“Why?”
“Because they resent it. They’re still on the payroll, but they’re not official any longer.”
“Oh shit.”
“Exactly.”
Things finally settled down after a few more days, and there were no more immediate indications of anyone from IPD coming after Ashton, so Ashton and Ames met back at the Laughing Cat, taking what Ames called “the undercover route” to get there. George met them and put them in the corner booth of the backmost back room again, closing off the folding partitions to allow them privacy.
This time, when Nick walked Cally home – continuing to take the “undercover routes” to get there – he kissed her.
The next night, at her invitation, Nick skulked his way over to Cally’s apartment and she cooked for him. The first course was a simple spinach salad with a homemade champagne vinaigrette followed by a hearty, warming soupe à l’oignon. Then she served broiled tilapia drizzled with a delicate lemon-dill sauce and a delicious ratatouille on the side. Dessert was a chocolate crème brûlée. All were, according to Cally, from old family recipes.
More, she put out her good china – the set, she told him, that her mother had given her – and put flowers and lit candles on the table. The wine Nick brought per her instructions was poured into two crystal goblets, to be enjoyed with the meal.
It was by far the most sophisticated and delicious meal Nick had had since he had left home on Flanders.
It was definitely better than either the frozen dinner or the cold-cut sandwich.
After dinner, they sat on her sofa and talked.
Mostly.
The rest of the time, they did what young people attracted to one another often did, since the origins of the human race long ago, on Earth.
And that was a lot better than sitting home alone.
The Sandman
A couple of days – almost a full week – after the attack on Carter, Peterson called a meeting of the investigative department.
“He’s back, guys,” she told them. “‘Jack’ is back in the game.”
The older detectives cursed quietly.
“What happened, and who did he get?” Gorski asked.
“Lana Rounder, head of marketing for the Flying Porker restaurant chain,” Peterson said. “She reports directly to the vice president of marketing, Jack Witte. Apparently she collapsed this morning in her office and didn’t respond, so they called for emergency transport to the hospital. She’s already gone into a coma, her liver is failing as we speak, and they found the G.A.S. treatment in her bloodstream. The failure cascade is already starting.”
“Damn,” Demetrius muttered, patently distressed.
“Um, ma’am, who’s Jack?” Ames asked. “And...what did the rest of that mean?”
“Okay, that’s right, you newbies don’t know. Lemme see. About five or six years back–“
“It started about ten years ago, Maia,” Demetrius reminded.
“True, but it went on until around five years ago,” Peterson averred, “we had a serial killer, Cally. Some of us started off calling him ‘Jack’ after the very first recorded serial killer in human history. Others, like the news media, called him ‘the Sandman’ after his method of killing, and that’s mostly the name that stuck. We never caught him, and eventually he stopped killing, and the murders became cold cases. Until now.”
“How did he kill, then?” Ashton asked.
“No one knew, at first,” Demetrius said. “The victims would fall unconscious, drop into a coma, and then internal organs would start to fail, one by one, in an increasing and accelerating cascade. Eventually not enough was functional to keep them alive, and they died.”
“What was the profile on his victims?” Compton asked.
“We were never able to figure that out,” Gorski said. “That’s why we were never able to solve any of the murders. If you have a serial killer with a known modus operandi, a specific method of killing, but you can’t figure out why he chooses his targets, or how he actually kills beyond ‘somehow he administers this toxic substance,’ you’re going to have a hard time solving the cases.”
“Shit,” Weaver muttered.
