Deluge (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Now what?” asked Connor Custus, looking up in the direction of the bustle of firemen.

  The water level had risen about half an inch more and creaking sounds came from the darkness.

  Hawkes had slowed the blood flow from the bullet wound in Custus’s side with gauze pads. Now he was examining Custus’s hands and body.

  “It’s my leg that’s broken,” Custus said. “And my abdomen that’s been shot. While the rest of me may not be prime, it is still, I believe, functioning at par.”

  Hawkes took an aerosol can from his kit and sprayed both of Custus’s palms and the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers. Then he examined both hands under his portable ALS.

  “Ah, I just figured out what you’re looking for,” said Custus

  Hawkes didn’t respond.

  Custus pulled his hand away and let it fall into the water. He did the same with his other hand.

  “Ironic,” said Custus. “This cursed rain may be the death of me, but if it isn’t, it will wipe away a few of my many sins.”

  “Gunshot residue doesn’t come off that easily,” said Hawkes. “And you don’t have to have fired the weapon to have molecular traces of metal. You just have to have handled it.”

  “I know,” said Custus. “And should we survive I’ll explain to all as I explain to you. I fired at a range in Erie, Pennsylvania, yesterday. It’s my wont as I travel to stop from time to time to retain my skills.”

  “And you need these skills…” Hawkes began.

  “I’m a freelance bill collector,” Custus said. “I specialize in face-to-face discussions with those in debt for large sums. From time to time one of the delinquents is unreasonable. I’ve never had to shoot anyone, for which I thank Saints Peter and Paul and my own professional persuasive powers.”

  “If there’s a pattern on the gun handle, and there usually is,” said Hawkes, “traces of it can show up on the hand.”

  “Then it would be essential to have the weapon, would it not?” asked Custus.

  A tumble of plaster joined the rain and a black tube snaked down the the wall of the sinkhole.

  “You see it?” Devlin called from above.

  “Yes,” called Hawkes. “I’ve got it.”

  “Put it in the water,” called Devlin, “and find something to keep it down.”

  “Right,” called Hawkes.

  “Do not pull on the hose,” warned Devlin. “Just guide it and tell me when it’s under the water level.”

  Hawkes did as instructed. “Got it,” he shouted.

  “We’re going to pump slowly,” said Devlin. “We don’t want to set off vibrations. You understand?”

  “I understand,” said Hawkes.

  He found a jutting twist of metal coils embedded in a concrete block. The hose fit between the metal coils. Hawkes managed to bend one of the coils so that the hose stayed in place, its head in the water.

  “The scars on your body,” Hawkes said to Custus.

  “And on my arms and one right here on my neck,” said Custus. His eyes were closed against the pain in his legs.

  “They’re not from Australian football games.”

  “No, they are not.”

  “Mind if I ask where they’re from?”

  “Yes,” said Custus. “I don’t want to be rude, but I do mind. Now, if you can do without me for a few minutes, I’ve got a thing I can do to ease the pain. Learned it in China. My ankle is numb, my body cold, my brow feverish and that mysterious bullet hole in my side is beginning to throb.”

  “China?”

  “Lovely place to visit but I wouldn’t recommend eating the cats and dogs. Too sinewy.”

  “You changed the subject,” said Hawkes.

  “I thought I did it rather skillfully,” Custus said with a sigh. “All right. The scars. I don’t like to talk about them. War wounds.”

  “Which war?”

  “I’ll keep that one to myself,” Custus said with a smile.

  “Burns,” said Hawkes. “From explosions. Different explosions. The scars are from different times. Traces of the explosive material can be found in those scars, and judging from the color and healing rate, there were at least three different explosive materials.”

  “I’ve never had good luck,” said Custus. “No, take that back. I’m still alive. I’d call that good luck, wouldn’t you? I think I’ll do my meditation thing now.”

  He was shutting down, or pretending to shut down.

  “Is Detective Bonasera up there?” Hawkes yelled.

  “I’ll get her,” called Devlin.

  “I need to send something up to her.”

  “I don’t think we should—” Devlin began.

  “It’s light, a digital photo clip. A string will be good enough.”

  Hawkes wiped the rain from his eyes. His legs were beginning to feel numb.

  “Hawkes?” Stella called.

  “I’m sending you pictures. Get them back to the lab and find someone who can check out the scars on the body of the man down here. His name is Connor Custus.”

  “You got it,” Stella said.

  Something moved behind him. Hawkes turned and saw Custus fling something into the darkness. Whatever it was made a splash and was gone.

  “Dr. Hawkes,” Custus said. “You are disturbing my meditation.”

  Custus was turned slightly and painfully on his side. Hawkes could see the blood-soaked gauze just above the water level. Hawkes reached into his kit and came up with a small black plastic object about the size of a hand-held flashlight. He flicked it on and placed it against Custus’s stomach.

  “I swear to you I am not pregnant.”

  Hawkes didn’t answer. He pinpointed the metal detector and slowly ran it across Custus’s stomach and side. It let out a beep. Hawkes kept moving it around, getting more beeps till the beeping was almost furious. A flick and the metal detector went quiet.

