The Skin Collector

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Текст книги "The Skin Collector"

Автор книги: Jeffery Deaver

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CHAPTER 47

Upon examining the back door to Rhyme’s town house, a gowned and gloved Amelia Sachs decided: The son of a bitch sure can pick locks.

Unsub 11 5 hadn’t left more than a minute scratch when he’d broken into the town house to doctor a bottle of scotch on Rhyme’s shelf – insidiously leaving it within the wheelchair bound criminalist’s reach. Sachs wasn’t surprised the unsub had some skill at breaking and entering; his talent at skin art attested to his dexterity.

The sleet spattered and the wind blew. By now any evidence in the cul de sac and around the back door had probably been obliterated. Inside the door, where footprints would have been visible, she discovered nothing other than marks left by his booties.

The strategy behind the assault was now clear: 11 5 had called in a false alarm – an attempted rape in Central Park, near the town house. When Rhyme and the others inside went to the front door to see what was going on, the unsub had snuck through the back and found an open bottle of whisky, poured some poison inside, then escaped silently.

Sachs walked the grid on the route from the back door up the stairs, through the hall from the kitchen to the parlor. Rhyme had an alarm system, which was turned off when the town house was occupied, as now. Video cameras covered the front and back doors but they were real time monitoring only; the images weren’t recorded.

A sense of violation filled Sachs. Somebody had breached the castle, somebody stealthy and adroit. And deadly. Thom had already arranged for the locks to be changed and a drop bar put on both doors but once someone has intruded into your living area, you’re never completely free from the taint of desecration. And from worry that it might happen again.

Finally she arrived at the main floor and handed the bagged trace off to Mel Cooper.

Lincoln Rhyme turned his Merits wheelchair around from the table where he’d been reviewing evidence and asked, ‘Well? Anything?’

‘Not much,’ Sachs told him. ‘Not much at all.’

Rhyme wasn’t surprised.

Not with Unsub 11 5.

Sachs looked him over carefully, as if he’d actually sipped some of the poisoned whisky.

Or maybe she was just troubled that the unsub had gotten inside, spiked the bottle and gotten out without anybody’s knowing.

Lord knew Rhyme himself was. Actually more pissed off than troubled – because he hadn’t deduced that the whisky was tainted, even though, looking back, he should have. It was obvious that Thom would never leave a nearly full bottle of forty proof liquor within his boss’s reach. Combine that with the facts that Lon Sellitto and Seth McGuinn had been attacked and that a police action had unfolded right outside his town house, a perfect diversion, and, yeah, Rhyme should have guessed.

But, on the contrary, the salvation had come from a call to 911. A passerby on the cross street had seen someone slip into the service area behind Rhyme’s and pocket a hypodermic. ‘Looking suspicious,’ the Good Samaritan had reported. ‘A drug thing, maybe going to break in, you know.’

The dispatcher had called Rhyme, who understood immediately that the mis shelved Glenmorangie was Snow White’s apple.

He’d glanced at the glass in his hands and realized that he’d come an instant away from a very unpleasant demise, though less unpleasant to him than to others, given that most of his body would not have felt the excruciating pain the poison causes.

But he’d tucked this shadow of mortality away because he was a man for whom death had been an easy option – voluntary and otherwise – for years. His condition, quadriplegia, brought with it many accessories that could dump him into a coffin at a moment’s notice: dysreflexia and sepsis, for instance.

So, an attempted poisoning? Good news, as far as he was concerned. It might reveal new evidence to lead them a bit closer to the man who was the spiritual heir to the Bone Collector.

CHAPTER 48

Something was up.

Ron Pulaski had been told that there was no memorial service planned for Richard Logan.

But apparently that had changed.

Six people stood in the room he’d been directed to in the Berkowitz Funeral Home, Broadway and 96th.

He hadn’t gone inside yet. The patrol officer stood in the hallway, off to the side, peering in. He was thinking: Tough to blend comfortably when you’re a stranger facing a half dozen people who know each other – one or all of whom might have a very good incentive to suspect you’re an intruder and shoot you dead.

And the name of the place! Wasn’t Berkowitz the Son of Sam? That serial killer from the 1970s or ’80s?

Bad sign.

Even though Ron Pulaski tried hard to be like Lincoln Rhyme and not believe in signs or superstitions, he kind of did.

