by Hadena James
“Hydrochloric acid is a possibility?” Lucas said.
“Yes, but it is not likely. There are other things much worse,” I frowned. “Sort of worse. I don’t know how to explain that. Hydrochloric acid on the skin is pretty horrible. I can’t imagine what it would do if you drank it. However, it doesn’t explode well. Other chemicals do explode well and they aerosol well and they eat away your insides in gas form.”
“Give me an example,” Gabriel said.
“Oh, xylene comes to mind immediately. Xylene is toxic in all forms. And it’s a petroleum product so it burns well and it is really flammable. A spark in a room of xylene fumes could blow up an entire skyscraper, if it was properly placed.”
“Shit,” Gabriel said. “We should put the hospitals on stand-by.”
“Probably, but...” I frowned harder.
“What?” Gabriel asked.
“My visit from Malachi was business related, just not this business,” I said.
“He thinks this Plague thing is planned,” Gabriel confirmed.
“Yep,” I answered.
“Will that affect us?”
“It might,” I said. “Genetically engineered Plague is unimaginable. An outbreak of regular Plague would be bad, but genetically engineered Plague makes our bomber look like a barn fire.”
“Plague in California could impact our investigation in Missouri,” Xavier sighed. “Seriously impact it. As a medical doctor with genetic understanding of bacterium. I could be called in to deal with it as a non-member of the SCTU.”
“Do you have any good news for me?” Gabriel said.
“Fair season is almost over,” I said.
“Peachy,” Gabriel looked at me. “I have two killers and I might start losing the ability to deal with it.”
“You might,” I agreed. “On the flip side, there is only one case of it and VCU is joining the CDC for the investigation. Malachi will keep your resources out of it as long as possible.”
“First a bomber, then a sniper and now Plague,” Michael said.
“It’s been a hot summer,” Gabriel looked at him. “People get crazier when it’s hot and dry for long periods of time.”
“I thought that was a myth,” I said.
“No,” Lucas answered. “Sadly not; the longer and hotter and drier the summer, the shorter the tempers of the average person get. Do that to someone on the edge of becoming a killer and it could be that final stressor.”
“Speaking of which, you told us about our bomber, what about our serial killer? Does he target here or somewhere else?” Michael asked.
That was a million dollar question. I had been leaning towards a different location. Our serial killer wanted headlines, hard to do in the shadow of a bomber, but now there were other factors. I pulled out my iPhone and did a quick scan of headlines in St. Louis. Plague, Plague, Plague, volcano, bomber, Jack The Ripper style serial killer in Miami, Florida, meth house explosion kills seven and burns down nine houses, Plague, bomber, bomber, fair queen murdered, which sort of answered my question and raised new ones. Plague was obviously the main story. Our bomber was playing second fiddle to that. Our queen killer wasn’t even making the top ten. Grabbing headlines in that sordid mess, was like grabbing ice cubes in Hell. He wouldn’t make the front page, he probably wouldn’t make the top ten read articles unless he could prove himself worthy of such a thing. That would require something more drastic than blowing the face off a fair queen or two, no matter how many people in the crowd were spattered with gore.
“Our serial killer might as well not exist,” I told Michael. “No way he’s getting attention with a bomber in the area and Bubonic Plague on the west coast. Plus, they’ve got a serious Jack the Ripper copycat, complete with his own personal ‘From Hell Letter’ and mutilated women.”
“What does that mean?” Michael asked.
“It means our serial killer’s only shot at getting national attention is putting a bullet in the skull of our bomber and maybe the Jack copycat in Miami,” Lucas answered.
“Even then,” Xavier shrugged. I got it. Genetically engineered Bubonic Plague would be the talk of the nation for a while. Was it terrorism? Was it a mass murderer? Was it a disgruntled genetic engineer with a grudge?
“How sure are they that the Plague is engineered?” Gabriel asked.
“Not very,” Xavier admitted. “It could have mutated naturally.”
“Do Plagues do that?” Gabriel asked.
“Often,” I answered. “For centuries, historians couldn’t figure out what the Justinian Plague was, but in the last three or four years, they’ve managed to find a mass grave from the time. They sequenced the DNA of the bacteria and it turned out to be a very potent strain of Bubonic Plague. Much stronger than the one that hit Europe in the Middle Ages, it actually killed itself out because it killed its host too fast to spread.”
“Viruses and bacteria mutate at much faster rates than larger organisms. Another good example is the Spanish Flu Pandemic of the early 1900’s. It just cropped up one day and killed millions and then it went away. They’ve never figured out where it came from or where it went. It had to be a mutated virus, but what virus or why it disappeared within a year or so is still a mystery. They theorize that it mutated itself into a form that was either not deadly to humans or that humans could no longer host the virus,” Xavier added.
“Plague happens,” I said. “Bubonic is the usual suspect. Mutated Bubonic is an even better suspect, since Plagues seem to do different things despite being of the same basic genetic make-up. However, we’re not impartial observers of this particular outbreak.”
“What do you mean?” Gabriel asked.
