Chapter Five

Frank picked up his briefcase, closed the door to his office, and stopped at his assistant's desk. "I'm leaving for the day, Grace. I have several stops before I meet Hayworth at my home."

"You have an appointment at eight bells in the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Dondelinger."

"The name rings familiar. Who are they again?"

"Husband and wife from New Jersey. Their eighteen-year-old daughter disappeared two months ago."

He chewed on his lower lip. "Oh, yes, after prom."

Grace nodded. "You spoke to them on the phone a week ago and promised to sniff a piece of her clothing, see if you can channel a location where they might find her."

"Very funny, Grace. Must you use the word sniff?"

"What's wrong with that? I think in another life you were a wolfhound or perhaps a grizzly. You know how bears sniff out food at campgrounds, right?”

“You amuse me every day, Grace. What would I do without you?”

“I’m not certain, but I could make a list for you in case I disappear.”

Frank gave her a dismissive wave. “I’ll see you at eight in the morning.”

He didn't really have several stops to make, but he wanted to get home, dim the lights, and channel his Inner Spirit. With any luck, something would cut through the dissimulated messages. He'd have to meditate before Hayworth arrived, and of course, Rand would be home at seven.

He parked the Denali in his usual underground parking spot, locked it and, too tired to tackle the stairs, took the elevator to the main level. After dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table, he lit the candles in the great room, left the lights off, and settled into the La-Z-Boy®. Without an object in his hand, he'd have to delve deep into meditation, place himself in a subconscious state, and hope something—anything—would materialize.

Five minutes into a series of deep belly breaths, his sixth chakra opened—the Inner Eye. He willed his muscles to relax and closed his eyes, studying the shield that always appeared. The screen wasn't important, but rather the images that, with any luck, would appear behind it. A kaleidoscope of colors writhed before him—white, red, and yellow—similar to the longitudinal stripes on garter snakes. He focused on the twisting ribbons without attempting to interpret them right now. That step came later when his consciousness shifted, and hopefully he'd slip into a dreamlike state. Only during that stage would his mind be malleable enough to connect with his Inner Spirit, the channel pitching him into a higher level of awareness.

Scenes flashed through his head, a montage of vague distortions. Snapshots of the victims rushed forth, hazier than the water they floated in. Their arms akimbo, their legs flaccid, there could be no doubt they were dead.

Frank placed his fingers to his cheeks to ease the sudden pain to his sinuses. He struggled to breathe, and in the next instant developed a full-blown nosebleed. Warm and sticky, the blood trickled into his mouth and stained his shirt.

"Jesus!" He jumped up from the chair. He swore again with the realization the sudden, intense onset of a bloody nose had jolted him from his meditative state.

In the process of ripping a paper towel from the dispenser on the kitchen counter, the doorbell rang. Clutching the towel to his nose, he answered the door. "Sorry, Hayworth, little problem here."

"Good God, man. Here, tip your head back." Hayworth led him to the sofa. "Lie back. I know a little about nosebleeds, used to get them all the time as a child."

Frank put his head back and realized he'd sat down on the paddle. He shifted his weight, and with one hand holding the towel, used the other to stuff the instrument between the cushions. Hayworth dashed into the kitchen, grabbed another towel, and exchanged it for the bright red one under Frank's nose.

His own words echoed in his ears. "Am I supposed to pinch my nostrils?"

"I don't think so. You're supposed to just let it flow and keep your head back."

Almost as suddenly as it had started, the gushing of blood ceased. "Damn, I don't think I've ever had a nosebleed." Frank kept the towel under his nose and gazed up at Reuben. "Ah, shit, you've got blood all over your white shirt."

"Not a problem." Hayworth offered a smile that lit up his face. "I brought others with me from Washington."

Lightheaded, the paper towel still under his nose, Frank staggered to his feet, and stretched his arm out. "Take it off, and let me put it to soak. You're supposed to do it right away when it's blood."

"Really, it's not a―"

"I insist."

Hayworth shrugged. "All right, but I've had much worse on my shirt, I assure you."

Frank took the shirt from his hand, put it to soak in the kitchen sink with some Dawn® dish soap and motioned for Hayworth to follow him. "My computer is all set up in my bedroom. We can spread the file out on the bed."

"Suits me, but are you sure you're up to looking at it? I can return tomorrow."

"Nah, I'm fine now. Stressful day, I guess.

Several minutes later, the documents had been sorted by Hayworth into neat little piles. "Everything is here—toxicology and autopsy reports, recent snapshots of the young men, and crime scene photos arranged by victim according to the date they were found."

