Rodgers closed the small notebook he held, reminding Rob of Pierce, the FBI man on the case. He’d have to call him. He’d forgotten they were to meet at eleven. There was no way he’d make it to the precinct to help interview the teenagers who’d found the body in Beverly.
“I’ll recommend two men on her as long as she’s in there,” Rodgers said. “I’ll suggest to my lieutenant that we consider this a joint investigation until you can eliminate any ties to your murder. In the meantime, I’ll have the techs copy you on whatever we find.”
“Thanks.” Cooperation between the Boston and Cambridge police departments was nothing new but usually involved a fair amount of red tape. “I appreciate whatever help I can get with this.”
“Not a problem. You’ve got your hands full with the Harvester. I’ll keep someone posted here as well in case our perp decides to pay a return visit.” The sound of the departing ambulance siren split the air. “Do you want one of my officers to take you to the hospital?”
“No. I’ll drive. I’ll need my car,” Rob said, moving toward the door.
“You’ll have to leave that.” Rodgers indicated the picture frame Rob had forgotten he held in his hand. “Wrap your hand in some toweling and have someone look at it. It seems to be bleeding pretty badly. You don’t want it to get infected.”
Rob stared down at the damaged frame, watching as the tracks of his blood trickled across Faye’s smiling face.
Chapter Six
Disheveled, feeling like anything but the cool, calm, and collected police detective he normally was, Rob drove through the streets of Cambridge, his mind not on his driving but on the woman in the ambulance ahead of him. He used the siren, broke at least a dozen speed and traffic laws, and he’d be damned if he’d take any flack for it.
His shirt and jeans had blood on them—his blood, thank God, and not Faye’s. It was a small consolation, reminding him things could’ve been much worse. Faye was alive, and that was the most important thing. His heartbeat slowed to a rhythm slightly higher than normal, but his blood pressure was probably still through the roof.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to set his emotions aside like he did at any crime scene and look at the evidence objectively. Last night, when he’d suggested his theory that the Harvester was fathering the children, he hadn’t quite resolved how the bastard might be doing it. He had some idea about that now, but there were still too many unanswered questions.
Tom was right about one thing. There were thousands of women in the area, so how’d the Harvester narrow the field to the ones he wanted, especially when none of them, other than Mary and Faye, had anything in common.
Where and when did he make his move? Once he selected them, he had to be observing them, biding his time before approaching, and after he did, he had to watch them again, making sure they got pregnant. He might even have to go back more than once to get the deed done. Faye’s birth-control pills must have pissed him off since making a baby was step one in his cursed plan and he’d probably wasted his load this time.
Disgust mixed with fury filled Rob. If he’d failed in his objective this time, he’d have to return and do it again. But the son of a bitch wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. He hadn’t counted on Rob showing up, finding her, and whisking his prize away.
All of the other victims, like Faye, lived in apartment buildings. People were in and out of those buildings, even secure ones, all the time, and no one noticed them—the cable guy, a maintenance worker, or a delivery man. He’d asked Cambridge PD to check traffic cams for service people in the area last night and this morning.
Since there’d been no sign of forced entry, Faye had probably opened the door to him. How had he overpowered her? After Mahoney’s attack on her a few years ago, she’d taken self-defense courses. Rob had sparred with her a few times down at the gym. There was no way she’d go down without a fight, but he hadn’t seen a bruise on her. The puncture wound was on her leg, so the man could have bent down, maybe ostensibly to remove his shoes, and injected her with a fast-acting sedative, but what?
During his stint in vice, Rob had worked closely with a couple of undercover guys in narcotics. There’d been that one case where the coeds at a frat party had been drugged with Rohypnol, but although the details had been vague, all of them remembered enough of the sexual violations to charge the boys involved. None of the dead women had filed any kind of assault charges. Why?
He’d heard of other drugs, such as Ketamine, which could be used to make women complacent—not too long ago, his buddies in narcotics mentioned something new making its way onto the streets. Rob didn’t know much about date-rape drugs, but he knew someone whose husband specialized in educating people about their dangers.
Turning into the hospital lot, he parked in the designated spot for police. The ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance, and he watched as they unloaded Faye from the back. He forced himself to sit in the car and let the EMTs do their jobs. He needed some answers; he suspected Faye had been raped and needed the doctor’s help to prove it. What he wanted done was an incredible invasion of her privacy and an abuse of his power, but he didn’t have time to find a judge and convince him, without an ounce of proof, to order the tests. Rob had to know if he was right, and this was the fastest way.
He pulled out his wallet and the card Mira had given him and dialed her number on his cell. She answered on the third ring.
“Hello. Dr. Kane speaking.”
“Mira, it’s Rob. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, I just got the princess down for her nap. Actually, I’m glad you called. I couldn’t get you out of my head last night, especially once I got the body cleaned up.”
“Why was that?” he asked, hoping the ME had seen what was so obvious to him now.
“That girl looked like Faye. You must’ve noticed it.”
He sighed heavily, pleased to have his assumption confirmed. “I did, and it came as quite a shock. The other victims just weren’t as pronounced.”
