Thanks to everyone that's been reading and commenting and waiting! It was a long holiday, but I've finally finished editing and putting the finishing touches on this first series. I'll be publishing the final chapter to Doomed City (part 3) next week right before the season premiere, then the following week starting the second series.
So, as always, enjoy!
Doomed City (part 2)
I stifle a yarn, stretching my back as I check my phone for the time: 8:45 AM. Across the metal table Perry glares at me as my spine cracks and pops, and I smile humorlessly back at him. He scowls, returning his attention to the file in his hand, his posture as still as ever, and his rigidity annoys me. I begin to tap my foot impatiently.
We're waiting for the medical examiner to join us, stuck in a windowless, airless, lifeless room that time has clearly forgotten and could only be used for autopsy. The equipment is old; ancient, thick monitors and stained steel cover nearly every surface along with a wide range of tools whose purpose I'd rather not think too hard about. The room has a pungent, death-smell that penetrates deep into my lungs, forcing me to breathe shallow, unnatural breaths. I shift uncomfortably, glancing down at the body wheeled in and placed before us, looking quickly away as the grotesque face that has been haunting me every time I close my eyes comes into view. I see Perry's eyes watching from over the top of his file, but they snap back down and moment later, and he says nothing so I shrug it off.
The halogen lights buzz above us as we wait, the only sound is a clock that ticks on and on from some unseen corner and each click seems to stretch out and echo. My muscles are aching, my neck stiff from hours bent over a computer and the humming lights seem to have halos around them. The ticking continues, monotonous and steady until I'm sure I hear it slowing down; each second becoming longer and longer. I rub my eyes and refocus. I'm going to have to start another search for awful coffee soon.
"This is a weird one, gentlemen," the medical examiner announces as he bursts into the room, ironically loud and full of life. He has a huge, bulging stomach that pulls his lab coat tight and his balding head is large; his face unshaven. Course dark hair covers his chin and neck, and the loose skin wobbles like a turkey as he chews on a piece of jerky, glancing through the file while his mouth continuously munches the thick meat stick. It feels almost grotesque in the setting, but no one else seems disturbed so I keep my face straight. His movements are erratic and fast but when he speaks, his voice is devoid of any speed, as if being constantly surrounded by the dead has made him lose any sense of urgency.
"Meet Special Agent Katherine Sheppard." He starts, "Thirty two years old, five years in the bureau and dead for fourteen hours. On the surface she appears exactly like the victims in her case: not a lot of bruising; small cuts that look self-defensive, obvious contusions to the wrists caused pre-mortem and most importantly," He turns her head to the side, "two large puncture wounds in the neck. All orifices have been sewn shut; eyes, ears, mouth, nose, anus-"
"We get the drift." Perry interrupts, "Anything on the sewing material?" The large man looks annoyed at the interruption but shakes his head.
"It's thick black yarn, common and untraceable. We're looking at suture needle for this job though; the stitching has become more sophisticated with each victim, meaning our guy has some medical experience but not much." He shrugs his shoulders "Now, if I may continue?" Perry nods in assent.
"Limbs are edemous, and post-mortem temperature was 100.8 a full two hours later. Aside from the puncture marks and defensive wounds the skin appears untouched except for what appears to be a developed, wide spread rash…"
He drones on, his voice bored and uninterested, as if he's reciting a grocery list instead of the intimate details of a woman's body. I watch his open mouth gnaw on the jerky, and force myself to stay calm and bear with him as he continues.
"In her possession: one stained white nightgown, one FBI badge (hers), one pair of gold earrings and absolutely no other physical evidence: no finger prints, no sign of sexual assault and no foreign fibers on her body. Cause of death appears to be hypotension." He pauses to rip a large chunk off the meat stick, and I fight the urge to be sick. "Now here's where it gets weird."
"Now it gets weird?" I mutter, but Perry shoots me a look. The doctor glances up from his folder and eyes me for a second as if he's only just realized I'm there, but with a wave from Perry he continues.
