Free A Cruel Season for Dying by Harker Moore Page B

Potassium is vitally necessary for cell functioning, but only within a certain range. Too little or too much
     and the result is the same, arrhythmia and cardiac arrest. There is no physiological damage to the heart. The muscle simply
     stops pumping.”
    “It seems a strange way to kill, especially if you’re not trying to hide the fact that your victims were murdered,” Sakura
     said.
    Linsky shrugged. The gesture was oddly elegant in the starched coat. “Potassium chloride, as you probably know, is one of
     the drugs used in lethal injection. Perhaps there’s some significance in that.”
    “There were two needle marks,” Sakura remembered. “Was the second injection also potassium chloride?”
    “Very unlikely. One injection would be quite sufficient.”
    “Then what?”
    “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”
    “LSD?”
    “Yes. We found high levels of the drug in the first two victims.”
    “It could be coincidence,” Sakura thought aloud. “There’s a lot of LSD use…. But injected by the killer?”
    “It would logically have to be injected first. Potassium chloride kills very rapidly.”
    “But why would the killer give them LSD?” Sakura asked.
    “I only work on bodies, Lieutenant. It’s not my job to know what the murderer is thinking when he kills them.”
    Sakura nodded. That job description was very precisely his. “How soon can we get the blood work on Westlake?” He looked at
     the medical examiner.
    “It’s top priority, Detective Sakura.” Linsky managed to sound collegial. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
    Sakura left the morgue and headed back to police headquarters for yet one more unpleasant task. Since yesterday’s discovery
     of the third homosexual victim, the serial-killer story had spread to every media outlet in the city. Pressure on City Hall
     from the gay community was increasing by the hour. A press conference had been scheduled for later this morning, at which
     he would have to speak. It was a duty he accepted with any high-profile case, but he didn’t have to enjoy it.

    Zoe Kahn smoothed her tight French twist, draping her black cashmere coat over the back of the seat. She sat near the front
     of the auditorium, a gray room, that had the effect of making everyone feel trapped in the blankness of a television screen.
     She’d arrived early at One Police Plaza when talk of a hastily thrown together press conference was still in the rumor stage.
     Crossing her legs, she resettled her purse on the floor. A green knit dress ignited the gold in her hazel eyes and contrasted
     with her bright red lips, only recently collagen enhanced for the second time. Zoe took considerable time with her appearance.
     Nature had been generous, but she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
    The press conference was going to be well attended. Extra folding chairs were being brought in. Everyone was hungry for the
     latest on the murders now that the count was up to three. She turned and spotted Ralph Gunner, from
Left Hand,
a gay-activist rag. She blew him a quick kiss.
    The hall quieted as Phil Doss came up to the podium. Doss was the typical media-relations flunky who didn’t have a straight
     answer for anything. He droned on for a few minutes, then introduced the chief of detectives. Zoe didn’t especially like Lincoln
     McCauley, but she admired his grit. Men with far greater gifts had failed in the system. Long hours in a gym had squeezed
     the chief into the confines of a dark designer suit, but his beefy face seemed to explode from the starched collar of his
     shirt. He remained a relic, a throwback to the decades when the Irish had predominated in the hierarchies of the New York
     City Police.
    The chief read a tersely prepared statement, his voice holding an edge that was more than bureaucratic irritation. He warned
     against the press corrupting what he called “the purity of the investigation.” Then flatly refusing questions, he passed the
     mike to James