“Could someone be inside?” Webb studied the open lip of the vat, easily ten or eleven feet in the air.
“Hawk’s not saying there is. These things are massive. What were they for?”
“Liquid slag.” McCord laid a hand on the cast-steel vat. “They’d take them by rail off to a distant pit and dump them. The solidified slag later became a component of cement. The other cars, the ones that look like mini subs with a hole in the top, those were for the molten iron and went for further smelting into steel. I don’t think anyone would fit easily into one of those cars.”
Webb watched Hawk cast about for a few moments. “He’s not picking up on anything, is he?”
“No. We’ve done the circuit. Let’s move up a level. Maybe try the flight of stairs I hid behind.”
They had a bad moment when they came to a door at the top of the stairs that seemed locked, but it gave way as soon as Webb put his shoulder into it. It creaked open on long-disused hinges, and they squeezed through the smallest gap possible to avoid making any more noise than necessary.
Up on the first floor, they found themselves inside a large, open space where the body of the furnace rose up and out of sight through the metal roof. The furnace itself had a round base sitting on a squat, cylindrical stem encircled by coils of pipes and valves. A cracked rubber hose lay in a tangled pile at the base near an iron-splashed circular opening into the furnace. Under the port lay a deep channel cut into the floor that ran into the next room before splitting into two. A wide, retractable paddle hung on a lever at the Y to separate the slag from the molten iron before they flowed into separate vessels below.
“Has Hawk detected anything?” McCord asked.
Meg shook her head. Hawk wasn’t showing any of his usual signs of alertness to signal he had the scent. She pulled the bagged laundry out again and offered it to him along with the hand signal for “find.” He led the way around the furnace, trotting through a trail of sunlit dust motes filtering through a row of tagged water pipes lined up like jail bars. But his manner remained relaxed, his nose working, casting about for one particular scent. A scent Meg knew wasn’t present.
They cleared the main level, exploring rusting catwalks of industrial mesh that vibrated with every carefully placed step, control rooms filled with graffiti-covered panels and buttons, and an abandoned office with a time clock forever frozen at 3:17 and a forgotten pair of safety glasses, set down as if the owner would be returning momentarily to pick them up and keep working. With great care, Webb inched his way up a half flight of the tiers of external steps that slunk up the outside of the blast furnace, using Meg’s binoculars to peer along the open metal staircase. They didn’t dare climb the steps, or send Hawk up, for fear of being spotted by security or a tour group, but Webb felt confident there was nothing up that staircase. And, as he rightfully stated, anyone going up there to abandon the victim would also be too visible for comfort.
Meg pulled out her phone and texted Brian:
Cleared first furnace. Moving on to second. Update?
A few minutes later, a return message:
Ditto. Already searching #2.
Moving between the furnaces on the upper level meant crossing a solid steel catwalk tucked behind a trio of massive blast stove tanks that rose so high they blocked the sun, sending an autumn chill down Meg’s spine. The tanks separated the search team from the concrete tour platform, and the group had to freeze for several heart-thudding minutes that felt ten times as long when a tour guide’s voice filtered through to them, describing the construction of the original blast furnace and stove tanks in 1914. Webb and McCord huddled together against the rail behind one tank while Meg crouched down next to Hawk behind the next. As the guide’s voice droned on, repeating history she’d no doubt described hundreds of times previously, Meg found herself considering the oily, rainbow-like sheen that coated the outside of the tanks, the only spot of blooming color in an otherwise dull, rusted landscape.
Finally, the guide and her tour moved on, and the team waited a full two minutes before daring to continue without detection. Once inside the next structure, the search began anew.
They had just cleared the second furnace when the phone in Meg’s pocket vibrated. She opened Brian’s text.
We found him. Already gone.
Meg’s muttered curse caught the attention of both men, who stopped to look at her.
“Brian found him. We weren’t in time. Again.” The single word was full of frustrated bitterness. Meg bent over her phone.
