The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Isn’t that bomb, dude? We can get drinks, no problem. Hell, we can go anywhere. There’s got to be a topless place around somewhere. Or maybe later we can head over to Windsor, you know...”

  If anything, Michael felt even more uneasy than before. Going to the concert would get his mom all worked up, no doubt about it. He didn’t expect her home tonight, though he was mildly surprised he hadn’t heard from her yet. Usually she was real good about calling him if she was going to be late. And that made him worry for her a little bit. Just a tiny bit of fear, because he knew that this Serpent guy was a scary dude. Anybody who could murder somebody by taping their mouth and nose shut was evil.

  If she didn’t come home and he went to the concert and she found out, she’d be pissed. But if she found out they had used fake I.D.s, well...

  “I don’t know, Ray.”

  “Hey, I paid good money for these. Just stick it in your wallet and shut up.”

  “I—”

  Michael’s phone chirped. He just about jumped out of his skin. He yanked it off his belt, noted that it was from his mom and held the phone to his ear.

  “Michael, it’s mom.”

  “You okay?” It was the first thing that came to his lips. Not, “Yeah,” or “hey” or “Hi.” But, “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m still working this case. I don’t know when I’ll be home tonight. There’s some hamburgers in the freezer, or you know, spaghetti. You can fix—”

  ”I’m eating with Ray.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Mom, what’s going on? I mean, with The Serpent? Do you know who he is? Was there another attack?”

  “There was something planned at the Greektown Casino, but the ... Michael, I really can’t talk about this now.”

  “Mom!”

  “Michael, I’m on a cell phone!”

  “But you told me—”

  ”Michael, you can’t talk about this. All right? Dr. Stillwater and I are still working on this. I want you to be ... look, Michael. If you watch the TV news or the radio, you’re going to hear some things—”

  ”What things?” Michael sat bolt upright, alarm radiating through his body.

  “Just some things. Things about me and about Dr. Stillwater and some things about The Serpent. Don’t believe them. Okay? They’re not true. But we’re still working this case. Just don’t tell anybody we’re still working this case.”

  “I don’t—”

  ”You’ll be all right? I’ll call you later. I’ve got to go now, Michael. I love you.”

  “Mom—”

  She clicked off. Michael stared at the phone, unbelieving. He lurched forward and popped off the video game and turned the TV to channel 7 to catch the news. That dopey guy, Steve Shay, was doing a report at the Greektown Casino. “...and the Special Agent-in-Charge, Matthew Gray, says an FBI agent, Jillian Church, has been suspended pending an investigation into allegations of inappropriate conduct—”

  The picture jumped to Gray’s statement. Michael scowled. He hated Gray. His mom had some sort of thing going with him at one time or another, something, he didn’t know exactly what. Not like they were dating or anything, but something. He didn’t know if they’d screwed or what, and he didn’t think of his mom like that, found it hard to believe. He knew there had been some time when she had been kind of gushy about the guy, “Matt says this” and “Matt did that,” like she was hot for the guy, like he was the king turd of shit mountain. Then something happened and she got real tense at work and at home and she never talked about Matt any more. And now the guy was dissing her on TV, and saying the same thing about Stillwater.

  “Fuck, dude,” Ray said. “That sucks.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, defending your mommy?”

  “Shut the fuck up. Asshole.”

  “Hey, chill. You know your mom’s cool.”

  Michael gritted his teeth. But she wasn’t telling him what was going on. He felt so confused. His thoughts were like a school of fish that twisted and turned just out of reach. Like trying to catch smoke with your hands.

  “Hey,” Ray said. “You want to go test out these I.D.s? We’ll go to Hoops before the concert. They should be open. We can have a couple beers with dinner. What ya think?”

  Michael felt a wave of anger wash over him. Why wouldn’t she treat him like an adult? Why was she always locking him out? Dammit! He nodded his head. “Yeah. Fine. Let’s do that. Let’s go.”

