Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m in an island paradise and I won’t get a chance to enjoy it. But this scenery … well, it makes me feel like I was really here.” She took out her Samsung and snapped some photos—including a selfie.

  “Who you sending that to?”

  “My fiancé. We haven’t settled on a wedding venue. Maybe Oahu? Destination wedding.”

  “Joe’s does do weddings,” Russell said. “Down there in the gardens.”

  Russell’s phone vibrated. He extracted it and said, “Yeah.” He listened a moment, then his brow rose and he nodded. “Okay then. No, no—this helps a lot.” He pocketed the handset and looked at her with a frown.

  “Lemme guess. We’ve gotta go.”

  “Yep. Wanna take the food with us? You can eat while I drive.”

  Vail glanced back at the mountains. “Not quite the same. But yeah. I need to eat. And we need to go.”

  Within ten minutes they were in the car and Vail was devouring her ahi, the requisite oohs and ahhs making Russell smile.

  When she was finished, they changed places so he could eat his Kalbi ribs, not nearly as easy a task in a moving vehicle as Vail’s fish.

  They arrived at the Scientific Investigation Section at HPD’s Alapai Station. Vail and Russell were led back to the trace evidence examination unit, where a technician was bent over a gas chromatograph.

  “Nice digs,” Vail said.

  He looked up, his eyes flicking over to Russell, and then back to Vail. “You’re the profiler.” He held out a hand and Vail shook it.

  “And you’re the criminalist.”

  He laughed. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  Hopefully not in a court of law.

  “This is Harry Bachler,” Russell said. “Best we’ve got. We could use all the help we can get on this case.”

  Bachler removed his reading glasses. “We’re the twentieth largest police department in the country out of eighteen thousand. And we’re the only crime lab for Hawaii. Actually, not just the state of Hawaii, but for the entire Pacific Rim. So we’re busy. And because we’re busy—”

  “We’ll get right to the point,” Vail said. “You found something for us. The Burkhead asphyxiation case.”

  “Ah, yes. Right.” He shook his head. “Sorry, too many cases. Someone called you, Adam?”

  “Yep. We put a rush on this one.”

  “Of course you did,” Bachler said. “Because why not? We’re the ones buried here, not you. Give me a minute to pull it up.” He sat on a stool and rolled over to a double-monitored computer. “Yeah. So first let me get the easy stuff out of the way. No clear latents on the packaging, other than the victim’s prints. Next … the soap wrappers have the vic’s name written in calligraphy. And judging by the microscopic bleeding off the strokes, it’s in permanent marker, not pre-printed. Red marker.”

  Vail absorbed that.

  “Same writer. Handwriting matches,” Bachler said. “Bigger deal is that we found Aconitum napellus. Also known as—”

  “Aconite,” Vail said.

  “Familiar with it?”

  “We are. Question is, where’d you find it? We need to know where the offender is putting it, how he’s poisoning the women.”

  “Already decided it’s a ‘he,’ eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Based on what?”

  Vail shrugged. “It’s what I do. I can give you a long explanation, but …” She grinned. “You’re super busy. Buried, I think you said.”

  “Buried.” He mumbled something under his breath as he scrolled through the document. “We found your toxin in the same place at both crime scenes. Bathroom.”

  Russell nodded. “That’s what we figured.”

  Bachler looked at Russell over the tops of his glasses. “Did you know it was in the soap?”

  “Nope,” Vail said. “That we didn’t know. Milled into the bar?”

  “Trace on the soap, but that’s because there was a thin, oil-infused liner wrapped around the bar.”

  Vail canted her head. “Oil-infused?”

  “My guess is that the oil facilitated the absorption of the toxin into the skin. The external wrapper had a waxy coating that prevented the oil from bleeding through.”

  “Sophisticated,” Russell said.

  Vail turned to Bachler. “This soap. Are we talking about a commercial product that was tampered with? With a lot number?”

  “Definitely not commercial. And definitely no lot number. Looked like generic packaging. We’re not done running our analysis on the ingredients in the soap itself, but so far there don’t appear to be any industrial chemicals, the kind you find in large batch products.”

  Russell groaned. “Which’ll make them harder, if not impossible, to track down.”

  Bachler pulled the keyboard in front of him and tapped away. “Triacylglycerols, free fatty acids, glycerol—how about I just translate the chemicals into substances you’re familiar with? Olive oil … uh … vegetable fat … medium chain fatty ac—that’d be coconut oil. Then water, sodium hydroxide—also known as caustic soda—and terpenes, which in this case looks to be an essential oil. To make it smell nice or relax you, that type of thing.”

  “Sounds like you can buy any of these materials in a supermarket,” Russell said.

  “Correct. Oh—and they noted something else. Not sure how significant it is, but the soap also had a trace of Disodium 6-hydroxy-5-[(2-methoxy-5-methyl-4-sulfonatophenyl)diazenyl]naphthalene-2-sulfonate.”

  Vail tossed a quick glance at Russell, who shrugged.

  “Sorry, Harry, but did you just switch to a different language?”

  “A mouthful of geek, I know.” Bachler laughed. “Thought about shortening it since neither of you are chemists and you probably wouldn’t mind.”

