by Gary Starta
“Can you describe his personality for me?”
The boy in the hooded shirt flexed his hands nervously. “For the most part, he was a pretty quiet guy. He kept to himself. But he was quiet in an eerie sort of way.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never know when he would explode. He could change from one minute to the next. One minute he’s as quiet as a mime, the next he’s swearing like a truck driver. Like when the time I asked him how his parents died, he charged at me like a bull, pinning me against a wall. I almost suffocated; he kept his forearm lodged against my Adam’s apple until I promised I would never mention his parents again. By that time, my face had turned purple. After that, I think they had to keep him on several meds to keep him chilled.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I just hope you catch him. Please don’t tell him I ratted him out.”
It was painfully clear. This boy spoke with certainty. His former housemate was capable of murder.
“Don’t worry. The information you have just provided will go a long way to ensure his capture. He was last spotted in Arkansas. In any event, I won’t let this boy come back to hurt you.” Diggs offered a reassuring smile.
“So he really made it all the way to Arkansas?” the boy asked. “I figured he would have bought the farm by now. He just took off in the pouring rain, even though the Center told us a bus would be coming to pick us up.”
Diggs rummaged through her purse. Ignoring protocol, she was going to help this informant. She stuffed three twenty-dollar bills in his hand.
“Just think of this as my personal donation for disaster relief.”
Diggs produced another two hundred dollars in twenties. She readily distributed it between the next two rows of the hurricane survivors.
The burly man glanced at his wife. “I guess the government ain’t so bad after all.”
***
The electric saw buzzed. Blood spattered. It splayed onto his protective face shield, reminding him of the sprinkler system he used to cherish as a child. Well, those memories were now ruined. Pleasant thoughts of summer as an eleven-year-old child could not be summoned no matter how hard he tried. The spray of the sprinkler used to produce squeals of delight, now he equated it with a blood shower, the one that was currently speckling his plastic mask and smock.
Pathologist Ed Hoyt had never assisted in a brain autopsy before. Compulsion to solve a puzzle and his attraction for Agent Rivers led him to this human excavation. He had to know why the seratonin levels in the killer’s blood spiked so unusually high. Blood analysis had failed to produce any more answers. Hoyt and medical examiner Avery Savard were stumped. They had employed darkfield microscopy to study the blood at the cellular level. After staining a sample, they videotaped it and watched the playback on a color TV. This wasn’t exactly the way Ed Hoyt had planned on spending his Saturday. Little did Hoyt know, Avery Savard was saving the worst.
The analysis did confirm that the killer suffered from a nutritional deficiency. The presence of iron was nearly nonexistent. Savard joked the suspect probably never listened to his mother. “He doesn’t eat his vegetables by the looks of this scan.”
The pathologist and the M.E. also found an abnormally high blood sugar level.
“This guy should have at least “type 2” diabetes. I can’t even detect a trace of insulin.”
“So he skips right to dessert,” Hoyt remarked. “But I didn’t find elevated cholesterol levels on my previous analysis. Usually, those two things go hand in hand.”
“You’re right about that, Hoyt. Maybe the high sugar levels relate to the seratonin anomaly. People who don’t produce enough seratonin usually suffer sugar cravings in addition to migraines and depression.”
“But if that’s true, Savard, then why would he continue to crave sugar after producing so much seratonin and melatonin? During his murder sprees, he sure couldn’t have been too depressed with all that sugar and seratonin running through his veins.”
The debate at the FBI lab continued for nearly two more hours until Savard finally decided to pull out the big guns.
“We probably won’t be able to establish any more answers through microscopy. However, my scalpel and saw have a strong urge to see how our victims may have been affected by this killer’s strange chemical imbalance.”
Hoyt spent the next hour aiding Savard’s quest. Ed Hobson was first on their butcher’s block. Avery sliced a thin line behind Hobson’s right ear and over the cranium until he reached the other side. The incisions produced two large flaps of skin. Avery muscled the front flap over the victim’s face. He made Hoyt pull the back flap behind the nape of Hobson’s neck—just for laughs. Savard enjoyed watching Hoyt squirm. All in the name of love, Savard quipped to himself. The buzz about Hoyt’s infatuation with the Halle Berry look-a-like was all over Quantico like a January snowstorm.