  72

  5:40 p.m.

  THE MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE wasn’t far from Wayne State University, at 1300 E. Warren Avenue. Derek and Jill were met by a receptionist at the front desk, who called an M.E.’s investigator to come talk to them. The investigator was a short, balding black man in his fifties wearing gray slacks, a blue knit shirt and a worn blue sport coat. His name was Jerry Ford. “No relation,” he growled. He studied their I.D. and said, “There’s already an FBI agent in there.”

  Jill swallowed. “Who’s that?”

  “Woman. Toreanno.”

  Jill brightened. “That’s fine.”

  “Follow me, then.”

  They threaded their way down to the autopsy room. There was an isolation room separated from the main autopsy area and Ford took them to an observation center with a wall of glass looking down over it. Simona Toreanno was leaning against one wall, scanning her notebook when they appeared. She raised an eyebrow. “Jill. I heard you’re—”

  Jill raised a quieting hand. Toreanno glanced at Ford and nodded, taking in Derek Stillwater. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  Derek introduced himself.

  “Hmm.” Toreanno looked at Ford. “What can you tell us, sir?”

  Ford shrugged. “Guy’s dead. They’re just figuring out how to get the body into this room. This is the decomp room. You know, for badly decomposed bodies. Its air system is isolated from the rest of the facility. We figure it’s the best way to go with this sarin exposure.”

  “Good idea,” Derek said. “How long will it be before they get it here?”

  “Any time ... oh, there we go.” He turned to look through the glass. “The tall Indian guy, that’s the Chief Pathologist, Dr. Vijay Rajanikant. Most people call him Dr. Raj. There’s the intercom button.” He tapped it and said, “Dr. Raj, this is Jerry. We’ve got a couple FBI agents up here.”

  Raj glanced up at them. He was completely gowned, gloved and masked. “Fine, fine.”

  Derek stepped forward and tapped the intercom button. “Dr. Rajanikant, this is Dr. Derek Stillwater. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. I’ve had some experience dealing with sarin deaths.”

  “Very good, very good.” Dr. Raj had a high-pitched, accented voice.

  “But,” Derek continued, “our number one priority here is to try and determine time of death. Have you taken the temp yet?”

  “No, we have been too concerned with isolation. Not yet, not yet.”

  “I understand. Once you get things in place, would you please check liver temperature.”

  “Certainly, certainly. Do you wish to tell me what this is all about?”

  “After you determine time of death I’ll be glad to tell you what I’m thinking.”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  Simona Toreanno said, “Let me guess, you don’t think he’s The Serpent.”

  Jill and Derek passed a significant look between each other. Jerry Ford shrugged. “You need me any longer?” he asked, despite his obvious curiosity.

  “I don’t think so, thank you,” Toreanno said.

  Ford lingered on Derek for a moment. “Been hearing about you all day on the news.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear on TV,” Derek said.

  Ford nodded. “Don’t, that’s fo’ sure. You really think that guy didn’t do it?” He pointed to the decomp room.

  “I’m keeping my mind open,” Derek said. “But we’d better be sure or
some more people might die.”

  “Good for you,” Ford said. “Keep in touch.”

  “Okay, okay” Dr. Raj said. “I’m going to take a liver temperature now.” In the decomp room, Dr. Raj slowly unzipped the body bag to reveal William Harrington. With the assistance of another gowned pathologist, they got him out of the bag and rolled over. “I will first take the rectal temperature,” he said, and using a scalpel he sliced the clothing off Harrington’s body, leaving him naked and exposed on the steel table. The second pathologist carefully placed the clothing in a special hazardous materials container.

  Jill, Derek and Toreanno watched in silence, expressionless. Raj inserted a rectal thermometer into the corpse. “Dr. Stillwater,” he said. “You do understand, of course, the imprecise nature of determining time of death. You do understand?”

  “Yes, Doctor. Please do your best.”

  “Of course, of course. My understanding is that he is believed to have died in the last hour or two.”