We’ll come to you. Where are you?
Second blast furnace. Upper level. On one of the support maintenance catwalks for the furnace. I’ll call Craig to let him know.
“We need to get to the second furnace in from their end,” she said.
“It’ll be easiest to get there from outside.” McCord pointed to a three-sided railing grouped around a gap at the far end. “That’s probably the staircase down. Then we need to skirt the back fence down the property.”
“While not being seen.” Webb stepped over a forlorn rubber boot, toppled and dust covered in the middle of the floor. “We’re going to have to let security know, but it would be better not to be caught in the act.”
“Agreed.”
They found themselves downstairs in a familiar landscape of rail tracks, slag vats, and molten metal cars, and quickly moved through the rusted graveyard toward daylight.
McCord stopped at the outer boundary and held up a hand as he leaned out, scanning up and down the row. “We’re clear.”
They quickly covered the ground to the far end, stopping between complexes to watch for security guards while counting the towering rise of furnaces as they went.
“This should be it here.” Webb stepped into the shade of the lower level. “Assuming they’re all built similarly, we should be able to get up through a staircase here.”
Minutes later, they stood beside the bulk of the blast furnace.
“I don’t see them.” McCord stared upwards, looking for the catwalk. “How high up are they?”
“Not sure. But Hawk will take us there. Hawk.” Meg waited as Hawk looked up to meet her eyes. “Good boy. Find Lacey.”
Hawk immediately trotted around the furnace, jumping over channels and around diverters. As they circled around to the far side of the furnace, Meg spotted a staircase that rose high into the pipes. Hawk arrowed directly for the steps and started up without hesitating. Meg paused at the bottom, one hand on the railing, and looked up to find Brian two stories above her, waving madly. She waved back and followed Hawk. The staircase wobbled with every step and had a decided air of instability.
Meg was just starting the second flight of steps when an ear-splitting clang rang out. She whipped around, keeping her balance with one hand clutching the grimy handrail, to find McCord behind her, frowning down over the railing. “What was that?” she hissed.
McCord grimaced. “Maybe a bolt came off the underside? I didn’t kick anything. But these stairs feel as if they are coming apart at the seams. Hopefully security didn’t hear it.”
“If they did, I hope Craig has already told them we’re on-site conducting an investigation.”
They climbed the rest of the way without incident and met Brian, Lacey, and Smaill on the catwalk.
Meg looked past Brian to the floor of the catwalk. A slender, balding elderly man lay on his side on the platform near the upper level of the furnace, one hand dangling lifelessly over the edge, his skin a sickly gray. “Stupid question, but you’ve checked him for signs of life?”
“First thing we did.” Brian laid his hand on Lacey’s head. “She led us right to him, with no hesitation as soon as we made it to this building. I tried for a pulse, then Smaill did, but there’s no use. The body is cold to the touch. He’s only been missing a day, but he’s been dead for hours now, maybe even since last night. We backed off to preserve the crime scene.”
“You got through to Craig?”
“Yes.
He’s alerting local authorities to come and take over. And he’s calling security so they’ll know they have people incoming.”
“Thanks.” Meg bent and stroked a hand down Lacey’s silky fur, earning an enthusiastic tail wag. “Good job, Lacey girl.”
“Security! Don’t move!”
Meg froze, her hand partway down Lacey’s back, but her eyes cut to the floor below them. A single man dressed in black stood, feet planted, his gun held in both hands and fixed on them unwaveringly.
She straightened slowly, raising both hands into the air. “FBI,” she called down. “We’re here on a case and have identification.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“We’re FBI,” she repeated slowly. She glanced at Brian to find the same thought mirrored in his eyes. Power-hungry rent-a-cop. “Can I show you my identification?” She dropped one hand toward her pocket and her flip case.
“Keep them up!” the man bellowed, reaching for the radio on his belt. “I’m calling in backup.”
