Cutting Edge

by Allison Brennan

  “Did you know that there was a fatality in the Butcher-Payne fire? That Dr. Jonah Payne died?”

  Cole said, “A reporter called me Monday morning and told me about that.”

  “Why would a reporter call you?” asked Nora.

  “Because of you,” Cole snapped. “Your investigation keeps sniffing around me, and I’ve told you time and time again that I had nothing to do with the arsons, and I certainly had nothing to do with the Butcher-Payne arson or the death of Dr. Payne.”

  “When did you find out he was murdered?”

  “We’re not going to answer—” Shepherd began, but Cole cut him off.

  “You would be hard-pressed to get first-degree murder from an accidental death,” Cole said.

  “In acts of domestic terrorism, yes I damn well can get first-degree murder,” Nora stated evenly. “But Jonah Payne’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? The reporter said that Dr. Payne died in his office. I assumed he’d been working or fallen asleep there when the fire started.”

  Professor Cole’s frustration seemed genuine. Nora assessed Professor Cole’s posture and eyes and she believed he believed Payne’s death had been an accident. It seemed that the first Cole had heard of Payne’s death was indeed when the reporter phoned. Things began to click into place for Nora.

  “Dr. Payne’s horrible death was no accident. It was cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Payne was tortured prior to bleeding slowly to death.”

  “You’re lying through your teeth, and you know it,” Cole objected. “I’m not playing these games with you, Agent English.” He began to stand, but Nora waved him down as she pulled files from her briefcase. Without comment, she laid several of the crime-scene and autopsy photos in front of him. Again, the shock on his face wasn’t faked. Leif Cole looked ill.

  “You’re a smart man,” she said when she’d finished laying out the gruesome pictures. She tapped the photo of Dr. Payne in his office, lying on his back. “He wasn’t killed here in his office. He was killed—” She turned her cell phone around and displayed a photo that the evidence response team had emailed her of the blood evidence in Payne’s Lake Tahoe bedroom. “—here.”

  The digital image of dark red on the white sheets was stark. It had the desired effect on Cole.

  “The M.E.’s preliminary report,” she said, gesturing toward several autopsy photos, “indicates that Dr. Payne bled to death”—she held up her phone again —“and was transported in a covered pickup truck eighty miles to his office. The research lab was doused with accelerant and set on fire. The sprinkler system was disabled in order to cause maximum damage, very likely to destroy evidence on the body. Or to make Dr. Payne’s death appear to be something that it wasn’t.”

  Though that didn’t explain why the killers didn’t pour fuel onto his body, it did explain why they had disabled the sprinklers. Had Dr. Payne’s body been burned for a longer period of time, the authorities wouldn’t have discovered that he’d bled to death. Perhaps the arsonists had run out of 151 vodka. Or maybe they were running short on time. Or maybe the killer didn’t want the others to know about the cut-up corpse.

  Ever since the autopsy, Nora had felt that Payne’s murder was personal, but still in some way related to his professional position. But maybe it had nothing to do with the fact that he was a biotech scientist. Maybe he’d been killed for other reasons and the arson had been merely a convenient distraction.

  It explained the time gap between fires. Anarchists generally escalated, the time between attacks coming closer as the players relished the idea of getting away with it. But in this case, the hits had grown farther apart.

  According to Sean Rogan, who was truly the only impartial observer, Anya Ballard was cheerful and generally happy when they had lunch together. Yet Sean saw that she had been upset in the garden …

  Nora looked Cole straight in the eye. “Professor, when you were in the garden with Anya, did you tell her about Jonah Payne’s death?”

  Cole considered his response before answering. “Yes. I told her that a reporter called with the news.”

  “And what was her reaction?”

  No comment.

  Nora was getting irritated with his selective answers.

