by Hadena James
I had a respect for contract killers. They followed the money, never asking too many questions, disappearing after the job, and reappearing only as necessary. They were colder, more calculating than the average serial killer. Yet, it still sated the monster, fulfilling its blood lust.
“That’s an unusual construction for a bullet,” my mother said, coming into the living room and sitting down.
“Yep,” I answered. My job was technically classified, but anyone with a mother understood that sometimes, it was damn near impossible to keep it that way.
“I’ve seen one of those before,” my mother informed me. “Armor piercing, if I remember right. It wasn’t made by Apex though. Another company made it. Your father had a whole box of them. I asked why they were important and he said it would go through an elephant. I don’t know if a handgun round can really go through an elephant or not, but if one could, that would be it.”
“My father had a box of these?” I asked, making sure I heard her right.
“Yes, special order, super expensive. Made of some sort of composite metal. He got them for a raid shortly after you were born. Drug dealers with vests. They had tried the raid once before and lost three cops. So, your dad and a few others ordered those bullets and tried again. Didn’t lose a single cop that time. Killed seven or eight high-level drug dealers. That was back when drugs were still heroin and cocaine, not this new stuff. Which reminds me, I want you to talk to the kids, especially Cassie, about this crocodile stuff.”
“Is my niece in the habit of using drugs that rot her flesh?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but she did get caught with something called Special K after a party. She swore someone had given it to her and she hadn’t taken it, but Elle was concerned.”
“Ketamine. I hope she got grounded.”
“A month, and one of her punishments is to spend the day with you, listening to some of the horror stories of the people you deal with. Not the serial killers, mind you, but the prostitutes and how drugs lead to prostitution.”
“Mom, I cannot lecture my niece on prostitution and its connection to drugs. It would make me a hypocrite.”
“Are you a drug-addicted prostitute?”
“No,” I started.
“Then you aren’t a hypocrite.”
“I do not think prostitution is bad. I think drugs are bad, but one does not necessarily require the other. Escorts make tons of money and work in safer environments. If we would legalize prostitution, we would not have these problems. Right now, prostitutes are victimized by the system and society; it makes sense for them to do drugs. Countries with legalized prostitution have lower drug usage among their prostitutes and lower rates of prostitution related murders, violence by johns and pimps alike, and more control over who they accept as clients.”
“Aislinn,” my mother gave me the look, “drugs are bad, you’re a cop. Figure out something to say to her. She looks up to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are in law enforcement and can counsel her on the dangers of drugs.”
“No, why does she look up to me? I’m not a good role model. I have the scars to prove it.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous. Cassie is a teenager. She thinks the scars are cool. She thinks it’s cool that you chase serial killers, and you’re her aunt. While other kids have aunts who are postwomen and grocery store clerks, her aunt is a real life boogeyman. Your recent health scare and dealings in Detroit made you just that much more cool, because you took down several serial killers while suffering from a brain tumor. Like it or not, you are a role model to girls all over the world. Your niece isn’t excluded.”
“I repeat, I am not a good...”
“Pish,” my mother waved her hand at me, “you hunt down bad guys, proving to little girls that they don’t have to be victims. They can fight back. They have a voice. They are not just prey for the predators. They are people and they can survive anything thrown at them.”
“That is a terrible idea. Next, you’ll be wanting me to go to career day.”
“You may think it’s a terrible idea, but it isn’t. You refused to be a victim as a child. You refuse to be a victim now. Millions of little girls are growing up, watching you kick butt on television news programs and are being inspired to grow up and take care of themselves. I couldn’t be prouder of you. Cassie is coming this afternoon. I expect sheets over these boards unless you can fill them with gruesome photos of crocodile users.”
“Krokodil, Mom, it’s called Krokodil.”
“Well, can you fill a board with those photos?”
“I could,” I admitted, “but does she need that sort of visual aid? Krokodil is bad.”
