Chapter Fourteen

Seacrest invited Carter and Deeprose to the lab to discuss her findings so far. “I’d like you to meet Dr. George Riker, our Latent Fingerprint Expert. He flew in from Washington to present us with his findings. I think we’ve got enough of a match for him to provide us with professional testimony. Dr. Riker, I’d like you to meet Special Agents Carter and Deeprose.”

Dr. Riker shook hands with both agents before inviting them to sit down. He took out a thick, brown manila envelope containing copies of the evidence and his notes. “You see, even with a full print, the image must be carefully edited by our technicians to remove everything that isn't really a fingerprint, such as dirt and digital noise. Failing to do so reduces the accuracy of the process by about 30 percent. Partials, of course, are even harder to identify, and it’s a painstaking process even before I sit down to do my part of it.

“We ran the partial print through the I.A.E.F.S. (Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System) database of 53 million files, which took us close to two hours. We also added ‘elimination prints’ of everyone who had legitimate access to the crime scene.

“The system can handle a partial print as long as it is big enough to include five separate distinguishing points. However, even if the suspect’s prints are found in the system, they cannot always be matched to the evidence print if the part of the fingerprint on file is blurred or smeared. Ultimately, the system provides me with a list of the most likely matches, including the one taken when the suspect was taken into custody and booked.

“So, you see, in the end, if it finds anything similar at all, the system can only produce a small set of prints and partials to compare. No computer can make a definitive match. That’s where I come in. A human being must always look at the prints on a lighted screen, side-by-side with the sample print, to determine which one is really a match. Unfortunately, only about 26 percent of the cases received by the lab include identifiable fingerprints.”

Carter knew all this already, but he was glad Dr. Riker explained the entire process for Agent Deeprose’s benefit. “And?”

“And I believe we have a match on the museum murders.” He brought up the electronic records on Seacrest’s monitor and displayed a split-screen comparison of the partial prints obtained from the museum gloves and the prints taken following Michael’s detainment. Carter and Deeprose looked on as Seacrest pointed out exactly where the partial print matched Santiago’s full print.

“I should also say you don’t have to rely on probability; you have something far better. The database contains the prints from incarcerated criminals that are supposed to be deleted if a prisoner is exonerated, but very often that doesn’t happen. It also contains prints provided voluntarily for the purpose of conducting background checks for new jobs. Your suspect obviously had no priors, because there was no match found in the system for convicted criminals.

“Almost half of all the searches done now are for background checks or child protective purposes, so it was fairly easy to obtain the necessary permission to check the database for prints from employment records.” Dr. Riker handed Carter a file. “The name of your suspect is Michael Santiago, of New York City, New York.”

Carter and Deeprose high fived each other. Carter shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you, Dr. Riker. You’re a miracle worker!”

“Yes, I am something of a miracle worker at that.” He smiled, nodded his head, excused himself and walked back into an office to attack a two-foot high stack of folders on his desk still waiting to be investigated before he flew back to the home office.

Seacrest moved on to the next piece of evidence. “I’ll have a definitive blood analysis completed within the next few hours. Until we can get regular blood samples and lots of them, I’m using the blood from his shirt to see if it’s a match for the blood in the shoeprint. That makes the sneakers his, but it doesn’t place him at the scene. Anyone could have worn them. I’m hoping some of his own blood is mixed in with the victim’s to place him at the scene. That will strengthen Dr. Riker’s professional opinion regarding the print. You have enough now, though, for an arrest.”

Carter nodded. “Michael refused to provide a D.N.A. swab, but we recovered a sample from under the nails of the woman he put in the hospital – Eliza Bitner. He doesn’t have many chips left to bargain with.”

“So Eliza didn’t know who he was?” Seacrest asked.

Deeprose answered. “So she says. Oh! Ah forgot to give you this. It’s a D.N.A. sample from her from a tissue she used in the hospital.”

