Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  “They didn’t do much more than file a report.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Baxter considered his options. He didn’t really need the money, and he didn’t want to earn a reputation for working for the dregs of society like Faraz. But he also had a soft spot for the downtrodden and the underdogs, which had earned him the nickname of the “People’s Pig” through his pro-bono work catering to all those who normal society would prefer didn’t exist.

  He said, “I’ll need to speak with Sammy directly, and if this is some attempt to trick me into tracking down one of your wayward harem, then I’ll come back here and circumcise that turtlehead between your legs with a rusty spoon. You dig, brah?”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ackerman moved his chess piece across the board, unable to hide a small smile. His elation didn’t stem from the fact that he intended to win the game. Not that he was typically of a mindset to let anyone defeat him. But, in this case, he couldn’t help but allow the boy to take him. Dylan—Marcus’s son and his nephew—wasn’t even double digits yet and here he was trying to emulate the famous chess game known as Kasparov’s Immortal in which the Russian grandmaster defeated Topalov in forty-four moves. Ackerman couldn’t resist playing the role of Topalov as the boy astounded him with his ingenuity. Either Dylan had inherited Marcus’s amazing memory or Ackerman’s genius. Perhaps a bit of both. The thought filled him with a strange warmth—what great and terrible things could be achieved by someone who was an amalgamation of he and his brother. Dylan fascinated him. The boy seemed more and more like a tiny version of himself by the day.

  Dylan said, “Checkmate.”

  Ackerman beamed with pride. “So it is.”

  “Want to play again?”

  “Maybe after a bit, young Kasparov. Let’s chat for a while.”

  The hotel room was much like countless others Ackerman had played in over the years. Off-white walls and no overhead lighting, which he suspected was to hide the dust and grime. Low quality prints of beaches and sunsets adorned the disgustingly tropical walls. Ackerman felt like Jimmy Buffet had puked all over the entire motor inn.

  Emily Morgan sat in a chair beside Dylan, reading a paperback novel. She looked up with suspicion as Ackerman mentioned having a “chat.”

  Her impeccable intuition served her well. He suspected that she wouldn’t be entirely pleased with the nature of the following conversation.

  Ackerman said, “How do you feel about spending time with other kids your age?”

  Dylan didn’t make eye contact, and Ackerman had noticed that he seldom did. “They tend not to understand me.”

  Tend not . . . Dylan spoke with a formality and polished adultness that was unusual for a boy his age.

  “You say they don’t understand you. But do you understand them?”

  “Not really. It seems like I always say the wrong thing.”

  Emily Morgan, his babysitter and Dylan’s self-appointed protector, said, “What are you doing?”

  Ackerman ignored her. “Dylan, would you prefer to play alone with your Legos or play baseball with other kids?”

  “I like playing chess with you.”

  “But what about boys your own age?”

  “Not really. I prefer to play alone.”

  Emily stood and took Dylan by the hand. She shot Ackerman a scathing glance and said, “Let’s go see if your dad is back yet, buddy.”

  Dylan scowled but followed her from the room. A moment later, Emily returned, slamming the door behind her. “What exactly was that all about?”

  He didn’t look up at her. He busied himself breaking down the chess set and putting it away. She walked closer and said, “I could have you thrown back in the darkest hole they can find. Is that what you want?”

  Ackerman met her gaze and shook his head. “I have a better question. When do you plan to share Dylan’s diagnosis with my brother?”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Nineteen

  The area they were using for the briefing was called a corporate center. It was basically just one of the normal hotel rooms with everything stripped out of it and replaced with a conference table and some flat-screen monitors. Having taken custody of the room as their informal staging area while in Oklahoma, Marcus had wasted little time making the space his own. Almost every wall was covered with printouts and pictures, but he had left the conference table.

  Marcus waited for everyone to take their seats before starting the briefing. He said, “I met with the Director and Valdas this morning.” He went on to explain about the organized-crime connection, the mutilated bodies, Mr. King, the undercover agent, and the urban legend.

  Andrew asked, “What about the bodies?”

  Marcus gestured to the packet of information. Just seeing the physical file folder made him angry. He had been in the process of moving all of the SO’s files over to digital. Unfortunately, Ackerman always insisted on reviewing paper records.

  “There’s the file on the bodies. You tell me, Dr. Garrison.”

  Andrew, a former medical examiner in Boston, opened the file and scanned the documents. After a moment, he commented, “All the limbs were removed postmortem. Cause of death is hard to determine in the reduced state, but the ME notes bruising, broken bones, and internal bleeding all over the cores of the male victims. Which happened while they were still alive. Like they were beaten to death.”

  Studying the photos with a curious fascination, Ackerman added, “The person doing the skinning has an experienced hand or some formal training.”

  “Doctor? Medical student?” Marcus asked.

  “Possibly. At least a taxidermist or seasoned hunter,” Ackerman said. Then he walked over to an easel and a giant pad of presentation and meeting paper. Marcus also hated the old-school paper and markers method. He had a high-tech organic LED touch screen mounted to one wall, but his favorite digital display board had hardly been used since his brother had started working cases with them.