  “Professor, let me explain something. Accelerant that is a likely match to the arsons was found in Anya Ballard’s dorm room, as well as the exact same spray paint used on the exterior of the target business. We have a thumbprint from the Nexum arson that I’d bet my pension belongs to one of the three suicides. And I have a suicide note that takes credit for the fires and expresses remorse for Dr. Payne’s death.” She was exaggerating the last point, but there was no law saying she couldn’t lie to suspects while in questioning.

  Cole’s face remained impassive, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Nora continued, “This is what I think: Anya, Chris, and Scott took what you preached and put it to action—”

  As if on cue, the attorney objected, “Professor Cole has never advocated arson or murder.”

  Nora frowned and glared. “I’m not out to get your client, and I never was. I don’t think he’s a killer. I don’t think that he burned down Butcher-Payne. What I think is that he knows damn well who did and out of a misguided sense of loyalty or guilt, he has kept quiet. Why? Because, up until two days ago, no one had been killed. Things, not people, were destroyed.” She turned to Cole. “I’ve read everything you’ve written, Professor,” she said, staring Leif in the eye. He was clearly surprised by her statement, and she continued. “And in your writings, you have an incredibly strong theme of preserving human life. You wouldn’t condone murder, and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t do something to stop it.”

  Nora continued. “Maybe at first you didn’t know about Anya and the boys. But you’ve admitted to a relationship with Anya, and you probably figured it out. If I had to guess …” She mentally ran through the three previous arsons. “… I’d say it was after the security guard was injured at Sac State. Anya would have been distraught at hurting a human being. She probably confessed everything, or hinted enough so you knew—and you told her to say no more. So she kept quiet about her other activities.”

  Nora raised an eyebrow. “I have doubts as to whether those three kids killed themselves. Maybe it was a murder-suicide.” Nora wasn’t about to let on that the suicide note had been written by a woman.

  She watched the professor’s mind working, as he tried to figure out how to talk to her without incriminating himself.

  “I would say—”

  Shepherd cleared his throat. “Leif, I need to advise you to—”

  Cole shook his head and continued. “There are many truths in your story.”

  She’d nailed it. He didn’t incriminate himself, but gave her what she needed—information.

  “If Anya learned that she had accidentally killed someone,” Cole said cautiously, “she would have been extremely upset. But never have I imagined that she could be suicidal. She loved—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “She loved everything. The outdoors, flowers, animals. She valued life, all life, human and animal and plant.”

  “What about Chris and Scott?”

  “Chris is a hothead and his academic work is hit-or-miss, and Scott’s quiet, restrained, a solid student. Chris is the one who speaks up in class, Scott never raises his hand. But I don’t see either of them killing Anya. They loved her.”

  Lance Sanger spoke up for the first time since the beginning of the interrogation. “Maybe,” Sanger said, “they disliked your relationship with her. Maybe we’re dealing with a love triangle.”

  Nora refrained from shaking her head. That didn’t fit, though she couldn’t articulate exactly why.

  It ticked off Cole. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Lance. Chris and Scott were Anya’s best friends, and they knew about us. Have for a long time. And Scott had a girlfriend. He wasn’t thinking about Anya l
ike that.”

  Nora’s ears practically twitched like a cat. “Who’s Scott’s girlfriend?”

  “Maggie O’Dell, Anya’s former roommate.”

  Cole’s eyes widened at the same time Nora had the sense that she’d just heard something crucial to her case.

  “Who’s Maggie O’Dell?” Nora asked. “Anya doesn’t have a roommate this year.”

  “Maggie left last Christmas.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Anya didn’t know, Maggie simply told her she was dropping out of college.”

  “Was Maggie one of the gang?”

  “Don’t answer that, Leif,” his attorney said.

  Cole said, “Where Anya went, Maggie went. They were inseparable. I heard she was back.”

  “I want my client released immediately,” Shepherd said.

  He glanced at his attorney, then said, “Where’s Anya now?”

  “I don’t know,” Nora said. “Possibly the hospital or maybe she’s been transported to the morgue. You don’t want to go in there.”