Seacrest whisked it out of her hand. “Good, going, Agent. This may come in handy later on. You never know.”

Carter added, “Now that we know who he is and have enough for an arrest, we can get a warrant to search Michael’s home for the sneakers. If we find them, and even if he tried to wash away the blood, it’ll still be there, and you can prove it for us with luminol. That’ll be the end of the ballgame for Michael.”

Seacrest talked over her shoulder as she rushed away. “You’ll have to excuse me. Time’s wasting! Come back in a few hours, after you’ve searched the home. I should have a much more enlightening presentation by then, and I want those sneakers. I only hope he wasn’t smart enough to get rid of them or burn them.”

Carter and Deeprose heard the door to the blood lab slam behind her. She turned to him as they walked out of the lab. “Does she always present her findin’s with so much…drama?”

“Depends on how many cups of coffee she’s had.”

***

A few hours later, Carter had his answers from the lab. The blood on Michael’s shirt matched one of the blood types Seacrest found on the sneakers Carter retrieved from his apartment which also still had the victim’s blood all over them. They’d been very lucky that day.

There were no viable prints recovered from the Jersey crime scene, however, where the death of David Florio still remained a mystery. It wouldn’t be easy to connect the two murders even if there was a connection to be made. Carter knew Agent Deeprose didn’t believe they were related, and Carter was inclined to agree, but Fischetti wanted thrill kills and serials ruled out. Seacrest’s findings would take care of that.

Before they confronted Michael, Carter sat down with his new rookie, alone. “Agent Deeprose, have you ever heard of linkage profiling?”

“No sir, Ah haven’t. What is it?”

“It’s a process by which the various aspects of multiple killings are compared to each other to discern if there are any repetitive patterns or styles of killing that can tie them together – things like ritualistic signatures left on the bodies or commonalities in the victims themselves. There are all kinds of factors to consider. The point is, there are only a few experts in the country qualified to do this, and one of them works with us. I’ll receive his official report sometime next week, but he’s fairly sure, right now, that the murders were not committed by the same person.”

“Ah knew it!”

“Not so fast, Agent…That doesn’t mean the killings weren’t done by two different people sent by the same entity.”

“Y’all are still thinkin’ these were contract hits, sir?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It has to be ruled out definitively. But we’re one step closer. These were two different killers. Meanwhile, if Michael knows about the other murder or knows who did it, he has only that one chip left to bargain with. Let’s go rattle his cage and see if he knows anything.”

***

“Mr. Santiago, I’d like to introduce you to my partner, Agent Deeprose. I believe you’re already acquainted.”

“So you know my name. Congratulations.”

“That’s not all we know, Michael. We’ve matched your blood and finger prints to the crime scene at the museum. Your blood and the victim’s blood were both found in the sneaker prints you left behind. We also found your sneakers at your apartment with the blood still on them. Again, not the brightest of moves. You have one chip left in this game before your lawyer arrives. Tell us everything you know about the homicide in New Jersey and who’s behind both hits. Do it now and I’ll make sure you get off with no more than five years in prison and another five on house arrest. That’s my final offer.”

A court appointed lawyer entered the interrogation room. He set his briefcase on the table carefully. “Good Afternoon, Agents. Now that you’ve made formal charges, my client is invoking the Fifth Amendment. I’m so sorry to ruin your fun.”

Carter waited for the lawyer to take a seat. “Mr. Stevens, we have all the evidence we need to convict, and we still haven’t gotten the report on the substance found in the underneath the car seat. He’ll get life without the possibility of parole, so if he wants to try to negotiate a lighter sentence, he needs to tell us the whole story right now. Tomorrow the deal comes off the table, permanently.”

Deeprose had some questions of her own. “Mr. Santiago, did you know the woman you allegedly kidnapped? Is there some kinda connection between y’all that you’re not tellin’ us about? Because she threw you so far under the bus, the second axle is about to run you over. Why protect her if she’s guilty, too? Did you know her, Michael? Are there any others besides her involved?”

