by N. R. Walker
Because that’s what this was.
A whiteboard with legs walked into his office, then Jacob poked his head out the side of it. “Got one.”
“Could you have found a bigger one?” August deadpanned.
Jacob laughed and sat it on his seat, then propped it up against the filing cabinets. August was going to have to hurdle his desk to get out, but Jacob didn’t seem to notice. He was quickly studying the files, and August pulled out his notepad with the chronological order he’d written the day before. He handed it to Jacob. “Here. It’ll save you some time.”
Jacob grinned and copied it onto the whiteboard, and while he did that, August got busy filling out the paperwork for the request of further evidence re-examination. He didn’t know what exactly he could have re-examined or have them look for this time that he hadn’t had them look for before.
From the first few cases, there was very little left. Most of the evidence had already been subjected to testing; some of it had been misplaced or degraded over improper storage. Some evidence was disposed of or given back to families because the deaths weren’t technically considered homicides. But they still had tissue and hair samples, and August had to hope there was something that could be tested.
He turned to his computer and googled the drug P7849, and he was surprised he even got a hit. He’d half expected another dead end, and after a page of shoe types and flight paths and departure times, he saw one entry. The headline read ‘Police seize drugs and suspects in Sydney sting’ but the writing underneath made August’s blood run cold.
Sydney police have seized a significant amount of what is believed to be the Cambodian drug P7849. A known biochemical agent . . .
The article was eighteen years old.
August felt cold all over and a shiver ran down his spine.
He brought up the department file archives search feature and typed in the date and briefly scanned down the list. And there it was, under the Narcotics Division. Cambodian drug P7849.
August clicked on the file number and scanned through the file. It had been digitalised ten or so years ago, and it hadn’t been done with a great deal of care. The scanned documents weren’t easy to read, but August could see the basic facts: the guy who had been caught with the chemical compound was deported and sent back to Cambodia, three vials of 5mg each were seized, and August recognised none of the names of the officers involved.
McCulloch, Floyd, Kotzur, and Godden.
Jacob’s phone rang, startling them both. He’d obviously been immersed in his whiteboard chart. He frowned at the screen. “I don’t know the number.” He put the phone on the desk and hit answer, putting the call straight to speaker phone. “Porter.”
“Senior Constable Jacob Porter?” the female voice asked.
“Yes. To whom am I speaking?”
“Violet Briens. I spoke to you earlier today about the P7849. You gave me your card and told me to call.”
“Yes, yes!” Jacob said, leaning toward the phone. “Thank you for calling me. You’re on speakerphone and Detective Shaw is in the room with me.”
“Oh, thanks,” she replied.
“Did you think of anything else?”
“Maybe. I got thinking about your questions, and in particular about P7849 being untraceable. I’ve done some equations . . . Do you want the pharmacological chemical qualifiers?”
“I don’t even know what that is, so I’ll say no,” Jacob said. “I’ll need all the genius stuff for my report, but right now, I’d prefer you to tell it to me over the phone as dumb as you can make it.”
August almost smiled.
“Well, the agent itself leaves no markers. But there should be a residual rise in metabolites, predominantly phenylacetic acid and trace amine tryptamine.”
“What does that mean?” Jacob asked. Even in dumbed-down English, he still didn’t get it.
“We can test for those,” August said.
“Yes,” Violet said. “It won’t prove much, but at least it’s a strong indicator that it was the drug used.”
“Violet,” August began. “About the P7849, how long is the shelf life? And what size dose are we talking for, say, a six-foot man, one hundred kilos?”
She mumbled something, then something else, like she was talking herself through calculations. “Shelf life would depend on how it was stored. It’s a biological compound, so if it’s stored correctly, it could last indefinitely. And dosage? Small. If it was administered in liquid form, one mil. If it was solid, say a quarter of a Tic Tac.”
August nodded. “And given its potency, how would a killer transport it or carry it on his person?”
“Very carefully,” she replied, and Jacob snorted. “Seriously though, very carefully.”
August smiled. “And hypothetically, of course, if you were the killer and it was your weapon of choice, how would you administer it?”
“Ingestion,” she replied simply. “Adding it to a drink is less intrusive, non-violent. I wouldn’t have to be stronger than them in a struggle. If it were injected, I’d need to be able to overpower them, and you said there were no obvious puncture marks so, if it was injected, in the inside of the mouth or in the corner of the eye, I’d need to somehow render them unconscious first. Smoking it would be detrimental to myself, so that’d be out. So yeah, drinking it. Slipping it into a glass like a roofie.”
“What does it look like?”
“Oh, well that depends,” she replied. “Think of it like hashish. Can be pressed, or solid. Or it can be water-purified into a paste or liquid. But Detective, I can only speculate at this point. I haven’t seen it firsthand, let alone actually run tests on it. My opinion is based on hypotheticals and estimations based on chemical processes and reactions. Though I’ve read the witness accounts from civilians in Russia and Cambodia, and honestly, it’s so unbelievable it has to be true.”
August nodded slowly. “For what it’s worth, Violet. I agree with you. I think it’s the drug that was used, and I think I found out how it was brought into the country.”
