by V. K. Sykes
Amy let out a tight exhalation. She hadn’t said anything in Bartow when she noted that the Polk County autopsy report had indicated a low level of thiopental in Krista Shannon’s blood, and speculated that the victim might have been aware when the other drugs had been administered. At least Carrie Noble had been spared that horror.
In addition, the M.E. had concluded that Carrie had engaged in unprotected intercourse that evening, but that there was no evidence of rape. There were two needle sticks in the victim’s left arm, plus abrasions to her neck, ankles and wrists. Very slight bruising to one side of the face indicated a possible blow.
Time of death had been narrowed to between two and four a.m.
She sank into her chair, still reading. Poushinsky and Beckett ambled in, absorbed in an intense conversation. She impatiently waved them over to her cubicle.
“The bastard executed her like she was on death row,” Amy said, looking up at the two men. Poushinsky leaned against the partition, while Beckett stood right beside her. “He gave her three shots. The first, sodium thiopental, would have put her to sleep almost immediately. The second shot was pancuronium bromide, the part of a lethal injection that paralyzes the diaphragm and the lungs and causes the person to be unable to breathe.”
Beckett didn’t flinch, but his color faded a bit under the tan.
“Holy fuck,” Poushinsky groaned. “I sure as hell hope she was unconscious.”
“No kidding. I’ve read a fair bit on lethal injections,” Amy said. “If the person goes to sleep, doctors think the pain from the rest of the injections is minimal. But if the sedation isn’t complete or wears off, the pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride will cause excruciating agony prior to death occurring. It’s one of the reasons why there’s been a lot of controversy about the use of lethal injections for executions.”
She hesitated, not wanting to say it. Not wanting to make it real. “I compared the blood analysis in the autopsy report to the one we got from Polk County. They’re pretty much alike, but there seems to be one significant difference.”
Poushinsky came to full alert. “Yeah?”
“The levels of the sedative in Krista Shannon’s blood were a fraction of Carrie Noble’s. That means Carrie was probably unconscious for the killing injections, but Krista was likely awake. Maybe wide awake.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Poushinsky breathed.
Beckett swore under his breath. “Who has access to those drugs? They’ve got to be damn hard to get hold of, so maybe they’ll be traceable?”
“That’s one of the first things we have to find out,” Amy said. “I’m going over to talk to the M.E. right now. I want to confirm my theory with her, and I’ll ask her where she thinks the killer could have obtained those drugs.”
“Weren’t they the drugs used in the Angel of Death cases?” Poushinsky said. “You know, where a nurse knocked off a bunch of patients in so-called mercy killings.”
Amy’s fury spiked in a hot wave. Mercy killings. What this killer was doing had nothing merciful about it. “Yeah.”
Beckett eased his big body down on the corner of her desk. His gaze was direct and serious, and…well, sympathetic. “What else did the autopsy say?”
Amy pushed backward in her chair, putting several inches between them. His close proximity had sent a flush of heat to her neck and face, and the warmth in his eyes made her look away. She mentally scolded herself for not telling Beckett to get his ass off her desk, angry at herself for responding like such a girl.
She settled for an annoyed frown. “Carrie had consumed both alcohol and marijuana that night, and had unprotected sex. But she wasn’t raped.”
“I guess she partied with our mystery man while hubby was out of town,” Poushinsky said.
“It would have been easy for him to give her the sedative if she dozed off after they had sex,” Beckett said. “Then he could have taken her somewhere else and administered the killing injection later.”
“If that’s the way it played out—him sedating then abducting her—what he did was damn risky,” Poushinsky countered. “He had to drag her out to his car and take a big chance on being seen. Why wouldn’t he just give her the rest of the stuff and kill her right there instead of hauling her away?”
Amy agreed. “Since he left her house around midnight, and the autopsy put TOD at between two and four, what did he do with her all that time before he killed her and dumped her body in the park? Did he just drive around the goddamn city until he felt in the right mood for murder?” She shook her head. “I think it’s more than possible that we’re dealing with two different men at Carrie’s house that night.”
