Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Just like a prison. Predictable and simple. Not complex. Like him.

  He knelt beside the door and wedged the remnants of the plastic spoon he’d managed to stuff up his sleeve during breakfast into the narrow space between the solid metal door and the jamb. It moved slightly. Enough for him to discern that the lazy idiots had neglected to flip the deadbolt lock. Lazy bastards. That would be their undoing. He’d see to it.

  He wedged the plastic in some more, increasing the gap a few millimeters. Tiny, but enough, he hoped.

  Removing the cloth slipper from his left foot, he quickly began to pick at the elastic band that secured it around the ankle. In about thirty seconds he was able to pull it free, giving him a strip of about five inches. Wetting one end with his spit, he rolled it into a needle-like shape, and began working it into the space he’d created between the door and the jamb. He started right above the latch.

  Time and again he mashed it into the narrow gap, only to have it curl out too soon. His fingers grew raw from the continued effort, but he knew he couldn’t quit. He knew, too, that Morgan had escaped from a little country jail somewhere by using the same technique. He’d seen him describe it on one of the news documentaries that had been filmed about him.

  The elastic curled out again and Matthew slammed his fist against the door in frustration. The searing pain from hitting the metal brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to roll over and quit, but if he did that he’d lose his only chance to get out, his only chance to complete his mission. Wetting the end of the elastic again, he worked in into the space. This time it went in easier, traveling all the way down past the latch, like he wanted. He pressed the spoon fragment upward, working it closer to the right angle lip of the jamb. His breathing quicken. The elastic was right on top. If he could just…Almost afraid to breathe, he worked some more of the elastic into the space from the top. If he could force enough excess on the top, the wispy end might travel between the latch and the jamb and work its way downward and out, so he could grab the end of it. The spit-slick pointed end began to edge outward, along the top of the white plastic, and toward him. Swallowing hard, he pushed down from the top.

  The twisted end appeared through the space. He managed to grab it between his fingernails and pull.

  The end came out, leaving it wrapped, in effect, around the latch. He hoped all the cardboard, chewed food, and paper he’d managed to stuff in there would have kept the latch from fully engaging into the slot. If he could pull at the right angle, it should then retract back into the door, allowing him to open it.

  Wrapping each end of the elastic around his fingertips, he began a sawing motion, designed to exert pressure on the latch.

  He heard something click, and the door popped open. Matthew nearly fell forward, but grabbed the inside doorknob to keep the whole door from swinging outward. There were still the cameras to contend with.

  Matthew slowly got to his feet and peered out the window again.

  The coast was clear, except for the oval eye of the closed-circuit camera above the door.

  He knew that as long as the morning attendants hadn’t secured all the deadbolts, he should be able to open the room across from him by turning the outside knob. He’d have to be careful not to shut it completely behind him, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

  So long as they hadn’t secured the deadbolt. But why would they? They were used to dealing with a bunch of morons. Idiots with perfectly healthy bodies but scrambled brains, only looking forward to their next meal. And their next sweet treat.

  He touched the candy bar in his pocket for reassurance. There were enough tranquilizers in it to incapacitate a horse. What it would do to a person was anybody’s guess, but that wasn’t his concern. He was only dealing with Blems, and they didn’t count.

  He stared at the camera again, taking a chance to push the door open just enough to work the rolled elastic completely into the latch-slot. Now he could shut the door behind him and it would never lock. But the cameras…

  Matthew remembered a television show he’d seen about Special Forces teams, and how they’d emphasized the effectiveness of cameras was over-rated.

  “The best way to deal with video surveillance systems,” one soldier had said, “is to pretend they’re not even there.”

  The theory was that the people watching were so bored, that quick movements tended not to be noticed.

  Time to try out the man’s theory, Matthew thought, and moved out of the room. He was across the broad, tiled hallway in seven steps.

  Lucky seven.

  His fingers curled around the knob and it twisted open. Perfect, so far.

  Matthew stepped inside, wedging his slipper in between the door and the jamb this time to keep the latch from securing. The Blem in the room sat up with a start and stared at him with a perplexed expression.

  Moving slowly, Matthew straightened up and smiled as benignly as he could.

  The Blem smiled back. Good. Trust.

  Matthew reached into his pocket and removed the Lorazepam-laced candy bar, holding it up for the Blem to see.