  “Sometimes after 2:40 P.M.,” offered Agent Toreanno.

  “I see, I see,” said Dr. Raj. He removed the rectal thermometer and jotted a notation down on a notepad. Then he took the scalpel, cut a small incision on Harrington’s back and inserted a probe into the body. While he waited, he manipulated Harrington’s wrist and arm.

  “What do you think, Doctor?” Derek asked into the intercom.

  “I think I will wait a few moments, please, please, before making my determination. Most interesting, most interesting.”

  Derek frowned and stepped back from the window, arms crossed over his chest. Toreanno said, “Why are you two here?”

  Jill said, “We think there are some questions that need to be answered before we call this a closed case.”

  “Matt’s smearing both of you all over the media.”

  “We noticed.”

  “You’ve been relieved of duty.”

  “Yes,” Jill said, locking eyes with Toreanno.

  Toreanno returned the gaze. Then she smiled. “Fuck the bastard. You’re on my team now. I’ve got all the names of the people involved with the CBCTR’s Working Group.” She waved at the autopsy room. “I hope to God he’s The Serpent, but I could never live with myself if this turned out to be some kind of trick.”

  Derek turned to her. “I’d like to see that list.”

  She handed it to him.

  A moment later, Dr. Raj, after checking some numbers, clicked on the intercom. “Dr. Stillwater? Are you there? Dr. Stillwater?”

  “Yes. Right here.”

  “You do realize, of course, that this is not precise. Not precise at all. I can only give you a range.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, well, you see, yes, I believe our body here has been dead for considerably longer than the three or four hours you suggest.”

  “How long, Doctor?”

  “I would have to say from eight to ten hours, at least. Possibly even longer. Eight to ten hours.”

  73

  5:55 p.m.

  THE THREE OF THEM walked out of the Medical Examiner’s Office. Night was coming in full force, the darkness dropping quickly. The temperature had plunged and a chill lurked in the air. Derek’s eyes fairly glittered as he concentrated on what he had just learned. His leg was even stiffer now than before, and part of his mind was on the pain killers in his GO Pack. But otherwise, he was elated that his gut feelings had been vindicated, even if it meant The Serpent was still out there planning something. And probably planning it for eight o’clock, slightly over two hours away.

  Agent Toreanno said, “We have to take this to Matt.”

  Jill stopped walking, hands up at her waist, held out in a halt gesture. “Whoa! Think that one through.”

  Simona Toreanno spun around. “Jill! You can’t just go off and leave something like this.”

  “Who said anything about leaving it?” Jill turned to Derek. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not going through Gray. You can. You probably should.”

  Jill shook her head. “No. If I ... I can’t bring this to him. Think about it, Simona. He won’t listen to me. He’ll only listen to you. In fact, if you want him to pay any attention to you, it’ll have to be you. You can’t even mention we were here. Let Matt think we went home.”

  Simona’s dark eyes were penetrating. “You were supposed to go back to the office and file a report, though, right? Won’t he be waiting for you?”

  Jill shrugged. “That’s minor. Tomorrow would ... hell, Simona. What difference would it make now? I’m already in trouble. But if I came into his office with irrefutable evidence of an attack, he might ignore it just because it came through me. But if I, or even worse, Stillwater and I, come in there telling him he made an ass of himself at the press conference by telling everybody The Serpent was dead, that he’s going to have to tell the press he was wrong, and while he’s at it, shoot that particular bit of news up the chain of command, what do you think he’s going to do?”

  Simona nodded. “I guess ... I guess it has to be me.”

  “Don’t mention us,” Derek said. “But we’re going to pursue those names.” He held up the list of Working Group members.

  Simona sighed. “Okay. I’ll see if I can get people going on it, too.”

  “Good luck,” Derek said, limping toward Jill’s car.

  “Stillwater!” Simona called.

  He stopped and turned.

