Those were the immediate threats. More indirect but no less dangerous were the large number of hazardous chemicals that could be present: solvents like acetone, ether, methanol, benzene, toluene, isopropanol; acetic, sulfuric, or hydriodic acid; amm onia, phosphine, or Freon gas; and metals like mercuric chloride, lithium, red phosphorous, metallic sodium, or potassium. The last two were especially dangerous-usually stored in kerosene, either one would react explosively when exposed to air or water.
Because of this, police responding to reports of a meth lab approached it with extreme caution. The large van trundling up the dirt track toward Catherine and Greg didn’t stop when it reached their position, but instead kept going to within fifty yards of the barn itself, where it opened and disgorged a team of six officers in hazmat suits, body armor, and full-face respirators. There was nothing but gentle rolling hills on either side of the structure and no trees at all. If the people inside tried to run, there was no place to run to.
The men quickly took positions around the building. Once they were in place, the officer in charge raised a bullhorn to his mouth: “ATTENTION! THIS IS THE LAS VEGAS POLICE DEPARTMENT. YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO EXIT THE BUILDING. COME OUTSIDE WITH YOUR HANDS CLEARLY VISIBLE AND LAY FACEDOWN ON THE GROUND.”
“Think they’ll put up a fight?” Greg asked.
“Depends on how stupid they are,” said Catherine.
The minute ticked by. There was no response.
“Might not be anyone home,” Greg murmured.
“ Lot of cooks do leave during the last forty-eight hours of the process.”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s when the whole thing is most likely to go boom.”
The officer in charge gave the signal, and his men started to move in, very slowly, with weapons drawn. They looked like futuristic storm troopers advancing on the site of a concealed UFO.
“I hate this part,” said Catherine.
“I know. No telling what’s in there…”
8
RILEY AND NICK LOOKED at Grissom expectantly. Grissom, on the other side of the light table, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
“You okay, boss?” asked Nick.
“Fine. Just waiting for the migraine medication to kick in.”
“Hey, if you’ve got a migraine-” Nick began, but Grissom cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“No, Nick, really. Migraines are always worse if you delay too long before treatment; I think I caught this one in time.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the light table and flipped through them. “Anyway, this can’t wait.”
“I heard about Doctor Robbins,” said Riley. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes. He’s still in considerable pain, but his heart rate’s stabilized. However, we can’t ignore the consequences of his being attacked.”
“What are we go i n g to do, fumigate the morgue?” asked Riley.
“The morgue isn’t the problem. This is the second insect-themed homicide within days; the planning, execution, and choice of victims suggest someone who’s more interested in the act itself than who he kills.”
Nick frowned. “Wait. You think our guy’s a serial? One whose weapon of choice has six legs?”
“Eight in the case of the spider. Sixty to sixty-two for the millipedes-depending on sex.”
Riley nodded. “Are we still looking at the entomologists as our prime suspects?”
“They would seem to be the most likely, yes. Neither Roberto Quadros nor Nathan Vanderhoff has an alibi for the Harribold murder.”
“Serial killers usually escalate,” said Nick. “Two murders in less than a week? He’s already off and running.”
“True,” said Grissom. “And both killings-while different in circumstan ce and execution-required a fair bit of preparation. Anyone who goes to that much trouble isn’t going to be satisfied with only two; it’s likely he has several more scenarios ready and awaiting implementation.”
“This guy doesn’t sound like any serial I’ve ever heard of,” said Riley. “He doesn’t seem to be getting any sexual satisfaction out of it, and the targets don’t seem to have anything in common. One he did up close and personal, the other at a distance and almost at random.”
“I don’t think the victim matters to him at all,” said Grissom. “Paul Fairwick was killed by a gunshot and had an insect planted in his corpse-similar to the way certain wasps will paralyze spiders and lay eggs in their bodies. Keenan Harribold was lured to a rendezvous by an online imposter posing as a romantic interest-not so different from the way the Photuris insect lures fireflies to their doom by duplicating the flashing light of a receptive female.”
“Pixels and text instead of pheromones and mating displays,” murmured Riley. “But with the same eventual effect.”
“Professor Vanderhoff already pointed out the similarity between one high school attacking another and anthills waging war. Even the graffiti left at the scene was reminiscent of chemical traces used by colony insects to mark property. I think our killer is mor e fascinated by the process and the resulting consequences than the immediate result.”
Nick crossed his arms. “So the riot at Plain Ridge High was what he was actually after, and killing Harribold was just a means to that end?”
“All serial killers express a desire for control, Nick-even Jack the Ripper’s letters to the press were a way for him to influence the behavior of the entire citizenry of London. Our… ‘Bug Killer’ is simply demonstrating a more advanced knowledge of sociology.”
“In that case,” said Riley, “why was Paul Fairwick targeted? What kind of effect was the killer trying to create?”
“Perhaps we should ask Fairwick’s employer,” said Grissom. “The queen…”
It was several long minutes before an officer walked out of the barn and waved an all-clear to them.
“Let’s suit up,” said Catherine.
Both of them slipped into hazmat suits with respirators-though they skipped the body armor-then drove up to the barn and got out.
“Nobody home,” said Sergeant Loyola. He kept his mask on, though, and so did they. “Nothing cooking, either.”
“That’s a relief. No traps?”
“Couple tripwires, nothing fancy. Give my guys a minute to finish up and you can go in.”
Greg hefted his CSI case in one hand. “Anything we should know?”
“Yeah,” said Loyola. “If your air conditioner ever gets sick and vanishes, I think I know where it crawled off to die.”
They saw what he meant when they en tered the barn. A double-wide trailer was parked along one wall, beneath what was left of the roof; the rest of the floor space was taken up by a rusting pyramid of metal and plastic that reached to the rafters.
“Wow,” said Greg. “He wasn’t kidding. There must be hundreds here-maybe even a thousand. It’s like a temple to climate control.”
“Climate catastrophe, more like. Freon’s one of the chemicals used to make meth; they must have cracked open every one of these units to get at the leftovers.”
“Tweakers plus a gazillion AC-cooled rooms equals appliance graveyard,” said Greg. “It’s kinda cool, in a nonenvironmental, highly illegal way.”
They entered the double-wide. Most of the meth labs Catherine had seen were filthy: garbage strewn on the floor, every available surface crammed with dirty or broken glassware, open containers of chemicals everywhere.
This place was different.
A bulging plastic garbage bag sat in one corner, tied shut. It was the only evidence of trash in the place; every surface was clean, from countertops to tables to floor. Containers of chemicals had been lined up in cupboards like exotic spices. The sink was freshly scrubbed.
“Damn,” s aid Greg. “This is the best-kept illegal drug facility I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah. I think I’m starting to understand why Boz Melnyk stored his urine at home; someone thought it was too unhygienic to keep around.”