He started forward. Stopped.

Pulaski had been spending a lot of nerves on the idea that he was going undercover. He was a street cop, a beat cop – he and his twin brother, also blue, used to say. He was thinking of bad hip hop riff the bros threw together.

A beat cop, a street cop, write you up a ticket and send you on your way.

Or let your know your rights and put your ass away …

In Rikers, the island, in the bay.

He knew next to nothing about the art of sets and covert work – so brilliantly played by people like Fred Dellray, the tall, lean African American FBI agent who could be anyone from a Caribbean drug dealer to a Charles Taylor – style warlord to a Fortune 50 °CEO.

Man was a born actor. Voices, postures, expressions … everything. And apparently this Gielgud guy too (maybe Dellray worked with him). And Serpico. Even if he got shot.

Beat cop, street cop, walking through the sleet cop …

The rap riff skipped through his head, somehow stilling the uneasiness.

Why’re you so damn nervous?

Not like he was having to pass with druggies or gangbangers. Richard Logan’s family or friends, whoever these visitors were, seemed like your average law abiding Manhattanites. The Watchmaker had moved in a different circle, a higher level than most criminals. Oh, he’d been guilty of murder. But it was impossible to picture Logan, the Watchmaker, the sophisticate, in a crack house or in the double wide of a meth cooker. Fine restaurants, chess matches, museums had been more his thing. Still, he was aware that the Watchmaker had tried to kill Rhyme the last time they’d met. Maybe he’d left instructions in his will for a hit man associate of his to do just what Pulaski was doing at the moment: hang out in the funeral home, identify any nervous undercover cops, drag ’em into the alley afterward.

All right. Jesus. Get real.

There is a risk, he reflected, but not a bullet in the back of the head. It’s that you’ll fuck up and disappoint Lincoln and Amelia.

That damn uncertainty, the questioning. They never go away. Not completely.

At least he thought he looked the part. Black suit, white shirt, narrow tie. (He’d almost worn his dress NYPD tie but decided: Are you out of your fucking mind? It didn’t have little badges on it but one of these people might’ve known cops in the past. Be smart.) He had scruffed up, per Lincoln Rhyme’s request. A one day growth of beard (a bit pathetic since you had to get close to see the blond stubble), shirt stained, shoes scuffed. And he’d been practicing his cold stare.

Inscrutable, dangerous.

Pulaski peeked inside the memorial service room again. The walls were painted dark green and lined with chairs, enough for forty, fifty people. In the center was a table, draped in a purple cloth; a simple urn sat on it. The visitors were four men, ranging in age from late forties up to their seventies, he judged. Two women seemed to be spouses or partners of two of the men. Wardrobe was what you’d expect – dark suits and dresses, conservative.

It was odd. He’d been told there was no viewing or service. Just someone to collect the remains.

Yeah, suspicious. Was it a setup?

Bullet in the head?

On the other hand, if it was legit, if plans had changed and it was an impromptu service for the Watchmaker, this’d be a real coup. Surely somebody here had known Richard Logan well and could be a source of info about the dead mastermind.

Okay, just go ahead and dive in.

Street cop, beat cop, goin’ to a funeral in the sleet cop.

He walked up to one of the mourners, an elderly man in a dark suit.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Stan Walesa.’ He’d rehearsed saying, and responding to, the name over and over (he’d had Jenny call him by it all last night), so he wouldn’t ignore somebody’s calling him ‘Stan’ during the set. Or, even worse, glance behind him when somebody did.

The man identified himself – Logan was not part of his name – and introduced Pulaski to one of the women and another man. He struggled to memorize their names, then reminded himself to take a picture of the guest list with his cell phone later.

‘How did you know him?’ A nod toward the urn.

‘We worked together,’ Pulaski said.

Blinks from everybody.

‘A few years ago.’

A frown from one of the younger men. Right out of The Sopranos . ‘You worked together?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Closely?’

Be tough. ‘Yeah. Pretty close.’ His gaze said, What’s it to you?

Pulaski recalled everything he could about the crimes that the Watchmaker had run. His plan wasn’t to claim outright that he’d been a partner but to suggest that he’d had some mysterious dealings – to whet the appetite of anyone who might want to get a piece of the Watchmaker’s ongoing projects after his death.

