“You’re not worried?” asks the Chemist.
“Hell, no. My food is fresh. No one will get sick off my dogs, that’s for sure.”
“Didn’t you hear the latest?” The Chemist feels ripples of excitement, talking about this topic. “One man is doing all of this. They call him the Chemist.”
“And if I ever met this Chemist, I’d bust him in the ass.”
“What if he snuck up on you, poisoned your food while you were talking with another customer?”
“You got a sick mind, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
The Chemist returns to his bench. After twenty minutes, he begins to wonder if he had gotten there too late and missed the mark, but like magic she walks out of the building. Alone. It’s almost a hundred yards away, but he recognizes the hair, and the gray jacket she wore on TV.
He takes some extra napkins from the hot dog vendor. Then he trails the cop from the opposite side of the street, staying parallel to her.
She walks two blocks, turns onto Michigan Avenue, and enters a well-known grill pub, a chain place where kitschy things are stuck to the walls and the bartenders dress in sports jerseys. If it’s like the others of its ilk, the interior will be crowded, smoky, with low lighting. Which is perfect.
Traffic is against him, so he has to wait for the light to change before he can cross the street. When he walks into the restaurant, it’s exactly as he expected. The cheerful hostess tells him it will be a half-hour wait for a table. He declines, heading for the bar.
The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial, than she appeared on television.
“Dirty martini, up,” she orders.
My, my, my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.
A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to the Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies’ room is.
He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.
The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.
Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.
He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.
A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips—
—and drinks the whole thing.
He ticks off the seconds in his head.
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
Four . . .
Five . . .
She touches her head.
Six . . .
Seven . . .
She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.
Eight . . .
Nine . . .
She rubs her eyes, then stands up.
Ten . . .
Eleven . . .
He cranes his neck up for a better look.
Twelve . . .
Thirteen . . .
She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.
Too late. Vomiting won’t help.
At fourteen seconds, she falls over.
People give her a wide berth. Several say the word drunk.
It takes almost thirty seconds for an employee to approach and kneel next to her.
“Call an ambulance!” he yells. “She’s not breathing!”
Of course she’s not breathing. She’s dead.
As the curious gather, he slips out the door, calm and casual. He has no doubt that several people are now frantically dialing 911. But according to statistics, a 911 response will take a minimum of ten minutes. Chances are it will take much longer. He knows this from experience. There is zero chance she’ll be revived.
The Chemist uses the napkins to wipe out the contact lens case, then deposits them into a garbage can. It’s a gloriously lovely day, and he takes off his blazer and uses one hand to carry it over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. Someone is bound to recognize the cop shortly. And when they do, it’s going to be a media frenzy. He wants to be home in time to see it, but TiVo is taking care of that for him, and it has been so long since he’s actually enjoyed a walk downtown.
In fact, it’s been a while since he’s actually enjoyed anything. A long while. Six years, three months, and thirteen days.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
He considers heading to the lakefront, or walking through Grant Park. Then he remembers walking through the park with Tracey, and a foul mood overtakes him.
Who could have ever known that wonderful memories would someday prove painful?
He heads back to the car and climbs in, considering his next move. The satisfaction of watching the cop die is gone, replaced by a cold, dead feeling.
He wonders if this is why people become killers. That emptiness deep down that nothing—not drinking, not drugs, not therapy, not sex—can fill. Perhaps some people are born like that. Soulless. That’s how he feels most of the time.
Before, he was a normal guy. Decent friends. Decent job. A hardworking, tax-paying, red-blooded American who voted for the current mayor because he promised to be tougher on crime.
It seems like it was someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was his.
And now, there’s only cold.
He thinks about the hot dog stand, and that warms him a bit.
The Chemist snakes the jet injector tube up his sleeve and arms the spring. He’s wrestling to put on his blazer in the cramped front seat when he hears a car horn, right next to him.
Startled, he looks up.
A man in a rusty, older model Chevy stares at him, the rage on his face an indicator he’s been waiting there for a while.
The Chemist shrugs at him and shakes his head, indicating he isn’t moving.
The man honks again.
“I’m staying,” he says.
The man leans on the horn now, screaming, “Move your car!”
The Chemist ignores him, pockets the jet injector, and exits the vehicle. Some people just don’t take a hint. He’s actually doing this city a favor, reducing the population of idiots like—
“Hey, asshole! I’ve been waiting five fucking minutes for that space!”
The man has an unkempt beard and crazy eyes. In the passenger seat is an equally unkempt woman, obviously seething.
The Chemist shrugs. “This is my spot. Find another one.”
“We’re fucking late for court and we need that fucking space!”
