Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

When she looked at the reading, she chewed on her lower lip and made a notation. Whoever had stabbed Alvin Havel had been strong, very strong.

The pig was on a stainless steel wheeled cart. Lindsay opened the door, wheeled the cart out of the room and turned it over to lab tech Chad Willingham, who was waiting eagerly outside the door for news.

Lindsay showed him her notes.

She started back into the room to assault the blood-packed heads on the table.

"Can I…?" Chad asked.

"Sure," said Lindsay.

There was about to be a lot of blood in the room, and someone would have to clean it up. That someone would be Chad. He at least deserved to be in on the fun part.

Sid Hammerbeck was looking down at the body of Alvin Havel. The pencils embedded in the chemistry teacher's eye and neck were still there. Sid removed the pencils carefully, noting the depth of each wound. The only question was which of the wounds had killed the teacher and when.

Sid gently probed the eye wound. The wound was remarkably clean, a straight puncture. The victim had not squirmed or fought back. This was not a wild, frantic stab to the eye. The man was already dead when someone had plunged the pencil into his eye.

Sid consulted his notes and called Mac on his cell phone.

The line was busy.

"They think the ceiling's going to come down," Stella said into the cell phone.

She was sitting in the compact crime scene vehicle she and Hawkes had taken to the site of Doohan's Bar. The drumming of the rain on the roof made it difficult to hear. She clicked up the volume on her phone.

"When?" asked Mac. He was currently on the elevator going up to the law offices of Strutts, McClean & Berg in the Stanwick Oil Building.

"They don't know. An hour, maybe," she said.

"What are they doing now?" Mac asked as the elevator stopped and he stepped out on the nineteenth floor.

"Running a hose into the basement to try to pump out some of the water."

Stella looked out the window at the group of firemen gathered around the sink hole. A hose from their truck ran across the debris and into the pit.

"You've got a gunshot victim at the scene?"

"It gets better," she said. "Victim's ankle is pinned under a heavy beam. Water's slowly rising in the pit and I get the feeling from Hawkes that the victim may not make it another forty-five minutes."

A policeman, raincoat open, stood in front of the outer door. Mac nodded at him and moved past.

"Anything you can do to help Hawkes?"

"No," Stella said. "It's up to the firemen. They're pumping water out of the hole."

"Is Hawkes in any danger?"

"These guys seem pretty confident they'll get him out with time to spare," she said. "I trust them."

"Keep me posted," said Mac.

He hung up. So did Stella. She had dead men to examine.

The reception area of the law offices was empty. Down a hall to the left Mac could see a second police officer, a heavyset veteran Mac recognized.

"Weaver," said Mac.

"Detective Taylor," Weaver replied.

"What do we have?" asked Mac.

"Dead man in there," Weaver said, nodding at an office to his left. Then, looking to his right, he said, "Woman who found the body is in an office over there. Dead man's James Feldt, accountant. Live woman is Annabeth Edwards."

Mac nodded, put on his gloves and entered the office where James Feldt's body awaited him.

Weaver didn't follow. There was nothing in there he wanted to see again. In his seventeen years on the streets, Weaver had seen bad, really bad. The scene in Feldt's office was definitely on his top five list.

Mac scanned the room, put down his kit, took out his camera and began to take photos. The first one he took was of the area on the floor in front of him where he would have to walk. There was blood. Lots of blood. Mac moved in. More footprints. Weaver's bootmarks were clear. They went up to the body where Weaver must have confirmed what he'd known the second he entered the room, that James Feldt was dead. There were other prints, about a size nine. Mac leaned over to take close-ups of them.

When he finished photographing the room and the body, Mac put the camera away and looked down at the dead man. Like the woman on the roof, Patricia Mycrant, Feldt had been mutilated, his genitals cut off after his pants were pulled down.

Mac checked under the man's right arm, then his left. He found the wound under the left arm almost exactly where Patricia Mycrant had been stabbed.

Mac took the dead man's temperature and then rolled him slightly on his side to check for lividity. The man had been dead for at least two hours.

Kneeling, cotton swab in hand, Mac carefully rubbed blood away from the inside of the dead man's thigh. He found what he was looking for in almost the exact spot it had been on Patricia Mycrant. The only difference was that the letter carved in the corpse was an A instead of a D.

"Now what?" asked Connor Custus, looking up in the direction of the bustle of firemen.

The water level had risen about half an inch more and creaking sounds came from the darkness.

Hawkes had slowed the blood flow from the bullet wound in Custus's side with gauze pads. Now he was examining Custus's hands and body.

"It's my leg that's broken," Custus said. "And my abdomen that's been shot. While the rest of me may not be prime, it is still, I believe, functioning at par."

Hawkes took an aerosol can from his kit and sprayed both of Custus's palms and the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers. Then he examined both hands under his portable ALS.

"Ah, I just figured out what you're looking for," said Custus

Hawkes didn't respond.

Custus pulled his hand away and let it fall into the water. He did the same with his other hand.

"Ironic," said Custus. "This cursed rain may be the death of me, but if it isn't, it will wipe away a few of my many sins."

"Gunshot residue doesn't come off that easily," said Hawkes. "And you don't have to have fired the weapon to have molecular traces of metal. You just have to have handled it."

"I know," said Custus. "And should we survive I'll explain to all as I explain to you. I fired at a range in Erie, Pennsylvania, yesterday. It's my wont as I travel to stop from time to time to retain my skills."

"And you need these skills…" Hawkes began.

"I'm a freelance bill collector," Custus said. "I specialize in face-to-face discussions with those in debt for large sums. From time to time one of the delinquents is unreasonable. I've never had to shoot anyone, for which I thank Saints Peter and Paul and my own professional persuasive powers."

"If there's a pattern on the gun handle, and there usually is," said Hawkes, "traces of it can show up on the hand."

"Then it would be essential to have the weapon, would it not?" asked Custus.

A tumble of plaster joined the rain and a black tube snaked down the the wall of the sinkhole.

"You see it?" Devlin called from above.

"Yes," called Hawkes. "I've got it."

"Put it in the water," called Devlin, "and find something to keep it down."

"Right," called Hawkes.

"Do not pull on the hose," warned Devlin. "Just guide it and tell me when it's under the water level."

Hawkes did as instructed. "Got it," he shouted.

"We're going to pump slowly," said Devlin. "We don't want to set off vibrations. You understand?"

"I understand," said Hawkes.

He found a jutting twist of metal coils embedded in a concrete block. The hose fit between the metal coils. Hawkes managed to bend one of the coils so that the hose stayed in place, its head in the water.

"The scars on your body," Hawkes said to Custus.