There. She’d said it. It was crazy, but given the evidence they couldn’t rule it out. “As totally frigging weird as that sounds,” she added.
Beckett gave a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “God, the whole thing makes no sense. At least not to this amateur.”
Amy dredged up a wry smile. “Not to this professional, either, Beckett. It makes no damn sense at all.”
18
* * *
Friday, July 30
4:00 p.m.
Amy’s cell phone rang as she exited the HQ building on her way to the M.E.’s Office next door. “Robitaille.”
“It’s Christie Dale. We’ve got an ID on the victim.”
Amy braced herself. “Her husband is a baseball player, right?”
“You got it. The victim’s been identified as Ashley Rist, twenty-three, of Juno Beach. Wife of Tyler Rist, a Jupiter Hammerheads player.”
Another Hammerhead. Amy groaned. “Ah, hell, Christie.”
“Yeah. We talked to the team’s general manager this morning, and he got the players to track down their wives and girlfriends. Nearly set off a complete panic, but we didn’t have much choice if we wanted to get this done quick, did we?”
“I’d have done the same thing. Hell, the guy could strike again tonight.”
“This is nuts,” Dale replied. “That makes three baseball wives murdered. And two from the same team, twenty-four hours apart.”
“For what it’s worth, at least it gives us more to go on.”
“Well, the Hammerheads are on your turf, so go to it. I’ve already questioned Rist once, and we’ll be doing a follow-up. Want to sit in?”
Amy didn’t have time for that. The Jupiter team was in Palm Beach County’s jurisdiction, as was the Rists’ home. She would have to assemble her team and get some of them up to Viera to grill every Hammerheads player. The rest could focus on the wives and team staff.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said, “but we’ve got a lot on our plate. We’ll keep each other posted, right?”
“Sure. We’ll get you the autopsy report as soon as we can. The pathologist agreed to do the autopsy first thing in the morning.”
“Great. Right now I’m on my way to see the A.M.E. who did our victim. The report says she was killed with lethal injection drugs. The same ones as in the Polk County case, but different concentrations of the drugs were found in her blood. Can I fill you in later on?”
“No problem,” Dale said. “I have a feeling we may see a task force soon, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Talk soon, okay?”
She hung up and bolted next door.
Kelli Robinson, the associate medical examiner, was clearly prepared for her visit. She handed Amy a freshly brewed cup of coffee from the mini espresso machine that sat atop the credenza behind her desk. Amy inhaled deeply and tried to de-stress for a moment, if only to help marshal her tumbling thoughts into something that resembled working order.
“I’m glad it was your cutting day, Kelli,” she said. She always liked working with Robinson—something she couldn’t say about a couple of the other A.M.E.’s. But her friend was both calm and kind, and so competent that Amy could never resent her gorgeous looks, perfect hair, and always impeccable appearance.
Unlike me. Amy had ducked into the bathroom before heading over to straighten herself up a bit. H
er reflection in the mirror had looked like the proverbial ten miles of bad road.
“Me, too. This one’s certainly an unusual case.”
“Tell me about it,” Amy sighed.
“Long day, huh?” Kelli said, smiling.
“Poushinsky, Beckett and I were on our way up to Polk County to compare notes with the detectives on the similar abduction-murder case up there last month. We’d barely left when we got redirected to Dickinson State Park. We—”
Robinson interrupted her. “Hold on. Why did you get called into Martin County?”
Amy widened her eyes. She’d assumed the word of the third murder would have spread like a forest fire through HQ and the M.E.’s Office. “A ranger found a body there this morning. The murder looks almost identical to our case.”
“No, I hadn’t heard. I’ve been cutting and writing reports all day. Nobody told me.” She inhaled deeply. “Wow. That really ramps up the stakes.”