By the time the flap was secured, Hoyt’s usually wind-burned face was stark white. Next, Avery pulled out his Stryker saw. Beads of sweat rolled off Hoyt’s brow. The sickening sucking sound produced by the instrument turned Hoyt’s stomach like flapjacks. Savard was cutting the brain away from Hobson’s skull with indifference. For all Hoyt knew, the M.E. probably felt no more emotion than if he was using the saw to cut firewood.
Hoyt choked on a backwash of saliva. If he didn’t act quickly, he was going to vomit. Allowing his mind to wander, Ed staved off two more gagging attacks. He was on a beach walking hand in hand with Deondra. She was wearing a pink floral two-piece. No one else was there. She took off her top, explaining it would produce a better tan. Within a minute, Hoyt discovered her ulterior motive. Rivers caressed Ed’s face with her hands, gaining leverage by pressing her perfect, round breasts against his chest. Hoyt discovered he was hard despite his urge to hurl. The daydream was working. Sun, surf, and sex had managed to penetrate the cold, sterile environment of the laboratory. But that was before the blood spatter...
All thoughts of Deondra Rivers became lost in the shuffle. A searing shot of pain erupted. Beginning at the crown of his head, it snaked downward until it reached his gut. Steadying his hands on an operating table, Hoyt managed to hang on until Hobson’s gray matter was exposed. As soon as the saw quit buzzing, Hoyt realized he would never live this down. A prankster would later scroll “Ed Hoyt, devoted lover and scientist” across the door of his locker. Ed had indeed exchanged more than just a day off to aid Rivers’ investigation. Fortunately, the universe agreed. It allowed him to witness the exact same procedure on Charlie Jones without a muscle twitch. By nightfall, Hoyt relied on adrenaline to deliver his findings to Rivers.
“Both men suffered severe hemorrhages in the thalamus regions of their brain. I saw it with my own two eyes, Deondra. Large chunks of their brain were ruptured. I can only surmise that the identical findings are in response to their contact with their killer.”
Rivers dropped the box she was unpacking in her living room. She wrapped both hands around her cordless phone and plopped onto the couch, devoting her full attention to Hoyt’s call. Ed’s voice was providing a modicum of comfort for Deondra. Despite the gruesome retelling of the autopsy, the agent had to admit she was pleased the pathologist had called.
She had been waiting anxiously the past few days for a call that had not come from Agent Diggs. Caitlin had not even called to check in with her—even after the controversial airing of the Suzie Cheng interview. Rivers was perplexed. She was getting to know Hoyt better than her new partner. But maybe this was for the best. It had to be. She had to make the first few days of her promotion productive ones. Curling her feet off the floor and onto her coach, Rivers listened intently—hoping Hoyt’s findings would provide the biochemical profile she was after.
Her mind raced just as fast as Hoyt talked. She knew the thalamus was responsible for relaying information to the cerebral cortex. Axons from nearly every sensory system are relayed to this large mass of gray matter. Rivers recalled this fact from
her anatomy classes. She also knew many diseases of the brain can manifest from damage to this region: Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, and Tourette syndrome, to name just a few. But what Hoyt was describing sounded fatal—a donut-hole rupture in the mass, equivalent to the circumference of a large projectile—as if someone had fired a shotgun blast into their brains. So what fired the shot? Neuron overload?
Hoyt knew the answer to Rivers’ next question before she could ask it.
“I believe the hemorrhages were caused externally, through contact. The two prime suspects right now are the killer’s blood as it relates to its chemical composition and...,” the pathologist swallowed hard, “...the crystal.”
Rivers inquired how he got from point A to point B. She had only hoped Hoyt would be able to make another diagnosis from blood work alone. The agent had not expected such extensive examination. The brain dissections went above and beyond the call of duty. The agent simply had not factored the human condition into her equation: a man’s desire to please a woman. Hoyt launched into his findings, doing his best to keep his voice sounding more like a clinically detached professional and less like a love struck teen.
