Unlike the files on J. J. Jordon and Brandon Pabon, the one on Tim Featherston bulged with extracts from an extensive medical history. So deciding how best to accomplish the appointed task had been difficult. Virtually every part of Featherston’s body had been repeatedly examined and thoroughly tested, so a medical death would require imagination. Violence was out of the question. That always attracted attention. But one little tidbit buried deep in the background report had provided enough to spark his imagination.Thankfully, Featherston lived alone. His wife left him years ago and his children never visited. No girlfriends or female companionship were noted.
All of which greatly aided in the decision-making process.
He followed the directions in the file and parked on a dirt road about a quarter mile beyond Featherston’s home. Before climbing out he changed shoes, replacing his boots with tennis shoes so that he left no tracks that could be linked back to Barlow’s Trailer Park. He then slipped on the vest, grabbed a canvas bag from the back seat, and slowly backtracked up the dirt road.
Featherston did possess one legitimate medical concern. He was highly allergic to bee stings. The records noted that he’d had two prior incidents of anaphylactic shock, both dealt with immediately with minimal issues. Worldwide, only a tiny portion of people ever experienced full anaphylaxis. Of that, less than 0.3 percent died from it. Epinephrine was the recommended treatment, and Featherston possessed a prescription for a pen, which he refilled each year.
He approached the darkened house and quickly tripped the two locks that secured the back door. The file had indicated that Featherston had no alarm system.Too expensive.And no animals.Too much trouble.
He stepped inside and carefully eased the door shut. The air was cooler and carried the waft of cooked food. He eased toward Featherston’s bedroom, the roar of a window air conditioner masking his approach. The man slept hard, the snoring competing with the window AC. He stepped over, set down the canvas bag he toted, and found the syringe in his pocket.
Pre-loaded. Ready.
Featherston lay on his back, mouth half open. Carefully, he peeled back the comforter and exposed the right leg, sheathed in thin pajamas. He positioned the needle above Featherston’s thigh. The injection point could be anywhere since, as noted in the medical files, over the past two days Featherston had been subjected to several injections.
One more would not matter.
He plunged the needle into the skin and injected the concentrated dose of bee venom. Featherston roused from his sleep, eyes wide, but the venom worked its magic in an instant and the body went limp. The symptoms should be immediate. Throat swelling. Shortness of breath. Low blood pressure.
Featherston’s chest heaved as his breathing went shallow. The injection was meant to speed the allergic process along and leave the right residuals for any competent medical examiner. The venom itself, while reacting with Featherston’s cells, was rapidly metabolizing and being absorbed into the tissue, working its fatal effects, then dissolving away.
A bit more theater was needed, though, for this scenario to become sufficiently innocuous.
He lifted the canvas bag up to the bed. Inside was a clear plastic container. It held four wasps that he’d managed to catch yesterday in preparation for tonight’s visit. He unscrewed the lid and held it in place with one hand, while the other righted the container. He brought it down close to Featherston’s fleshy bare chest and slipped the lid away, hovering the open top above Featherston’s stomach, applying no pressure to leave an outline mark.
The wasps became agitated.
Surely for a variety of reasons, the most important of which was the fact they were contained within a small space and desperately wanted out. Everything around them was a barrier and non-resilient, except the soft flesh.
Which they attacked.
With vigor.
Stinging Featherston repeatedly.
He egged them on by tapping the sides of the container. When they seemed finished stinging he removed the vial and they fluttered away.
The scenario seemed perfect.
A few wasps had made it inside and stung Tim Featherston, who hadn’t been able to defend himself. No time had existed to find hisEpiPen. The wasps should still be flying around the trailer by the time the authorities arrived.
He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for verification.
And it came ten minutes later when the man died.
He turned to leave.
It had been a productive trip.
An aggravating mistake corrected. An expensive workers’ compensation claim eliminated. And a costly medical abuser stopped.
He’d certainly earned his pay for the night.
DAY TWO
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7
7:25A.M.
