Dark Prophecy (9 page)

Paulson’s body was past the apartment complex’s front lawn resting on concrete. Riggins and Constance looked down at their fallen colleague. His limbs were twisted in unnatural angles. In his right hand was a white rose. There was also, strangely, a feather tucked in his brown hair. “Fuck,” Riggins muttered. He had sent the boy down to Chapel Hill to that murder scene. God help me if the killer saw him and followed him back here, he thought.

“Do you think it’s him?” Constance said, seeming to read his mind.

“Who?”

“Whoever killed Green. The body was staged, just like Chapel Hill. Jeb was there on Saturday.”

Riggins looked at Paulson’s broken body. “I don’t know.”

But deep down he did. There was really no other explanation for it. Riggins had sent yet another young man racing off to his doom. What if he’d listened to Wycoff and traveled down to Chapel Hill? Would that be him on the ground, bones shattered and lifeless eyes staring at absolutely nothing? That would have been so much better. Riggins had nothing keeping him in this world. Jeb Paulson, on the other hand, had everything. Unlimited potential, snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

There was commotion a few flights up—panicked cries for a medic. Riggins and Constance looked at each other, then rushed into the building.

 

 

One of the Falls Church cops was down in the middle of the hallway—moaning, half-conscious. His body trembled slightly. It was strange to see such a stocky guy down on the ground, curled up like a baby. A medic rushed to his side, lifted his head slightly to place a towel beneath, turned him on his side and lifted his chin slightly so his airway would be clear. Two other medics quickly joined him and grabbed his arms and legs to keep him stable enough to be moved to an ambulance.

“Where was he?” barked Riggins. “What happened?”

The nearest cop told him: “Right here next to me. We were coming out of the apartment and
bam
, he just went down.”

“Something airborne?” Constance asked. “Something he touched?”

“No idea,” Riggins said. “Nobody move. Don’t touch a damn thing.”

It occurred to Riggins that maybe this killer wasn’t just targeting Paulson. Maybe the idea was to take out a young member of Special Circs—knowing that senior members would rush to the scene, eager to avenge their own. And then, you spring the trap . . .

“You,” Riggins said, pointing at the cop who’d watched his partner fall. “Tell me exactly what happened.

The cop retraced his every step out loud, from arriving at the scene to checking the Paulson apartment, room by room, closet by closet, to stepping outside for a breath of fresh air.

“. . . and then Jon pushed the door open a little, and the next thing I know, he’s down.”

“The door,” Riggins said. Something had knocked Jeb Paulson out so hard that he didn’t notice being dragged to a roof and eventually pushed off the top to his own death. Had to be something on the door.

Constance went to the door, crouched down. “Riggins, there’s some kind of viscous fluid on this knob.”

“Okay, let’s bag a sample, then do the same with this guy’s hands. Then we cut the rest and get it over to Banner. I need somebody with a saw up here.
Now
.”

chapter 17

Special Circs HQ / Quantico, Virginia

 

 

A few years ago, if you had died a violent and mysterious death in L.A., whatever they didn’t bury or divide among your heirs ended up in Josh Banner’s trace analysis lab.

Since then, Banner had gone global.

Banner had helped Special Circs track down Sqweegel. Riggins wasn’t a man to forget favors. The moment a spot opened up, he asked Banner to join them full-time at Special Circs in D.C. And he loved it. Specifically, Banner loved being surrounded by evidence. It wasn’t subject to human emotions or whims. Evidence was merely pieces of a story you had to put back together again. And Special Circs afforded him the chance to work on the best puzzles in the world. Of course, the key to staying sane in a job like this was blocking out the fact that these puzzle “pieces” were actually broken pieces of someone’s life. And that the only reason they ended up here was because that person had died in one of the most horrible ways imaginable.

But Banner had grown up learning how to compartmentalize. It’s how he solved problems. It’s how he kept his head together. Well, that and comic books.

