The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "I don't need you," Dawson says firmly after a moment. "You think I can't solve a case without your help, but you're wrong. I'm going to get to the bottom of this fire, and I'm going to do it alone."

  "I know you are," I reply, still watching as the visitor knocks on the window of the neighboring house. "And if you don't," I add, "you can keep switching cases until you find a nice easy one you can solve in a few hours. I'm sure that'd give you a nice ego boost, huh?"

  "Katherine -"

  "Meanwhile," I add, not letting him get a word in, "maybe you should be paying more attention to things like that."

  "What?" He turns and looks over at the woman standing in the next yard.

  "Hey," the woman says, speaking into her phone, "it's me, I'm here like you wanted. Where the hell are you, Patricia? I came all the way out here and now you're standing me up?"

  "You've got an extra female body in the morgue," I say, turning to Dawson, "and now it looks like the female neighbor's done a vanishing act. If I were you, I'd think about joining those dots." Without waiting for him to thank me for the help, I turn and head back toward my car. Dawson's in a weird mood today, and I feel as if I'm banging my head against a brick wall. If I'm going to get his attention again - hell, the attention of the whole department - I'm gonna have to make a breakthrough in at least one of these cases, even though technically I'm assigned to neither.

  By the time I reach my car, I've already come up with a plan.

  John

  Checking my watch, I see that it's exactly one minute past twelve, which means that I'm being kept waiting. I specifically told the customer that he had to be here at twelve o'clock precisely, and now there's no sign of him. I'm starting to think that he's going to be a no-show; it happens sometimes, when people get scared or manage to convince themselves that they're being set up. Still, I had a feeling that this particular customer was going to come through, so I'll be disappointed if he simply vanishes. He sounded pleasingly desperate on the phone.

  "Any sign?" Leonard asks as he comes out from the office, with a cup of treacly coffee in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper in the other.

  "I think we might be getting stood up again," I reply calmly. "Either that, or he's got lost along the way."

  "You sure you don't wanna come inside for a bit?" Leonard asks. "There's no point standing out here in the sun." He pauses. "Aren't you hot in that suit? I mean, Jesus, man, would it kill you to wear a t-shirt for once?"

  "I'm fine," I reply, as I spot a tell-tale cloud of dust in the distance.

  "You need a haircut?" he adds. "I've been practicing on some of the assets, but I'd like to have a go on a more willing customer. I'm seriously thinking about setting up a little salon once we've cashed out of this joint."

  I turn to him. "Seriously?" I ask.

  "Everyone's gotta have a dream," he replies. "What's yours?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but to be honest, I don't really know what to say.

  "Someone's coming," he continues, looking over at the gate.

  "I think the meeting might be back on," I reply, following his gaze and spotting a car heading along the dirt road.

  "Same procedure as last time?" Leonard asks.

  "Same procedure as every time," I tell him as the car bumps along the road and finally comes to a halt just a few meters from me. I watch as an unkempt and nervous-looking man climbs out of the driver's-side door, and as he turns and looks back the way he came, it's clear that he's worried he might have been followed, or perhaps that he's being set up. He looks up at the sky, almost as if he thinks a helicopter's gonna swoop down.

  "Looks jittery," Leonard whispers.

  "Welcome," I say, stepping toward the man and reaching out to shake his hand. "You're a little late, but we can let that slide for once. I understand that it can be hard to find this place, since we've been very careful not to appear on any maps. It's not easy to be invisible in the modern world."

  "I've got your deposit," the man says, ignoring the offer of a handshake; instead, he pulls a brown envelope from his jacket pocket and throws it at my feet. "The rest of the money's somewhere else, though. It's a long way from here, so don't try anything. I've taken precautions."

  "If you don't have the full amount," I reply calmly, "we can't conclude our business."

  "I want to see what I'm getting first."

