The first victim, Nancy Marsh, was an eighteen-year-old freshman at Chapman College, a small private college in the quiet town of Orange, the campus located about a mile from the Orange Circle. Cat had visited the campus once. The university presented itself as moneyed, accepting those who were well connected, with sufficient cash flow. Nancy Marsh had been the ideal student, her father a respected physician practicing with Hoag Memorial Hospital, her mother a woman who viewed high-end malls, like South Coast Plaza, as her second home.
“The Burning Man,” as the press was calling him, chose his second victim from a different strata of society. Kim Collins had been a lap dancer at the Flamingo Theater, a seedy joint on Ball Road in Anaheim. From what Cat had read, it was a place that cared so little about the quality of “entertainment” it offered that men were admitted for one dollar with an ad that ran in the back of the local OC Metro magazine. Like Nancy, Kim was tortured. Third-degree chemical burns covered 85 percent of her corpse—her arms, legs, back, and torso. Strangely, the only part left unscathed was her face. A disposal truck driver found the corpse near the Bee Canyon Landfill.
Cat pondered the details, searching for a common thread. Other than the method of death, there was nothing similar. No clue to the killer’s identity. Cause of death was listed as shock, secondary to massive severe burns and trauma.
“Mrs. Powers,” the flight attendant’s voice interrupted, “there’s a message for you. A third victim, alive. What’s that about?”
Cat braced herself. “Thank you,” ignoring the improper question.
She blinked and began to breathe hard.
The plane could not land soon enough.
TWO
A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
—Emily Dickinson, poem no. 1212
Flight surgeon John Walker had already called ahead to UCLA’s burn unit. He was barking at Stone Kilroy over the roar of the chopper.
“Do you know where she was when the burn occurred?”
“No, just found her in the shed,” Stone said, snapping his gum. “Looked to me like she’d been moved. Not a lot of blood, you know.”
“The shed, was it a closed space?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You have any idea how long she’d been out there, exposed?”
“Naw, can’t say for sure. Got a call about a day ago that some kids had seen some activity out here, but that don’t mean much.”
“All right then,” Walker said as he turned his attention back to Consuelo Vargas. Four members of the shock trauma team moved into action, scalpels, forceps, needles, sponges, catheters laid out in easy reach. Intubated, the respiratory therapist ventilated manually, squeezing the Ambu bag, getting much needed oxygen into her lungs.
Thankfully, the paramedics had stopped the burning process, removing what little clothing the woman had and flushing the wounds with water to remove the acid.
“How bad is it?” Stone knew it was a dumb question, but he had to ask.
“She’s got third-degree burns, over 70 percent BSA. Cases like this, well the tissue necrosis is severe.”
“Give it to me in English, doc.”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Give me a liter of Ringer’s lactate at 360 milliliters per hour. What’s the blood pressure?”
“Sixty-five. Pulse 120,” a female nurse answered, as another nurse drew blood to determine Hb, Hct, typing, and cross-match. On the off chance that some of the wounds were second degree, Walker started an immediate IV drip of morphine. Even now he could not tell whether all the wounds were third degree, though it appeared from the skin’s white translucent tinge and Consuelo’s rapid shallow ventilation, they were. The wounds did not ooze and blister as second-degree burns did. Walker knew the chance of this woman making it were slim; the rule of nines told him so.
“Do we have fresh frozen plasma waiting?”
“Yes, we’ve already called ahead.”
“I need a tetanus immune globin, 250 units IM now.”
Another team member followed orders, administering the medication intravenously through a large bore needle.
Stone Kilroy leaned back, out of the way, as best he could, popping his gum.
“Asystole,” one of the team shouted, as the ECG’s monitor flatlined. Immediately Walker’s gloved hands were pumping the woman’s chest, while the respiratory therapist continued to ventilate.
“Let the hospital know we’re bringing her in code blue!” Walker shouted. “Can’t you get this damned thing to go any faster?”
The chopper was screaming over Long Beach, passing over the 405 Freeway, which was caught in its customary gridlock traffic.
“We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”
“She doesn’t have that long,” Walker said, grabbing the defibrillator paddles, pressing them up against the woman’s chest.
“Clear.”
Everyone leaned back as a quick jolt lifted Consuelo’s body. The monitor was still flat.
“Nothing,” shouted one of the team.
“Again,” Walker said, rubbing the paddles together.
“Jesus,” Stone mumbled.
Walker slapped the defibrillator paddles down again. Once more, Consuelo Vargas’s body bucked and heaved.
“Come on, dammit,” Walker coached. He looked up. She was still flatlined.
“Piggyback a bottle of high-dose epinephrine and titrate,” Walker cried. “And we need to push another amp of sodium bicarb, now.” A team member injected 10 milligrams of epinephrine into a 100 cc bottle, then hung it to run piggyback with the IV. A young man took over cardiac compression.
“One more time,” Walker said, paddles bristling each other again. He ordered the team back and blasted electrical current at Consuelo’s heart.
Her lips tinged blue.
“We’ve got something!” he shouted.
An erratic line blipped on the screen, then disappeared to flatness.