No surprise there. The Chemist wondered what white-trash crime these two had committed. Set fire to their trailer to get the hundred dollars in insurance money? Or maybe sex with some sort of animal? His wife was so ugly, she’d qualify. He smiles at the thought.
And then the bearded guy is out of his car, walking right at him.
“You think this is funny, asshole?”
The Chemist is shocked. He’s heard about this happening, people being killed over parking spaces, but he can’t believe it’s happening to him.
He manages to say, “I’m not laughing at—”
And then the guy shoves him, hard. The Chemist almost loses his footing.
“Think you’re better than me, in that fancy suit and that faggy tie.”
The man goes to shove him again, and on reflex the Chemist brings up the jet injector. When the guy grabs his shirt, he pushes the orifice i
nto his chubby neck and squeezes the trigger.
The lunatic raises up a fist to hit him, then his eyes bug out and he clutches his throat.
He falls, dead before he hits the street.
“Arnie!”
The Chemist looks at the woman, who is now out of the car and rushing at him.
“What have you done to Arnie! You killed him!”
Like a picture snapping into focus, the Chemist is instantly aware of his surroundings. People are watching him. On the sidewalks. From their cars. This has become a scene.
“That son of a bitch shot my husband!” she howls. “Someone help me!”
The only person close enough to ID him later is Arnie’s wife. He’s on her in four steps, jamming the injector into her throat, killing her in mid-scream.
Then he hurries back to his car. People are pointing now, and shouting. A few of them are running over.
Hands shaking, the Chemist fishes the car keys out of his front pocket. He starts the car and realizes, to his horror, that Arnie’s car is blocking him in.
There’s no time to do anything else. He slams the car into gear, steps on the accelerator, and crashes into the car parked ahead of him. Then he puts it into reverse and hits the gas again, causing another collision.
He now has an extra few feet of room around his vehicle, and he squeezes onto the street between Arnie’s Chevy and the car he’d just rear-ended. There isn’t quite enough space, and there’s a grind of metal on metal as he scrapes both sides of the Honda as he pulls away, hyperventilating, a crowd of people staring at him.
This is bad. Very bad. But he can fix it, if he moves fast. All they’ll remember is the suit and the eye patch—thank God he kept it on.
They’ll remember the car too. There’s a good chance someone even took down the license plate number.
But that’s okay. The car isn’t his. He can tie up this loose end, if he hurries.
The Plan doesn’t have to change. But now he feels an urgency he hasn’t felt before, and that excites him.
He expected this to be emotionally satisfying. But in his sweetest dreams, he had never expected this to actually be fun.
CHAPTER 17
I SAT OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ, at one of their patio tables along the sidewalk. Rick hadn’t been at the press conference, and it was twenty minutes past the time we said we’d meet.
We’d exchanged numbers, but I didn’t call him. Instead I called Latham’s hospital room, again, and was informed that there had been no change in his condition.
Another five minutes passed. An ambulance streaked by, sirens blaring. I dialed Dispatch, hung up, dialed them again, and asked the desk sergeant to give me a record and location of Wilbur Martin Streng, DOB October 16, 1935.
Traffic and people and time passed. A bee took an interest in the bud vase of cut carnations on my table, and I stiffened.
Don’t bother it, and it won’t bother you, I told myself. But I moved my hands away just the same. I was the lucky one person out of two hundred and fifty who was allergic to stings. When I was a teenager, a particularly nasty wasp had stung my hand, which quickly led to anaphylactic shock. My throat had swelled up to the point that I couldn’t breathe, and only an emergency room injection of epinephrine had saved my life. It wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat.
Luckily, the bee had interests other than me, and it buzzed off to molest some flowers at an adjacent table.
I sipped my iced tea. I closed my eyes. The sun felt good. I decided to order a club sandwich, not caring if Rick showed up or not.
“Sorry I’m late . . .”
Rick was slightly out of breath. I had the impression that he’d been running, and was more flattered by his hurrying to meet me than I was irritated at his lateness.
Rick sat down, then picked up the water glass at his place setting. He drained half of it in one gulp.
“Did you catch any of the press conference?” I asked.
“No. Conference call with Washington. How’d it go?”
“Fine. Roxy actually did okay. Remained calm and poised, answered everything correctly. And she looked better in my jacket than I did.”
Rick leaned in, his eyes twinkling. “No. She didn’t.”
I was being honest, not fishing, but it felt nice to hear just the same.
My sandwich came, and I apologized for having ordered without waiting for him.
“Can we split this club, and then I’ll order another one?”
“Sure. That’s fine. But . . .”
“But what?”
I was hungry, but looking down at the food made my stomach twitch. What if this restaurant had been on the Chemist’s list? What if I took a bite and would be dead in thirty seconds?
