by E. E. Giorgi
“Well, if it’s not unique, it’s not informative.”
She jerked her head sideways and yelled at me. “Track. Shut up and listen, okay?”
I shut up. My head wasn’t throbbing anymore, but it was hard to listen. My thoughts were running around like chased rats.
“Mitochondrial DNA is inherited from the mother’s side. It doesn’t undergo recombination like chromosomes do. That’s why in most cases a child has the identical mtDNA as her mother, unless a mutation happens, which is rare. So, you’re right, it can’t nail a person, but it can tell you how closely related two individuals are. On the mother’s side, at least.”
I pondered. The rats in my head partied. I scrunched my forehead—stitches pulling and all—and pondered harder.
“The DNA from the hairs found on Amy and Laura was identical to that of the kiddos?”
“All but one, which had one mutation.”
“The babies all share the same mother.”
She nodded her head up and down. “Yes.”
“As does the Byzantine Strangler.”
“Or, he’s a she—the mother.”
“G-cat is a guy.”
“And you have no proof this g-cat guy is the Byzantine Strangler or the guy you chased tonight.”
“Don’t piss me off, Diane. I didn’t whack my Charger for nothing.”
“Don’t spill your ego, macho man. You’re not always right.”
That killed the conversation for a while. We got off the Two on Mountain and wound up the hills of Chevy Chase. It was two a.m. Darkness enveloped us like silence, the VW’s headlights carving small cones of light on the pavement. The stale smells of hospital clung to my skin like leeches. I rolled down the window and inhaled. The air was scented with fir needles, sage, and night flowers, and it was warm, as warm as a lover’s unmade bed. Clusters of homes peeked here and there through the blanket of the hills.
I thought of Charlie Callahan’s body, strangled and mauled behind an apartment dumpster. I thought of Amy Liu, who wanted to know something about Charlie, something that likely killed her. I thought of Fred Lyons, who lost a lover and a wife, and whose involvement in either murder was still very much suspicious to me. I thought of Henkins, a lifetime spent measuring herself up to the boys, only to give up at the end, when she stumbled upon something bigger than her career—somebody else’s career. I thought of David, Charlie’s friend-slash-more-than-a-friend, of one-night stands turned into Russian roulettes, a life gamble much like car racing or shooting vodka up your veins.
I thought of a mother killing her babies and burying them one by one, naked and lonely.
Give a life, take a life.
And then I thought of the Byzantine Strangler and tried to give him a face, any one of these shady figures, all of them, or none of them at all.
Diane yawned. She pulled into my driveway, killed the engine, and then yawned some more, rubbing her eyes with the tip of her fingers. I kissed her on the head and got out of the car.
There was a high-strung olfactory note in the air, like a guitar playing a familiar melody with one of the cords out of tune.
Somebody’s been here.
My muscles stiffened. Soreness clumped my back and legs, soon washed away by a new wave of adrenaline. Diane mumbled something. She slammed the car door shut and clicked the locks. I walked up the driveway, then around the garage. The gate to the walkway was unlatched. Past its metallic tang, the latch smelled rotten and sweet and diseased. It smelled of my guy.
I kicked the gate and yanked the Glock out of its holster.
Diane ran after me. She found me standing by the picnic table at the back, Glock in hand, and cold sweat weeping down my jaw. Something glistened on my table under the pale light of the moon.
At the back of the property, the eucalyptus trees whispered their minty scent and washed the foul smells away.
He’s gone.
Diane’s side brushed against mine. She gasped and brought a hand to her mouth.
He’d left them on the picnic table. Two rows, three tiles each. Aquamarine, red, green the first row. Orange, red, aquamarine the second.
She rummaged in her purse, got her phone out, and opened the browser to the DNA tool. She moved her index finger quickly, her thoughts in line with mine. “T, A, G for the top row,” she said. “C, A, and T for the bottom.”
“Tag cat,” I said.
Tag cat.
“He’s after me, D.”
She frowned. “You? Why?”
