“He got weak, started foaming at the mouth, vomited, seized, and that was it. Maybe half a minute start to finish.”
She said, “Except for the half minute I’d say potassium cyanide, which usually takes a couple of minutes. It’s similar to what the Nazis used. Also Tamil, for bombers in Sri Lanka and various other fanatics. I suppose itcouldbe KCN kicked up by a chemical accelerator. An antidepressant would do.”
“Could we be talking literal Nazi stuff saved from back then?”
“With Chinese lettering? Doubtful. Their factories make all kinds of illegal products. Including most of our fentanyl.”
“Any legit uses?”
“Here, only industrial purposes. Photography, mining, fertilizer manufacture. And for those you’d use liquid, not pills. In the Wild East, who knows? Hold on…herewe go. I’m going to send you a picture from an alleged assisted suicide website and you’ll say, hey, that’s the one.”
Seconds later, an image.
He saved. “Hey, that’s the one. Why alleged?”
“It’s obviously a commercial site aimed at exploiting depressed people. They also sell a clone of Nembutal to ensure that death is as quick and painless as possible.”
“You get this on the dark web?”
“No, it’s out in the open. Was the decedent chronically depressed?”
“No idea. Met him for the first time today.”
“I see…well, in China anything goes, they put garbage in baby formula. It could be a rat poison cocktail turbocharged by ephedra or meth or cloned Ritalin. Get him here and I’ll try to find out. How are you doing, otherwise? I heard about what happened—the decapitation.”
“Word spreads.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “No secrets, the world spins faster and faster.”
—
A couple of techs began doing their thing and a sixtyish, crew-cut crime scene investigator named Donald Hartfield who had to be retired law enforcement showed up moments later. “Obviously don’t need me for an I.D., sir, but I still have to make notes for the file. Anything you want to tell me?”
Milo said, “Whatever you need.”
Hartfield said, “This is related to that limo thing, right? George Arredondo worked that, said it was horrific.”
“George spoke the truth.”
“Guess like breeds like. He says he still dreams about it.”
—
Milo, Reed, and I left the scene and walked to the Impala. Milo said, “Come with me, Moses, keep it simple.”
He got behind the wheel, I sat up front, and Reed took the back. Like a suspect. He didn’t seem to mind. Impressively calm, overall. If you didn’t notice his hands crabbed above the tight denim sheathing his knees.
Traffic had eased up a bit and twenty minutes later we were halfway to the gallery when Marc Coolidge called in.
“Man, you are all over the news.”
“Really. Didn’t see any reporters.”
“Who needs reporters?” said Coolidge. “Joe Blow has a cellphone with a camera, the media’s got their feed. Sounds like a mess.”
“Understatement. We’re on our way to the gallery. You free?”
“Just got free. What can I do?”
