9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  He and I waited there, leaning against the side of the HazMat van, for a long time. Costa wasn’t chatty. I didn’t have much to say either.

  The sun was getting ready to set, casting long ribbons of shadow from the Crime Scene tape, when one of the HazMat guys approached us. He held some sort of electronic device in both hands.

  “Okay if I sweep you guys now?” he asked through the clear shield of his protective hood.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I said.

  He motioned for Costa and me to extend our arms and spread our legs, then passed the device over and around us.

  “Turn, please.”

  We turned to face the van. The man in the space suit continued to sweep and scan.

  “Okay,” he said, after what seemed like a long time, but was probably less than a minute. “You guys are clean.”

  I felt my body relax. I hadn’t realized I’d been tense.

  The HazMat guy pulled the hood off over his head, clamping it under one arm. Costa and I removed our puny fabric masks. The fresh air felt good on my sweaty face.

  “What have we got?” Costa asked.

  “Ricin,” he said. “The victim probably died from inhalation.”

  “I see,” Costa said. “Is there any sign of the source?”

  “That’s a slice of good news,” the man said. “We found a baggie of white powder in his van. The bag was triple sealed with rubber gloves and some sort of hollow metal ball inside. Guess he wasn’t careful enough.”

  “How about the rest of the place, and the agents who went inside?” Costa asked.

  “We found traces of ricin in the workshop vent filters and in the shop sink drain, but the men came out clean. We’ll send them to the hospital for monitoring, just in case. But I’m pretty certain they’ll be fine.”

  “So he bagged the ricin in his workshop?” I asked.

  “Looks like.”

  “Have you got a name to go along with the body?” Costa asked.

  “The cards in his wallet say, Shin Cho.”

  Costa turned to me. “That would be the business owner,” he said, “and the signatory on the rental contract.”

  I nodded.

  “You didn’t happen to see any larger ball-shaped objects in there did you?” I asked. “Or maybe pieces of ball-shaped objects.”

  “No, sir. But I can’t say we were really looking for any. There was a box with a garbage bag in the van though. We didn’t open it. Thought it would be safer at the lab. Maybe what you’re looking for is in there.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I turned to Costa. “You’ll let me know if you find a shell of some sort, right? Something that used to look like a black bowling ball.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  * * *

  Before heading back to Red Wing, I decided to swing by the Cho residence, just to get a feel for the life of the deceased POI.

  The address the HazMat guy had given Costa was in the middleclass suburb of Bloomington – the same city that hosted the digitally impaired car rental place, Park Heating, and MOA, but in a wholly residential area on the other side of town.

  The Pilot’s GPS navigator guided me unerringly to Cho’s neighborhood. From there, I checked the house numbers.

  The home of Mr. Cho, and according to Costa, Mrs. Cho, fit right in with its surroundings. A one-story rambler with an attached two car garage that had probably been built in the sixties or early seventies, it sat on a lot barely wider than the house, but with a generous and well-groomed front yard. From the spacing of homes in the area, I guessed there was a sizeable back yard as well, probably equally well-groomed, maybe with a pool and a concrete patio for entertaining.

  Cho’s was an average house, in an average neighborhood, part of an average suburb in the flyover state of Minnesota. Ordinary. Common.

  Experience had taught me that the most competent terrorists weren’t the militant hatemongers who stomped the streets of Kabul, thrusting their AK-47s in the air like a team pennant. No. It was the unassuming type – the Shin Chos of the world, steadily employed, good neighbors who wouldn’t dream of allowing crab grass or creeping charlie to invade their immaculate lawns, or of letting their dogs poop on a neighbor’s yard – those were the dangerous ones, because they were “us.” And we liked “us.”

  I pulled the Pilot to a stop on the far side of the broad suburban avenue. I should snap a few pics at least, though there didn’t seem to be much to look at. I clicked several quick frames with my phone camera . . . enough to show the house, a car in the drive, the closed garage door, and a lamp-lit living room behind drawn sheers.

  Welcome to Middle America, home of Ward and June Cleaver . . . and former hunting ground for mass murderers Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gien.

  I moved the gear shift out of “Park” and let the Pilot roll forward.

  “Goodbye, peaceful neighborhood,” I said to myself. “I’ll be back . . . but you won’t.”

  * * *

  On the drive home, I pondered the meaning of the day’s discoveries.

  It appeared that we had found the North Korean “biologic” – a baggie full of white powder in an oriental man’s van . . . a man named Park, one of Korea’s most common surnames. The rented black Corolla tied Cho to Rodney’s farm and the stolen meteor. I would like to have found the rest of the capsule – the part that resembled a black bowling ball – but as the man said, it may still be in the box with the garbage bag. It would be nice to tie up that loose end, but it wasn’t crucial for today.

  Costa and the entire federal law enforcement team would pursue everything relating to Shin Cho like hungry locusts at a grain festival. They’d interview his family, friends, co-workers, third grade teacher, and probably his garbage man. His computers would be confiscated and squeezed for whatever information they might reveal. And the white powder – the ricin – would be analyzed to learn all that its chemistry could tell about its maker, its geographical origin, and probably the identity of the person who grew the castor beans from which it was made.

