The man pushes the pin through the crystals and into the glycerine, then withdraws it. The glycerine slowly seeps among the purple crystals, turning them a muddy brown. He places the capsule in the ZipLoc containing the rubber sachet and powdered charcoal, and then drops the baggie through the grate onto a concrete shelf four feet below. Instinctively he steps back.
For a few seconds nothing happens. Then, a small pop! A plume of hissing white smoke pours from the punctured capsule. The hissing grows louder — echoing within the concrete chamber — and suddenly the capsule turns blindingly white hot. The chamber is uncannily lit as if by magnesium flare. He can actually feel the heat and turns his head. It burns like rocket fuel for about ten seconds and then abruptly dies out. The whole package is nothing but a smoking black pea. Bye-bye Hengel. Bye-bye evidence.
Just as the man is walking around the Lexus — just as he is about to drive away — a D.C. Metro cop turns a corner and slowly approaches.
Shit! The man forces himself not to react to this random bad timing. Stay cool and everything will be fine. He is just reaching for the door handle as the cop pulls up and asks from an open window, "Everything all right, sir?" His breath is a vapor in the cold evening air.
In a luxury automobile and tailored suit, the man is well protected during a routine police encounter. D.C. Metro avoided stepping on powerful toes. He waves and smiles pleasantly as he opens his door to get in. "Every-thing's fine, officer. One of my tires felt a bit low on air and I wanted to check it out. But thank you for stopping. Good night, officer."
Reassurance. Respect. Reason. Gratitude. Closure.
Control.
The cop nods. "Good night, sir." His patrol car is already moving.
As the man drives away he grins tightly. He had parked so that the tailpipe was just behind the storm grate, thus hiding any escaping capsule smoke with his car's exhaust. The cop hadn't seen a thing.
Hengel had gone quite smoothly, and was certainly much less work than Gray. He'd considered abducting the Senator, but the discovery of his homosexual affair provided far too tempting an opportunity. The media will have fresh meat for many days of story.
And, with any luck, Brian Ostergaard's firm, the rabidly anti-self defense Policy Center on Violence, will be tar-babied with the scandal. Let them swat a few flies for a change. The PCV was a noisome bunch using concocted statistics, phony polls, and specious arguments to stampede the public into supporting unconstitutional and ineffective "gun control." The sexual and political collusion between a PCV lobbyist and the senatorial sponsor of the DWA would be too outrageous for even the national media to ignore.
It's always better to scratch two itches at once, the man thinks.
The FBI Special Agents on site at Brian Ostergaard's condo are taking special care. Although no foul play seems evident, Senator Hengel ranked #18 on the KK risk list. His Mercedes was already being taken to the crime lab. His body would shortly be autopsied by one of the FBI's best forensic pathologists. The condo building's front door, stairwell, elevator, and third floor hallway have been dusted for fingerprints. There had been no doorman on duty and no witnesses of the Senator's movement from car to hallway.
Mrs. Davis was of little help. She hadn't seen Hengel until opening her door. She thought that he was arriving rather than leaving, but wasn't sure.
Ostergaard had wisely changed his attire before the FBI had arrived, but neglected to remove every last trace of his makeup. A bit of eye shadow could still be seen.
A junior agent is taking Ostergaard's statement for an FD-302. "Sir, was Senator Hengel carrying anything when you found him in the hallway?"
"No, no, I don't think so. Not that I saw, at least."
"What about the bottle of wine we found in the hall?"
Ostergaard then recalls the Shiraz. "Oh, well, that could have been his. I didn't see it, though. I found him unconscious on the floor and tried to revive him with CPR. I wasn't paying attention to what he may have been carrying."
"Was the Senator a frequent guest in your home, Mr. Ostergaard?",
"Uh, no, I wouldn't say 'frequent'." Nervous.
"Then tonight was some sort of special occasion?" Setting him up.
"Uh, uh, no — no special occasion," says Ostergaard, rattled.
"So, then he usually arrived with an expensive bottle of red wine during his infrequent visits?" Skewered.
"Look, I don't know if it was even his, or if it was why he brought it.