This time, however, it was difficult. Because on the table in front of him was the sawn-off doorknob of a colleague and a friend. First day on the job, Paulson had stuck his head in Banner’s lair and said: “Tell me everything about what you do.” This was remarkable. There were Special Circs staffers who’d gone a few years without even asking Banner’s first name. Paulson, meanwhile, had treated him like a forensics god. They’d hung out quite a bit, over sandwiches and beers. Sometimes talking shop, sometimes just joking around.

Banner had been a guest in Paulson’s apartment. He’d kissed Paulson’s wife on the cheek and shook Paulson’s hand and said his good-byes, dinner was awesome, thanks so much for having me over and then he’d touched this very doorknob and closed the door behind him.

Banner examined it now, carefully wiping a swab over its metal surface. From here, he would use a machine to separate the elements. Again, another puzzle to solve.

But solve this, and Banner would be helping to find Jeb’s killer.

He worked late into the night and almost didn’t hear Riggins enter the lab. “What’ve you got, Banner?”

“A weaponized form of
Datura stramonium
.”

Riggins stared at Banner, waiting him out. They went through this every time. It was almost a dance. Banner would tease, wait for Riggins to ask the question. This time Riggins didn’t take the bait.

“Sorry,” Banner said, caving quickly. “It’s also called Jimson Weed, angel’s trumpet, or devil’s weed. Which is a weird contradiction, if you think about.”

Riggins waited.

Banner continued. “Ordinarily, it’s just alkaloid that’s absorbed through your mucous membranes. Some people smoke or eat it for the hallucinogenic-type effects. But the form on this doorknob is something I’ve never seen before. It can be absorbed through the skin, and it works within seconds, causing paralysis and cardiovascular collapse. Which explains why Jeb and the police officer were knocked out just by touching it.”

“Is this crap difficult to find?”

“In its natural state, no. But this stuff was definitely engineered.”

“Who’d have access to something like this?”

“Military, I guess. But you can’t rule out private labs or universities.”

Riggins thought about it. Their killer had either brains or access—possibly both. “Did any of this stuff turn up at the Green house?”

“No,” Banner said. “But something else did. A nasty aerosolized agent called Kolokol-1. A whiff of that stuff and you’re out in three seconds.”

“It sounds familiar.”

“Reportedly, the Russian Spetsnaz used it on Chechens back in 2002. It’s a derivative of the potent opiodids fentanyl, which is dissolved in halthane ...”

But Riggins wasn’t paying attention. He muttered to himself, “Two different chemicals. Both used to knock out the victims. Why?”

chapter 18

Washington, D.C.

 

 

Knack knew how to get important people on the phone. It wasn’t too difficult. You just made it sound like you’ve already called a thousand times before, that you had some insanely urgent business, and unless they connect you
right this fucking second
you’re going to totally. Lose. Your. Shit. It was a tone of voice Knack had perfected over the past few years.

However, this tone didn’t seem to work at Special Circs. “I’ll transfer you to the press office,” a calm voice said.

“No, no, honey, I don’t want the friggin’ press office, I want—”

“Hold on. Your call is being transferred.”

“Fuck.”

Knack thumbed the END key. Press officers were absolutely useless to members of the press. He had to try something else.

Wait. He had Paulson’s office number from the rental agreement. Some small part of him was disturbed to be calling a dead man’s phone number. Then again, that small part of him wasn’t the one on deadline. Knack punched in the number. The line rang twice, then there was a
click
. Yes! He was being transferred, just as he predicted. But to whom? The line clicked again.

“Riggins.”

“Agent Riggins? Jon Knack from the Slab. Just one quick thing—”

“Good-bye.”

Knack had to act fast. He unleashed the next four words in a frenzied burst:

“I know about Paulson.”

There was pause on the line. Riggins was cracking the window open slightly. Knack leaped through it.

“This is the second one, isn’t it? Look, I know Paulson was in Chapel Hill. He was investigating the Martin Green murder. Now he’s gone. You don’t think this is coincidence do you?”

“No comment,” Riggins said.

“Isn’t it highly unusual for a serial killer to be targeting law enforcement?”

“No comment.”

“Last time this happened was with Steve Dark, wasn’t it?”