"Well the cause of death in your first victim was blood loss; she bled out from the puncture wounds in her neck. But our girl here, like the second victim, has no apparent reason to have died. Hypotension is often cause by extreme hemorrhage, or blood loss, but when I measured the volume of the blood it was 3.7 liters and consistent with her body weight. So I ran a tox screen, to compare against the other two victims, and got some interesting results, including epinephrine, dopamine and strangely, digoxin."
"Strangely?" I ask.
"In a way. Digoxin is a hypertensive agent and can cause acute psychosis: not your typical tranquilizer. And since she died of low blood pressure while obviously taking a medication that specifically raises it, well, I decided to take a second look. So I took all new samples, straight from the brain, by inserting a 20 gauge needle up the-" But Perry holds up a hand.
"Let's skip ahead. Is there's something helpful about these drugs? Something definitive?"
The coroner is off put for a second, almost affronted by the audacity of being cut off again. He sighs as if to show his exasperation at being constantly surrounded by those always in a hurry, and with grave-like slowness resumes his report. "Actually, no. Epinephrine and dopamine are found naturally in the body, although not usually at such high levels, and the amount of digoxin wasn't fatal. No, the anomaly was actually the blood itself.
"I found high levels of hemoglobin and bilirubin," His speech quickens to slightly faster than a snail, the equivalent of excitement for him, but I feel my eyes start to glaze over. Behind me I hear Perry take a slow, frustrated breath. The medical examiner glances at him, but pretends not to hear and continues at the same pace, "as with the others, but also sickle cell factors, which is abnormal, so of course I ran an indirect COOMBS test." He pauses, looking at us. "It came back negative."
The silence stretches on as we stare at him, uncomprehending, but I feel my heart beat quicken.
"Cause of death was an acute hemolytic reaction." He states, as if this should be obvious and miraculous at the same time. It's an anticlimactic moment, and I almost laugh out loud.
"And that means?" Perry asks calmly and, as far as I'm concerned, with an abnormal amount of patience.
"It's a transfusion reaction," the large man explains, "and a rare one. A negative test means she wasn't compatible." We stare at him expectantly, and he sighs in frustration before continuing. "The blood we found inside Sheppard is A negative. But she was B positive."
"Are you saying-?" Perry asks, but my mind is already racing.
"It's not her blood." The medical examiner says, a little too proudly. "So I took out everything we had on our second victim, Taylor, and ran that blood again. It was A positive. Taylor was A negative, and when I checked her medical records I noticed she also had a recessive sickle cell gene common with her race, that wasn't present in the samples from the blood we found inside her. Meaning-"
"It wasn't her blood either." Perry finishes for him. "But this recessive gene was found in the blood inside Shepard?"
"You guessed it." Perry nods, and the doctor raises his eyebrows meaningfully but the implications are lost on me.
"What are you saying?" I ask. The medical examiner looks at Perry, who answers me.
"He has literally been draining the blood out of each girl and replacing it with his previous victims'."
There is a pause as we all consider this.
"What the hell?" I ask, disgusted. "Why?"
"I don't care about the why, I care about how." Perry interrupts, "Is it difficult? Does it take skill?"
The medical examiner shrugs. "Not particularly. He would need some basic medical experience and the supplies: two large needles, IV tubing and containers for the blood, but transfusions are actually done using gravity so not much else."
"Alright, but what actually kills them? People don't usually die from getting blood."
"Well each blood type is actually physically different from the others." The doctor responds, leaning back against the wall, as his voice takes on a steady lecturing tone. "Different blood types are told apart by their antigens." He sees our uncomprehending faces, and grabs a piece of paper. "There are four blood types, forgetting about Rh positive and negative for a second: Type A, B, AB and O." He draws four circles on it, filling one with triangles, one with small stars, one with both and leaves the last one empty.
