by Cat Connor
The smell was too much; after a few seconds I pushed the door shut and pointed through the glass. “See that?”
“Hairspray? Is that what that is?” Mac asked.
“Looks like it. Strange thing for a guy with very short hair to have,” I said. He didn’t look like the hair product type. I don’t know exactly what that type is, but it wasn’t him.
“Look at the bottom of that canister.”
“It’s been blown off …”
“What would cause that?” Mac asked.
“A small explosion.”
I went back to our car and found an umbrella. With the umbrella up to shield my phone from the worst of the rain I used the integral camera to snap pictures of the canister and the driver. I had a good view of the driver’s face from this angle. There was a long gash down the side of his face, open to the cheek bone. Blood had run down his neck, soaking into his collar and shirt. The whole side of his face was discolored by blood and bruising was evident across his temple. I determined he was hit by something, maybe a few times. These weren’t crash-related injuries. I’d heard of air bags breaking people’s noses before but not doing this much damage to a face. I took a closer look at the picture I’d taken of the canister. To me it looked as though the bottom of the canister could have caused his disfiguring cut and maybe the bruising. There wasn’t much to see on the canister, which probably had blood and skin tissue prior to the bottom blowing out.
Mac’s shoulders dropped as he sighed. “Okay, so it’s possible there is a passenger, maybe female, wandering around in this storm.”
“Damn!” I surveyed the saturated ground. The heavy rain would have washed away any footprints. I scuffed my foot in the mud, uncovering a glimpse of something shiny. I reached down and picked up the object.
“What is it?” Mac asked.
“A lighter … a Zippo lighter.” The lid was open and the wick full of mud. I wiped one side as best I could on my shirt. “What do you think this is?” I asked, showing Mac the etching I’d uncovered.
“A two-headed eagle,” he said, after careful inspection.
“Wonder if it belonged to someone from the car.” I looked around for something to put the lighter in. Mac held out his hand. Problem solved. “I doubt there’ll be anything useful on the lighter by way of DNA or prints, but you never know,” I said. Something else in my head pushed forward. “If someone was injured, got out and walked away from this accident … why bother to close the door?”
“Instinct maybe; it wasn’t properly shut, just pushed to. You get out of a car and flick the door behind you,” Mac replied. “Well, I do and I know you do.”
It seemed reasonable that this person did so too, or they were in a state of confusion and had no idea what they were doing.
“If you’d set off a chlorine gas delivery system you’d be getting out too fast to be worrying about doors.”
“What?” Mac said, with as much horror as a single word can convey.
“Could be my imagination. Or it could be that the hairspray is a clever way of getting weapons’ grade chlorine into the country. I’ve heard of it before.” I ran my hands through my hair, pulling it back off my face; the gloves grabbed and pulled my hair. I peered in through the car windows.
“You’ve heard of it?” he replied. “You know what, forget it, I don’t want to know how you hear of these things.”
I was looking for something that might tell us whether we were looking for a male or a female. I found a handbag on the floor in the back, the contents spilled across the floor. Maybe it happened as the person went for the hairspray.
“That’s a passport.” I said, pointing. There was no comment. I looked at Mac to find him walking back towards me with latex gloves in his hand.
I watched as he pulled both pairs onto his wet hands, one atop the other. Difficult at the best of times but it helps if you display total concentration.
“I bagged the lighter,” he said, then opened the door. I thrust my hand in and snatched up the passport.
I photographed it and had a quick read. “Selena Onslow from Canada. Aged thirty-three.” I threw the passport back into the car and slammed the door.
“Want to try the driver?” Mac asked.
“Yep.”
Already had gloves on and I couldn’t see a problem; the gas was most concentrated on the floor of the car. I could see wisps of greenish-yellow cloud. I didn’t need to bend down or get anywhere near the toxic cloud to check the driver’s pockets. I made a rapid search of the driver and the glove compartment, netting a wallet and a passport.
“The driver appears to be Jacob Riest from New Zealand,” I said holding the passport up to show Mac. There was little resemblance between the picture in the passport and the dead man in the car. Mac took pictures. I glanced at the picture again. I thought I’d seen him somewhere but knew I hadn’t come across any New Zealanders recently. I tossed the passport back into the car.
I ripped off the gloves and tossed them in the bag with Mac’s clothes. The umbrella was rendered useless by a large gust, its spokes sticking out in all directions, the nylon ripped. I shoved it in the trunk of our car.
I needed to get out of the rain for a while, so climbed into our front passenger seat. Mac got in the driver’s side.
“We’re going to make a huge mess of the interior,” he said, shutting his door and leaning back against the seat.
“Not much we can do about that,” I replied. “We’re looking for the chick, so we should get to it.”
“And she potentially set off chlorine gas? Do we really want to do this?”
I shrugged. “Not especially … but she could be hurt.”
I called Sam and Lee to let them know we were having a quick look for a potential crash victim, who may or may not have set off a chlorine bomb in a car. They were understandably concerned. So long as they knew where to look if something went wrong, I felt okay about the situation.