Jacob’s gaze shot to his, and all August had to do was turn his computer screen around.
“Violet,” August continued. “Could you send Jacob anything you have on P7849? Anything at all. All the genius stuff, chemical breakdowns, biosynthesis. Anything.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”
The call ended while Jacob finished reading the news report. “What the fuck?” he whispered. His eyes met August’s. “What the actual fuck?”
“I know. We need to go speak to my boss.” He clicked on the file case tab. “And there’s this . . .”
Jacob read the case report on screen, and his eyes got wider and his mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
“Exactly.”
August pulled up the evidence request forms and added that each test be run for the detection of elevated phenylacetic acid and trace amine tryptamine, then the newspaper article, plus the archived case file, and he sent them all to the printer. He stood up and looked Jacob right in the eye and whispered, “Don’t speak about it in here.”
Jacob’s brow furrowed, but he gave a nod. “Yeah, okay.”
August took a step closer to him, around the corner of his desk. Jacob didn’t move, and they were almost touching from toe to chest. “Um,” August said. “I’m going to need you to back up so I can get out.”
“Oh.” Jacob blushed pink and shuffled around the chair and whiteboard. “Sure.”
And August led the way to the printer. He collected all his documents, making sure none were missing, then he led the way to Reinhart’s office. August, Jacob on his heels, knocked on his open door. “Boss? Those evidence retesting requests,” he said, sliding the papers onto his desk. He kept the newspaper printout in his hand. “Um, if you sign off on them now, we can drive them out to the evidence stores and deliver them personally.”
Reinhart leaned back in his chair, put his pen down, and raised an eyebrow.
“Is it that urgent?”
“Yes. The second body found two days ago is a confirmed link to the others, sir. And we believe we may have found a breakthrough.”
He frowned. “Explain.”
“With the type of chemical used to incapacitate the victims, sir,” August said.
“A chemical?”
And in that split second, he decided to withhold the information. He was actually going to not tell his boss. He didn’t know why . . . he just felt like this information was too important to get dismissed like everything else got dismissed. But he also knew he’d need Reinhart’s authority at some point to take it much further. He just wasn’t ready to show all his cards just yet. “Yeah, we’re chasing some leads. Just out of curiosity, if a classified controlled substance nine is seized by us, where is it stored?”
Reinhart frowned and his gaze darkened. “At the chem centre. Where all hazardous evidence is stored. You’re asking all kinds of interesting questions, Shaw. Should I be concerned?”
“No, sir. I believe a certain kind of drug was used against the victims. It’s basically untraceable, sir. But highly dangerous.”
He stared, a steel-blue gaze that could have cut glass. Another man might have looked away, but August never flinched. “You’re still convinced, aren’t you? Even after all these years.”
“Yes, sir. Even more so now.”
Reinhart gave Jacob a brief once over, and Jacob raised his chin. August liked that defiance, that ‘dare you to find better’ confidence. He liked how they stood side by side, a united front.
Reinhart sighed and, picking up his pen, began to sign the forms. “Well, at least we’ll know one way or another. But Shaw, I shouldn’t have to remind you . . . these are not the only cases on your desk.”
“I know, sir.” He swallowed hard. “But this is big. We have this guy pegged for ten murders, minimum. God knows how many more the missing persons search will find that fit these parameters. When we catch this guy, and we will, he’ll be listed as one of Australia’s most prolific serial killers.”
Reinhart scowled, then looked back at Jacob. “And you agree with him?”
“Yes, sir,” Jacob replied without missing a beat. “Actually, sir. I’m having a little trouble understanding why no one else agrees with him.”
Reinhart’s pen stilled mid-signature, and August’s heart skidded to a stop. “Is that so?” he asked, his tone icy cold.
“Well, yeah. He’s been working on these cases for eight years, has a string of confirmed links, and when he says this could be Australia’s worst serial killer, no one believes him. He has to fight uphill for every single thing, on his own. I’m starting to think it’s something personal.”
Reinhart blinked, the tension in the room ramped up to a nine, and August’s chest felt far too tight.
Reinhart’s gaze went from Jacob’s, to August’s, and he chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. “Personal? He doesn’t know, does he, Detective Shaw?”
August had to swallow down rising panic. He shook his head, and he had to squeeze air out so he could speak. “No, sir.” Reinhart pushed the forms toward August. They were signed, at least. He gave a nod and took his papers. “Thank you, sir.”
He couldn’t even look at Jacob as he left, but he knew he’d followed him out. He went straight into his office and began packing up the files that were laid out over his desk.
“August, what are you doing?”
“I’m not leaving them here,” he replied. He wasn’t letting them out of his sight.
Jacob put his hand on August’s arm just as he went to close Christopher’s folder. “What’s going on? What did Reinhart mean when he said I didn’t know? You didn’t tell him about the drug bust twenty years ago. August, what aren’t you telling me?”