“I was sent a dead prairie dog for my birthday. If we still had it, we’d need to have the DNA sequenced and there’s Plague in a place where it shouldn’t be. It might not be the foremost thought in our minds, but some part of us is connecting the two, even if they are unrelated events.”
“She has a point,” Lucas said. “We’re not unbiased enough to become involved in the Plague case, even if it does turn out to be an epidemic and done on purpose.”
“Damn,” I sighed. “Plague happens and I don’t even get to go check it out.”
“Your fascination with Plague is creepy,” Michael said.
“I know,” I answered. “So, bomber first. Our sniper is just a footnote on this entire event.” Those were words I had never expected to hear come out of my mouth. Snipers were rarely serial killers. Snipers went for multiple targets at one time. Serial killers liked the kill and to me, it seemed lost by the distance.
The world suddenly fell from its axis and tumbled into the abyss. My vision swam. It wasn’t a migraine, it was a reality check. I stood abruptly, hearing my chair bang against the floor as I rushed out of the room.
The hallway was a blur. My feet carried me through the lobby without my mind grasping where I was going. The sun hitting my face, the heat engulfing my body, did nothing to stop the swell inside of me. There was emotion. Something so raw it physically ached. My humanity, what was left of it, had leaked into me. I hid behind the building, eyes closed, chest heaving. No tears, but I felt there should have been some.
My brother had killed. He had lain down on the rooftop of a building and taken head shots of prisoners in a yard of a state penitentiary. He had snuffed out the thing that I held most sacred in my world of twisted morality and he had enjoyed it. Disturbed state of mind aside, my brother had enjoyed putting bullets into the heads of prisoners, prisoners that might have been inside for charges as minor as joyriding or drug possession. These were not offenses that warranted a death sentence. My brother had watched through his scope as their heads exploded. He had watched and fired, watched and fired.
“Aislinn?” Malachi’s voice.
“Go away, Blake.”
“I wondered if it would register,” Malachi said.
“It has always registered, I just would not admit it. If released, my brother would probably cli
mb another building or another tower and dole out punishment like he was a god.”
“No different than the killers you track down and stick in the Fortress,” Malachi said.
“Pretty much and I lied to my niece as a result.”
“We lie to family, it’s required.”
“You cannot play head doctor with me, you are nuttier than I am.”
“I’m not,” Malachi looked at me. His green eyes seemed to see through me, into my dark and twisted soul. “I’m helping you cope, one looney to another.”
“Why are you still here? Why aren’t you in California, tracking down the person spreading Plague?”
“Because at some point, we knew you’d come to this conclusion.” Malachi lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled and enjoyed the harsh taste. “You see, you have spent so much time blending in and trying to be normal, that you missed the big picture.”
“I’m not normal.”
“That isn’t the big picture and it isn’t a devastating revelation,” Malachi gave a dry chuckle. “If you hadn’t been born this way, you still would have ended up this way. Too much damage along the way to your psyche. Callow, your dad, your sister, your brother, the killers that came along the way, the random attacks by assholes too stupid to know what you were, all of it was compounding and if you hadn’t been born a sociopath, you either would have died or you would have still become a sociopath. Luckily for you, you got a head start on the matter by being born that way and it has helped you survive. However, for a long time, you’ve been lying to yourself, telling yourself that your life is normal enough, that the shit that happens to you is abnormal, but the rest of it is just the result of living and it isn’t. People with emotions get traumatized by those events, they go see therapists and they explode or implode or both from guilt and rage and sorrow and grief. Not you, you don’t have those sorts of emotions, you like to pretend you do, but you don’t and at some point, we knew you’d have to face that fact.”
“I did face it,” I told him. “I admitted I was a monster as I took the life of a serial killer.”
“Dear, admitting you’re a monster is one thing. Admitting that the world needs you to be a monster is completely different and you just realized that this world needs you to be a monster. It needs to be able to gnaw away at you and tear apart your reality and make you deal with shit that makes normal people head for the hills, screaming and hysterical. Because that, Aislinn Cain, is what keeps those normal people from running for the hills in hysterics.”
“You think I just realized the world needs me to be a monster?”
“You just looked at your brother and realized for the first time exactly what he is. I know you and you then turned that mirror and saw your own real reflection.”
“Malachi,” I started to protest, but there was truth in his words. I had looked at myself after realizing my brother was exactly the kind of man I was trying to stop and realized that I had to be this person. I had to be an emotionally damaged sociopath working to stop monsters from taking over the world and the only way to do it was to play the game with no emotions and stare that cold, dark calm right in the face and let it take me.
“There it is again, the realization,” Malachi said. “You make snippy comments about me being a psychopath, but you need me to be. I help bring out your monster, help you to understand it, help you to control it. And vice-versa, I need you to not be a psychopath. Your damaged interpretation of the world is the only emotional view I get. However, Nyleena, your mom, your sister-in-law, your niece, the person in the hotel room down the hall, they all need you to be that sociopath too. The one that lacks self-control and thinks better when she drops the emotional mask and gets the assholes that make this world a little more dangerous, monsters like Callow who enjoyed torturing little girls, raping them, beating them to death and then dumping them like trash to be found by anyone unlucky enough to walk by at the wrong moment. It was an unlucky coincidence for Callow that he nabbed you. It was the first awakening for you though.”
