Del knew that heroin was a respiratory depressant that impacted the breathing function of the brain. The foam cone formed around a person’s nose and mouth from pulmonary edema fluid mixing with air in the lungs as the person’s respiration and heartbeat slowed.
Funk let out a held breath. “But with the bodies from the shooting the other night . . . We’re up to our eyeballs at the moment. It could be a while.”
Del reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny pack containing what looked like sugar. “I understand you’re busy and I appreciate everything you’re doing. I’m hesitant, but I have another favor to ask. Can you get someone to take a look at this, tell me anything about it?”
“Where’d you get that?” Faz asked.
“Allie’s bedroom.”
“I thought you sent everything to the crime lab,” Faz said.
“I did,” Del said. “This was just crap I scooped up.”
“Shit, Del.”
“Take it easy. It was just stuff on the table, not in the bag. Remnants.”
Funk took the bag and considered the contents. “Definitely not black tar.”
Del knew that Mexican drug cartels had a market on the West Coast and supplied black tar heroin—so called because it looked like roofing tar and was often packaged in plastic paper. Southeast Asia supplied a heroin called China white, which resembled cocaine and had a market on the East Coast and in Vancouver, British Columbia.
“It looks like China white,” Funk said, examining the contents through the clear bag. “But I’ve never seen it out here. If this was in your niece’s room, it would be highly unusual, and potentially problematic.”
“Why?” Faz asked.
Funk set down the bag. He looked like the wheels were spinning. “New York had a problem sometime last year with China white. They had a number of overdose deaths all within a short time of each other and all from roughly the same area. The ER rooms detected it and got the word out on the street. Eventually they determined the deaths were from a very pure heroin cut with fentanyl.”
“What’s fentanyl?” Faz asked.
“It’s a powerful synthetic painkiller sometimes used to cut heroin. The two in combination can be a potent high. They can also be lethal. Black tar, because of its consistency, is very difficult to cut with anything.” Funk held up the bag. “This stuff? We don’t see this out here.”
Del was trying to process the information, how Allie could have gotten her hands on something like China white. “Can you tell from an autopsy if the person used one or the other?”
“No,” Funk said. “Both show up on toxicology reports as morphine. The best way to know is by the product. If you found that in your niece’s bedroom, I’d say that’s what killed her.”
“Has the media called yet about the overdoses last night?” Faz asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“We need to get the word out on the street,” Faz said to Del.
“That might be the last thing we need right now,” Funk said.
“Why?” Faz asked. “People are dying.”
“We get word out of a highly potent heroin going around and it’s like moths to the light. Addicts will go looking for it. Overdoses are the best advertisement out there for the quality of the product. We might have a lot more bodies.”
“But it’s got to be bad for business—for the suppliers, to have their customers dying,” Faz said.
“One might think that, but their customers are statistically going to die anyway,” Funk said. “And, unfortunately, there’s no shortage of new ones.”
CHAPTER 11
Tracy arrived at the vehicle processing room at the Washington State Crime Lab on Airport Way early Wednesday morning. It had been another short night for sleep. After working the night shift until midnight, and arriving home after 1:00 a.m., she’d slept a few hours, then got up early to meet Joe Jensen. She’d beaten Kins, who was also burning the candle at both ends. He’d called her cell to say he was dropping off his kids at school. They were both receiving overtime for working double shifts, which had been nice when Tracy was young and single, but now she’d trade the extra money for extra sleep and she knew Kins would too.
TCI was going over the car as Tracy entered the room. Joe Jensen greeted her, but not with a smile. He frowned and shook his head. “Somebody wiped down the car, inside and out,” he said.
“What do you mean? Are you telling me they’re not finding any prints?”
“They’re finding prints, just not where they would expect to find them.” He walked her over to the car. “For instance, the outside door handle on the driver’s side is clean.”
“What about the air bag?” Tracy asked.
Jensen slowly shook his head. “None.”
“None meaning somebody wiped it down, or none meaning it didn’t pick up any of the driver’s DNA?”
“Someone wiped it down. We’re detecting the presence of isopropyl alcohol, which is common in just about every alcohol wipe out there.”
Tracy blew out a burst of air. “Did they find any wipes in the car?”
“No,” Jensen said.
“So we know it was deliberate.”
“And sophisticated,” Jensen said, “which is why I’m having the air bag processed anyway, along with the blood on the front seat, though that will take a couple weeks—”
“You found blood in the car?” Tracy asked.
“Driver’s side. It’s a cloth seat. Whoever tried to clean it up couldn’t get it all,” Jensen said.
Tracy walked to the driver’s door, which was open, and peered inside at the seat. “Kins and I spoke to the owner of the car last night. He had a cut on his forehead, just at the hairline.”
“Did he say how he cut it?”
“He said he hit a corner of a cabinet door in the kitchen.” She thought out loud. “The problem is, it’s his car. He could come up with any number of excuses for his blood being inside it.”
“Maybe,” Jensen said. He grinned. “But this might be more difficult for him to explain.” He held up a store receipt in a sealed evidence bag. It looked to have been pressed flat after being crumpled. “We found it in the back, between the seat and one of the rear doors. It’s from a convenience store in Renton.” Jensen handed it to Tracy. “The person bought two Red Bull energy drinks on Monday night, at eight thirty-eight p.m.”
“Most of those convenience stores now have video,” Tracy said.
“If this one does, we may very well have a visual of the owner . . .”
Tracy finished Jensen’s thought. “And if it’s Trejo on the convenience store videotape, that blood in the car becomes a lot more relevant.”
Tracy picked up Kins at Police Headquarters, and they drove to the convenience store, which was just off an Interstate 5 exit in Renton. Graffiti covered the concrete masonry wall facing the parking area, along with faded and torn concert posters. Along the front of the building, the stucco and the aluminum framing around the doors and windows had become soiled with soot from the thousands of cars passing on the freeway.
Hovering above the building, a green billboard with a white arrow directed drivers to a marijuana dispensary on the opposite street corner.
“One-stop shopping,” Kins said, eyeing the sign. “You can buy pot, cross the street, and buy Cheetos, frozen burritos, and a gallon of Coke.”
“Or energy drinks,” Tracy said.