“Analysis of the blood sample at the cellular level only told us what we already knew—over the top levels of seratonin and melatonin. Darkfield microscopy did find the subject to be malnourished, with high blood sugar and low iron. We also established the suspect was not on medications during the killings. I know what you’re thinking—a dead end. As a consequence, I enlisted the aid of the lab’s chief medical examiner. Fortunately, he also wanted to know how our subject maintained such high seratonin levels. We proceeded to investigate for a causal effect in the victims. That’s when we found the brain damage. I don’t believe in coincidences, at least not in this case. I think both men suffered the same fate by coming into contact with their killer. We examined the skulls for small puncture wounds. There were none. We can only surmise the brain damage was a result of the men coming into contact with their killer’s blood or with the crystal.”
“Were any abnormalities found in the vicinity of the brand marks?”
“I really don’t believe the initial autopsy ever got that involved. Once the cause of death was established, a standard Y incision was made on the bodies to ascertain what kind of weapon was used. Our supervisor was satisfied that the deaths were a result of stab wounds. They both bled out.”
“So what you’re telling me is that your finding may confirm another cause of death?”
“Yes. These men probably would have died from brain damage, even if their vital organs were not pierced. This finding does lend credence to the crystal theory. However, unlike Ms. Cheng, I am in no hurry to make my theories public without further study.”
“It also leads me to believe the killer’s blood is possibly contaminated. I’ll have to dig into my medical journals before I can speak further. I am in agreement with you Ed, I will not divulge these findings to the Assistant Director Dudek without further fact checking.”
“Yes. But how will you proceed? I don’t think you’ll find any comparative cases.”
Deondra knew Hoyt was correct. She hedged a moment. The agent wanted to hear Hoyt’s theories, but not over a phone line. She fought her nagging conscience. This is not about my social life.
Hoyt was the only bureau employee who had stuck his neck out for her. He just spent his off day helping to remove two brains. Hoyt was a pathologist. He analyzed liquids, not corpses. He really went the distance for her, in direct violation of her superior’s orders. Rivers had no other choice. She invited Hoyt over for coffee to “discuss the findings and to work on a theory.”
The line between business and pleasure was blurring by the moment. Rivers spent more time than she liked to admit in front of a mirror, fixing her hair. She also changed out of her jeans and top. Three outfit changes later, she settled on a pink floral print dress. She almost laughed out loud when Hoyt appeared at her door. He too had “dressed” for the occasion. He wore a sport coat and a tie. This time, Hoyt decided to forgo the contacts. Instead, he wore rimless glasses, which tinted to a rose-like color in response to the apartment’s fluorescent lighting.
Their conversation was awkward at first. Hoyt took a seat on the couch about a yard’s length away from Deondra. Because of the distance, he nearly lost grip of the coffee cup and saucer Deondra had handed him.
But when the pair settled into conversation about the case, they felt more comfortable, almost like old friends—or even FBI partners.
Rivers wanted to hear Hoyt’s theories. She needed to study this bizarre case from every angle. She flashed a smile that dazzled Hoyt. Rivers was quite unaware of her power. She believed her smiles were forced and therefore unattractive. She couldn’t have been more off the mark.
Hoyt took her cue to begin. He theorized a causal connection between the victims and the killer was quite plausible.
“If exposure to the blood did result in the thalamus hemorrhages, I think a symbiotic relationship may have briefly existed.”
Rivers sipped her coffee and digested Ed’s comment. “I think your theory is very radical.” She waited for Hoyt’s reaction. He looked despondent, as if he had offended her. Rivers let out a flirtatious laugh, enjoying his discomfort. When she flashed her eyes at him, Ed had finally caught on. She’s poking fun at me. This could be a good sign.
He proceeded to remove his glasses and let them dangle from his right hand. “Before I continue, I must offer my apologies to all the cold, rational conventions of scientific thought. I admit I can’t back up any of my claims with empirical data. Because of this, I don’t blame you for laughing. I think I would too.”
