Wagner looked around the corridor, and then his eyes darted around the aluminum frames holding the glass in place. “Is it contained?”
“Yes.”
Wagner turned back to view the stricken scientists, who were desperately pleading for help. “What can be done for them?”
“Nothing. They will slowly die.”
Wagner stepped closer to the glass, giving its frame one last look as if to be sure it was safe. The thick glass blocked the three scientists’ screams of despair and agony. One had dropped to his knees and stared at Wagner, his arm outstretched as if he were reaching for a lifeline. He wouldn’t be getting one.
Wagner was mesmerized. He had to watch.
His mind wandered back to his days as a child. One might say it started out innocently enough. The curious undertakings of a young boy. Only, most who encountered Wagner didn’t know the blood that coursed through his veins. The history of his grandfather and what he’d been capable of had been hidden from their acquaintances outside of Odessa.
Was it possible to pass along a genetic trait that gradually turned an innocent child into a sadistic killer?
His parents always encouraged their only son to play outdoors. He’d built his first tree fort all by himself, pilfering lumber from nearby construction sites. When he was alone, he’d capture insects and play with them. However, Daniel Wagner’s form of play was different from the other kids’.
He’d pull a wing off a dragonfly and watch as the bug tried in vain to escape. Soon, insects weren’t interesting enough, so he preyed on other winged creatures like sparrows he’d captured using mesh netting he’d thrown over them. Broken legs, clipped wings, and other forms of mutilation intrigued him.
Until it didn’t.
He caught mice and squirrels in traps. He’d lure cats from nearby homes or racoons out of the woods with a tasty portion of tuna snuggled into animal traps he’d found near a neighbor’s garbage cans.
He truly enjoyed torturing and experimenting on small mammals because they were vocal about their pain. He thrived on their suffering. When most sane human beings would have nightmares at the dying animals’ squeals, Wagner imagined what some other types of creatures might sound like in similar circumstances.
As he grew older, his proclivities for torturing animals didn’t change. They only became more sophisticated. As he grew old enough to help his father around their farm in Argentina, Wagner was given access to the chemicals necessary to operate the equipment and control weeds or vermin. In other words, a variety of poisons.
He returned to his favorite victims—small mammals. Instead of using his father’s tools to maim and observe, he used the chemicals to poison. He’d mentally record how a cat would react to ingesting rat poison, somehow considering it to be karma for the reign of terror the cats inflicted upon the field mice.
Dogs were untouchable, however. Never dogs. He loved dogs.
He didn’t love blue-eyed, fair-skinned Emilia Havarti, the nearby farmer’s daughter who showed no interest in him although he was clearly enamored with her. Emilia had a boyfriend, a local Argentina kid named Andrés Fernandez. That just wouldn’t do as far as Wagner was concerned.
His first inclination was to test the poisonous pesticides out on Emilia. But, to the adolescent young boy who was finding his sexuality, that would be a waste of a valuable resource. You see, he’d learned her habits. He knew when she woke up. When she got ready for bed. When she showered.
He’d used his experience of hanging around local construction sites, climbing trees, and moving with the swift quiet of a deer to practice his surveillance skills. The inhabitants of the Havartis’ remote residence didn’t concern themselves with privacy or modesty. Emilia learned from her mother there was no need to cover themselves when in the confines of their home. It was their safe place.
Except it had become Wagner’s private viewing room.
No. Emilia Havarti and her family would always be untouchable, like Wagner’s beloved dogs, because they were a source of pleasure for him. But he would not tolerate her hanging out with the local Argentinian boy. That was a big no bueno.
With an intense resolve and sense of purpose, Wagner befriended Andrés. He showed him how to play in the woods. He even introduced him to his tree fort, which had expanded and become more complex over the years. Wagner introduced his new pal to some of the goodies out of his father’s liquor cabinet, including Malort, a Swedish liquor the elder Wagner choked down from time to time. Malort, which literally meant moth herb, was the Swedish word for wormwood. The bitter liquor tasted like ass in young Daniel’s humble opinion. However, it was potent, and a buzz could be easily achieved.
Wagner had experience with a pesticide his father had used in their apple orchard. As he plotted the demise of Andrés Fernandez, he recalled the singsong warning his father had taught him when he was first introduced to the contents of the chemical shed. Following the old-school rhyme “A is for Apple,” his father had taught him this little ditty:
A is for arsenate, lead if you please. Protector of apples against archenemies.
Andrés Fernandez was certainly an archenemy, and therefore he’d be fed a healthy dose of the pesticide made of an arsenic-laden lead-arsenate compound.
After Andrés acquired a taste for the Malort, Wagner began to gradually mix in the arsenic compound to feed the boy. Over a period of several days, poor little Andrés got an upset tummy coupled with cramps and diarrhea. His parents took him out of school, and one day, the last day, they went off to work after their son assured them he’d be fine. Besides, he knew his friend Daniel would stop by to check in on him since he was homeschooled and would be around all day.
Daniel had just the thing to
