A Caduceus is for Killing

by Diana Kirk

  "I really should be furious with you." He frowned, but then smiled. "All evidence is under the jurisdiction of the police. What else do you have?"

  "Just one more thing."

  "Andrea!"

  "Oh, stifle it. There was a letter with the key," she continued, "but it was written in French."

  "French, why?"

  "Milton did some work with the Pasteur Institute of Paris, one of the biggest AIDS research facilities in the world. He's gotten memos and letters from Paris for a long time." She pulled out the wrinkled letter. "I can't read a word, but with the help of my trusty dictionary--" she held up a thick paperback book-- "I translated enough to make out the words. . . `cells changed--healthy. . . something. . . something. . . your sample.' He must have sent them some blood. But whose? No inpatients are in remission. Could there be another person we don't know about?"

  Krastowitcz gazed at her, puzzled. "I don't know, Andrea. Maybe the mutilations, the cadavers in the photos, maybe. . ." His eyes looked vacant, then cleared. "You said something about T-cells?"

  "DNA in human cells creates healthy T-cells. These cells enable the body to ward off infections and diseases. In terminal illness, especially AIDS, the T-cells are destroyed, allowing diseases to devour healthy ones. The key to immunity seems to be in the T-cells."

  He handed back her dictionary. "Let's find someone who reads French and get this thing translated properly. How about someone in the Language Department at Dorlynd?"

  Andrea thought for a few moments. "Let's call them. Do you have a phone book?" The letter contained the answers they needed. Sure of that, she fumbled through the papers on his desk searching for a phone book. Krastowitcz placed a large paw over both her moving hands.

  "Wait a minute. Slow down." His other hand produced a large phone book and she pulled her hands free grabbing the book, flipping the pages.

  "It'll take me a minute. . . wait. Here it is." Andrea dialed a number. "No answer. What now?"

  "We'll call again tomorrow."

  "We could try and translate it ourselves, right now, tonight? We can't wait until tomorrow."

  "Why not?"

  Somehow, she had to convince him, change his mind. What would it hurt? "Time, Gary. Peter has threatened to leave, and you promised me dinner, anyway. We'll take the letter with us and give it a try."

  "All right, all right." Krastowitcz stood and donned his jacket. "Dinner. We'll see what we can do. If not, this goes to a translator tomorrow. Understood?"

  "Sure. What're we waiting for? Let's go eat."

  "Give me a minute here and then we'll leave. Start thinking of where you want to go."

  Someplace quiet, so they could talk without interruption. Someplace where they'd be at ease. Nothing too fancy. "I've heard so much about the steaks at your hangout. How about The Tap?"

  Chapter XIII

  . . . WITH PURITY AND WITH HOLINESS I WILL PASS MY LIFE AND PRACTICE MY ART. . .

  "Try the T-bone, Andrea."

  Andrea picked up the plastic-coated menu and scanned the selection. Steak was so barbaric, but what the hell. She was in the middle of a murder case.

  "Do you know what eating like this will do to you, Gary?"

  "I know it's bad, but it tastes so good. Anyway, the life expectancy for a cop is under fifty. If I live long enough to have a stroke, it'll be worth it."

  "Really? I think I should have fish."

  Andrea glanced back over the menu, trying to decide. After Suzanne's description, she'd wondered what a typical police hangout looked like. She wasn't disappointed. It was functional, a long bar at one end of a large dining/drinking room. Tables had placemats, not cloths and the stomach-turning decor was the typical rape of nature in the guise of trophies lining the walls: elk, deer, bear, moose, fish, and anything else claiming the Midwest as its habitat. But Andrea was starving and not about to be distracted by another cause. She could put her soapbox away for the moment.

  "All right, Gary. To hell with health. I'll have one, too."

  "Two artery-choking T-bones, Mort. And a pitcher of draft. Okay, Andrea?"

  "Why not?" She lifted the dictionary from her purse. "Now, let's get going, this shouldn't take too long."

  "Yeah, but why not wait until after dinner?" Krastowitcz leaned back into the booth. "I could use some quality time, right now."

  "What do cops know about quality time? You're on duty twenty-four hours a day. Isn't that what you said?"

  "We only say that to impress the ladies."