We had perhaps twenty feet of visibility if we were lucky. Woods ran along either side of the road. I loved the experience of a wet and wild late summer and the effects of yet another hurricane. Wind whipped up puddles of water and mud, tossing it all at the car. Dawn wasn’t really happening but it wasn’t dark either. The road was lost in an ethereal murk that failed as both night and day. A hefty tree branch slammed against the wrecked car.
I wouldn’t want to be wandering around, injured, out there.
“Let’s see if we can find this chick, then,” Mac said, as he checked his weapon.
I nodded. “We’re already wet through; may as well keep going.” My flashlight flickered. I smacked it on my hand. The beam brightened then faded. “Let’s get fresh batteries for this.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “First, change into a dry shirt and put on a jacket.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
I glanced down at my legs. I was caked in mud. Rivers of it ran from my legs to the floor. I squelched with every movement, no matter how slight. My backside stuck fast to the seat.
Mac leaned into the back of the car and found me a dry shirt from an overnight bag. A portable shower would be handy, especially with the chlorine. But I figured the rain would do a good job of rinsing us off.
We had started leaving an overnight bag in the car after the Jack Griffin case. During that case, I seemed to be bootless and semi-clothed more often than not. The longer we were together, the more like MacGyver Mac appeared to be. I happen to know he does carry string and gum in his pocket and there’s duct tape in the glove compartment. I’ve seen him remove a magnet from a car stereo speaker, attach it to a piece of string and use it to find a key in long grass.
He changed the batteries in my flashlight while I changed my shirt. It literally peeled away from my skin. I held the shirt out the door and wrung out as much water as I could. I think I could’ve filled a small bucket from the run off. I balled it up and shoved it in the plastic bag with the other clothes. There was no point changing our mud-saturat
ed jeans until we’d found the woman. We donned waterproof jackets and caps to keep the rain out of our eyes.
With the crash area lit by road flares to warn of the hazard and to guide the emergency vehicles, we headed farther down the road on foot. It was a toss-up; she could’ve gone either way, but we chose to go down the slight rise we were on. Down seemed easiest for a crash victim possible murderer. The longer we searched, the more the hairspray and the dead guy played on my mind.
Every so often Mac called, “Selena.”
After half an hour of slogging through muddy puddles, being hit by branches and whipped by wind-driven rain while peering into undergrowth yelling for Selena, we turned back.
“Do you think someone could have picked her up?” Mac asked, shining the flashlight into the trees alongside the road on our way back.
“I’d like to think so, yet I hope not for that person’s sake.” Ahead, I could just make out red flashing lights. “Let’s tell them about the missing woman and get the hell out of here.”
“Good plan.”
I had a queer feeling about the dead guy and had one last look at him before we left. It could be paranoia considering our alert status, but there was something about him. I used my cell phone to snap another quick picture of him and promptly emailed it to myself with a note to run it through our database. He was familiar, but then on a day-to-day basis I came across a lot of people and they did tend to blur sometimes. It didn’t bother me too much. If I’d met him and my mind deemed it important, then I would remember. A little faith goes a long way.
Mac grinned at me as I dripped into the car. I smiled as I asked, “How the hell did any of us manage without picture and email-capable cell phones?”
“No clue.” He turned the ignition key.
I waved to one of the officers as Mac drove slowly out of the crash scene. People in hazmat suits and breathing gear headed for the crashed car and a decontamination shower was being set up. I’d pointed out the hairspray and suggested they have forensics look at it closely. I’d also handed over the clothes Mac and I had worn, for destruction; then gave the bag with the lighter to one of the police officers. I was confused; it had a Russian emblem but according to their passports, neither victim was Russian.
A decontamination shower was offered to us. Then someone in a hazmat suit suggested it wasn’t necessary. We’d been in pouring rain and changed our clothes; that, combined with minimal exposure to a gas that was already dissipating, meant we were at low risk from any side effects.
Which pleased me. I had no desire to stand under freezing water, naked, surrounded by half the county.
My phone rang as we were leaving the crash scene. Sam’s name lit up on my screen.
His deep voice flowed from my phone. “We got another one, SSA.”
“Where?” The phone slipped in my wet hands, leading to some impressive juggling before I could get it back to my ear, but I wasn’t quick enough to hear his reply. “Say again.”
“Arlington.”
“On our way.” I hung up and looked over at Mac. “We’re going to Arlington.”
“Good to know we have a destination.”
The victim wouldn’t get any fresher the longer we delayed our arrival. I really wished I didn’t think things like that.
Almost two hours later we struggled to change out of our sodden clothing under the shelter of a deserted gas station forecourt. It was morning and the weather hadn’t improved much. Peeling off the wet jeans proved difficult. With my foot stuck in the muddy mess that vaguely resembled denim, I reached into the car for something to help. Using the scissors on a multi-tool thing Mac carried in the glove compartment, I hacked my way through the stiff fabric. All I seemed to do on days off was shop for clothes to replace those ruined by the job. I hate shopping.
“I could’ve helped,” Mac said, stowing his filthy clothing in the trunk.
“I’m perfectly capable of removing a pair of stupid jeans,” I replied. I threw the multi-tool into the car.
