by Ian Smith
“In some of the specimens, the poison is completely intact, but in others, I can only find traces of the bufalin. It's a perfect poison. It does its dirty work over a matter of hours, then quietly degrades and disappears.”
“Amazing,” Sterling said. “Hundreds of blackbirds are dying in the woods of the Upper Valley from some type of mysterious poison and no one knows about it.”
“Willie only found hundreds, which means there are probably thousands,” Mandryka said. “Something strange is happening out there. Willie and I were hot on the trail.”
“Who else knows about your discoveries?”
“We haven't told anyone,” Mandryka said. “At least I haven't. That's why I've kept everything stored down here in this basement. No one has the key to this room but me.”
“None of your research assistants helped you in this?”
“Not a bit,” Mandryka insisted, clearly understanding Sterling's line of questioning.
“What about Wilson's lab? Would any of his research students know about this?”
“I don't think so,” Mandryka said. “We agreed to keep a tight lid on things until we had a better idea of what was going on and who was involved. Willie was writing a paper or case study for Science. I don't know if he finished, but he was close to it. He'd been working very hard the last couple of weeks. He wanted to have it done before the party, but I'm not sure if he made it. He left that night before I had a chance to ask.”
“Some of these pieces are starting to fit,” Sterling said, flipping through the pages of his little book. “Nel Potter's live-in, Heidi, mentioned that Wilson's night scouts would often take him onto the Potter farm. She said that he would come over early in the morning to observe the blackbirds.”
“She wouldn't have known about this,” Mandryka said. “Willie didn't even tell Kay. He was too worried about who might be behind these killings. This toxin isn't just some simple compound anyone can mix up in a lab. This is powerful stuff. Someone knew what they were doing.”
Sterling flipped another page in his book. “A month or so ago there was an article about Wilson in The Dartmouth. I picked up a copy when I was over at the Hop. In the article, Wilson mentioned that at a future date he'd be delivering some information about his recent discoveries on blackbirds.”
Professor Mandryka walked over to another table full of dead blackbirds and began inspecting them. “He gave that interview after we were certain something was going on. He was about to reveal everything he had learned, but then I found something that gave both of us pause.” Mandryka lifted two blackbirds from the heap, one male and one female.
Sterling examined them. Mandryka pulled on the tiny white metal bands strapped to their legs. “What's that?” Sterling asked.
“Bird ringing. Look at the tiny numbers stamped here.”
Sterling picked up one of the birds and peered at the ring. “Where did this come from?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. That's where we left off. Bird ringing can be something that bird-watchers do as a hobby, but usually it's done by professionals. This is how ornithologists mark birds and track their movements. It's been an effective way of studying life histories, population dynamics, and bird migratory patterns. Started in Denmark in the late 1800s. A researcher there fitted starlings with metal rings engraved with successive numbers and a return address. Then he released them into the wild. Bird ringing is now practiced in every corner of the world.”
“And you have no idea who might've been ringing these birds?”
“Not in the least. But one thing's for sure, someone else out there knows that these birds are dying and isn't saying. Willie placed a call to the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service in Washington. Sometimes they get involved with migratory studies. He thought they might be behind the ringing.”
“Their answer?”
“They couldn't deny or confirm, but agreed to look into it.”
Sterling closed his book and slid it in his pocket. “Something's going on here, Yuri, and it sounds like Wilson was getting close to it.” Sterling hesitated, unsure whether to take Mandryka into his confidence. “Someone was fishing around in Wilson's office the night that he was killed,” he finally said. “I haven't been able to figure out who it was or what they wanted, but I'm certain they came specifically to find something.”
“Check his research records,” Mandryka said as he opened the door and turned off the light. The two men stood facing each other in the dark hallway as the sound of water dripping on concrete echoed in the distance. “One thing about your brother, he was meticulous at documenting everything. I taught him that when he was my student in Chicago.”
“Yuri, are you sure no one else knows you have these blackbirds?”
“I'm the only one with keys to this room. The maintenance people can't even get in.”
“I'm not sure why Wilson was murdered, but if it has anything to do with these blackbirds, then you could be in danger too.”
“I'm an old man,” Mandryka said. “I'm not much use to anybody.”
“But the information you have could be. Be careful, Yuri.”
Mandryka didn't have to answer. The concerned look on his face said it all.
The two climbed into the cranky elevator and left the dank basement. As Sterling had predicted, the evidence was starting to talk.
26
The Mustang left a cloud of smoke and dust in its wake as it raced up the dark driveway, eating up patches of dead grass and snapping twigs like broken pencils. Vermin and other four-legged animals scrambled into the woods as their imminent death bore down on them like a runaway freight train without brakes. Sterling couldn't wait to get back to the house. With the information that Mandryka had just told him, he was convinced that he knew what the intruder was after. He went directly to the study, then systematically searched the room. First, he removed all the books from the shelves, opening each one to make sure there wasn't an envelope or a message hidden between the pages. Then he opened the closet. He had looked at everything the previous night, but what he hadn't done was check the top shelf carefully. He stood on his toes and tried reaching back, but the shelf was too deep. He pulled over a chair to stand on. He was ready to step down, when he felt it. A small keyhole all the way in the back wall, which he would surely have missed had he not run his finger along the paneling. He cleared the other items, then knocked on the area around the lock. A secret compartment. It had a much hollower sound than the rest of the wall. He searched the entire study for the key, making more of a mess than had already been made. Frustrated, he considered his options for opening it without the key and thought about hammering his way through. But that would risk destroying whatever was inside.