Rick apparently sensed my hesitation.
“Life is about risk, Jack. You can run away, or you can face it head-on.”
He leaned in closer, his knee touching mine under the table. Then he picked up half of the sandwich and took a big bite, some mayo dribbling down his chin.
I felt my heart rate increase. Maybe I was overtired. Or hormonal. Whatever problem I was having, I promised myself no more one-on-one time with Rick.
Another ambulance streaked by, followed by two news vans. I didn’t like the implications of that at all.
I pulled my radio out of my purse and tuned in to the police band. A few seconds later Rick threw down some money and we jogged up the street.
I worked out three times a week, weights and aerobics, and twice a month I attended a four-hour tae kwon do class, so I was able to keep pace with Rick the three blocks to the station house without collapsing or throwing up. But I did feel sick when I saw the ambulances at the corner of my precinct building.
A dozen uniforms were cordoning off a section of street, directing traffic, and questioning onlookers. Several paramedics were milling around two bodies. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I managed to locate Herb in the crowd. Even though he was no longer my partner, he still managed to beat me to the crime scene.
“What happened?”
“I just got here. Some kind of traffic dispute.”
“The radio mentioned the Chemist.”
“Could be. Two dead, no marks on their bodies.”
“Don’t touch him!” Rick yelled at one of the medics who was crouching down next to a victim. “Risk of contamination!”
If the witnesses weren’t spooked before, that started a mass exodus to the police lines. Herb went north and I went south, explaining to the crowd that they were perfectly safe, and if anyone saw anything we’d like to talk to them. I managed to snag a retreating party of businesspeople, and Herb caught a kid on Rollerblades. While we did that, Rick produced a gas mask and some rubber gloves, and examined one of the bodies.
The trio gave me a rundown of what they saw, beginning with the honking and ending with the perp stabbing each victim in the neck with something. He wore a suit, had an eye patch, and drove a white Honda Accord with scratches on both sides. None of them got the license plate.
Herb’s witness gave a similar version of the story, but said the victims were shot in the neck with some kind of gun, rather than stabbed.
As we conferred, a uniform named Justin Buchbinder came to us with a jackpot: a witness with a camera phone.
“My name is Doris, Doris Washburn. I took three pictures.” She was young, chic, in business attire. “The quality isn’t the greatest, but I got one of the killer, and one of his car.”
She showed me how to view them on her cell phone. The perp’s head was turned, and the license plate on the car too pixilated to be read, but the forensics guys had digital filters that might help improve the images. The third picture unfortunately only captured the man who later died, pointing his finger and yelling.
“We’ll need to keep your phone.”
“I need my phone for work. Can’t I just send you the images?”
“Will they lose quality?”
“No. I can send them to your e-mail addr
ess.”
I called Hajek at the crime lab, and Doris sent the photos to him using her phone.
“Get anything?” I asked him while the data transferred.
“A headache. Neck strain. A sore back.”
“No prints?”
“The Chemist used gloves for everything. I even found a glove print on the toilet handle.”
I thought about that. The only people that paranoid about leaving prints are those with prints on file. This guy was in our system, somewhere. People who have been arrested had their fingerprints taken. So did government employees like cops, Feds, and military. Plus, fingerprinting was becoming more common in the private sector, for both security reasons and to ID workers.
“How about the devices? Any way to trace them?”
“The M44s had serial numbers, but they’d been removed. Acid etching didn’t bring them up. Wildlife Services uses them to kill coyotes, but these seem to be older models. Could have picked them up anywhere.”
“How about the other traps?”
“Made from common household items. I got a copy of the CDC report—even the poisons are from pretty common plants. Many are available growing wild, or at garden shops. All of them can be ordered over the Internet. No way to trace them. I’m getting the e-mail now, hold on.”
This was becoming silly. How is it possible to kill so many people and leave zero evidence?
“Well, the bad news is, the pictures are awful.”
“Can you fix them?”
“Let’s see.” I heard him typing, and then humming softly. “I’ll transfer them to my image enhancer. Clean up the noise . . . resize the image . . . reduce JPEG compression . . . and it’s even worse than before. Let me work on it. Will you be at this number?”
I told him yes, and hung up.
“Where’s the new partner?” Herb asked.
“Lunch.”
“Shouldn’t you call her?”
“Probably. I want my jacket back.”
I called Dispatch to get Roxy’s number. Surprisingly, a man answered when I dialed her number.
“I’m looking for Roxanne Waclawski.”
“Are you a friend or relative of hers?”
“I’m her partner, Lieutenant Daniels from the CPD. Can you put her on?”
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