The Comic Book Murders

Characteristic kills

 

1. Mr. Freeze

 

His eyes jumped when the spray hit his face and his hands flew to his throat in panic. He screamed as he clawed at the crystals in a desperate struggle for survival. Another blast blanketed his eyeglasses and filled his mouth and he wheezed and gurgled and violently gasped for air.  He turned in terror as another burst wrapped his head in a shroud, stopping him dead in his tracks. With one last cry, he reached out with his hand and collapsed to the ground and began to shake. A moment later he was still.

    The figure in the mask bent down, put an ear to the fallen man's chest, and listened. Momentarily it raised its head, glanced around, then listened again. Removing its heavy gloves, it hurriedly went through the horizontal man's pockets, rolled him over, pulled out his wallet, and slipped off his watch. The masked figure then stood up and studied its prey as it slipped the gloves back on. Shaking its head, it turned, and walked away.

 

"Carbon dioxide, as any schoolboy knows, is exchanged for oxygen in the lungs, and both are carried in the blood by hemoglobin. If the concentration of CO2 increases, it displaces oxygen and asphyxia, or oxygen deprivation, results. This, in turn, can cause a lack of oxygen in the body, which if not corrected rapidly leads to unconsciousness and possible brain damage." The coroner turned to Frank Callahan. "Detective, this poor fellow died of shock, by a heart attack. You might say, he was done in by a fire extinguisher."

    So that's what it was. Callahan hadn’t known what to make of it when he and Barry arrived at the crime scene. He had been roused from his bed by a LAPD dispatcher’s call around midnight, then dressed in the half light spilling in from the bathroom, so as not to disturb his live-in lover, Carlton, or Car as everybody called him. Twenty minutes later, Callahan had met his longtime partner, Detective Barry Jennings, on a residential street in Brentwood, a small city in West LA. The victim's face was a train wreck. The skin was red, bloated, and blistered, and crawling with purple splotches. Deep black circles framed his eyes like those of a panda.

    "Gee, he looks like he's been out in the sun too long," Barry said. "Got himself a real bad burn. Whatta ya think happened?"

    "I don't know,” Callahan said. “The couple who found him said a dog on a leash led them back to the body. I'd say the vic was taking the pooch for a walk and the assailant attacked him with some kind of chemical, threw something in his face."

    "Yeah, like a sunlamp."

    Callahan looked at his partner and blew out a burst of air.

    Barry grinned. "Sorry."

    "Like I said, it looks like the killer attacked him with some kind of chemical. Only thing is, there doesn't seem to be any trace of it. His clothing is perfectly dry. There's no residue or puddles. No other evidence except for a tube of lip balm that could belong to the victim, the killer, or neither one." Callahan bent down and took a whiff of the body. "There's no smell that I can tell. It's a real puzzle."

    "What about the blood stains around his mouth?" Barry said. "Maybe he was strangled. That's a classic sign of burking, right?"

    "Possible, I guess. But it's hard to tell with the charred skin around his neck. And look at his clothes, at his shirt and tie. There doesn't seem to be any sign of a struggle. Plus his fingernails look clean."

    "Hey, Frank, we got that neighbor who thinks he heard something."

    Callahan turned and saw an elderly man in a bathrobe standing with the watch commander. They were just outside the glare of the forensic lights. He and Barry ambled over.

    "Frank, this is Mr. Christopoulos,” Sergeant Marcos, the watch commander said. “He lives in the apartment building right behind us. Here where the homicide took place. Mr. Christopoulos, this is Detective Callahan."      

    Callahan shook the man's hand. "What did you hear?"

    "Well I was watching a movie on TV when I heard a lot of screaming and a dog barking. I went to the window but I can't see out here on the street. It didn't last long, so I paid it no mind and went back to the movie."

    "What time was that?"

    "The movie started at eleven. I would say it was about eleven fifteen, eleven twenty, something like that. Funny coincidence."

    "How's that?"

    "The movie I was watching was a murder mystery."

    "Yeah, pretty grim," Callahan said. "Anything else?"

    Mr. Christopoulos tapped his thick moustache. "No, that's about it."

