Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own

by Nathan Senthil

  “I’ll talk to his secretary and give you a call if I get something?”

  “Thank you.” Gabriel shook hands and got up.

  New hope brightened him. The case was not dead in the water anymore. Things were finally starting to move.

  Chapter 7

  April 5, 2019. 01:34 P.M.

  Gabriel maneuvered the Kawasaki between two cruisers in his precinct’s parking lot. Had he just felt a fleeting vibration in his pocket? By the time he got down from the motorcycle and pulled the phone out, it was dead. No charge. He hastened upstairs.

  The phone sprung back to life ten seconds after he plugged it into the charger, and there was a missed call from Steve. Gabriel called him back while the phone was still consuming power. It felt warm against his ear. Please don’t explode.

  “Yes, sir?” Gabriel said.

  “The VP of the college Noah attended is an old friend of mine. I got you a name.”

  Gabriel found himself holding his breath.

  “Jeffery Simmons.”

  “Noah’s classmate?”

  “Also his roomie. And guess what he’s doing now?”

  Gabriel didn’t have to guess. He trusted his instinct.

  “He’s a defense lawyer.”

  “He is.”

  “Brilliant. Did you crosscheck Simmons with Noah’s secretary?”

  “I did. Since our records are computerized, she gave me an exact date when Simmons called here. July 3, 2017.”

  “That’s great.”

  Finding the lead this soon was a remarkable step.

  “Defense lawyers frequently call us, no surprise there. But what distinguished Simmons is that Noah and he didn’t work the same case. In fact, they never faced each other in the courtroom. So he has absolutely no reason to call Noah’s office phone. But he did. At least once.” Steve paused to let it sink in. “It gets better. He is the only defense lawyer who knew Noah before he became a prosecutor. They were friends, so he would be more inclined to help Noah.”

  “It must be Simmons,” Gabriel said to himself, more than to Steve.

  “It could be, but it goes against your theory that Noah wouldn’t involve someone he knows personally.”

  “He didn’t. Simmons is merely a link between him and the killer. Noah must have only wanted a list of people who Simmons helped with expungement. I bet Simmons didn’t even know why Noah had asked for it.”

  “Okay, here goes.” Steve gave Gabriel the details of a law firm Simmons owned. “Be careful, Chase. From what I’ve learned, this guy is pretty good at what he does. Never shies away from suing, even the cops.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Thanks so much.” Gabriel hung up, then unscrewed the inhaler and took a deep breath from it.

  He had no idea how best to approach Simmons, but he knew he should talk to him. Now. He took his keys and headed out, leaving the phone with its charger.

  He’d almost reached the end of the corridor, when he heard his name called out by a familiar voice. He stopped, turned back, and saw a big man waddling towards him like a fat duck. Gabriel closed his eyes and grunted inside.

  Victor Ivansky was Gabriel’s captain. With his bald head, short stature, and round and harsh face, he bore a striking resemblance to Winston Churchill, thus his nickname in the precinct—Bulldog.

  New detectives and officers would say Victor was a fastidious, demanding pain in the ass. But veterans like Gabriel and Peter Lamb knew he was the best supervisor anyone could ask for. Though he wasn’t cordial, he always backed his underlings. Gabriel reported to him from day one. A fourteen-year-long bond.

  “Can it wait, Captain?” Gabriel said, when Victor neared him. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Come with me,” Victor said, as he passed him, and went inside Gabriel’s office.

  From the captain’s stern voice and rigid body language, Gabriel construed what this was about. He wanted to scram, change identity, and escape to Mexico to live the rest of his life in obscurity. But he followed Victor inside like a dutiful calf ready for slaughter.

  He sat in a chair and Victor stood. Without uttering a word, he gave Gabriel the cop eye, the don’t-even-bother-with-your-bullshit eye.

  “Captain, I can explain—”

  “You whacked a Fed? A senior federal agent?”

  “You know me. He didn’t get something he doesn’t deserve.”

  Emma strode into the office, and like déjà vu, Bill tagged along. They were both laughing about something, but stopped when they spotted Gabriel’s company. Victor didn’t turn to the nuisance. His gaze was glued to Gabriel.

