Fatal Reaction

responsible for what and who’s going to get the credit, we’d know a lot more about the women in the back of Sarrek’s truck than we do now. It also doesn’t help matters any that the fucking FBI has a procedure for everything and a twelve-page form to go with it,” complained Blades. “I swear, they do twenty minutes’ worth of paperwork every time they use the john.”
    “So when are you going to put this guy away already?” demanded Elliott.
    “Oh, we’ll put him away. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m starting to get nostalgic for the bad old days. We could save ourselves a ton of aggravation if we just took this piece of shit in the back room and beat a confession out of him.”
    “I take it he hasn’t talked.”
    “Not except to ask for a lawyer. I’m telling you, this squirrel is one slick sociopath. They’ve got three separate interrogation teams going at him in shifts, including two from some crack FBI unit, and so far nothing. Nada. In the meantime we’re going through his driving log, trying to piece together where he’s been, and working with local law enforcement to see if we can’t make some identifications. The trouble is there may be sixty-three lines on that chart out there, but a lot of the bodies were dismembered, so it’s hard to know exactly how many victims there were. Just documenting what’s being done so that it can be used at trial is going to take six months. We have a family coming in later today from Wisconsin to see if they can ID their daughter. It’s a start, but even if we put a name up on that board we’ll still have sixty-two more blanks to fill in.”
    “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to help us out,” I said.
    “Like I was telling Elliott yesterday,” replied Blades, “I’m not sure that what happened to your friend is ever going to add up to murder, but it sure stinks to high heaven.” He opened the manila folder that lay on the table in front of him and turned to Elliott. “I made you copies of the preliminary police report and the crime-scene photos. There’s also a fax of the medical examiner’s notes and a copy of the list of items taken from the apartment and put into evidence.”
    As Elliott flipped through the photos I forced myself to concentrate on the evidence list.
    “What’s this about a plastic needle cover?” I asked Blades.
    The detective stooped to produce a cardboard box from beneath the table. Inside were individual plastic bags containing items the police had removed and tagged as evidence. He fished out one of the smaller ones and laid it in the middle of the table. Inside was the plastic sheath for the needle of a hypodermic syringe.
    “We found it under the living room couch,” he explained. “It looked to me like it must have been lying on the floor and got covered up when the couch got turned over.”
    “Did you find a syringe anywhere?” I asked.
    Blades shook his head.
    “You’ll see in the autopsy notes the pathologist indicates the deceased had a needle puncture on his arm,” said Blades.
    “Which one?” demanded Elliott.
    “On the back of the left upper arm,’’.-replied the homicide detective.
    “Which means that since the victim was right-handed, he could have conceivably given himself some kind of injection,” offered Elliott.
    “Yeah,” replied Blades, “but why would he? You don’t shoot up drugs in the back of your arm.”
    “Maybe it was something he was taking for his AIDS,” countered Elliott. “Vitamins. Anything.”
    “I think all the AIDS medications he was taking were oral,” I reported. “But it can’t hurt to ask his doctor.” Elliott turned his attention to the contents of the box. Looking over his shoulder, I didn’t see much of interest: Danny’s address book, an accordion file filled with bills and receipts, all of which Elliott already had copies.
    “The phone company just came through with a printout of Wohl’s phone records,” Blades said, pulling another piece of paper out of the folder. “We haven’t had time to run a check on the numbers, but I made you a copy anyway.”
    I took a look at the sheet Blades slid across the table in my direction. Before Danny and Stephen left for their trip to Japan there were dozens of calls every day, but the number dwindled to a trickle while they were abroad. During the forty-eight hours preceding Danny’s death there were three calls, all on the Saturday he and Stephen arrived back from