“Exactly,” Peterson said. “Now, Taylor Haptman and Jill Amundsen are still on that same case that they’re fighting with over in Charia, which I’m beginning to think is never gonna end. At any rate, they’re out of pocket just like they’ve been for well over a year, now. Which hurts, because they were the leads on the Sandman killings, last time. I’ve pinged ‘em, and they’re making themselves available as best they can for us to consult, but that’s about as much as they can manage. And Peter and Roger are already assigned to other cases, and they’re using Tim and Darrell, which leaves the rest of you. I want all of you working this for me. And that’s not a team of slouches. So what I’ve done is pull up all of the old case files and uploaded them to a ‘study room’ in channel 352, with tables and chairs so everybody can get comfortable and look things over. Gene, you and Stefan take Nick and go over to the latest...damn, I hate to call it a crime scene, because the place where the victim passed out may or may not be the place where the toxin was administered, but it’s the best we can do right now.”
“What was the toxin, anyway?” Ashton queried. “Did they ever find out what was causing the deaths?”
“Yes, the forensic pathologists did. It’s actually a medicine, one of the virulosins,” Demetrius said. “Used for very rare diseases, and occasionally for rare types of injuries. In this particular instance, it was developed for Griggs-Andersen Syndrome, or G.A.S., ‘gas,’ where the bodily organs don’t know how to use glycogen correctly. So they have to be modified at the genetic level to utilize it properly, and they use a particular virulosin to do it. The doctors therefore refer to the medication as G.A.S. virulosin. The thing is, like most powerful medicines, you have to be careful and really nail the diagnosis, because in a healthy person, the virulosin can actually end up killing the organs by destroying their ability to use glycogen for fuel.”
“So...it kind of...creates the syndrome...in somebody that doesn’t already have it…” Ames pondered.
“Something like, yes,” Demetrius confirmed. “Only it’s accelerated, because of the viral nature of the virulosin. Whereas someone with G.A.S. might take five years to die in the absence of the cure, someone without it, given the virulosin, might last only a week. If that.” He paused, then added, “I’m told it’s hell to watch.”
“Damn,” Compton muttered.
“Exactly,” Gorski agreed.
“Isn’t the usual method of administering a virulosin via eyedrops?” Ashton asked, as they headed for the office building where the latest victim had fallen unconscious, hopping the commuter train to go under the Imperial Park in the process. They boarded from the IUS Imperial Center station, and would debark in the Imperial Park East station.
“It depends,” Demetrius said, offhanded, with a shrug. “I’m no expert by any means, but on the last go-round of the Sandman, I had occasion to learn a lot, because I was working under Jill Amundsen. It seems to depend on what, exactly, is being affected by the disease it’s intended to treat. Now, Melsbach Syndrome, yeah, it goes in the eyes, because it follows the optic nerves to the brain, and that’s where the problem is. Other virulosins might treat the stomach, or the digestive tract, or the lungs. For those, you might drink it, or breathe it in in a mist, or something like that. The doctors told me you could inject it, put it in an intravenous drip, all kinds of things like that.”
“So it could have been put in a drink, or in food, or even in a humidifier,” Ashton speculated, thoughtful, as they exited the train at the Imperial Park East stop.
“Yes, but the humidifier would have affected a lot more people, unless it was a personal, room thing,” Gorski pointed out.
“Hm.”
“Exactly.” Demetrius paused at an elevator, activating it in VR. “An added complication, though, is that most virulosins need to be kept c
old – even frozen – right up until they’re administered, in order to remain viable. Although it’s possible to heat them right before administration, if the situation requires; at that point, they’re pretty sturdy little buggums.” He shrugged. “It’s really just about preservation until it’s time to administer.”
“Damn, it just gets harder and harder,” Ashton grumbled, as they entered the elevator and took it up to street level.
“Now you see why we never caught him the first time around,” Gorski noted.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the office building where Lana Rounder had passed out. Now hospitalized as her liver failed and other organs threatened collapse, she had worked in a restaurant chain’s headquarters, as head of marketing for the chain.
“Oh, you’re the detectives to investigate what happened to Ms. Rounder,” the receptionist in the lobby said when they showed her their credentials; her desk sign read Amani Hayden. “I’ll call Mr. Witte at once. I can’t imagine what happened! Lana – she told me to call her Lana; she always stopped and chatted with me – was so friendly and generally well-liked; I just can’t understand why anyone would want to kill her.”
