“That’s precisely what we intend to do once the ME finishes her examination.”
“We don’t have time to wait around for her,” Layne said. “Have her send us what she has so far and we’ll take it from there. At least we’d be able to establish a little forward momentum.”
Layne’s computer chimed to alert her to incoming mail. She abruptly stiffened and turned to face Mason, her eyes wide and a smile on her face.
“We just received the profile from Behavioral.”
Mason glanced over her shoulder and saw the name of the sender. He recognized it immediately. Xavier Christensen. While his boss might have been a pro at separating his personal life from his professional, he apparently had no qualms about calling his son, a highly respected behavioral analyst, to expedite their profile.
“What does it say?” Algren asked.
“Give me a minute to read through it and I’ll summarize,” Layne said. “You should all be receiving a forwarded copy right about … now.”
“We’ll come back to you, then. Where do we stand with the precursor chemicals?”
“None of the registered suppliers reported any purchases out of the ordinary,” Addison said, “let alone in the kind of quantity we’re talking about, but we’ve subpoenaed their records to verify their claims.”
“What about the signature of the IED?” Algren asked.
“There is no signature,” Becker said. “We believe the UNSUB is just a very smart man who took advantage of the items he had on hand. Not a pro, but certainly not an amateur, either. With as much raw fuel as he had in that cellar, he could have easily launched that house into orbit.”
“That was never his intention, though,” Mason said. “The blast was localized to inflict maximum damage on whoever opened that door. He wanted us to be shocked by the carnage when we arrived.”
Again, Mason was reminded of the cruelty of the trap in the knocking pen. Had he arrived any later, he would have found Alejandra with her spinal cord severed and a bolt halfway through her forehead.
“I agree, but we lack physical evidence to support that assertion,” Algren said. “It’s little more than a theory that presupposes we have the slightest idea of what’s going on inside his head.”
“Which brings us to our profile,” Layne said. “Behavioral’s reluctant to say he’s of Japanese origin based solely on the characters carved into the tree. Traditionally, the Japanese have a much different relationship with their elderly than we do. More respectful. They revere their aging population as a source of wisdom and knowledge. They say it’s possible the UNSUB could have developed a kind of animosity that caused him to seek out elderly victims, but such a specific emotional response likely wouldn’t cross over to a different ethnicity. If he hated his elders, he would have sought out victims who most closely resembled them.”
“Assuming he was of Japanese origin in the first place.”
“Exactly.”
“Were all of the victims Caucasian for sure?” Becker asked. “Anyone of Japanese descent would definitely blame white men of a certain age for the internment camps during World War Two. And, you know, the whole atomic bomb thing.”
“As far as we know,” Algren said, “but we can’t say conclusively without the autopsy report.”
“Which we should have had by now,” Mason said.
“What else?” Algren asked.
“We’ve got your standard troubled childhood. Liked to torture animals. No overt elements of sexual aggression, although they’re unable to completely rule out a sexual component without confirmation from the ME.”
“We need to see if we can at least get preliminary findings.”
“We’re still out here in Wray,” Becker said. “I’ll follow up in person on my way to the airport.”
“A couple other things stand out,” Layne said. “They don’t believe his overt demonstrations of cruelty are for our benefit alone. He draws immense personal satisfaction from hurting other people. It makes him feel powerful. And they all but confirmed what we were thinking. He displayed his victims in the cornfield because he fully intended to reveal his completed design when the time was right.”
“Do they agree that the display is meant to convey a message?” Mason asked.
“It appears so, but they’re unable to even speculate as to what that message is or who he hoped would receive it.”
“What about the Japanese characters themselves?” Addison asked. “Kuebiko. What’s their take on that?”
“The scarecrow motif speaks to him on a personal level. In the modern context, it’s simply a human decoy meant to scare birds from a field, but it could also represent either a literal or metaphorical straw man. A being that looks alive from a distance but is actually dead inside. Or if we stick with the Japanese allusion, the scarecrow first appeared in Kojiki, the oldest surviving book in Japan. An all-knowing deity named Kuebiko assumed its form. Maybe he’s trying to convey the message that he knows something other people would rather he not. Whatever the case, the scarecrow plays prominently into his message. He left the carving on the tree for us, the responding officers, but his victims were the message he meant to deliver to a specific faction privy to the confidential details of this investigation, one that already knows his true identity but he’s certain won’t divulge it. He has absolutely no fear of being caught.”
“They’re suggesting our investigation is compromised,” Algren said.
“Not in so many words, but the implication is clear.”
Algren’s expression clouded and for the first time betrayed her age.
“What about the arrangement of the victims?” Mason asked.
“That’s where the profile breaks from that of a traditional serial killer,” Layne said. “The circular nature of the display and equal distance between bodies implies a finite number of victims. This isn’t a man who intended to keep on killing until we eventually stopped him. They speculate he was going to kill three more people—two to complete the outer ring, and one, presumably the victim of the highest personal value, to be his centerpiece—and then he was going to sit back and watch the reaction from afar. In fact, they still believe he’s going to do just that.”