August hung his head. He leaned on the desk because he couldn’t seem to breathe right. He picked up a photograph off the file he had in his hand, and he stared at it. “Christopher Maskey. Case file 10-4788,” he said, not even having to look at the number. “He was my Christopher. I loved him, I lived with him. For nine years. He was my entire world.” August fought the burning in his eyes, in his throat. He stared at the photograph and thumbed Christopher’s face. “He was murdered in our house. I found him. I was late getting home. I was always late getting home. I found him, Jacob. I was the one who found him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Oh God.
The look of heartbreak, of complete devastation on August’s face, in his voice, in his eyes, made Jake’s heart squeeze to the point of pain.
He’d known something was off. He’d known something was amiss with August, not just today with his being upset earlier but with the whole case. There was something August wasn’t disclosing, and Reinhart had just confirmed it by saying this case was personal.
Jake had no idea just how personal it was.
But this was a police investigation, and August had withheld information from him.
Like August could read his mind, he said, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think what everyone else thinks. That I’m just desperate to prove Christopher didn’t commit suicide, that I’m chasing ghosts, or that I’m just that sad, poor queer guy who’s driving himself crazy.” August’s eyes were glassy, his tears threatening to spill. “Because I’m not. He didn’t do it, Jacob. He didn’t. I knew him, I knew his every thought, his every dream. He didn’t kill himself, I swear it.”
Jake wanted to pull August in for a hug, but this was hardly the place for that. So, instead, he put his hands on August’s shoulders. “I believe you.”
August’s eyes welled with tears, and he sagged with relief. “Thank you. God, thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to, I was going to, but I finally had someone on my side who believed in this case, and I didn’t want to risk that.”
Jake nodded but kept his hands on him. “I get it. I do. Me not knowing didn’t impede the case.” That was true. It wasn’t like August had asked him to take a special interest in Christopher’s case or asked him to make it a priority. He hadn’t asked for special treatment or favours, he hadn’t jeopardised anything, and he hadn’t crossed any murky unethical lines. He’d simply wanted Jacob to treat Christopher’s case like all the others. “You could have trusted me sooner though.”
“It wasn’t a trust thing,” August whispered. “Not on your behalf anyway. I do trust you. It’s me . . .”
“It’s not you, it’s me?” Jake joked. “That’s the line you’re gonna give me.”
August almost smiled, though his eyes were still glassy. “I am sorry. For what it’s worth, you’re the first guy—the first person—I’ve talked to in eight years. You’re the first person I’ve spent time with since . . . well, since Christopher died. I couldn’t handle the looks of sympathy and shame.” He took a deep breath and looked Jake right in the eye. “You’re the only person I’ve trusted since then, so when I say it’s a me problem, I’m not bullshitting you.”
Jake gave him a smile and squeezed his shoulder before letting him go. “I believe you. And you can be wary of trusting people. No one would blame you. And if it’s any consolation, I trust you. And you can tell me everything about Christopher or nothing more than I need to know about this case. But right now, we need to get to that evidence storage depot because we’re running out of time.”
August gave a nod and shoved the folders he was holding into his satchel. Whether or not he was allowed to take them was a moot point, because he was clearly stuffing them into his satchel and had every intention of taking them. So Jake asked a different question. “Why are you taking them?” Jacob whispered.
August glanced to the door. “I’ll explain in the car.”
Okay, so August had trust issues. He admitted that, but not trusting police files in a police station was a bit of a stretch. Wasn’t it? But Jake was hardly about to argue. August was, at the very crux of it, his superior officer. “What do you want me to grab?”
&nbs
p; “Ah, my laptop, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s not going to fit in here. Oh, just wait one sec,” August said, then scooted around his desk and typed a few things on the desktop computer. “I’ll need to go past the printer on the way out.” August shut down his computer, picked up his satchel, and headed to the door. “You ready?”
Jake took out his phone, snapped a few pics of the whiteboard he’d been working on—he didn’t like his chances of being able to take it—pulled on his coat, and picked up August’s laptop. Seeing August’s coat still hanging over the back of his chair, he grabbed it too and met August in the hall outside the printer room, checking the documents in his hand. Together they headed back through the rabbit warren of hallways toward the rear car park. Jacob felt like he was back in high school, about to get yelled at by the school principal for doing shit he shouldn’t have been doing. And considering he was a cop, that wasn’t a particularly good feeling.
August put his satchel in the boot of his car, and Jake added the laptop. Then he handed August his coat. “Because it’s freezing.”
August shrugged it on and finally smiled. “Thank you.”
When they were out of the car park and on their way to the evidence storage warehouse, wherever that was, Jacob had no idea, he asked, “Okay, wanna tell me what’s really going on? Because this whole secrecy thing—like taking files you probably shouldn’t have taken and not trusting the other cops you work with and not wanting to talk about P7849 to your boss or even in your office, like the walls have ears—is all a little unusual. Not gonna lie.”
August looked from the road to Jake, then back to the road. “The P7849,” he replied. “Was taken into evidence by us. The police. We took it.”
“So?” Jake questioned. “Of course we did. That’s generally how it works. We take the drugs from the bad guys and lock it away, then we usually destroy it.”