“So you already know it was a murder attempt?” Gorski asked, shooting a surreptitious, concerned glance at Demetrius and Ashton.
“Oh, Yes, sir! Mr. Witte has already called the hospital to find out her condition. They...” the little receptionist broke off, looking like she might cry. “They said she’s...dying, and the doctors can’t stop it. Mr. Witte was shocked, and he put out word for people to be sending up prayers and good thoughts for her, just in case they can find a way to stop it.”
“Those are all good things to do, ma’am,” Demetrius said in a gentle, quiet voice. “Miracles do happen. And perhaps we can find out who did it, and put an end to it.”
“O-okay,” Hayden sniffled, fighting tears. “I’ll call Mr. Witte. His executive assistant said he was fairly pacing the floor, waiting for you.”
Jack Witte was a charismatic, personable sort, obviously a promoter, but courteous for all that. It could have been all too easy for him to come across as a used-vehicle salesman, Ashton thought, but he didn’t; more, he seemed genuinely concerned over the situation. And not a little stunned.
“I just can’t believe it,” he kept saying. “I only saw her this morning, and she seemed fine.”
“Could we see her office? That was where she passed out, correct?” Demetrius asked.
“Oh, certainly, certainly. And yes, that’s where she collapsed. Right this way,” Witte said, heading for the elevator. “I’ll show you to it personally. I just can’t believe it. We had coffee together and discussed the latest ad campaign plan, just this morning, not an hour before she collapsed.”
“Where did the coffee come from?” Ashton asked, jumping on the statement.
“Oh, from the company break room. Lana’s assistant brought it to us.”
“And you both had some?” Gorski pressed.
“Yes, of course. I drink mine with cream and two sugars, she drinks – drank – hers black.”
“Dead end,” Demetrius murmured to his companions.
“Yeah, dammit,” Ashton grumbled under his breath.
“Did she have anyone under her?” Gorski asked. “Designers, marketers, artists, or the like?”
“She had two marketers,” Witte said. “We hired out our artwork to a well-known firm.”
“Who were her marketers?” Gorski followed up his question. “And were there any problems within the group recently?”
“Livy Glenn and Tristan Wall,” Witte said. “And no, they all got along quite well. Ms. Glenn and Mr. Wall are fairly young, only a year or so out of university, so Lana was mentoring them. Those three made a great team.”
“Here it is, gentlemen,” Witte said, stopping in front of an executive office. “My own office is right down the hall, and I fear I’m expecting an important communiqué, so I need to get back to it. I’ll leave you here; do whatever you need to do, and if you need me, just step down to my office. I’ll stop whatever I’m doing to help.”
“Thank you, sir,” Demetrius said, shaking the vice-president’s hand. “We’ll do that.”
And Witte headed down the corridor.
There was nothing especially unusual about the office where Lana Rounder had collapsed; it was fairly modern, with an executive desk and matching ergonomic chair, a number of colorful, rough print images lying on the desktop. Two recently-stained but empty ceramic coffee mugs sat on a credenza along one wall, along with several more print images; a luxurious visitor chair sat beside it. Old-style books in bookcases sat on shelves along the walls, in addition to quite a few old notebooks, each marked with a year. Ashton nosed about the notebooks; they proved to be scrapbooks of previous years’ marketing campaigns.
“She likes old-fashioned print,” Gorski noticed.
“Some marketing types do,” Demetrius agreed. “They say it helps ‘em envision it on a wall or shop window, or whatever.”
“One thing there isn’t, is Nick’s humidifier,” Gorski observed.
“Yeah, I saw,” Ashton said with a stifled sigh.
“Hey, it was a definite idea, kiddo, and one we need to check up on for the cold cases,” Demetrius encouraged. “Besides, this might not even have been where the virulosin was introduced.”