“No kidding. I think the top of my head’s going to blow off.” Amy absently raked a hand through her messy hair.
Kelli grimaced. “This killer is one sick son of a bitch.”
“By the way, I’m sorry I didn’t make the autopsy. Like I said, we had to meet the Polk County guys this morning. Cramer insisted.” Amy almost always attended the autopsies of the victims in her cases.
“No problem. Who’s this Beckett you mentioned?”
“A consultant Cramer brought onto our investigative team.” Amy rolled her eyes. “If you can believe it, he’s a baseball player, calice. A retired baseball player.”
Robinson gave a little jerk back in her chair. “My God, you mean Luke Beckett?” she breathed, in almost reverential tones. “Amy, he’s huge.”
“You’re telling me. He and Poushinsky pretty much filled up the whole damn car today,” Amy said, unable to resist the lame joke.
The A.M.E. rolled her eyes. “Beckett’s Hall of Fame kind of famous. And he’s hot, too. But you’d know that by now, wouldn’t you?” She gave Amy a sly smile, paused for a moment, then nodded as if she’d just discovered a deep truth. “Kellen Cramer’s smart. It makes total sense to bring an expert like him onto your team.”
“I still find it a little weird, but I can’t disagree.”
“So, you spent the day in the car with Luke Beckett and Alex Poushinsky,” Robinson said. “A lot of women would have happily changed places with you. Maybe me included.”
“Even if you had to listen to non-stop jock talk?”
“Hell, those two could be discussing the weather in Idaho or the outlook for the grain crop in the Ukraine and I’m sure I’d be fascinated.”
“Ah, tabarnak,” Amy sighed.
Robinson turned serious. “Anyway, enough about that. You’re here to discuss my report, not hot guys.”
Amy was relieved to be getting back to the case. Beckett already took up enough real estate in her head without adding to it. “Your report’s straightforward and thorough, as always. But I wanted to ask you some questions about the time of death, and about the drugs that killed Carrie Noble.”
“Fire away.”
“How high is your confidence level that death took place no earlier than two a.m.?”
“Very high. Why?”
“A man was spotted leaving the victim’s house at midnight. We don’t know whether she was with him, either dead or alive.”
“If that guy was the murderer, he didn’t kill her at the house, Amy. She was still breathing at midnight, and for quite a while after that.”
“Okay. I just wanted to be completely clear on that in my own mind. Now, the bigger question. The killer shot her up with the type of drug combination they use in death penalty cases, right?”
Robinson gave her a searching look. “Yes, similar to a degree. But there are major differences between the state’s lethal injection protocol and what the killer used on this victim.”
“Tell me about the differences.”
“Well, for starters, in an execution the drugs are administered through an IV line—or two lines—in a saline solution, not via three simple injections like the killer used here. And the thiopental is injected in progressive doses to ensure that the inmate is completely unconscious prior to administration of the remaining drugs. Once unconsciousness is achieved, the executioner administers the pancuronium bromide in two doses to paralyze the diaphragm and the respiratory muscles, and then finishes up with two doses of potassium chloride to stop the heart. It’s all carried out in a rigorously controlled manner to ensure that the inmate doesn’t suffer undue pain during the execution.”
Robinson sounded like a press release from the prison system. Amy tried not to look skeptical, but she’d always had her doubts. “Undue pain—there seems to be some disagreement on that score.” She didn’t oppose the death penalty, and in fact she was still pissed at the state of New Jersey for not having it. The bastard Wayne Duguid, the long-distance trucker who’d raped, killed and tossed her sister in a ditch like a piece of road kill, was still above ground, and that fact never stopped grating away at her. Still, though, she believed that even stone cold killers should have the right to a pain-free death.
“There’s been a fair bit of controversy about whether inmates are always unconscious before the bad stuff hits,” she continued.
Robinson nodded. “The key is whether the thiopental is administered correctly. It has a short half-life. And if too much wears off before the other drugs are injected…” She let her words trail off.
