Page 16 of Tough Justice

Thor insinuated his snout into her hand, as if sensing she needed a little canine support.

“You’ll do fine.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. When she glanced at where he touched her, he let his hand drop.

“It’s time.” He led the way to the podium at the front of the room and could swear the sound he heard behind him was her audible gulp.

…

The leather strap of Tori’s bag was damp where she’d been gripping it. This was like being in the devil’s den—a federal building packed with drug agents. A few women dotted the crowd, but mostly her audience was comprised of men. Huge men, most over six feet tall and carrying guns, no doubt. She felt like a munchkin in a room full of giants.

She followed “Deck,” as his friends called him, and Thor to the podium. Deck’s powerful presence made her uneasy. His dog didn’t. Having Thor nearby was comforting. Being around him reminded her of all the wonderful things she’d been missing by not having a dog in her life.

The closer they got to the podium more heads turned in their direction. I should have worn a suit. Or a coat of armor. Anything to hide behind so these federal agents wouldn’t see how nervous she was.

She’d reached out to a local veterinarian and learned that the ideal placement for a naloxone injection was the same for humans and dogs, in the meaty part of the thigh. As requested, Deck had made sure there was a table up front, one she could use to demonstrate the proper technique. Thor would be her canine subject, while Deck would be her human guinea pig.

He faced the crowd. Talking turned to loud whispers then hushed silence. The man could certainly command an audience.

After she’d set her bag behind the podium, he handed her a small black box, attached to which was a wire and a small black microphone. She hooked the box to her belt then fumbled with trembling fingers to attach the mic to her shirt.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the microphone in her hand.

Tori let out a grateful breath. “Please.” She handed him the mic, and as he expertly clipped it to the collar of her shirt, one of his fingertips grazed her collarbone, sending shivers across her skin.

A sea of unsmiling faces stared back at her, many with close-cropped hair, some with long hair and tattoos. Undercover agents? That was what they always looked like in the movies.

Deck grabbed a handheld microphone from the podium. “Thank you for coming. For those who don’t know me, I’m Special Agent Adam Decker with the DEA’s Denver office and the Special Ops Task Force. Many of you know my K-9, Thor.” Thor barked, and half the audience laughed. “And this is the speaker you’ve all come to hear. Dr. Tori Sampson is a physician at the North Metro Hospital emergency room in Denver. She has extensive experience treating opioid overdose victims.”

Without reading from any notes, Decker recited her medical credentials, including the fact that she did her residency in Boston and worked at Boston General before coming back home to Colorado four years ago. He could have dug up that information from the hospital website. Or he could have checked up on her. That’s what Feds did, so apparently, he hadn’t done a thorough check.

“Four days ago, Dr. Sampson was on duty at the ER when we brought Dan Prince in. Dan suffered an acute opioid overdose during a search warrant. We believe he was exposed to a cocktail of heroin and synthetic opioids known as ‘gray death.’”

He clicked on the screen and flicked through a series of photos, each displaying a fine powder that reminded her of gray all-purpose flour or cement. “Gray death isn’t a new drug on our streets. However, the formula currently making the rounds in Denver is extremely potent. A miniscule amount can lead to an overdose, so you can imagine what it’s doing to folks who don’t have a clue that what they just bought isn’t run-of-the-mill heroin.”

Concerned murmurs spread through the crowd, as well they should.

“It’s impossible to predict what we’re up against because opioid cocktails like gray death, by their very nature, are almost never the same formula. This makes raids particularly dangerous. An accidental exposure might give you a buzz one day and kill you the next.”

“Remind me never to let Deck give an inspirational speech,” an agent in the front row who reminded Tori of a young Danny Glover grumbled. Chuckles swept over the room.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Davis,” Deck said with a grin that did funny things to Tori’s insides. Luckily, it faded back to scary intensity almost immediately. “I’ve been looking at similar cases across the country,” he continued. “It appears this current formula is similar to a drug that killed a dozen people in Pennsylvania about three years ago. Variations have also popped up in Ohio and throughout the Midwest and the South, though the numbers haven’t been quite as bad.”

He clicked to the next screen, showcasing a headline on the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer: “Killer Cocktail Kills Five More.” “The case in Pennsylvania is still open,” Deck continued. “The source of that drug was never found, no arrests made. After seven more people died, it disappeared from circulation. We can’t ignore the possibility that the same source moved out west and set up shop here. Or this could be a copycat drug made by someone else. Gray death is cheap and potent. A dealer’s dream—if they can keep their clients alive long enough to buy more, which they will. Nothing else is strong enough to give them that kind of high.”

Deck clicked to another screen showing a pile of clear plastic baggies filled with a gray, powdery-looking substance. “This is gray death we seized four days ago. The most commonly used opioids are heroin and prescription drugs, like hydrocodone, oxy, morphine, codeine, and fentanyl. Fentanyl is an end-of-life painkiller for cancer patients, but it’s also the leading cause of overdose deaths. It’s fifty times more potent than heroin and a hundred times stronger than morphine. Fentanyl is just one of the ingredients that could be present in gray death.”

The next screen showed several small gray chunks that looked like clay. “Another ingredient is carfentanil, the most dangerous opioid on the planet. It’s not even intended for human use. It’s an animal tranquilizer used for anesthetizing elephants because it’s ten thousand times stronger than morphine.”

Tori had to admit Deck was extremely well-versed on opioid facts and statistics, far beyond that of even most doctors.

“Like the drugs seized in the Pennsylvania investigation,” he continued, “DEA analysis of the baggies seized here in Denver indicates this version contains heroin, U-47700 aka ‘Pink,’ fentanyl, and carfentanil.”

Someone let out a low whistle.

“Exactly,” Deck said. “Fortunately, our gray death is slightly less toxic than the drugs seized in the Pennsylvania case, but it’s still deadly. The problem for addicts and us is that reactions vary by the individual and dose. We think Dan was exposed after he took his mask off. All it took was a few aerosolized grains to take him to the ground. A lethal dose may not even be visible to the human eye.”

“Shit,” the agent in the first row muttered, shaking his head. Similar hushed expletives came from the audience as they absorbed the dire meaning of Deck’s words.

Given Deck’s determination, it shouldn’t have surprised her that in the days since she’d seen him at the hospital, he’d been busy. Not only had he procured subpoenas for the other overdose patients’ labs, he’d also managed to get North Metro’s legal department working at light speed to turn over those reports as well. She already knew Dan Prince’s lab reports had been turned over to the DEA almost immediately, in part due to her personally walking the request form to legal.