by Julie Cave
The Movement was starting to feel uneasy. At any moment, the assisted suicide provision would be discovered and they would have to start again.
Senator Winters drove his own Jaguar to the meeting, silently seething to himself the whole way. He was fed up to the teeth with the Movement but he needed their funds. A tilt at the presidency wasn't possible without them.
When he arrived at the bunker, he arranged his features in the pleasant, approachable expression he used when he was talking to constituents, the media or supporters, and any other groups of people he found tiresome, stupid, and irritating.
The mood inside the cabin was tense. Edward Sable strode to greet him and said tersely, "We need to talk."
"Pour me a drink and we will," replied the Senator, fixing the other man a steely glare. He refused to be intimidated by this bunch of losers.
"Did you see the press conference?" one of the women asked shrilly. "Senator Devine will have his staff go through the bill and the media will have a field day!"
"Relax," said Senator Winters, accepting the drink from Sable. He took a big gulp of second-rate bourbon. "Senator Devine is a blowhard, and everyone knows it. They'll think he's going on about it because he's a conservative."
Senator Winters wished he himself believed that. Inside, he wasn't convinced that this would be the case.
"We need this provision to be passed," said Edward Sable urgently. "Our support of you is dependent upon that."
"I know that," said Senator Winters irritably. "I have a few options up my sleeve to fast track the bill."
"Like what?" demanded Sable.
Senator Winters ground his teeth. "My colleagues and I will implement reconciliation."
"What does that mean? It doesn't sound good," someone complained.
"That's because you know nothing about it," snapped Senator Winters. "Reconciliation is a Senate rule that requires only 50 votes instead of 60. You probably don't realize that we need a few conservatives on our side to pass the bill with 60 votes. If we need only 50 votes, my liberal colleagues have the numbers. You following so far?" He couldn't keep the disdain from his tone.
He was met with several nods, but mostly with uncomprehending eyes. He continued anyway.
"To put it simply, the process of reconciliation can only be used on bills that concern budgetary items or taxation items. The Health Reform Bill includes lots of provisions that will affect the budget, and we'll attach our provision to the budgetary ones," he explained, clenching his jaw with the effort of being patient. "We only need 50 votes to pass those portions of the bill. The rest of the bill is not our problem."
"I thought you could only use reconciliation to reduce the federal deficit," piped up someone at the back of the room, probably a first-year law student.
Senator Winters took an aggressive swig of bourbon. "Technically, that's true," he conceded. "But the argument is that the Health Care Reform Bill will ultimately reduce the deficit because it will control spending on healthcare."
"Is that likely to get through?" Sable asked dubiously.
"Look, the previous government did it a number of times," said Senator Winters. "Specifically, they did it to hammer through tax cuts in 2001 and 2003. It's not unheard of, and given the current president's desire to radically change health care, it won't be unexpected. The conservatives might not like it, but they've done it themselves. So they can't really complain too hard."
"So if you get the 50 votes, it's definitely passed?" Sable asked.
"We have the majority in the Senate; we'll get the 50 votes. The ultimate decision is made by the Senate parliamentarian," said Winters. When he saw Sable draw a breath to protest, he added swiftly, "You don't need to worry about that. The Senate parliamentarian will make a decision favorable to me."
"Why is this so complex?" whined a woman in the audience.
Winters glared in her general direction. "Do you realize what it is you're trying to do? Changing social policy in this country is no mean feat. Particularly when we're talking about controversial issues that tend to polarize a nation."
"What if this Senator Devine finds out what you're doing? Won't he just go back to the media and reveal everything?" the same woman asked.
"As I've already said," Winters said, making an inhuman effort to be patient, "the conservatives have already done it, which I'll point out if Devine makes any trouble. Most Americans want health care reform, one way or the other. If Senator Devine kicks up a fuss, it'll look like he doesn't want the health care system fixed. That'll look bad to his constituents, and that's all he really cares about."
"All right, if you're sure," Sable said, mostly to placate his fellow members.
"You'll have to trust me," Winters said unpleasantly. "I'm a senator."
Someone muttered something under his or her breath. Winters stared at his hands and resolved to set fire to the bunker during one of the Movement's meetings and get rid of all these idiots he was forced to deal with.
First, he'd collect his money. Then, perhaps some gasoline and some matches.
Chapter 15
Detective Samson Cage didn't ring Dinah the next morning until almost eleven o'clock. In the meantime, Dinah used her computer to research polyurethane, and soon realized it was a monumental task. Polyurethane was used in almost everything, had many different forms and uses, and millions of manufacturers, distributors, and retailers. In the end, she only felt dejected. Trying to find a killer by using a polyurethane flake would be like the literal needle in the haystack.
When she saw Cage calling, she answered, "Hello?"
"We've got another body," said the detective tersely.
Dinah felt her senses immediately sharpen. "Where?"
"Forest Glen Palliative Care Home."
Dinah was momentarily confused. "Sorry?"
"Can you meet me there? It's a little different to the other cases." Cage sounded like he was already in his car, speeding toward the latest crime scene.