Amy’s gut clenched with fury, knowing that Krista Shannon had almost certainly been conscious when the murderer administered the paralytic. She would have died an unimaginably horrible death by suffocation. Amy just hoped Carrie Noble had been as unconscious as the report seemed to indicate.
“So, our killer could have used that drug cocktail to either give the victims painless deaths, or excruciating ones. Am I right?”
“Yes. But with our victim, Mrs. Noble, the fact that he used thiopental in such a significant dose leads me to think he was trying to make it painless, or at least much less painful.”
“But he couldn’t be sure of that, could he? Especially if he’s not medically trained? You said that in death penalty cases, the thiopental is given by I.V. in progressive doses. The murderer gave Carrie Noble a single shot, didn’t he?”
“Probably. But we can’t be certain. All we know for sure is that her blood chemistry indicated she received enough of the drug for her body weight that she would have been unconscious for some time. Hopefully long enough for the other drugs to have done their dirty jobs.”
Amy swallowed her revulsion. “Hopefully is the operative word.”
The A.M.E. gave a helpless shrug.
Amy wasn’t convinced. The guy had viciously maimed and then brutally murdered Krista Shannon. Why wouldn’t he give his next victim an equally horrifying death? Normally, if there was such a thing as normal, a serial killer would tend to ratchet up his M.O., coming up with more and more sadistic methods each time. “It’s also possible that he could have given the victim the sedative just to restrain her. Calm her down enough so he could take his sweet time with the coup de grace.”
“I suppose it could have gone down that way. But like I said, the dose he gave her was substantial.”
Amy handed her a document. “This is the blood analysis on the Polk County victim, Krista Shannon. Tell me what you think of the level of thiopental.”
Robinson scanned the page, then raised her eyes, blanching. “It was very low. Much too low.”
“Which means she was conscious when the killer injected the other drugs, right?”
“Very likely, I’m afraid.”
“So, what would that have meant in terms of the level of pain the victim experienced prior to death?”
Robinson’s mouth was set in a grim line. “According to the literature, it was probably unimaginable.”
Amy had expected that answer, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Any
body can figure out a lethal injection protocol, Kelli. It’s on the Internet, like everything else,” she said bitterly. “But who can get access to those drugs? They’re controlled substances.”
“The obvious answer is pharmacies, especially hospital pharmacies,” Robinson said. “Thiopental and potassium chloride are readily available elsewhere, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if you can get them on the Internet. But the pancuronium is pretty much only used in anesthesia settings. In hospitals, of course, but also some clinics and doctors’ offices. Medical schools. Prisons where executions take place. I suspect the killer may have stolen it from one of those places.” She pursed her lips. “Unless he’s a doctor or a pharmacist himself.”
“Criss, a doctor or a pharmacist,” Amy swore. “Can you just imagine a goddamn doctor running around killing the wives of baseball players? What a bonanza that would be for the supermarket tabloids. This case gets weirder by the second.”
“Anyway you look at it, Amy, it’s a bizarre way to murder somebody. We’re dealing with a seriously sick puppy here.”
Amy knew that was just one of those strange English expressions, but she couldn’t think of the murderous bastard as any kind of puppy, sick or otherwise. “More like a rabid wild animal,” she said with absolute conviction. “And one I’m going put down.”
19
* * *
Friday, July 30
5:20 p.m.
Amy was surprised to see Beckett still at his desk. Given who he was, she didn’t expect him to be hanging around this late in the afternoon when there were no meetings scheduled. He sat hunched over his computer, his posture out of whack as he pecked away at the ridiculously low keyboard. Lisa had given him the desk and chair normally occupied by Kelsey Frost, an analyst who had started her maternity leave a month ago and hadn’t been replaced. While the unit fitted Kelsey, who—like Amy—was all of five-four in flats, it was an ergonomic nightmare for the hulking Beckett.