"Let's say the triangles are A antigens and the stars are B antigens. They actually look different don't they? That's how blood is. Now, you can never add anything when it comes to blood. For instance, if you tried to mix A blood with B blood, it wouldn't work because you would be trying to add triangles to the stars. Alright? Okay, so," He points to the circle with both triangles and stars, "type AB starts that way, mixed, and can receive both A and B because it doesn't add anything. Obviously can't be given to either A or B though: it would be trying to add triangles to the stars or stars to the triangles." We nod, and he gestures to the last circle, the blank one. "Type O blood is the universal donor, because it is completely empty of antigens and won't ever add anything. Ironically though it can the only receive itself. So if the wrong type is put into the blood stream, or transfused transfused, the body recognizes those differences that are trying to be added and reacts to the foreign blood like an infestation, attacking it."
"What happens then?" Perry asks in a quiet voice. The coroner furrows his brow, thinking, as if this is a mere clinical discussion.
"These women would experience massive pain as the blood coagulated and hardened like lead in their veins; tachycardia or a pulse so rapid it would have felt like a heart attack; severe fever and chills followed by extreme anxiety and delirium; and finally their blood pressure would plummet until they lost consciousness and died."
"Holy shit," I murmur. "How long does it take?"
"A hemolytic reaction, which is what we call the body's response to an incorrect blood type transfusion, happens rather quickly. Within the first fifteen minutes actually, and once the heart stopped beating it would be impossible to complete a full transfusion. So he kept them alive, and awake, long enough to survive the several hour long procedure by pumping them full of epinephrine to keep the heart beating and the digoxin to sustain blood pressure. Then he simply stopped the meds and allowed the body to kill itself."
He covers her back up, and I watch as her ruined face with its twisted sewn doll eyes disappears beneath the drape. Even as I'm ushered out of the room, I can't stop staring at the outline beneath the sheet.
In the hallway Perry pulls me quickly aside. I'm still processing and inwardly scowl at his grip on my arm, but keep my gaze steady on him.
"Is there a problem Weston?"
I give him a puzzled look and shake my head, trying to pull away, but he holds me in place. Now I'm sure he saw how uncomfortable I was around Sheppard's corpse. We stare each other down for a second, but I can't stand the close inspection and I quickly look away.
"It's nothing." I shake my head, and rub the back of my neck, "I went on a date with Kate a few months ago. Not a great one, but she seemed like-" I cut myself off, not really sure what I'm saying. When I look up, he's still staring at me with serious, inquisitive eyes. I sigh. "Look, I've lost a lot of people in this investigation, sir. And after Parker-" I trail off. I'm surprised by the seemingly touching look he has when I glance back up at him. I almost take a step backwards.
"Is this going to be an issue?" he asks quietly.
My eyebrows furrow, and I feel thrown. "No, sir." I answer cautiously.
He lets go and hands me the case folder, patting me on the shoulder. I swear I see a sad look cross his face, but I could be hallucinating from caffeine deficiency. I can't stand when people look at me with pity, and especially can't stand it on his normally emotionless face, so I cover my unease by flipping the case file open. I'm halfway through the first page when a familiar name catches my eye. I turn to Perry, but he has walked off and is of course a mile away already.
"Sir, wait, sir!" He pauses in a conversation with another agent as I run up to him and he looks at me with his regular, inattentive brown eyes.
"Is this right?" I ask, "The first victim was named Cecile Roberts?"
He finishes signing a form held out to him before facing me.
"If it's in the file, it's correct. Is it important?"
"No, it's just-" I blink, trying to collect my thoughts. "I interviewed a woman with that name six months ago."
"And, Agent Weston?" he asks impatiently, already bored with me. I shake my head.
"Nothing. Never mind. Just a weird coincidence." I look up to smile reassuringly at him, but he's already walking away.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
Hours go by, and I spend them diligently working on comparing the aspects of the case. I receive a slight shock when I finish reading the file and find out that the Cecile Roberts in the morgue really is the same woman I interviewed months before, but there aren't any other connections between the case I had been working then and the victims in my current situation, so I shrug it off.
In fact, I'm struggling to find connections between any of the victims, except for Sheppard's investigating their deaths. After my initial review I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they weren't random killings, as Shepard had concluded, but instead were somehow connected. But no matter how long I work, the link stays annoyingly unattainable, like a word stuck on the tip of the tongue.