  Agent Toreanno said, “You’ve had two strikes today with booby-traps. Don’t get caught in a third. Nobody’s that lucky.”

  74

  6:11 p.m.

  DR. TAPLIN-SMITHSON LOOKED A lot different out of her tweed pantsuit. She was still tall and big-boned, her frosted hair to her shoulders, but she wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had removed all vestiges of makeup and her eyes were red and puffy. She clutched a Kleenex in her left hand.

  “I was so surprised to hear from you,” she said. “I’m having ... well, come in. Please.”

  Taplin-Smithson lived in the city of Detroit, which was only partly why they had chosen to talk to her first. She lived in the Pallister Commons, not far from the first attack on the Boulevard Café. Pallister Commons was an historical neighborhood just north of the Fisher Building, large, three-story homes with wide, broad porches, privacy fences and detached garages that were once carriage houses. There were no streets, exactly, which was confusing. Access to the garages were via alleys that ran every other street or so. Jill and Derek had been forced to park down the street and walk in, Derek grousing the entire way as he limped along on his crutches.

  The front door opened into a high-ceilinged living area with heavy, darkly stained woodwork. Large windows looked out on the front and side yards. The furniture was expensive mission-style. There were paintings of what looked like Big Sur on the walls. A heavy-set white-haired man was sitting in a comfortable chair, a laptop computer in his lap. He set it on the floor and walked over to meet them, hand out. Derek shook.

  “This is my husband, Alan Smithson. Alan’s a physician at Ford Hospital, right across the street.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jill said.

  Taplin-Smithson took in Derek’s crutches. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt in that explosion?”

  “Actually, no,” Derek said. “Old injury got re-hurt by a Birmingham cop today.”

  “Quite a day.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. Her husband put his arm around her. He said, “It’s been terrible. Thank God it’s over.”

  Derek and Jill didn’t comment.

  Both doctors simultaneously said, “It is, isn’t it?”

  “May we sit down?” Jill said. “I’m afraid we need your help.”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen table.”

  They followed them through the living room, cut through the modern kitchen into a formal dining room. A large window looked over the fenced-in backyard. A calico cat glanced up from a bowl of food, arched its shoulders, then nonchalantly exited the room.
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  They sat down at the table. “We need you to look at a list of people,” Jill said, and handed it to Taplin-Smithson.

  The professor got up and returned a moment later with a pair of reading glasses. She sat down and studied the list. “This is from the center?” she said.

  “The CBCTR Working Group,” Derek said. “Your name’s on it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I helped from time to time. Not too often. Not a big need for a biostatistician for those scenarios.” She looked over her glasses at him. “I saw the press conference. The FBI says Bill Harrington was The Serpent. That he killed himself accidentally.”

  “What do you think of that?” Jill asked.

  Taplin-Smithson frowned at the piece of paper in her hands, then shot her husband a sideways glance. He shrugged.

  “Bill wasn’t my favorite person,” she said, “but I never would have thought he was a mass murderer.”

  “Would you take a look at that list and tell us if anybody there might be a candidate. Or if anybody sticks out.”

  She studied Derek for a moment. “I’m supposed to look at a list of my colleagues and tell you whether I think any of them are capable of murdering over a hundred people?”

  “Please,” Jill said. “Just look at the list.”

  Taplin-Smithson shot her husband another look, then re-read the list. She frowned, then said, “Well, that’s sort of interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, there are a number of graduate students on this list. In fact, Bill and Brad were always getting grad students to help with those scenarios, especially in the public health programs.”

  “What’s so interesting?” Derek said.

  She frowned again, took off her glasses and cocked her head at Derek. “Well, this student here. Kevin Matsumoto.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well...” She hesitated.

  “Go ahead, honey,” her husband urged.

  “Well,” Taplin-Smithson said. “He was an odd one. Brilliant, but strange. He was in the biochemistry department. In fact, he worked in Bill’s lab, was one of his most promising students. But Kevin ... he had some problems.”