GRAVE PROGNOSIS: A NOVEL
By Daniel Kalla

Chapter Twenty One

Sandy and Trevor waited outside the international-arrival gates of the Vancouver airport. Trevor sat in a chair while Sandy tapped a copy of the Province’s Sunday edition against his leg as he paced. The front-page headline read: "At Least Three Women Poisoned at Bars—Police Have No Suspects."

"Tell me again what the punishment for murdering a reporter is," Sandy said.

"In this case it should be a small fine, but I think it’s still life without parole."

"Actually, the one I really want to kill is the person leaking all this information. If Jason Olsen happens to get killed in the crossfire, that would be an added bonus."

The newspaper article had contained much of the supposedly privileged information about the investigation. It told of the bearded suspect’s costume change prior to the third poisoning and mentioned the names of the two dead victims. Monica’s name wasn’t given, but she was described in detail, along with her rescue by a local ER physician. Some of the "facts" in the story were incorrect. For instance, the poison used was wrongly identified as cyanide. Also, the third victim was described as "thirty and married." Trevor figured that could mean the informant wasn’t one of his team members. On the other hand, he knew Olsen or the informant might have deliberately made a few mistakes to conceal the informant’s identity.

The people from the Miami Air Canada flight started to pass through the gate. Trevor and Sandy still didn’t have a picture of Kozak, so they had to stop every man who fitted his broad description. The third man Sandy approached said, "Yeah, I’m Keith Kozak." He was tall and fit with curly black hair and wore cotton pants with a light casual jacket. Confident, personable, and undeniably handsome, he looked nothing at all like the composite sketch of the suspect.

Trevor explained they were investigating a string of recent crimes and that it was alleged he knew two of the victims.

"Which two victims?" Kozak demanded.

"Why don’t we go down to the police station? We can explain it all there."

Kozak smirked. "I didn’t know real cops actually used that line. I thought it was strictly for the movies. Anyway, Detectives, I’ve been flying for ten hours. Can’t we do this tomorrow?"

Trevor shook his head. "I’m afraid not. It’s quite important."

Kozak chuckled. "Okay, boys, let’s go downtown."

They went outside and put Kozak’s bags in their car. As they drove, the photographer did most of the talking. He shared anecdotes from his recent trip to the Caribbean, telling them about a Spanish-speaking maid who misunderstood his gestures and thought he was requesting oral sex when he asked her to vacuum the room. Sandy and Trevor laughed as he described how the middle-aged woman chased him around the bed, brandishing a large mop and screaming, "¡Pervertido!"

It wasn’t until they reached the VPD building that Kozak asked again which of the victims he was supposed to have known. As they rode the elevator up to the deserted Homicide squadroom, Trevor told him about the recent poisonings. When they were seated in an interrogation room, Trevor asked, "Do you know a Sarah Evans?"

"Doesn’t ring a bell."

"How about Katie Turco?"

"Why does that name sound so familiar?" he said to himself after a moment of deliberation.

"She was a model you worked with on a campaign for a lingerie ad."

A look of recognition crossed Kozak’s face. "Oh, sure, I remember now. I did a couple of shoots with her for that Softer Touch ad campaign. She was no model, though. She was pretty enough, but totally unprofessional and a little short."

"Have you seen her recently?"

"I guess it was about three or four years ago."

"Mr. Kozak, you might not have heard, but the second victim was Monica Nordson, an ex-girlfriend of yours."

Kozak’s eyes widened and his face blanched. "She’s not dead, is she?"

"She’s fine, Mr. Kozak. She’s the only survivor of the poisonings."

"Thank God! I’m sorry for the others, but you know what I mean. She‘s really okay? Out of the hospital?"

"She’s been home for a while now. When did you last see her?"

"About two years ago."

"Mr. Kozak, in the course of our investigation, yours is the only name that‘s been connected to the first two victims. The third victim hasn’t—"

"Wait a minute! You think I’m the killer?"

"Not really. However, we still need to know where you were on the nights of the poisonings. Furthermore, you might possess information that could help us locate a suspect. Let’s start with the night of the first poisoning, Monday, March 9."

"Inspector, I don’t remember what I was doing yesterday evening, let alone six or seven weeks ago." He reached for a small knapsack near the table, extracted his day planner, and leafed through it. "March 9? I was in Vancouver. I was either at home or at my girlfriend’s place."

Trevor wrote the name of Kozak’s girlfriend in his notebook. "Okay, how about Tuesday, April 6?"