Rivers interrupted. “Ed, if you don’t get to the point soon, I’m going to fall asleep.”
“Okay, so here it goes. I’m wondering if our killer is somehow able to siphon seratonin out of his victims via the crystal. That could explain his abnormal biochemical analysis. I also know it raises about ten thousand more questions than it answers.”
“And you said you had another theory, Ed?”
“Right. This one is more disturbing. I’m wondering if the killer’s blood is lethal upon contact. If so, you must apprehend him with extreme caution.”
Rivers locked eyes with Hoyt. She saw the concern in his eyes. He cared about her. She knew she had to say something quick, before staring led to something more.
“You know, I was just thinking the same thing right after I hung up the phone with you.”
“Is this the part where you tell me ‘great minds think alike’?”
The pathologist and the special agent laughed. Hoyt drank three cups of coffee but finally succumbed to the demands of his long day. He let out a long yawn he could not suppress. Rivers suggested he should head home for safety’s sake, but she feared the chemistry between them more than Ed’s welfare. It is way too soon and much too radical to invite him to spend the night. Besides, if I don’t get him to leave soon, he may end up spending the night without a verbal invitation.
She led Ed to her door. She thanked him again. He cupped her hand in his. She looked up into his eyes and kissed him. The contact lasted a few more seconds than her conscience cared for. Ed left the building, feeling the way he did on his imaginary beach.
Chapter 21
Jake Campbell had stalked many animals in the Oklahoma woods over his seventy years, and now his senses told him someone was accompanying his descent down a steel staircase. The stairs led to the hotel’s level one parking area. Jake—a.k.a. Lone Coyote—inhaled slowly, trying to mediate his heart rate. He fought the temptation to inhale a large dose of fresh air. Back in Oklahoma, it was the natural thing to do. Here in Virginia, a stone’s throw away from DC, it was a very dangerous thing to do. He was just minutes away from returning home after completing his interview with Suzie Cheng. No other Washington-based news program wanted to air what they referred to as his “very subjective” opinions. He never seriously thought about ret
ribution, because the fact was, nobody really seemed to care if there was a conspiracy or not. Yet at this moment, Jake was sure someone with a malicious intent was following him.
Campbell weighed his options. He was not about to break into an all out run, and he could not turn around to look at his tracker. Either of these maneuvers could result in a fatality. It didn’t matter whether you were in America’s backwoods or in the nation’s capital, stalking was stalking, and there were rules of survival.
Jake was not really surprised. He knew the risks of televising his theories over the air. The odds were in favor of unpleasant consequences. The good thing was, he now had proof. He wasn’t just talking theories because, if he were, someone wouldn’t be on his trail right now.
Campbell had just checked out of his hotel, leaving the key with an overly polite woman at the front desk. He had thrown his gear and bags into the trunk of his rental on a previous trip. He had two options: head for the car as planned and hightail it to the airport, or try to throw his stalker off track by taking an unplanned route.
Jake’s hearing was not what it once was, but he swore he could the footfalls of boots on the concrete stairs of the hotel’s parking garage. He shifted his eyes left and right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the pursuer’s shadow behind him. The sound was coming from above him. He still had one tier of stairs to descend before reaching ground level. Campbell’s instinct told him the stalker would make his move now, before he was off the stairway. Although he did not glimpse a shadow, Lone Coyote took action. He would not head for his car. Instead, he hit the ground rolling. He tumbled a few times on his hands and knees, setting off a stinging sensation on his hands. He did not waste time to look at his injuries. He knew he suffered a few scrapes but no bones had been broken.
He was halfway to his feet when a leg hit him square in the back. The pursuer apparently misjudged his jump, unaware of Jake’s evasive maneuver. This break gave Jake a few more seconds to assess the situation. The jumper was still on the ground, cursing the shooting pain, which sizzled up and down his side. He had fallen heavily on his hip. Jake took the opportunity to regain his footing, but decided against fleeing the scene. He wanted to know just who was behind this conspiracy.