  “Do you know that Conor’s mother, Eleanor, used to be a liberal donator to the Republican Party? She also used to own a Fortune 500 company before she fell sick?”

  “I can’t see how that’s relevant,” Gabriel said.

  He knew that Victor meant Conor possessed every kind of power that mattered in the real world—designation, money, and politics. Gabriel had rightly fucked himself this time.

  “You can’t see—” Victor turned to Emma, enraged. “Do you know what your partner did?”

  “Alleged to have punched some—” she coughed, “fuck nugget,” before continuing, “federal agent.”

  Bill snickered.

  “This is not funny, assholes.” Victor’s skin changed to a darker shade of red.

  “Captain, listen to me,” Gabriel said. “This case—”

  “Case,” scoffed Victor.

  “—is not a wild goose chase anymore. I finally got my first break. When I catch this guy, all of this will disappear.”

  “It may, when you do. But right now my hands are tied. I’m ordered to…”

  Gabriel knew what Victor had been ordered to do. He’d expected it. Conor’s promise was coming into effect. They were kicking Gabriel off the force.

  Bill looked clueless, but Emma frowned as it dawned on her.

  “What! That is—”

  Gabriel raised his hand. “It’s all right, Em.” He took his shield and gun and placed them on the table.

  “No freaking way,” Bill said, wide-eyed.

  “What do you want me to do?” Victor spat. “You think I like coming here to suspend my detective? My best one?”

  Suspend? Not dismissed?

  “But Cap—”

  “Stop it, Emma. I can’t overrule their order. I don’t have that kind of power. Only thing I could do is beg them, and I shot my bolt in that avenue but got no mercy.” Victor turned to Gabriel, grinding his teeth. “You think it’s a movie? You didn’t think there would be disciplinary actions?”

  “I didn’t think, per se. I’m sorry.”

  Victor shook his head, appearing sadder than anyone else. Then his gaze settled at Gabriel’s things on the table. “If I tell you not to chase this ghost you’ve been searching, then I’ll be wasting both our time, won’t I?”

  “I can’t let him go around murdering innocent people when I believe I can put an end to it.”

  “Very well, then. Just take care of yourself.”

  “I forgot something, Captain,” Bill said.

  “What?”

  “Just give me a sec.” Bill removed the body camera he’d been wearing and pocketed it. Then he exited the room.

  “What’s that about?” Victor said.

  Gabriel didn’t answer.

  Victor cleared his throat and Gabriel looked at him.

  “Whatever you do, do it fast,” Victor said. “The commissioner is talking to the SAC of the FBI in New York, but he can’t hold them off forever.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “A few days, at most.”

  After spotting the storm of emotions raging inside Gabriel’s eyes, Victor whispered, “I’ll talk to the commissioner. We’ll straighten this mess out, Gabe.”

  “I know you will, Captain. I just hope I get this killer before they arrest me.”

  Everyone was quiet. Even the random hubbub in the precinct paused for a few seconds. Thankfully
the uncomfortable silence was broken when Bill returned. He was dragging along a handcuffed detainee who had a bruise on his right cheek. It looked fresh. Too fresh for comfort.

  “Who the hell is this?” Victor said.

  “We arrested this gentleman for groping schoolgirls in subways, while intoxicated. He wants to make a complaint.”

  “What are you talking about?” Victor said.

  Bill looked at the floor. “He says I pimp-slapped him after cuffing him while he was in his cell. With a serious allegation like that, I think it’s best if I get suspended, too.”

  “You’re screwing with me,” Victor said.

  “No, man. I was sleeping down there,” the man said. “He bursts in, screaming at me to stand up on my ass. Then he cuffed me and hit me proper, like with the back of his hand.”

  “You went there and hit him just now?” Victor said.

  “So says this lowlife, but I plead not guilty,” Bill said. “Guess we will just have to contest this in court.”

  “You crazy, mother…” Victor lifted his eyebrows.

  There was resentment in his voice, but also a hint of amusement.

  “But why, though?”

  “Detective Chase will go after this killer no matter what. So I’m giving him company, because it’s dangerous for him to go alone.”