  "That's acceptable," I tell him, smiling at the realization that despite everything he's just said, he clearly has the rest of the money stashed in his car. He's trying to act tough and smart, but I can see through the mask. "I just want you to remember that we're not running a charity here. Our service has a price, and that price is non-negotiable."

  "I'm armed," the guy replies. "Don't think I'm defenseless!"

  "Would you like to follow me?" I reply. "There's no need for us to stand on ceremony. I'd like to show you the assets at our disposal. I've already picked out one that I think will suit you perfectly, but of course the final decision is yours and yours alone."

  "You know what I want," he mutters, still very much on edge. "If you've got it, I'll go fetch the rest of the money from the car."

  "I thought the remainder of the payment was a long way from here?" I reply, smiling at his slip-up.

  "Just show me," he says firmly.

  "Leonard," I say, turning to my erstwhile colleague. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to lead the way." As Leonard heads over to the main shed, I gesture for the customer to follow. "I should warn you," I continue, "that what you're about to see might seem rather disturbing. You indicated on the phone that you wanted to understand how our operation works, and I fully appreciate your need to have confidence in the product we offer, but it's very important that you -"

  "Just get on with it," he says, clearly not in the mood to take advice.

  "As you wish," I reply quietly.

  Up ahead, Leonard starts unlocking the barn.

  "Stop here," I tell the customer, before turning to him. Moans and wails are starting to drift toward us from inside the barn, and I can see that the customer is becoming concerned. "I'm afraid you can't be allowed to look directly into the containment facility, but my colleague will shortly bring the selected specimen out for you to inspect. I'm sure you'll understand that it's better if you don't get too close." I pause for a moment, trying to hide the fact that I'm amused by his look of fear. "There's really no need to worry," I add eventually. "Our system is completely -"

  "Holy fuck," the customer says, his eyes widening as he takes a step back.

  Turning, I see that Leonard has returned with the asset whose identity is going to be sold. Naked and covered in his own filth, the male figure stumbles a little as he's led by the chain attached to his neck; Leonard gives him a solid kick that sends him sprawling across the ground, and the asset lets out a pained groan. Althougg his back is crooked and misshapen, this particular asset was lucky to only sustain a fracture rather than a full break: he can't move fast, but unlike many of the others, he can still walk. I should have broken his back properly, but I guess I can be a little sentimental sometimes.

  "What the hell kind of operation have you got going on here?" the customer asks, his voice filled with panic.

  "Meet Tommy Symonds," I reply with a smile. "Twenty-two years old, son of a drug addict mother and a male whose identity, I'm afraid, was known not even to the bitch who incubated his seed. Evidently she was fond of little assignations behind bars, and I believe she simply lost track of the various men with whom she enjoyed carnal relations. Tommy has spent his entire life here with us at this facility, although he has attended a small number of appointments with doctors and educational specialists. Just enough to establish his identity, you understand, and to get him listed in various state and federal databases."

  "What's this guy got to do with me?" the customer asks.

  "Your hundred thousand dollars is going to buy Mr. Symonds' entire life and identity," I tell him, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a small brown en
velope, from which I remove a passport and various identity cards, along with a birth certificate and various other records. "As you can see, you and Mr. Symonds share a reasonable likeness. You'll have to part your hair on the left side, at least until you get new copies of some of these documents. I generally advise customers to make themselves look as much like the original individual as possible, and then to gradually revert to their preferred appearance over a number of years. I appreciate that this is inconvenient, but it's the safest way to proceed."

  "But..." He pauses, clearly shocked by the situation. "Won't someone notice that this Tommy Symonds guy is missing?"

  "As I explained," I continue, "he has spent his entire life at this facility. He has no friends, and his mother hasn't seen him since the night she gave him to me. We have scores of men here, and we endeavor to match each new customer to an asset whose appearance offers some promise of approximation. After all, you're going to need to get your documents renewed at some point. His name and basic details are in various government databases, although they have no record of his DNA or fingerprints. To all intents and purposes, you are Tommy Symonds now. Never forget that."

