by O'Brian Gunn
Shrug. “Had to sling back five shots of bourbon and jack off twice just to get up this morning. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here to not give a damn about this case.” Slipshod grin.
Perry shakes his head and goes back to the file with a pen in hand, underlining there, circling here.
The man in the slightly wrinkled suit plops himself down in the chair on the other side of Perry’s desk. “That family deserved to die.”
Perry scans the page. Stops. He makes a note.
“They helped people, yeah, but they also fucked a lot of people up, put them in hospitals and loony bins. I say they should do the same to all those other genetically awakened motherfuckers.” Sluurp. “Why this, huh? Why did nature, or God, or evolution, or who-the-hell-ever have to throw this shit down at us? Incurable disease wasn’t enough?” Sluurp. “War wasn’t enough? People killing each other over fucking nothing wasn’t enough? Why the hell do we need people who can blow your brains out with a touch?”
“Maybe it’s all going exactly how it’s supposed to.” Perry picks up a highlighter and highlights.
Birkoff breaks off mid-sluurp.
“Heller believes that humans weren’t meant to live as long as we do. Says that all these mass killings and tragedies are nature’s way of getting the course of life back on track and that this flesh and blood existence really isn’t the end for us.” Perry looks up as he speaks, swiveling slightly in his chair. “A few years ago I would’ve just nodded and smiled at him, but now with people doin’ things that belong in a sci-fi book...”
Birkoff sniffs and raises his mug to his mouth and sips silently this time. He smacks his lips. “Still doesn’t mean I’ll help find the blessed saint who did this.” He gestures at the images. “If I do, I’m shaking his hand and giving him a medal.”
Perry uncurls a finger at the badge swinging from a chain around Birkoff’s neck. “That’s a symbol, Detective Birkoff, not a shiny accessory.”
The other man’s eyes widen. “And how long have you been waiting to use that one?” He shakes his head and gets up. “Leave the theatrics to the heroes with actual powers, West.” He leaves.
Detective Torv walks up to Perry’s desk, eyes following the slightly staggering Birkoff. A chuckle and a smile roll across her face. “Why is it that every time I see you you’re having a...disagreement with someone?” She braces herself on the back of the vacant chair.
Perry looks at her, lifts his shoulders, and looks back at the file. “Can’t help it if half the city’s police force is either lazy or apathetic or apathetic about the fact that they’re lazy.”
“And yet here you are.”
He scoffs. “Gotta keep the homefires burnin’, light the way home.”
She sits down and looks at the pictures. “This might be the same guy who killed McCain? Has his signature sliced all over the bodies.”
Perry closes the folder and tosses it on the desk before rolling his head back and stretching his arms. “Could be. It all looks straightforward but...” He shakes his head and bites his lip. “There’s somethin’ ‘bout this one tha’s botherin’ me. Somethin’ ‘bout the way they were murdered. Different...essence from McCain.” A hand through his hair. “Gonna need to see the ME report again.”
End of the Fuse news show - 5:18 P.M., October 22nd:
“Welcome to End of the Fuse, I’m Mick Douglas. Earlier today, the bodies of the Johnsons, a recently renowned family of Alpha-Omegas, were found horrifically murdered in their home in Dominion City. So far, authorities have no leads or suspects in this vicious attack, but we’re not here tonight to talk about their lives so much as their deaths and what they entail.
“I’m joined by psychologist Sarah Fain, Alpha-Omega equal rights advocate Malachi L’Grange, and the national spokesperson for Common Sense, Frank Peizeki. Welcome, everyone.
“Now, Frank, I know you and Common Sense have had quite a few things to say about Alpha-Omegas in the past year. I want to ask what you think about all of this?”
“While what happened to the Johnsons is tragic, Mick, I’d be lying if I said something like this was unexpected.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Sure, Mick. When you set yourself up as a public figure and put yourself, your family, and your life in the public eye, you have to be prepared for the consequences. It’s not all about smiling and laughing and hugging on camera, you have to be aware that there are sharks in the water and they want to eat you alive. The Johnsons simply weren’t ready to swim.”
“Sarah?”
“I have to disagree with Frank—”
“Of course you would.”
“Frank, come on now.”
“—I think the Johnsons were an accurate and unblemished portrayal of not just an American family, but of any family. They weren’t trained or fed what to say and what not to say on camera, at least not to my knowledge, and it made their lives very genuine, very real. And I think we could use more of that.”
“More realness?”
“More realness.”
“What do you think, Malachi?”
“Whoever did this has to be made to pay. Period point-blank.”
“That’s one opinion.”
“Let him speak, Frank. Go on.”
“Thank you. I admit that I don’t think it was right for the Johnsons to charge people for their services; it doesn’t make other Alpha-Omegas look good. But I do think that it was very brave of them to be willing to be basically stripped naked in front of us.”
“Are you an Alpha-Omega, Malachi?”
“Frank, what does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s a legitimate question, Malachi. You are an advocate for equal rights for A-Os, after all. Are those your own equal rights you’re fighting for? It’s a simple question.”