  At the board, Ackerman continued, “Let’s look at everything we know so far. Let’s dissect this thing, just crack the breast bone, separate the ribcage, and reach up to the heart of it . . .”

  Ackerman wrote “Gladiator” across the top of one page. Then he wrote down each thought as he spoke it.

  “He works for Demon. How did that happen? Where is he from? What is his…hunger?”

  Marcus added, “Contracted to King to murder and leave bodies in public places.”

  Leaning back with her feet on the conference table, Maggie said, “What about the two bodies that they’ve identified but can’t connect to King?”

  “Probably just part of one’s smokescreen and one’s hunger,” Marcus replied. “It leads the trail of evidence away from King, and those two bodies that were identified—the marine and the boxer—they were worthy opponents.”

  Ackerman smiled. “Right, they were two victims whom the Gladiator chose himself. So he’s definitely wanting a challenge, looking for a worthy adversary.”

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting,” Marcus said in a voice that was half growl.

  Stepping up to the easel, marker in hand, Ackerman said, “Let’s look at the methods of execution.” As he spoke, he wrote a note about each point. “He removes their hands and feet and skin. Possible trophies. Or it could simply be to obscure their identities. If it’s the latter, then those acts are just part of the job. They serve a purpose. They don’t fulfill any of his personal desires. So what parts of these crimes do fulfill his desires. We need to isolate what’s part of the job and what’s part of the killer.”

  Marcus said, “The beatings are his thing. He’s picking worthy opponents and then pummeling them to death, probably arena style.”

  “But what about the women?” Ackerman mused.

  Marcus said, “What really stands out to me is the fa
ces and the skulls being crushed. If they’re already dead, or at least very close to it when he finishes with the hammer, that act has to have personal significance. If he’s already planning to remove the skin and appendages, he could simply cut the head off with the rest. He doesn’t need to destroy their faces like that. He wants to do it.”

  Andrew added, “Like maybe he hates his own face. Maybe he has a deformity.”

  They all stared at the boards without speaking for a few moments. Checking his watch and remembering they had flights to catch, Marcus smiled over at Emily Morgan, the newest addition to the team. He said, “Agent Morgan, or should I say Dr. Morgan?”

  “Agent is fine,” she said with a bow of her head.

  “You’re going to have to step up, Agent Morgan, since Andrew is going to be off on urgent shadow government bullshit.”

  Andrew chuckled. “You sound upset. Are you going to miss me? Don’t worry, little buddy. As long as you don’t drink anything at least two hours before bed and then—”

  “Okay.”

  “—you go potty right before you go sleepy night, then you should be fine.”

  “Thanks for that,” Marcus said with a small smile.

  A little chuckle interrupted every few words as Maggie said, “Being his partner is liking raising a baby goat, isn’t it, Drew?”

  Andrew said, “I think he’s more like a baby rhinoceros.”

  Ackerman said, “You are aware that bedwetting is an early warning sign for serial murderers. Do you experience night-time bathroom malfunctions, brother? Or is it night terrors?”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Marcus said, “I’m fine. He was just kidding. Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re joking or being serious.”

  “I’m always serious. And bedwetting is also very serious to someone who suffers from it. I never had to worry about the delicacies of childhood development like that, since I never had a bed or possessions as a child.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Anyway,” Marcus said, raising his coffee cup, “I just wanted to take a moment to officially welcome you to the field team, Agent Morgan. But I also wanted to let you know that we’re going to need you more than ever while Andrew is off dissecting aliens at Area 51, or wherever the Director’s super-secret mission takes him.”

  “Area 51 would be my dream job,” Andrew said. “If that’s what he has me doing, I’m staying there. I’d abandon you guys in less than a second to study alien biology.”

  Marcus said, “Would you stop interrupting me. As I was saying, welcome to the team, Emily, and while Maggie and I are back east, you’ll be in charge of feeding Kong over there.” He gestured toward Ackerman, who feigned offense. “So good luck and God’s speed.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Twenty

  Baxter Kincaid stepped into the hall and closed the door to his apartment, a space once rented by Jimi Hendrix himself. When he turned away from his door, he came face to face with a man in dark sunglasses and a gray hoodie pulled down over his face. Baxter jerked back from shock and leaned a hand on the doorframe. The man didn’t move at all, except for the occasional muscle twitch. Once he’d regained his composure, Baxter said, “Good morning, Kevin.”

  “I need your latest blog post.”

  “Now, Kevarino, we’ve talked about this. When someone says ‘good morning,’ you say . . .”

  “It’s two in the afternoon.”

  “I was referring to my personal morning,” Baxter said in his South Texas drawl. “Some refer to morning in regard to the rising and setting of the sun. I think morning is more a state of mind.”

  Kevin’s shoulders and neck twitched, sending ripples across the fabric of his hoodie. The kid smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in a couple of weeks. “I consider whether it’s morning or not by the time of day.”

  “You need to open your mind a bit, Kevster. What do you say to this? You and I can get together later, take our shirts off, and play some bongos.”

  Kevin said nothing.