“I know killers usually have a preferred type, but realizing this victim looked like someone I know gave me the creeps. Her hair was dyed, by the way. She’s probably blonde.”
“Two of the others had their hair colored as well. Listen, Mira, the reason I called has to do with that research project your husband was on before you left the department. He was looking into date-rape drugs for the World Health Organization, right?”
“Yeah, the year before we got married. He spent most of his time in Colombia. Why?”
“Did he ever mention a drug that would not only make the victim compliant but would erase their memories, too?”
“Yes, but it’s incredibly dangerous. An overdose can kill. Where are you going with this, Halliday?”
“I need to know everything there is to know about it.”
“My husband went to Colombia to look into the ramifications of scopolamine, the so-called zombie drug. It’s odorless and tasteless and leaves its victims with no memory of what happened to them. Some people think it’s just an urban legend, but he’s convinced it might be the most dangerous drug out there today.”
“Is it injected?”
“It can be, but when used as a street drug, it’s either put into drinks or blown into the victim’s face and inhaled.”
“Holy shit! The stuff’s that potent?”
“It is. It robs the victim of free will. There’ve been cases of people emptying their bank accounts, being raped or beaten, committing robbery, even murder, without any memory of it.”
“Where does the stuff come from? Is it cooked up in a lab like meth?”
“Not exactly. It needs some refinement, all drugs do, but it comes from the Borrachero tree, a plant found in Colombia. The street name for the drug is the devil’s breath.”
“Why don’t they just destroy all the trees if this stuff’s so dangerous?”
“Because like every other drug, it does have medicinal value. Scopolamine is
used to treat severe nausea and motion sickness, as well as some types of addiction. They give it to astronauts. It’s usually prescribed as a patch that’s replaced every three days. It was used early in the twentieth century to make labor and delivery easier—the doctors called it ‘twilight sleep.’ Some anesthetists still add it to the cocktail they use to put people under for surgery, and I’ve just read an article suggesting it might help patients with bipolar disease.”
“So how is it used so that memory is impaired?”
“You have to understand the brain is relatively uncharted territory for doctors. We know a lot about it, but there’s still a lot to learn. To make lasting memories, your brain has to release a chemical called acetylcholine. Too much scopolamine in your system will block the production of acetylcholine. It basically prevents the brain from making the memory in the first place. It’s not a matter of forgetting—there’s nothing there to forget.”
“So, if someone blows this powder into a woman’s face, he can get her to do whatever he wants, even have sex, and she won’t remember it?”
“Probably the worst aspect of the drug is that while it robs the victim of her free will and memory, it doesn’t impair her cognitive function in any way. To a stranger, she’d look and behave normally. If a woman’s under the effects of scopolamine, she’s compliant, but compliance doesn’t denote consent.”
“What if she gets pregnant?”
“Unless the bastard had been rough with her, there wouldn’t have been any vaginal signs to show the sex was coerced. If she were sexually active, she’d probably put it down to the luck of the draw—no birth control method is 100 percent foolproof. On the other hand, if she wasn’t involved and there was no trauma, she’d certainly have questions, but there’d most likely be shame and guilt realizing she’s had unprotected sex with a stranger. That guilt would be compounded if they didn’t have any idea where and when it happened. Date rape goes unreported more often than not because of this. And if the woman does report she’s been sexually assaulted, trying to prove rape without any idea of who, when, or where is almost impossible.”
“Thanks, Mira. You’ve been a big help.”
“Wait, don’t hang up. Aren’t you going to tell me what this is about?”
“I can’t yet, but when I can, I promise I’ll fill you in on all the details.” He ended the call.
He looked down at his hand, which had started to ache only after Rodgers had indicated the blood. He’d wrapped paper toweling around it, but the cut was deep, and the damn thing wouldn’t stop bleeding. He clenched his fist tighter and called his partner’s cell phone.
“Tom, it’s Rob.”
“Hey, I’m glad you called. I’m sorry I was such an ass last night. Just too tired to think straight. I’ve thought about what you said—”
“Faye’s been attacked.”
“What?” Tom yelled into the phone, forcing Rob to move the device away from his ear. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I was supposed to pick her up this morning at nine. I overslept. Her place was trashed, like Lucy Green’s, and Faye’s unconscious.”
“Son of a bitch. Did he beat her? Is she going to be okay?”
“He didn’t beat her. I think he did something far worse, but I don’t know for sure, and I don’t know if she’s going to be okay. She’s been drugged. I’m going into the hospital shortly.” Tom tried to interrupt, but he wouldn’t let him. “Listen. I need you to go into the precinct. Pierce is questioning those kids who found the body last night. They were stoned, so I doubt they saw much, but I’d feel better if you were with him.”
“Sure thing. You know how I feel about our Columbo clone. Whatever I can do to piss on his parade works for me. Where are you?”
“Mount Auburn. I know you don’t think much of my theory, but I’m sticking with it. I’m more convinced now than ever that the Green murder and the Harvester are connected.”
