Terminal 9

by Patricia H. Rushford

  “Worse,” Mac said as he stood up slowly and rubbed his lower back. “And you never complain, which is even more unattractive.” He glanced at Dana. “You feel like doing some typing, partner?”

  “You buying my coffee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m typing.” Dana pulled on Mac’s shoulder-holster strap as he walked past her. “Wake up, you old grump—no sleeping on the job.”

  “Right. Like this job allows sleep.”

  “Better get me another triple. And a scone to go with it,” Dana called after him.

  “You got it.” Mac chuckled as he headed out the door. Working with Dana was getting easier by the minute.

  TWENTY-

  NINE

  DANA TYPED AN ADDENDLM to the original search warrant affidavit in less than an hour, adding the information Tyler had provided and the observations they had made the previous night with Addison Shaw. A Columbia County judge signed the second warrant, authorizing the search and forensic analysis of Shaw’s Lexus.

  Dana phoned Allison at the Portland crime lab, requesting a scientist assist with the search of the car. Allison agreed to render the forensics aid personally, meeting the detectives at the Portland office around 12:30 p.m.

  The Lexus was secured within an indoor garage with yellow crime-scene tape wrapped around the vehicle to keep out the curious types who might wander inside the bay. This included the uniformed patrol troopers who would naturally want to take a look inside a homicide suspect’s car. Mac didn’t want any extra fingerprints or nose smudges on the windows for elimination.

  Mac and Dana were photographing the car when Allison arrived at the bay, backing her blue Ford F-250 up to the suspect’s car. “Hey gang, how goes it?”

  “Good. We’re making a little headway. Thanks for coming out.” Mac shook the criminalist’s hand.

  “Glad you could make it.” Dana waved from the front of the car, snapping a few more photos.

  “This guy in custody for our ricin victim?”

  “Not yet.” Mac answered. “We think he’s the one who whacked Clay’s son and set the house on fire. Our bad guy is Clay Mullins’s attorney, by the way. We set up a meet last night after an eyewitness to the arson made a pretext phone call. Our guy shows up with a gun in his waistband instead of the hush money. The SWAT team nails the bad guy’s car as he’s making a run for it.”

  “Ah, that would explain the flat tires and the gunshot holes in the hood. SWAT must have livened things up a bit.”

  Mac whistled. “You aren’t kidding.”

  “You should have seen the look on Shaw’s face,” Dana added.

  “He was freaked out.”

  Allison walked around the car, taking a look at her project before selecting a starting point. “You have the signed warrant?”

  “Right here.” Mac reached into his inner jacket pocket and held it up for her to see.

  “Good. I think we’ll do some vacuuming first. I assume you want prints?”

  “You bet. We’re hoping to place Jacob Mullins in the passenger area of the car to corroborate our informant’s story.”

  “After I vacuum I’ll see if I can lift some latents with powder, then we’ll fume the car if that doesn’t work. Hope this guy doesn’t mind having his car super-glued for prints.”

  “If our case works out,” Mac told her, “he’ll never be behind the wheel of this car again.” He took off his sports coat and laid it on the backseat.

  After applying latex gloves, Mac retrieved Shaw’s briefcase from the passenger seat of the car. The case was empty, indicating that Shaw had planned to kill Tyler, not pay him off. No surprise there.

  While Mac bagged and tagged Shaw’s briefcase for later examination, Allison pulled the large rolling tray from the back of her truck bed, grabbing a bin with the words FABRIC VAC stenciled on the side in black paint. She lifted out a small vacuum that looked like the type used to clean stairs or other small spaces. This particular vacuum was specialized for forensic examination, equipped with a plastic cartridge to catch any hairs or fibers removed by the vacuum. Allison placed a new cartridge on the vacuum and went to work on the car’s fabric seats and floorboards.

  Fifteen minutes later,Allison removed the cartridge and secured it in an evidence bag. “You guys have hair samples from the victim, or was it consumed in the fire?”