Containers, shipments, insider trading …

Less is more, more is less.

People fell silent. Pulaski realized that classical music was streaming from invisible speakers. He hadn’t heard it earlier.

To get the conversation going Pulaski said, ‘So sad.’

‘A blessing, though,’ one woman offered.

Blessing, Pulaski reflected. He supposed that, yes, rather than spend most of your life in prison, a fast, relatively painless death was a blessing.

Pulaski continued, ‘A couple years ago, we were working, he seemed healthy.’ He could actually picture Logan from that time. He had seemed healthy.

Those present exchanged glances once more.

‘And so young,’ the undercover cop added.

Something was wrong. But the oldest one of the mourners leaned close and touched Pulaski’s arm. A smile. ‘To me, yes, he was young.’

The visitors eased away. One, he noticed, had left the room.

To get his gun?

This isn’t going well. He turned back to the older man but before he could speak another voice intruded. Soft but firm. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

Pulaski turned to find a large man, in a dark suit, looking him over closely. He had silver hair and dark framed glasses. ‘Could I speak to you for a moment?’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

The man extended his hand – a very large, calloused hand – but not to shake. He pointed and directed Pulaski out of the room and up the hallway to the left.

‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘you are?’

‘Stan Walesa.’ He had a cheap ID that he’d hacked together himself.

But the man didn’t ask for any identification. His eyes boring into Pulaski’s, he rasped, ‘Mr Walesa. You know some people occasionally come to services in hopes of getting something.’

‘Getting something?’

‘It ranges from food at the reception afterward to selling insurance or financial programs. Attorneys too.’

‘That a fact?’

‘It is.’

Pulaski remembered he was supposed to be playing the tough guy. Instead of looking nervous and saying that was terrible, he snapped, ‘What’s that got to do with me? Who are you?’

‘I’m Jason Berkowitz. Associate director. The family in there thought your behavior was a little suspicious. You were claiming to know the deceased.’

‘What’s suspicious? I did know him.’

‘You claim you worked with him.’

‘Not claimed. I did.’ Pulaski’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure the man could hear it. But he struggled to play the wise guy.

‘You don’t seem like the sort who’d work with Mr Ardell.’

‘Who?’

‘Blake Ardell.’

‘And who’s that supposed to be.’

‘Not supposed to be. He is, was , the man whose service you’re crashing.’

‘Crashing? What the hell does that mean? I’m here about Richard Logan.’

The assistant director blinked. ‘Mr Logan? Oh. My. I’m so sorry, sir. That’s Serenity.’

‘Serenity?’

‘The name of the room across the hall. This room is Peace, Mr Ardell’s service.’

Goddamn. Pulaski thought back. The fellow at the front door had told him to turn right. He’d turned left.

Shit, shit, shit. Fucking head injury. If this’d been a drug set, he might be dead now.

Think smarter.

But act the part. ‘One of your people, I don’t remember who, sent me to that room.’

‘I’m so sorry. Please accept our apologies. Our fault entirely.’

‘And names? I’ve never heard of naming rooms in a funeral parlor. You ought to have numbers.’

‘Yessir, it’s a little unusual. I’m sorry. I do apologize.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Pulaski grimaced. He nodded back. Then paused, recalling the curious expression on the faces of the mourners when he’d mentioned working with the deceased.

‘One question. You said I didn’t seem like the sort who worked with this Ardell. What’d he do for a living?’

‘He was an adult film star in the seventies,’ Berkowitz whispered. ‘Gay. The family doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘I’d guess not.’

‘That’s the room with Mr Logan’s remains.’ He pointed to a small doorway.

Serenity …

Pulaski stepped through it and into a small room, twenty by twenty. There were a few chairs, a coffee table, innocuous landscapes covering the walls. Also a bouquet of subdued white flowers. And on a velvet draped table, similar to the one holding the urn of late porn star, sat a brown cardboard box. This would, Pulaski knew, be the Watchmaker’s remains. Beside it stood a round, balding man in a dark business suit. He was making a mobile phone call. He looked at Pulaski briefly, with curiosity, and turned away. He seemed to speak more softly. Finally he disconnected.

Inhaling a steadying breath, Pulaski walked up to him. He nodded.

The man said nothing.

