J. Konrath - Dirty Martini

Another ambulance streaked by, followed by two news vans. I didn’t like the implications of that at all.

I pulled my radio out of my purse and tuned in to the police band. A few seconds later Rick threw down some money and we jogged up the street.

I worked out three times a week, weights and aerobics, and twice a month I attended a four-hour tae kwon do class, so I was able to keep pace with Rick the three blocks to the station house without collapsing or throwing up. But I did feel sick when I saw the ambulances at the corner of my precinct building.

A dozen uniforms were cordoning off a section of street, directing traffic, and questioning onlookers. Several paramedics were milling around two bodies. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I managed to locate Herb in the crowd. Even though he was no longer my partner, he still managed to beat me to the crime scene.

“What happened?”

“I just got here. Some kind of traffic dispute.”

“The radio mentioned the Chemist.”

“Could be. Two dead, no marks on their bodies.”

“Don’t touch him!” Rick yelled at one of the medics who was crouching down next to a victim. “Risk of contamination!”

If the witnesses weren’t spooked before, that started a mass exodus to the police lines. Herb went north and I went south, explaining to the crowd that they were perfectly safe, and if anyone saw anything we’d like to talk to them. I managed to snag a retreating party of businesspeople, and Herb caught a kid on Rollerblades. While we did that, Rick produced a gas mask and some rubber gloves, and examined one of the bodies.

The trio gave me a rundown of what they saw, beginning with the honking and ending with the perp stabbing each victim in the neck with something. He wore a suit, had an eye patch, and drove a white Honda Accord with scratches on both sides. None of them got the license plate.

Herb’s witness gave a similar version of the story, but said the victims were shot in the neck with some kind of gun, rather than stabbed.

As we conferred, a uniform named Justin Buchbinder came to us with a jackpot: a witness with a camera phone.

“My name is Doris, Doris Washburn. I took three pictures.” She was young, chic, in business attire. “The quality isn’t the greatest, but I got one of the killer, and one of his car.”

She showed me how to view them on her cell phone. The perp’s head was turned, and the license plate on the car too pixilated to be read, but the forensics guys had digital filters that might help improve the images. The third picture unfortunately only captured the man who later died, pointing his finger and yelling.

“We’ll need to keep your phone.”

“I need my phone for work. Can’t I just send you the images?”

“Will they lose quality?”

“No. I can send them to your e-mail address.”

I called Hajek at the crime lab, and Doris sent the photos to him using her phone.

“Get anything?” I asked him while the data transferred.

“A headache. Neck strain. A sore back.”

“No prints?”

“The Chemist used gloves for everything. I even found a glove print on the toilet handle.”

I thought about that. The only people that paranoid about leaving prints are those with prints on file. This guy was in our system, somewhere. People who have been arrested had their fingerprints taken. So did government employees like cops, Feds, and military. Plus, fingerprinting was becoming more common in the private sector, for both security reasons and to ID workers.

“How about the devices? Any way to trace them?”

“The M44s had serial numbers, but they’d been removed. Acid etching didn’t bring them up. Wildlife Services uses them to kill coyotes, but these seem to be older models. Could have picked them up anywhere.”

“How about the other traps?”

“Made from common household items. I got a copy of the CDC report-even the poisons are from pretty common plants. Many are available growing wild, or at garden shops. All of them can be ordered over the Internet. No way to trace them. I’m getting the e-mail now, hold on.”

This was becoming silly. How is it possible to kill so many people and leave zero evidence?

“Well, the bad news is, the pictures are awful.”

“Can you fix them?”

“Let’s see.” I heard him typing, and then humming softly. “I’ll transfer them to my image enhancer. Clean up the noise… resize the image… reduce JPEG compression… and it’s even worse than before. Let me work on it. Will you be at this number?”

I told him yes, and hung up.

“Where’s the new partner?” Herb asked.

“Lunch.”

“Shouldn’t you call her?”

“Probably. I want my jacket back.”

I called Dispatch to get Roxy’s number. Surprisingly, a man answered when I dialed her number.

“I’m looking for Roxanne Waclawski.”

“Are you a friend or relative of hers?”

“I’m her partner, Lieutenant Daniels from the CPD. Can you put her on?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. I’m an EMT. We got a call of a woman passing out at a Willoughby’s on Michigan and Huron. Your partner is dead.”

I squeezed my eyes closed so hard, I saw stars under the lids.

“How did she die?”

“It appears to be heart failure. But in someone this young…”

“Okay, you need to be careful. She was probably poisoned, and some of it may still be on her. I need you to talk to the manager. Try not to let anyone leave until I get there.”

“Was this-”

“Don’t say anything more. I don’t want to cause a panic. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hung up and looked at Herb.

“She’s dead. It’s a few blocks away. I need you at the crime scene.”

Herb hesitated for a moment, and then said, “No.”

“Goddammit, Herb-”

“Goddammit, Jack, I’m not Homicide anymore.” He looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. “This isn’t my case, and you’re not my partner.”

“Fine,” I said, the words forming in my mouth before common sense could override them. “Be a coward.”

I didn’t mean it. But before I could take it back, Herb was storming off, through the crowd, over the yellow police tape, and back to the station. I’d apologize later. Herb would forgive me. Especially if the apology included carbohydrates.

I turned to look for Rick, but he was still in full gear, hovering over the corpses. Figuring I’d need help at the restaurant, I grabbed the uniform, Buchbinder.

“How would you like a temporary promotion to Homicide/Gangs/Sex?”

“My sergeant will bust my balls if I leave my post.”

“What’s your post?”

“Parking enforcement.”

“I’ll smooth it over. You got a car?”

“A bike.”

“Even better. Let’s go.”

That cheered me up a fraction. I liked bikes. My ex-husband, the man who gave me my last name, had a 1982 Harley-Davidson Sportster, and we’d go riding whenever we could. Which, as far as I can remember, was twice.

I worked a lot back then.

Unfortunately, when Buchbinder said bike , he meant scooter . The tiny little electric moped barely had room for two, and had a top speed of slow. A five-minute walk took us ten minutes on the bike, because Officer Buchbinder stopped for all traffic signals, pedestrians, strong breezes, and optical illusions. He also pulled behind a horse and buggy giving six geriatrics a tour of the Magnificent Mile-a tour so excruciatingly sluggish that I doubted all of them would live long enough to see its conclusion.

“Go faster,” I said.

“If I follow too closely, there could be an accident.”

As it turned out, there was an accident. Buchbinder couldn’t brake in time, and coasted right through the largest pile of horse shit I’d ever seen.