  “We have them at the medical examiner’s office,” Dana answered. “Jacob was partially protected by a piece of the ceiling that fell on him; some old asbestos insulation served as a fire barrier.”

  “Good. I’ll send for the sample so we can compare the head hairs to my sweepings. Without follicle samples I won’t be able to trace DNA, but I can match hairs with a reasonable certainty. I just won’t be able to match the conclusive one in five billion number we like.”

  “Hair fibers would be great, but a latent would make my day.” Mac looked at the evidence cartridge through the clear plastic bag.

  “I’ll do my best, guys. We’re thinking right front passenger seat, correct?”

  “That’s right, at least that’s where our witnesses put him the night of the fire.”

  Allison produced some print powder and went to work on the car’s outer door assembly, then worked her way around the car from one quarter panel to the next. Printing the outside of the car yielded fourteen clean latents, each collected on plastic fingerprint tape before securing the evidence on a white print card.

  “I want to remove the door handles on the passenger side, both inside and out so I can dust the inner handle.”

  This was no easy task. Removing a door handle from a modern car was next to impossible without touching the handle itself. It took several calls to the local Lexus dealership to complete the task without damaging possible evidence.

  “Did you get my voicemail on the ricin, Mac?” Allison asked as he was removing one of the final components in the door assembly.

  “No, no I didn’t. I checked my messages around 7:30 this morning but haven’t since. What did you learn?”

  “With the help of a tech at the Center for Disease Control I was able to say beyond a doubt those skin samples you provided had concentrated amounts of ricin near the injection point. The ricin was examined by the CDC tech, and we have an expert opinion that the poison in Clay’s system was of an extremely high quality. The tech was of the opinion the ricin in the insulin vile, although cloudy and dull in appearance, was of medical or military grade.”

  “So we could be looking for someone in the military too?” Dana asked.

  “Not necessarily, but we are looking for a lab that’s well financed or for an expert who would know how to mill the refined product in his own garage. This wasn’t your home-brew Internet-instructed poison. This is high quality stuff.”

  “Any ideas on where we should start?” Mac removed the outer handle with a tug then placed it on top of the car.

  “I have a list of three labs right here in the Northwest,” Allison said. “They are independent of the United States military and have permits to possess and administer the ricin. One is here in Portland, a place called the Avalon Research Institute. A second one is in Seattle and the other in Boise. All three are experimental cancer research centers. On the military note, I can’t help you there. The CDC tech was pretty reluctant to talk about those centers.”

  “At least we have a place to start,” Dana said. “Do you have that in report form?”

  “I would if you didn’t keep calling me out.” Allison’s smile softened the retort. “You should have it this afternoon. I dictated it right after I left you the message this morning.”

  “You want to give these door handles a once-over?” Mac wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirt-sleeve.

  “You bet I do.” Allison moved in to examine the items. “You want me to tell you if I don’t find anything after all that work?”

  “No, lie to me, please.” Mac walked to the driver’s side and pulled the trunk release lever. “I want to t
ake a look in that trunk while you’re messing around with those.”

  “And I’ll go through the jockey box and take a look under the seats,” Dana offered. “Although it looks like it’s pretty well cleaned out.”

  Mac lifted up the trunk lid after borrowing Dana’s camera. He snapped a couple of photos before rooting around in the trunk. The trunk itself was fairly clean and empty except for a roadside hazard kit and an umbrella. Mac pulled out the umbrella, depressing the button on the wood handle to release it. Finding nothing in it, he set it aside.

  Next Mac grabbed the small black nylon bag and unzipped the upper compartment, removing a set of jumper cables that appeared to be unused and a clean pair of white cotton gloves. The cables had their original plastic twist tie that secured the instructions for their use. Mac flipped the commercially packed emergency bag over to the other side and opened the bottom compartment. Inside he found a new flashlight, still wrapped in the black cloth loop that secured the light, and a row of three waxy red flares.