“And so is mine. What does that have to do with anything?”
“It may make you a bit biased. I know it hits me just a bit harder when I hear good or bad news about a fellow Christian, and I know you must feel the same way being a man of color.”
“...I don’t—I can’t believe you would say something like that. Alpha-Omegas are just like—”
“Ahh, I wouldn’t go that far, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Recent studies show that Alpha-Omega brains, bodies, everything mostly operates the same as in a norm—ah, non-powered human. Now, sometimes their physiology does have to adapt to their abilities, but other than that, you could pass one on the street and not know it.”
“And that’s the part that worries me, Sarah. I want to know who my enemy is. I want to be able to point them out in a crowd. I want them to wear a red flag that says DANGER TO SOCIETY in bold letters.”
“What makes you think they’re your enemy, Frank?”
“There’s no kind of social restraint when it comes to them! I’m sure we remember Sean Pierce a few weeks back. Killed twenty-three people and hospitalized thirty-two when his A-O gene manifested. And what happened to him?”
“What happened is he killed himself.”
“Nothing! Not a blasted thing! This is America. You break the law, we break the rod of justice over your back. You take a life, you receive punishment; you don’t go on a talk show and talk about how sorry you are.”
“Frank, you’re saying you don’t think Sean was sorry?”
“Yes, Sarah, I honestly do think he was sorry, believe it or not. I think he was sorry someone didn’t kill him. The Johnsons can’t say the same.”
“You are way out of line, Frank. You do know this is live and being broadcasted to thousands of viewers, right?”
“Mick, I’m just telling it like it is. Sarah here was just sharing with us how the world needs to be more genuine. I’m not one of those people who acts one way in front of the camera and another way when the spotlight shuts off.”
“But to say something like that is just horrible. Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“Malachi, I hear it loud and clear. It’s your rig
ht to idiotically idolize them just as it’s my right to justifiably persecute them. Who gave them the right to just give people happiness? They may have had the power, but that didn’t mean they had the right. Happiness is something you have to earn, that you have to work for. You can’t just wake up one morning and make an appointment for happiness. The world shouldn’t work like that, and I think it’s a shame that it does...well, that it did.”
“I do have to agree with you on that last part.”
“Thank you, Mick.”
“But I don’t agree with anything else you’ve said.”
“Glad to see you invite people on your show whom you don’t get along with.”
“Frank, you said you think people like Malachi here are simply trying to justify the existence of A-Os by making them out to be larger than life people—”
“Except they aren’t people.”
“Okay.”
“Even though I don’t have a special ability, I still feel that I’m...authentic. I may not be able to destroy an entire building with a single blow, but I do know what it’s like to have to work for something rather than have it handed to me because of a genetic abnormality. It’s almost like like affirmative action.”
“Alpha-Omegas and non-powered humans are equally destructive and equally defined by the same standards as you or I.”
“You keep believing that, Sarah. Whatever helps you look in the mirror each day.”
“Have you ever considered that A-Os are the next step in human evolution? And what is evolution if not normal?”
“Did you not hear the part where I said I was Christian? I don’t believe in evolution. God got it right the first time, there’s no need for us to change and adapt.”
“Relations between non-powered humans and A-Os have to be—no, they desperately need to be improved, or this is going to get messier than it already is.”
“Okay, I’m gonna have to play referee and host here and say I think that’s enough. Don’t want anyone coming to blows. Let’s read a few emails and try to calm down.”
Noir tries the knob to the condo door.
Locked.
He holds a hand up and springs his claws, rearing back to swipe. A cold hand encases his wrist. He looks over his shoulder to see Giorgio shaking his head.
“You got a key or somethin’?”
“No.” The undead man releases Noir’s wrist. “No one thought to leave one in my coffin with me.” Giorgio steps toward the door and touches his fingers to the knob. Brass flakes and tarnishes away to a darker brown that withers to russet rust. Years of decay takes place in seconds. Something crumbles and loosens inside the lock and the entire thing falls to the carpet with a hollow thud. He pushes the door open and steps inside.
“The Johnsons’ place is one floor up, why are we here?” Noir remains in the hallway.
Giorgio looks around the massive, empty condo, breathes in the smell of new paint, cleaned carpet, and pine-scented wood polish. He goes down on one knee and spreads his fingers on the hardwood, sliding fingertips down the cream walls.
Noir raises an eyebrow. “The fuck you doin’, man?” He takes a final look up and down the hallway before ducking in and quietly closing the door. Glaring white streetlight is bisected by the open blinds. He realizes. “You used to live here.”
Giorgio looks over his shoulder in the condo mired in murk. “You don’t realize how much of an imprint you leave on a place.” He stretches up to his full height and leans against the island in the kitchen. “I lived here for five years. Brought home countless women, several hundred bags of designer clothes, and hosted many a party with quite the assortment of narcotics.”
Noir gives a quick shrug. “Sounds like a typical resident of Cade District to me: drowning in white privilege, young, pants always around your ankles.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“But I don’t want to be that anymore.”