  “Or notice.”

  He chuckled again. “It’s a red azo dye commonly known as Allura Red, FD&C Red 40, or Red Dye number 40.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Vail said, “but there’d be no purpose of using that, right? I mean, in a trace concentration, it’s not going to actually color the soap. So why add a dye, or colorant, if it’s not gonna tint it in any way?”

  “Good point,” Bachler said with a nod of his head. “I don’t have an answer for you. Unless it was contamination. Not with us. But with the manufacturer. Or the killer.”

  Vail nodded. “If he’s mixing this stuff up in a kitchen, that could be a place you’d find red dye.”

  “Yeah,” Russell said. “But it can also be a contaminant in the manufacturing process. Can we track any of those compounds to a chemical company or a known product or a manufacturer?”

  “Maybe,” Bachler said. “Not sure yet. That’ll take time. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Text me as soon as you’ve got something,” Russell said as they started to back away. “Anything.”

  “Oh—” Vail turned to Bachler. “There’s a strong possibility this offender has killed in other states. So that might impact our search for the ingredients.”

  Bachler rotated on his stool to face Vail. “Do you think he’s mobile? Not staying in one place very long?”

  “Hard to say.” Vail folded her arms across her chest. “We don’t have enough victims to determine how long he’s staying in one town, or state. There may be a lot more vics than we know about because most—if not all—probably went unreported as murder. The mechanism of death looks like natural causes, especially in someone sixty or older. The death probably isn’t questioned very often. So our sample size is likely much smaller than his true victim count.”

  Bachler scratched his forehead. “If he’s spent less than a month on Oahu, he didn’t buy these materials on the island.”

  “Really.” Vail rested her palms on t
he countertop, bringing her face-to-face with Bachler. “That could be important. Why do you say that?”

  “Because it takes a month to make soap. I mean, you can make it in twenty or thirty minutes, but it has to cure for a month before it can be used. In this case, packaged and sold.”

  Vail lifted her brow. “Interesting.”

  “Harry.” Bachler turned to face an approaching technician.

  Vail elbowed Russell. “We should get going.”

  “Thanks Harry,” Russell said, backing away. “That’s helpful.”

  They returned to Russell’s vehicle, chatting as they sank down into the seat.

  “So would he hang around in one place more than a month? Take a chance the cops would realize these aren’t natural deaths? Or would he move on and reduce the risk he’d be caught?”

  Vail took a breath of warm, moist air. “Or he makes a large batch at home. Packs one or two suitcases or boxes full of ’em, brings his stock with him. Or ships it ahead so it’s here when he arrives.”

  “Not much we can do if he’s bringing them with him. Let’s first focus on whether or not he can get the soap bars locally. We may get lucky—or at least be able to eliminate the local angle.” Russell stopped in front of his car door. “Who sells soap that doesn’t contain commercial chemicals?”

  “Probably not a supermarket chain. A local shop. A health food store.”

  Russell inserted his keys into the ignition. “If he sells his wares out of a local store, it’s probably a locally produced product, right?”

  “Maybe. Not necessarily.” Vail chewed on that. “But if that’s the case, then he could be a local. And he committed the other murders when he was traveling.”

  “That would mean he’s hanging around for a while in each place, regardless of the risk that poses. Or as you said, bringing his stuff with him.”

  “I feel like we’re going in circles.”

  Russell turned the engine over. “Let’s head back to my office, get in front of a couple of computers and do some research on local health food stores.”

  “What if he sells to a company that specializes in small batch product distribution to specialty stores?”

  Russell pulled out of the parking lot. “Is that a thing?”

  “Don’t know about soap specifically, but yeah. Specialty chocolate bars are sometimes distributed in small batches.”

  “For our killer, it’d give him a big advantage. He could stay at home, in whatever state he lives in—Hawaii or somewhere in the Midwest, who knows—and kill elsewhere. Talk about lowering your risk of being caught. Hundreds or thousands of miles away from your crimes.”

  Vail thought that through. “No,” she finally said. “I mean, yeah, that’d give him certain advantages. But he chooses his victims. He has to pick them. Emotionally he has to do that. He’s missing the direct contact with the victim. He can’t feel them dying. Poisoning like this is done from a distance. If he can’t get satisfaction from killing this mother figure, Mary, there’s no enjoyment for him. He has to at least personally select her.”

  Russell snorted. “No ‘enjoyment’ in killing?”

  “Think about it logically. They’re all named Mary. They’re all around the same age, with the same hair color. That can’t happen randomly if he’s not there to choose his victims.”

  “Good point.”

  “But the fact that most male poisoners kill in a medical setting—which this obviously isn’t—still bothers me.”

  “Because male serial killers kill up close.”

  “Yeah, violently. With their hands—usually. They like to feel the life leaving the vic’s body. And slicing, cutting, interacting with it in some way.”

  Russell shuddered.

  “Welcome to my world.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Isn’t that narrow thinking? Generalizing? Shoe horning people into categories? I mean, yeah, maybe there’s a book on this stuff but not everyone fits neatly into arbitrary classifications.”

