Close Up the Sky (19 page)

"Can you tell
me why?"

"I don't
think so, Carla. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm not sure I
can explain it so it would make any sense. Right now it doesn't even make sense
to me. Just trust me. Nobody's going to know except the two of us. I'll make up
a dummy name for the crime lab service form."

For the first time
she really looked at him. His eyes were pink from lack of sleep and there were
dark circles under them. His suit coat also seemed to hang more loosely across
his shoulders than she remembered. Something was taking a heavy toll on him. What
he was asking was a violation of professional ethics, and they both knew it. But
she knew that if their positions were reversed he wouldn't hesitate to help
her, regardless of the consequences. She nodded and smiled.

"Go down to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee. I'll be there in
a few minutes."

Pierce paced the
floor of the crime lab's employee lounge while he waited for the test results. He
had tried taking a catnap in one of the easy chairs scattered about the room,
but was too keyed up to sleep. He looked at his watch; it was four minutes
later than the last time he checked. Early morning sunlight slipped through the
partially open window blinds, making bright bars on the floor. He stopped
pacing and parted the blinds a few inches with his finger. Rush hour traffic
was building up on the city streets; pretty soon it would be bumper-to-bumper. The
thought struck him as being ironic. No matter how serious things were, people
still went about their routines as though nothing was wrong. It made him think
of a piece of verse from the Old Testament. He couldn't remember the exact
words but it had something to do with the earth abiding forever. In the long
view it was a comforting thought, but it did little to ease everyday anxiety. He
was pondering the abstract ideas of heaven and infinity when a door opened.

"You owe me
for this, Pierce." It was Mike Garrett, one of the lab's forensic technicians.
"I pulled your test around fifty others, not to mention I had to start
work earlier than usual." He handed him a computer printout showing the
test results. "Murphy’s still working on the rifle," he added.

Pierce glanced at
the report but did not bother reading the technical jargon. He patted the
breast of his coat and said, "I forgot my glasses. What does this
say?"

The lounge had a
little kitchenette built into one corner. "Well now," Garrett said as
he walked to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Pierce waited
while he stirred in cream and sugar,
then
sipped it. He
nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with the mixture. The short delay in
answering his question irritated the detective, but he knew Garrett was not
intentionally ignoring him. He marked it off as being one of the little
eccentricities that most police officers accepted in their technical
counterparts. They were a cross between investigator and egghead, and their
services were absolutely indispensable.

Garrett finally
plopped down in one of the chairs and pushed the thick glasses he wore further
up on his nose. Pierce wondered why he didn't have a piece of white tape
wrapped around their bridge like most nerds in the movies. When he was settled
he gave
Pierce
a scrutinizing look.

"This guy
alive or dead?" He pointed to the report in Pierce's hand.

"Alive.
For the moment anyway.
What did you find?"

Garrett shook his
head and adjusted the glasses again. "I never saw anything quite like it
before. There's a combination of two different chemicals present. One of them
has properties similar to LSD, only much more powerful." He scratched his
head and frowned. "No, that's not exactly right. More like a cross between
LSD and certain forms of embalming fluid, such as formaldehyde. That would be
more accurate, but I can't make a positive identification as belonging to
either of those classes."

Pierce had been in
police work long enough to be exposed to his share of drug users. LSD was a
powerful hallucinogen, capable of completely interrupting normal brain
activity. Under its influence the human mind could transform things from the
dark recesses of the imagination into apparent reality. Some users claimed to
have tasted colors; others went on fiery tours of hell, or communicated with
God in the sublime reaches of heaven. Individual reactions were always
unpredictable and usually dangerous.

"What do you
mean you've never seen anything like it? We've processed enough drug samples
through here to fill a computer hard drive," he said.

"Not like
this one," Garrett argued. "It doesn't fit into any of the normal
categories. The chemical composition indicates that in the human body it would
probably act like LSD, only judging from the amount I found in the urine sample
it takes a much greater volume to produce the same effect. A normal dose of LSD
is very small. If this stuff had the same power, your man ingested enough to
put half the city on a trip to wonderland. That's one of the reasons why I
asked if he was alive. If you could get me a sample of the chemical itself I'd
like to do some tests on it.” He paused and smiled crookedly. “I know society
doesn’t need it, but I think that this guy has discovered a totally new
drug."

Pierce pondered
that for a few seconds before saying anything. Instead of clarifying some of
the puzzle, Garrett's report had simply added another inscrutable piece. Was
Apache Point involved in manufacturing drugs for military purposes
;
perhaps something to be used in chemical warfare? He shook
his head. Instinctively, he knew such a speculation was incorrect; it had to be
something else.

"You said
two
chemicals." He ignored
Garrett's request for a sample.

"Yeah, that's
another peculiar thing. Why anybody would ingest a thing like that is beyond
me. It's a sort of disinfectant-preservative for want of something better to
call it. Like I said, it's similar to formaldehyde only it's not derived from
methyl alcohol. The chemical structure indicates its base is probably some kind
of plant oil."

"A
disinfectant-preservative? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means
that if you replaced the blood in a dead body with this stuff, it would act
like embalming fluid. But ingesting it makes no sense unless you're trying to
commit suicide."

Pierce eased
himself down onto the arm of a chair. He wanted to be sure he understood what
Garrett was saying. "Maybe the hallucinogen needs the other drug to make
it work," he offered.

"No, they're
unrelated. In fact, they would have basically opposite effects. But I'll tell
you one thing: He had to have taken the hallucinogen first." The
technician leaned back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. He gave Pierce a
smug look and waited for him to ask why. Crime lab people rarely got any credit
for their work on important cases, even though they sometimes discovered things
that were directly responsible for solving them. The detectives always got the
publicity and accolades. It always gave Garrett a feeling of satisfaction to
know that his technical investigative skills far surpassed those of police detectives.
In cases of this nature, he got a kick out of showing off his superior
knowledge.

