Close Up the Sky

by James L. Ferrell

  "We go back a long way, Carla. This could be big trouble, so what I'm telling you is strictly on the QT, okay?"

  She leaned back in her chair and gave him a look loaded with disdain. Her silence lasted so long it made him nervous.

  "You know you can trust me, Ryan Pierce," she finally said in an indignant tone. "Besides, so far you haven't told me anything. Now, what is it?"

  "This guy's from that secret military base out at Apache Point."

  She considered that for a minute. Like most people who had lived in the Albuquerque area for any length of time, she knew the Apache Point area was forbidden to air and foot traffic. Neither she, nor anybody she knew, had the vaguest idea of what went on there. Because of the secrecy involved, the installation usually left an impression of danger in everyone's mind. The comatose man in ICU bed number ten was, as far as she knew, the only person she had ever seen who actually worked there. There were the occasional military people around the airport, but no one ever knew who they were or where they were going; they were just there. Over the years the mystique had spawned stories of strange occurrences in the desert. There were reports of aircraft disappearing after accidentally straying into the Apache Point area, and sinister forms had been seen moving through the darkness near its perimeter. Hunters told stories of how animals avoided the place, even though the land was their natural habitat. Of course no one really believed the stories, but superstition still held sway over a small portion of the local population.

  Carla pursed her lips and knitted her brows. "That gives me the willies just a little."

  He responded with a patronizing grin. "You don't believe all those stories do you?"

  "You know me better than that," she shot back. "But you'll have to admit there's something mighty strange about a place you can't even get close to. And why don't we ever see anybody who works there? All these military helicopters coming and going all the time, but no soldiers on the streets. It's not like any army base I've ever heard of. Ought to be a lot of GI's hanging around the bars looking for girls or something."

  "Yeah, I know." The memory of his experience with the stone-faced Marine in the helicopter was still fresh in his mind. "That's why I came to see you. I need a big favor. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, and I'll understand if you can't do it."

  "What is it?" She looked expectant.

  "I need blood and urine samples from him."

  Her mouth dropped open. "What on earth for?"

  "For the crime lab. And I don't want anybody to know I have them."

  "What's wrong with the hospital tests? I can give you the results of those right now." She reached for the chart, but he put out his hand and stopped her.

  "What I'm looking for probably wouldn't show up in them. I need our forensic pathology boys to check it."

  Carla got up and leaned out the door. She looked down the hallway toward the ICU entrance. One of the other nurses was standing just outside the doors discussing some paperwork with an aid. No one else was in sight.

  "You know what could happen?" she asked Pierce. "The urine I can handle, but drawing blood without a doctor's authorization?" She sounded doubtful.

  "Like I said, I'll understand if you can't do it." He could tell she was shaken, and he hated asking her to put her job on the line for something he could not even explain to himself, much less to anyone else.

  "Can you tell me why?"

  "I don't think so, Carla. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm not sure I can explain it so it would make any sense. Right now it doesn't even make sense to me. Just trust me. Nobody's going to know except the two of us. I'll make up a dummy name for the crime lab service form."

  For the first time she really looked at him. His eyes were pink from lack of sleep and there were dark circles under them. His suit coat also seemed to hang more loosely across his shoulders than she remembered. Something was taking a heavy toll on him. What he was asking was a violation of professional ethics, and they both knew it. But she knew that if their positions were reversed he wouldn't hesitate to help her, regardless of the consequences. She nodded and smiled.

  "Go down to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee. I'll be there in a few minutes."

  Pierce paced the floor of the crime lab's employee lounge while he waited for the test results. He had tried taking a catnap in one of the easy chairs scattered about the room, but was too keyed up to sleep. He looked at his watch; it was four minutes later than the last time he checked. Early morning sunlight slipped through the partially open window blinds, making bright bars on the floor. He stopped pacing and parted the blinds a few inches with his finger. Rush hour traffic was building up on the city streets; pretty soon it would be bumper-to-bumper. The thought struck him as being ironic. No matter how serious things were, people still went about their routines as though nothing was wrong. It made him think of a piece of verse from the Old Testament. He couldn't remember the exact words but it had something to do with the earth abiding forever. In the long view it was a comforting thought, but it did little to ease everyday anxiety. He was pondering the abstract ideas of heaven and infinity when a door opened.

  "You owe me for this, Pierce." It was Mike Garrett, one of the lab's forensic technicians. "I pulled your test around fifty others, not to mention I had to start work earlier than usual." He handed him a computer printout showing the test results. "Murphy’s still working on the rifle," he added.

  Pierce glanced at the report but did not bother reading the technical jargon. He patted the breast of his coat and said, "I forgot my glasses. What does this say?"

  The lounge had a little kitchenette built into one corner. "Well now," Garrett said as he walked to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Pierce waited while he stirred in cream and sugar, then sipped it. He nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with the mixture. The short delay in answering his question irritated the detective, but he knew Garrett was not intentionally ignoring him. He marked it off as being one of the little eccentricities that most police officers accepted in their technical counterparts. They were a cross between investigator and egghead, and their services were absolutely indispensable.