  Baxter lightly punched him on the shoulder and said, “I’m just messing with you, buddy. Don’t burn out a microchip. I’m glad I caught you. I was wondering if you found out anything about Corin Campbell for me.”

  “Wait here,” Kevin said and then unlocked the three deadbolts on his own apartment door, cracked open the door, and slipped inside, the door shutting behind him. Kevin had been Baxter’s neighbor for many moons now, and he still had yet to catch a glimpse of the youngster’s domicile.

  A moment later, Kevin returned with a manila folder, which he handed to Baxter. “Corin Campbell, inside and out.”

  “Excellent, my man. Put yourself down for a raise.”

  “You don’t pay me.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it a funny comment.”

  Kevin said, “I need to ask you something.”

  “What’s on your mind, big guy?”

  “You know a lot of lawyers and stuff. So I thought you could ask one of them. I was wondering about the legal precedent for how close a drone can get to a person’s residence before you are considered to have violated their air space. And also, if it’s actually illegal for the police to shoot down your drone. I was thinking that, since they’re classified as aircraft by the FAA, it could be considered an act of terrorism on the part of the cop.”

  Baxter thought about that a moment and finally said, “I think it’s around fifty-eight feet. It has to do with some precedent set by airplanes taking off and coming too close to some old man’s farm. And you’re actually correct that, to the letter of the law, said officer’s actions could be construed to be shooting down an aircraft, since drones and passenger jets are classified the same under FAA guidelines. But in reality, Kevaramadingadong, no judge in his right mind would prosecute that case.”

  “So I need a judge who’s not in his right mind?”

  “That’s one way to go.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Kincaid. Send me that file for the blog post as soon as you can. I mean, you know, at you’re earliest convenience.”

  Baxter tapped his temple, tipped his trilby, and said, “It’s on my list, Mr. Unabomber.”

  Kevin’s gaze shot around the hallway, and he whispered, “Don’t say things like that. There could be surveillance.”

  With an uncontainable little chuckle, Baxter said, “I do say a lot of interesting shiznit, don’t I? Hey, whoever’s listening, I would love a copy of the recordings or transcripts, ‘cause I speak so much awesomeness that it’s impossible to write it all down.” He couldn’t contain his laughter any longer, cracking himself up as he spouted the last line.

  Kevin didn’t say a word. He simply stood there, his head cocked slightly, his face barely visible beneath the shadows of the hood. He really did look like the Unabomber, only lacking a bit of facial hair. Like a cross between the sketches of Unabomber and Timothy McVeigh. The whole thing made Baxter laugh even harder. The longer Kevin remained frozen, the more it made Baxter laugh. Until he was hunched over, fighting for breath, holding himself up with one hand on Kevin’s shoulder.

  After a moment, he was able to regain his composure. Kevin still hadn’t moved. Baxter slapped the young man on the shoulder and said, “Good times, Kevmeister. Good times.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Derrick Gladstone wheeled out onto San Francisco Hospital’s third floor and expertly guided his utilitarian but functional wheelchair over to the nurse’s station. He had requisitioned the chair’s creation for his specific needs. The first of which was to make the chair as visually unobtrusive as possible. He had heard the term “murdered out” in reference to a car being painted all black, the chrome powdercoated, and the windows tinted. He liked to think of his chair as also being “murdered out.” It was a flat black that reflected no light and blended with nearly any environment.

  His second condition re
garding the chair was that it appear modern and elegant. He wasn’t about to push himself around in the same wheelchair that someone of a lower station could also afford.

  As he approached the nurse on duty, LuAnn smiled and said, “Dr. Gladstone, good to see you. I didn’t know that one of these babies was yours.”

  He returned the smile and made some small talk, although he had no affinity for the fifty-year-old obstetrics nurse. She was a single mother and poor. She smelled of cigarettes and halitosis. He hated that the children would have to smell her as she swaddled them.

  Derrick rotated his chair toward the viewing window, which was thankfully handicap accessible. LuAnn walked up beside him and asked, “Which one is yours?”

  “The Jefferson child. A boy. I don’t know the name yet.”

  She pointed at the glass. “He’s the third one back.” Peaking over the edge of the window, Derrick observed the newborn squirming in the hospital bassinet. The baby was healthy and strong, wide awake and alert.

  LuAnn said, “Would you like to hold him, Doctor?”

  “I would love to,” Derrick replied as he wheeled over to the door for the nursery. He knew the drill here well. He had visited numerous children at this hospital. Every child born under his care deserved at least a visit.

  LuAnn retrieved the baby and laid him in Derrick’s arms. The child blinked up at him, and Derrick rubbed the child’s tiny hand with his own. No matter how many times he had done this very thing, he was always a little surprised and overwhelmed at how tiny and fragile human beings were when they entered the world. Many animals could walk from the moment of their birth, but homo sapien offspring were little more than balls of flesh, utterly helpless and dependent. Somehow, humankind had topped the food chain despite that inherent setback.

  Referring to the chart, LuAnn said, “And, by the way, his name is Leonardo.”

  Derrick winced and whispered to the child, “Sorry, kid. You were probably named after the ninja turtle, not the painter or actor. But I’m afraid what they name you is out of my control.”