Kneeling by the bed, Hayworth handed Frank the first set of papers. He flipped through them while standing over Reuben's shoulders. "They died from cardiac arrest secondary to drowning?" He searched frantically for the autopsy report. "Jesus, self-induced heroin?"

Hayworth handed him the next pile. "That's the ME's findings after all the toxicology reports, tissue samples, and, after examining the heart." Reuben rubbed his forehead. "Specific gross physical signs from drowning aren't visible, unless they were strangled or assaulted in another manner."

"Did they drown or not?"

"Sometimes determining that the victim drowned is difficult, and often another diagnosis arises only through exclusion. The circumstances of death are more important than autopsy findings. If there is no evidence of trauma or natural disease to explain the death, and if the victim is found in water, an inexperienced ME might state the death came from drowning in and of itself.

"The reason for the confusion is because few, if any, pathological findings at autopsy will indicate that the person drowned." Papers exchanged hands as Hayworth handed Frank the reports on victim number three. "Thank goodness, the ME who worked on the case is one of the top in her field and didn't assume they died from drowning alone. She conducted extensive toxicology tests."

"It doesn't make sense. Five men injected heroin, left the bar of their own volition, walked into the river and drowned?"

"They were alive when they entered that water."

"How do you know?"

"The heroin injected wasn't enough to kill them, but incapacitated them, and the rest is complicated, Frank."

"Try me."

"If the victim is conscious when he enters the water, he struggles to breathe and this causes a great deal of pressure to the sinuses and the lungs. The ME would expect to find hemorrhaging into the sinuses and airways as well as debris from the water, which is then sucked into the sinuses and lungs while attempting to breathe."

Frank snorted. "As in bloody nose?"

Hayworth glanced over his shoulder and looked directly at Frank's nose. "Yes," he said. Measuring his words he added, "That's why you had the nosebleed, isn't it?"

"Bingo."

"Did you see anything else while you were . . ."

"No, the pain in my sinuses came sudden and intense. Next, the blood gushed and pulled me out of my meditative state."

Hayworth handed him a small plastic bag filled with pebbles and algae. "From victim number four, and there's a similar bag for number five."

"What does this suggest?"

"That the victims were alive when they went into the water. Plants or rocks from the bottom of the river were found in their hands—presumptive evidence that they grabbed them during their struggle to survive."

"And the heart attack occurred next?"

Hayworth nodded again. "They panicked and the heroin in their system didn't help."

"You're the special agent, just lay it out."

"The heroin injection wasn't enough to kill them, but would definitely hinder their physical and emotional faculties if placed in a life-threatening situation."

"So they didn't have the cardiac arrest from an overdose?"

Hayworth shook his head. "The Medical Examiner doesn't believe so at this point."

"And they had the wherewithal to function as long as they weren't—"

"Dumped into the river."

"A minute ago you said, 'the heroin injected.' You didn't say they injected it."

"Your prior time as a cop is shining through, McGuire."

"Yeah, comes from too many interrogations and cherry-picking words." Frank glanced at his watch and thought about Rand. He should be arriving any minute. "What are we going to tell the parents tomorrow night?"

"I need more time, Frank. We can't tell them someone injected them with heroin and tossed them into the river. Holy fucking panic would break out, not to mention we'd be alerting the killer."

"Any suspects?"

"I'm afraid so, and I hate to be the one to break the news to you."

Frank's heart thrummed in triple beats. He felt the cloud descend faster than a veil of black satin thrown over his eyes. "I prefer my bad news straight up."

"I've done a little snooping into your past."

"Why, for Christ sake? Do you suspect me?"

"Of course not," Hayworth said. "A cautious man by nature, I'd rather know everything about people before I work with them."

"How did you know I'd work with you on this case?"

"Once I told you someone of particular interest is involved, I figured you'd come around."

Frank didn't say anything, but felt as though someone had siphoned all the blood from his veins.

"Does the name Billy Schumacher mean anything to you?"

Frank growled and stormed to his feet. "Son of a bitch!"

"Yep, the man who shot Quinn Brennan during that bank robbery. He escaped two weeks ago from prison and word on the street is he's here, in Baltimore."

Frank paced in front of the window. "What else?"

"Since your testimony sent him to prison for life, he's on a mission."

"As in revenge mission."

Hayworth nodded. "You do own a gun, right?"

"A Glock."

"Good, keep it loaded." Hayworth handed him a card. "If you even think he's sniffing around, call me at this number 24-7."

"Right," Frank said distractedly. Where the fuck is Rand?

"If you want my advice, Rand Brennan should return home to live with his mother until this blows over. He's safer there."

"Christ, is there anything you people don't know?"

"Yeah, I’m not sure about the eggs. Do you like them sunny side up or over easy?"