He was raising the radio to his mouth when it crackled to life. “Larry, I need you to go to furnace D. The FBI just contacted us. There are two K-9 teams on-site for a murder investigation, and they’ve identified a victim on one of the catwalks. They’d like our support in bringing in Bethlehem PD and EMS.”
“You said K-9 teams?”
“Yeah, you know, like dogs?”
Larry squinted up at them, and Meg quietly called Hawk over so he was visible from below.
“I’m there now,” Larry said. “I have them. PD is coming?”
The radio crackled, and part of the first word was lost in static. “—mont said he was calling them next, but he wanted to make sure we knew they were on-site. He said he was sorry they didn’t let us know before the teams got on-site, but they were following an active lead and didn’t know where they’d end up.”
“Ten-four. Larry out.” He clipped his radio on his belt and looked up.
He hesitated briefly, and Meg could see the stubborn displeasure on his face before he finally lowered his gun. Only then did Meg lower her hands. Seriously unhappy he’s not going to be a hero today. Turning back to the group, she rolled her eyes, then pasted on a bright smile. “Come on, Hawk. Come be an ambassador for the FBI.” With her dog at her side, she started down the flight of stairs to meet the disgruntled security guard halfway.
CHAPTER 10
Chatière: Literally a “cat hole”; used to squeeze in or out of a tunnel.
Friday, November 2, 9:44 AM
14th Street NW
Washington, DC
Meg’s cell phone rang as she was driving past the Washington Monument. A quick glance at the number displayed on her dash told her she didn’t recognize the caller.
“Jennings.”
“It’s Mac Turner of the Bethlehem PD.”
“Officer Turner, it’s good to hear from you. Thank you again for your help last week. You smoothed over a very awkward situation.”
“Just Mac, please. No need to stand on ceremony. And I know Larry. He’s a good guy, just a little overzealous. He wanted to be a cop, but the stars didn’t quite align for him there. He does this instead and takes it very seriously.”
“He does, indeed. What can I do for you, Mac?”
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you. I know the powers that be are still figuring out who this case belongs to, but I wanted to give you a heads-up; otherwise, you might not hear for days or weeks. We have the tox results back.”
“Already? Who did you pay off?”
Turner’s warm laugh carried clearly over the line. “That may be how you have to play it in DC, but we’re a lot smaller here. Yes, there’s a backlog, but we don’t get so many suspicious deaths, so those cases get bumped way up the line. And, I admit, I called in a favor with this one to get the results faster.”
“I’ll say. We have a previous victim from almost a month ago, and I’m pretty sure results aren’t back yet, because my SSA would let me know as soon as they hit his desk. So, what does the report say?”
“It lists cause of death as a chemical called difethialone.”
“I’m not familiar with that one.” Meg drove with the flow of traffic on Constitution Avenue and between the twin Federalist structures of the US Department of Commerce and the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center. “That’s a poison?”
“Essentially. It’s an anticoagulant that in high doses is used as a poison. Specifically, a rat poison.”
Some of Meg’s positive energy drained away. “Rat poison? A common poison that’s cheap, plentiful, and sold everywhere. In other words, untraceable.”
“Most rat poison is exactly that. But, as I understand it, this stuff has been banned by the EPA since 2008 and off the residential market since then.”
“You know a substance is bad news when the EPA bans it. Any information on why?”
“It was among a group of really nasty and long-lasting pesticides the EPA removed from residential use, so now it’s available only to commercial exterminators.”
Hope sparked in Meg again. “If it’s a chemical with those kinds of restrictions, there’s likely a way of tracing those purchases. Our killer may be someone who works with industrial pesticides.”
“Maybe. Of course, it could also be someone who found an ancient can of the stuff in a corner of his garage and is using it to kill humans instead of rodents. If it has any stability, an old stock like that could remain active and toxic for a long time.”
“Did your ME say how fast this stuff works? Or any theories on how it was delivered?”