Pierce rose to the
bait. "Okay, why?" he asked.

"Because the
preservative would have put him out like a light within seconds of ingesting
it. Unless he was trying to kill himself, he probably swallowed it by accident
while he was under the influence of the hallucinogen." He paused and
scratched his forehead absently. The smug attitude was replaced by one of
puzzlement. "The only thing I don't understand is where he got the
stuff."

"Where he got
it?"

"Yeah. It's
not something you could buy or even make unless you're a chemist.
Maybe not even then.
Like the other drug, there are elements
in this one that I can't specifically identify. I need a pure sample for
further testing."

Before he could
pursue the sample request any further, Pierce interrupted him with the main
question: "Could this stuff induce a coma?"

"Sure." He
swirled the coffee around in the cup while he thought the question over. "Given
in the right amounts it could cause paralysis to the motor functions of the
brain, respiration would be reduced, blood pressure would drop, and the eyes
would dilate. Yeah, it could cause coma, but death would be close behind. This
guy's lucky to be alive."

"Let's say it
did put him into a coma," Pierce continued. "If you didn't know about
the chemicals in the blood, what would be the immediate diagnosis in a case
like that? I mean from a medical viewpoint."

"Hard to
say," Garrett responded. He pursed his lips and said, "It wouldn't
have an immediate effect on the heart. Probably look more like a stroke than
anything else."

Pierce slid down
into the chair. For a few seconds he just sat there staring at Garrett while he
mentally reviewed Leahy’s note. He was tempted to pull it out and read it
again. How in hell had he figured that one out? He marked it down as one of the
questions to ask when he talked to Leahy later in the day.

"Will the
effects wear off?" he asked.

"If he was in
good health the body might be able to oxidize the chemicals over a period of
time, but that's just speculation. I don't have enough information to say for
sure. It would have to be soon though. It's bound to have a devastating effect
on the liver. But who knows, drugs do funny things sometimes."

"I need your
best guess."

"I can't give
you a yes or no answer," Garrett continued, "but you know, that
preservative reminds me of something we…."

Another technician
entered the room, interrupting him. He had the rifle in his hand. "You
Sergeant Pierce?" he asked.

"Right."
Pierce thought he knew most of the crime lab people, but he had never met this
man. He was short and stocky, maybe in his early fifties. Garrett introduced
him as Jimmy Murphy, their ballistics expert.

"I was able
to get a piece of the serial number, but they did too good a job on the
manufacturer’s name," he said. "Doesn't matter though. I know who
makes it." He handed the rifle and a piece of scrap paper to Pierce. The
paper had the partial serial number written on it. "Those are the last
four digits. You need a formal report on this? Garrett said you were in a
hurry."

Pierce laid the
rifle across a chair then looked at his fingers. The weapon was still slightly
wet with the chemical used in raising the serial number. “No, I won’t need a
report right now,” he replied.

"Sorry about
that," Murphy apologized for the chemical.

"It's okay. You
say you know the manufacturer?"

"Yeah. Berkman
Tool and Die. It's a small California company that specializes in limited
production weapons. That's their model SJ40. It shouldn't be hard to trace
through their records. There probably aren't over three or four hundred in
existence."

Pierce looked down
at the rifle. It had an unusual design, much shorter than most shoulder
weapons. He had checked it over in detail before bringing it to the lab, and
had observed that it was capable of fully automatic fire. The barrel was about
eighteen inches long with a built in silencer. The Marine that delivered it to
him had also given him a partially empty thirty-round magazine.

"Limited
production, huh?
Who
would they sell them to?"

"I saw a few
of them when I was in military intelligence. That's how I knew who the
manufacturer was. The stock disconnects from the receiver so the whole thing
can be carried in a briefcase or sack. It's more accurate than the typical
hand-held machine gun because of the longer barrel, and it can be fired just as
fast. They're mostly used by government agencies in covert operations. Very
effective at ranges under two hundred yards."

"Covert
operations? You mean like our Special Forces units?"

"I doubt it. More
like the CIA."

Pierce didn't like
the sound of that. The situation was already too complicated. But he was in too
far to stop now, regardless of
who
was involved. Besides,
Murphy might be wrong. The weapon was probably stolen. "How hard would it
be for a civilian to get one?" he asked.

Murphy shook his
head. “As far as this particular weapon is concerned, it would be damn near
impossible. These aren’t even used in the United States. Most of them were sold
to rebel forces operating in third-world nations before they became unfriendly
to American interests. A good many of them wound up in the Middle
East
, if you know what I mean."

Pierce did. He
retrieved a paper towel from the kitchenette and wiped the chemical off his
fingers. He picked up the rifle, wiped it clean, and stuck it under his arm. "You
guys have been a big help. Anything I can do for
you,
just let me know." He took a few steps toward the door then turned around.

"Mike, you
were about to say something when Murphy came in."

Garrett dismissed
it with a wave of his hand. "It's not important. That preservative
reminded me of something I studied in chemistry, that's all. It's
nothing."

"You never
know what's important," Pierce insisted. "What was it?"

"Don't laugh,
but it had some traces of special unguents they used a long time ago to embalm
people. We used to kick it around in class, about how we could make a fortune
selling the formula to undertakers if we just knew all the ingredients and how
to process them." He shook his head and let out a sigh. "It's a
shame, too. Judging from the results they got, it's a hell of a lot better than
what we use today."

"The results
who
got?"