“But how the hell do we figure out where it was introduced?” Ashton asked, frustrated.
“Well, the stuff is going to take effect really fast, likely within hours, and the bigger the dose, the faster it kicks in,” Gorski pointed out. “So if we have to, we simply try to reconstruct where she was for the last, oh, up to maybe twelve hours, and one of those places has to be where it was done.”
“She was here all day,” came a voice behind them.
They turned. An older woman of around fifty stood there, a salt-and-pepper brunette with more salt than pepper, and hazel eyes wearing a worried expression.
“I assume you’re the police investigators?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Demetrius said. “I’m Inspector Eugene Demetrius. These are my colleagues, Detective Stefan Gorski, and Lieu-uh, Captain Investigator, Officer Dominick Ashton.”
“Pleased,” she said, shaking hands. “I’m Lana’s assistant, Joyce Abelard.”
“Can you tell us if there is anything unusual here, something she doesn’t usually have in her office? Anything new, any unexpected visitor, anyone you’ve never seen before?” Gorski queried.
“No,” Abelard said. “She’s had no visitors, no new projects, not even any shipments or new print proofs. Not today.”
“Where did she go for lunch?”
“Her desk,” Abelard said with a rueful chuckle. “She actually brought in leftovers from home, most of the time.”
“Do we still have the containers the food was in?” Ashton piped up. “It might be good to test them, to make certain they were clean of the virulosin...”
“Good thought, Nick,” Gorski agreed. “Do we?”
“Yes, but it was disposable,” Abelard told them. She pointed. “It’s all right there in her wastebasket.”
“Got it.” Ashton immediately knelt by the receptacle, pulling forensic gloves and some poly bags for the items. He donned the gloves and promptly began a gingerly rooting in the waste can, extracting the food-stained items and bagging them.
“What about this morning?” Gorski continued the questioning while his capable protégé triaged the trash can. “Had she been anywhere before she came to work?”
“No, she came straight from home. I met her at the front door of her building, like I always do, and we walked to work together.”
“I guess we check her home next,” Gorski decided. “Finished there, Nick?”
“Yes, sir; bagged and tagged,” Ashton said, standing and tucking several bags into the special tote Demetrius produced and held out to him.
“Then let’s go,” Demetrius declared.
After the investigators left, a troubled Abelard glanced around the office.
The wastebasket was almost completely empty, where the young investigator had dug around for Rounder’s food containers and utensils, but they had left the various print proofs alone, on both the desk and the credenza. Nothing unduly untidy caught her eye, though she absently noted that Rounder and Witte must have moved to the credenza to look over some of the advertising, since a dried coffee ring now stained the top of that cabinet. She sighed.
“I guess I’d best clean that up,” she murmured to herself. “Somehow I doubt Lana is going to be back to do it herself, by the sound of things.”
As the trio of investigators moved through the arcade on the slidewalk toward the building that Lana Rounder had called home, a woman sitting at an outdoor café sipping a cappuccino with a male “companion” watched them move past, then started in surprise.
“Wait a second, sweetie,” she told the john. “I need to check on something real quick.”
“What? I haven’t done anything wrong,” the john said, then smirked. “Yet.”
“No, no, it’s not about you. Just wait a minute.”
“Okay, if you insist.”
“I do.”
The woman dropped into the blank-eyed expression of VR immersion.
“Stash! Stash, where are you! Come quick! I think I see him!” she called. Finally Gorecki appeared in the nondescript gray VR room in response to her emergency summons.
“All right, all right, don’t get y’r panties in a wad. Assuming you’re wearing any. I’m here,” he grumbled. “What the hell do you want, Jeannie? I thought I told you not to bother me at work. I don’t like it when my ex bugs me in the middle of something.”
“That cop you’re trying to find! I think I see him! He went right by me at the café!”
“Which one? Carter or Ashton?”
“I don’t know which one’s which! The young, good-looking guy!”
EMPIRE: Imperial Police Page 11