" Senior agent Paul Kinney has been listening in and is suspicious. He locates the wine which has already been bagged and tagged. He gingerly picks it up and looks through the thick polyethylene ZipLoc. The wine hadn't been opened and was in a brown paper bag. He notices an oily smear on the otherwise unsoiled and crisp bag. Probably purchased this evening.
The oily smear bothers him, however. On a hunch, he opens the evidence ZipLoc and ventures a sniff. Frowning, he sniffs again. Looking up, he asks Ostergaard, "Did you at any time handle this?"
Ostergaard is puzzled by all this sudden attention to the wine. "No, no I didn't. I didn't even see it until one of your agents found it in the hall."
"Sir, have you washed your hands since Senator Hengel was here?"
"Washed my hands? I can't see what — "
Kinney cuts him off. "Just answer my question. Have you washed your hands tonight?"
Ostergaard senses the mood change and it unnerves him. He replies a bit too forcefully, "No, I haven't washed my hands tonight. Why?"
"Good. Don't. We'll need to get some hand residue samples right now. Agent Ferris will take care of it."
Kinney turns and motions to another of his junior agents and quietly says, "Call Lloyd Moss down at CTU. I need the composition of that oily stain on the brown paper bag. Tonight. And get samples from all sinks and P-traps, as well as the bathtub drain."
The junior agent's eyes bulge. "Poison?"
"Very possibly," Kinney allows.
"Really? Him?" junior says, eyes darting to Ostergaard.
"Can't say for sure. If we can place Hengel here before seven, then, yeah, maybe. If we can't, then it might not have been Ostergaard."
The next day, Kinney, Ferris, and two junior agents meet in a conference room to discuss Hengel with Lloyd Moss from the CTU.
The Chemistry and Toxicology Unit of the FBI Crime Lab handles drug analysis, poison identification, arson evidence, and explosive composition. It enjoys some of the world's most sophisticated equipment, such as mass spectrometers, liquid chromatographs, and electron microscopes.
Not that such equipment assures fair and quality work.
The vaunted FBI Crime Lab was the subject of much scandal in the 1990s. Its reputation was shattered in 1997 by an 18-month government investigation which upheld allegations of serious malpractice. Lab examiners often worked backwards from the evidence to prove guilt, following no protocols, and ignoring precautions against contamination of evidence (e.g., from carpeted floors and unfiltered air). Reports were altered or destroyed to enhance federal trial cases. The book exposé Tainting Evidence caused shock-waves throughout the Justice Department.
Little had been done since then to patch up the Lab's poor rep. Filters were installed and the carpeting removed, but not much else. Still, within the FBI, the Crime Lab examiners are cardinals of the Bureau vatican and highly regarded by field agents.
Lloyd Moss begins. "An identical solution was found on the brown paper bag, on the back of Hengel's right hand, and in his bloodstream. It was primarily CH3SO, dimethyl sulfoxide. DMSO for short. No license is needed for purchase. It's an anti-inflammatory and pain reliever used as a liniment for arthritic animals. Available at all vet supply stores. Cheap, too."
"Is DMSO fatal?"
"Not in such a small quantity. But what it carried was. Strychnine."
"Strychnine?" the junior agents ask in unison.
"Yep, one of the most lethal natural poisons around. Quick, too. C21H22N2O2 to us chemists, strychnine is a d
eadly crystalline alkaloid. It's extracted from the seed of the Strychnos nux-vomica, an East Indian tree."
"So, our guy grows some of these East Indian trees in his backyard?" asks a junior agent known for his wisecracks.
Kinney and Ferris both glare at Smartass. So does the second junior agent after watching their reaction.
Moss takes the facetiousness in stride. Shaking his head he says, "Not likely. He probably bought some rodent bait and leeched out the crystals. Cheap, easy, and untraceable."
"Could he have bought strychnine from a medical supply house?"
"No, not in this concentration. In very dilute form it's sometimes used as a stimulant, but nobody stocks it full strength. No, our guy bought a $10 box of rat poison and boiled off the inert ingredients himself. Any chemistry student could have done it."
"How much strychnine is fatal?"