  Victor’s eyes burned a hole through Bill’s skull. He looked down, like a schoolkid getting reprimanded by the principal.

  “We couldn’t let Detective Chase go on his own,” he muttered. “That’s like betraying him.”

  “I’m not going to take you with me,” Gabriel said, in a calm voice.

  “Talk to yourself.” Emma turned to Victor. “Two is enough, don’t you think, Captain?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The suspensions. Two is enough for a day. You don’t want a third.”

  “I don’t.” Victor eyed Emma.

  “So I don’t think you’d like me to go down there and beat some maggot up like our Billy boy just did. I guess you’ll process my leave request for an indefinite period of time.”

  “What for?” Victor sighed.

  “My girlfriend’s gone to the Alps. Office trip. So I have to take care of my pug.”

  “I can’t put that in the leave form.” Victor made a face as if he’d tasted something sour. “You just… just go. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, Emma—”

  “Shut up, Gabe. I can’t leave you alone with your fanboy here.”

  “Up yours,” Bill said.

  “He may get too close. While he wants to ensure your protection, I want to protect your virginity.”

  Chapter 8

  July 26, 1996. 03:41 P.M.

  Charles opened his arms and Tyrel embraced him. He patted his nephew’s back as a quavering voice whispered, “Thank you,” in his ear. It was the sincerest thing he’d heard in his life. After he let go, Tyrel wiped his eyes on the crook of his arm and walked toward an escalator, never looking back.

  The six-footer ascending the mechanical staircase was a 200-pound quarterback, not the five-foot, ninety-pound meek bully-bait to whom Charles had given asylum five years ago. And the teenager was still growing and gaining.

  When Tyrel’s head disappeared on the floor above, Charles left the boarding area and ambled out of LAX to his Ford Bronco, got in, and lit a cigarette. The nicotine accelerated his heart rate, coursed to the brain, and massaged the backsides of his eyeballs. With misty eyes, Charles looked at the airport and thought about Tyrel.

  What a makeover!

  When his sister called him four and a half years ago and asked if he’d be willing to take Tyrel in, Charles readily agreed. He was happy to oblige because he had never married or had kids. He looked forward to meeting his nephew since he’d seen him only twice before then. Both times, Tyrel’s face had been covered in tears. First, when he was a newborn. The last, at his dad’s funeral. Charles had hoped he would see Tyrel happy in their third encounter.

  But when the boy landed in LA in ’91, Charles had been disappointed. Tyrel was still a dreary child. He would later learn that Tyrel wasn’t only crying, but also screaming and thrashing about on the inside. The scrawny kid was furious with the world, having experienced only its darkest sides. Charles tried to salvage what little heart Tyrel had left, but his trust and innocence were broken beyond redemption.

  The boy was battling some demons that Charles didn’t think he would ever grow out of. Many nights, Charles had been woken up in the middle of his sleep by chilling wails from the second-floor gym, where Tyrel stayed. He’d rush up and cradle the horrified and hyperventilating child. Tyrel would sob and rest on Charles’s lap, murmuring, “Sorry, Dad,” or “Sorry, Sandy,” till he nodded off. The next morning he’d act like nothing happened, either because he thought it would emasculate him, or worse, he didn’t remember the incident.

  Tyrel might have been a crybaby post dusk, but not after dawn. He was a meticulous learner who’d paid utmost attention to the art. He’d trained obsessively and grew up huge and sinewy, an incredible feat to achieve without meat, eggs, or milk protein. During sparring sessions, he could hold his own with senior students and sometimes even beat them.

  But it was not something Charles could be proud of, because he knew it wasn’t self-defense that motivated Tyrel. He fought like he didn’t care about what happened to him as long as he killed the opponent. Tyrel was a zombie that came at you even after you shot it. Not that he didn’t feel pain, but his rage far surpassed it. Other pupils sensed this underlying wrath in spite of Tyrel maintaining a calm demeanor, which only fazed them more.

  Charles had never seen Tyrel happy except when he was fighting, particularly when he was taking on students twice his size.

