by Donn Cortez
“That’s all right, Mark. I’m not here to talk to Doctor Sinhurma, anyway.” Horatio stopped before a small outbuilding with an extended, peaked-roof porch jutting from one side that was easily five times longer than the building itself, held up by posts every six feet. Fifty yards away, a row of bull’s-eye targets stood on the green lawn, in front of a wall of stacked hay bales.
“This is where you store the archery equipment?” Horatio asked.
“Yes, but I don’t have the key—”
“Then get it,” Horatio said pleasantly. He handed a folded piece of paper to Mark. “This is a warrant to search for and confiscate any and all archery-related items on the premises.”
Mark told him the key was in the main house, and trotted off to retrieve it.
“Not that I’m criticizing, H,” Delko said, pulling on a pair of gloves, “but even if we find the bow, how are we going to match it to the arrow?”
“That, my friend, we will leave in the capable hands of Ms. Duquesne….”
The first thing Calleigh did was identify the arrow. It was a kind commonly referred to as a broadhead, with a wide, double-edged, diamond-shaped tip. Two triangular vents were cut into the center, one on each side of the shaft, to help airflow and prevent a phenomenon known as planing, where the flat surface of the arrowhead acted like the wings of an aircraft. Calleigh had an uncle who was an avid bow hunter, and he’d taken her on the occasional hunting trip when she was a teenager—though she soon learned she preferred the kick of a firearm to the snap of a bowstring. Still, he’d taught her a lot about the sport, and she remembered it all.
Blood on the arrowhead was being checked against the DB, but Calleigh didn’t expect any surprises there. She was more interested in what the rest of the arrow could tell her.
The shaft was made of wood, painted dark green. There were cracks in the paint, especially where the head met the shaft. There were three five-inch vanes of white feathers, and she could tell they were hand-fletched; the vanes were attached by thread, wrapped around the quill of the feathers at the front and back and sealed with some sort of clear varnish. She scraped off a bit of the varnish and took a sample of the thread. The nock of the arrow was plastic and worn, with a chip missing from one edge.
She examined the tips of the vanes under a microscope, and took pictures of the images. Looking through a database, she identified the model of arrowhead—a Magnus two-bladed Broadhead, with a 125-grain weight.
She sent the varnish and thread off to be analyzed, then made herself a cup of tea and waited for Horatio.
On the drive back from the Vitality Method compound, the back of the Hummer full of confiscated gear, Delko turned to Horatio and said, “I don’t get it, H.”
“What’s not to get, Eric?”
“The cult thing. I mean, people giving up control of their lives like that? Being told what to do, what to eat, what to think? Don’t these people have brains?”
Horatio kept his eyes on the road. “We’re not talking about rational behavior, Eric. Cults prey on emotional weakness, not intellectual. Most cult recruits are well-educated and from middle-class backgrounds; the one thing they all have in common is they’re unhappy. They think their unhappiness has a specific cause and a specific solution, and the cult offers them that on a plate. Sinhurma’s just found a way to modernize the whole process—the Internet’s a great place to target lost, lonely people looking for answers….”
“And he can recruit worldwide.”
“Sure. Use the Web site to find prospective members. Draw them in with promises of youth and beauty and celebrity. Get them in an environment where Sinhurma controls all the variables.”
Delko’s brow furrowed. “That sounds awfully familiar.”
“Yes it does,” Horatio said softly. “Trolling, seduction, capture. Three out of six for the stages a serial killer goes through.”
“Leaving out what? The first one and last two, right?”
“The aura phase is first, but it doesn’t show up in every serial. Hallucinations, heightened senses, intense fantasies. Of course, if what Ruth Carrell told me about Sinhurma ranting and raving to Mulrooney is true, he may be manifesting that one as well.”
“After capture comes trophy-taking,” Delko said. “How’s that fit?”
Horatio glanced over at the young CSI. “Taking a trophy is a way for the killer to relive the act later, once the high has faded. Sinhurma doesn’t have to relive anything; his control is ongoing, twenty-four/seven. In a sense, every one of his patients is a trophy….”