“So they’re confident the victims were specifically targeted and not crimes of opportunity,” Addison said.
“If you’re willing to read between the lines a little.”
“Which means that right now there are potentially three specific individuals who know that this man is coming for them,” Mason said.
“What does any of this have to do with four thousand gallons of Novichok?” Becker asked.
“They believe he has a background not just in chemistry but in chemical engineering specifically. He’s directly responsible for its manufacture, which he sees as his job. He doesn’t care about where it’s released or how many people die. It’s the fulfillment of a contractual obligation. Like punching a clock. It’s the other murders that matter to him on a personal level.”
“So if we find these three men,” Mason said, “we find the UNSUB.”
“And the Novichok,” Algren added.
“That’s their theory,” Layne said.
“Have we had any luck identifying the men from the photographs inside the farmhouse?” Mason asked.
“With their eyes scratched out, our techs hold out little hope, but they’re still running the images through every available database and praying for a miracle,” Algren said.
“I saw that wall before it exploded. Those pictures were like trophies to him. The men in that field? They were in those pictures. I’m sure of it. If we could identify them and subtract them from the picture, the remainder would hopefully give us at least one of our three intended victims.”
“Again, the autopsies are the holdup,” Layne said. She looked pointedly at Mason, who realized she finally understood what he’d been saying all along about Homeland. “We need to figure out who those men are.”
28
Dr. Qu
arrels promised to call them the moment she had a serviceable DNA profile of the cremated remains ready to upload, at which time she’d turn over her work to Locker and wash her hands of it. She had a long night ahead of her and neither Mason nor Layne wanted to be there when the bodies of the men who’d tried to kill them arrived. There was nothing more for them to do in New Jersey, at least not until Barrie got back to them with the name of the superior officer who’d wanted to send the burned trucks to the junkyard, and it was only an hour’s drive to Philadelphia, where Algren’s plane wouldn’t be arriving for another four hours. They debated renting a room where they could crash for a few hours, but they were too wired to sleep and figured they’d better eat while they had the chance.
They found a twenty-four-hour diner on the highway outside of Millville and took a booth in the front corner, which afforded them a view of both the interior and the street outside. The only other customers were sitting at the counter on the far side of the restaurant, facing the pass-through window and fountain drink dispenser, above which hung a television tuned to a muted cable news network. They wore flannel shirts, jeans, and ball caps, perched high on their heads in true trucker style, and ate with their faces in their meals, totally oblivious to the banging and clanging coming from the kitchen.
The waitress was petite and attractive, with short, dark hair and the legs of a runner. She introduced herself as Erica and took their orders on a paper guest check. Mason ordered the chicken fried steak, while Layne opted for a burger and fries. They asked the waitress to leave the carafe of coffee to minimize interruptions. She seemed more than happy to oblige and disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen.
“We’re wasting our time here,” Layne said. She rolled her head on her shoulders to work out the kinks in her neck. “We should be out there trying to track him down.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Like you said, someone at least peripherally involved with this investigation knows him. We should hunt that person down and get the information out of him.”
Mason agreed with her, but the intended recipient of the UNSUB’s message undoubtedly wielded the kind of power that insulated him from the scrutiny of his subordinates. Whoever it was had to be rattled, though. There was no doubt he’d reveal himself in time, assuming catastrophe didn’t strike first.
“Trust me on this one, Layne. The UNSUB knows this guy is pissing himself and fully intends to draw out his suffering—”
Mason’s cell phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. He recognized the Arizona area code but not the number itself.
“Mason,” he answered.
“It’s Becker. I got the answers we needed.”
“ID and COD?”
Layne raised her eyebrows.
“COD,” Becker said.
“Did they just release it?”
“The ME knew this afternoon.”
“Then why the hell didn’t she tell us?”
“She did.”
“Then who dropped the ball?”
“It’s not that simple.”
Mason suddenly understood exactly what had happened.
“Homeland,” he said.
“I couldn’t get within a quarter mile of her office, even this late at night. I could see at least half a dozen black sedans and SUVs in the parking lot, though. Government vehicles might be subtle on their own but not when they travel in packs.”
“So how’d you find out?”
“The officer redirecting traffic was a Yuma County Sheriff’s deputy named Mack. He went to high school with the medical examiner, who passed along some information I’m pretty sure the DHS wouldn’t have approved of.”
“Why would she tell him?”
“One of the police officers killed in the explosion was her husband’s cousin. Small towns and all that. She didn’t want his death to get swept under the rug, and it was starting to look like that was going to happen, so she gave a copy of her handwritten notes to Mack, who gave them to me.”
Mason mimed for Layne to grab him a writing utensil and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. She hopped up from the table, plucked a pen from the hostess stand, and tossed it to him.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked.
Layne leaned across the table in an effort to hear Becker’s side of the conversation. Mason wasn’t about to put the call on speaker. They probably shouldn’t even have been discussing it on an open line. He glanced up at the truckers, who appeared to be in the process of finishing their meals. Neither appeared to have the slightest interest in anything that wasn’t on their plates.
