“Booting up then. Start the clock.”
Mary Ellen George had, thanks to the royalties on the book she’d written on her arrest, trial, and acquittal, and the speaking fees she commanded, lived a very comfortable life in her West Side apartment.
She’d died there, as well, but it hadn’t been comfortable.
Unlike Cogburn and Fitzhugh, the signs of her illness weren’t violent nor were they destructive. It was apparent she’d taken herself off to bed, dosed herself with over-the-counter medication for several days—then with strong, street versions—during which time she had blocked her ’link calls and had refused to answer her door.
She’d taken a laptop unit into bed with her, essentially destroying herself, Eve thought, as she tried to heal.
One of her last acts had been to place a hysterical transmission to a former lover, begging him for help, weeping about the screaming in her head.
Her last act had been to fashion her silk sheets into a noose and hang herself.
She wore only a white nightgown, obscenely soiled. Her hair was matted, her nails bitten down below the quick. There were tissues and washcloths, stained with blood, littering the bedside table.
Trying to stop the nosebleeds, Eve concluded, and picked up a medication bottle with sealed fingers. Trying to treat a brain on the point of exploding with ten-dollar blockers.
The laptop was still on the bed, its stark message filling the screen.
ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED
“Get this screen on record, Peabody. Victim: George, Mary Ellen, female, Caucasian, age forty-two. Body discovered in victim’s apartment at fourteen hundred hours, sixteen minutes by building manager, Officer Debrah Banker and Hippel, Jay, who placed the nine-eleven.”
“Record of scene and body complete, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, Peabody, let’s get her down.”
It was an ugly job. Neither of then spoke as they wrestled with the makeshift noose, as they shouldered the deadweight and lowered it to the bed.
“Visual evidence of blood in victim’s ears, in nasal passages. Indication of blood vessel eruption in the eyes. No head or facial trauma evident. There are no visible wounds other than the bruising around the neck, which is consistent with strangulation by hanging.”
She opened her field kit, took out a gauge. “Time of death established at fourteen-ten.”
Eve reached over, shut down the laptop. “Bag this, log it and have it transported to my home office.”
Then she stepped back and took a long, careful look at the bedroom. “She didn’t exhibit the same level of violence as the other vics. You can see she’d been spending most of her time in here, popping blockers and tranqs, trying to sleep off the pain. She got a little messy, a little careless with housekeeping and appearance, but she didn’t run around breaking furniture.”
“People handle pain differently,” Peabody said as she bagged the laptop. “Like you. You pretend it’s not there. Like it’s a personal insult and you’re going to ignore it so it’ll go away. Me, I go straight for the holistic stuff. Early childhood training. But if that doesn’t work, it’s better living through chemistry. And guys, like my brothers and my dad, they whine. A guy gets sick he reverts to babyhood. Which includes temper tantrums.”
“That’s interesting, Peabody.”
“Well, you know. Testosterone.”
“Yeah, I know. In these cases, the two males—three counting Halloway—tried to beat the pain and anyone who got in the way. And the female tried to suppress it with traditional methods. Everybody failed, everybody died. And here’s what else everyone did. Burrowed.”
“Burrowed, sir?”
“Holed up. Climbed into their nest, or the closest thing to it. Cogburn was locked in his apartment. Maybe if his neighbor hadn’t come along, hammering at the door, shouting, cursing at him, he’d have stayed there until he died, or until he killed himself.”
She studied the messy, makeshift noose. “Terminate and end the pain. I bet it’s programmed into the virus. Fitzhugh, holed up, self-terminated. Halloway, the only one who wasn’t a target, the only one who was exposed outside of his own home, burrowed into Feeney’s office. If we hadn’t kept him busy, I think he’d have offed Feeney, then turned the stream on himself.”
“Cogburn and Halloway.” Peabody nodded, following the dots. “They were the only two who had contact with anyone during the last stages of the infection. If they hadn’t . . .”
“Would they have just opted out, like Mary Ellen George? Shuts herself in, blocks her incomings, ignores anyone who comes to the door. Terminates.”
“Wounded animal instinct? The burrowing,” Peabody asked.
“Human nature. It’s logical. And it makes sense for Purity. They don’t want to take out the innocent, just the ones they’ve judged guilty. They’re looking for minimum negative fallout. They want public support for their cause. Even with the incidental casualties, they’re starting to get it.”