“Damn,” Walker shouted.
Stone watched as they tried to bring her back two more times. Consuelo’s heart refused to beat, succumbing to shock. The forceful chest depressions stopped; the nurse looked at Walker for direction.
The surgeon turned on his penlight and flashed a light beam into each of the woman’s pupils. Fixed, unblinking eyes. It had been over ten minutes since they started to respond to code.
“Crack the chest?” the flight nurse asked.
“Pupils are dilated, fixed.” Walker sighed. “There’s no reason. She’s gone.”
The plane’s roller coaster gave way to a lull in the turbulence before they descended into John Wayne, named for one of Orange County’s most famous residents. Cat heard the stories about how his family had jostled for power since his death. One grandson disinherited, a granddaughter divorced from a well-known physician.
Cat was all too familiar with the way the media grabbed hold of anything, twisted and contorted it to their own liking. John Wayne’s family was no less susceptible than anyone else’s.
A new turbulence wave lurched the plane just before touchdown, leaving Cat to wonder where the vomit bag was, just before the tires hit tarmac.
A soon as the plane began to slow, Cat snapped off her seatbelt and raced to the bathroom. She was going to be sick.
Disembarking took an eternity. Catherine was anxious to get the hell off the thing. She was anxious to find out about the third victim, the one that was alive.
She gazed out the plane’s window for anyone who resembled a detective, cops, Feds. They were easy to spot. This guy was easier than usual. David Binder stood there practically hopping off the ground, arms flailing as if his life depended on getting her immediate attention. She waved at him, wondering if he could see her. Thirties, a tinge of gray hair just appearing at the sideburns, no wrinkles. Not a rookie, she thought, but pretty close. No wonder he had pulled this duty�
� transporting her from the airport.
After a brief exchange of formalities, David gave her the scoop.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, not taking an extra breath between words, “we located a third victim just a half hour or so ago. She’s en route to UCLA’s burn trauma unit. Heavy corrosive burns over a majority of the torso and extremities. Same shallow incisions. If it’s not our guy, I’ll eat my shorts.”
Cat smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Sounds like our guy. Where is she now?”
“She’s in the air.” He whirled his finger in the air then glanced at his watch. “Actually, by now they should be touching down.”
“We need to get to her,” Cat said sharply.
“Already got that in order, doctor,” he said, his tie whipping back, leading her to a waiting chopper, its door open, the blades engaged, engine screaming.
Once they were in the air, Cat stared through the thick bubble window to a world that was far removed from Washington, DC. Across the landscape, freeways stretched and intertwined as if living breathing snakes—caught in some primordial dance. At three-thirty in the afternoon, traffic was already backing up. Would California’s engineers ever buy into mass transit? The chopper followed the coastline; she could see the beach cities, Dana Point in the distance, and closer, Newport, Huntington, Long Beach—each boasting its own pier jutting out into the ocean. Beyond the cities, the Pacific was disturbed only by the occasional sport fisher. Gathered on buoys, seals basked in the afternoon sun. On the edge of the panorama, San Clemente loomed, the thin, almost invisible lining of its hills twenty miles or so away.
The pilot took one glimpse at the freeway and said in the headphone set, “Welcome to sunny Southern California, land of smog and freeway congestion.”
“Looks like it’s gotten worse,” Cat said, remembering her trip here five years ago.
Bosco, as they called him, replied, “Yeah, just about every year there’s more gridlock. Can’t say I envy them down there.” He flashed her a quick smile beneath chocolate brown hair, which Cat guessed he had been nicknamed for.
“How much longer?” David said into the headphones.
“Not much really. We’ll be in Westwood in no time.” Bosco could tell his kind was nervous, nervous being around this woman. They hadn’t told him who she was, but from the way the kid was squirming in his seat, Bosco could tell she was a big wig.
As the chopper dipped and banked left, Bosco could see the woman’s face blanch white.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” She motioned with the wave of her hand. “Just a combination of bad airline food and turbulence.”
“Sorry ’bout that, I’ll try to be more careful.”
“It’s all right really. Just get us there.”
Bosco saluted and said “Aye, aye, captain” with a wry grin.
Cat forced a smile in his direction, looking out the window, trying to concentrate on the horizon.
“There it is,” said Bosco as UCLA’s multistory facility came into view. The building had no doubt been built in the sixties when square brick buildings were the norm. Nothing imaginative about the structure. Tall pines provided shade for those sitting in a square courtyard, shrubs neatly trimmed and tended. To the left of the building, a parking structure, cars—black, green, burgundy—reflecting the sun.
Beside Cat, David was anxious to land. Like her, he was not a good flyer, and it showed on his face.
“There’s the helipad. We’ll be down soon enough,” Bosco said, sensing they had both had all they could take of the ride.
From the roof, a man in a long white coat waved at them. Cat pointed to the man. “Any idea who that is?” David stared at his hands, looking like he was trying to keep his mind off his stomach. He shook his head.
As they got closer, she could make out the man’s physical features. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of just-poured asphalt. Another man joined him, standing behind, wearing a cop’s uniform, beer gut poking out of a too-small belt.