  Whoa. What do we have here? There was an empty slot where the fourth roadside flare should have been. He grabbed the packing slip to the kit, reading the contents to himself, confirming the kit was originally equipped with four roadside flares.

  Removing the kit, Mac placed the items on the floor of the shop and photographed the contents. He then removed the mini mag flashlight from his belt holder and more closely scrutinized the trunk’s interior.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Mac said aloud as he reached for a small plastic cap.

  “What is it?” Allison asked, looking up from her work.

  Dana came around to the back of the car to look at the object in Mac’s hand. “That’s the striker cap off a road flare.” Like any patrol officer, she had handled hundreds of them at crash scenes and road closures.

  “Exactly.” Mac beamed. “And one of the four flares from the roadside hazard kit is missing. I bet this is the cap to the flare Shaw lit to torch Clay’s house. This is great circumstantial evidence to corroborate Cohen’s story. Shaw’s going to have to explain this one away; he can’t just sit by and have this evidence presented before a jury.”

  Dana handed Mac a small plastic evidence bag for the item. He placed the cap in the bag after photographing it, then sealed the bag and initialed the closure.

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Allison said, “but I got lucky on the door handle.”

  “What’s that?” Mac asked, coming to stand beside the forensics specialist.

  “I lifted two latents on the outer handle and a partial on the inner plastic handle. It’ll take me about an hour, but I’ll have this inside processed also. I’ll go ahead and fume the inside unless you have any objections.”

  “Go for it. Would you mind wrapping up while Dana and I do a little legwork?”

  “Not at all. I think I know where you’re heading. Avalon, right?”

  “Yep.” Mac saluted. “I want to talk to someone at the research center, then pay a visit to Clay’s daughter. I’d like to see how she handles Shaw’s arrest and question her about her involvement in her father’s and brother’s deaths.”

  Dana hurried to catch up, not quite matching Mac’s long strides. “I want to see Kelly’s face when we ask her how the ricin got into her father’s insulin. Especially since she brings him his medications.”

  “Right.” Mac slowed a bit. “I could be wrong, but I think we’re getting real close.”

  “Just one question, Mac. Where would she get the ricin?”

  “Well, we know her husband is a doctor. She’d have access to all kinds of medical books. And ricin has been in the news.” Mac shrugged. “Maybe Dr. Cassidy was in on it too.”

  THIRTY

  MAC AND DANA ARRIVED at the Portland laboratories of Avalon Research Institute at 3:45 p.m.

  “Looks like a pretty slick outfit,” Mac commented as he approached the front security door and picked up the stainless steel phone receiver. He noticed the security camera inside the foyer that was aimed at him while the automated phone rang the attendant.

  “ARI,” the male voice answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “Detectives McAllister and Bennett with the State Police.” Mac held up his credentials to the camera. “We are on a follow-up and have a few questions we’d like to run by a lab supervisor.”

  After a brief hesitation he answered back. “Someone will be down to greet you momentarily.”

  “Thanks.” Mac set the phone back on the hook. “They’re sending someone down to meet us.”

  “Good, then I guess we won’t have to break down the door.” She grinned at his raised eyebrow.

  “Getting an itchy trigger finger?”

  “Not really.” She folded her arms and rocked back and forth on her sturdy shoes. “I just don’t like waiting.”

  Moments later a short, heavy-set man in a white lab coat came to the door and held up a security card to a sensor to release the door lock. “You are with the police?” Wariness was evident in his dark eyes. With his dark skin and slight accent, Mac guessed him to be of Indian or Arab decent.

  Mac nodded, once again displaying his badge and photo identification. “The Oregon State Police. I’m Detective McAllister, and this is my partner, Detective Bennett.”

  The man eyed Mac’s credentials as they shook hands. “I’m Dr. Kennerman, a research specialist here at Avalon. What can I do for you?” Dr. Kennerman, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, remained in the doorway showing no intent of inviting them in.