Pulaski looked him up and down – keep it blunt, keep it tough. ‘You were a friend of Richard’s?’

‘And you are–?’ the man asked in a soft baritone, with the hint of a Southern accent.

‘Stan Walesa,’ Pulaski said. The name almost seemed natural at this point. ‘I was asking, you’re a friend of Richard’s?’

‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you’re asking.’

‘Okay, I worked with Richard. Off and on. I heard he was being cremated this morning and I assumed there’d be a service.’

‘Worked with Richard,’ the man repeated, looking the officer up and down. ‘Well, there is no service. I’ve been retained to bring his remains back home.’

Pulaski frowned. ‘A lawyer.’

‘That’s right. Dave Weller.’ No hands were proffered.

Pulaski kept up the offensive. ‘I don’t remember you from the trial.’

‘Mr Logan was not my client. I’ve never met him.’

‘Just taking the ashes back home?’

‘Like I said.’

‘That’s California, right?’

The only response was: ‘What are you doing here, Mr Walesa?’

‘Paying respects.’ He stepped closer to the box. ‘No urn?’

‘Not much point,’ Weller said. ‘Richard wanted his ashes scattered.’

‘Where?’

‘Did you send those?’

Pulaski looked at the bouquet, which Weller was nodding at. The officer tried to looks somewhat, but not overly, confused. ‘No.’ He stepped to the vase and read at the card. He gave a bitter laugh.

Inscrutable.

He said, ‘That’s pretty low.’

Weller asked, ‘How do you mean?’

‘You know who that is, who sent them?’

‘I read the card when I got here. But I don’t know the name. Lincoln Rhyme?’

‘You don’t know Rhyme?’ Lowering his voice: ‘He’s the son of a bitch who put my friend in prison.’

Weller asked, ‘Police?’

‘Works with the police.’

‘Why would he send flowers?’

‘I think he’s gloating.’

‘Well, that was a waste of money. Richard’s hardly going to be offended now, is he?’ A glance at the box of ashes.

Silence.

How to behave now? Man, this acting stuff was exhausting. He decided to shake his head at the unfairness of the world. He looked down. ‘Such a shame, really. When I talked to him last, he was fine. Or at least he didn’t mention anything, like chest pains.’

Weller now focused. ‘Talked to him?’

‘Right.’

‘This was recently?’

‘Yeah. In prison.’

‘You’re here alone?’ Weller asked.

A nod. Pulaski asked the same question.

‘That’s right.’

‘So there’s no funeral?’

‘The family hasn’t decided.’ Weller looked Pulaski up and down carefully.

Okay, time to go with the less …

‘Well, so long, Mr Weller. Tell his family, or whoever your clients are, I’m sorry for their loss. I’ll miss him too. He was an … interesting man.’

‘Like I said, I never met him.’

Pulaski pulled on dark cotton gloves. ‘So long.’

Weller nodded.

Pulaski was at the door when the lawyer said, ‘Why did you really come here, Mr Walesa?’

The young officer stopped. He turned back. ‘“Reall”Y? What’s that supposed to mean?’

De Niro tough. Tony Soprano tough.

‘There was never going to be a memorial service. If you’d called to see when I was picking up the remains – which you did, since here you are – you would have learned there was no service. So. What do I make of that?’

Pulaski debated – and made a show of debating. He dug into his pocket and produced a business card. Offered it to the man with a gloved hand. He said, ‘Give that to your clients.’

‘Why?’

‘Just give it to them. Or throw it out.’ A shrug. ‘Up to you.’

The lawyer looked at him coolly, then took the card. It had only the fake name and the prepaid mobile number on it.

‘What exactly do you do, Mr Walesa?’

Pulaski’s gaze began at the lawyer’s bald head and ended at his shoes, which were nearly as shiny. ‘Have a good day, Mr Weller.’

And, with an oblique glance at the box containing the Watchmaker’s ashes, Pulaski headed for the door.

Pulaski, thinking: Yes, nailed it!

CHAPTER 49

The unsub, however, had not left as much evidence in the town house as Rhyme had hoped.

And there were no other solid leads.The phone call about the intruder had come from an anonymous source. A canvass of the area, to find witnesses who’d seen the intruder, had yielded nothing. Security video cameras in two nearby stores had recorded a thin man in dark coveralls, walking with his head down and carrying a briefcase. He’d diverted suddenly into the cul de sac. No image of his face, of course.