The attorney smiled icily. “Good try, Agents, but no cigar. Michael, don’t say anything.”

Michael stared straight ahead, looking at no one and seeing nothing.

“O.K., Michael, have it your way. But before we wrap up here, I want to make certain you understand me. We have everything we need for a hands-down conviction on two premeditated murder-one charges. Oh, didn’t I tell you? Your prints were found all over the security guard you buried alive as well as that bag of money you left behind. Boy, someone made real sure you’d never walk out of here. Have it your way.”

Michael glanced at his lawyer. “We’re done.”

Deeprose slammed a fist on the table. “Trust me on this Mr. Santiago, you don’t want to live in prison with career criminals. My partner, here, Special Agent Carter, believes souls can be saved. Me? Ah don’t think you were even born with one. Ah’m gonna be workin’ real hard on this case to see that y’all rot in prison until you don’t remember what life was like before you were sent there.”

Stevens laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Let’s go. The Department of Justice will take it from here.”

Michael whispered in his lawyer’s ear. He was starting to sweat.

“Agent Carter, you admitted to having in your possession a substance found in the young woman’s car, and that you are asserting it belongs to my client. I’m sure you don’t have to be told that’s illegal search and seizure. This vial you have is more than likely hers. You’ll have to prove it belongs to my client, and I don’t think you can. I’ll save the rest of my arguments for the preliminary hearing.”

Carter knew a preliminary hearing would only become necessary if the client intended to plead ‘not guilty’. He tried one more time. Looking Michael in the eye, just inches from his face, he said in earnest, “If you plead ‘not guilty’, you’re going to be swallowed up by the system. There will be no reprieve. No hope. If you tell the truth now and give me a name, I can help you.”

Michael swallowed hard but kept his mouth shut.

“All right, I tried. I have no idea what’s in that vial, but the woman you kidnapped and beat will testify that it was in your possession when you forced her into the car - yes, forced her – don’t look so surprised. Just because we didn’t recover a weapon doesn’t mean you didn’t point one at her and ditch it later or make her believe you were pointing one at her to get her into the car as a hostage. She will testify that she saw you throw the vial under the front seat of her car. You were the driver, Michael, not her. She’s not the one on trial. Who do you think the jury’s going to believe? Either way, it should be pretty simple to find out who the vial belongs to, what’s in it, what it’s used for and where it came from. Once we follow the trail, I’m betting it’ll lead straight back to you and whoever you got it from.”

***

Alison fumbled in her pocket for her phone to see if she’d gotten any messages. “Where are Michael and Eliza? It’s getting late! Clara, if something happened to them and they don’t come back, we have to have a plan of our own. I’m still on the Silver Man’s radar, and now I’m probably wanted as a fugitive, too. Your own killer is out there, and this time I don’t know who it is or if he’ll be able to resist the killing drug.

“We have to figure out a way to save you first, and then go to the police so you can back up my story. Michael’s worthless to us. Eliza hasn’t done anything against the law, and soon the drug will be out of her system. The meeting was a secret, so even if she offers up her invitation and the address of the last meeting, she can’t prove she was actually there – not unless they raid the place, and the Silver Man said they never meet in the same place twice. We have to find out where they’re meeting next so we can take some of the vials as proof of what they did to me and then tip off the police so they can find the rest of it there. I want to time it so that they get there at the start of the social hour. That way they’ll catch the waiters passing it around in the drinks and Galatea giving new members their orders to kill. That’ll give us leverage.”

Clara sashayed over to her closet, rummaging around for an old outfit she’d thrown in there a few years ago but had forgotten about until now. “Sure, Alison. Leverage. So, how are you going to help me get rid of my killer? Right now, that’s the only thing that matters to me. I can’t help you until you help me, honey. You know that. Friends ‘til the end, right?” Clara flashed her a great, big ingratiating smile.

“Right.” Alison blushed all the way to the roots of her dirty brown hair.