Sterling sat in Wilson's tall leather reclining chair and closed his eyes. Where would he hide something as small as a key? Sterling lifted the blotter. Nothing. He slid out the middle desk drawer and completely emptied its contents on the floor. He placed the drawer on top of a pile of books, but seconds later it tipped and fell to the floor before Sterling could catch it. That's when he saw it. Affixed to the underside of the drawer was a small black metal box. Sterling opened it and pulled out a tiny key.
He stood on the chair and stretched to the back wall. After a couple of tries, the lock clicked. The small compartment door swung open. Sterling didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't what was sitting there. A compact Sony mini-DV camera. He pulled it out and ran his hand along the empty space. Nothing else. He sat behind the desk and opened the pop-out LCD monitor. It was a nice camera, state of the art, loaded with buttons and connection ports and a high-powered mega-pixel zoom lens. But why had Wilson locked it away in a secret compartment? Surely there were more expensive items sitting openly in the study.
Sterling pushed the Eject button and found a tape in the cassette holder. He rewound the tape, then pushed Play. The picture was out of focus at first, then he recognized trees and rocks and a tiny ravine. The camera jostled as whoe
ver was holding it stepped over branches and lost his footing on the rough terrain. Sterling could hear labored breathing. The video went on like this for several minutes, then Wilson's voice. “This is where it starts and runs for about two hundred yards into the northeast corner of the Potter property. They're here by the hundreds.” The camera now focused on a blackbird lying on its back, its beady eyes staring blankly into the sky.
Sterling watched the next thirty minutes of tape, blackbird carcasses by the hundreds, scattered under rocks, floating in the water, caught between dead branches, covering dirt paths. Most of the tape had been shot with natural sound, the crunching of leaves under Wilson's steps, animals calling from a distance. Every few minutes, Wilson could be heard as he identified his location with precise compass directions, pinpointing the specific degrees along the horizon, as well as the lines of latitude and longitude. He distinguished male from female birds, and when he came across a heavily concentrated area, he zoomed in on the bodies, turning them over with sticks to make sure he had captured everything. Before the tape ran out, Wilson turned the camera on himself, his face barely visible. Once he had framed himself as best as possible, he spoke decisively. “You have just witnessed the physical evidence of immense wildlife death. This is no mere accident. These birds are being poisoned. But by whom and why?”
27
Sterling returned the camera and tape to the secret compartment and slid the key in his wallet. He jumped into the Mustang and started toward the hospital. He wanted to speak with the chief pathologist to find out if there had been any reported cases of human bufalin toxicity. It was a reach, but he figured if this many birds were dying in the wild from a rare poison, it might have found its way into humans as well. A quick check of the hospital toxicology reports and cause-of-death statements might provide some insight.
His cell phone rang. “Bledsoe,” he answered.
“Agent Bledsoe, Lieutenant Wiley here.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant. What's cooking?”
“How soon can you get to the pit?”
“Ten minutes if I obey the traffic signals, five if you grant me immunity.”
“Then make it seven.” Wiley sounded anxious, which was unusual.
“I'm on my way.” Sterling hung up and immediately screeched into a U-turn.
He entered the police station through the side door and walked down a couple of hallways before reaching the pit. He opened the door to sheer pandemonium. Everyone screaming, phones ringing, fax machines squealing. Wiley and Brusco stood at the head of the table. “Bledsoe,” Brusco yelled over the noise.
“What's all the commotion?” Sterling asked.
“Another body,” Brusco said.
“Who is it?”
“No idea,” Wiley said. “Unable to make a positive ID.”
Brusco looked grim. “This one was bad.”
“How bad?”
“They found her stuffed in a freight box in a dumpster behind the Grand Union grocery store. Completely naked. Bruises and scratches all over her body.”
“Sexual?”
“Hard to tell right now,” Brusco said.
“Facial injuries?”
Brusco shook his head slowly. “It's headless.”
Sterling took a hard swallow and then scribbled in his pad. “Who found the body?”
“Garbage man emptying the dumpster this morning,” Wiley said. “It fell out of the crate in the back of the truck. He noticed a human leg sticking out.”
“Where's the body now?”
“At the morgue,” Wiley said.
“Autopsy?”
“Dr. Withcott is already on his way up from Concord. He should be here in less than an hour.”
One of the officers walked over to them. “We just received an e-mail from Quantico.”
Three large computers had been set up in the middle of the pit, all connected to their own color printers. Sterling followed the officer to the middle computer and clicked on the mail icon.