  "This lady isn't impressed." Andrea smiled at him. Actually, she was quite impressed. Something was happening here. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he made her feel good.

  "Okay," Krastowitcz said. "Gimme your book."

  He leaned forward, his head almost on her shoulder, and noticed her scent, or maybe a lack of one. That clean scent physicians had. Her hair was different, too. Sweet, like she had a light cologne in it. He couldn't tell what kind. It smelled nice. He looked at the strange words on the page and began to read out loud.

  "Mon cher Professeur Grafton:

  Deux echantillons de sang etaint enregistres et analyses a l'arrive."

  Andrea searched hurriedly through her dictionary.

  "Two specimens of blood--darn, I can't find the word-- recording of analysis on arrival," she mumbled, "This is harder than I thought."

  "Echantillion A: Serum n'a pas ete ajoule - etait clairement positif pour le virus de H.I.V."

  "Specimen A: serum, something, something, clearly positive for virus H.I.V."

  "How's my accent?" Krastowitcz said. "Do I sound like a Frenchman?"

  "Gary, you're clearly from the Great Plains. There's no similarity, except that both the French and mid-westerner talk through their noses. It's called a twang."

  "Talk through my nose, huh? When did you get to be such a snob?"

  "We can't do it this way." She smiled, taking the letter from his hands. "Since I can't understand you, I can't tell what the words are. I'll have to do it the old fashioned way--by sight. Let's see now. . . serum B, show of cell activity, many changes within cut of cells, their stability.. . .Hmmm, that doesn't mean much, except there must have been some kind of cell-change in sample B. But whose blood he was using?"

  "How `bout those poor slobs on my bulletin board?"

  "Maybe. But if he was the guinea pig, maybe the sample was his blood?"

  "Echantillon B: Serum B a ete ajoule let echantillon montre de l'activite cellulaire: beaucoup de changements dans la taille des cellules et dans leur stabilite."

  "Maybe we should get an expert to translate," Krastowitcz said.

  "I don't know, Gary. I'm scared. We seem to be working against time. What if Milton had found a cure for something and Peter Mueller decided to keep it for himself? Maybe Peter already knows what this says. Maybe right now he's leaving the country. What he said today was very strange."

  "I've got a hunch all of this is connected to those serial murders. It's important to get the letter properly translated, tomorrow."

  "Of course. Peter could've tied it all together and figured out what was going on. Or maybe he was even involved in the mutilations."

  "But, from what you said, he seemed to overreact to Graf-ton's death."

  "He's so angry, but, I just can't believe he'd murder. . . I just don't know."

  "Sometimes murders result from a jealous rage. It's easy to understand jealousy as a cause, now that we know he and Milton were sexually involved."

  "Okay. So let's try to get the letter translated tonight."

  "It's starting to give me a headache." He leaned in again. "What's next?"

  "Une melange de deuse types de cellules est maintenant presente: Les cellules deforees semblent etre digerees par les

  There's scribbling. I can't make it out, grandes. I'm getting a headache, too. Something about deformed cells. These cells have changed and now they're stronger. Just like the grant said."

  And so they continued until finally they got
to the end of the letter. "Appelez moi le plietot possible a votre meilleure convenience. It says to contact him for further information."

  "Who?"

  "The one who wrote the memo. Professeur DuBoismier. We can call from my WATTS line."

  "At this time of night?"

  "Sure, it ought to be morning in France by the time we call."

  "Okay. Here come the steaks," Krastowitcz said. "Can we enjoy our dinner now that we've gotten that out of the way?"

  They were bantering. Almost like friends. Maybe even lovers? Andrea was at ease with this man. Flirting with him, like Suzanne.

  Suzanne!

  Her face went white. She'd forgotten their dinner date. How could she have been so stupid? It was nine o'clock. She had to call.

  "HEY, SUZANNE," the receptionist called out before she left the Department, "telephone."

  "Shit," Suzanne swore under her breath. "Now I'll be late. Who is it, Donna?"

  "I don't know. Take it and see for yourself."

  "No need to get nasty," Suzanne said, reaching for the receiver. "This is Suzanne, may I help you?"

  "Hey, Sweetheart, glad I caught you."

