I bought a roll, then spent five minutes turning them around in my hands, looking for evidence of tampering.
Life is about taking risks, Rick had said. I opened the package and popped one in my mouth.
I didn’t die.
As I sucked on the candy, I went through the reports that Herb had compiled, and made some calls to get updates on the questioning of the victims, witness searches, security tapes, and Alger’s arrest record. None of it pointed in any specific direction. I took out my To Do list and stared at it.
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 added to the list: gardener, fingerprints probably on file, disguise/eye patch, white Honda Accord, local, two million dollars.
I stared at the new list. Why two mil? It was a lot of money, but not that much. He could have demanded more than that. Did it have some kind of significance?
I also noted that question mailman was still on the list. I leafed through Herb’s folder and found the statement from Carey Schimmel, USPS. It was the shortest statement in the history of statements, amounting to: I delivered the letter. Carey also admitted that since the anthrax scare, he wore gloves, which explained his lack of fingerprints on the extortion envelope. I crossed that off the list.
I was about to give Hajek a call to see how he was coming with the camera phone pics, when Rick came in, carrying a bag of heaven.
“Do you like Chinese?” he asked, eyes sparkling.
“Are you kidding? I could eat Mao Tse-tung raw right now.”
The smells were intoxicating. Sweet and sour. Rice. Soy. Beef. Veggies. My mouth filled with saliva.
But wariness prevented me from tearing open the bag with my bare teeth.
“Are we sure it’s…”
“So far, the Chemist has only struck in the city, right? I got this in Cicero.”
We dug in. I ate an egg roll in two bites, wondering how that might look to a guy, but not caring. Then I dug into some beef chop suey, some kung pao chicken, and a potsticker that had to be the single greatest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.
Rick had also brought a six-pack of Tsingtao. My job would be in jeopardy if just one reporter with a long lens caught me through the office window, drinking beer. I took the risk anyway. I wouldn’t call myself a beer aficionado-I liked Sam Adams and I liked a local brew called Goose Island even more-but that Tsingtao went down quicker than any beer I’d had in ages. Rick popped open another for me, and then one for himself.
“To catching the bad guy,” I said, raising my bottle.
“And to making new friends.”
We drank to that.
When my stomach had distended to the point where my innie became an outie, I threw in the chopsticks.
“So what is this lunatic using to tamper with the food?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and pulling my feet up under me in my chair.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it would explain the lack of needle holes or surface toxins, and I confirmed it with the deaths of the couple on the street, and several of the victims of the Sammy’s massacre yesterday. It’s called a jet injector.”
“Which is what?”
He dug into his satchel and took out a small blue object shaped like a phaser from Star Trek, only child-sized. It had a white plastic tube jutting out of the handle, which extended about eighteen inches into a silver cylinder.
“It’s a needle-less injection gun, used for mass immunizations. Invented years ago, to counter the cross-contamination caused by needles, along with the fear factor and high cost of sterilization. Diabetics also use them. This model can administer a dose of liquid up to three cc’s. Its orifice is many times smaller than a needle-less than the width of a human hair, actually-so the hole it makes is very hard to spot. And unlike a needle, it evenly disperses liquid once it penetrates the skin. It’s the perfect system to introduce medicine subcutaneously.”
I looked at the thing with a mixture of dread and fascination.
“How does it work without a needle?”
“Air pressure. This one uses a spring. Other models use compressed gas, like CO2. You arm the device”-Rick turned a key on the cylinder-“then squeeze the trigger.”
I flinched at the hissing sound, and saw a spray of vapor appear around the nozzle of the gun.
“The pressure causes a jet stream, which forces the liquid through the skin and into the muscle. Smaller hole, less central concentration of fluid, less pain. Some of these models are tough too. You could inject insulin into a basketball.”
“What about plastic wrapping, or butcher paper, or aluminum cans?”
“Conceivable, yes. It would probably even work on thicker plastic, or cardboard. And look how small it is.”
Rick turned his palm and closed his fingers. The gun was completely hidden by his hand.
“I think this is what the Chemist used on his last two victims, on the street outside. They died so quickly there wasn’t even bruising, and the puncture wound could only be seen under a microscope. But I biopsied neck tissue where witnesses say he held his weapon, and found uneven concentrations of ricin, a toxin found in castor beans. I think he injected it directly into their throats.”
Rick was smiling, and while I was happy to know what we were up against, I wasn’t able to share his enthusiasm. Truth told, the Chinese food was doing somersaults in my stomach. The thought of someone using a device invented for good to do so much evil gave me a giant case of the creeps.
“Can we trace these things?” I asked.
Rick’s smile faltered.
“No. There are about two dozen companies that make them, and only six of them make a model small enough that it can be concealed, but that still gives us thousands of possibles. The guy might have picked it up at a garage sale, or on the Internet, or stolen one.”
He set the jet injector on my desk, where it coiled like a snake among the half-empty food cartons. Rick, so full of energy a moment ago, looked like he’d deflated.
“This still helps narrow it down,” I said. “We’re looking for a white male, local, with a greenhouse and a jet injector.”
Rick raised an eyebrow at me. “He’s local?”
“He has to be. Roxy was just assigned to the case, and he got to her right after she appeared on television. I’m guessing he was watching at home, then put together a quick disguise and went out after her.”
“Why the greenhouse?” Rick asked.
“He uses toxins, which are organic. I’m guessing he makes these himself, which means he has a garden somewhere. Some of the plants are tropical, so unless he keeps his house at ninety-five degrees, he probably has a greenhouse.”
“Smart. That could mean hydroponics, special lamps, fertilizers. Chicago is a big town, but it shouldn’t have that many specialty gardening stores.”
My turn to frown. “You’re forgetting the Internet. All that stuff can be purchased online.”
We were quiet for almost a full minute. It didn’t surprise me that Rick looked adorable while deep in thought.
“You’re paying him?” he finally asked.
“That’s the idea.”
“You’ll try to make the arrest when he picks up the money?”
“Of course. But I’m sure he’s anticipating that.”
Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. I liked stubble. I liked the feel of it, against my cheek. Between my thighs.
Dammit, Jack, quit it. So, he’s pretty. So what. Get over it.
“Two million isn’t a lot,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Might be using that small number because it’s easier to handle, easier to carry. Even using hundred-dollar bills, it makes a pretty big pile. About the height of your desk. One person couldn’t carry it all.”