Sterle,
These are the latest. We did some fidgeting and the quality is much better. We just got some new software that allows us to digitally manipulate the image, so we're trying more reconfigurations. I'll be sending updates as soon as I get something that works. I hope this helps. Let us know if there's anything else we can do.
Warmest,
Harry
The first picture showed the man's reflection almost as if the glass door were a mirror. His eyes were still hidden, but his lower lip was more visible. He seemed to have a smirk on his face, but there wasn't enough exposure to make any real determinations. It wasn't even clear if he was black or white or somewhere in between. Sterling passed the photo to Wiley and Brusco.
The next photo was a wider shot, focusing on the lower part of the reflection. Harry had zoomed in on the reflection of the man's left hand. A perfectly clear image. He carried three videotapes. Sony stickers marked the outer cases.
“Videotapes?” Sterling thought aloud.
“You were right all along, Bledsoe,” Brusco said. “The sonuvabitch wasn't there because he couldn't fall asleep. There's something on those tapes that he wanted.”
“Wilson had a shoe box full of those tapes,” Sterling said. “When I first went to his office, I saw them but didn't pay them any mind. They were sitting on one of the shelves in his closet.” Sterling zoomed in on the gloved hand holding the tapes. The three men reexamined the photo. “He's a fairly tall man,” Sterling said.
“How can you tell?” Wiley asked, looking at the computer screen.
“Look at how long his fingers are. And check out his arms, the way they reach far down his body.”
Wiley and Brusco followed Sterling over to the dry-erase board and picked up the marker.
“We know it's a male,” Sterling said, writing the word “male” on the board. Then he wrote “left-handed.”
“How do you know he's left-handed?” Wiley asked.
Sterling took out his cell phone and tossed it to Wiley. “Go out the door, and then come back in.”
Wiley looked confused but went along with the drill while the others watched. He left the room and returned a few seconds later. “Now what?” he asked.
“What hand is holding the phone?” Sterling asked.
“The right.”
“What hand did you open the door with?”
“The left.”
“Exactly. When people are carrying something they care about or don't want to drop, they put it in their dominant hand. Then they use the free hand for something that doesn't require fine motor skills, like opening a door.”
“Not bad,” Wiley conceded.
“There are tiny pieces of evidence all around us, Lieutenant,” Sterling said. “The key is to look everywhere, especially in places you least expect to find them.” He went back to the board and reviewed the photos of Wilson's body, then tacked on the new photos of their number-one suspect. “Wilson's skull was cracked on the right side of his head,” Sterling said. He fingered the blown-up photo that showed dried blood caked in the Professor's curly hair. “Exactly how a lefty would strike.”
The officers stood around Sterling. “Let's get over to the hospital,” he said. “I want to see how this woman was decapitated.”
Withcott stood on a footstool, leaning over the table with his headlight focused on the remnants of the neck. He hummed as he worked, not bothering to look up when they entered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “This was a vicious murder. Any idea who she might be?”
“None,” Wiley said. “Nothing yet we can even remotely identify. No sign of clothes, purse, or anything personal. And nobody's filed a missing persons.”
“There was quite a struggle,” Withcott said, lifting up the badly bruised and scratched arms. Withcott turned her hands over. “Look at the cuts on the palmar aspects of her hands.” Withcott pointed to the first web space of her right hand, the area between the thumb and index finger. A large, gaping wound that reached
through the superficial and deep-tissue layers down to bone. Similar wounds stretched across the finger joints. “This injury pattern is classic for defensive knife wounds. She must've grabbed the blade several times in self-defense.”
“Any idea what type of blade?” Sterling asked.
“That's what I was trying to figure out as you came in,” Withcott said. “Come and take a look.”
They moved to the neck. Wiley had never seen a decapitation before. He felt his stomach lurch and took deep, quiet breaths through his nostrils to keep from being sick.
Sterling put on a pair of gloves and moved closer to the body. “Look at the skin edges,” he said. “They're jagged, not smooth like they would be if cut by a sharp knife.”
“That's right,” Withcott said. “The edges are not only torn, but there's a rather consistent pattern to how the skin is puckering.”
“As if it were done by a machine,” Sterling observed.
“You're reading my mind,” Withcott said. His female assistant returned to the table with a folder and opened it. Withcott riffled through the photos and papers until he found what he wanted. “Look at this,” he said, showing the photo to Sterling. It was of the wounds on Wilson's forearms.
“The cut pattern along the skin edges is similar,” Sterling noted. “Maybe the same instrument.”
“Very possible,” Withcott said. “If you look here, the neck has been severed quite evenly.”
Wiley took this opportunity to look the other way.
“Much different than what you'd expect if someone had been hacked at the neck,” Sterling thought aloud. “An ax or heavy machine could cut quickly and decisively. But they wouldn't leave the skin edges jagged like this.”
“And they would've shattered the cervical vertebrae,” Withcott said, pulling back layers of red tissue and yellow-brown lobules of fat to expose the bones of the spinal column. One of the vertebrae looked as if it had been cut in half with even strokes. “An ax wouldn't be able to make such a clean cut.”