Deluge

5

THE BODY OF JAMES FELDT was discovered by a woman named Annabeth Edwards. "Discovered" might suggest that she had either stumbled upon or been searching for the body. In actuality, she couldn't miss it as she made her way through the nooks and crannies of Strutts, McClean & Berg. The door to one of the offices was open, wide open and waiting for her to push it. She did. The room was painted red with blood and the body that lay sprawled next to the desk had its pants pulled down to reveal a horror of mutilation.

To her credit, Annabeth did not drop her bag, which contained a lemon poppy muffin and a coffee sweetened with cream and three packets of Equal. Annabeth didn't recognize the man with granny glasses dangling from one ear. She'd only been at her job for two weeks. She was here on this shit of a day to make an impression, to impress any partner who might happen in, deciding that there was something in the office worth the risk of being swept away by the deluge outside.

She stood in the doorway, hands at her side, knowing enough not to go in or touch anything. It wasn't necessary to see if the man might still be alive. He obviously was not.

It struck her that whoever had done this might still be here. She stood silently, listening. Just the rain pounding against the blood-streaked window over the head of the dead man.

"This is what I get for being a loyal employee," she said aloud, moving back into the reception area, placing her bag on a desk and reaching for a phone.

Then, and only then, did she remember the man in the downstairs lobby who, head down, had walked out as she had come in. Their eyes had met. He had nodded. So had she.

Annabeth took out her cell phone and made the call. The woman at 911 took it, forwarded it. A pair of uniforms who were on their fourteenth hour on the job threw away their cups of coffee and drove the six blocks to the scene of the crime.

The report of the killing reached the computer screen at CSI headquarters about an hour after Annabeth Edwards had called it in.

"Look at this," Mac said.

Flack looked over his shoulder at the screen.

"'Genital mutilation,'" Flack read.

"Like Patricia Mycrant," said Mac.

"A stretch. Someone murders a woman on a rooftop on Eighty-second and then runs to an office building in midtown to carve up a guy in an office?"

"I've got a feeling," said Mac, sitting back.

"Me too. I've got a feeling we're on our way to look at a dead man."

James Tuvekian, whose father was a neurosurgeon, was tall and almost anorexically thin. He sat in the dining hall of the Wallen School, wearing khakis and a tan-and-yellow striped button-down polo shirt and a smile. Not a smirk, not a smile of amusement, but the smile of someone who had learned to wear a mask.

"What did you see, James?" Danny asked.

James pursed his lips and shrugged. "You mean in Mr. Havel's classroom?"

"No, at the movies last night," said Danny.

"Not funny," said James.

"Not funny," Danny agreed.

"What did I see? Nothing. Mr. Havel was behind the table setting something up on the microscope. We filed out. End of episode."

"Someone killed him."

"I heard. He let us out early."

"Why?"

"Who knows? Maybe he wanted to play with himself. Karen Reynolds is in that class. He had a thing for her. Don't think he did anything about it, but he looked and panted."

"What about you?"

"You mean Karen?" James said. "I look. Who doesn't?"

"Red pencils," said Danny, placing the red pencils on the wooden table.

"I see," said James.

"Who uses them?"

"Mr. Havel. Anyone who wanted them, or the markers, or the highlighters, could take them."

"Ever arm wrestle?" asked Danny.

"What for?"

"Fun." Danny grinned and put his arm on the table.

"You are one strange cop. No, thanks."

"You work out?"

"No."

"Okay. Give me your hands."

Danny checked his palms. When he was finished, James rose from his seat.

"We'll talk again," Danny said.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Send Karen in when you leave," said Danny. "And don't talk to her."

"I don't talk to her. She doesn't talk to me. That way our love will always be a mystery."

"'Bells Are Ringing,'" said Danny.

"You like show tunes?" said the boy.

"My musical taste is eclectic," said Danny.

"Anything else?" asked James.

"We've got trouble right here in River City."

"Yeah," said the boy. "Remember the Maine, Plymouth Rock and The Golden Rule."

Danny adjusted his glasses and nodded as the boy left the dining hall.

As he waited for the next student, he wondered how Hawkes was doing. Stella had called and briefed him on the situation, had said the fire department had assured her they would get him out. Danny thought she had sounded less than completely confident. He'd told her to call him if she needed anything, wished he could do more.

Moments later Karen Reynolds came in and sat down without being asked.

Danny had expected a petite blond high school bombshell, like Shirley Moretti from when he was in high school. Karen Reynolds was blond, but not like Shirley Moretti. Her hair, cut short, was, like Karen Reynolds, fresh. She was lean and solid and tall, with long legs, and wore no makeup. There was an aura of health and wholesomeness about her. Karen Reynolds belonged in California on the beach or in Montana climbing a mountain.

"You swim?" Danny asked as she sat, back straight, showing blue eyes and perfect white teeth.

"Yes," she said.

"Records?" he said.

"A few. You swim?"

