Free Dark Prophecy by Anthony E. Zuiker Page A

Riggins said. Something had knocked Jeb Paulson out so hard that he didn’t notice being dragged to a roof and eventually pushed off the top to his own death. Had to be something on the door.
    Constance went to the door, crouched down. “Riggins, there’s some kind of viscous fluid on this knob.”
    “Okay, let’s bag a sample, then do the same with this guy’s hands. Then we cut the rest and get it over to Banner. I need somebody with a saw up here. Now .”

chapter 17
    Special Circs HQ / Quantico, Virginia
     
     
    A few years ago, if you had died a violent and mysterious death in L.A., whatever they didn’t bury or divide among your heirs ended up in Josh Banner’s trace analysis lab.
    Since then, Banner had gone global.
    Banner had helped Special Circs track down Sqweegel. Riggins wasn’t a man to forget favors. The moment a spot opened up, he asked Banner to join them full-time at Special Circs in D.C. And he loved it. Specifically, Banner loved being surrounded by evidence. It wasn’t subject to human emotions or whims. Evidence was merely pieces of a story you had to put back together again. And Special Circs afforded him the chance to work on the best puzzles in the world. Of course, the key to staying sane in a job like this was blocking out the fact that these puzzle “pieces” were actually broken pieces of someone’s life. And that the only reason they ended up here was because that person had died in one of the most horrible ways imaginable.
    But Banner had grown up learning how to compartmentalize. It’s how he solved problems. It’s how he kept his head together. Well, that and comic books.
    This time, however, it was difficult. Because on the table in front of him was the sawn-off doorknob of a colleague and a friend. First day on the job, Paulson had stuck his head in Banner’s lair and said: “Tell me everything about what you do.” This was remarkable. There were Special Circs staffers who’d gone a few years without even asking Banner’s first name. Paulson, meanwhile, had treated him like a forensics god. They’d hung out quite a bit, over sandwiches and beers. Sometimes talking shop, sometimes just joking around.
    Banner had been a guest in Paulson’s apartment. He’d kissed Paulson’s wife on the cheek and shook Paulson’s hand and said his good-byes, dinner was awesome, thanks so much for having me over and then he’d touched this very doorknob and closed the door behind him.
    Banner examined it now, carefully wiping a swab over its metal surface. From here, he would use a machine to separate the elements. Again, another puzzle to solve.
    But solve this, and Banner would be helping to find Jeb’s killer.
    He worked late into the night and almost didn’t hear Riggins enter the lab. “What’ve you got, Banner?”
    “A weaponized form of Datura stramonium .”
    Riggins stared at Banner, waiting him out. They went through this every time. It was almost a dance. Banner would tease, wait for Riggins to ask the question. This time Riggins didn’t take the bait.
    “Sorry,” Banner said, caving quickly. “It’s also called Jimson Weed, angel’s trumpet, or devil’s weed. Which is a weird contradiction, if you think about.”
    Riggins waited.
    Banner continued. “Ordinarily, it’s just alkaloid that’s absorbed through your mucous membranes. Some people smoke or eat it for the hallucinogenic-type effects. But the form on this doorknob is something I’ve never seen before. It can be absorbed through the skin, and it works within seconds, causing paralysis and cardiovascular collapse. Which explains why Jeb and the police officer were knocked out just by touching it.”
    “Is this crap difficult to find?”
    “In its natural state, no. But this stuff was definitely engineered.”
    “Who’d have access to something like this?”
    “Military, I guess. But you can’t rule out private labs or universities.”
    Riggins thought about it. Their killer had either brains or