  “I want to see her. Please.”

  Nora glanced at Sanger. They really had no reason to hold Cole. Yes, he knew about the arsons and was an accessory after the fact, but he hadn’t said anything that could be used against him. He had been forthcoming without being self-incriminating, a great trick if you were a criminal with information cops needed.

  “I’ll take you,” Sanger said.

  “I’ll take him,” Shepherd insisted.

  Sanger glared at him. “I’ll do it.” He said to Cole, “I’ll let you out if you promise to stay in town. No major trips for the next couple weeks.”

  Cole wanted to argue. Then he flipped like a switch. “I understand. Thank you, Lance.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  By the time Nora pulled back into Sacramento FBI headquarters, it was after seven in the evening and she was both exhausted and exhilarated. Two long days notwithstanding, she had her first, solid lead.

  And no one was in the office.

  That wasn’t completely true. Duke was with computer analyst Jason Camp in the small computer room. She poked her head in. “How’s it going?”

  “The hard drive was wiped,” Jason said, frustrated. “We’re trying to capture some of the data. If we can get enough, we may be able to rebuild the drive. But we’re not going to have answers tonight.”

  “Thanks,” she said. To Duke, “Anything on the backgrounders?”

  “On your desk, sweetheart,” he said.

  She frowned as she walked away. “Sweetheart”? Did he think that because he’d kissed her she was now his sweetheart?

  Her heart raced. She was panicked and excited at once. But now was not the time to think about relationships, especially a relationship with Duke Rogan. She’d turned him down a dozen times in the last four years, couldn’t he take a hint? She did not want to go out with him.

  She closed her eyes as she sank into her chair. She was interested in Duke Rogan, had been from the beginning, but she had no time for a serious relationship. And though Duke flirted and joked, when he looked at her she saw that he wasn’t going to be content with a few dinners, hot sex, and sayonara, baby. He wanted a long-term commitment. She didn’t want a relationship. Any involvements were few and far between, and Nora didn’t want to risk her heart again.

  She opened her eyes and looked through her inbox, finding on top Dr. Coffey’s autopsy report on Jonah Payne. Attached was a note.

  Nora:

  I just received two of the three apparent suicide deaths. I’m waiting for the third before doing the autopsy, so if you want to attend it’ll be early tomorrow—seven-thirty a.m.

  The tox screens came back on Payne.

  Payne ingested a modified version of Rohypnol that included speed and some other things that aren’t identified yet. Since the tests were inconclusive, I sent a blood sample to Quantico to see if they’ve seen anything like it. It almost appears homemade. But if it behaves anything like Rohypnol at the dosage he received he could have been experiencing memory loss, fatigue, insomnia, and dizziness. His reflexes would have been slow, and his hearing and sight impaired. This wasn’t a pill, it was liquid, and could have been ingested with anything, food or liquid. I got this from his stomach contents, which suggests that he consumed it four hours or less from the time he died.

  In addition, his blood tested positive for heparin, a blood thinner. It acts fast, generally within thirty minutes, and is always administered as an injection. Other similar drugs take four to twenty-four hours to work. Heparin is not a known street drug, but a pharmaceutical drug. Hope that helps a bit, and I’ll get you the results of the suicides as soon as possible.

  —K. Coffey, M.E., Placer County

  How the hell did the killer get ahold of heparin? Unless the killer required it for some reason. Nora logged into the FBI database and looked through drug theft reports in the area. Hospitals kept track of their medicine, and certain drugs were flagged if inventory was off. But either heparin wasn’t flagged, or no one had stolen it recently.

  Nora also knew some hospitals weren’t so good at record-keeping; if a small amount went missing they might not have noticed, or didn’t want to file the paperwork. But this suggested to Nora that the killer had access to medical supplies …

  She picked up the phone while pulling the Langlier file from her desk. She was reading the notes when Quin finally picked up.

  “Quin Teagan, at your service.”

  “Quin, it’s Nora.”