  "Trent? What's wrong? I'm having supper with--"

  "Nothing's wrong, love. I got this out-of-town assignment. I have to go to Albuquerque, but I'll be back early tomorrow. I wanted to let you know so you wouldn't come over and find me gone."

  "You're such a dear. I'll miss you."

  "Me, too. Keep those fires burning till I get back."

  "You know it. Uh, I'd better go. . . I can't talk. I'm standing in the waiting room. I love you," she whispered.

  "You do? Now I really can't wait to see you. We've got some talking to do. I'll call you as soon as I get back."

  Suzanne floated out of the department. If he wanted to talk, he must love her, too. She checked her watch, six o'clock. Shit, now she really was late. Instead of waiting for the elevator, she ran up the two flights of stairs to Andrea's office.

  Suzanne rushed through the open office door, but Andrea wasn't around. Nor was there a message on her desk.

  A low, muffled sound came from Grafton's office and caught her attention. Andrea must be rummaging around in there. Well, she'd just have to quit `cause they'd be late for their reservations.

  "What're you doing," Suzanne said, bursting into the room, "digging for buried treasure?"

  She stopped, at first confused. Realization struck. "Hey, Where's Dr. Pearson? What are you doing here?"

  The arm sliced swiftly downward, burying a gleaming steel blade deep into her abdomen.

  "What?" Suzanne crumpled to the floor, her life flowing onto the floor. "No. . . n-no. . . n--"

  "WHAT'S THE MATTER?" Krastowitcz said. "You look sick."

  "I was supposed to have supper with Suzanne. Tonight! It completely slipped my mind; I've got to call her. What's Trent's phone number?"

  "She's not there."

  "How do you know?"

  He filled her glass. The beer had been cold and delicious, but she'd had enough.

  "Trent's escorting a prisoner back from New Mexico tonight."

  Andrea rummaged through her purse for a coin and slid out of the booth. "Then, maybe she's at the apartment. Give me a minute, I've got to call."

  Andrea dialed the number. Damn! She'd let her friend down on something really important. Suzanne's relationship with Trent. Andrea couldn't shake the dark feeling, worsening with each un-answered ring.

  She hurried back to their booth. "Sorry, Gary, I've got to find where she went." She reached for her purse.

  "She's a big girl. Probably went shopping when you didn't show. Where were you supposed to meet?"

  "My office. I told her I'd meet her there; she was supposed to get reservations, but she didn't say where. I feel like such a shit."

  "I'm sure she'll understand. This has been a big day for you: Grafton's funeral, confrontation with Peter, translating the letter and all."

  "Yeah, but Suzanne didn't know any of that. I was going to tell her everything tonight."

  "There's nothing you can do right now, so let's finish dinner, then we'll go back to your office. Maybe she left a note there. If not, we'll still call Paris."

  Dinner dragged by and Andrea kept checking her watch. The steak was tasteless and she couldn't concentrate. She'd forgotten her best friend. Weird.

  She was always the responsible one. It would've been in character for Suzanne to forget, but not Andrea. Maybe Suzanne forgot about it, too? By the time dessert came, she felt better and actually enjoyed the shot of schnapps Krastowitcz insisted she take.

  Good food and drink relaxed Andrea to the point of sleepiness and she fought hard to keep her eyelids open on the drive back to Dorlynd. She was drawn to the big detective and didn't know why. He was the opposite of everything she thought she liked. Tonight, though, she wasn't going to fight it.

  The guilt she'd experienced earlier returned in full force. Andrea stopped in the outer offices and fumbled for her keys. She dropped them several times before opening the office door.

  "Too much schnapps." Krastowitcz's humor fell on deaf ears. If only Suzanne had left a note.

  "She's not here." Andrea checked her desk. "There's no note, either." She breathed a sigh of relief. "Guess I'm off the hook. Come on in and I'll get the other chair from Milton's office."

  She turned the doorknob and pushed, but something blocked it. A dreadful sense of deja vu enveloped her and she was afraid.

  "Something's behind the door, Gary." A chill passed through her, and she trembled all over. "Give me a hand, will you?"

  Krastowitcz put his shoulder into it and the door opened. Suzanne lay on the floor, her head turned at an odd angle. Bile rose in Andrea's throat and she swallowed hard, fighting down the nausea.

