Doc Robbins nodded at Brass and Grissom. “Good to be back. You’re sure this guy hasn’t left any surprises behind?”
“We’ve cleared the site,” said Brass. “Nothing in there but DBs-I can’t make any promises about what’s in them, though. Maybe this time they’re stuffed full of balloon animals.”
Grissom put on the hood of his hazmat suit. “We’re not taking any chances,” he said. “Nick, Riley, and I are going in to examine the bodies first. I know it’s a breach of protocol, but these are unusual circumstances.”
“I have no problem with that,” said Robbins. “In fact, I brought my own hazmat suit. Excuse me while I get ready.” He limped away, muttering under his breath. “Stupid spider, turning me into a goddamned tripod…”
Nick and Riley walked up, already suited up . “We’re good to go,” said Nick.
“Riley?” said Grissom. “You were the one who found it.”
Riley took a deep breath. “Follow me,” she said.
They mounted the steps to the entrance. Police bolt cutters had sheared the chain in half; it lay discarded to one side. They walked in.
The front office held only a counter, with a rough slit hacked into the front of it. Grissom went behind it and peered underneath, then reached down and rapped one interior wall. It rang hollowly. “Reinforced with metal cladding.”
“A shooting blind?” said Nick.
Grissom straightened up. “A guard post. Hives always post guards at the entryway…”
A short hall connected the lobby to the greenhouse. There were two offices on either side of the corridor; their doors had been removed. Grissom looked in the first one to the left.
A mattress lay on the floor. It was the only thing in the room, other than a large, half-empty jug of water. The other rooms were exactly the same.
They continued on to the greenhouse. Plastic trays holding nothing but dirt lined tables down either side of the room, while in the center, four bodies were sprawled around a burned-out can of Sterno. A blackened, bent spoon and four syringes lay on a piece of newspaper next to it.
“Big Johnny, Paintcan, Zippo, and Buffet Bob,” said Riley. “Looks like they were having a little party.”
“Celebrating the harvest,” said Grissom. He walked over to the nearest tray. “Whatever was growing here was yanked out by the roots. And it appears they were growing a lot of it.”
Nick knelt by the bodies. “Four needles, no waiting. Looks like they just ODed.”
Riley stepped past the bodies, continuing on to the far end of the building. “I’ve got some kind of equipment. Looks like a distillery-piping, large drum, filters.”
“We’re too late,” said Grissom. “He harvested the crop, processed out the anisomorphal, then disposed of his workers.”
“How about the HBTX?” asked Nick. “That’s the real threat.”
Grissom joined Riley at the far end of the room. “This was probably his base of operations, but he would have needed different equipment to process the homobatrachotoxin-like a centrifuge. He may have taken it with him when he left.”
“I don’t know,” said Riley. “This whole agriculture angle doesn’t seem to fit the Bug Killer’s methodology. This could just be a grow op.”
“Actually,” said Grissom, “there are several kinds of insects that raise crops. Termites, ants, and bark beetles all cultivate fungus as a nutritional source-ants were the first animals on Earth to deliberately grow their own food.”
Nick was examining the bodies, one by one. “These guys are in pretty good shape for six weeks of captivity-no ligature marks or bruising.”
“He kept them well fed, too,” sai d Riley, peering into a large, open garbage container. “If your idea of well fed is canned chili and beef stew.”
“Of course he did,” said Grissom softly. “They weren’t prisoners, they were workers. He gave them food, shelter, and purpose, and they performed the duties he assigned them.”
“And none of them bolted?” asked Riley. “I mean, from what I understand these guys were pretty hard-core street veterans-wary about anything that might threaten their independence. Six weeks is a long time to work for a screwball for free stew and a mattress.”
Grissom shook his head. “Slave-raider ants will stage massive invasions of other nests in order to steal pupae. When the stolen young emerge from the pupal state, chemicals released by their captors imprint them as part of the new colony. They think they belong, so they do whatever work they were born to do.”
“Chemicals,” said Nick. “You think the Bug Killer kept them in line by feeding them drugs? Or by making them feel like they belonged here?”
“What’s the difference?” said Grissom. “Either way, he found a way to meet their needs.”
“Yeah,” said Riley. “Until he didn’t need them anymore.”
Grissom knew the anisomorphal was the key.
The walking stick insect u sed the chemical as a defense to ward off predators, but that didn’t make sense; the only workable defense for the Bug Killer was to not get caught.
Maybe it is a defense-a diversion to make us look one way instead of another. A type of cryptic camouflage, like the walking stick itself-appearing to be one thing while being something else.
That simply didn’t ring true. Too much time, too much sheer biological energy had been expended on this project. That wasn’t what insects did; they were models of efficiency. Whatever LW had planned, the anisomorphal was a necessary element.
Secondary influences. Everything he’s done has been in order to trigger a larger effect. Kill a quarterback to incite a riot; kill a helper to panic a queen. Threaten a lab to unnerve an opponent…
He’s like a kid playing with a magnifying glass. Seeing which way he can make the ants run, pulling the wings off flies. By turning people into insects, he turns himself into God.
“Hey, Grissom!” Brass’s voice on the walkie-talkie. “I said, one of your associates is here and asking for you. Can you hear me inside that hood, or should I get a bullhorn?”
Grissom grabbed the walkie and responded. “Sorry. Who is it?”
“Jake Soames.”
Grissom walked back outside, pulling off his hood as soon as he was outdoors. “Jake? What are you doing here?”
Jake Soames leaned against Brass’s car, a white cardboard box on the hood beside him. “Told your dispatcher I had something important to show you, convinced ’em to cough up your location. Not interrupting, am I?”
Grissom frowned. “We’re in the middle of processing a crime scene, Jake. You shouldn’t be here.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve brought you yet. Look.” He picked up the box and held it out. The top was transparent, with a small intake vent on one side and what looked like a tiny fan to draw air into the box. Five wasps crawled around the interior.
“Braconids?” said Grissom.
“That’s right,” said Jake proudly. “They’re parasitic, lay their eggs in the living bodies of caterpillars. They use their sense of smell to find their prey. They’re sensitive to not only the chemicals emitted by the caterpillar but the volatiles released by the plant the caterpillar is feeding on. Like a rent-a-cop responding to an alarm going off, right? Attack the plant and get an armed response for your trouble.”
“These are the ones you mentioned in your research?”
“The very same. These wasps can be trained to associate particular odors with food in about an hour. The idea is to train ’em to replace bomb- or drug-sniffing dogs. Since you gave me a tin star and all, I thought I’d lend a hand in case the bad guys left you a nasty surprise.”
“These wasps can detect explosives?”
“They bloody well better, or my grant’ll disappear.” Jake grinned. “C ome on, Gil-chance to be in on the cutting edge of science, eh? Let me and my little mates have a gander at your crime scene. I promise I won’t touch anything-you can put me in one of those all-body condoms to make sure.”