Dinah climbed behind the wheel in record time and as she sped toward the palliative care facility, her thoughts raced. How did this killer continually leave virtually no clues for them to find, at least none that weren't part of his creepy message? How did he manage to build trust so easily with his victims, in only a matter of hours and days? Dinah hit the steering wheel in frustration, veering out from behind an irritatingly slow vehicle and sped past. Why did everyone have to drive so slowly? She almost yelled out loud when the car in front stopped suddenly at a yellow light instead of speeding through, like she would have done. Dinah slammed on the brakes and pounded the wheel angrily.
The Forest Glen Palliative Care Home was awash with red and blue police lights, yellow crime scene tape, and uniformed police officers directing the increasing mass of onlookers. It was the first crime scene in the whole investigation that had attracted such a crowd, thought Dinah wryly.
Cage found her in the throng and propelled her into the home, trying to keep her away from any journalist who might recognize her. The quiet of the building was a relief, after the chaos surrounding the home.
"So what happened?" she asked.
"The victim was a young man with Huntington's disease," began Cage.
"Wait a minute. A physically disabled person?" asked Dinah, thinking of Edward Sable's list of undesirable people. If the killer was following Sable's list, a physically disabled person would have been his next hit. A coincidence like that was too massive to ignore.
"Right," said Cage, directing her down a series of corridors until they arrived at the facility's library. "His name was William Atwood, white, late-thirties. The disease was reasonably advanced, but he still had quite good communication skills."
Dinah looked at the scene carefully, knowing that first impressions were important. The young man in the motorized wheelchair was slumped. But for the grey pallor of his skin, he might have been sleeping. Dinah could see the wasted limbs of the young man and felt a surge of anger that someone would commit an act of
violence against someone so frail. Then she looked at the neck and realized that there was no loll.
"Cage," she said. "It doesn't look like his neck was broken."
Cage pointed to the glass-topped lamp table next to the wheelchair. "I think that's the murder weapon," he said. Dinah followed his gesture and saw a whisky bottle, nearly empty, and the residue of some white powder on the glass.
Dinah frowned. "For a killer who has been so consistent and methodical, this seems to be way out of character," she said. "Are we sure it's the same guy?"
Cage gave her something in a plastic evidence bag. It was a generic sympathy card, identical to the ones left on the bodies of Benjamin Steffan and Ashleigh Colter. It was a detail only the killer would know; details of the cards and their messages had not been released by the police department. With her gloved hands, Dinah opened the card and read:
What nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may do providently, quickly, and kindly. As it lies within his power, so it becomes his duty to work in that direction.
Dinah glanced up at Cage. "He sees this as a mercy killing?"
"I've been thinking," said the detective. "It is of course possible that the killer forced Billy to drink the alcohol, presumably laced with a poison or drug…."
Dinah grimaced, thinking of the attempt on her own life during the Smithsonian case using that exact method.
"There would have to have been some physical force used, even on a man as physically incapacitated as Billy," continued Cage. "But there appears to be none, at least not superficially. I wonder if Billy agreed to the plan."
"Why would he do that?" Dinah asked.
Cage shrugged. "Because he hated what he had become? I don't know. I guess the autopsy will confirm my theory or not."
Dinah nodded, thinking hard. "So what if the killer discovered he didn't need to murder Billy? What if he discovered that Billy was quite happy to entertain the thought of suicide, but didn't have the means? It doesn't reduce the intensity of the killer's message. If he's a believer in eugenics, he's probably also a believer in euthanasia."
Cage agreed. "That's what I'm thinking. In fact, he may even be an advocate of forced euthanasia. Only the killer knows about these cards and their messages. But how does the killer manage to build enough trust to even broach the subject?"
The two investigators lapsed into silence.
"So the killer and Billy weren't disturbed in this room?" Dinah asked, finally.
"No, the nurse in charge, Paige Wheeler, says that Billy had received a visitor over the past few days, every evening." Cage consulted his notebook. "Youngish man, probably early thirties, about six foot, brown hair. She said he was a pleasant man, wanted to volunteer there because he'd watched his sister die of breast cancer and wanted to provide some companionship to someone in her honor."
"He was quite specific about finding one person to spend time with?" Dinah asked.
"Right. He chose Billy, because he didn't have many visitors, and very little in the way of family."
Dinah pursed her lips. "It would also make it easier to carry out his plan — whether that was murder or assisted suicide — because there was a low chance of an unexpected visit from friends or family."
Cage raised his eyebrows. "That's true. So this visitor met with Billy every evening in the library, read him books, watched sports, listened to music, and talked. The nurses left them alone. One of them questioned Billy after the first visit to make sure he was comfortable with his visitor. He seemed to enjoy the company, but more so, the visitor brought alcohol, which is forbidden here."
"The nurses knew he was bringing alcohol?" Dinah asked.
"They turned a blind eye," said Cage. "Billy wasn't consuming enough to compromise his condition, so they let him." He paused. "Until now, of course."
Dinah sighed and glanced over at the slumped figure of Billy Atwood. The crime scene technicians were gathering up the white powder, the whisky bottle, and other physical evidence, while staff from the morgue set about the task of removing Billy's body from the wheelchair.