“We can figure out all the rest later. You know, I don’t need any leverage, I only need protection, but like I said, you help me and I’ll help you. If Michael comes back, we’ll send him out to the liquor store or something, make an anonymous call to the police and have him picked up. If Eliza comes back, we can still use her even if the drug is already out of her system. Like you said, the Silver Man knows by now she didn’t kill me. He’ll be after her, too. She has to help me. I mean, us. Us.”

She sat behind Alison on the bed and began to braid her hair. “Oh, Allie, I could introduce you to all the best people. You’d have invitations pouring in every weekend. You know what? I should do your hair for you! Let me give you a completely new look. I’ll cut it into the latest style, get rid of that mousy color and make you into a racy redhead. What do you say, bestie?”

Alison was aware that she should change her look for her own protection, but she never made any changes, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to make such a drastic one now. “I don’t know, Clara, it’s kind of a lot to think about.”

“Come on, Alison, you need to look like a different person or you won’t last a minute outside this apartment, and you certainly can’t go home to get anything. You can wear something of mine until we can get some clothes and anything else you need. You do have money, don’t you? I can’t afford much, I’m afraid.”

Alison was becoming overwrought again. She bit her nails right down to the quick while considering what to do. “Yes, I have money. I suppose you’re right. I do have to change my look. All right, let’s do it.”

“It’ll be fun, Allie! We need a diversion anyway or we’ll worry ourselves to death. I’ll get us another glass of wine and we’ll play Cinderella.”

Clara left the bedroom and went into the kitchen for the wine. Once there, she let out her breath in a whoosh of relief, rolled her shoulders and arched her back. Playing this part was becoming a strain on her delicate body. Maybe it would have been easier for her if she liked Alison or even respected her, but Clara didn’t know the meaning of the words. She spent her life putting on false faces to get what she wanted. It always worked before, so she saw no reason to try being a true friend to have one.

Clara was perpetually rewarded and admired for her selfish, willful machinations by Uncle, a man of wealth, power, and social standing. He’d taken her in to live with him in his home as a child several months after her father lost his job and could no longer support her. Clara’s mother passed on shortly after.

She’d grown up in the elderly man’s home spoiled and privileged beyond reason. He was a proud and ruthlessness Machiavellian and a brilliant lawyer determined to win at any cost. Wildly successful in the business world, Uncle was neither admired nor envied. He was feared as a sly, calculating, trickster without remorse or pity. Uncle taught Clara that justice meant nothing; winning the case created its own justice. Everything was about winning.

Clara was the jewel in his crown. Alone and lonely, he had no one to coddle or brag to other than her. The little girl grew up every bit as self-serving as Uncle. She learned early on that her grace and beauty emitted a blinding light even he could not see through. She learned quickly and well. Money and power bought anything, even justice. Men were ridiculously easy to hoodwink. Women were much harder to fool, though, so she generally had no use for them.

Uncle was smart, but not smart enough for Clara who was cursed with living what she learned at home. She wanted all the things he did - money, nice things, high-class friends, the best of everything. As the years rolled by, her desire for his money and a glamorous life clashed with cold, stark reality. His money wasn’t hers. She had to pamper his ego and tease him playfully for every nickel she got, and he squeezed those moments out of her for all they were worth, whether they were genuine or not. The old gentleman was in his dotage now, and Clara had finally perfected the art of getting what she wanted out of him. He could never say no to her. Clara might have seen a lot more trouble in her life if he hadn’t continually bailed her out, but he did. As it was, he saved her one kind of trouble, but brought home another. She was a monster of greed who spent most of her time and all her energy hurtling towards disaster at lightning speed.

Tonight, Clara was exhausted but friendless and frightened. She couldn’t go to Uncle with this problem; he' know in an instant that she’d been responsible for the ruin of that woman’s career. She couldn’t risk being disinherited. Alison was her only hope.