"That’s easy. I was in the Caribbean." He looked at his day planner. "More specifically, I was staying at a hotel in Santo Domingo."

"Any witnesses?"

Kozak glared at Trevor. "I think there‘s a maid who might remember me. Besides, I was staying in the same hotel with a number of models and executives from the magazine sponsoring the photo shoot. We ate together every night."

Trevor recorded all the names Kozak listed, then asked him where he was the night Sarah Evans died. He said he had been on a small island off the coast of the Dominican Republic. And, yes, there had been plenty of witnesses.

Kozak denied any knowledge of the clubs where the women had been poisoned. Apart from Monica’s family, none of the names of the victims’ friends and families were familiar to him. Neither did he recognize the suspect in the composite drawing, nor knew anyone who drove a black Grand Cherokee Special Limited Edition Jeep.

After Trevor exhausted his questions, he said, "We know you’re tired after your trip. Thanks for your help. Can we get you a lift home?"

"No, Detectives, I think I’ll grab a cab."

As Kozak was leaving, Trevor asked, "Do you mind telling us why you haven’t seen Ms. Nordson for so long?"

He paused in the doorway. "I thought I needed a little freedom. By the time I realized what an idiot I was, the bridge back to Monica was just a puff of smoke behind me."

After he was gone, Sandy remarked with a sigh, "If that guy’s the killer, then he’s also a cross between Jack Nicholson and Harry Houdini."

"We’ve got to check with these people," Trevor said, pointing at his list of witnesses. "But you’re right. His alibis sound airtight."

While Mike and the detectives on the Wild Kingdom case waited for Trevor in the Homicide conference room, they discussed the ever-increasing media coverage of the poisonings. "If this keeps up, they’re going to send the entire city into a panic," Armit said.

When Trevor entered the room, he went over to the noteboard and the lively discussion ceased. The frantically scrawled notes on the board had been replaced with a more orderly structure. The two composite pictures of the suspect still hung under the title of "Suspect(s)." However, now the victims were listed chronologically and by name, with a recent photo of each one attached.

In front of the men seated in the room was a thick stack of stapled pages. Ken leafed through the packet with its numerous headings, such as "Victims’ Backgrounds," "Autopsy Reports," "MO," "Witnesses’ Names," and "Crime Scenes." Then he asked, "How come there’s no mention of Keith Kozak?"

"Actually, there is on page twenty-eight," Trevor said.

Ken flipped to that page. "This is a list of friends and contacts of the victims, not suspects."

"Ken," Trevor said, "we interviewed him yesterday. He has a rock-solid alibi for the last two poisonings. He hasn’t been linked at all to the third victim. It’s pretty unlikely he’s involved."

Trevor lifted one of the packages on the desk. "The amount of data for this case is growing exponentially. I decided to compile a summary package with all the relevant information and minutes from our debriefings. We’ll try to update it frequently. Come to think of it, hopefully we won’t need to update it at all if we can catch this guy soon. Now let’s review where we’re at."

Trevor told the group how the preliminary tests on the third victim confirmed she had died from carfentanyl poisoning. Sandy informed them that British Columbia’s Jeep dealers, at the prompting of Chrysler, had sent lists of black Grand Cherokee Special Limited Editions that had been sold in the province. He had taken just a quick look, but none of the owners had sounded familiar. Armit and Sandy described how they had exhausted the list of potential carfentanyl sources without finding any missing in British Columbia.

"He’s probably bringing the stuff in from outside B.C. or the country," Ken suggested.

"I once trained with an anesthetist who was a drug addict," Mike said. "Guess how he was found out?"

Ken looked up from yet another paper-clip chain he was making. "He was unconscious and his patients were awake?"

"Close. One of his colleagues discovered that whenever she worked in the room beside him, it took her two or three times as much medicine to control her patients’ pain. So she decided to spy on the anesthetist. She watched him for a couple of days before she found out he was taking narcotics from his colleagues’ vials of medicine and replacing them with sterile water."

"I used to do the same thing with my uncle’s vodka bottles," Sandy said. "Drove him nuts. He thought he was becoming immune to booze."

"Are you suggesting we test all the vials of carfentanyl in the province, Mike?" Trevor asked.

"It’s just a thought."

Trevor rubbed his forehead. "First, we should see if we can find any other places in the country missing the stuff."

"So what happened to the doc who was stealing the drugs?" Sandy asked Mike.