Mel Cooper had run an analysis on the bottle and found, naturally, only Rhyme’s and Thom’s fingerprints, not even those of a liquor store stocker or a Scottish distiller.

No other trace was on the bottle.

Sachs was now telling him, ‘Nothing significant, Rhyme. Except he’s an ace lock picker. No tool marks. Used a pick gun, I’m sure.’

Cooper was checking the contents of the evidence collection bags. ‘Not much, not much.’ A moment later, though, he did make a discovery. ‘Hair.’

‘Excellent,’ Rhyme said. ‘Where?’

Cooper examined Sachs’s notes. ‘It was by the shelf where he spiked the whisky.’

‘And very good whisky it used to be,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘But a hair. Good. Only: Is it his, yours, mine, Thom’s, a deliveryman’s?’

‘Let’s take a look.’ The tech lifted the hair from the tape roller and prepared a slide for visual observation in the optical microscope.

‘There a bulb?’ Rhyme asked.

Hair can yield DNA but generally only if the bulb is attached.

But this sample, no.

Still, hair can reveal other facts about the perp. Tox and drug profiles, for instance (hair retains drug use info for months). And true hair color, of course.

Cooper focused the microscope and hit the button that put the image on the high def monitor nearby. The fiber was short, just a bit of stubble.

‘Hell,’ Rhyme said.

‘What?’ Sachs asked.

‘Look familiar, anyone?’

Cooper shook his head. But Sachs gave a soft laugh. ‘Last week.’

‘Exactly.’

The hair hadn’t come from the unsub but from the City Hall murder case of the week before, the worker killed fighting with the mugger. The beard stubble. The victim had shaved just before he’d left the office.

This happened sometimes. However careful you were with evidence, tiny samples escaped. Oh, well.

The mass spectrum computer screen came alive. Cooper focused and said, ‘Got the toxin profile: tremetol. A form of alcohol. Comes from snakeroot. There wasn’t enough to kill you, unless you drank the whole bottle at once.’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Rhyme said.

‘But it would have made you very, very sick. Severe dementia. Possibly permanent.’

‘Maybe he didn’t have time to inject the whole dosage into the bottle. You know, it’s the dosage that’s deadly, not the substance itself. We all ingest antimony and mercury and arsenic every day. But not in quantities that do us any harm. Hell, water can kill you. Drink enough too quickly and the sodium imbalance can stop your heart.’

That was it, Sachs reported. No fingerprints, no footprints, no other trace.

Nor had any leads been discovered at or near the Belvedere apartment building. No one had seen a man impersonating a fireman, handing out poisoned coffee. A team sent to check the trash cans in the area had found no other containers of tainted beverage. Security videos were not helpful.

Lon Sellitto was still in critical condition and unconscious – and therefore unable to give them any more information about the unsub, though Rhyme doubted that he’d have been so careless as to reveal anything about himself, as he’d handed out the tainted coffee.

Mel Cooper checked with the research team that Lon Sellitto had put together and learned they had not been able to find anything having to do with the numeric message. They did receive something, though. A memorandum had come in from other Major Cases officers Sellitto had ‘tasked’, his verb, with researching the centipede tattoo.

From: Unsub 11 5 Task Force

To: Det. Lon Sellitto, Capt. Lincoln Rhyme

Re: Centipede

We have not had much luck in finding connections between specific perpetrators in the past and the unsub in this case, regarding centipede tattoos. We have learned this:

Centipedes are arthropods in the class Chilopoda of the subphylum Myriapoda. They have one pair of legs per body segment but don’t necessarily have one hundred legs. They can have as few as two dozen, as many as three hundred. The largest are about a foot long.

Only centipedes have ‘forcipules,’ which are modified front legs, just behind the head. These legs grab prey and through needle like openings deliver venom that paralyzes or kills. They have venom glands on the first pair of legs, forming a pincer like appendage always found just behind the head. Forcipules are not true mouthparts, although they are used in the capture of prey items, injecting venom and holding on to captured prey. Venom glands run through a tube almost to the tip of each forcipule.

Culturally, centipedes are depicted for two purposes: One, to intimidate enemies. The image of a walking snake, armed with venom delivering fangs, taps into root fears of humans. We came across this quotation from a Tibetan Buddhist: ‘If you enjoy frightening others, you will be reincarnated as a centipede.’