The irony of Clara’s assumptions were in how she went about using Alison, who’d offered help willingly before it was even asked for. She asked for nothing because she expected nothing. She gave what she had without expecting anything in return.

Armed with a fresh bottle of wine and a plate of cheese and fruit, Clara pulled herself together and plastered a smile on her face before walking back into her bedroom to face a night of girl talk and beauty makeovers. Alison, whose bravery and altruism outshone all the stars in heaven, sipped, ate, and laughed with Clara, who could never serve up anything other than artifice.

***

Carter sat in his office thinking about the billboard advertisement for the Cloisters that Deeprose pointed out to him. She really did entertain the possibility that Michael might have been influenced by someone or something. But he’s not smart enough to understand much, let alone be influenced by anyone.

I’m looking at unrelated murders that seem related, but not to serials or thrillers. Unrelated yet related. What could tie separately planned and executed murders together besides the person obviously pulling the strings? What if he wasn’t influenced by a person but by a chemical? That would make a lot more sense where Michael’s concerned. Could the stuff in that vial be the connection in these cases? Is this all about drugs?

The still unidentified substance didn’t appear to be anything they’d ever seen.

Was Michael killing for drugs? The death of the curator and the guard didn’t seem to be about money. Nothing was missing. If he did kill for his drugs, he’d have taken the bag of money. But why would anyone leave a sack of money in a grave unless they were under the influence of…something?

Carter relaxed his mind and let it float over the rooms of the museum. Deep in meditation, he could hear every conversation he’d had or heard concerning the crimes there. Suddenly, he opened his eyes. He remembered that Deeprose believed the near-priceless painting, donated by the odd and absent temporary curator, Arthur Moreland, was a clue.

And it was!

But if Mr. Moreland knew something, there were a thousand ways he could have let us know what it was. Why run away and hide? Why leave a painting behind that no one would think twice about? What was it Deeprose said? It didn’t belong there. It was from a different period altogether – Impressionist. That’s what she said; it didn’t belong there, but Moreland left it there just the same.

We have to find Mr. Moreland.

***

Agent Seacrest knocked on his office door and barged right in without waiting for an answer. She was as excited as a child playing Show and Tell. “Pop this flash drive into your P.C., Carter, and bring up the video on it. Sorry I didn’t bring any popcorn, but I promise you one hell of a show.”

“Let’s wait until Agent Deeprose gets here, shall we? Whatever it is you have up your sleeve, I want her in on it.”

When everyone had their coffee and was comfortably seated, Seacrest turned the screen so that it faced the three of them, and pressed ‘play’. She narrated a gruesome story as an unsuspecting cockroach became a two-car garage for a wasp determined to raise its young inside of it.

“What you are observing is neuroscience in all its horrible glory. The wasp has injected its venom right into the roach’s brain to take control over it. See how it moves away from the roach for a period of time? That’s because she’s waiting for the drug to take effect. Notice now that the roach is obsessively cleaning itself. The venom induces it to create a germ-free environment for the wasp’s offspring. The roach has now stopped all motion and sits docilely, allowing itself to be dragged by an insect many times smaller than itself into a safe place she has already chosen and one from which the roach will not try to escape. He has become a zombie – an unwitting, yet willing victim. He will play host to the wasp’s egg, without caring that it is being eaten alive little by little from the inside out.”

“The venom is used for mind control?”

“Indeed. And it’s done that way throughout much of the insect kingdom. The roach might be physically able to crawl away from its fate, but he won’t. His brain has been altered to accept anything that happens to it. He may even experience euphoria in this altered state. We don’t know for sure. But we can surmise that the wasp’s venom is as powerful as any drug known to man. Maybe stronger.”

Carter raised a hand. “I assume we’re watching this because it relates somehow to our case. Am I right?”