  “My partner and I are assigned to a homicide investigation in Columbia County,” Mac said. “We were hoping someone from your facility could assist us with some specialized information.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you. Any inquiries involving our personnel must go through our—”

  “It involves ricin,” Mac interrupted. “And we don’t have any reason to believe any of your employees are culpable in this investigation.” Not yet anyway. Mac stepped forward, hoping the doctor would invite him in.

  “I see.” Kennerman’s Adam’s apple slipped up and down as he swallowed. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You came to this facility because our research involves the experimental use of ricin?”

  “Bingo.” Mac was getting annoyed with the game.

  “May I also assume that you have a ricin victim as part of your investigation?”

  “I’d rather have a conversation than share assumptions, Doctor. Do you have somewhere we could talk about this in private?”

  Reluctantly, he stepped aside. “Come with me.” Dr. Kennerman led Mac and Dana to an office near the front reception area. His name and title were engraved on a plaque on the wall at eye level.

  The office was a cluttered mess, stacks of documents and miscellaneous data sheets covering the large metal desk. He motioned to two chairs that leaned against the wall nearest the door. “Please, have a seat.” Kennerman moved a stack of papers from one of the chairs to his already overburdened desk.

  “Thanks.” Dana took the farther seat near the window and prepared her notepad.

  “Would you two like some coffee or a soft drink?”

  They both declined. Mac glanced at the degrees on the wall behind the doctor’s chair and was impressed with Kennerman’s education.

  “So then, how can I be of assistance to you?” The doctor sat up straight and leaned over his desk.

  “I’ll be frank with you, Dr. Kennerman,” Mac began. “As I’ve already indicated, my partner and I are working a death in Columbia County. An elderly man was hit and killed by a train at the Terminal 9 facility near St. Helens.”

  He frowned. “Oh, yes. I heard about that on the news. Poor man was in a wheelchair or something, wasn’t he?”

  Mac nodded. “We believe the man was trying to get help when he was struck by the train. We initially thought the incident was an accident but have subsequently learned the victim had ricin in his system. We believe the ricin was placed in the victim’s insuli
n bottle and that he unknowingly administered the poison to himself.”

  Kennerman gasped. “My word. And you are sure it was ricin? The signs and symptoms support this assertion?”

  “Quite certain. The medical examiner was able to supply the tissue from the injection sites to accompany blood samples to the OSP crime lab. The presence of ricin was confirmed with the assistance of the CDC. We also have the actual vial of the toxin secured for testing. Again a positive.”

  “I can’t believe it.” He leaned back in his chair. “This must be the first incident on the West Coast involving ricin. To my knowledge, anyway.”

  “That’s what brings us to your door. We haven’t had much experience with ricin. Truth be told, this is the first real experience any of us have had with it. The CDC advised us of several legitimate labs here in the Northwest, independent of the military, that have the lawful authority to process and evaluate the medical uses of ricin. We were told Avalon, your center, was the only lab in the Portland-Metro area, so naturally we started with you. We were hoping you might have some leads for us. Of course, we’ll also have to investigate the possibility that our killer may have an association with your center.”

  The doctor rubbed at the wrinkles on his wide forehead. “I can assure you that none of our researchers would have a connection to your investigation. What kind of quality are we talking about here? Do you know the grade of the ricin?”

  “We were told it’s a pure grade.”

  “I see. Well, I can assure you that the ricin didn’t come from our facility.” Kennerman sounded a little condescending. “We have quality-control tests daily, and you can see what type of security our building has. Our facility researches several progressive cancer treatments, ricin being only one of the experimental substances we have on site. We are currently studying the viability of ricin as it relates to uses in bone marrow transplants and the assault of cancer cells in a clinical setting. We are finding the ricin has substantial medicinal value, exceeding the poison’s potential as a lethal mechanism.”