“If it was pot, I wouldn’t have asked you to talk to her,” my mother huffed off. Obviously, pot was more tolerable than Krokodil and Special K. In truth, I didn’t know much about drugs. I knew about the chemical makeup. I knew that Krokodil was a sure way to die, but I had never even smoked pot. I knew what I was going to be spending the afternoon doing.
Cassie showed up on schedule. Elle could make the trains run on time. She wasn’t evil, just efficient when it came to the time management of herself and her children. All my whiteboards were covered. My mother busied herself in my pitiful backyard, insisting on planting spring flowers that would die because I would forget about them.
“If I had taken the drugs, Mom wouldn’t have found them,” Cassie started talking before she had even sat down. “I know better than to take that crap. We are a family with a history of mental instability. If I start snorting cocaine or injecting heroin or popping Special K and XTC, there’s a good chance I will go off the deep end. I love you, Aunt Ace, but I don’t want to be like you. I feel bad for you, going through life without any real happiness or the ability to fall in love.”
“Smart girl,” I said. “I am not going to lecture you on the dangers of drugs. I am going to talk to you about the two big ones; meth and Krokodil.”
“I had a class, we talked about meth. It makes your teeth fall out, your skin dry out, and your brain freak out. I would never do that.”
“What do you know about Krokodil?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Krokodil itself is bad, but it’s just a narcotic. However, it’s how they make Krokodil that I want you to be aware of. Not because I think you are stupid enough to use it, but because if you know the signs, you can report anyone that uses it. This is serious, Cassie, Krokodil hasn’t hit the streets as heavy as meth or cocaine, but if it does, we’ll be in the midst of an epidemic. Krokodil is toxic when cooked on the streets. It doesn’t matter how it enters the body, there are some serious chemicals that you don’t want in it. They cause your skin to die, turning it black. It may ooze, like a spider bite from a Black Widow or Brown Recluse, but in a much larger section. Necrosis can cause amputations, serious infections, and death. Your bones can start rotting. That’s painful and makes them break. It also decreases your white and red blood cell counts because the marrow can’t make them anymore. You become prone to infections of the blood, bone, skin, and organs. Most of the infections are fatal. It causes blood clots too. If your friends start showing up with patches of necrotized skin, you need to tell someone.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know. If your friend comes in one day and they smell like rotting flesh, and their arm is turning black, it’s obvious they are on this stuff. Krokodil is almost always fatal in one way or another.”
“Ok, as a sixteen year old girl, living in Kansas City, should I be more concerned about Krokodil or serial killers?” The girl looked at me in earnest.
“Honestly, date rape is probably your biggest fear at the moment. We don’t have any predators of teen girls at the moment. Krokodil is horrible, but it is concentrated in areas where the Russian Mob is the highest. If you are going to a party, take your own drinks. Watch for the signs of being drugged; they are hard to recognize, but it’s like mixing extra strength Benadry
l with large amounts of alcohol. You’ll feel sleepy, confused, and uncoordinated. Immediately call someone if you feel this way. Never leave your group of friends at a party. If they ditch you, go home.”
“I know about GHB,” Cassie said.
“Oh, it isn’t just GHB anymore, Cass. If my work with SCTU has taught me anything, it’s that drugging people is easier than you think. I have seen killers snatch their victims using Benadryl and whiskey. Even extra strength Tylenol or Excedrin Migraine can be mixed with stuff to make a person unconscious. Add in a little X and they become even easier to control. Or Special K. Did a boy give you the Special K?”
“Yeah,” Cassie said.
“May I have his name? I can’t bust him for the drugs, but I would like to talk to him.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he your friend?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Cassie, you were drinking alcohol at a party. He gave you Special K, and you take medicine for an anxiety disorder. Does he know this?”
“Yeah, he knows I’m on meds for anxiety.”