"Well, I know one thing," said Cage, snapping his notebook shut.
"What's that?" Dinah asked.
"Edward Sable is in some trouble."
****
The two investigators left the home and stood in the bright sunlight outside, the sun beating down on them from a flawless sky.
"Okay," Cage said. "I want to wait for the autopsy before we talk to Edward Sable again, so we know whether it was more likely to be murder or assisted suicide."
"I agree," Dinah said.
"So in the meantime, I want to pay a visit to this guy." Cage showed her the scrap of paper on which Japanese karate master Lawrence Tetyaki had written the name and location of a rogue master who had been teaching maneuvers illegal in competition.
It meant venturing into the more dangerous neighborhoods east of the city, toward Anacostia, but Dinah had once spent much of her professional time there. In her glory days at the FBI, she'd been a negotiator using her skills to extract ranking members out of the gangs. Since her alcoholism and grief had led to the death of a gang member whom she'd arranged to extract then forgotten to arrange a safety plan for, she hadn't ventured back into that section of the city. However, the sheer size of Samson Cage, together with his gun in the shoulder holster, gave her a measure of comfort.
Dinah followed Cage in her car, trying to keep her impatience at his methodical driving style under control. She couldn't understand how someone could stand to drive a car so slowly. She took several deep breaths and concentrated on the music playing on the radio to calm down.
As with many martial arts venues in the city, this one was a non-descript warehouse covered in graffiti. Occasionally, a person would surface on the street, but otherwise the neighborhood was empty and somehow menacing.
At the metal roller door, Cage raised his fist and pounded on it. It didn't take long for the door to be raised by a scowling man who couldn't have been more than five foot five. He had long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, almond-shaped eyes, wiry musculature, and bronze skin.
He glared at them. "What?" he demanded rudely.
"Are you Ricky Srisai?" Cage asked, holding up his badge.
The glare didn't waver. "Yeah, so what?"
Cage leaned over him. "You don't want to do this on the street, brother."
Grudgingly, Ricky Srisai turned and walked into the warehouse, leaving Cage and Dinah to let themselves in.
Once inside, they stood in a studio that was a crude imitation of Tetyaki's. It was quiet and empty at the moment, apart from hanging boxing bags, boxing gloves, swords, clubs, skipping ropes, and other training gear.
"Nice place you've got here," Cage said, casually sarcastic.
I must be rubbing off on him, thought Dinah, hiding a grin.
"What do you want?" Srisai snapped.
"I've heard you're running a bit of an underground operation here," Cage said. "I hear you're teaching all kinds of illegal moves."
Srisai snorted contemptuously. "They're only illegal in the world of competition. That doesn't concern the cops."
"I'll be the judge of that," retorted Cage. He moved closer to the other man, to intimidate him with his size. "Are you teaching moves that can kill?"
Srisai stood his ground. "All martial arts have moves that can kill."
"Are you teaching moves that are specifically designed to kill?" Cage rephrased.
"I teach moves specifically designed for self-defense," Srisai said in a mocking tone. "They have the potential to kill."
"Why do you teach techniques that are illegal in competition?" Cage asked, moving closer.
Srisai spread one arm expansively. "Open your eyes. This is a nasty part of the city. I teach moves that my students can use if their lives are threatened. That happens on a fairly regular basis around here."
Cage started to speak, but Srisai hadn't finished. "This isn't about some sissy competition. This is life
and death on these streets. My students at least have a chance to defend themselves against an aggressor who is armed, or a number or aggressors, or an aggressor who is much larger." He said the last part pointedly.
There was silence for several moments. Dinah knew that Ricky Srisai couldn't be the killer — he was not even close to six feet tall, and he was Asian. But one of his students might have learned the neck torsion method right in this studio.
"Do you teach a technique designed to twist and break a neck?" Cage asked, moving still closer.
Srisai smiled. "I might."
"Where did you learn it?"
"Thai Royal Military," said Srisai proudly. "You don't want to mess with those dudes."
"You know all your students well?" Cage asked, moving still closer.
Srisai still didn't budge. "Yeah. I know them."
"So you got a student who was particularly taken with this neck torsion maneuver?" Cage asked.
Srisai hesitated for only a millisecond but it was enough. "No."
"Who?" insisted Cage. "There was someone, wasn't there?"
"No." Srisai's face became stony again. "Can't help you, Detective."
"This person," said Cage quietly, "is responsible for using this torsion technique to murder a 17-year-old girl, a young man with schizophrenia, and a frail homeless woman. This person is not using your techniques for self-defense on the mean streets, Mr. Srisai. Are you happy to learn one of your students may be using what they've learned here to murder helpless and vulnerable victims?"
Srisai's face darkened. "Of course not. I can vouch for my students. Someone else must have taught your murderer."
"If I find out differently," said Cage ominously. "I will do everything in my power to destroy this studio, do you understand?"
"Perfectly," snapped Srisai. "Do you realize, Detective, that I could have you disarmed, facedown, and facing death in less than three seconds?"
The two men, so incongruous in size, stood still and silent, staring at each for several moments.