"He was suspended and went into rehab for six months. I think he’s clean and practicing again."

"I wish my uncle had thought of rehab instead of breaking all those bottles over my head."

"Sensible uncle," Ken muttered. He still hadn’t forgiven Sandy for fooling him with Father Pat the week before.

Trevor rapped the table sharply. "Okay, enough of that. Any luck identifying the man from the sketches?"

"The Crime Catchers spot generated a slew of responses," Armit said. "They always do, though. It’s amazing how many people are willing to turn in their own grandmothers for the $1,000 reward we offer."

"And?"

"We haven’t checked all the tips, but so far nothing but kooks and dead ends. Look, Trevor, the press has reported most of the supposed sensitive stuff in this case already. Why don’t we run a more accurate Crime Catchers clip?"

"I think we should. In fact, we’re planning to release the drawings to the media this afternoon. Hopefully they’ll publish them, provided they don’t feel uncomfortable doing something that might help us for a change. Any news on the abortion angle?"

Armit grimaced. "There is. Of course, it meant talking to Marco Faldini again, which involves tripling my stomach-ulcer medication. That guy’s suits cost more than my car, and I still wouldn’t dress a monkey in one of them. Anyway, the first victim had her abortion at Vancouver Center Hospital’s Surgical Day Care in January 1996. It could be a coincidence, but we found out from her friend, Tracy, that the third victim had an abortion at the same place two months later."

Trevor raised an eyebrow. "That’s a fair coincidence. I haven’t been able to reach Monica Nordson yet, but we’ve been exchanging messages. I’m hoping to meet with her today to find out if she’s ever had an abortion."

The group discussed their strategy for the week. Trevor described the mounting pressure coming from the chief and above. He had argued successfully to maintain the investigative force at the current core group of detectives, but they now had a larger budget from which to draw any necessary support. That afternoon Trevor intended to meet with Dr. William Toplak, the noted forensic psychiatrist. Dr. Toplak would provide a psychological profile of the suspect.

The other detectives looked unimpressed. "When does the noted tea-leaf reader give us her profile of the suspect?" Sandy asked.

Trevor ignored the question. He sat down at the table and folded his hands in front of him. "Unfortunately we no longer have any suspects with names. We do have two sketches and many witnesses, but the killer was probably heavily disguised when seen. On the plus side, he’s a pattern killer. On the downside, the time between poisonings has decreased from four to two weeks. When it comes down to it, though, this guy‘s a criminal like all the others. And they always make mistakes. So let’s find his mistakes before anyone else dies."

Trevor’s pep talk fell flat. Mike could feel the morale in the room sink even lower.

He stared at the computer screen in front of him and was pleased with his composition, believing it struck the right balance. Leaning back in his chair, he read the note again:

Dear Inspector Andersenn:

I am relieved to discover you have finally recognized my achievements. I feared I would have to announce them myself, and I would have found such boasting distasteful.

I want you to know that I have a great respect for your reputation. As such, I have been extremely careful. I have faith that you will show a reciprocal deference toward my abilities. Perhaps I was a little careless with the second defendant, the one known as Monica. Rest assured that such a mistake will not be repeated.

One of the newspapers, the least reputable of the lot by my estimation, referred to me as a "monster" today. I cannot pretend I am not a little bit hurt by this description. These people, whom you chose to refer to as "victims," have unquestionably deserved their fate. However, I hasten to point out that I have been exceptionally humane in my choice of carfentanyl as the means of punishment. These Jezebels did not suffer.

Moreover, if you insist on calling them "victims," at least realize they are casualties of war. For, Inspector, make no mistake, we are engaged in a large-scale war. It is a war of attrition, and there has been much thinning of the ranks within the forces of Good. It has become clear to me that we needed to set an example, or at least offer a deterrent. Consider these people, and those who are to follow, the necessary deterrent.

For this cause I would willingly martyr myself but, alas, it would serve no purpose yet.

Under different circumstances I would love to discuss this complex problem with you over a game of chess, at which I suspect you excel. Sadly this in not currently feasible. This distant form of communication will have to suffice for now.

Jehu

Making no further changes to the note, he typed a few commands. The screen cleared, then the familiar "message sent" box appeared. He smiled and switched off his computer, hoping they would get the profile right.

Trevor was alone in his office when the receptionist knocked on the door. "Sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but this e-mail was sent to you marked ‘Urgent and Confidential.’"