  Garrett finally plopped down in one of the chairs and pushed the thick glasses he wore further up on his nose. Pierce wondered why he didn't have a piece of white tape wrapped around their bridge like most nerds in the movies. When he was settled he gave Pierce a scrutinizing look.

  "This guy alive or dead?" He pointed to the report in Pierce's hand.

  "Alive. For the moment anyway. What did you find?"

  Garrett shook his head and adjusted the glasses again. "I never saw anything quite like it before. There's a combination of two different chemicals present. One of them has properties similar to LSD, only much more powerful." He scratched his head and frowned. "No, that's not exactly right. More like a cross between LSD and certain forms of embalming fluid, such as formaldehyde. That would be more accurate, but I can't make a positive identification as belonging to either of those classes."

  Pierce had been in police work long enough to be exposed to his share of drug users. LSD was a powerful hallucinogen, capable of completely interrupting normal brain activity. Under its influence the human mind could transform things from the dark recesses of the imagination into apparent reality. Some users claimed to have tasted colors; others went on fiery tours of hell, or communicated with God in the sublime reaches of heaven. Individual reactions were always unpredictable and usually dangerous.

  "What do you mean you've never seen anything like it? We've processed enough drug samples through here to fill a computer hard drive," he said.

  "Not like this one," Garrett argued. "It doesn't fit into any of the normal categories. The chemical composition indicates that in the human body it would probably act like LSD, only judging from the amount I found in the urine sample it takes a much greater volume to produce the same effect. A normal dose of LSD is very small. If this stuff had the same
power, your man ingested enough to put half the city on a trip to wonderland. That's one of the reasons why I asked if he was alive. If you could get me a sample of the chemical itself I'd like to do some tests on it.” He paused and smiled crookedly. “I know society doesn’t need it, but I think that this guy has discovered a totally new drug."

  Pierce pondered that for a few seconds before saying anything. Instead of clarifying some of the puzzle, Garrett's report had simply added another inscrutable piece. Was Apache Point involved in manufacturing drugs for military purposes; perhaps something to be used in chemical warfare? He shook his head. Instinctively, he knew such a speculation was incorrect; it had to be something else.

  "You said two chemicals." He ignored Garrett's request for a sample.

  "Yeah, that's another peculiar thing. Why anybody would ingest a thing like that is beyond me. It's a sort of disinfectant-preservative for want of something better to call it. Like I said, it's similar to formaldehyde only it's not derived from methyl alcohol. The chemical structure indicates its base is probably some kind of plant oil."

  "A disinfectant-preservative? What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means that if you replaced the blood in a dead body with this stuff, it would act like embalming fluid. But ingesting it makes no sense unless you're trying to commit suicide."

  Pierce eased himself down onto the arm of a chair. He wanted to be sure he understood what Garrett was saying. "Maybe the hallucinogen needs the other drug to make it work," he offered.

  "No, they're unrelated. In fact, they would have basically opposite effects. But I'll tell you one thing: He had to have taken the hallucinogen first." The technician leaned back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. He gave Pierce a smug look and waited for him to ask why. Crime lab people rarely got any credit for their work on important cases, even though they sometimes discovered things that were directly responsible for solving them. The detectives always got the publicity and accolades. It always gave Garrett a feeling of satisfaction to know that his technical investigative skills far surpassed those of police detectives. In cases of this nature, he got a kick out of showing off his superior knowledge.

  Pierce rose to the bait. "Okay, why?" he asked.

  "Because the preservative would have put him out like a light within seconds of ingesting it. Unless he was trying to kill himself, he probably swallowed it by accident while he was under the influence of the hallucinogen." He paused and scratched his forehead absently. The smug attitude was replaced by one of puzzlement. "The only thing I don't understand is where he got the stuff."

  "Where he got it?"

  "Yeah. It's not something you could buy or even make unless you're a chemist. Maybe not even then. Like the other drug, there are elements in this one that I can't specifically identify. I need a pure sample for further testing."

  Before he could pursue the sample request any further, Pierce interrupted him with the main question: "Could this stuff induce a coma?"

  "Sure." He swirled the coffee around in the cup while he thought the question over. "Given in the right amounts it could cause paralysis to the motor functions of the brain, respiration would be reduced, blood pressure would drop, and the eyes would dilate. Yeah, it could cause coma, but death would be close behind. This guy's lucky to be alive."

  "Let's say it did put him into a coma," Pierce continued. "If you didn't know about the chemicals in the blood, what would be the immediate diagnosis in a case like that? I mean from a medical viewpoint."

  "Hard to say," Garrett responded. He pursed his lips and said, "It wouldn't have an immediate effect on the heart. Probably look more like a stroke than anything else."

  Pierce slid down into the chair. For a few seconds he just sat there staring at Garrett while he mentally reviewed Leahy’s note. He was tempted to pull it out and read it again. How in hell had he figured that one out? He marked it down as one of the questions to ask when he talked to Leahy later in the day.