“The realization that some part of me likes the chase,” I stopped.
“And likes the kill, Aislinn,” Malachi said. “All those bad-asses that lost when they went up against you, you enjoyed it.”
“Life is sacred,” I countered.
“And yet, your will to survive overrides your instinct to protect life. You looked at this sniper and saw your brother and then you saw yourself. It happens to all of us at some point.”
“I don’t enjoy the kill,” I told him. The words sounded hollow.
“Yes you do. That doesn’t make you any more of a monster than you already are, Aislinn. It makes you good at what you do. You aren’t going to start preying on weak serial killers just because you can, but every time you go up against one, head to head and the decision of life and death has to be made, some part of you feels elated that you killed your opponent.”
“If that’s true, what does that say about me, Malachi?”
“It says you’re a predator. But you already know that. You just like to lie to yourself about it. You don’t have to admit it to me or Lucas or Nyleena or anyone else. You just need to admit it to yourself. It will make you better at your job and it will make you better at calling on the calm and pushing it away. You have a luxury I don’t, you can feel so many more emotions than me, and once you admit to yourself that you’re a predator, I think you’ll find you can feel even more emotions because you’ll allow yourself to feel them. You don’t have to box them up and put them on a shelf because you don’t know what the hell to do with them.”
Malachi finished his speech, leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. It was a gesture he reserved for special moments. For him, I’m sure it was a special moment. For me, it was life altering, not special. I watched him walk away.
“I am a predator,” I said quietly, but out loud. “I do enjoy the kill.”
“And nothing changes because of it,” Lucas said, appearing at my side.
“It doesn’t?” I asked.
“No,” Lucas said. “Unless you want it to, then you and I have a problem.”
Chapter Eighteen
Chemicals that are toxic or tend to explode are regulated. Chemicals that do both are highly regulated. But there were loop holes. I had once used three ounces of hydrochloric acid to unstop some plumping. The offending blockage turned out to be the neighbor’s pet bird that had died and it had caused an awful stench to invade both apartments, but the drains had been running free and clear in less than five minutes.
Like my three ounces of hydrochloric acid drain cleaner, anyone that could pass a background check could buy small amounts. Small amounts and a lot of patience could lead to large amounts without ever raising a red flag. It was these determined buyers, with the patience of a saint, that did the most damage.
However, earlier bombs had included gunpowder and sulfuric acid. This was an interesting mix. One that wouldn’t immediately be thought of because sulfuric acid poured on gunpowder wouldn’t actually cause an explosion. It might cause some smoke as the acid ate through the gunpowder, but that was about it. To know the catalyst that gave the bomb its oomph took special knowledge and our bomber had it. It led me to believe that he could make a bomb out of just about anything.
My bomb making skills were minimal. I could blow up two-liter bottles with baking soda or bathroom cleaner, but those weren’t serious explosions. I found myself trying not to end up on a Homeland Security watch list as I attempted to think of things that created massive, violent explosions.
Xylene was just a start to the endless chemicals that were flammable, explosive and toxic. There were chemicals easier to get that were flammable, but not explosive. There were also ones that were explosive but not terribly flammable. Flames required fuel. Explosions required extremely hot temperatures in a short amount of time, usually caused by the buildup of flammable gasses. Hell, a small explosion could be created from a fluorescent lighting tube, as long as the gas could be kep
t inside.
This caused my mind to run in circles. It moved from chemical to chemical and explosive properties to flammable properties. It literally felt like it was chasing its own tail. I didn’t know how to stop this circular logic that was getting me nowhere. A Google search was definitely out of the question, I was probably already on a watch list, no need to add my name to another. However, Xavier was the closest we had to a chemist and his chemistry was rustier than my own.
Of course, this didn’t stop him from sitting in the make shift conference room with his feet up on the table, eating a Jimmy John’s sub and reminding me that dynamite would probably be easier to get than anything I had suggested. Unfortunately for him, when my brain did get tired of chasing itself, it grabbed onto the image of his body dissolving in a vat of hydrochloric acid. This image was comical, not disturbing. It was framed in low-budget filming quality and black and white. I knew the image came from House on Haunted Hill, starring the amazing Vincent Price. My fantasies about death were always comical, ripped off from some film or worse, a cartoon. I had once pictured Michael doing a Wile E. Coyote impersonation off a cliff, complete with sign and sound effects. They were also reserved for my nearest and dearest when they were annoying me. I never had those thoughts about regular people or even the killers we chased.
My conversation with Malachi came back to me. Lucas had said if I changed, we’d have a problem. I understood the meaning. If my strange fantasies about my nearest and dearest ever became serious fantasies about those we chased, I would become a liability to the team and myself.
“What are you imagining me doing?” Xavier crunched lettuce and bread as he spoke. I had confided once to him and Lucas about my death images. I had been told it was perfectly normal. We all occasionally had thoughts about killing annoying people.
“House on Haunted Hill,” I told him. “The giant vat in the basement where the wife takes her final plunge.”