  If crying in his sleep and living for physical confrontations didn’t raise a red flag, then Tyrel’s engrossment in Aztec war culture surely did.

  When Tyrel stepped into the dojo the first time, he eyed its well-lit banner overhead. In his excitement of having his little nephew over, Charles explained the name to the otherwise disinterested boy.

  “Eagle Knights. They were a group of elite infantrymen in the Aztec Army. Known for their toughness, efficiency, and cruelty. No battle was too daunting for them. Their only purpose in life was war and pillage.”

  On his seventeenth birthday, Charles gave Tyrel a hefty amount as a gift. He didn’t buy weed or booze like a typical teen. Instead he got tattoos of three Aztec pyramids, on his stomach. One big prism on his solar plexus, and two smaller ones directly below it.

  According to history, at the top of the Aztec pyramid was a temple. Unlucky souls, mostly prisoners of war, would be dragged up there and slaughtered in sadistic ways. Victims, regardless of their gender, would be flayed, their still-beating hearts carved out and eaten raw by priests. As if that wasn’t barbaric enough, the priests wore their victim’s bloody skin and danced to the festival music while gallons of libationary blood cascaded down the pyramid’s slope.

  As for school, Tyrel didn’t go there anymore. Mel hadn’t argued when her twelve-year-old had decided he wanted to discontinue education and pursue fighting full-time. Charles wasn’t offered a say in this, so he’d kept quiet.

  Tyrel’s day was divided into four parts: helping Charles maintain the gym, eating, sleeping, and practicing for the remainder—twelve hours a day. He didn’t eat because he was hungry. Tyrel stuffed food in like it was also an exercise. Not for taste, but to supply his body with protein so it could recover from the rigorous training he’d put it through. Since he was a vegan, he needed to eat twice as much. And he did.

  During suppers, Charles noticed Tyrel’s body try to regurgitate food many times, but he’d struggle and keep it in. Charles was heartbroken to see that. Teenagers were supposed to enjoy life, even if they had ambitions. What Tyrel had was more like a mission, and he never stopped thinking about it.

  Perhaps fighting was his destiny. Even the kid’s name meant god of battle. He could b
ecome the next Muhammad Ali, and maybe Charles would read about Tyrel in the papers when he did. But somehow Charles knew he hadn’t created the next legendary fighter. He’d created a miserable monster.

  He started the car and drove out of the airport, praying he was wrong.

  Chapter 9

  July 27, 1996. 01:12 A.M.

  Tyrel exited Raleigh-Durham Airport, stood at the entrance, and took a deep breath. The air was more humid than LA’s, but a lot less polluted.

  Mel was waiting for him, not in her pickup, but in his dad’s car—an ’81 blue Buick Regal with red stripes on the top and sides. Ben had been an avid fan of Richard “The King” Petty—the pearl of North Carolina, and the best NASCAR driver ever. He’d bought a Regal when Petty won Daytona 500 for the seventh time, in 1981, and made history in the same model car.

  Tyrel walked past Mel’s greeting and got in. She followed suit and started the engine. The old but powerful car took them from Airport Boulevard to I-540 in under five minutes.

  Mel began to say something but stopped, her fingers jittering on the wheel in anxious rhythm.

  Then she said, “I left Greg. It’s been three—”

  “Don’t care.”

  Tyrel was resting his head against the window, looking out at a thunderstorm that had formed in the distance and was electrocuting the sky with bluish-white lights, inducing in him a dreadful sense of déjà vu.

  The passing world outside seemed foreign. Tyrel’s eyes and ears had got so used to the hustle and bustle of the big city. The emptiness of the skyline, the darkness of the distant mountains, the sound of buzzing cicadas and yip-howling coywolves—they all felt new.

  “You are a lot bigger. You started to eat chicken?” Mel said, disturbing his peace.

  Tyrel turned and looked at her with distaste. “Why can’t you shut your mouth?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. Jesus! I just meant you look handsome. Maybe you dated some west coast girls and are done with that gay phase.”

  Was she assuming Tyrel liked boys because he couldn’t get girls to like him? And phase? Parents like her were not worth the explanation.