  "Will the effects wear off?" he asked.

  "If he was in good health the body might be able to oxidize the chemicals over a period of time, but that's just speculation. I don't have enough information to say for sure. It would have to be soon though. It's bound to have a devastating effect on the liver. But who knows, drugs do funny things sometimes."

  "I need your best guess."

  "I can't give you a yes or no answer," Garrett continued, "but you know, that preservative reminds me of something we…."

  Another technician entered the room, interrupting him. He had the rifle in his hand. "You Sergeant Pierce?" he asked.

  "Right." Pierce thought he knew most of the crime lab people, but he had never met this man. He was short and stocky, maybe in his early fifties. Garrett introduced him as Jimmy Murphy, their ballistics expert.

  "I was able to get a piece of the serial number, but they did too good a job on the manufacturer’s name," he said. "Doesn't matter though. I know who makes it." He handed the rifle and a piece of scrap paper to Pierce. The paper had the partial serial number written on it. "Those are the last four digits. You need a formal report on this? Garrett said you were in a hurry."

  Pierce laid the rifle across a chair then looked at his fingers. The weapon was still slightly wet with the chemical used in raising the serial number. “No, I won’t need a report right now,” he replied.

  "Sorry about that," Murphy apologized for the chemical.

  "It's okay. You say you know the manufacturer?"

  "Yeah. Berkman Tool and Die. It's a small California company that specializes in limited production weapons. That's their model SJ40. It shouldn't be hard to trace through their records. There probably aren't over three or four hundred in existence."

  Pierce looked down at the rifle. It had an unusual design, much shorter than most shoulder weapons. He had checked it over in detail before bringing it to the lab, and had observed that it was capable of fully automatic fire. The barrel was about eighteen inches long with a built in silencer. The Marine that delivered it to him had also given him a partially empty thirty-round magazine.

  "Limited production, huh? Who would they sell them to?"

  "I saw a few of them when I was in military intelligence. That's how I knew who the manufacturer was. The stock disconnects from the receiver so the whole thing can be carried in a briefcase or sack. It's more accurate than the typical hand-held machine gun because of the longer barrel, and it can be fired just as fast. They're mostly used by government agencies in covert operations. Very effective at ranges under two hundred yards."

  "Covert operations? You mean like our Special Forces units?"

  "I doubt it. More like the CIA."

  Pierce didn't like the sound of that. The situation was already too complicated. But he was in too far to stop now, regardless of who was involved. Besides, Murphy might be wrong. The weapon was probably stolen. "How hard would it be for a civilian to get one?" he asked.

  Murphy shook his head. “As far as this particular weapon is concerned, it would be damn near impossible. These aren’t even used in the United States. Most of them were sold to rebel forces operating in third-world nations before they became unfriendly to American interests. A good many of them wound up in the Middle East, if you know what I mean."

  Pierce did. He retrieved a paper towel from the kitchenette and wiped the chemical off his fingers. He picked up the rifle, wiped it clean, and stuck it under his arm. "You guys have been a big help. Anything I can do for you, just let me know." He took a few steps toward the door then turned around.

  "Mike, you were about to say something when Murphy came in."

  Garrett dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's not important. That preservative reminded me of something I studied in chemistry, that's all. It's nothing."

  "You never know what's important," Pierce insisted. "What was it?"

  "Don't laugh, but it had some traces of special unguents they used a long time ago to embalm people. We used to kick it around in clas
s, about how we could make a fortune selling the formula to undertakers if we just knew all the ingredients and how to process them." He shook his head and let out a sigh. "It's a shame, too. Judging from the results they got, it's a hell of a lot better than what we use today."

  "The results who got?"

  "Oh, it's an old formula invented by the Egyptians to embalm important people. You know," he said with a chuckle. “Mummy juice."

  Pierce's face assumed a blank expression. He stared at Garrett for a long moment while his mental wheels turned. At last he grunted to himself, turned and went out the door. Just as he got to his car his cellphone rang. He checked the number and recognized it as his office. He opened the flip and said, “Pierce.”

  "We've got a problem, Sarge," said the voice on the other end. It was Vivian Honeywell, the secretary in homicide.

  "So what is it?" he asked.

  "The city garbage service found the body of a white male at the airport a few minutes ago. It was stuffed in a dumpster. They want you over there right away."

  "Any details?"

  "Not many. Looks like it may be one of the military guys from that base in the desert or something. His face is really mutilated, like it’s been beaten with some kind of blunt object. Been dead at least a week. There are two uniform cars securing the scene."

  "How do they know it's a military person?"

  "The responding officers searched the dumpster and found some papers with blood on them that might have belonged to the dead guy. One of them was a letter in an envelope from a woman who may have been his wife or girlfriend. The letter indicates that he was a soldier or something."

  "Okay, I'm on the way." One military type in the hospital close to death from ingestion of drugs that the crime lab can't identify, and now another one dead at the airport, he thought. Damn strange to say the least.