  “You’re back.”

  “Yes, and I need information about Langlier. They stored cancer-fighting drugs at their warehouse, correct?”

  “That’s their bread and butter,” Quin said.

  “What other drugs?”

  “I don’t know—it’s in my report. They gave me a list—I attached it.”

  “I can’t find it—”

  “I’m not home right now. If it’s important, I can be home in thirty.”

  Nora heard a male voice in the background. “No, no—here! Found it.”

  Quin read the list of losses. The drugs were listed in alphabetical order, and there were only five.

  Heparin was third on the list.

  “Thanks, Quin.”

  “Oh, sure, I solved the whole case,” she said sarcastically.

  “You might have, with your detailed reporting. I know now where the killer got the blood thinners used on Payne. Keith Coffey alerted me that the drug used wouldn’t be easy to get, and so I thought of Langlier—”

  “But Langlier was nearly two years ago!”

  “Speaking of Langlier, there was a triple possible suicide at Rose College today.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Possible. Or murder. The students who died were definitely involved with the arsons, but I think there’s one more student or former student involved, and I have a line on her. It’s one of the victim’s former roommates.”

  “Good luck. This is fantastic.”

  “Enjoy your date.”

  Nora hung up and pulled all the background reports Duke had run for her. She yawned and her stomach grumbled. She packed everything into her briefcase and walked to Jason’s office. She glanced in. Jason was alone. “Where’d Duke go?” she asked.

  “He had a call.”

  “Tell him I said good-bye and I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  Maggie opened the door to Donnie’s cage and let him walk around. She hated keeping him locked up like a prisoner, but she couldn’t risk him getting away. She didn’t know exactly how the police had tracked down the other ducks, but it had something to do with an implant, according to the news. She didn’t know where it was, had inspected Donnie carefully, and she didn’t want to hurt him. He was the innocent victim in all this. It wasn’t his fault those people had experimented on him. He’d done nothing wrong.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she dry-heaved as she remembered what the cruel cops had done to all those ducks
. They’d gotten off on it, the sadistic bastards. Snapping their delicate necks like tree branches. One after another after another …

  But it was all done on the orders of that bitch, Nora English.

  Maggie had gone a bit too far when she threw the soda can at Nora at Lake of the Pines, but Maggie had never been so close to her before. She’d wanted to cut her so bad it hurt, make the federal agent suffer for the pain she’d caused the movement. The pain Nora English had caused her personally. But Nora didn’t know her, couldn’t know her, though Maggie wished she did. Nora had ruined her life and didn’t even know it. She’d acted callously, without regard for anyone she damaged in the process. Without a care of who went to prison, whether they were guilty or innocent.

  The cause was more important than any one person. Maggie had killed fighting for what was right, and she would die for it. Some ideals were bigger than individuals. Bigger than her life. What was guilt but a judgment by a corrupt judicial system? Had any of Maggie’s comrades been guilty under the natural order? No! They were guilty only because of man-made rules and laws, not because they had actually done anything wrong.

  Donnie waddled over to the sink she’d filled with water. He drank, then jumped in. Maggie smiled. She wished she’d taken two ducks. She would have taken them all, but she hadn’t known the feds were going to torture and murder them. She’d kept Donnie because he was injured, that brute Scott had just stuffed the ducks into the cages as if they were children’s toys, not nature’s creatures. His wing was broken, and Maggie couldn’t free him without chance of survival.

  And yet, he was the only one who had survived.

  Maggie picked up her favorite knife and stared at the blade. Under the light, the blade looked angelic, sparkling, blinding. She turned it and it was dull again.

  She took out her special stone and sharpened the knife slowly, with sure, firm purpose. Sharpening her blade calmed her like nothing else. The scrape, scrape of the stone on the hand-forged metal. She remembered making this exact knife with her stepdad. She remembered each knife they’d made together, the patience he taught her, the respect for the fire, for the steel, for the cutting edge.