“Whether they are or aren’t isn’t important. You’re my partner, and I should’ve supported you at least until your theory was disproved. We could’ve parked an unmarked unit outside her place. I’ll call Pierce and get down there as soon as I can. Once we’re done, we’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Thanks, Tom. I’ll see you later.”
Rob stared at the bloody paper towel on his hand. Tom might not have been convinced the Harvester was the man who’d killed Lucy Green, but at least he’d be willing to listen now. Until he had proof, that’s the best Rob could expect.
As much as he wanted to get inside and see what was happening to Faye, now that he’d spoken to Mira, he had one more favor to ask of Boston’s crusty ME.
Rob got out of the car and stretched, waiting for his call to go through.
“City morgue.” The voice at the end of the line was pleasant despite the gruesome words.
“This is Detective Halliday. Is Dr. Flynn there?”
“He’s currently in the autopsy room.”
“Get him on the line, please. This is an emergency.”
“Right away, Detective.”
Rob swallowed. Amos hated being interrupted, but he needed answers yesterday.
“Halliday, this had better be good.” Amos’s voice echoed through the phone, proof he was using the speakers.
“I need you to check all of the victims for scopolamine.”
“Scopolamine?” Amos’s voice rose in surprise. “You suspect they were drugged? That’s not necessarily a safe drug for a pregnant woman, but it would certainly explain why none of the victims put up a fight. Our usual drug test wouldn’t discover that particular poison, but it does leave a metabolite trace in the body. If it was administered to them, I’ll find it.”
“Faye was attacked in her apartment, and I think the doctors will find that drug in her system, too,” Rob said, unable to keep the guilt out of his voice.
“You think the Harvester attacked Faye?”
“I do, and her apartment was searched, just like Lucy Green’s.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying the Harvester killed Lucy Green? That’s a completely different MO. How the hell does the murder of an old woman fit his methodology? Her throat was slashed, and I can assure you she hasn’t given birth lately.”
“I don’t know how the cases go together, Amos; I’m following my gut here. If the drug’s present in the corpses and in Faye, I’ll have my first concrete link.”
“Well, I may have some good news for you,” the medical examiner said gruffly. “The Harvester’s made a mistake. The latest victim’s body has arrived from Beverly. Mira did a good job. They’ve identified the girl as Meredith Howard, Virginia Congressman Howard’s niece, the missing coed from MIT. The congressman’s a powerful man. He wants the killer, and his brother wants his grandchild. Anything to do with your case is now urgent, so that DNA test we discussed last night has been moved to the top of the pile. This place will be crawling with FBI agents within a few hours. They need to find those babies.”
“They’ve had a team looking for the children from the beginning, and I’m sure with a senator breathing down their necks, they’ll redouble their efforts. Keep me posted. I’ll be at Mount Auburn. Right now, Faye is the only living witness we have. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
• • •
The trauma unit was full of people rushing from room to room. Rob saw the paramedic standing by the nursing station.
“Where is she?” he asked, no longer able to control his patience. His hand hurt like hell, and his nerves were shot.
“Room four,” he answered. “The doctor’s in there.”
Rob crossed the ER and ignored the nurse who tried to stop him from entering the examination room.
“Who’s in charge?” he barked.
“I am, and who the hell are you?” The small Asian woman in the lab coat was in her late forties. A stethoscope hung around her neck. Her black hair with strands of gray in it was pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. “And un
wrap her,” she said to the nurse beside her. “I can’t see anything with her in a cocoon like that.” The nurse nodded and pushed Faye out and down the hall to the examination room.
The woman turned to Rob. “I asked you who you were.”
“Detective Sergeant Rob Halliday, ma’am.” He flashed his badge, trying to pull rank.
She sneered and crossed her arms in front of her. The petite woman seemed to grow taller with every word she spoke.
“I’m not a ma’am, I’m a doctor. We have our own police department in Cambridge as well as campus police for Harvard and MIT. You have no jurisdiction here. What’s a Boston police detective doing in Cambridge?” She stared at him, daring him to lie.
He felt like a kid who’d been caught cheating and had been dragged into the principal’s office. He swallowed and straightened. He was a good foot taller than she was. Doctor or not, there was no way he was going to let this woman intimidate him.
“Ms. Lewis is a material witness in a Boston murder investigation. She was attacked in her East Cambridge apartment. The place was ransacked. She’s been drugged, and she’s in a coma.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis. By the way, where did you get your medical degree?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
Rob felt flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the slow boil of anger he was fighting to suppress. The muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. If he lost his temper, he might not get the help he needed, and time was of the essence. The clock was counting down for Mary, the missing infants, and how many others? Since the congressman would be taking an active interest in the case, it might be harder than ever to protect Faye.
“Detective, this is the way things work around here. You go and sit those cute buns down while I examine my patient. Once I’ve done that, I’ll tell you what happened to her. I’m the doctor, you’re the detective. I don’t tell you how to do your job, and you sure as hell don’t tell me how to do mine. Go back through the ER and have someone look at your hand.”
The White Carnation Page 8