“Then either he’s an idiot, or he is not even sort of your friend. Ketamine is a tranquilizer. If mixed with your regular anxiety meds, it could have killed you. It most certainly would have incapacitated you. You would have no memory of the night, which is how I know you did not take it.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t care that you were drinking. You’re a teen, teens drink. I would prefer you do it with supervision since you are so sensitive to meds and have to take barbiturates instead of anti-depression medications. Even alcohol and barbiturates can kill you in the right doses. Adding a strong tranquilizer like Ketamine would be horrendous. They use it to knock out horses and large livestock, not just people. I have even heard of it being used on elephants to prep them for surgery. Ketamine is not something to screw around with.”
Cassie stared at her hands for a few minutes. Her teeth chewed on her bottom lip. Like me, Cassie’s brain chemistry made some drugs worse than they should be. The poor girl had tried to kill herself on seven different occasions because of antidepressants, and while benzodiazepines worked well for me, helping me sleep from time to time, they made her anxiety worse. Barbiturates, however controversial, were about the only thing left for her. The dosage was small, but it was still a barbiturate. Xavier helped monitor her when she was at my house. I worried about her.
“Ok,” Cassie finally said, looking up at me with large round eyes, “I’ll tell you.”
She didn’t tell me, she wrote it down. She also wrote down the date of the party, everyone she remembered being there and the boy’s parents’ names. I took the sheet, folded it up, and put it in my pocket.
“I will not tell your grandmother or mother about this information. I’m sure they will find out though.”
“I’ll tell them,” Cassie sighed.
“I have a gift for you, but you are only to use it in cases of extreme emergencies,” I handed her a box. Inside was a small stun gun that I had been given to test out. I hadn’t liked it, it didn’t work well on psychopaths, but it would drop a teenage boy. “Here’s the deal. Do not hit them in the chest with it, or the neck like you see in the movies. Hit them in the crotch. You’d be amazed at how effective that is.”
“So, if someone is trying to rape me, you want me to stun gun their crotch?”
“Yep,” I answered. “They lose their erection, immediately ejaculate, and collapse into a crying ball because of the pain. I have used the technique on naked serial killers, but with my Taser. It is more effective than the chest and less likely to cause a heart attack or stroke. It’s also not legal for you to have it. If you get caught with it, send the police in my direction. I can smooth that over.”
Four
The house in front of me was a two-story brick mansion. There was no other word to describe the sprawling wings and tall windows on the front, like giant staring eyes. I grabbed my wallet, my badge, and my US Marshals jacket. I didn’t care about class, as I was comfortable in my jeans and T-shirt. I cared about appearing to be authoritative. It was my intention to scare the boy and his incredibly wealthy parents into wetting themselves, and if I could get the kid grounded for the rest of his natural teenage life, that would be a bonus.
The large front door opened before I could ring the doorbell or knock. A tall, leggy brunette with perfectly manicured nails and sparkly teeth stood in front of me. She seemed concerned with my appearance on her doorstep, as if my jeans and Charger might tarnish their reputation with their neighbors.
“May I help you?” She asked.
“US Marshal Aislinn Cain,” I answered. “I’m here to speak to the parents of Chris Chadwick.”
“I’m Mrs. Chadwick. May I ask what this is about?”
“Mrs. Chadwick, are you aware that three weeks ago, your son held a party at this house?”
“I am aware that our sons had a few friends over while my husband and I were in Tampa. I would hardly call it a party.”
“According to the security agents that patrol your neighborhood, there were over a hundred teenagers present. They also noted that several people were seen holding alcoholic beverages. They took pictures, and I have them in my possession. Would you like to see them?”
“Maybe you should come in,” Mrs. Chadwick stepped out of the doorway. Her heels clicked against the floor. “Chris, Ryan, Peter, could you all join me in the living room, please?”
Cranky, sleep deprived twin teens entered the living room first. I had my badge now attached to my jacket. One flopped onto the couch; the other paled a little and sat down with less gusto. I was guessing I knew which one was Chris.
“Darlene, I’m very busy,” Peter Chadwick stopped talking and stared at me. It was unlikely this family got many visits from the police, let alone a US Marshal. It was worth a stare or two.
“Mr. Chadwick?” I asked.