"Didn't have a pool at my school. I swam in the river."

"The river? The Hudson?"

"I kept my mouth closed," he said.

She smiled.

"What did you see in Mr. Havel's class before he dismissed you?"

"Nothing unusual."

"You liked Mr. Havel?"

"Yes," she said.

"And he liked you."

It was a statement, not a question. She said nothing.

"You were the last one out?"

"Yes. I think so."

"No one was left in the classroom besides Mr. Havel."

"No one," she said.

"I'm curious. What does your father do?"

"My father is dead," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. He died when I was seven. He was a diamond dealer, very heavily insured. My mother took over the business."

"Mr. Havel ever make any moves on you?"

"No," she said. "He looked. That's all. I liked him. He was a great teacher."

"You have a boyfriend?"

"You asking for a date?"

She was smiling, maybe trying to make Danny a little uncomfortable.

"I'll wait a few years," he said. "You have a boyfriend?"

"Terry Rucker. A senior. Terry is not the jealous type and he did not come to school today. He's stuck in Ithaca. Rain. Basketball game last night."

Danny nodded.

"I'd like to call my mother before I say anything else."

"You're eighteen. We don't need your mother's permission to talk to you."

"You didn't tell me I could leave any time I wish unless you're arresting me."

"Why should we arrest you?" asked Danny. "You kill Mr. Havel?"

"No."

The answer was forceful. Danny was starting to think she was taller than he was.

"We can hold you on suspicion of withholding information," he said.

"There is no such charge."

"You planning on becoming a lawyer?"

"Yes," she said.

Danny was certain now. The girl was taller than he was.

He examined her palms, which she allowed him to do without protest. "You can leave," he said when he was done.

"No," she said. "I want to cooperate. So if you have more questions…"

"No, you can leave."

She stood. So did Danny. He didn't normally stand when women came or went, but there was something about her that made him sure that she expected the gesture. She took a dozen steps toward the dining hall door, then stopped and turned around.

"Everybody liked Mr. Havel," she said.

"Not everybody," Danny said.

Lindsay had laid a white cloth on the floor of the room in the CSI lab. On the table in front of her was a large, dead pig. Next to the dead pig were two hollow-cast, human-shaped heads lined on the inside with blood packs. One of the heads was vertical, head up. The other was horizontal, on its side.

Lindsay wore a white lab coat and goggles and her hair was covered in a plastic surgery-room cover.

She was ready. Different-size sharpened red pencils were lined up on the lab table. Lindsay picked up one of the thicker pencils in her gloved hand and plunged it into the neck of the pig. There was no blood. The blood had been drained from the pig the previous day. She left the pencil in the pig's neck and consulted the crime scene photographs of Alvin Havel and her own notes on the depth of his neck wound.

She shook her head, pulled the pencil from the pig, selected another pencil and plunged that one in, harder than the first time. Again she consulted the photos and her notes. Closer. Very close, but not quite right. She repeated the process once more, plunging the pencil in even harder. This time it was almost perfect. She removed the pencil and inserted a needlepoint gauge in the wound.

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.

"And on my arms and one right here on my neck," said Custus. His eyes were closed against the pain in his legs.

"They're not from Australian football games."

"No, they are not."

"Mind if I ask where they're from?"

"Yes," said Custus. "I don't want to be rude, but I do mind. Now, if you can do without me for a few minutes, I've got a thing I can do to ease the pain. Learned it in China. My ankle is numb, my body cold, my brow feverish and that mysterious bullet hole in my side is beginning to throb."

"China?"

"Lovely place to visit but I wouldn't recommend eating the cats and dogs. Too sinewy."

"You changed the subject," said Hawkes.

"I thought I did it rather skillfully," Custus said with a sigh. "All right. The scars. I don't like to talk about them. War wounds."

"Which war?"

"I'll keep that one to myself," Custus said with a smile.

"Burns," said Hawkes. "From explosions. Different explosions. The scars are from different times. Traces of the explosive material can be found in those scars, and judging from the color and healing rate, there were at least three different explosive materials."

"I've never had good luck," said Custus. "No, take that back. I'm still alive. I'd call that good luck, wouldn't you? I think I'll do my meditation thing now."

He was shutting down, or pretending to shut down.

"Is Detective Bonasera up there?" Hawkes yelled.

"I'll get her," called Devlin.

"I need to send something up to her."

"I don't think we should- " Devlin began.

"It's light, a digital photo clip. A string will be good enough."

Hawkes wiped the rain from his eyes. His legs were beginning to feel numb.

"Hawkes?" Stella called.

"I'm sending you pictures. Get them back to the lab and find someone who can check out the scars on the body of the man down here. His name is Connor Custus."

"You got it," Stella said.

Something moved behind him. Hawkes turned and saw Custus fling something into the darkness. Whatever it was made a splash and was gone.

"Dr. Hawkes," Custus said. "You are disturbing my meditation."