“So the last phase, depression, never kicks in—since he’s always in control and always has new patients coming in, he can just keep the high going forever.”
“Highs never last, Eric. That’s why serials escalate. Just like a junkie, they need more and more to maintain the level of intensity they’re used to. If Sinhurma was responsible for Phillip Mulrooney and Ruth Carrell, he’s exercised the ultimate control twice. You know what that means.”
Delko nodded soberly. “He’s got a taste for it. You really think he’s a serial?”
“I think he’s a sociopath. I think he got that degree in psychology to fine-tune his ability to manipulate people, and the degree in nutrition to launch his scam.”
“And Mulrooney threatened his control.”
“Mulrooney was having doubts. When I talked to Ruth, she seemed to be having doubts as well. To someone in Sinhurma’s position, those are cracks in the foundation his whole movement is built on; there’s no way he could allow them to spread. He may have even killed Ruth Carrell to stop them.”
“Or had her killed by another cult member?” Delko suggested.
“If so, it would have to be someone he trusted implicitly. Maybe even someone with a vested interest in keeping the cult going…which means we should take a close look at his second-in-command.”
“Mister Kim, right? I’ll get on it when we get back to the lab.”
“See if you can get a subpoena for the phone records of the clinic and the restaurant while you’re at it. I want to know who Sinhurma was talking to and when….”
“You mean you’re just going to dump this whole Sherwood Forest yard sale on Calleigh?” Delko’s tone was mock-serious.
Horatio smiled. “Something tells me she won’t need any help, Eric….”
“So Albert Humboldt had new plumbing installed,” Yelina said. She and Horatio were sitting in one of the interview rooms that was currently empty, sipping coffee and comparing notes. Hazy golden sunlight shone through the honeycomb grid that covered the windows; it always made Horatio feel like he was conducting interrogations in a beehive.
“But did he do it on his own,” Yelina said, “or was he told to?”
“Well, the plumber thought he was ingratiating himself to someone,” Horatio said. “Which doesn’t tell us much…except something doesn’t quite add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sinhurma’s ego demands the best, and he can afford it. From Calleigh’s description, the plumbing shop was something of a dive.”
“Maybe Humboldt was acting on his own, and it was all he could afford.”
“That doesn’t scan, either. You don’t get into Sinhurma’s clinic unless you’re young, pretty or rich—and since Humboldt is neither young nor pretty, he must have money. If he was trying to impress Sinhurma, he wouldn’t go cut-rate.”
“So—a personal connection, then? Humboldt and the plumber know each other?”
Horatio nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “That could explain why he was reluctant to cooperate with Calleigh. Even when she explained he wasn’t a suspect, she practically had to twist his arm to get his fingerprints.”
Yelina flashed a grin. “But she got them?”
Horatio grinned back. “What do you think?”
“I think Ms. Duquesne can be very persuasive when she wants to be.”
“Well, she can certainly make evidence stand up and talk…. I’ve got her proc
essing the archery equipment from the Vitality Method compound right now.”
Yelina finished her coffee and stood up, brushing her long hair back with one hand. “You think she can match the arrow to a bow? It’s not like there’s any rifling marks to compare it to.”
Horatio stared at the honeycombed window; a black-and-white patrol car pulled slowly past outside, its driver an anonymous blur. “If anybody can,” he said quietly, “she can.”
“Now this,” Delko said, “is interesting.”
“Hmm,” Wolfe said. “Yeah. Yeah, that is interesting.”
Delko was examining the pair of blackened knives Horatio had found. “At first I thought they were charred from the lightning. But it looks more like they were heated over and over again, over a direct flame.”
“Did you find something like a large bottle with the bottom cut off, or maybe a hole in the side near the base?” Wolfe asked.
Delko looked puzzled. “No. Nothing like that. Why?”
“Because this looks like hot knifing equipment to me.”