"LD50 is just 1 milligram per kilo of body weight1. LD100 is only about 20% higher, so no more than 100mg. would've been needed for the 180 pound Hengel. A fat drop is all it took. The DMSO transdermal carrier did the rest."
"How'd the perp apply it to Hengel?" asks the second junior agent.
"Very simply. From his gloved right thumb as he shook Hengel's hand. Politicians love to meet admirers." The room is momentarily quiet as everyone contemplates how easy it would have been.
"Any traces of DMSO or strychnine at Ostergaard's place?"
"No, none."
Kinney says, "Well, that fits. We got a liquor store hit on Hengel's VISA. He bought that bottle of Shiraz at 6:47PM. He died arriving on Ostergaard's doorstep, not leaving. Ostergaard's in the clear."
"Any liquor store camera footage?"
"Yeah, including the parking lot. Hengel had no contact with anyone but the clerk. We checked him and the store for poison. Nada. This wasn't a random act. Hengel was targeted."
Moss says, "He couldn't have been poisoned then, anyway. Way too early. Though not instantaneous, pure strychnine is still pretty fast. It wouldn't have taken fifteen minutes. He'd never've made it to Ostergaard's."
"How long would it have taken?" Kinney asks.
"Oh, say, three minutes. Since Hengel wiped off some of it, five, tops.
" Kinney says, "So, backtracking Hengel's movements and assuming it wasn't Ostergaard, a third party could have made contact only in the third-floor hallway, the elevator, the ground floor, sidewalk, or street out in front. And not before then since Hegel's car was clean."
"That seems to follow, yes," Moss replies.
Kinney says, "So, logically, where did he met Hengel?"
Ferris offers, "Not in the elevator or on the third floor. And probably not even on the ground floor. Too much possible exposure to witnesses."
Kinney is pleased. "Exactly."
Ferris brightens. "Then it was outside the building on the sidewalk or street. Simply walked up, said hello, shook his hand, and strolled off. He'd have been a couple of miles away when Hengel collapsed in the hall."
Kinney nods his head. "Very good. But why even take the risk of any exposure? He didn't have to contact Hengel at all. Why not just drug his car door handle or something?"
Moss understands why not. "Because that wouldn't have fulfilled his needs. Because Hengel was somehow personal."
Heads nod. This makes sense to all in the room.
"Jilted boyfriend?" poses the serious junior agent.
Kinney says, "That was my first thought, but since Hengel was #18 on the KK risk list, let's eliminate the political motive before the sexual."
Moss keeps the ball rolling. "OK, it's probable that the perp knew his concoction's kill time, which means he planned on death occurring within three to five minutes of a handshake. He could have chosen another poison, one that acted faster like nicotine, or slower like ricin, but didn't. So, what does his choice of strychnine tell us?"
"That he needed sufficient delay in order to escape," says Smartass, coming out of his shell.
"Correct. But why not a poison that caused death in several hours versus several minutes?" prods Kinney.
Ferris jumps in. "Because death had to occur while Hengel was still at Ostergaard's. To cause a scandal — maybe even cast suspicion!"
"Bingo!" says Kinney. "Our man likely has strong political feelings about Hengel and the gun-control PCV."
Lloyd Moss speaks what is on everyone's mind. "Guys, I'd say we have ourselves another KK. And I'd bet Hengel wasn't his first."
Kinney mulls this over and says, "And I'd bet Hengel won't be his last. Our man has found a hobby."
The room turns silent as everybody ponders this.
Something suddenly occurs to Moss. "I wonder why he didn't plant some strychnine or DMSO at Ostergaard's, especially in a container with his prints already on it? That'd have really caused him some trouble."
Kinney frowns at this. "Yeah, you're right Lloyd, that is baffling. Our guy is certainly sophisticated enough to have thought of this, and skilled enough to have done it. It would have cooked Ostergaard's goose unless we figured it out."
"Maybe he has some principles. Didn't want to send an innocent man to prison for homicide."
It's Smartass, but he's serious now. This time nobody glares. His comments actually make an odd kind of sense.
Kinney remarks out loud, almost to himself, "A principled killer. Shit, just what we need."
The next day FBI Director Klein phones the White House. Hengel and the President had gone to Georgetown together.