Custus was turned slightly and painfully on his side. Hawkes could see the blood-soaked gauze just above the water level. Hawkes reached into his kit and came up with a small black plastic object about the size of a hand-held flashlight. He flicked it on and placed it against Custus's stomach.

"I swear to you I am not pregnant."

Hawkes didn't answer. He pinpointed the metal detector and slowly ran it across Custus's stomach and side. It let out a beep. Hawkes kept moving it around, getting more beeps till the beeping was almost furious. A flick and the metal detector went quiet.

"I think the bullet may be in or near your gall bladder or liver."

"But I shall survive?" he asked.

"If the bullet doesn't move. So far the flow of blood doesn't indicate a sudden rupture."

"But it could happen," said Custus.

"Yes."

"And you're considering going in there and getting the bullet out of my side."

"Yes," said Hawkes. "It can't stay where it is."

"You've removed bullets from organs in the past?"

"Yes," said Hawkes.

"Many?"

"Many."

What he didn't tell the pale Custus was that almost all the people from whose bodies he had retrieved bullets had been dead.

The last of the four students who had been in Alvin Havel's class that morning was Cynthia Parrish.

She walked across the floor of the dining hall, her shoes clacking in time to the beating of the rain on the windows. Danny had set the scene so that each student would have to take a long walk to the table. You could learn a lot by the way someone walked. This girl walked with bouncing confidence.

Cynthia Parrish was red haired, freckle faced and cute. Her teeth were white and her grin was simply perfect. She wore no makeup. Her navy blue skirt ended below her knees and her Wallen white sweatshirt was a size too large. She had pushed the sleeves up past her elbows.

Danny knew that Cynthia Parrish, a sophomore, was taking senior level and college credit courses and was easily the smartest student in the school. The file in front of him made that clear.

She sat with hands folded on her lap, waiting.

"Can I look at your hands?" he asked.

"You mean 'May I look at your hands,' right? I don't doubt that you have the ability to look at my hands."

"May I look at your hands?" Danny asked.

"Sure," she said, holding out her palms. "You'll find traces of chemicals, the same chemicals you'll find on the hands of the other students in Mr. Havel's class."

Danny examined her hands, took a scraping of residue from her palms and deposited it in a clear plastic bag.

"Any idea who killed Mr. Havel?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "But I don't think I'll share it. I'm probably wrong and you asked if I had 'any idea.' 'Any idea' can get someone in trouble."

"You liked Mr. Havel?"

"Everyone liked Mr. Havel," she said. "He worked at being liked. He could have run for Congress and gotten the teen vote if teens could vote."

"But not your vote," Danny said, meeting the girl's eyes.

"Not my vote," she agreed, making a popping sound with her lips.

"Why's that?"

"You want me to speak ill of the dead."

"Just the truth will be fine."

"He made me uncomfortable. Like he was one of those pod people in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. You know, big smile and a kind word, but something was missing or lurking."

"Lurking?"

"I have a vivid imagination," she said with a shrug.

"Who was the last person to leave Mr. Havel's class?" asked Danny.

"Me," she said. "But anyone could have turned around and gone back. Want a suggestion?"

"Go ahead," Danny said.

"Check the clothes of everyone in that class for blood," she said.

"You too?"

"Why not?"

"Thanks for the suggestion."

"You're already doing that, aren't you, checking for blood I mean?"

He reached down into his kit on the floor and came up with a flashlight with a blue light. It was dark in the cafeteria, dark enough for the light to work. He turned it on and aimed it at her. Nothing.

"You change your clothes today?"

"No," she said.

"I can ask the other students," said Danny.

"You think they'd remember what I was wearing this morning? You've got the wrong girl."

"Okay, what about the others. Did they change clothes?"

"Don't remember," she said. "I think they're wearing the same things they had on in class, but then again, I haven't really been looking."

"You don't like them, do you? You're the smart kid. The others say things- "

"Detective," she said with a smile. "You've got the wrong school. This isn't inner city anti-nerd. I'm fine with the other kids, have lots of friends. My boyfriend is on the track team and I'm on the cross-country. Our school won the history, math and literature New York private school competition. I was captain, the youngest ever. Every one of the students were behind us. Strange as it may seem to you, I'm a popular girl."

"Every one of the students was behind us," said Danny, adjusting his glasses. "Every one is singular."

Cynthia Parrish smiled.

"Mr. Havel's dead," said Danny.

Cynthia Parrish's smile faded. "I know."

"What do you know?"

"He had trouble remembering his table of elements," she said. "He's been distracted for a while."

"How long?"

"A few months," she said.

"You know why?"

"No," she said. "But something changed. Something happened. He had trouble keeping his mind on the class. Seven times he asked me to take over the class. That was fine with me and the other students. He tried to make it look as if he wanted to give me the chance to teach. But that wasn't it. He just wasn't up to doing it."

"You want to be a teacher?" Danny asked.

"Not anymore," she said.