“From what I understand, ese, you can’t. Kinda dead now. You’re very alive, but still very much dead.” He walks over to the window. “You said it yourself, this is your chance to do it over. You don’t like who you were before—” He peeks out between the blinds. “—change it.” He turns.
“I am...I have.”
The other man spreads his arms open. “Then what the hell we doin’ here?”
“Remembering.” A breath. “Remembering why I died.”
Noir regards him silently for a few moments. “You think you died because you were fuckin’, snortin’, and smokin’ your life away?”
“And maybe the Johnson’s died for the same reason, because they weren’t living the right life.”
A scoff. “Maybe they’ll come back from the dead, too.”
Giorgio looks at him.
Noir holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I ain’t mockin’ nobody here, just statin’ my opinion is all.” He lowers his hands. “Now, if you’re finished floggin’ yourself, the crime scene you wanted to check out is an elevator ride away.”
One book shuts. Another book opens. A page is flipped. Eyes search. A page flips back. Eyes scan. A book shuts. Frustration grows.
Perry growls and clenches the pencil in his hand nearly to the snapping point. The pencil and his nerves have a lot in common.
“What the hell is this drug in your system?”
He leans back in his chair and looks out of the eastern window of the J.V. Berto Public Library. The table is scattered with medical notes, scribblings, and various descriptions of pharmaceuticals. A fine trembling trills through the table. He looks at his illuminated phone screen as it vibrates across the wooden surface. Walter.
A little sigh slips past his lips as he snatches up the phone, slides out of his seat, and quick-walks to an empty hallway.
He snatches off his reading glasses as he presses the ANSWER button.
“’Ey, Walter.” His voice is pitched low.
“Hey, just calling to see how the case is going. I know you can’t give me intimate details, but...you know.”
He leans against the wall. “Case is going nowhere fast. Some things don’t add up right and I can’t figure out what the hell it is.”
“It’ll come to you. May help to take a break and come back and look at it with fresh eyes.”
He massages his temple with a knuckle. “Maybe.”
Hesitation on the other end. Then... “Do—ah...Do you think it might be the guy who attacked Matthew?” The stitched-together sentence is unleashed in rush. “I’ve written down what I remember about him; I don’t mind helping. Probably should—”
“I don’t think your guy did this.” Perry shakes his head. “But I can look over what you’ve got. Entertain every possibility and all that.”
“Alright. Come home safe, Perry. I’ll go pick up the new John Scalzy book for you, give you something to take your mind off things for a little while.”
The sentiment tugs at the sides of his mouth. “Thanks, Walter. I really appreciate that.”
“Anytime. See you when you get home.”
END
He looks at the blank screen of his phone for a moment, unfocusing on the date and time on the display to notice his framed reflection, his framed smile. He pushes away from the wall and goes back to his chair and the table scattered with fragments of frustration.
“Excuse me, but are you Detective West?”
He looks up to find an attractive man with brown-blond hair and vibrant blue eyes. A golden cross glints at his collarbone.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“My name is Adam Kensie, I’m a parole officer. Miller down at the precinct told me where I could find you. I saw you this morning on the news report.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’d like to help you with your case.” He looks down at the medical reports and books cluttering the table.
Perry stares at him, studies his face. A slow blink.
“And how exactly can you help me, Mr. Kensi
e? Do you have any evidence you’d like to present?”
“Not...not quite.” He pulls out a chair and sits. “You see, me and the members of my church believe that Alpha-Omegas are God’s divine instruments in His army.” He opens his palms on the table. “When we heard that the Johnsons had been brutally murdered, the news fell on us like something physical. The fact that someone—”
West’s phone buzzes again. He holds up a finger and answers it. “Detective West here.”
“Detective, this is Vincent Cooper down at the city morgue. After I completed the toxicology report on the Johnsons, I was able to figure out what the strange chemical in their blood is.”
Adam folds his hands on the table.
“What is it?”
“A drug called hectaphan. In medium doses, it causes paralysis, but the unique thing about it is that after a few minutes, it starts to thin the blood. The Johnsons were paralyzed when they were murdered, that much is obvious, but what I found odd was the amount of blood from their wounds.”
Perry partially slides a photo from underneath a folder.
“With the amount of Hectaphan in their systems and the way their bodies were positioned, there should have been more blood...a lot more. Unless—”
“They were dead before the drug was administered.”
Adam rolls his eyes down, head cocked forward a bit, motionless.
“Exactly.”
Perry scribbles a note. “Any other cases you remember where Hectaphan was used?”
“Uhh, usually only murderer investigations, kidnappings, the occasional rape cas—”
Adam’s head flashes up.
“Detective, I think I may have something for you.”
Perry stares at him with agitated curiosity.
Downtown - 6:49 P.M., October 22nd:
He ambles down Lynord Street, iPod in hand, thumb scrolling to find something just right. No Etro Anime. Just listened to Zero 7. Maybe some Van Hunt later. Jeff Buckley?
Janelle Monae.
Yes.