    "Thanks, sir, for coming forward. I appreciate it."

 

"Look at his face," the coroner said. "Note the black areas of necrosis, the blood blisters, the scabbing―all indications of severe frostbite or burn. He looks like he was left out on a mountaintop someplace. Carbon dioxide gas released from a steel cylinder, such as a fire extinguisher, is extremely cold. Merely getting some on your skin can cause blisters. And this poor guy looks like he took a bucketful."

    Callahan nodded. He could smell the rank odor of human waste that always seemed to be present in autopsy rooms. "Time of death?" he said.

    "My guess is he went into cardiac arrest in a matter of minutes. When I got to the crime scene there was no sign of livor mortis so I figured he had been dead a couple of hours. I would say somewhere between eleven and eleven-thirty p.m."

 

"Well the time of death fits with the Greek guy's statement," Callahan said. He picked up his coffee from his desk. The West LAPD on Butler Avenue was quiet this time of the day.

    "What kind of a crazy would assault someone with a fire extinguisher?" Barry said.

    "Beats me. Poor guy. Gets home from a movie, takes the dog out for a walk, and boom, he’s dead, just like that."

    “What kind of a salesman was he?”

    “According to his wife, Cummings sold office equipment, file cabinets, chairs, stuff like that.”

    "You think it was a simple 211?"

    "I don't know. Why go to all the trouble of frosting a guy to lift his wallet when you could just rob him with a heater or a blade? You'd have to be some kind of lunatic to do that."

    "Sounds like Mr. Freeze."

    "Who?"

    "Mr. Freeze. He was this character in Dick Tracy who was screwy. He wore this cold suit, see, and he killed his vics with a gadget called a cold gun. Froze them into a solid block of ice. He was some kind of scientist or something."

    "Mr. Freeze, huh?"

    "Yeah, he was an expert in pychogenetics or something like that. You know, something that had to do with temperatures."

    "You mean cryogenics?"

    "Yeah, that's it. He wore this neat cryogenic suit like an astronaut's to keep his body temperature below freezing. He had been in this industrial accident and he needed to stay cold to survive. His wife had some kind of a terminal disease. He wanted to freeze her, to preserve her until they came up with a cure. As a kid―"

    Callahan put up his hand. "Okay, enough Mr. Freeze already." He stroked his long chin. "I wonder if our killer wore something like that to protect himself."

    "You mean like a cold suit?"

    "No, like a gas mask. Then again, it was outside so he probably didn't need it. I don't know. Maybe we should talk to somebody."

    "You mean like a firefighter?"

    "Yeah, or maybe the people who make fire extinguishers. There's also the guys who go around and inspect them to make sure they're working properly. They should know about them."

    "And they have access to them too," Barry said. "Maybe we could find out who made the one the killer used and how you go about getting one."

    "You buy them."

    "Or steal them, I bet. Gee, maybe the killer was hard up and couldn't afford a heater. Maybe it was just a simple case of robbery after all."

   

"Yeah, CO2 tanks are one of our most common types of extinguishers,” the fire captain said, nodding. “They're good for offices and homes because they don't make a mess or leave a lot of residue. They're especially good for electrical fires like computers and stereos because they don't damage them like some of the chemical foams do."

    "Could one be used to kill somebody?" Callahan said.

    "A CO2?" The captain leaned against the fire truck and mulled it over. "It might in a small space like a closet or something." He shook his head. "But not outside as you described."

    "How about knocking somebody unconscious outside?"

    "It could. Even so it would have to be a fairly large cylinder. They discharge very quickly. It could burn you pretty good though."

    "Yeah, we've seen what they can do, haven't we, Barry? How long do they last if you don't use them?"

    "It varies. Most  come with a warranty of about five years. That is if they're properly serviced."

    "Any problem with people swiping them?" Barry said.

    "Some. That and vandalism, especially in schools and public places where they're out in the open. In fact, some companies make what is called a theft stopper. It sounds an alarm if the unit is moved from its proper place."

