‘Unlikely to get any poison into his food in a public facility,’ Rhyme said.
‘I thought that too. But he said something else.’
‘What was that?’ Sachs asked.
‘He said your name, Amelia. And then “coffee”. Or “the coffee”. Does that mean anything?’
‘Coffee.’ Sachs grimaced. ‘It sure does. At the Belvedere scene there was a fireman walking around with cartons of coffee. He offered some to both of us. Lon took one. I didn’t.’
‘Fireman?’ Rhyme asked.
‘No,’ Sachs said grimly. ‘It was Eleven-Five, wearing a fireman’s uniform. Goddamn it! He was right in front of us. Of course that’s who it was. I remember he was wearing gloves when he passed out the coffee. Jesus. He was two feet away from me. And had a bio mask on. Naturally.’
‘Excuse me.’ A voice behind them.
The doctor was a slight East Indian with a powdery complexion and busy fingers. He blinked when he noted the pistol on Sachs’s right hip then relaxed, seeing the gold shield on the left. Rhyme’s wheelchair received a fast, uninterested glance.
‘Mrs Sellitto?’
Rachel stepped forward. ‘It’s Parker. Ms. I’m Lon’s partner.’
‘I’m Shree Harandi. The chief toxicologist here.’
‘How is he? Please?’
‘Yes, well, he is stable. But his condition is not good, I must tell you. The substance he ingested was arsenic.’
Rachel’s face filled with dismay. Sachs put her arm around the woman.
Arsenic was an element, a metalloid, which meant it had characteristics of metals and non-metals, like antimony and boron. And it was, of course, extremely toxic. Rhyme reflected that the unsub had moved beyond plant-based toxins to a different category altogether — elemental poisons were no more dangerous but they were easier to come by since they had commercial uses and could simply be purchased in lethal strengths; you didn’t need to extract and concentrate them.
‘I see there are police here.’ Now he glanced at the wheelchair with more understanding. ‘Ah, I’ve heard about you. You are Mr Rhymes.’
‘Rhyme.’
‘And I know Mr Sellitto is a police officer too. You gave me the information about the possible poisons?’
‘That’s right,’ Sachs said.
‘Thank you for that but we determined arsenic quickly. Now, I must tell you. His condition is critical. The dose of the substance was high. The organs affected are the lungs, kidneys, liver and skin and he’s already had changes in fingernail pigmentation known as leukonychia striata. That is not a good sign.’
‘Inorganic arsenite?’ Rhyme asked.
‘Yes.’
Arsenic (III) is the most dangerous of all types of the toxin. Rhyme was quite familiar with the toxin. He’d run two cases in which it had been used as a murder weapon — in both cases spouses (one husband, one wife) had dispatched their partners with the substance.
Three other cases he’d run of suspected arsenic poisoning had turned out to be accidental. The toxin occurs naturally in groundwater, particularly where fracking — high-pressure geologic fracturing to extract oil and gas — has occurred.
In fact, throughout history, for every intentional victim of arsenic poisoning — like Francesco I de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany — there were many more accidental victims: Napoleon Bonaparte, possibly done in by the wallpaper of the rooms to which he’d been exiled on St Helena; Simón Bolívar (the water in South America); and the American ambassador to Italy in the 1950s (flaking paint in her residence). It was also possible that the madness of King George was due to the metalloid.
‘Can we see him?’ Sachs asked.
‘I’m afraid not. He’s unconscious. But a nurse will call you when he comes to.’
Rhyme noted and, for Rachel’s sake, appreciated the conjunction.
When, not if.
The doctor shook hands. ‘You believe someone actually did this intentionally?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, my.’
His mobile rang and without a word he turned away to answer.
CHAPTER 44
In October 1818 an attractive woman with an angular face and piercing eyes died at the age of thirty-four in Spencer County, Indiana.
There is some debate as to what was the cause of Nancy Lincoln’s death — possibly tuberculosis or cancer but the general consensus is that she was a victim of milk sickness, which claimed thousands of lives in the nineteenth century. Although the actual cause can’t be pinpointed, one fact about Nancy’s death is well documented: her nine-year-old son, Abraham, the future president of the United States, helped his father build the woman’s coffin.
Milk sickness perplexed medical professionals for years, until it was finally discovered that the cause was tremetol, a highly toxic alcohol, which made its way into a cow’s milk after the animal had grazed on white snakeroot.
This plant is a nondescript, workaday herb that is hardly an aesthetic contribution to any garden, and accordingly Billy Haven didn’t enjoy the plant as a subject to sketch. But he loved its toxic properties.
When ingested, tremetol causes the victim to suffer excruciating abdominal pain, intense nausea and thirst, uncontrollable tremors and explosive vomiting.
Even a small dosage can result in death.
Head down, wearing a short-brimmed brown fedora — very hipster — and long black raincoat, Billy was making his way through Central Park, the west side. In his gloved hand was a briefcase. He was walking south and had made a serious trek from Harlem, but he wanted to avoid the CCTV cameras in the subway, even if his appearance was different from what the Underground Man had worn during the prior attacks.
Yes, tremetol was his weapon but the pending attack wouldn’t involve tattooing, so he’d left his machine back at his workshop near Canal. Today the circumstances dictated a different means of poisoning. But one that could be just as satisfying.
Billy was enjoying a good mood. Oh, with the earlier attacks, he’d felt satisfaction, sure, buzzing the poison into the victims, getting the bloodline just right, angling the careful serifs of the Old English letters.
A Billy Mod …
But that was good in the same way you felt good doing your job or completing chores around the house.
What he was about to do now was a whole different level of good.
Billy slipped out of the park and examined the streets carefully, uptown and cross, noting no one looking at him with suspicion. No police on patrol. He continued his journey south toward his target.
Yes, this attack would be different.
For one thing, there was no message to send. He’d simply deliver the tremetol. No scars, no tats, no mods.
Also, he was not interested in killing the victim. That death would ultimately be detrimental to the Modification. No, he was going to wield the poison to debilitate.
Though it would be a very different life that his target would live in the future; perhaps the most disturbing symptoms of non-lethal white snakeroot poisoning were delirium and dementia. The man he was going to poison in a few moments would stay alive but become a raving madman for a long, long time.
Billy nonetheless had one regret: that his victim would be incapable of feeling the searing, unbearable nausea and gut pain that white snakeroot’s toxin caused. Lincoln Rhyme was numb to sensation below his neck. The vomiting, tremors and other symptoms would be unpleasant but not as horrific as in a person who had a fully functioning nervous system.
Billy now turned west down a cross street and entered a brightly lit Chinese restaurant, which was filled with the smells of garlic and hot oil. He made his way to the restroom, where, in a stall, he lost the hat and overcoat and dressed in coveralls.