“Which would be?”
“It’s a technique used for smoking hashish. They carve tiny chunks—smaller than a matchhead, usually—off a larger block with a razor blade. A pair of butter knives are heated—sometimes over a propane torch, sometimes stuck between the coils of the heating element of an electric stove—until the tips glow red to white-hot. The chunk of hash is tapped lightly with one of the knives, causing it to stick to the hot surface. The two knives are held slightly apart, and the person taking the hit holds the bottle with the bottom cut off over them, like an inverted funnel. When the knives are brought together, the drug is instantly incinerated; the resulting puff of smoke fills the bottle, flows up into the neck and gets inhaled through its open mouth.”
Delko looked impressed—then skeptical. “And how does a clean-cut science geek like yourself know about this kind of stuff?”
“Believe it or not, it’s a Canadian thing,” Wolfe said. “There’s this house over on Ninth Street we used to bust on a regular basis—every spring break it would fill up with university students from Ontario, looking to party somewhere they didn’t have to wear a parka. We’d always find this stuff in the kitchen.”
“I thought all snowbirds were in their sixties and drove RVs,” Delko said, grinning.
“Apparently, some of them prefer to fly,” Wolfe replied absently. He was studying the blade of the knife with a magnifier. “Have you compared this to the pattern you found on the wall outlet?”
“Yeah—no match,” Delko said glumly. “The melted pattern is much thinner and squared off. It’s starting to look like those knives were stashed for an entirely different reason than the one we thought.”
“It may not be the crime we were looking for,” Wolfe admitted, “but it’s still evidence. We should follow it up, see where it leads.”
“I’ll check the records, see if any of our suspects has ever been arrested for drugs,” Delko said. “How about you? How’s the rocket investigation going?”
“Waiting to hear back from Trace,” Wolfe said.
Horatio stuck his head in the door. “Mister Wolfe—do you have a minute?’
“Sure thing, H.”
Horatio motioned him to follow with a tilt of his head and led him down the hall to another lab. “I’d like your opinion on something,” Horatio said. He indicated a microscope. “Take a look at this.”
Wolfe bent over the eyepiece. “Hmm. This the material you found on the rocket?”
“That’s right. Trace identified it as Kevlar…which, according to my information, is what coats the outside of the wire used in rocket-triggered lightning. I think this scrap came off prior to the wire being attached—maybe when the end was trimmed.”
“The end definitely looks cut,” Wolfe said.
“Run out to the restaurant and grab anything that looks like it might be a match,” Horatio said. “Wire cutters would be ideal, but it could be anything with an edge.”
“Like a razor blade,” Wolfe said. He told Horatio what he’d told Delko about the hot knives.
“So we have a possible drug connection,” Horatio mused. “Okay, let’s take a closer look at Sinhurma’s past. He’s from India, and a lot of hashish gets produced in that particular neighborhood.”
“Delko’s on it,” Wolfe said.
“Good,” Horatio said. “While you’re at the restaurant, look for a bottle like the one you described—Eric might have missed it if he didn’t know what he was looking at. Check the Dumpster the blender was found in too. I’m heading over to talk to Alexx—give me a call if you find anything.”
“Will do.”
“Well, she’d definitely lost a lot of weight recently,” Alexx said. “See? Stretch marks on the belly.” She looked down at the body on her autopsy table and shook her head. “ ‘Such a pretty face—if only you could drop a few pounds.’ Bet you got tired of hearing that, didn’t you, sweetie?”
Horatio stood next to the table, studying the mortal remains of the woman he had talked to such a short time ago. Others in Horatio’s position would have preferred the distance of the observation gallery, would have used the impersonality of the cameras and monitors to reduce Ruth Carrell to no more than evidence. Horatio refused to allow himself that luxury. Ruth Carrell had been a living, breathing human being—one he had extended an offer of protection to—and someone had ended her life with a weapon commonly used to kill deer.