 

"I see where Captain Cain, the smoke eater we talked to the other day, got into a little fracas with another firefighter." Callahan passed the newspaper to Barry, who sat on a chair beside Callahan’s desk. "Yeah, a guy who was dismissed for insubordination came in and threatened him with a handgun. But some of the other smoke eaters jumped him and took the piece away from him."

    Barry's eyes ran down the story. After he finished, he folded the paper and set it down. "Geez, they're the worse kind, these guys who get fired from their jobs. Maybe we should pick this bozo up for questioning, Frank. Maybe he's pissed, has a hard on for the whole world, and wants to do everybody in. He would know all about fire extinguishers, wouldn't he? Just as the other firefighter did."

    Callahan blew out a puff of air. "C'mon, partner, get real. We can't pick up every ex-firefighter or everybody who gets fired from their job. We'd be picking up half the country."

    "You got anything better, wise guy?"

    "Well, no."

    "Then let's do it. What do we have to lose?"  

 

"Insubordination, my a*s," Joe Rickenbacher said. He was a husky guy with a bald head, an earring, and an attitude. "Cain just had it in for me, that’s all. He criticized every frigging thing I did. He was never satisfied. He’s a real a*s kisser, an everything-by-the-book kind of guy. No sense of humor, you know what I mean?"

    "Times said you were dismissed for insubordination and conduct unbecoming a member of the LAFD. It said you had a confrontation with Captain Cain during which you cursed him and physically threatened him. I'm sure you've read the story." Callahan held up the newspaper. He and Barry were seated across from the suspect in an interrogation room at the West LA police station.

    "I don't care what the Times said. It didn't say I was railroaded, did it? Or that the board violated due process by firing me without a hearing? Or that my first amendment rights to freedom of speech were violated by punishing me for expressing myself to a superior officer? They didn't print that in their rag, did they?"

    "What was the confrontation about?"

    "Like I told you, Cain was on my case. He had it in for me. I didn't like him and I told him so. He’s a nitpicker, a control freak, a real shitface."

    "He says he told you time and time again not to watch porn on the department's computers or to smoke pot at the fire station. He also said you were in constant dress violation by wearing that earring with your firefighting gear. He claims you dogged it on fire runs, putting other firefighter’s lives in jeopardy."

    "That's all a bunch of crap. Oh I might have watched some porn a couple of times and had a joint or two. The rest of it is pure bullshit and he knows it."

    "Where were you a week ago Saturday night about eleven o'clock?"

    "What do you want to know that for? How come you cops are always harassing innocent people?"

    "Just answer the question. Do you know where you were?"

    "I was at home watching the tube."

    "Do you have any witnesses, anyone who can confirm that?"

    "Yeah, my wife and kids. Hey, what the hell's going on? Are you talking about the guy that was killed with the CO2 tank in Brentwood? I didn't have anything to do with that. Holy smoke!"

    "I didn't say you did, chum. I'd say you were in deep enough s**t as it is. Threatening someone with a deadly weapon is a felony. It could get you a nice vacation in the slammer."

 

"So whatta ya think?" Barry said. He shook a generous amount of salt and then some pepper on his dog, put it in his mouth, and crunched it. "Hey, that's good kraut," he said.

    "I don't know," Callahan said. "His wife claims he was home the night of the homicide. But she also said he went out for some pizza, although she wasn't sure exactly what time."

    "He did have a motive, getting fired from his job like that." Barry went back to his dog.

    Callahan watched a pretty girl rattle by on rollerblades as the traffic behind her on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica moved in a steady stream. "Motive? Good grief, Barry, if every guy who got fired from his job went out and killed somebody, there wouldn't be anybody left."

    "Maybe so. Yet I still think we ought to keep our eye on that bird. I don't like him. He has a frigging attitude."

    "Well that doesn't make him a killer. And why go to all the trouble of assaulting someone with a fire extinguisher? He has no connection to the deceased that I could find. It just doesn't add up."

    Barry took a drink of his soda and wiped off his mouth. "Maybe we're making too much out of it, over thinking, you know what I mean? Like I said before, it might just be a random 211. A guy's hard up for some cash, grabs a fire extinguisher, knocks the guy cold, and lifts his wallet. As simple as that."

    "Weird," Callahan said. "But possible, I guess."