CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Miles adjusted his seatbelt as Vic navigated through the morning traffic toward the FBI field office.
While they’d been speaking with Lawson, Vic had received a text informing her that the security footage from Petals they were clustered behind yellow tape, their cameras capturing every detail for morning broadcasts.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” Vic said, pulling up to the police perimeter. “Three attacks in less than seventy-two hours. The media's going to be all over this.”
Miles surveyed the scene as they showed their credentials to the perimeter officer.
At least twenty emergency responders were visible, from uniformed police to hazmat specialists in protective gear.
The depot's employees had been evacuated to a parking lot across the street, where they stood in small groups discussing the morning's events.
The entire block resembled the controlled chaos of an anthill, bodies swarming everywhere.
“Agents?”
They both turned and saw a fire captain approaching them as they entered the secured area. “Feds, right?
“Yes,” Vic said, making quick introductions as they kept moving.
“I'm Captain Morrison. We've got the scene contained, but the bus interior is still showing elevated chemical readings.”
“Was anyone affected other than the driver?” Miles asked.
“Doesn’t seem like it. We got lucky on that one.”
“What kind of readings are we looking at?” Miles asked.
“Trace amounts of fluorine gas, consistent with your previous crime scenes. The concentration has dropped significantly since the initial release, but we're maintaining protective protocols until the area is completely clear.”
Vic opened the trunk of their car and pulled out two oxygen masks. “I put these in here last night… yanked them from the office,” she said, handing one to Miles. “Figured we might need them if this killer struck again.”
Miles was impressed by her foresight. Vic's experience with serial cases was showing in the details, her ability to anticipate needs before they became critical.
They donned the protective equipment and followed Captain Morrison toward the maintenance bay where Bus 479 sat with its doors open.
The vehicle looked normal from the outside, just another city bus waiting for its morning route.
But the body beside it told a different story.
Robert Hahn lay crumpled on the concrete floor near the bus's front door, his Metro uniform still neat except for the coffee stain spreading from an overturned thermos.
His face was pale and his eyes were closed, but there were no obvious signs of violence or struggle.
Like the previous victims, he appeared to have been overwhelmed by the gas before he could escape or call for help.
“Same pattern as the school and flower shop,” Vic observed, photographing the scene. “Sophisticated gas delivery, victim found alone, no witnesses to the actual attack.”
Miles frowned as he stepped around the body.
He climbed aboard the bus, his breath loud and warm in the mask.
The interior looked exactly like any other city bus—rows of seats, handrails, destination signs, advertising placards.
But the faint chemical smell lingering in spite of the ventilation suggested the presence of something deadly.
He found the delivery device quickly, tucked beneath the driver's seat exactly where he'd expected it to be. The ventilation system on a bus wouldn’t quite work due to the small, constrained space.
The metal cylinder was identical to the systems they'd found at the previous crime scenes, complete with timer mechanism and remote activation capability.
Wires led to a small digital display that was currently blank.
“Here it is,” Miles called to Vic, pointing to the device. “Same design as the others.”
Vic joined him in examining the dispersal system, both of them documenting its position and configuration. “Look for another letter,” Vic said.
Miles searched the area around the driver's seat and found several folded pages tucked behind the device, exactly as they'd discovered at the previous locations. They were folded neatly, the action done with great care. He extracted the papers carefully and spread them on a nearby seat.
The handwriting was the same precise script they'd seen before, but the content was even more disturbing than the previous manifestos. Miles read the opening paragraph with growing alarm:
“Robert Hahn represented the ultimate vector of molecular contamination, breathing poisoned air for eight hours daily and then exhaling that corruption into confined spaces where innocent passengers were trapped.
His lungs were saturated with carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxides, and particulate matter that he spread throughout the city's transportation system. Each breath he took absorbed additional toxins, each breath he exhaled contaminated others.”
The killer's paranoia was escalating beyond simple concerns about synthetic chemicals.
Now they were targeting people for the air they breathed, the unavoidable exposure that came from living and working in an urban environment.
It was like reading the letters of someone who was slowly losing their mind.