  The brown eyes followed his every movement. Like a dog watching a treat in his master’s hand.

  Extending his palm, he held the candy bar out toward the Blem.

  The Blem blinked, and pointed to the candy bar. His hoarse voice creaked as he made a “Me?” gesture.

  Matthew nodded, still smiling. He was careful not to move when the Blem got off the bed and shuffled forward. Each movement was tinged with caution. Finally, he got close enough and reached for the candy bar, his eyes watching for any signs that Matthew was going to snatch it away.

  But he didn’t. He let the Blem take it. He continued to smile as the Blem peeled off the wrapper and let it flutter to the floor. Matthew picked it up. The Blem took a bite and rolled the chocolate around, not bothering to close his mouth. The disgusting pig.

  Matthew heard the crunching sound as the Blem chewed. The pills being crunched, obviously.

  But something must have seemed different to the Blem. He stopped chewing and put a finger in his mouth.

  Shit, if he doesn’t down all of them, Matthew thought, I’ll have to pry open his mouth and shove them down his throat.

  Instead, Matthew made a quick motion, as if he was grabbing for the partially eaten candy bar. “Gimme back!” he yelled.

  Startled, the Blem backed up a few steps, almost tripping over the stainless steel toilet and sink extending from the wall. He shoved the rest of the candy into his mouth and began chewing vigorously.

  Matthew watched him continue to masticate, and then swallow. The Blem began running his tongue over his teeth. It was down. Now it’s just a matter of luring him across the hall. Matthew smiled.

  “More?” he asked, waving the candy bar wrapper. The Blem nodded.

  This was almost too easy.

  At least the weather’s still nice, Colby thought, looking at the bright October sunshine filtering down over the cluster of trees visible through the huge glass window. He was still wondering exactly how to broach the subject of his dissatisfaction with Pearson to Leslie as the security guard handed them the beige visitor badges and took them to the special elevator. Special because you needed a key to operate it. The guard’s shoulder patch spelled out New Genesis Corporate Security in bold black letters against a yellow background. The guy’s uniform shirt was starched khaki.

  The place was ultra-modern, too, and looked as elaborate as a Vegas hotel. The inside walls of the office building were a mosaic of artfully arranged rocks, tapering around to a waterfall display in the center behind the security guard’s main desk. Colby glimpsed at the row of television monitors under the lip of the desk and thought, Vegas-style security, too, although the guy watching them didn’t seem particularly attentive.

  As the elevator doors opened, he was reminded of the task at hand and let Leslie enter first. She’d hardly spoken on the drive out, perhaps sensing his lack of enthusiasm.

  The sooner I
get this babysitting assignment completed, he thought, the quicker I can jump into the meat and bones of the investigation.

  He compressed his lips and wondered how the interview with Laird was going—an interview he should have been on, despite any objections from the likes of Laird or Fontaine.

  The thought of Laird being out after admitting to all those murders…he shook his head. Our criminal justice system at work, he thought. What a joke.

  The doors opened and they stepped into a long carpeted hallway, with rows of closed office doors on the opposite side. No windows. Whatever they did here, they valued their privacy.

  “Dr. Jetters’s office is down this way,” the guard said. He was a short, burly type who looked like he’d probably played football in college, but was a shade too small for the pros.

  Colby watched Leslie smile at the guy, and thought about how pretty she was. A Canadian knockout, that was for sure, and with just that right amount of reticence to pique his interest. This would be a good test to see if she could execute the game plan they’d discussed.

  The guard knocked on a solid oak door marked with Dr. H.A. Jetters in gold letters against a black background.

  The door was opened by a tall guy with a black goatee, a mustache, and a pony tail. He had thick wrists and a lean, wiry build that told Colby that the dude could probably take care of himself in a fight.

  Ponytail stepped back and Colby saw a much older man in a white lab coat standing behind a cluttered desk. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and had an unruly shock of white hair.

  That had to be Jetters; Colby wondered who the lean guy was.

  “Dr. Jetters?” Leslie asked, stepping forward and extending her hand. “I’m Detective Labyorteaux of Toronto Police Services.”

  Good girl, Colby thought. Always shake their hands. If you feel sweat, you’ll know how the rest of the interview will probably go.