  "So I take his identity?" he asks. "And, what, does he take mine?"

  I shake my head. "No," I tell him. "He won't be needing it."

  "This is fucked up," the customer replies, with a sense of awe in his voice.

  "Nevertheless," I reply, "I think it's time for us to conclude today's business. Will you be happy to take this new identity?"

  He pauses to examine the documents for a moment. "I need a new name," he mutters. "Fuck, man, I've messed up my life. The cops want me and... It's either this or..."

  We stand in silence for a moment.

  "Then this is your only sure-fire way to acquire a whole new identity," I point out. "There's nothing fake about Tommy Symonds. He's a real person with real credentials that have been carefully built up over the years. Those credentials are now yours, and since they're real, there's no way you can be caught out. If you choose to take this opportunity, that is."

  "Fine," he replies, "I'm in. Let's do this thing."

  "Of course," I say. "There's just the small matter of the payment."

  While he heads over to his car, I look across at Tommy Symonds and see the look of hopeless confusion in his eyes. He has no idea what's happening to him, and since I never bothered to teach most of the assets how to speak properly, he can't even try to communicate; he just stares at me with a look of hatred, perhaps mixed with fear, as I smile back at him. I still remember the night I acquired Tommy. In fact, I remember the night I acquired every one of the assets, and there's a small part of me that'll be sorry to see him go. Then again, there's no room for sentimentality in this business.

  "One hundred grand," the customer says as he comes back over to me, dumping a hold-all at my feet. "You can count it if you want. It's all there, minus the deposit I already gave you."

  "I have no doubt," I reply, before turning to Leonard. "I think the deal is concluded," I say calmly.

  Reaching down to his waist, Leonard pulls a large hunting knife from his belt. After putting one arm firmly around Tommy's chest, he slices the knife straight through the unfortunate young man's neck, and although Tommy struggles, he's powerless to fight back as blood pours from the wound. It's a rather disgusting sight, and I still remember how I flinched when I first saw it happen many years ago, back when I was a young man and such things disturbed me.

  "What the fuck's he doing?" the customer shouts.

  "There can only be one Tommy Symonds," I reply calmly, watching as the original Tommy struggles in Leonard's grip like a fish floundering on dry land, eventually vomiting a little blood. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to risk any confusion." As the words leave my mouth, Tommy's lifeless body slumps down to the ground. With a smile, I turn to the customer. "You are now Tommy Symonds. Whatever reason you have for abandoning your old identity, you can rest assured that you now have a whole new life. As long as you take a few minor precautions and ensure that you gradually change the appearance of Tommy in official photos, there's no reason why you shouldn't live out a long and happy existence with your new identity."

  "And you... grow these guys here?" he replies. "What do you do, buy them as babies and then raise them until you can sell their identities?"

  "I think our business is concluded," I say calmly. "There's no need for any further discussion, so perhaps, Mr. Symonds, you should turn around and get out of here, and focus on assuming your new identity. Forget about this place. As far as you're concerned, you were never here. Remember, if anything happens to us, your new name might be at risk."

  Clearly needing no further encouragement, the customer turns and hurries back toward his car. Like everyone who comes here to cut a deal, he seems genuinely stunned by the process that we use, and I guess he'd rather get as far away as possible from the gritty reality of our operation. As he drives away, I reach down and pick up the bag of money; unzipping the top, I can't help but smile as I see the wads of cash stuffed inside. Even after all this time, the sight gives me a thrill.

  Glancing over at the body of Tommy Symonds, I'm momentarily struck by the memory of that night, twenty-two years ago, when I paid his mother a thousand dollars in order to acquire him. He was one of my first purchases, and in a way I feel that his sale marks some kind of important moment. Still, it's important not to be sentimental or nostalgic. I just need to focus on the money. After all, money is the whole reason I started doing this in the first place.

  Without money, a family can't survive.