Two, centipedes represent invasion of apparently safe places. Centipedes will make their homes in shoes, beds, couches, cradles, dresser drawers. The theory is that the insect represents the idea that what we think is safe really isn’t.

Note that some people have tattoos based on The Human Centipede, a particularly bad gross out film in which three people are sewn together to form what the title suggests. These tattoos have nothing to do with the centipede insect.

‘Reads like a bad term paper,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘Mumbo jumbo but print it out, tape it up.’

The door buzzer sounded and he was amused to notice everyone else in the room start. Cooper and Sachs dropped their hands near their weapons – the aftershock of the attempted attack earlier today. Though he doubted their unsub would return, much less announce his arrival with the bell.

Thom checked the door and let Ron Pulaski into the town house.

He walked in, noticed everyone’s troubled faces and asked, ‘What’s up?’

He was told about the attempted attack.

‘Poison you, Lincoln? Oh, man.’

‘It’s okay, rookie. Still here to torment you. How did the undercover job go?’

‘I think I did okay.’

‘Tell us.’

He explained how the trip to the funeral home had gone, meeting the lawyer, the man’s reluctance to say much or reveal his clients.

A lawyer. Interesting.

Pulaski continued, ‘I think I won him over. I called you a son of a bitch, Lincoln.’

‘That work for you?’

‘Yeah, felt good.’

Rhyme barked a laugh.

‘Then I did what you told me. I suggested – didn’t say anything exactly – but I suggested that I’d worked with Logan. And that I’d been in touch recently.’

‘Did you get a card?’

‘No. And Weller didn’t offer. He was keeping his cards close to his chest.’

‘And you didn’t want to overplay your hand.’

Pulaski said, ‘I like that, what you just said. You slapped down my cliché with one of your own.’

The kid was really coming into his own. ‘Anything you could deduce?’

‘I tried to see if he was from California but he wouldn’t say. But he was tanned. Looked healthy, balding, stocky. Southern accent. Name was Dave Weller. I’ll check him out.’

‘Well, good. We’ll see if he makes a move. If not, I’ll talk to Nance Laurel in the DA’s Office about getting a subpoena to scoop up the funeral home records. But that’s a last resort; I want to keep you in play for as long as we can. Okay. Not a bad job, rookie. We wait. Now: to the task at hand. Unsub 11 5. He’s still got his message to complete. “the second”. “forty”. “seventeenth”. He’s not through yet. I want to know where he’s going to hit next. We have to move on it.’

He wheeled closer to the chart. The answers are there someplace, he thought. Answers to where he would strike next, who he was, what his purpose in orchestrating these terrible attacks might be.

But those were answers as shadowed as the sleet laden skies of New York.

582 E. 52nd Street (Belvedere Parking Garage)

Victim: Braden Alexander

– Not killed

Unsub 11 5

– See details from prior scenes

– Six feet

– Yellow latex mask

– Yellow gloves

– Possibly man in Identi Kit image

– Possibly coveralls

– Probably from Midwest, West Virginia, mountains – other rural setting

– Had scalpel

Sedated with propofol

– How obtained? Access to medical supplies? (No local thefts)

Potential Kill Zone

– Underneath garage

– Similar infrastructure to other scenes

• IFON

• ConEd

• Metro North rail Emergency Communication Link

Handcuffs

– Generic, cannot be sourced

Tattoo

– Implants

– ‘17th’

– Loaded with concentrated nicotine

• Nightshade family

• Too many locations to source

Trace from plastic bag

– Human albumin and sodium chloride (plastic surgery in his plans?)

– ‘No. 3’ written on bag in red water soluble ink generally used for water treatment but not in prior locations or here, so could be a poison for future attack (however too many sources to find)

Sidney Place, Brooklyn Heights (Pam Willoughby’s apartment)

Victim: Seth McGuinn

– Not killed, minor injuries

Unsub

– Red centipede tattoo

– Confirmed had American Eagle tattoo machine

– Fit general description from earlier attacks

– Coveralls

Sedated with propofol

– How obtained? Access to medical supplies? (No local thefts)

American Medical 31 gauge single use hypodermic syringe.

– Used primarily for plastic surgery