Donn Cortez - The Killing Jar

“You think they killed him over it?”

“Maybe-but the funds had to be for expansion, not start-up. They’re already in business.” She told him about the phossy jaw.

“Glow-in-the-dark grin, huh?” He shook his head. “Eit her of the other two have alibis?”

“Each other. Claim to have been up late watching movies at Melnyk’s place, which I’ve been to. A palace it isn’t. And I found something interesting-though disgusting-while I was there.” She described the garage, the crates of urine, and the manure sample that Hodges had analyzed.

“Red Rock Springs,” said Greg. “Can’t be that many properties within grazing range. Let’s do a title search and see what we come up with.”

“My turn to be one step ahead.” She handed him a printout. “Ready to go hang out with some livestock?”

“Okay, but this time I’m wearing boots.”

They knew they’d found it by the smell.

It was an abandoned barn, turned a faded gray by the elements, half its roof gone. Where a farmhouse once stood was only the crumbling remains of a stone chimney. A narrow dirt track led up to it, but there was no vehicle visible.

Catherine parked the Denali a good distance away and rolled down her window. The prevailing wind carried a chemical stink both she and Greg recognized immediately.

“Think anyone’s in there right now?” asked Greg.

“If they are,” she said, pulling out her cell phone, “they’re gonna wish they weren’t.”

The Las Vegas Police Department didn’t screw around when it came to meth labs. Even though the number of operati ons had dropped drastically in the last few years, largely supplanted by Mexican “superlabs” that smuggled their product across the border, there was always a local chemical entrepreneur willing to start his own enterprise-and the LVPD had learned not to take any chances with the smaller variety. The smaller the lab, the more likely it was run by addicts; that increased the danger on several levels.

Methamphetamine produced a wide variety of effects, both physical and psychological. Of the latter, paranoia and a compulsion to tinker-sometimes manifesting as dismantling and reassembling electronics-often led to a lethal tendency to build booby traps to protect the lab itself. Tweakers could be endlessly inventive: pit bulls, venomous snakes, even alligators were used as watchdogs; automatic weapons were trained on doors, triggers attached to doorknobs with fishing line; canisters of homemade poisonous gas or large amounts of high explosive were wired to light switches.

Those were the immediate threats. More indirect but no less dangerous were the large number of hazardous chemicals that could be present: solvents like acetone, ether, methanol, benzene, toluene, isopropanol; acetic, sulfuric, or hydriodic acid; amm onia, phosphine, or Freon gas; and metals like mercuric chloride, lithium, red phosphorous, metallic sodium, or potassium. The last two were especially dangerous-usually stored in kerosene, either one would react explosively when exposed to air or water.

Because of this, police responding to reports of a meth lab approached it with extreme caution. The large van trundling up the dirt track toward Catherine and Greg didn’t stop when it reached their position, but instead kept going to within fifty yards of the barn itself, where it opened and disgorged a team of six officers in hazmat suits, body armor, and full-face respirators. There was nothing but gentle rolling hills on either side of the structure and no trees at all. If the people inside tried to run, there was no place to run to.

The men quickly took positions around the building. Once they were in place, the officer in charge raised a bullhorn to his mouth: “ATTENTION! THIS IS THE LAS VEGAS POLICE DEPARTMENT. YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO EXIT THE BUILDING. COME OUTSIDE WITH YOUR HANDS CLEARLY VISIBLE AND LAY FACEDOWN ON THE GROUND.”

“Think they’ll put up a fight?” Greg asked.

“Depends on how stupid they are,” said Catherine.

The minute ticked by. There was no response.

“Might not be anyone home,” Greg murmured.

“ Lot of cooks do leave during the last forty-eight hours of the process.”

“Yeah, ’cause that’s when the whole thing is most likely to go boom.”

The officer in charge gave the signal, and his men started to move in, very slowly, with weapons drawn. They looked like futuristic storm troopers advancing on the site of a concealed UFO.

“I hate this part,” said Catherine.

“I know. No telling what’s in there…”

RILEY AND NICK LOOKED at Grissom expectantly. Grissom, on the other side of the light table, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“You okay, boss?” asked Nick.

“Fine. Just waiting for the migraine medication to kick in.”

“Hey, if you’ve got a migraine-” Nick began, but Grissom cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“No, Nick, really. Migraines are always worse if you delay too long before treatment; I think I caught this one in time.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the light table and flipped through them. “Anyway, this can’t wait.”

“I heard about Doctor Robbins,” said Riley. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes. He’s still in considerable pain, but his heart rate’s stabilized. However, we can’t ignore the consequences of his being attacked.”

“What are we go i n g to do, fumigate the morgue?” asked Riley.

“The morgue isn’t the problem. This is the second insect-themed homicide within days; the planning, execution, and choice of victims suggest someone who’s more interested in the act itself than who he kills.”

Nick frowned. “Wait. You think our guy’s a serial? One whose weapon of choice has six legs?”

“Eight in the case of the spider. Sixty to sixty-two for the millipedes-depending on sex.”

Riley nodded. “Are we still looking at the entomologists as our prime suspects?”

“They would seem to be the most likely, yes. Neither Roberto Quadros nor Nathan Vanderhoff has an alibi for the Harribold murder.”

“Serial killers usually escalate,” said Nick. “Two murders in less than a week? He’s already off and running.”

“True,” said Grissom. “And both killings-while different in circumstan ce and execution-required a fair bit of preparation. Anyone who goes to that much trouble isn’t going to be satisfied with only two; it’s likely he has several more scenarios ready and awaiting implementation.”

“This guy doesn’t sound like any serial I’ve ever heard of,” said Riley. “He doesn’t seem to be getting any sexual satisfaction out of it, and the targets don’t seem to have anything in common. One he did up close and personal, the other at a distance and almost at random.”

“I don’t think the victim matters to him at all,” said Grissom. “Paul Fairwick was killed by a gunshot and had an insect planted in his corpse-similar to the way certain wasps will paralyze spiders and lay eggs in their bodies. Keenan Harribold was lured to a rendezvous by an online imposter posing as a romantic interest-not so different from the way the Photuris insect lures fireflies to their doom by duplicating the flashing light of a receptive female.”

“Pixels and text instead of pheromones and mating displays,” murmured Riley. “But with the same eventual effect.”

“Professor Vanderhoff already pointed out the similarity between one high school attacking another and anthills waging war. Even the graffiti left at the scene was reminiscent of chemical traces used by colony insects to mark property. I think our killer is mor e fascinated by the process and the resulting consequences than the immediate result.”