“Doctor actually,” he corrected me.
“Oh, I apologize. US Marshal Aislinn Cain, I’m following up on a party that was held here three weeks ago by at least one of your sons.”
“Why are the US Marshals following up on a party?” He asked.
“The DEA is busy today,” I responded. His face looked shocked. He sat down, as did his wife. “I’m sure you are aware that your neighborhood is routinely patrolled by a private security firm, yes?”
“Of course, it is part of our neighborhood fees,” Mrs. Chadwick told me.
“Those security agents received multiple noise complaints and began taking photos and videos of the party when they met with resistance. It is my understanding they asked on two occasions for the party to break up, but it continued. At that time, they began documenting the event. The documentation shows underage drinking, nude teenagers running through the yard, including one of your sons, however, the part that concerns us the most is that after the party, the security guards stopped a car. They asked the driver to take a sobriety test, which they passed. After that, they asked to search the vehicle and were given permission. One of the teenagers in the car, a fifteen-year-old girl, had a drug called Special K on her. In small doses, Ketamine is an effective sedative, but in this dosage, it would have knocked the girl out and possibly killed her. When questioned, she informed the security agents that she was given the pill by Chris Chadwick, who hosted the party.”
“Why would my son have drugs?” Mrs. Chadwick asked, as Dr. Chadwick looked even grimmer. I was pretty sure someone was going to get a serious punishment when I left.
“I’m not sure. What I do know is that Dr. Chadwick’s work with the Kansas City Zoo makes us fairly certain that he was the original source of the Ketamine. The dosage is just about perfect for a large cat, such as a tiger or lion. Have you recently needed to operate on such an animal, Dr. Chadwick? Do you keep Ketamine in your home?”
“Yes,” Dr. Chadwick hung his head. The paler twin paled even more, looking downright ill. “I keep Ketamine at the house because I also work with large livestock. T
he dosage for a large cat and a hog are the same. I keep it locked in my office in case I need to respond to an emergency with a hog.”
“Do you know how many tablets you have in your possession?”
“I have twenty tablets and seven vials of liquid Ketamine.”
“Could you go count those tablets and provide proof of distribution?”
“Now you are accusing my husband of distributing the drugs?” Mrs. Chadwick was on the verge of hysteria.
“No, I believe one or both of your sons, broke into the storage area where your husband keeps his Ketamine and took at least one tablet out, which was then passed on to a fifteen year old girl.”
“Our sons wouldn’t do such a thing,” Mrs. Chadwick huffed, trying to pull herself together. “Maybe this girl broke into the cabinet and took them herself.”
“The girl in question requires other medications and is aware that mixing a strong sedative like Ketamine with her other medications would result in death. However, I can easily have someone come fingerprint and DNA swab the cabinet to verify that it wasn’t her.” I pulled out my phone and abused my power as a US Marshal working with the SCTU.
“There are eleven pills missing,” Dr. Chadwick said as he came back into the living room, “and it isn’t the first time it has happened. I blamed my nephew the first time, because he was a recovering addict. I sent him back to rehab. Did I make a mistake?” This last bit wasn’t directed at me, so I stayed quiet. Both boys were obviously mute too. Their silence stretched on for ages.
“Are you going to arrest them?” Mrs. Chadwick suddenly stood up.
“It is not my intention,” I told her.
“Then get out of my house,” she pointed towards the door.
“Thank you for your time. I will pass this information along to the local police as well as the DEA. You have a great rest of the day.” I let myself out. As I left, I made sure to rev the engine of my car. I also called the tech and told them to turn around and work on real cases. I had hoped they would let me fingerprint and DNA swab so that I could point the finger directly at their sniveling spoiled brats. However, I did call Agent Franklin with the DEA. A doctor who mishandles medications was always interesting. For all the doc knew, his kids could be dealing Ketamine and cooking the liquid into a powder for snorting or smoking. I didn’t know if Ketamine actually worked that way, but most liquids could be powdered and snorted or smoked.