“I could fume with iodine or cyanoacrylate, but let’s try good old low-tech to start off.”
Hajek dug around in his box and found a glass microscope slide. He handed it to me.
“Press this between your palms. My hands are always cold.”
I did as instructed, and after a few seconds he took it back, wiped it with a nonabrasive cloth, and pressed the slide to the back of one of the fingers.
“Glass is great for picking up oils. The fingers are cold, so we warm the slide, and the oils cling to the glass.”
He removed the slide and peered at it through a jeweler’s loupe.
We repeated the process four times, and then he said, “Got one.”
He dusted the slide, mounted the print with the Pro-Lift sticker, and frowned.
“Gloves.”
The Chemist was careful. I didn’t hold out hope for finding any prints elsewhere in the house, but sent Scott off to do the thankless work just the same.
“Dust any of the traps that the bombies have deemed safe. Hand railings. Toilet handles. Doorknobs. Light switches. You know the drill. Plus find Henderson-he’s been taking swabs from the IEDs, which you’ll need to identify some of the poisons.”
Scott made a face. “I’ll be here the rest of my life.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll be done in three years, tops.”
I let him get to work, then pulled the pen from behind my ear and took out the notepad I’d been carrying in my waistband. So far the To Do list read:
trace M44 purchases
Alger-arrest record
talk to neighbors
question mailman who delivered letter
security tapes at BT scenes
witness search at BT scenes
survivor interviews/background checks
research IEDs
I scratched off talk to neighbors. Three teams had done extensive door-to-doors, and no one in the area had noticed anything unusual at Jason Alger’s house. In fact, some of the neighbors didn’t recognize Alger at all. I lamented how things had changed since I joined the force. Twenty years ago, people knew everyone on their block. These days, folks kept to themselves.
Maybe they were concerned some maniac might chop off their fingers and turn their house into a chamber of horrors.
I circled Alger-arrest record. There was a chance Alger had simply been a target of opportunity. But a plan this meticulous made me think that someone had a major beef against the former cop. I added IA after his name and decided it was time to get home to shower, change, and see what was going on with Latham.
The trip to Bensenville took almost an hour. Once I exited the expressway I fell in behind an ambulance, its sirens going full tilt. I hugged its bumper. Ambulances, fire trucks, and patrol cops had remote control devices called MIRTs-mobile infrared transmitters-used to change red lights into green ones. Being part of Detective Division, I didn’t warrant the five-hundred-dollar gizmo, but following an ambulance worked just as well.
Luckily, the meat wagon appeared to be taking the same route I was. Hitting all of these greens, I might even get to the house in record time.
I considered what I’d tell Latham when I saw him. What was I afraid of? Trust? Commitment? Family? My living situation changing? Losing my independence? Love?
I didn’t know. I was obviously afraid of something, but couldn’t figure out what it was.
And then, abruptly, I decided that I didn’t care what I was afraid of. I could fight the fear. I didn’t feel brave, but I was damn good at faking it.
I would marry Latham.
I noticed I was still following the ambulance, which was a little creepy, considering I was almost home.
When it headed down my street, I felt downright paranoid.
And when it pulled into my driveway, I went from paranoid to panicked.
I threw the car into park and rushed onto the lawn. Two paramedics were approaching my front door.
“I’m a cop. This is my house. What’s going on?”
“Had a call from this house a few minutes ago. Man complaining of abdominal pain, vomiting, and some paralysis.”
Botulism. Those were symptoms of botulism toxin.
“It might be… it might be botulism. Do you have antitoxin?”
“Not in our kits.”
I fumbled for my keys, trying to open the dead bolt, wondering how the Chemist could have found me so quickly. People close to me are always getting hurt. If Latham died because-
“Ma’am, can I try?”
One of the medics took my key and guided it into the lock. I flung the door open and rushed into the house.
“Latham! Latham!”
No one in the living room. In the kitchen, the table still set for a romantic celebration dinner that never happened, the bedroom empty, the bathroom-
“Latham! Oh my God…”
The man I loved was on his back, his shirt crusted with vomit, a portable phone still in his hand. It didn’t look like his chest was moving. His face-his face was blue.
“Move out of the way, ma’am.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I was seeing. The paramedics shoved me aside and knelt next to him. The next few seconds were a blur of words and actions.
“… cyanotic.”
“… pulse is weak.”
“… airway clear.”
“… BVM.”
They placed the mask over Latham’s mouth and nose and pressed the bag, filling his lungs with air.
“… BP is sixty over forty.”
“… get the cart.”
One of the medics again pushed me aside and hurried past.
“Will he be okay?” I asked.
I asked this question several times as they strapped him to the gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance.
Their only answer was, “We’re doing the best we can, ma’am.”
In the ER, Latham was put on a ventilator and given antitoxin at my insistence. I filled out his paperwork, naming myself as the primary contact.
In between worrying and hating myself, it occurred to me that the Chemist probably hadn’t attacked Latham at my house. The food, the German dinner he’d prepared last night to celebrate, he’d bought at Kuhn’s, a deli on Irving Park Road. The Chemist claimed to have contaminated a deli on Irving Park. I hadn’t made the connection.
Latham wasn’t sick because of my job. He was sick because of my stupidity.
I stared down at my left hand, at my naked ring finger, and cried until I had no tears left.
CHAPTER 13
THE CHEMIST WAKES UP ANGRY. Last night had been a bitter disappointment. Months of planning, and only six cops dead.
After morning coffee, he considers returning to the greenhouse, working on more liquor bottles. Instead he flips on the morning news.
Twenty seconds of taped action on CBS. On ABC, he only catches the tail end of the coanchor banter, their grave voices bemoaning the loss of police life. Channel 5 doesn’t have anything at all.
He flips on CNN, and the story doesn’t even warrant a scrolling graphic at the bottom of the screen.
Back to CBS, and they’ve wrapped his story, moving on to some earthquake halfway across the world. Channel 7 has a bit about the botulism outbreak, but the footage is recycled from an earlier broadcast.
Disappointing. Actually, more than disappointing. Infuriating.
How had Jack Daniels managed to get out of there alive? He’d almost died several times himself, setting up all of those traps. That bitch must be unbelievably lucky.
He lets the anger build. Living with anger is something he’s become expert at.
What happens to rage deferred?
It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.
He allows himself a small smile.
Last night went poorly, but the Plan hasn’t changed at all. The second phase will soon be in effect, and he needs a patsy for it to work. Lieutenant Jack will be perfect for that. And she’ll be all alone when it happens.
Not that 911 would help much anyway.
The Chemist switches off the TV. There will be more news in a few days. National news. World news. Books written, movies of the week, covers on Time and Newsweek…