“Because he’s obsessed with DNA, that’s why.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
____________
The screams. He couldn’t stand the screams. And then the blood, afterwards. Lots and lots of blood.
“Go dig, Hector. Go.”
“Why?”
“Because your mama said so, that’s why!”
She’d hand him the bloodied bag and tell him to bury it. One, two, he forgot how many.
Too tempting not to look inside. He did once, and never forgot.
Never understood.
The bags kept coming.
One, two, he forgot how many.
He found the perfect spot. Over the years, bushes grew around it, and trees, and wildflowers. Sometimes a coyote would come too. And he killed the coyote. By then, killing had become easy.
But the screams. Those never were easy.
It became worst when he understood.
“Why, Ma? Can’t you make him stop?”
“Stop? No, baby, why? Your mama would be so lonely without him.”
“Then tell him, Ma. Tell him.”
“He’s too young. He wouldn’t understand.”
So Ed would still come over for dinner and stay for the night and everything would be fine until Ma would start puking again and growing and Ed wouldn’t show up for a while until the time came and the screams and the blood and Hector would hike up the hill and dump another bag.
One, two, he forgot how many.
* * *
His hands bleed, his feet hurt. He peels off the nitrile gloves. His palms are veined with blood. He rushes to the bathroom to wash it off. His hands, his feet, his face.
“Hector! You’re late. Again! I haven’t had the Roxanol, or my dinner, or—”
Everywhere. Gypsy moths everywhere. It’s an infestation. They crawl out of the walls just like they crawl out of his skin, nostrils, ears.
“—my bag needs to be changed, and my tubes disinfected, and—”
He lets hot water run until it scalds his skin.
Scalding is good. It will kill the bugs.
He lost the car. The computer is safe, though. He couldn’t afford losing the computer.
How did the cop find him?
Maybe it was all a coincidence. The cop couldn’t possibly know.
The cop couldn’t possibly know about him, but Hector Medina knows everything about the cop—his name, his face, his address, his phone number. His genes. The wonderful epigenetic switches taking place in his body. It’s not perfect. The cop’s going to die. That’s okay. All he needs is a few samples of his tissues and then he can work on fixing the problem.
He needs time.
Medina closes the faucet.
“Hector! Are you listening to me?”
More time.
He comes out of the bathroom and cranks up the AC. Chilled air blows down from the vents in the ceiling.
“Hector! I don’t like it this chilly. Come change my bag, it stinks!”
He walks into the kitchen, grabs a fresh pair of gloves from the pantry, the formula jars, the medications, the measuring cups.
A gypsy moth crawls on the tiles above the stove.
He stares at it.
They’re everywhere.
“Hector!”
His heart starts pounding. He’s killed cats, coyotes, humans, and never in his life he’d smashed a gypsy moth. Yet gypsy moths ruined his life more than anything else.
“Hector! Are you listening?”
More than anything else.
He takes the measuring cup and smashes the bug with the flat side. It leaves a splatter of white powder and black hairs on the kitchen tiles.
“Hector! What do you think you’re doing? My bag. You need to change my bag. And I’m past due my dose of Roxanol. It’s hurting all over, can’t you see? Get that thing off my face, Hector. You think I’m scared of you? You pussy cat. You think this thing is gonna kill me, don’t you? I’m not dying, Hector. I’m not dying. Despite all the crap those big doctors colleagues of yours tell you. What did they tell you? Weeks? Months, at most? Bullshit. I’m not dying. I refuse to die. There’s nothing you can do about it. So now put that stupid toy away and change my—”
The gypsy moth.
He stares at the feathery wings, all crumpled up, and the cloud of white, sparkly powder spilled over the kitchen tiles.
And he likes what he sees.
Today, for the first time in his life, he smashed a gypsy moth.
