Dix nodded. “Actually, it was the ME who called earlier. He ran what was left of your blood sample, Ruth. You had the same drug in your system that Erin Bushnell did—a drug called BZ.”
Sherlock said, “I don’t know much about it except I think it’s a gas they used in Vietnam that affects the nervous system. Did he tell you more about it, Sheriff?”
Dix paused for a moment, smiled at her. “Actually, Sherlock, while Savich’s corn on the cob was boiling, I googled it on the Internet. I printed some of it out, so you can look at it later. It’s officially called quinuclidinyl benzilate, but for obvious reasons it’s known simply as BZ. It’s a colorless and odorless gas that’s usually delivered as an aerosol and was developed for the military in the 1960s. It works fairly quickly, causing increased heart rate, blurry vision, lack of coordination. The unusual thing is that it’s what they call a psychochemical—it affects perception and thought, causes hallucinations, confusion, forgetfulness, and eventually stupor.
“BZ didn’t turn out to be much use in war, though, because the effects are unpredictable, ranging from overwhelming fear and panic to all-out rage that led exposed soldiers to attack without regard for their own safety.
“The Russians used an agent similar to BZ against the Afghan guerrillas during the eighties, and get this—
it’s possible they pumped this gas into that theater during the hostage crisis in Moscow, probably in really high concentrations because they ended up with hundreds of people dead.”
“But Erin wasn’t dead when she was stabbed,” Sherlock said.
“No, but there was a lot of it in her system, more than in yours, Ruth. From what you told us about how terrifying it was for you in that cave chamber, how you were imagining God knows what coming after you, I hate to think what Erin Bushnell went through.”
Ruth let out a long breath. “So I guess I didn’t just go crazy. But how does anyone get ahold of a gas like this?”
Dix shrugged. “The ME said chemicals like this are available from pharmaceutical companies and on the Internet. Apparently they have some legitimate uses for research. It’s unusual enough to warrant looking into but it’s unlikely the BZ is from a nice, clean local source that would identify our killer.”
Savich nodded. “Since you got a lower dose than Erin, Ruth, you probably got the residue from the gas he used on her. Maybe he came back later to check on his handiwork and found you, freaked out, maybe unconscious. Maybe he bashed you on the head or he found you already injured, and hauled you out of there.”
“But why not simply kill me and leave me in there with Erin?”
Savich said slowly, “Because that was her tomb, Ruth, not yours. All hers.”
“That would be really sick, Dillon.”
“Yes,” he said, “it would be.”
Sherlock sat forward, her teacup balanced on her knee. “So you think this tomb idea has something to do with his embalming her?”
Dix said, “Dr. Himple said he didn’t actually embalm her. He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. I’ll try to explain this correctly.” Dix pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket, perused it for a moment. “Okay, when a funeral home embalms a body, they make small incisions in the carotid artery and the jugular vein, thread a tube into the carotid to pump in the embalming fluid, and drain the blood out through the jugular vein. It takes about three gallons of embalming fluid to thoroughly disinfect and preserve a body. They also put fluid in the body cavities, a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, and other solvents.
“The thing is, our murderer didn’t do a thorough job of it. He made the small incisions in her carotid and jugular, pumped in about a gallon of embalming fluid, let a bit of blood drain out the jugular vein, then called it a day.”
Sherlock said slowly, staring into the fireplace, “So he either didn’t know how to do the procedure correctly or it was some kind of ritual, enough to give him the taste of the process, to give him the satisfaction.”
Savich nodded. “Yes, and he posed her. He may have considered it part of a ceremony, probably done with a good deal of gravity on his part, almost reverence. He may have wanted to preserve the body for a while before he buried it somewhere.”
Dix said, “I don’t like the sound of that. A ritual? I was thinking this guy may have done this before, but I was hoping you’d disagree.”
“We don’t know for sure, Dix, but it’s got all the earmarks,” Ruth said. “Did Dr. Himple tell you if the incision sites were sutured?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he did mention that the stab wound in her chest had no blood on it; it had been swabbed clean.”
“Part of the ritual then,” Ruth said. “He did a thorough job. So, Dix, are there any funeral homes in Maestro?”
“Of course. Tommy Oppenheimer is director of Peaceful Field Funeral Home, on Broadmoor Street. He
’s my deputy Penny’s husband, a good guy, a bit high-strung, overprotective of Penny, but okay. I’ll ask him if he’s had anyone asking questions about embalming, or if he’s heard anyone in his business mention any strange employees they might have now or recently fired.”
Sherlock said, “If I were you, I’d tell Dr. Himple to threaten all his techs with pain and dismemberment if any of them open their mouths about finding embalming fluids in her.”
Dix shook his head. “Unbelievable, the loony actually performed an embalming rite on her. That is something her parents will never find out about.”
Sherlock said, “You should go personally and speak to the techs, Dix. That might keep it under wraps longer, particularly if you guilt them about the parents finding out, and what it would do to them. Dillon will get MAX on the embalming process, and find out if this MO has ever appeared before.”
Dix stretched his back, crossed his legs at the ankles. “When I left New York, I thought I’d left the crazies behind. Was I wrong, or what? If Ruth hadn’t gone into Winkel’s Cave treasure hunting on that particular day, Erin Bushnell would have simply disappeared forever. No one would have had a clue what happened to her—did she pick up and leave with no word for anyone, or run off with some guy no one ever saw, or—did someone take her away?” He stopped dead, looked down at the floor, his hands frozen in fists on his thighs. Ruth saw he was pale, markedly so. There was something very wrong here. Then she knew. “Dix, what happened to your wife Christie?”
Dix didn’t answer for the longest time, didn’t move, didn’t look at any of them. Finally, he looked up at Ruth standing beside him. “My wife—Christie—she disappeared nearly three years ago.”
“And you don’t know what happened to her, do you?”
He shook his head. “She was simply gone one day, like Erin Bushnell would have been if you hadn’t happened along. We conducted a huge criminal investigation, did everything humanly possible—I even hired a private detective I’d heard about out of Chicago—but no one ever found a single clue, a single lead, nothing. For nearly three years.”
He looked up then at Savich and Sherlock. “From the minute Ruth found Erin Bushnell, I’ve been asking myself if this was what happened to Christie.”
Savich cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his wife. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that uncertainty, the pain of not knowing. It’s got to have been really rough for you and your boys. But you’ve done a remarkable job with them. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’d be thinking along the same lines as you if it were Sherlock. But the fact is, I think it’s highly unlikely that Christie’s disappearance had anything to do with Erin Bushnell’s murder.”