  “True, but we—”

  “Look at prescription medication. There’re always outliers, a very small percentage of people who have side effects that ninety-nine percent of the test subjects don’t experience.”

  “Of course. Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. Just when we think we’ve got everything figured out, some killer does something that throws us a curve, doesn’t fit our experience and research on serial offender behavior. We like to think we have all the answers, but fact is, these offenders don’t read the book.”

  “So there is a book.”

  “Lots of books. For some reason we profilers feel we have to tell every goddam killer out there how to practice and perfect his craft.”

  Russell hung a right, then glanced at Vail. “So when are you going to write your book?”

  Vail snorted. “Not till I retire. Obviously.”

  Russell examined her face. “I think you’re a certified nut case.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now, as to our UNSUB, I believe he’s right here, on Oahu. But he is somewhat mobile. How long he stays in one location, we have no way of knowing. Just means we’ve gotta move fast before he decides to pick up and leave.”

  “So you’re sure he’s male?”

  “Hell no. The fact that men almost always kill up close and personal really bugs me. Poisoning is a female MO except in a medical setting, which this isn’t. So I’m gonna assume he is a she. Until proven otherwise.”

  “Are you always this ditzy?”

  “Definitely not.” Vail thought a moment. “Must be the Hawaiian air.”

  “So are we referring to him as a she? Or she as a he?”

  “Now you’re confusing me. Until I figure this out, we’ll go by the book. He’s a she. Female offender.”

  “Maybe this will make sense in the morning. Because right now …”

  “Right now let’s not focus on gender. I know that flies in the face of reason, but—”

  “And why would this be any different?” He shook his head. “Fine—we’ll put gender aside for now. We’re looking for a woman.”

  “We’re looking for a serial poisoner. Does that help?”

  Russell shrugged. “A serial poisoner who could be male or female, who could live anywhere. Maybe even on the Big Island and spend a couple weeks on Oahu. Does his—I mean her—killing, then returns.” Russell’s cell vibrated. He extracted it from his inside jacket pocket and shoved it against his left ear. He listened a moment, but his face betrayed him. “You’re kidding me.” He glanced at Vail, then said, “Okay. Be there in fifteen, give or take.”

  “Problem?”

  “Another vic. I’d call that a problem. And that’s not our only problem because apparently the media’s figured out what’s going on.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re already there.”

  “Shit.”

  Russell snorted. “Look on the bright side. Maybe the reporter’s figured out if the killer’s a man or woman.”

  14

  Brooklyn, New York

  February 28, 1984

  Waverly Meece was a pillar of the community, a man who served his country, a man who volunteered at church, a man who would carry groceries for you if you needed the help.”

  The reverend cradled the Bible in both hands as he spoke. A dozen or so people had been standing in the cold on a gently sloping grass hill in one of the many Brooklyn cemeteries, a plot Waverly’s company had paid for as part of its benefit package. The dreary, low-hanging clouds threatened rain as the ceremony droned on. Friends sniffled. A few coughed back tears.

  Scott and Phillip Meece stood stoically, in shock if not fighting a sense of being overwhelmed, Phillip’s arm around his younger brother’s shoulder.

  Moments later, as the service drew to
a close, Scott stared at his father’s coffin as it was cranked lower into the hole in the ground. He had said only a few words since his father’s death a week and a half ago. Phillip was equally in shock but was able to attend school and complete his homework—barely.

  Although only four years older, Phillip had taken the loss of Waverly with greater maturity—perhaps because he felt he had no choice. Perhaps because Scott needed him to be strong. Perhaps because he now saw himself as the man of the house. It was heady stuff for a young man who had turned ten not long ago, who no longer had a father figure to guide and mentor him.

  Waverly had two siblings, but both had died young: his sister from an accident at work and his brother from prostate cancer. Mary was an only child.

  They were alone, but they had each other, Phillip told Scott when they had gotten home from the cemetery. The boys sat in Phillip’s room, a larger space than Scott’s—which was wide enough to hold a twin mattress and little else. Their father had told Phillip it had been a walk-in closet that they had gotten permission from the landlord to convert into an extra bedroom. Waverly and two friends worked all weekend to put up a wall and break down another. But it kept them from having to move. It was a rent-controlled apartment, so it was valuable beyond considerations of comfort for a child. Mary wanted to stick a bunk bed in Phillip’s room, but Waverly had grown up sharing a room, and he felt it was better to live in a room not much larger than a closet and retain more privacy, especially when the boys got older.

  “You’ve gotta talk to me,” Phillip said.

  Scott kept his gaze on the dirty carpet, at his cemetery-dirt-crusted dress shoes. He shook his head.

  “It’s just us in here. Mom can’t hear.”

  He lifted his chin slowly, his lips tightly shut. His eyes searched Phillip’s face and then he dropped his gaze.

  “I’m gonna look after you. I’ll make sure nothing bad happens.”

  Scott did not speak.

  “What do you want? Just tell me.” But Scott did not answer him. Finally, Phillip turned on his radio and “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor was playing. He got down on his knees and dug underneath his bed. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled out his Nintendo Game & Watch device, switched on the handheld monochrome screen, and played Ball. A few minutes later, he offered it to Scott, who merely shook his head.