TWENTY-NINE
____________
Tuesday, July 21
I sprang my eyes open and then closed them again. Every muscle in my body was sore. It wasn’t the Pain. Strangely, the Pain was quiet. I brought a hand to my face and rubbed my eyes. My vision spotted like burning camera film. Then shapes reemerged, one by one. An old dresser, the colorful painting of a red, naked woman lying languidly in the forest, the open door of a closet, a few shirts clinging to hangers, ties, pants, a chair, a plastic rack of shoes hanging at the back of the closet door. An open window, the smell of eucalypti softly drifting inside.
“It’s almost noon.” Diane’s voice came from far away, even though she was sitting on the bed, next to me.
“Noon, huh?” I drawled. Will’s tongue came to my face, warm and moist.
Diane called him to her side and patted him. “You slept through the morning.”
“You stayed the whole time?”
She flashed me a deliciously malicious leer. “I’ve been watching you. The doctor said to keep an eye on you.”
I groaned myself out of bed and sat on the edge. I needed a shower, a shave, clean clothes, and possibly a new head, one that didn’t hurt this much.
Diane pressed a cold finger against my temple. “Are you feeling any better?”
“I’m great,” I mumbled. “Stop spinning the ceiling, though. It’s making me dizzy.”
She smiled, kissed me, padded to the bathroom, came back with a bottle of Advil in her hand. Hell. In juvi you could bribe the guards into slipping you acid. A double sawbuck bought you a couple trips and the happiest five hours you could remember.
“Satish called,” she said, handing me the medication.
“When?” I shook two Advil tablets out of the bottle and downed them.
“A couple of hours ago. He was running VIN numbers through the DMV database.”
Blood rushed to my head. “They got it? They got the vehicle, then? When, how?”
“He said the parked vehicle picked up by the FLIR was a Volvo and it matched your description. The VIN on the doorjamb was scratched off but they got the hidden one instead, and the plate turned out to be from a dump. They towed it early this morning.”
I stood up. The ceiling behaved and stayed put. My shoulders and neck ached, and I let them ache and I didn’t care. My heart thumped wildly. “What did you say about the plate?”
Diane shook her head. “Probably bought illegally from a car dump.”
“Fine. The VIN’s all we need. Glad they got the hidden one.”
The news energized me. I got to my feet and headed to the bathroom. I started undressing. “Where’s Satish now, at the Glass House? Can you call him and tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes?”
“Track, wait.” She leaned against the bathroom door, a question hanging from her eyes. “A Doctor Watanabe called.”
I started the water and let it run.
Watanabe.
“Thanks,” I said, stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain. Her scent melted in the hot water vapors. The door clicked closed. Rivulets streamed down my face, neck and shoulders.
They found the hidden VIN.
The son of a bitch may be good with computers, but he’s an idiot with cars.
When I got out of the bathroom, Diane was sitting on the bed, the silent question still hanging from her lips. I tried to ignore it but it kept following me around as I went through hangers looking for shirt and pants.
“Don’t you want to know why your doctor called?”
“He heard on the news that I’d totaled my car and wanted to make sure I didn’t total my neck as well.”
I tossed a set of clothes on the bed, toweled dry my hair and ran my fingers through it. I could’ve used a comb but then it wouldn’t have matched the bags under my eyes, the stitches on my brow, or the two-day stubble shading my cheeks. The mirror smiled at me proudly.
Diane leaned back on the pillows—Will snuggled next to her—and laced the hem of the top sheet around her fingers. “I told him you were okay. He wanted to know what caused the accident.”
Her eyes came on me. I zipped up my pants then slid the belt on. “I got into a high speed chase and lost control of the vehicle. What’s so surprising about that?”
“I told him you were okay, but he still sounded concerned.”
“Well, yeah. You told him I was fine, so that should’ve taken care of his concerns.”
“Why do you see a geneticist?”
The question irritated me. Why it irritated me I couldn’t tell. In a perfect world a perfect me would’ve answered, “Because I have some kind of genetic issues.” But my world has always been far from perfect. So instead I snapped, “Hell, D. Why d’you go about answering my phone?”
That didn’t go down easy. She hopped off the bed and stormed out of the room, a totally unaware Will scuttling happily behind her.
“D!” I grabbed guns and holsters and followed her to the kitchen.