“Go to the head of the class. Certain behavioral responses may be shut down when a drug, or venom, mutes specific neurons. Our wasp was born with venom that shuts down just the right centers of brain activity to immobilize the roach. Humans experience the same loss of control when they ingest certain inhibitors, like Rohypnol, known as ‘Roofies’; Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid, known as ‘Liquid Ecstasy’, and Ketamine, also known as ‘Special K’. These are the most commonly used drugs in date rape, where the victim is conscious but can’t move or talk or resist in any way. These drugs all come in pills, liquids, or powders.”

Deeprose jumped out of her chair. “Liquids! You mean the liquid in that vial we found?”

“In a way, Agent Deeprose. You see, the same way a drug can make us docile and unable to resist an attack, other drugs might make us extraordinarily aggressive, like Angel Dust, or open to suggestion, like Scopolamine.

“I can’t find anything like the stuff in that vial in the national drug database. It may be a synthetic replica of a naturally occurring substance like the one inside the wasp. It may grow on a plant or a bush or tree. It may come from half way around the world. We don’t know yet, but once we’ve completed analyzing it using the mass spectrometer and we can identify the compounds, I think we’re going to find that it has similar properties to the classes of drugs I just mentioned. Until we know its components and test it, we won’t know what it’s meant for or to what degree it affects men, women, children and people of different sizes, ages, and weights – or for how long.”

Carter interrupted. “Just a second. Let me wrap my head around this, Jill. Did you show us that video because you think this substance we have might be one half of a set – the other half of which we don’t have? One drug to pacify the victim and one to suggest a plan and increase the aggressiveness of the perpetrator? Am I correct when I say that what we think we do have in our possession is either a stolen prototype or one that’s been reproduced into God knows how many doses? And that someone is going to have to ingest this thing to find out what it does before we can guess what its companion drug does?”

“Carter, we have no idea what we have, yet. It was found in a murderer’s possession and it’s an unidentified substance we’ve never seen before, but…I’m fairly certain that we’ll find it’s something like what I came here to show you. There may not even be a companion drug. I’m guessing there would be two, but maybe there’s only one. It may be that the killer only uses it to subdue his victim. Or maybe he uses it himself to feel the high of power and control that killers need.”

Carter was beginning to get a headache. “And it may be that whatever this drug is, it has nothing to do with the murders in question at all.”

Seacrest talked out loud as she paced around the office. “I’m waiting for test results from his blood to see if it’s still in his system. If he was dosed and forced into doing this, then no matter what we think of him, he’s a victim, too. If he took it knowingly, well, then that’s a different story- motive being that he knowingly took it to feel a high that would encourage brutally aggressive behavior. And killing that old man wasn’t spur of the moment. It was a half-assed plan, but it was definitely planned by someone, right down to the buried security guard and his bag of money.

“The fact that the substance is so hard to identify makes me almost positive it was stolen – if not by Michael, then by the ones who gave it to him. It’s not a new street drug; we’d know that in a minute. It must have originated in a private or government-sponsored institution. Michael would never have access to something like that; I’m sure of it.

“No, our thief is someone at a very high level of authority in the government or the private sector who reports to and is funded by the government. He knew what he was taking, where and how to get it, and how to reproduce it. And he took it for a reason. We need to know what that reason is and whether or not it’s related to the murders.”

Deeprose crossed her arms over her chest. “Let’s assume everything y’all just said is correct. If one or both companion drugs affect the morality or judgment centers of the brain, and the killer can prove he was dosed without his knowledge or permission, he can plead extenuatin’ circumstances, like temporary insanity or hijackin’ of the mind. Maybe he got dosed originally without knowin’ it, but Ah’m bettin’ he had it in the car because he already knew what it could do and wanted more. That’s what we’ll have to prove to get a conviction that can’t be overturned, and that’s gonna be damned near impossible.”

Carter got up and grabbed his overcoat. “I’m starting to understand the reason Michael won’t tell us the ‘why’ of the crime; no one would believe a story like that, and as dull as he is, he knows by now that if he does talk, he’s as good as dead.”