  The FBI, the CDC, and the other professionals at Homeland Security would conduct a thorough investigation, of that I was certain, especially with Mr. “thoroughness is next to godliness” taking the point.

  Maybe the feds would identify the POI’s target, perhaps even track the attack plan back to the North Korean space program. I doubted there would be enough evidence to make our ricin stick to the hands of Pyongyang in the court of geopolitics. Still, one could hope.

  I’d done all I could with Rodney’s missing meteor for now. Pretty soon I’d be home with Beth. We’d have a nice dinner, share a bottle of wine . . . and then talk about our second terrorist.

  Just another evening at the Beckers’.

  CHAPTER 36

  Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

  “General.” The young lieutenant came to a panting halt before his superior, almost forgetting to salute. The general was seated at his desk, enjoying a plate of mushroom steak with steamed asparagus . . . a perquisite from the president’s office.

  The general placed his silver knife and fork on the placemat then dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin.

  “Lieutenant,” the general said, “as you can see, I am eating. Why do you interrupt me?”

  “General,” the lieutenant replied, still obviously winded, “I am afraid I must bring disappointing news.”

  The general’s expression turned to a scowl.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, his shaking head confirming the sentiment. “Whatever it is, just fix it.”

  “But general. It is the capsule . . . Sleeping Dog. There is a problem.”

  The general stood.

  “I told you, I do not want to hear this. Now be gone, before I become angry.”

  “I apologize, General, sir. But Shin Cho is dead. And the Americans have discovered our weapon. I am sorry, sir, but General Kang ordered me to inform you.” The lieutenant remained at attention, awaiting his
punishment.

  “That damn Kang,” the general growled under his breath. Looking back to the lieutenant, the general said, “You tell that mongrel, Kang, to fix this . . . this . . . situation. And you, Lieutenant . . . if you return to me again with bad news, I will have your head. Now get out.”

  The lieutenant saluted and departed as hastily as he had arrived.

  The general sat down, and after contemplating a bite of steak, pushed the plate away.

  “Waiter,” he barked. A man dressed in white appeared at his door. “Take this away.” He indicated his plate of nearly untouched steak and asparagus. “And bring me that Russian vodka.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  The evening at home had gone pretty much as I had predicted – a nice dinner with my charming wife, mingled with and followed by discussion of the day’s investigative findings. Beth had reached somewhat of an impasse in her search for the source of the Sheriff’s Office emails. And for me, the investigation into the North Korean terrorist had, apparently, come to an end.

  By 10:00 o’clock we were talked out concerning business matters and headed upstairs for bed.

  We each felt a need to shower, to wash away the day’s heat and to cleanse mind and body from the negative karma of a terror investigation. Beth showered first, while I plopped in an upholstered chair near the bed and flipped on the TV news.

  My eyes followed today’s top stories as they flickered by – the mug shot of a man wanted in a convenience store robbery, footage of a house fire in Robbinsdale, a traffic cam recording of a car accident and the resulting traffic jam in the I-35W/I-94 commons – but my brain barely registered their substance. At a certain point, the well of one’s conscious attention reaches maximum capacity. Unless the earth was ending, or my home was under attack, my brain was flat out full.

  My peripheral vision caught Beth’s movement as she returned from the shower, and the subtle scent of her shampoo reached me a moment later. I turned to watch her.

  Her shoulder-length, sandy blond hair swung damp and loose around her face as she dipped her head forward, wrestling a broad comb through a stubborn tangle in the back. Her pajama top was a sleeveless shell, its shoulder bands slightly moistened by wet hair brushing across the fabric.

  She tossed her head back, working through the final few insubordinate strands with both hands. The posture lifted her short, silky top, revealing a few inches of smooth, tanned tummy – and a belly button – above her matching pink pajama shorts.

  Huh. I had thought it would take an act of God to muster my focus, but Beth’s casual ritual worked just as well.

  She hadn’t noticed me watching her – at least, I didn’t think she had. But when she was satisfied that her hair was smooth, with the comb gliding effortlessly through her satiny locks, she turned her head toward me and smiled.

  It may have been impolite, but I couldn’t help staring just a little while longer.

  “You okay, Babe?” she said, absently sliding a few stray strands behind one ear.

  I should probably respond.

  “Better than that,” I said, and stood up. “You look exquisite, my dear.” Why does the sight of Beth always cause me to catch my breath? “And I would caress your velvety cheek, and rain worshipful kisses on your neck and shoulders . . . but alas, I remain among the great unwashed.”

  “Come here,” Beth said. She leaned forward and offered me her puckered lips.

  I accepted.

  “Mwah!” we both said at once. This behavior was perhaps childish, but we had developed this silly habit years ago, and I for one enjoyed the tradition.

  “Now, hit the showers, Babe. Your filth offends me.” Beth smiled.

  I smiled back and did as requested.

  * * *

  For a long while I just stood there, my back to the shower nozzle, letting the steamy spray work its healing magic. A hot shower is one of God’s miraculous gifts to humankind. Don’t believe anyone who tells you differently.