  "Clean that mess up," I tell Leonard, before turning and heading to the office so I can count the cash.

  Katherine Shaw

  "I know this must be difficult for you," I say slowly, keeping my voice low and trying to sound calm and reassuring, "but we need to work quickly if we're going to catch the people who did this to you. Your answers could save other people from the pain you've gone through."

  It's a little after midday and I'm sitting in a room at the hospital where some of the freed women are being looked after. Since they showed up at the Wash house a couple of nights ago, disoriented and injured after crawling from wherever they were being held, they've been checked and examined over and over. It's clear that they're all in a delicate and vulnerable state, which is why investigators are taking their time and being very cautious as they try to get them to open up about their ordeal. Unfortunately, I don't have time to be quite so patient, which is why I bluffed my way through the door and snagged a quick sit-down with one of the less traumatized women.

  "Let's start with a simple question," I continue, glancing briefly at the door and seeing to my relief that no-one seems to be coming to interrupt us just yet. "Can you confirm your name for me?" I look down at the paperwork I 'borrowed' from one of the nurses.

  The woman stares at me, with pure fear in her eyes. She's flat on her back in a hospital bed, and thanks to a series of old fractures in her spine, she's completely paralyzed from the waist down. It's a miracle that she managed to crawl away from wherever she was being held.

  "Angela," I say after a moment. "You told the doctor last night that your name is Angela. Do you know your surname?"

  No reply.

  "Do you know how old you are?"

  Again, no reply.

  "You look like you're about twenty," I continue, trying to sound reassuring, "maybe a year either way. Do you know how long you were held prisoner?"

  She doesn't reply; she just stares at me, as if she's convinced I'm suddenly going to hurt her at any moment.

  "What's your earliest memory?" I ask. "I mean, your absolute earliest memory in your entire life... Can you think back to when you were younger?"

  Nothing.

  "You can understand me, right?" I wait for an answer. "Just nod if you understand the words I'm saying to you."

  She pauses, and then finally, hesitantly, she nods.

  "That's good," I reply with a sm
ile. The truth is, I know I'm bad at this kind of thing. I usually leave Dawson to interview subjects who are in a vulnerable state, and I'm pretty sure my attempts at a reassuring tone are a miserable failure. Still, I have to keep trying. "So why don't we go for a different approach?" I continue. "Why don't you -"

  "Where's Manuel?" she asks suddenly.

  I stare at her.

  "Where's Manuel?" she asks again.

  "Who's Manuel?"

  She looks over at the door, and it's clear that she's starting to panic.

  "If you tell me who Manuel is," I continue, "maybe I can go get him for you." That's a lie, of course, but I need to keep her talking.

  "Manuel hasn't come this morning," she says. "Is he okay?" She turns to me. "He said we'd be okay."

  "Manuel's the man who was holding you prisoner?"

  "He told us to leave."

  "Manuel set you free?"

  She nods.

  "So you didn't escape?" I continue. "You were released on purpose and then, what, just sent to go crawling out into the night?"

  "He told us to leave," she says again. "He told us to hurry, and that someone would help us. Did Manuel send you?"

  "No," I reply calmly, "Manuel didn't send me. In fact, I don't really know who Manuel is. Not yet, anyway, but it sounds like I should find out as quickly as possible, 'cause he sounds like someone who might be able to answer a few questions for me."

  "Manuel's a good man," she replies. "He's much nicer than the other one."

  "The other one?"

  She nods.

  "So there were two?" I wait for an answer. "Two men were holding you in that place, and one of them was Manuel?"

  She nods again.

  "What was the name of the other man?"

  "Albert." She pauses. "I heard them talking sometimes," she continues in a panicky, staccato kind of tone, "even though I don't think I was supposed to. Albert was in charge. He was mean to Manuel. I hated Albert. Sometimes he phoned someone named John. I don't think John was very nice either. Only Manuel was nice."