“Stomach contents agreed with the evidence of his last meal we found in his kitchen,” said Mac. “But on top of that, they found 190-proof grain alcohol. According to the ME, difethialone isn’t soluble in water but is soluble in organic solvents.”
“Meaning alcohol.”
“And the higher the concentration, the better. The booze could also have the secondary side effect of possibly making the victim more pliable. Meg, this poison doesn’t kill instantly. Depending on how much is given, it could take hours, or maybe even up to a day. Trace evidence on the clothes also shows low levels of difethialone.”
“Meaning some of it spilled while the perp was forcing it down Mr. Roth’s throat,” Meg reasoned. She signaled her turn and made a right onto F Street NW. “We’ve been wondering all along if the victims were alive or dead when they were left in the urbex sites. Because of the time delay, this means it’s almost a surety they were alive. But it’s doubtful the suspect waited until arriving at the dump site to administer the poison. He probably gave the poison somewhere private, so by the time he got Roth to Bethlehem Steel, he was already unwell. Less chance he’d be able to escape and get to help.”
“From what we’ve learned about Warren Roth, he was mobile, so he should have been able to make it down those stairs.” “Further proof that he was already failing by the time he was abandoned. Goddamn it, I want this guy. Leaving the frail and defenseless to die alone in the dark in a strange place? A person’s last minutes shouldn’t be terrified and helpless. Have you got a copy of the report you can send me by email?”
“Sure do. Give me your email address and I’ll do it now.”
“I’ll give you my SSA’s as well.” She spelled out both email addresses. “I’m headed into the office now, and we can discuss it as soon as I get to the unit.”
“You going to make a run for jurisdiction?”
“We are. We’re going to get it, too, based on what we have. I’ll have my SSA put some pressure on getting the other autopsy results. If that’s the same poison, or class of poison, then we have a solid case for cross-border killing, and that makes it ours.”
“I’ve forwarded the ME’s report to your email addresses. Good luck with it. If you have time, let me know how it goes. It may not be our case anymore, but I want to know Roth gets the justice he deserves.”
“That’s a promise, Mac. Thanks.” Meg hun
g up and turned onto 10th Street NW, the massive bulk of the J. Edgar Hoover Building rising high on her left. She speed-dialed Craig and started talking as soon as he picked up. “Check your email. You should have the autopsy report for Warren Roth.”
There was moment of silence, then, “I’ve got it.”
“The ME says Roth was killed with rat poison. I’m pulling into the parking garage. Can we lean on autopsy results for Donna Parker? It’s been about a month, and if these two victims line up, we can make a case for jurisdiction. I want this one, Craig.”
“I hear you. I do, too. If we can match COD on both victims, I’ll be able to make it happen. This may be too soon, though. You know most tox results take four to six weeks to come in.”
“Do you think it will be an impediment if we can’t tie together COD?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There are enough similarities in the unique body dump sites with victims that I can make a case for the potential of a common killer. Let me make some calls. See you in a few.” The line went dead.
Meg glanced into the back of her SUV, where Hawk sat, ears perked as if listening to the conversation while he gazed out the windshield through the open emergency exit between the cab and his compartment. “You hear that, Hawk, buddy? Craig’s going to do the heavy lifting to make sure this is our case. Then we’re going to get this killer.”
CHAPTER 11
Abseiling: A controlled vertical descent by rope.
Friday, November 2, 2:35 PM
Forensic Canine Unit, J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
“Meg? Got a minute?”
Meg looked up to see Craig leaning out his office door. “Sure.” She pushed away from her desk and stood, Hawk coming to his feet to join her.
“Bring Brian, too.” Craig scanned the office. “Anyone else here? Scott? Lauren?”
“No, but I can bring them up to speed if you want. Let me grab Brian and we’ll be right in.”
“Bring a chair with you.” Craig rolled his eyes. “Someday, I swear, I’m going to get us a conference room.”
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