She dropped a breakfast dish in the sink. It clonked on top of the two-day old pile I’d left in there. The aroma of the coffee she’d brewed two hours ago was still in the air. I set my guns on the table, pulled a chair, sat down, and adjusted the ankle holster. “Are you coming to Parker Center?” I asked.
Diane opened the dishwasher and started filling it like her life depended on it. “I got an offer from Harvard.”
Something in my head went silent. I pressed the mag release button on the Glock and let the magazine slide into my palm.
“The job at the Public School of Health I’d interviewed for. I got it,” Diane went on. “It’s a good offer. Good hours, good salary.”
“You get good hours and a good salary here, too.”
“Great benefits.”
“The LAPD has great benefits.”
She transferred all dirty mugs from the sink to the dishwasher top rack and ignored my comment.
I pushed a new magazine inside the Glock’s well. “It’s in Boston.”
This time she turned and locked eyes with me. “Yes. It’s in Boston.”
There was sour in her voice. It stung like the morning chill on a wintry day.
I stood up, secured the pancake holster on my waistband and slid the Glock inside. “We’re on a hot trail,” I said. “We’re gonna catch this guy.”
She slammed the dishwasher closed. “You’re not listening, Track. I’m taking the job.”
I stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, no more expressive than a chipped statue in a forgotten church.
“You’re going to Boston?” I said.
“Give me a reason not to go.”
Her statement hung like an unfinished sentence in a blank page. I wanted to put a period at the end of it. Yet I was nothing but a pen whose ink had all dried up.
I tilted her chin up and kissed her. And then I left.
* * *
The midafternoon sun cast a layer of dullness on everything. Skinny palm trees staggered against a h
azy sky. Chafed one-story houses overlooked thirsty lawns circled by metal fences and cinder block walls embellished with wrought iron railings. Faded apartment buildings dominated each block, their gray, barred windows as welcoming as a pit bull growl.
Satish drove slowly and methodically. Eyes followed us from the sidewalks, faces as old as time chewing cigarette butts on a staircase, their undershirts stained with grease and sweat. Dark-skinned kids played soccer with an empty can in a sweltering parking lot. Street names like Harmony and Amethyst and Topaz and Onyx glistened at the corners of lonely crossings, next to a rusted leasing sign or a lost cat flyer pinned to a telephone pole.
I said, “We were here two minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“Need extra mileage?”
“No. Just thought we’d take a look at the neighborhood first.”
He finally pulled the vehicle over and killed the engine. I felt a little prickling at the back of my neck. “Which house?” I said.
He cocked his head. “Number 5130.”
“Number 5130 Celestial Drive?” I repeated.
“Correct.”
“Lyanne Norris, age fifty-nine?”
Sat hid his surprise behind black shades. “Correct.”
“Diagnosed with gastric cancer five years ago, two surgeries, three rounds of chemo, confined to bed since last February. She the one who supposedly owns the Volvo I saw fly over the San Pablo intersection last night?”
Satish leered at me from behind the shades. He swallowed, slowly slid the shades off, and then leered some more. “Have you been practicing mind reading over your sabbatical from the police force?”
“No. I’ve been sniffing out missing people. And one in particular I’d sort of given up on, until her path led me to six dead infants.”
Katya Krikorian, the missing persons case I took on over my short stint as a P.I., had gone missing last May. She had just visited Lyanne Norris the day she disappeared. Katya left Lyanne’s house, parked her car a couple of miles away, and never made it back home. I’d come to 5130 Celestial Drive twice. The first time nobody answered the door, while the second time I managed to talk to Lyanne’s nurse. Had I known what I knew today, I wouldn’t have contented myself with the brief chat we had at the door. Damn it, had I known, I would’ve found a way to get into the house and sniff the whole place inside out. But what reason did I have, back then, to suspect a harmless woman confined to bed? The nurse told me Lyanne was sleeping and confirmed that she had terminal cancer and had not left her bed for the past five months—same story painted by the police report filed under the missing persons.
