The Memory Killer - J. Kerley A.

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ID’d via Missing Persons at Miami-Dade PD. Last sighting was at a Miami Beach bar. He didn’t come to work the next day.”

      “When’d he disappear?”

      “Ten days ago. There’s something else I wanted to show you. Take a look at his back.”

      We gently rolled Dale Kemp over. I saw bruises and scratches and an odd pattern between his shoulder blades: a pair of coupled circles etched into the skin, as if a tenpenny nail had been drawn across his flesh hard enough to welt, but not break, the skin. Two vertical lines fell below, the tops of the lines touching the ovoids. A horizontal line fell between the verticals.

      “A figure eight,” I said. “On top of some lines.”

      “Or, looking from below …”

      “Yeah,” I nodded. “A freaking infinity symbol.”

      We rolled him back. I looked between the kid and the readings on the monitor. “He’ll always be like this?” I asked. “It’s permanent?”

      “There aren’t a lot of field trials to draw from, as you’d expect.” She nodded at an array of prepared syringes on the bedside table. “The robinia inhibits protein synthesis, so we’ve concocted a treatment to enhance reactions. It also contains physostigmine, an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor.”

      “Uh …”

      “Sorry. The first to reduce toxic effects of the black locust, the second helps reduce the hallucinations.”

      I found it odd Morningstar used the word we’re and us, as if Kemp were her patient. The only course recommended for Morningstar’s standard “patients” was burial or cremation.

      “Where could you get these plants, Doc?” I asked.

      “Jimson weed grows wild across the country. Black locust grows in most states east of the Mississippi.”

      I made a pouring motion. “What … someone just dumped twigs and leaves into a blender and made this stuff?”

      “The active chemicals were likely extracted from the plant sources and concentrated. That would take a knowledge of chemistry. But probably basic.”

      “As basic as jurisdictions?” I said, growing puzzled by Morningstar’s request that I be here. A rape, though horrific, was not reason to call me, the FCLE’s specialist in psychotics, sociopaths and other mental melt-downs.

      “Jurisdictions?” she said.

      “You said Kemp was found by Miami-Dade cops, was in their Missings file. Why did you call me, Doctor?”

      Morningstar walked to the window and gazed down on the parking lot, forlorn in its dawn emptiness. Not only was I uncertain why I was here, I was also puzzled at her involvement. When she had solved the toxicology problem, her work was over, time to return to the dead. She seemed more like an attending physician than a pathologist.

      Morningstar turned back to me. “I, uh … it’s not a typical case, is it, Detective? The combination of substances seems so calculated and cold that it feels … evil.”

      Another anomaly. Evil was not a word normally used in the clinical halls of Morningstar’s pathology department. Had the bizarre methodology of the case unsettled the usually imperturbable pathologist?

      “So you’d prefer the FCLE to investigate? Me in particular?”

      “It’s your world, right, Detective? Who else but a psychopath might, uh …”

      Words failed and she stared at the body motionless amidst the tubes and wires, his thoughts turned to nightmares and even the nightmares burned away, perhaps forever, by a combination of toxins you might find in your own backyard.

      “Who else but a psychopath might turn common plants into Satan’s private date-rape drug?” I said.

      Morningstar nodded. “I figured you’d have the right words.”

       4

      “You want to grab a case from Miami-Dade?” Roy McDermott said from behind his broad desk, patting down the straw-hued cowlick that immediately bounded back in defiance. “What? We don’t have enough cases of our own?” Outside his twenty-third-story window the Miami skyline was a study in muscular architecture. The FCLE was in the downtown Clark Center, and was the state’s top investigative agency, usually summoned when special expertise was needed. We stayed busy.

      “Doc Morningstar thinks it’s the way to go.”

      “Correct me if I’m wrong, partner, but she’s a pathologist, not an investigative professional.”

      “We can do it, right? Assert jurisdiction?”

      Roy nodded reluctantly. “We’re state, they’re local. But it’s basically a missing-persons case that’ll probably get filed as a sex crime. I don’t see the reason, Carson. It’s not like we’re begging for work.”

      My phone rang and I checked the caller: Morningstar. I made notes as she detailed her latest findings.

      “That was the good Doc herself,” I said when we’d finished.

      Roy clapped his hands in mock delight. “Goodie. Does she have any more cases to add to our list?”

      “She has a newly isolated agent in the tox combo. Something called raphides. Given the plant-based nature of the other toxins, Morningstar thinks it came from dieffenbachia.”

      “The houseplant? I used to have one in my office until it died. Probably had something to do with stubbing out cigars in the pot.”

      “Dieffenbachia is also called dumb cane. Seems the raphides cause paralysis of the vocal cords.”

      Roy spun to study the skyline. “So the perp drops this nastiness in a drink. The black locust makes the target head home with cramps and muscle weakness, the datura makes him hallucinate like Timothy Leary squared, and this last stuff …”

      “Makes it impossible to call for help,” I said.

      Roy turned back to his desk and picked up the phone.

      “You’re tight with Vince Delmara, right?”

      I nodded. Vince was a senior investigator with the Miami-Dade County Police Department. We’d worked together on my first case in Florida last year, and I’d found Delmara a first-rate detective, old school, the kind to visit a crime scene just to sniff the air. We’d hit it off from the git-go.

      “Good,” Roy said. “Let Vince schmooze you through the transfer and it’ll go easy.”

      “You think?”

      He grinned. “Unless some honcho has a burr under his saddle, they’ll be delighted to pass the potato to us.”

      My partner in most operations was Ziggy Gershwin. I gave him a call and was outside his Little Havana apartment minutes later, waiting until a slender man with coal-black hair pushed from the door, jamming a scarlet shirt into tan chinos, his cream jacket hanging across his shoulder, a rolled tortilla in his mouth like a cigar. An ancient woman was walking a tan puff of dog down the sidewalk and Gershwin’s cordovan boat shoes leapt over the bewildered canine, earning an icy glare from the woman. I filled him in as I drove, as much as I knew.

      “Oy caramba, Big Ryde,” Gershwin said as he buttoned his cuffs. “That’s some crazy cocktail.”

      A few months back Ziggy Gershwin would have been wearing threadbare jeans, a T-shirt advertising a beer brand, and orange skate shoes, but becoming an active agent in the FCLE had upped his fashion game. The product of a Jewish father and Cuban mother, his full name was Ignacio Ruben Manolo Gershwin, and he’d been Iggy as a child. But a teacher had started calling the hyperactive, darting kid Ziggy,

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