  “I think the bullet may be in or near your gall bladder or liver.”

  “But I shall survive?” he asked.

  “If the bullet doesn’t move. So far the flow of blood doesn’t indicate a sudden rupture.”

  “But it could happen,” said Custus.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re considering going in there and getting the bullet out of my side.”

  “Yes,” said Hawkes. “It can’t stay where it is.”

  “You’ve removed bullets from organs in the past?”

  “Yes,” said Hawkes.

  “Many?”

  “Many.”

  What he didn’t tell the pale Custus was that almost all the people from whose bodies he had retrieved bullets had been dead.

  The last of the four students who had been in Alvin Havel’s class that morning was Cynthia Parrish.

  She walked across the floor of the dining hall, her shoes clacking in time to the beating of the rain on the windows. Danny had set the scene so that each student would have to take a long walk to the table. You could learn a lot by the way someone walked. This girl walked with bouncing confidence.

  Cynthia Parrish was red haired, freckle faced and cute. Her teeth were white and her grin was simply perfect. She wore no makeup. Her navy blue skirt ended below her knees and her Wallen white sweatshirt was a size too large. She had pushed the sleeves up past her elbows.

  Danny knew that Cynthia Parrish, a sophomore, was taking senior level and college credit courses and was easily the smartest student in the school. The file in front of him made that clear.

  She sat with hands folded on her lap, waiting.

  “Can I look at your hands?” he asked.

  “You mean ‘May I look at your hands,’ right? I don’t doubt that you have the ability to look at my hands.”

  “May I look at your hands?” Danny asked.

  “Sure,” she said, holding out her palms. “You’ll find traces of chemicals, the same chemicals you’ll find on the hands of the other students in Mr. Havel’s class.”

  Danny examined
her hands, took a scraping of residue from her palms and deposited it in a clear plastic bag.

  “Any idea who killed Mr. Havel?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ll share it. I’m probably wrong and you asked if I had ‘any idea.’ ‘Any idea’ can get someone in trouble.”

  “You liked Mr. Havel?”

  “Everyone liked Mr. Havel,” she said. “He worked at being liked. He could have run for Congress and gotten the teen vote if teens could vote.”

  “But not your vote,” Danny said, meeting the girl’s eyes.

  “Not my vote,” she agreed, making a popping sound with her lips.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You want me to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Just the truth will be fine.”

  “He made me uncomfortable. Like he was one of those pod people in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. You know, big smile and a kind word, but something was missing or lurking.”

  “Lurking?”

  “I have a vivid imagination,” she said with a shrug.

  “Who was the last person to leave Mr. Havel’s class?” asked Danny.

  “Me,” she said. “But anyone could have turned around and gone back. Want a suggestion?”

  “Go ahead,” Danny said.

  “Check the clothes of everyone in that class for blood,” she said.

  “You too?”

  “Why not?”

  “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “You’re already doing that, aren’t you, checking for blood I mean?”

  He reached down into his kit on the floor and came up with a flashlight with a blue light. It was dark in the cafeteria, dark enough for the light to work. He turned it on and aimed it at her. Nothing.

  “You change your clothes today?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I can ask the other students,” said Danny.

  “You think they’d remember what I was wearing this morning? You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  “Okay, what about the others. Did they change clothes?”

  “Don’t remember,” she said. “I think they’re wearing the same things they had on in class, but then again, I haven’t really been looking.”

  “You don’t like them, do you? You’re the smart kid. The others say things—”

  “Detective,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got the wrong school. This isn’t inner city anti-nerd. I’m fine with the other kids, have lots of friends. My boyfriend is on the track team and I’m on the cross-country. Our school won the history, math and literature New York private school competition. I was captain, the youngest ever. Every one of the students were behind us. Strange as it may seem to you, I’m a popular girl.”

  “Every one of the students was behind us,” said Danny, adjusting his glasses. “Every one is singular.”

  Cynthia Parrish smiled.

  “Mr. Havel’s dead,” said Danny.

  Cynthia Parrish’s smile faded. “I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “He had trouble remembering his table of elements,” she said. “He’s been distracted for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A few months,” she said.

  “You know why?”

  “No,” she said. “But something changed. Something happened. He had trouble keeping his mind on the class. Seven times he asked me to take over the class. That was fine with me and the other students. He tried to make it look as if he wanted to give me the chance to teach. But that wasn’t it. He just wasn’t up to doing it.”

  “You want to be a teacher?” Danny asked.

  “Not anymore,” she said.

  6

  DJ RIGGS STOOD UNDERNEATH the doorway overhang of Rhythm & Soul Music on 125th in Harlem. The streets were clear, except for the few fools trying to make a dash for who-the-hell-knew-where, most of them eventually being pelted to the nearest doorway by the rain.

  DJ smiled. The rain from hell was a gift. They would expect him to make a dash for the subway station. DJ was too smart for that.

  DJ was twenty-seven, a two-time loser, last time for dealing. Two undercovers had broken into his crib less than fifteen minutes ago. DJ had made it out the window and down to the street and looked back knowing that a third and final stretch upstate was only a hundred yards behind. The undercovers might have been faster than he was and in better shape, but DJ was highly motivated.