“Or you could’ve changed in the restroom.”
He was full of brilliant ideas all of a sudden.
“Ever been in one of them? There isn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone for me to wrestle muddy jeans.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Just trying to help.”
I tugged off the jeans then faced the muddy leg problem: no way clean jeans were going to slide over mud. I scurried to the restroom with my clean jeans tucked under my jacket and Mac’s laughter following me.
I gave thanks as I discovered the crappy gas station restroom had running water and paper towels.
Slightly cleaner and more comfortable, we continued our journey.
Thirty minutes was all it took and then suddenly we were in the latest victim’s kitchen staring at each other. We’d seen this sort of mess before: a kitchen awash with blood. A familiar voice inside my head told me it wasn’t my kitchen and everything was okay. Seems kitchens are favorite kill zones of the Unsubs I investigate. The overwhelming smell of bourbon was enough for my mind to stay focused on current kitchens and not drift back to my own. I looked back over my shoulder to the doorway.
“Who’s been in here?”
A large cop stood in the doorway with his arms folded and a serious look on his face. He replied, “The neighbor who found the deceased; no one else, ma’am.”
There were clear, bloodied footprints leading from the victim through the door to the hallway beyond. “These footprints, are they the neighbor’s?”
“I inspected the woman’s shoes and found the pattern to be the same; I’ve taken them into evidence to make sure.”
I smiled. “Good answer.”
He smiled back, his teeth glowing against his tanned face, the staunchness evaporating. “The victim is Colleen Bolton, mother of two girls and a full-time waitress. The children are aged twelve and fifteen; they’re at school band practice. I’ve spoken to a neighbor who will take them until Child Protective Services can locate a family member.”
He loved his job, I could tell.
“Thank you, Officer.”
“Is this the same as the other crime scenes?” Mac asked. His eyes were watering from the unusually fresh tang of bourbon mixed with the more metallic smell of blood.
I inspected the body and glimpsed my reflection in the crimson blood pool. It might be cool to have red hair.
Mac was talking but I didn’t hear the words. “What?”
“Is this the same as the other crime scenes?”
I turned slowly on the spot, surveying the room with much care. Writing on the walls surrounded the body; the wording was familiar and again scrawled in black marker pen. I made a note to check the poem. I felt the eyes drilling into me from up high behind me. A blue Post-it note was stuck to the refrigerator; a lone blue square amidst a sea of magnets and white school notices. I could clearly see the words on the note from where I stood.
“I feel so loved,” I pointed to the blue note.
Mac read it out, “ ‘Christmas in August just for you.’ ”
Turmoil and aggravation dueled as I processed the spoken words. Hearing them out loud was so much worse than just reading them.
“What hellish shit is that?”
“I think he likes you,” Mac replied.
“I am so damn lucky,” I said and turned to observe the victim.
The body was in the same position as all the other victims; on her back with her knees raised. Blood and bourbon mixed on the tiled floor. A golden ribbon tied around her neck in a pretty bow and this time her eyes were laced shut and tied off with more gold ribbon.
“Your question before, about this being the same as the other crime scenes: yes and no,” I replied, taking a closer look at the body. As I breathed in the now-familiar chlorine, I could see something lying almost obscured under the woman’s right shoulder. “Mac, I think we have a murder weapon.”
I looked back and spoke to the policeman. “Have the forensics te
am and photographer arrived yet?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Send them in, please.”
We waited for the photographer to finish with the body and scene. Then the forensics team began to gather evidence.
“Anyone got a pair of forceps?” I bent down and with my pen flicked out what looked like a handle from under the woman’s shoulder blade, until it was in plain view.
A technician handed some green disposable forceps to me. “Ma’am.”
“Thank you.” With care, I lifted the knife, hoping it didn’t drop. The eight-inch blade glinted under the electric light. I watched fascinated, as light reflected from the blade, casting shapes on the walls. Little bright shapes danced, reminding me of a migraine aura. The knife spoke, whispering instructions: ‘Hold me Ellie; let me show you how it’s done.’
The hilt jerked. It almost slipped from the forceps. ‘Wrap your hand around me, Ellie.’ It wanted to slide into my hand and guide me. Sparkling lights danced. The knife plunged into the back of a woman, released, stabbed again. The lights faded. The knife remained suspended in mid-air.
How bizarre.
Mac held out a paper evidence bag with an uneasy look on his face.
“You want to drop that in here, handle first?”
“Nope.” Why should I? I found it. It spoke to me.
“Ellie?”
Jeez!
“Fine.” I reached out and carefully let go of the knife over the bag. I watched it drop and wondered if it’d go right through the paper. It didn’t.
He inhaled sharply as he secured the top of the bag.
“Thank you.”
For a split second, I thought I saw relief in his eyes. How odd.
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
“Why do you suppose her eyes were shut like that?” Mac asked.
“Maybe he’s bored with the whole ribbon around the neck thing.” I stared at the deceased. “Last time we had a mouth laced shut, now eyes … I’m thinking this is a message. Or maybe our Unsub likes to pretty them up with ribbon.”
Mouth and eyes laced shut … smacked of those three monkeys, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.