They had no similar friends, doctors or even visits to the same restaurants. All had different jobs, hobbies and were snatched from different parts of town. Two were local, one visiting; one black, one Hispanic and one white; different hair styles, colors and cuts; two without any ID, one with (Sheppard's FBI badge); two with A blood (although one with sickle cell trait), one B positive. They were, for all purposes, the most random collection except for only one thing in common: young, female and pretty.
I'm sipping what must be my thousandth cup of office coffee when my eyes start to blur and I decide its time to take a break.
I lean back in my chair and watch the people swarming around me. A dead agent is a big deal, and mixed in with a notorious serial killer, it can launch an investigation into a frenzy. So as the day slowly turns to night, I attempt to relax my aching muscles and watch them scurry around like ants.
I'm not even aware at first of the thoughts creeping up on me, and I desperately try to distract myself as images flash through my mind;
The dark hospital room I left only a day ago with that never ending beep looming over Hardy;
Focus on the agents, running back and forth.
The eerie, identical, blank faces of Carroll's fucking freak followers as they plan their new book;
Focus on the case file, work through it.
Sewn eyes of three beautiful women that have been starring incessantly, tauntingly, back at me out of crime photos for hours;
Focus on coffee, you need coffee.
The sucking, sinking feeling that Carroll will never actually die, that he will always return like some twisted real-life Dracula, and could be just around any corner to drag me back to that hellish night I had to fight in his twisted game, or when I had to practically plead Hardy with my eyes to keep me alive while I sat, (useless again!) tied up in that damn basement.
Focus!
With huge effort, I take several deep breaths and try to push everything from my mind, but soon they begin mix together, boiling within me until they simmer down to one, depressing realization.
I have no idea what I'm doing.
With an immense surge of emotion, I desperately wish Ryan was with me. He would know exactly what to do now, which lead to follow, which orders to ignore. I have somehow maneuvered myself into the top position of a case way out of my league and have no fucking idea how to continue. I felt like a fake when I was forced to give those assigned to the case orders, leads to explore that I would have felt wildly more comfortable following up on my own. I tried to keep my demeanor indifferent, like Hardy or even god-forbid Perry, but inside I was a mess. I wasn't surprised at all that all of my ideas came up as dead ends. Hours ago I abandoned the pointless and unhelpful updates cheerful junior agents were constantly shoving at me, their faces stiff with fake smiles as they informed me of failure after failure. Eventually I ran out of even bad ideas, and they slowly began to rejoin the larger investigation searching for Joe Carroll, but occasionally I catch them glancing back across the room at me with pitying looks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing loudly as I attempt to force myself to remain outwardly calm. Turner enters the room and makes a straight line for me, and I'm glad for the interruption until I see his face.
"Bad news Mike. They found another victim." I clench my teeth and follow him out to the car.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
She's hanging from her wrists, tied to the chimney of an unassuming brick row house on a street corner. All the streetlights in the surrounding area have been smashed, and the glass crunches beneath my feet as I lean back against the cold metal. The bright crime scene lights over compensate the darkness, ominously lighting the limp form, as the trademark white nightgown rustles in the growing breeze. Even from a distance I can see the death mask, the grinning sewn mouth laughing at me from across the street. Turner comes up behind me with Perry and another agent who looks at me as if he's thrilled to not be in my shoes. I take a slow breath.
"It's the Baltimore Poe museum," I say to them, pointing at the row house. "He's choosing locations that are connected to Poe, even if his inspiration comes from the Dracula novels, as a nod to his idol Carroll."
"We're assuming this isn't Carroll himself?" Perry asks.
"Joe Carroll does very little killing himself these days," I say, watching the firemen work, "often leaving it to his followers, his 'friends.' He convinces them to carry out his specific wishes while allowing them to follow their own path and use artistic license." I am depressed by the detached sound my voice has, but push on. "In the previous investigation this was translated as their own 'chapters,' each follower having free reign as long as he or she completed a certain task that Carroll required. They were pretty closely related to the works of Edgar Allen Poe, as you know, but I think we are seeing a break from that pattern. A loosening of rigidity."
