you want me to go over it again real slow so that you can get it?”
He looks at me like he is talking down to a six-year-old schoolboy and a mo
ron to boot.
“Creds,” I say.
He looks at me like he is a mean principal looking down at a miscreant boy. His usually placid frown becomes more on the malevolent side.
“Shut up!” he says.
“No,” I say. “This is my office, and I call the shots. First, I see the creds; then I find out why you are invading my space; then, maybe—or maybe not—I talk about what I know. I’ll decide.”
Two of the heavies standing behind the older agent take two menacing steps forward—close enough that we can almost rub noses. At that moment, Ivory White starts to walk into my office, obviously having been directed there by my eavesdropping office manager. There are only four of them, and I am afraid that Ivory might take it into his head to put a hurt on them—and that would be unseemly—so I motion for him to come in but to keep his distance for the time being.
“That your thug?” Older Man asks, disrespecting Ivory—which is not usually a wise thing to do according to my observation of how he handles such things.
Ivory’s face loses its usual placidly friendly countenance, and he advances close enough to become part of the inner circle. It is tense. The four agents are used to being obeyed promptly; Ivory is used to being respected constantly; and I generally do not like being bullied in my own bailiwick.
“Time for you to leave,” I announce to Older Man and hiss it enough to spray a bit of saliva into his too-close face.
The agent who has been standing off from the other three now advances. He is fingering a bulge in his left armpit, and I am pretty sure that he does not have an itch. It is getting tenser.
Just to throw a little more gas on the fire, I call out to my manager, “Hey, Vera, Ivory and I are being accosted by people who won’t leave when asked to do so politely. Please call security … no, strike that. Get NYPD up here. We inoffensive citizens are being assaulted by federal officers under the color of authority.”
She pirouettes crisply and starts back to her desk and her telephone.
Friends at Homeland Security Page 3