“Suicide,” Becker said.
“What?”
“You heard right,” Becker said. “Suicide.”
“How does a man climb up onto a wooden cross, secure all of his limbs, and set about killing himself?” Mason asked.
Layne looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“That was pretty much my reaction, too. Believe me. You need to take a step back and look at it purely from the ME’s perspective. Her job is to tell us how the victims died—plain and simple—using inarguable scientific facts. And in this case, the facts are conclusive that these five men killed themselves.”
“Walk me through it.”
Layne switched to Mason’s side of the table and scooted right up against him. She practically leaned her head on his shoulder in an effort to better hear Becker’s voice.
“We already knew the victims were tied up there for some length of time while they were still alive. Best estimates suggest somewhere between seventy-two and ninety-six hours, but that’s entirely speculative. What isn’t is that each of the men was given a small glass ampoule about the size and shape of a Tylenol capsule. By given, I mean placed into their mouths. Inside that ampoule was a solution of saxitoxin, the neurotoxin produced by the puffer fish. It’s about a thousand times more toxic than sarin if ingested and promises a quick but extraordinarily painful death.”
“He gave them the ampoules intact?”
“The ME pulled glass shards from between their teeth and under their gums.”
“The victims held them in their mouths for three to four days?”
“I’d wager a kidney that the UNSUB told his victims what it contained before putting it in their mouths. He gave them a means to end their suffering. To kill themselves when they couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What suffering?”
“Here’s where I need to consult her notes. Bear with me, okay?”
Mason scribbled on the napkin to make sure the pen worked and prepared to write down everything Becker said.
“The ME found trace amounts of a powdery yellow residue inside their sinuses and airways,” Becker said. “She thought it was pollen at first, but considering the season, she had it sent to the lab with the blood and tissue samples for toxicology screening while she performed the physical evaluations. No defensive wounds on the hands or forearms. No outward expressions of trauma. The only broken bones occurred either during the process of being tied to the posts or shortly thereafter. The worst of the external soft tissue injuries were, and I quote, ‘localized necrosis of the eyelids and acute corneal injury.’”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It’ll all make sense when I’m finished,” Becker said. “Their insides apparently looked like they’d been through a blender. The oral and pharyngeal tissues were swollen nearly to the point of closure. There were massive accumulations of fluid in their lungs. The mucosal linings of their bowels had dissolved and their livers were the size of footballs.”
“Jesus,” Layne whispered.
“The blood work showed elevated red and white blood cell counts and unusually high levels of a liver enzyme called carboxylesterase, which is responsible for—and again, I’m going to read straight from the report—‘the selective hydrolysis of the C-4 acetyl group of known toxins.’”
The waitress arrived with their food and set the plates in front of them
. Mason thanked her and watched her until she returned to the counter, where she distractedly wiped it with a damp towel while perusing a magazine. One of the truckers rose from his stool and headed for the restroom. The other leaned onto his elbow and glanced up at the TV screen.
“That’s when the toxicology results came back,” Becker said. “The problem was the DHS came with them.”
“What did they show?” Mason asked.
“A mycotoxin of the trichothecene group, similar to the kind manufactured for use as a weapon in Cambodia and Vietnam.”
“Yellow rain?”
“Not exactly. This is a specific mycotoxin known as nivalenol. It’s produced by a fungus called Fusarium nivale, a naturally occurring species prevalent in rural areas of—you guessed it—Japan.”
Everything suddenly made sense. These men had been incapacitated, bound to the crosses, and then hit directly in the face with a controlled burst of nivalenol when they awakened. They’d inhaled it, ingested it, and taken it in through their eyes. And then their killer had placed an ampoule of saxitoxin in their mouths and given them the means of ending their pain when it became too great.
Their eyelids would have blistered and popped, making them impossible to close. The sensitive linings of their mouths, noses, and throats would have eroded, producing the constant flow of blood that accumulated in their lungs. The abdominal symptoms would have followed shortly thereafter. Along with the pain. Agony so excruciating that their cries must have carried for miles, if only anyone had been around to hear them.
They’d held out for as long as they could, hoping their bodies would miraculously withstand the assault. They’d screamed through the night while the toxin ate through the linings of their intestines, gasped for air as their lungs filled with fluid, and fought hunger and dehydration and the blazing sun, against which they couldn’t even close their eyes.
“They understood how the nivalenol worked,” Mason said. “They knew that they could be saved if someone found them in time.”
That was why they’d endured more pain than any human should have to bear, suffered through symptoms they had the means of making go away. They hadn’t survived for three full days because they feared death, but, rather, because they were intimately familiar with the mechanisms by which both toxins killed. Only when they reached the point of no return, when even rescue and immediate treatment offered no chance of recovery, did they bite down on the ampoules they’d held in their mouths through the unimaginable pain. Only then did they relinquish hope and utilize the only means at hand to end their misery.
The Annihilation Protocol Page 17