  "Oh, God, no. Please, no." Andrea knelt and searched Suzanne's neck for a pulse.

  Nothing. She was cool to the touch. Dead. Andrea went numb. Her heart tightened into a hard knot and stopped beating. She felt as cold as Suzanne, inside.

  "Andrea, please--don't touch anything." Krastowitcz pulled her up.

  Suzanne lay framed in a pool of her own blood. Andrea's heart thudded against his solid chest.

  "Who could've done such a thing?" Her scream splintered her control, and she gasped for air in another asthma attack.

  She wheezed. "Not now!"

  From the floor, Suzanne's startled gaze stared up at them, her jaw locked in a grimace of surprise and pain. A long gash from her clavicle to her pubis revealed her inner workings. There was something familiar about the look of her body, but Andrea's head swam and she couldn't remember. It was the blood. She knelt in the blood. . . Before. . .

  Did Suzanne look like Milton? No, there was no comparison. Yet there was something. . .

  "Come on, Andrea, let's get you some air." Krastowitcz all but carried her out of Grafton's office.

  "Peter. It's Peter," she sobbed. "He's the one. He looked so strange today. Like he could hurt someone. Especially me. That sonofabitch must've killed Suzanne."

  Krastowitcz eased Andrea into her office chair. Grabbing several tissues from a box on her desk, she absently swiped at her bloody knees. Krastowitcz rifled through her bag searching for her asthma medication. She threw her head back to get more air, but her efforts only produced loud, airless gasps.

  "Here's your inhaler." He withdrew the tiny instrument from her purse and thrust it into her palm.

  He waited a few minutes for the medicine to take effect and rubbed his hand slowly across her back. Assured of her breathing, he stood and opened the adjoining door, stepped in, and closed it behind him.

  Back in Grafton's office. Lately, this had turned into a popular place for murder. Someone must be after Andrea.

  Even laying exposed on the floor, Suzanne was still a vision of loveliness. She'd been completely eviscerated, her intestines placed in small piles around her splayed torso. It was almost as if someone wanted to display a picture of uniformity
. Was this a clue to the murderer's identity? He thought about Trent, the pictures the crime lab would take, the talk about her Playboy body. God, he hoped Trent hadn't really fallen for her. It was hard enough on Krastowitcz, and he only knew her slightly.

  Using his handkerchief as a shield, he gingerly picked up the phone in Grafton's office to call central headquarters.

  "Sarge, get the homicide unit over here fast." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "We've got another body in Grafton's office."

  Chapter XIV

  . . . .I WILL NOT CUT A PERSON WHO IS SUFFERING WITH A STONE, BUT WILL LEAVE THIS TO BE DONE BY PRACTITIONERS OF THIS WORK. . . .

  Two hours ago, they'd discovered Suzanne. Krastowitcz worried about Andrea. She'd withdrawn into herself. Not a word had passed her lips since. Most likely in shock, she'd drawn her legs up toward her stomach in the classic fetal position and she rocked back and forth. She clasped her arms tightly around her bloodstained knees, so tightly, white pressure points stood out.

  At least her breathing had returned to normal, but she seemed oblivious to the commotion other officers created in their search of the office.

  Her tomb-like silence filled the room.

  Women were supposed to talk a lot, be able to express their feelings. But this one did nothing. Krastowitcz wished she would cry or do something he could comfort. He longed to touch her hand, shelter her in his arms. But duty lay with the investigation, at least, until the coroner's men finished.

  He gazed around Grafton's office. Where the hell was George Iverson? Had he personally insisted on taking Grafton's blood sample to the Northwestern lab, himself? Shit! That was in Illinois. Odd.

  Pictures were finally taken. Krastowitcz gazed at Suzanne, again. What a shame. Such a beautiful, vivacious woman, now so degraded and defiled. Almost as if she'd been unzipped, and her guts carefully placed around her on the floor.

  Her eyes--those terror-laden eyes haunted Krastowticz. What must she have seen? The killer, maybe. And Trent. . . God, Trent! In Albuquerque. Only this morning he'd said Suzanne was the one; he wanted to make a commitment.

  The assistant coroner touched his back and Krastowitcz jumped. "What's been keeping you?" he snapped. "Iverson back from Chicago, yet?"