“Your door was closed,” Peabody told her, “so I got going on this. I’ve got the time line. And the list of vics. I’ll get ID photos and crime scene printed out.”
“Already done.”
“Oh.” For a second, Peabody look mildly put out. “Okay, I’ll match them up. They lost another. One of the ones in surgery didn’t make it. One looks good, another’s holding, but they don’t give her much of a shot. They’re working on the one they had in pre-op when you were there. The one in the coma’s still out. But I was able to talk to the one guy. Dennis Sherman. He lost an eye. He works at Copley Dynamics. That’s the same building, different floor from where CiCi Way works.”
“Small world,” Eve murmured.
“Big city, full of tight districts and neighborhoods. Yeah, small world.”
“I bet he used that bar a lot.”
“You win,” Peabody confirmed. “It’s his regular place. Tonight, he’d come in after work with a couple coworkers. They’d already left, and he was hanging a little longer, talking to the bartender. He’s a regular so they know each other, talk sports a lot. And one minute, the best he remembers, they’re bullshitting about post-season play, then next, the bartender slams a bottle down, and jabs the shard in Sherman’s cheek. He didn’t remember a hell of a lot after that, but I got it on record. He talked about the place filling up with water, and sharks everywhere, circling him, drawn to the blood from his face. How he had to beat them off, stab at them.”
“Did you get the names of the coworkers?”
“Yes, sir. I got all I could, but they wouldn’t let me talk to him long. The one who didn’t make it? The bartender.” She glanced at Roarke. “Sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Let’s get these stills up, and I want to be able to pull any I’ve printed off the disc and on screen.”
“I’ll see to that,” Roarke told her.
“Did you get anything from Morris?” Peabody asked as she and Eve finished with the boards.
“They breathed in a nasty stew of psychotic drugs and illegals.”
Peabody’s hands stilled. “It was in the air?”
“That, and some contact, some trace on the skin. We don’t have all the details. The lab’s on it. That’s the next stop when we’re done here.”
It was a long process, pinning the faces to the names, papering the board with scenes of blood and death. She’d nearly finished when the door opened.
And she came to attention for her commander.
“Sir. We’re nearly finished setting up.”
“Lieutenant. Your report was brief, but impactful.”
“I wanted to get you as much salient data as quickly as possible. We still have—”
He held up a hand, silenced her, then moved to the boards.
She saw the tension in his stance, a big man with a powerful build. And read the controlled stress on his wide, dark face. Silver threaded though his close-cropped hair. As he scanned the boards, the lines bracketing his mouth seemed to dig deeper.
Every inch of Commander Jack Whitney said command, and every inch carried the weight of it.
“This, all this in under fifteen minutes?”
“Closer to twelve, sir. Yes.”
“Eighty-two confirmed dead.”
“Eighty-three. Another died after surgery, Commander.”
He continued to study the board in silence as Mira came in. Perfectly groomed in a suit of quiet blue, she crossed the room to join Whitney at the board.
“Thank you for coming in, Doctor Mira.”
Mira only shook her head. “I read your brief, preliminary report.” She shifted her gaze to Eve. “I appreciate you calling me in.”
They began to filter into the room now. Feeney, McNab, and Detective Callendar from EDD; Trueheart, Baxter, and the rest. Each one scanned the board before taking a seat. For once a room full of cops remained almost silent.
“Shortly after seventeen-thirty this evening eighty-nine people were infected with an airborne substance we must believe was deliberately released inside On the Rocks, a bar on the Lower West Side. Data and witness reports give us a time line for the length of the incident. It lasted from approximately seventeen-thirty-three to approximately seventeen-forty-five—the last TOD, on scene, of any victim so far processed.”
Cops did the math, and there were murmurs as the narrow window of time made its impact.
“As of now we have no confirmation on when the substance was released,” Eve continued. “We know that this substance caused those eighty-nine people to hallucinate; it drove them to murderously violent behavior. Under its influence these eighty-nine people attacked each other. Eighty-three of those people are dead. Of the six survivors, we have been able to interview three. All their statements bear certain similarities. A sudden headache followed by extreme delusion. Preliminary reports from the medical examiner conclude this substance was most probably inhaled.”
She ran through the mix, using street names, watched the faces of her cops darken.
“Most of you have seen the result of that exposure, on scene. But to keep it in the forefront. Screen One on, display in turn crime scene stills one through eight.”
She waited and she watched as each still flashed on, held, flashed to the next.
“EDD has spliced together some transmissions from pocket ’links recovered on scene. Captain Feeney?”
He puffed out his cheeks, pushed to his feet. “Some of the vics were on their ’links prior to exposure. We got eleven ’links with some form of transmission, and seven of those continuing transmission during the incident. In all but two of those cases, the other party had already disconnected or the transmission went straight to voice mail. One transmission was made to Freeport, and we’ve contacted the other party to request a copy of the transmission from their end. As the other party was stoned out of his mind during the transmission and after, we’re currently working with the local Freeport PD to obtain. The other was made to an individual in Brooklyn. Detective Callendar was dispatched to speak with the individual, and has just obtained the ’link.”
He glanced at her.
Callendar, in tight red skin-pants and a scooped yellow shirt that showed off her considerable assets, shifted in her seat. “Schultz, Jacob J., age twenty-four. Single. He was cooperative, and also, if not stoned, considerably under the influence. He believed the transmission, which he replayed for me at his residence, was a practical joke played by his friend. I did not disabuse him of that belief.”
She shifted again so her black hair, done in a mushroom cloud of curls, bounced. “He was toasted, Lieutenant. You’d have to be seriously toasted to hear and see what’s on that ’link and think it was somebody’s idea of a big yuck.”
“Can you put it up?”
She nodded at Eve, rose. “We made a copy. The ’link’s sealed and logged.” Moving to the computer, she slid the disc in. “On screen, Lieutenant?”
“On screen.”
“Vic on screen is Lance Abrams, age twenty-four. Ah, he’s number twenty-nine.”
Callendar stepped back as the young, good-looking face came on screen.
“Yo, Jake! ’S on?”
“Decomp time. Might’ve had a half day, but the fucker was a day and a half. Brew’s going down easy.”
“I hear that. Stopped off for a couple, and I got a line on that sweet blonde I told you about.”
“Big Jugs? In your wet dreams, jerkoff.”
“I’m telling you, and she’s got a friend. How about it? I said we’d hit a couple of clubs, get some chow. She busted with her boyfriend, man, and she’s prime for it.”
There was a long slurping gulp as, Eve assumed, beer went down.
“You want me to come all the way in so you can get laid?”
“She’s got a friend.”
“How big are her tits?”