  He ran until the rain and his failing breath told him running was no longer an option. Rhythm & Soul had been there, not yet opened. Might not even be open later on a day like this.

  DJ didn’t pray for the rain to continue. If there was a God out there, DJ was definitely not on his good side. He wasn’t bad enough for help from the devil either, at least he didn’t think so. Ride out the rain. Stay off the street, out of sight. They would give up.

  DJ heard a cry and wasn’t sure what it was at first. Then he connected the cry with what he saw shuffling along the curb. A toddler, dark skinned, in diapers, crying, arms stretching out for someone who wasn’t there. DJ couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl.

  He looked around, didn’t see anyone. Where had this kid come from? Must have wandered off from his mother in the chaos of rain. The toddler was now about twenty feet in front of him.

  Someone would come, DJ was sure. The kid was just getting wet, he wasn’t hurt or anything. It was DJ who could be hurt if he tried to help. What good would he do? What could he do without getting caught?

  Just wait. The baby toddled along. Then the horror hit DJ. He realized that the toddler had stepped off the curb and been knocked down by the rushing water in the gutter. The child was now being dragged along by the current toward an open drain whose mouth was definitely wide enough to welcome the child.

  It was DJ’s turn to cry out. He didn’t even think, just ran from the doorway, watching the baby inch toward the drain, toward the sewer, toward the rats, the filth, no-doubt-about-it death.

  DJ ran, almost crying, until he reached the child, right in front of the open gushing drain. He held tight to the baby’s arms in spite of his slipping grip. He pulled the baby to him onto the sidewalk, felt its heart beating against his chest. When he opened his eyes he could see the two undercover cops splashing their way toward him in the middle of the street.

  Leonard Giles, head of the tech lab, drove his wheelchair to the computer and keyed up the photographs Hawkes had taken of Custus. He had already run tests on the bits of wood and remnants of metal and plastic Stella had sent him.

  “I think it was a bomb,” Stella had said when she called. “More than one bomb.”

  “Someone wanted to blow up a bar?” Giles said.

  “Looks that way,” Stella said.

  “Al Qaeda gone mad? Seeking unlikely targets to terrorize the nation?”

  It wasn’t funny and Stella didn’t laugh. After a long silence Stella said, “Hawkes may be trapped in a sinkhole with the bomber.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Giles had said soberly.

  Now he sat in front of the large computer screen. He typed in instructions and a geometric form appeared, a circle of Os and Cs with six H3Cs around them.

  TATP, triacetone triperoxide, the explosive used in the London subway bombings, found in the shoe of Richard Reid, favored by Hamas, was highly unstable. The bomb maker, Giles knew, was almost as likely to blow himself up making it as he was to finish and deliver it. At least two bomb makers in Ireland had been victims of their own TATP bombs and more than forty bomb makers in Gaza and the West Bank had lost their lives to the unstable explosive.

  TATP can be made of common household items such as drain cleaner, hydrogen peroxide and acetone.

  Giles downloaded and saved the information, then inserted a CD. The information on the CD had been sent as an attachment from London and had been received less than half an hour ago. On the screen appeared a photograph of a man, his shirt off, his hair tousled, his left eye blackened. His chest w
as a jungle of hair parted by rivulets of scars, some white, some red, some ridged. The man’s left hand was missing. Under the photograph of the man was information on the kind of explosive that had caused the scars. Next to the screen showing the CD were photographs Hawkes had taken of Custus. On the screen, the bare-chested Custus now appeared next to the redheaded man with one arm.

  Giles moved slowly through the photographs on the CD that had been sent from London. He had no trouble finding a match for the scars, actually several matches. Giles concluded that the man in the pit with Hawkes was a survivor of at least four different kinds of bomb, including nitroglycerin and TATP.

  “Definitely,” Lindsay said.

  She and Danny were standing in the laboratory with the blood-soaked heads Lindsay had been testing. One head was currently in almost the same position in which they had found Alvin Havel.

  Lindsay, dissatisfied with commercial artificial blood, had developed her own formula that she constantly changed as she searched for the perfect texture and color.

  Danny examined the blood splatters, looked at the crime scene photographs she had handed him and said, “Right.”

  “Blow to the neck came when he was standing, head up,” she said. “Blow to the eye came when his head was on the desk.”

  “When he was dead,” said Danny.

  “Dead at least ten minutes. Sid agrees. No blood splatter from the eye wound. He was already dead.”

  “And your explanation?”

  “One of those kids killed Havel, then waited around before stabbing him in the eye and leaving.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “We’ve got one really angry kid here.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Danny.

  Lindsay looked at him and waited. He took his mini–tape recorder out of his pocket.

  “Wayne O’Shea, the kids call him Brody,” said Danny.

  “He’s the one who found the body.”

  Danny clicked on the recorder. It whirred to the number Danny had remembered, stopped and began.

  Danny: And no one was in the room or outside it when you went in?

  O’Shea: No one.