"Thanks." Trevor rose from his desk and accepted the piece of paper, then sat and read the message. By the time he finished, he was convinced the e-mail was genuine. He read it a second time and felt a slight chill at the words "and those who are to follow."

Trevor vaguely knew the story of Jezebel, but he couldn’t remember any biblical reference to Jehu. He pulled out his well-thumbed biographical dictionary, which was invaluable when he did crossword puzzles, and read the short paragraph describing Jehu.

Next he called Paul Samson. "Hi, Paul, it’s Trevor again."

"Let me guess. You called to say hi and ask about my kids, right?"

"How are the kids?"

"Don’t have any, don’t want any. I’m still trying to figure out how to get rid of the wife."

"Paul, I’ve just received an e-mail that’s quite likely from the killer in the Wild Kingdom case."

"And?"

"There’s no return address. It would be incredibly helpful to find out where this message was sent from."

"Was it sent to your personal computer or through the department?"

"The department’s."

"So it must have come to our general e-mail address. This guy would have to be incredibly stupid to leave a trail that leads us back to his computer. And from what I’ve read, he doesn’t sound stupid."

There was a moment of silence on the line. Trevor smiled; he knew Paul was intrigued in spite of his annoyed pretense.

"Trevor, if I get a chance, I’ll look into it. But when’s Homicide going to learn I work in Fraud? I’m not a computer hack waiting on everyone’s whim."

"That’s the curse of being the best—everyone wants you. Thanks, Paul."

Trevor asked the other detectives involved in the case to meet back in the conference room, then made copies of the e-mail for each of them. When everyone was seated again, Trevor watched as they read the note a couple of times.

Sandy whistled. "This guy makes Father Pat look normal."

"What’s a Jezebel?" Ken asked. "Who’s Jehu?"

"Jezebel’s an archaic pejorative term for a woman of loose morals, isn’t it?" Armit volunteered.

Sandy turned to Ken. "Listen to your partner! Who talks like that? I think he wrote this note."

Trevor smiled wanly. "Armit, you’re right about the term, but it’s actually from the Bible. Jezebel was one of the ancient queens of Israel who brought the worship of other gods to Israel. Later a man named Jehu killed her, seized the throne of Israel, and eradicated the worship of false gods."

Ken snickered. "No problem. Let’s just ride into Sodom and Gomorrah and round up the usual suspects."

"Can we agree this e-mail probably comes from the suspect?" Trevor asked.

They nodded. The VPD had kept the name of the poison confidential. Even the press didn’t know what it was. Certainly a number of hospital staffers knew the name of the drug, but the e-mail sender‘s knowledge of the poison as well as of Monica Nordson strongly suggested he was the killer.

"So you think this guy sees himself as some kind of religious vigilante killing women he views as whores or sinners?" Ken asked.

"He talks about making an example or deterrent out of them," Armit said. "Maybe he thinks these clubs are whorehouses and wants to scare women away from them."

"That might be possible with the first and third victims, but it’s hard to imagine that even an exceptionally twisted mind would confuse the BeatRoom with a whorehouse," Trevor said. "Besides, he doesn’t strike me as your typical misogynist."

"That means men who hate women," Armit told Sandy with a smirk.

"Thanks, Armit. Now what does ‘pretentious prick’ mean again?"

"Did you notice how he referred to the victims as ‘people’?" Trevor asked. "I don’t think these crimes are gender- or sex-motivated. But he did say the victims deserved their fate. Maybe he’s punishing them for something in their pasts."

"Wait a minute!" Ken blurted. "You think he’s punishing them for having abortions?"

"Maybe. We need to know if Monica had an abortion."

"What really bugs me is that he’s telling us there’s going to be more victims," Sandy said.

Armit waved the e-mail. "We knew that, anyway. But what about this reference to Monica—‘such a mistake will not be repeated’? Do you think he means no other victims will survive, or that he’s going to go after her?"

Trevor sighed. "I don’t know. But we’re not taking chances. We’re going to keep Monica’s condo under twenty-four-hour surveillance."

Each detective interpreted the note differently, and an animated discussion followed that led to no agreement. "I do know one thing for sure," Trevor finally said. "Our forensic psychiatrist is going to have a field day with this e-mail."

To Be Continued . . .

Daniel Kalla practices emergency room medicine in Vancouver, Canada. He co-wrote the film script To Love and To Perish for Highwire Entertainment (now in pre-production). His forthcoming novel is entitled Lethal Assistance. He can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].