David pulled himself away from his turmoil to look out the window. “The guy in the back is the cop that found her. Orange County Sheriff’s Office. Name’s Stone, Stone Kilroy.” Cat nodded, waiting for the chopper to land.
David was the first to disembark the chopper. Rather than lending a hand to Cat, he stumbled through the double doors, no doubt searching for a toilet where he could vomit.
Cat grabbed her medical valise and hopped out onto the concrete, glad to have something solid under her feet for the first time in six hours.
The man in the white lab coat approached, jet-black hair tousled wildly in the wind.
Cat ducked below the whirling rotor blades as Bosco cut the engines. The doctor was instantly before her with a keen smile and a firm shake.
“Dr. Powers, I’m Dr. Walker, head of the surgical trauma team that brought the woman in.”
He continued to shake her hand vigorously. “This is Stone Kilroy, Orange County Sheriff’s Office. He’s the man that found her.”
Stone was soundless, as his name implied, eyes averted to the ground.
“Yes, I heard. How’s she doing? What’s her name?”
As always, Cat had a million questions to ask, each one tumbling out in quick succession. The questions kept her job interesting; the answers usually kept her coming back.
Walker brushed off the question and ushered her inside.
She followed the fat sheriff through the double doors. Entering the facility, it was nothing impressive. Carpeted, walls painted an odd shade of sea green, the place seemed as antiseptic as any hospital. Inside, the light was artificial, casting a greenish-yellow glow over everything. Betadine fumes filled her nostrils.
She tried the question again. “So how’s the woman?”
The doctor fell strangely quiet, thrusting his hands in his coat pockets. “Maybe I can show you better than I can tell you.”
He led them casually to the elevators, punched the down button.
Cat looked at him, studied him. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying?” With burn patients, every second counted. She knew the risk of shock, and subsequent death, was great.
“We don’t need to hurry,” Walker said quietly.
“What?” Cat grabbed his arm, turning him to face her.
He looked her square in the eye for the first time. “There is no need.”
“She didn’t make it?”
“She coded in the chopper right before we got here. I tried to resuscitate, but nothing worked.”
“I’m chasing a lunatic and you can’t keep his one victim alive long enough for me to talk to her. Most surely the woman said something.”
“She was intubated,” Walker said, as if apologizing.
“Before she was intubated?” She turned to Stone Kilroy. “Did she say anything to you? Anything?”
The cop chomped at his gum like a cow chewing cud. “Yup.”
“What?”
“She kept asking for a doctor.”
THREE
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
—Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes
Dr. Catherine Powers, this is Irvine Police Chief Robert Richmond.” The man held out a firm handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, doctor. I’m the one that requested your help, the FBI’s help. I have heard you have excellent instincts, and your intuition is, well, above average. I’d like you to remain here for as long as you can.”
Richmond held himself like a man destined for public office. Neat cut hair, gray pin-striped suit. It looked like he had dressed for this meeting. How much thought he had given to calling in the FBI, Cat could read from his sunken eyes. It was clear he had not slept in some time.
“I am here indefinitely, Chief Richmond.” Cat sighed a long exasperated breath of air, used to the formalities. “I assure you I am here for as long as it takes. And please call me Cat.”
> “All right, then.” He nodded but seemed somewhat taken aback at her informality.
Behind Richmond another man stepped forward.
“Dr. Powers, this is Dr. Conrad James, Orange County’s head medical examiner,” Walker said. The doctor, in his demeanor as well as his touch, appeared icy. Mid-fifties, an exacting man, Cat guessed. Not a hair on his head out of place.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, his voice trailing off.
Cat met his gaze. “Likewise.”
“We should proceed to the body,” he said flatly, turning on his heels.
Cat’s high heels clicked behind him as she struggled to keep up with the man. The other men brought up the rear.
“I want you to know right off the bat, I’m not happy with the FBI’s involvement in this case.”
“That’s extremely obvious, I assure you.”
“Bunch of bureaucrats worrying about their next election, half of them on the dole anyway,” he said. “The only reason you’re here is politics, Dr. Powers, plain and simple; although I must say your reputation precedes you.”
Cat had encountered this pettiness before. She was used to it, decided to let the words, like drops of water, roll off her back.
“How so, doctor?” She emphasized the word doctor with some reverence, buying into the man’s ego for now.
“I know of your work on the Saint Croix case, how you brought that criminal in.”
A year ago, the Saint Croix case involved a string of mutilation murders of teenaged boys, their bodies dumped, painted, and sodomized. The killing occurred all over the United States. Cat had run tests on the paints, reasoning they were the type used by actors, street musicians, maybe circus performers. Bodies’ locations were then cross-matched with major circuses, state fairs, carnivals. Cat believed a circus performer’s nomadic existence would provide the perfect cover. This, with a match on trace semen and DNA, led to Rene Saint Croix’s arrest, a performer with Cirque du Soleil.
“Thank you, doctor. It appears that case will be far easier to solve than this one.”
They walked briskly down a dimly lit corridor, approaching automated double doors that announced the ER.
The Burning Man Page 2