I pause as we watch the body being lowered to the ground. I don't want to look at it, so I cover by glancing at Turner for encouragement, but his face is like a stone. I continue.
"Still, there are traces of Poe and of Carroll in this case. The eyes, the locations, and the fact that all the victims are young, beautiful women."
"Is it a close enough match that we may be looking at his most fanatic follower, Emma?" Turner asks, but I shake my head.
"Doubtful," I say, fishing a notepad out of his pocket, "the witness that called it in was walking his dog and saw a young black male hoisting her up there and fleeing the scene." I point behind us to an older man clutching a dog leash and speaking with police officers.
"When was this?" Perry asks.
"Around dusk, probably 5 pm." I look up quickly and see the expression on their faces and shrug. "He thought it was some kind of disturbing local art, so he didn't call it in until he saw Sheppard's murder on the news." I flip it closed and turn my attention back to the bright lights.
Perry clears his throat, glancing over at the police barricade where the media cameras are doubling every minute.
"Alright, let's go see what we're working with here." He says, walking purposefully across the street to the scene.
She's smaller than the other two, and thick brown hair thankfully covers her face hiding the scars I could see from across the street. The crime scene technicians gently roll her, trying to fit her into the body bag, and I watch her limbs move lifelessly. My mind flashes to the hospital in New York and to Hardy, but I instantly try to wipe the comparison from my thoughts. I'm annoyed as I feel my throat constrict and I'm about to turn away to get a grip on myself when I catch a glimpse of something shining out from beneath the collar of the victim's white gown.
I reach out a hand to stop them from zipping up the bag, calling out for a pair of gloves. Carefully reaching under the collar, I feel something metal pinned, and slowly ease it out. Its oblong, an oval of cheap silver metal, and there are spatters of blood on it. I turn it over, wiping it clean to look at the front.
It reads, 'my name is Denise: Ask me how I can help.'
I almost drop it in surprise, pulling my hand back like it has bitten me. Everything seems to slow to a halt, as with great care, I cautiously bring my hand to the victim's head and move the cascading brown hair out of her face.
The eyes are criss-crossed shut by thick black yarn, bloated and discolored from pooling blood and the mouth has been twisted into an elaborate grin, pulled tight to the edges of her face by the same stitching, but I instantly recognize her face as my heart skitters to a halt.
The barista. From the coffee shop last night.
My hand recoils and I push myself away from the body, tripping over my own feet as I scramble backwards. My heart is pounding now and I can't seem to think straight.
It doesn't make sense.
I suddenly feel claustrophobic surrounded by so many people and I brush my way violently past Turner and Perry, searching for some air.
Struggling to keep my breathing normal, I lean against a lamp post. An agent runs after me, forcing the name tag out of my hand and into an evidence bag, but I don't even look at him. My thoughts bounce in my head, fuzzy and unclear and my head spins. Suddenly an one jumps out from the rest and takes me over until I can't think about anything else.
I shout an excuse at Perry and jump into the car Turner brought to the scene, ripping down the streets of Baltimore back to the station. I try not to run down the scattering officers as I tear through the halls to my desk and frantically search through the case file.
I know what I'm looking for, and I know it's a long shot. I pray that I'm wrong.
Finally I find right paper, containing the personal information of the second victim. I scan furiously down the page, searching, until I see it. It glares out like a spot light at me, and I drop the paper in disbelief.
In high school I had known a Taneesha, but her last name wasn't Taylor. In my hours of research I had been focusing on the wrong things, looking for a connection in the wrong place. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that Taylor might be her married name, and there on the paper is the proof I have been dreading.
Taneesha Taylor was originally Taneesha Carlton-Springer.
The name I knew her by in high school.
It can't be a coincidence.
I'm the connection.
Phew! I know there was a lot of condensced medical information in this one, please tell me if it's too much. I hope it was enjoyable and I'll see you all next week!