Knack heard a grumble. He’d hit a nerve there.

“Honestly, Knack? Just between you and me?”

“Yeah?”

“Shove it up your
highly unusual
ass.”

 

 

Knack hadn’t expected Riggins to confirm anything. But his reaction said it all. There were many kinds of non-denial denials. He opened up his laptop and started writing his story. Now he had a serious update, with “confirmation” from sources deep inside Special Circs. Riggins hadn’t given any such thing, but he wouldn’t come out to deny it, either. Sometimes getting a source on the phone for a “no comment” was all you needed.

Besides, Knack had Paulson at the scene of the first murder. Now Paulson was dead. It begged the questions: Was this a cover-up? Or the start of something big?

chapter 19

West Hollywood, California

 

 

Dark opened his laptop. The Slab had a Paulson story online—posted just a few minutes ago.

The update mentioned that Paulson had a wife—Stephanie Paulson (née West), twenty-four. An elementary school teacher who followed her sweetheart down from Philadelphia. She’d been in the process of applying for a job in the D.C. school district, where she thought she’d make the most difference. Knack painted Stephanie as a bright, selfless woman. Exactly the kind of person you’d have to be to put up with a partner working for Special Circs. They had been married exactly thirteen months. There was no quote from Stephanie, but Knack had been able to track down college friends via a social networking site who filled in the details.

The piece teased the oddities of the crime scene—the fact that Paulson “may have” been found with a flower in his hand, and stepped off the roof of his own apartment building. “Police sources” claimed that there were no ligature marks, no bruises, no sign of coercion of any kind.

Knack claimed to have a source “deep inside” Special Circs, which was troubling if true. Nobody in Special Circs ever talked to the press. If Riggins had ever caught an agent talking to a reporter, he’d have that agent skinned and salt-dipped before giving him the boot.

Walking to his kitchen, Dark played around the pieces in his mind—trying to figure out what the killer was trying to say.

Dark poured himself a glass of water and drank about half of it before he realized it tasted flat. Metallic. He didn’t want water. He dumped the rest in the sink and went to the fridge for a beer, twisted off the cap. He needed more details. Green’s murder—based on the photo that had accompanied Knack’s first story—had been elaborately staged. Presumably, the killer had plenty of time to conceive, arrange, then execute such a display. But was Paulson’s murder staged in a similar way?

There was only one way he could find out.

 

 

“Riggins.”

“It’s me,” Dark said.

There was a pained-sounding sigh, as if someone had perforated one of Riggins’s lungs with a piece of jagged glass.

“Just one question,” Dark said. “You owe me that, at least.”

“Let’s not do this. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”

“Cut me a break. You know exactly why I’m calling.”

“I don’t care why you’re calling. We’re through.”

“Look, Riggins. I know I’m not supposed to be involved anymore. But maybe I can help. Unofficially. Just between you and me. This is friends and family, you know? I can’t get this case out of my mind, and I might as well do some good.”

“No. You said you wanted out, well, you’re out. I shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“Let me see the murder book on Paulson. I can help.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Okay, fine. Just answer a few quick things.”

“You shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff at all. Why don’t you go out and enjoy some of that California sunshine you wanted so badly? In fact, why don’t you go spend some time with your daughter? She might appreciate seeing your face.”

Riggins could turn ugly when he wanted to. He was either just being nasty to get him off the phone, or he was really trying to piss Dark off.

“Riggins, come on.”

“No discussing the case with outsiders. You’re an outsider. That’s the way you wanted it, right? Don’t call me. Enjoy the sunshine.”

The line went dead.

 

 

Dark thought about calling Constance, but quickly pushed the thought out of his head. His relationship with Riggins was one thing. Constance was another mess entirely.

In the horrible months after Sibby’s murder, Constance had been there for him. But it was too much, too soon. First it was dinners. Then long sessions of just sitting there, filling the empty hours together. She tried to replace Sibby, thinking that she could bring Dark back from the brink just a little bit. Dark didn’t want a replacement for Sibby. He didn’t want anything at all, except to do his job.