"Sir, we've established several facts about the Senator's death. He was definitely murdered." Klein then fully explains the poison and its delivery.
The President is silent for several seconds. He pales visibly as he says, "So, anybody with high school chemistry, $20 of feed store supplies, and a rubber glove can kill politicians with a handshake?"
"That's about it, sir. One last thing. The Bureau now believes that the same man also abducted and probably killed Judge Gray two years ago."
The President's eyebrows arch in skepticism. "A serial killer? There have been over two dozen KKs in or around the Beltway, Paul. And Clayton wasn't abducted like Jon Gray."
"Yes, sir, that's true, but the other KK perpetrators all left at least some evidence behind, though nothing conclusive. The Gray and Hengel acts were different. Both in adverse weather, and both on an early February Tuesday. Both committed absolutely clean, unlike the other KKs."
"But they were two years apart," challenges the President.
"Yes, sir, but to us that may indicate the depth of his planning. He takes all the time he needs to execute his deed perfectly. He attacks suddenly, decisively, and leaves no trail. He operates in low-light conditions. He's patient and highly intelligent. Strongly motivated, but he has a rein on his emotions. My SOARU boys call him 'The Leopard.' He's likely between 40 and 55. A younger man would act more rashly. An older man wouldn't have the drive."
"'The Leopard,' huh? Jesus, Paul, don't let the media hear that."
"Certainly not, sir. I've sent strict instructions that the moniker is not to be used in any internal memoranda."
"Good. What else?"
Klein hesitates, and then says it. "Well, sir, we're thinking that he could even be law enforcement. It would explain why we've no leads so far."
The President drops his pen in surprise. "Paul, are you serious?"
"Yes, sir. We both know that it's happened before. Right now we're compiling a list of LE officers, active duty or not, who have expressed strong right-wing political opinions. As you know, we've been correlating NRA membership lists for years. In particular we're focussing on dismissed tri-state officers who harbor a grudge against the Government and who may have seen Judge Gray and Senator Hengel as appropriate targets."
"Hmmm. Well, his long planning period works in our favor. You've got until February 2013 to catch him," concludes the President, bitterly.
FBI Special Agent Kinney barges into his superior's office. The SAC of the Washington FO looks up in surprise, indig
nation, and curiosity.
"Sir, we have a break in Hengel."
"Really?"
"Yes, sir. Two witnesses, and now some physical evidence."
"Witnesses? It's been four days. Who piped up now?"
"The first was a neighbor across the street from Ostergaard's condo. He was walking his dog around 1900 hours and saw a man briefly talking to the Senator. He was about six feet tall, mid-forties, medium-length blonde hair, wearing a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase."
The SAC perks up. "Did he see this man shake Hengel's hand?"
"No, sir. They were in the middle of a conversation when he left his residence. The witness continued walking north for a block and then turned right. About a minute later this same well-dressed man had also taken the same route. While the dog stopped to pee, the witness turned and saw the man get into a black or dark blue, four-door sedan. He thinks it was a Lexus or an Infinity."
The SAC is silent, his fingers steepled in front of his face. After a moment he says, "Did he notice any other person in the vicinity?"
"Negative."
"Well, then it seems he saw our man. Did he see his face clearly?"
"Unfortunately not. Said he seemed handsome, but average. Couldn't offer anything more than that. The witness is 63 years old and wears glasses."
"You said witnesses, plural. Who else do we have?"
Kinney grins. "A Metro cop."
The SAC's eyes widen. "No shit? A cop?"
Still grinning, Kinney says, "Yes, sir. He saw a well-dressed man alone in a black 2006 Lexus stopped at about 1915 hours on N and 25th, by the south end of Rock Creek Park. Said he'd stopped to check a tire."
"This cop get his DL and run a 27?"
"No, he had no reasonable suspicion to detain him. Cop never even got out of his unit. They spoke only a few words as he drove by on patrol. Said he wasn't acting nervous or suspicious in any way. Was polite and confident. The cop didn't think anything about it until we tickled Metro for any contacts with a dark-colored Lexus. The encounter was so brief and nonchalant that the cop hardly remembered it."
Molon Labe! Page 28