Not that he would waste any time blaming himself. Horatio had long ago perfected a very efficient mechanism for dealing with guilt: he swallowed it whole and processed it as cold rage. “Guilt is good,” he’d said once. “It makes us stronger.” In Horatio’s case, that strength fed his determination and focused his will; for him, taking a case personally didn’t get in his way at all. It just meant he would never, ever give up….
“Cause of death was cardiac arrest, brought on by the pericardium being punctured,” Alexx said. “Entrance wound is one point five inches in diameter, exit wound is the same. Passed clean through her.”
“Can you tell me anything more, Alexx?”
She reached down and pulled the body’s mouth open, using both hands. “Thick, yellowish coating on the tongue,” she said. “Means she was probably fasting—it’s a common side effect. That fruit she was buying wasn’t for her.”
“So she was grocery-shopping for the compound. That means someone sent her to that produce stand…someone who’d scouted out the location beforehand and knew they could lure her into position to be shot. What else?”
Alexx lifted one of the corpse’s hands. “Well, she was doing hard physical labor. Calluses on her palms and fingers.”
“Probably more ‘work therapy,’ ” Horatio said. “Although I didn’t see anything at the compound that would correspond to this…. Thanks, Alexx.”
“I’ll know more when the tox screen gets back,” Alexx said.
“Let me know as soon as it comes in,” Horatio said.
His next stop was the firing range they used for ballistics tests. Calleigh was there, but for once she wasn’t wearing a pair of yellow-tinted shooting goggles and padded ear protectors. Instead, she had a bow in her gloved hand.
“Hey, H,” she said. “I’ve been test-firing the bows you brought me. This is the last one.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said.
She nocked an arrow, fitting the grooved end of the shaft to the bowstring. “I’m using arrowheads of the same style and weight as the one that killed Ruth Carrell,” she said, bringing the bow up and pulling the arrow back. About three-quarters of the way down the range stood a target dummy. “The dummy’s twenty yards away, approximately how far Ruth Carrell was from the shooter. The dummy also simulates the same amount of resistance a human breastbone, musculature and internal organs would.”
She released the arrow. It hit the dummy in the chest and passed through it, clattering to the floor on the other side.
“Didn’t
go much farther, did it…. ” Horatio said, frowning.
“No. The arrow I found was at least another twenty yards away, and still traveling at a fairly flat trajectory. This bow is a recurve, with a pull weight of fifty-five pounds; the others are all in the same range. I don’t think any of them could have fired the arrow that killed Ruth.”
“So we’re looking for a heavier bow.”
“Probably a compound. I’m going to do some more tests, but I’m guessing the pull weight we’re looking for is closer to eighty or ninety pounds.”
“What about the arrow?”
“The arrow I found is hand-fletched, with a green-painted wooden shaft and a hunting tip. All the arrows from the compound have carbon graphite shafts, factory fletching and target heads.”
“So, no match.”
“No, but the news isn’t all bad. The paint on our arrow is quite worn, so there’s a chance of transfer from the arrow to the bow. If the shooter has more arrows of the same type, we may be able to link them to the one we have.”
“All we have to do is find the bow….”
“Well, we’re looking for a hunter’s bow, as opposed to target shooting,” Calleigh said. “And in Florida—”
“—all bow hunters have to be licensed,” Horatio finished. “Good thought. I’ll check the state database. You know, when we nail this guy, people might start calling you ‘Arrow Girl’ instead of ‘Bullet Girl.’ ”
“As long as our killer gets the shaft,” Calleigh said.
“Well, well, well,” Horatio murmured, satisfaction in his voice. He hit a button and scrolled a little farther down the screen.
“Find something, H?” Delko said. He was at a workstation on the other side of the lab, doing some research of his own.
“I believe I have. A bow-hunting license issued to a Mister Julio Ferra of Hialeah.”
“One of the waiters. Maybe he was the one keeping tabs on Mulrooney for Sinhurma—I’ve got the phone records for the restaurant right here, and someone made a call to the compound at two forty-three.”