  Eventually, having relaxed to the point where I had to will my legs to hold me up, I reached for the soap and shampoo to finish the job. Once I was clean and dry, I slipped into a pair of white cotton boxer shorts that serve as my usual warm weather sleepwear.

  On returning to our bedroom, I found Beth tucked under the soft cotton sheet, propped on pillows against the headboard, reading a novel. I crawled into my side of the bed, one leg over and one under the top sheet.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?” I asked Beth as I lay there, my head resting on one hand and my eyes locked on Beth’s lips.

  She slipped a marker between the pages and closed her book. Tossing the book and a spare pillow to the floor, she turned on her side to face me. Our noses were now mere inches apart.

  “Hmm,” she said softly. “I’m thinking maybe a cup of good coffee and half a grapefruit.” She smiled, but I could see her eyes were heavy.

  I reached across to turn off her bedside lamp. Beth rolled onto her back to facilitate the maneuver. On the way back to my side of the bed, I stopped to hover over her for a moment. Her eyes moved back and forth between mine.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she asked.

  I smiled, lowering myself carefully until I could kiss the spot where her shoulder met her neck.

  “Mmm,” Beth sighed. “I’ll give you just a couple hours to knock that off.”

  “I’m on it,” I whispered into her ear.

  CHAPTER 38

  Beth and I are both early risers, and this day was no exception. It was 6:30. We had just finished breakfast and were enjoying encore cups of coffee on the back porch swing.

  “Don’t you love the smell of wet grass and the coo of those mourning doves?” I said, looking out at the light mist that hung tenaciously over our back yard.

  Beth sipped from her mug.

  “Mm hmm,” she said. “You know what I love even more?”

  I turned to face her. She held her coffee mug coyly before her lips.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What?”

  “The sound of a would-be terrorist cursing because I nailed his ass.” The corners of a smile peeked from behind the mug.

  Here I thought we were having a moment . . . .

  “Well, then,” I said, “let’s get you a hammer and we’ll have at it.” It was my turn to smile.

  “I wish it were that easy,” Beth said, lowering her cup. “I’m at sort of a sticking point, as I told you last night.”

  “Right,” I said. “You’ve got the email’s origin pegged to somewhere in eastern Iowa, but that’s not close enough to narrow the suspect pool.”

  “I’ll keep working around the edges, though,” she said. “You never know when data might intersect fortuitously.”

  “Ahh,” I said. “The Jeffersonian method again.”

  “Unless you have a better idea?”

  “Nope,” I said. “And in the meanwhile, I think I’ll check in with Agent Costa to see whether he and the FBI technology army have done any better than you on solving this puzzle.”

  “If they found something I’ve missed,” Beth said, “I’m all ears.” She gave the swing a delicate shove with both feet. “And I’ve still got that trap on the Sheriff’s incoming emails, just in case the POS sends another communiqué.”

  “Ahem,” I said. “I believe the acronym is POI. Person of Interest.”

  “Not in my book,” Beth said. She could be sort of a hard-ass when she got into CIA mode. I thought that was pretty hot.

  “Okay,” I said, rising from the swing. “I’m off to contact Costa, then depending on what he has to say, maybe I’ll bug Gunner some more.”

  “You’re good at that,” Beth said, “the bugging thing. Go with your strengths, I say.” She smiled.

  I smiled back and headed into the house.

  * * *

  My call to Costa went immediately to voicemail and I was about to hang up when Costa interrupted his recorded message.

  “You’re up
early, Beck,” he said. “I thought you might elect to catch a few extra winks after the long day yesterday.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, “the terrorists never sleep. Why should I?”

  “I imagine that would be one way to look at it,” Costa said. “Admirable, in fact, as long as you don’t burn yourself out.”

  “I’m a veritable well of unsinged paraffin,” I said. “On another matter, though . . .”

  “Yes?” Costa said.

  “How have the FBI computer jockeys been doing on locating the source of that email to the Sheriff? Are we close enough to put boots on the ground?”

  “They have done pretty well, so far,” Costa said. “It appears the email was sent from somewhere in eastern Iowa.”

  “I see,” I said, not telling him I had already received the same news from my computer department. “Shall we head out right now and arrest all those eastern Iowans? Or do you expect your folks will be able to put a finer point to it?”

  “You’re not so funny in the morning,” Costa said.

  “Then again, this isn’t a laughing matter,” I said. “Seriously. Eastern Iowa? That’s it?” I knew that Beth had done no better. But the FBI should possess at least a few resources beyond those available to my wife.

  “I shall ring you when I know more on that one, okay?” Costa said. “I do have additional information on the meteor matter . . . that is, if you’re interested.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’ve you got?

  “To start off,” Costa said, “the shell of the meteor was, indeed, contained in the box with the garbage bags. The lab has been able to piece the bigger chunks together and they think it’s all there.”

  That was a nice bit of confirmation that we had found the right dead guy, and I told Costa so.

  “That’s a nice bit of confirmation,” I said.

  “Yes. It is,” he replied. “In addition, the lab says they have never seen a material like the one the capsule was made of . . . the shell of the capsule, that is. It seems to be some sort of high density Styrofoam. Light weight. Fire resistant.”