  “Toronto?” the old man said. “I assume this is about John?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” she said.

  Jetters nodded and rubbed his hand through his errant hair. “I was shocked, totally shocked to hear he’d been killed. Do you know who did it yet?”

  Colby felt something stir inside him. The old guy was talking too fast. Like he was nervous, or something.

  “We’re working on it,” she said. “Right now, though, I’m trying to find out a little more about Mr. Norton.”

  “Doctor Norton,” Jetters said. “He was my partner and a world renowned geneticist.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “As I’m sure you know, the more we know, the better we’ll be able to investigate.”

  Nice recovery, Colby thought.

  “May we sit down and take a few minutes of your time?” she asked.

  Another plus, Colby thought. Sit down, stretch out, establish territorial imperative.

  “Yes, of course.” Jetters held his hand toward some chairs against the left wall. “This is Mr. Edward Knox, our head of corporate security here at New Genesis.”

  Watching ponytail nod and smile, Colby had the sudden urge to do the handshake test with the guy. He extended his open palm and saw Knox stir with a flash of discomfort before reciprocating. His palm felt hard and callused. No wetness there. An iceman.

  “How long had Mr. Norton worked here?” Leslie asked.

  “Almost thirty years,” Jetters said. “Since our formation.”

  “You knew him well, then?”

  “Yes, of course.” Jetters worked his lips, and then said. “We were fairly close, but…I assume you heard about Peter?”

  “Peter?” Leslie repeated.

  “Yes, Peter Davids,” Jetters said. “John’s—” A quick, lips-only smile stretched across his mouth. “His significant other. He was gay.”

  This guy’s dodging the questions, Colby thought.

  Leslie looked up from her papers. “The local police informed us Mr. Davids was deceased as well.”

  “Yes, yes. An accidental fall.” Jetters looked like an old groundhog cautiously peering out at the sun. “Tragic case. Absolutely tragic.”

  This guy was uncomfortable. He was hiding something.

  Colby could stand it no longer. “Anything you can tell us about their relationship?”

  “Meaning what?” Jetters asked.

  “Did they fight? Were they happy?” He glanced at Knox. “Know anybody who’d want to do harm to Doctor Norton?”

  Pony tail sat there impassively. If the old guy was a groundhog, Knox was a cobra.

  “Why are you asking me this?” Jetters was expressing something akin to a mild case of outrage. “I thought this happened up in Toronto? A street mugging, from what I was told.”

  “May I ask who told you that?” Leslie asked.

  Colby watched Jetters blink and lower his gaze momentarily, before snapping back with, “Why, I believe it was someone from your agency.”

  “I doubt that,” she said. “We’re not usually prone to offering unsubstantiated conjectures about open cases.”

  She was pressing the advantage, Colby noticed. He wondered if she was picking up on the same vibes that he was.

  “Perhaps it was a reporter,” Knox offered from the side.

  His comment gave Jetters just the break he needed to regain his composure.

  “Yes, yes, I believe it was.” He fixed her with a baleful looking stare “Regardless, you haven’t answered my question, young lady. Was it a random street crime, or not?”

  Leslie started to talk, but Colby cut her off. “We’ll let you know when we solve it. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re not here to answer questions, just to ask them.”

  She shot him an almost wicked-looking glance, then turned back to Jetters.

  “What did Dr. Norton do here?”

  The old man pursed his lips. “John was a researcher. We do highly speculative and scientific work. Genetic engineering. We’re on the cutting edge of a great many new discoveries. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.”

  She nodded and asked about the conference Norton was attending.

  “Was he representing New Genesis?”

  Jetters nodded.

  “Was anyone else from your company there?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Knox stirred slightly. “I think we did send someone else, sir.”

  Jetters raised his eyebrows. “Did we?”

  “Krems,” Knox said.

  “We do show a Vernon Krems crossing the border in a vehicle registered to New Genesis,” Leslie said. “Does he work here?”

  “Krems?” Jetters looked almost theatrical as he grasped his receding chin with his right hand. “Yes, I believe he also said he was attending.”

  “You ‘believe?’” Colby asked. He was beginning to like playing the bad cop. “You don’t know for sure?”

  “Listen, detective.” Jetters assumed the air of a haughty professor, giving a recalcitrant student a dressing down. “We have a large contingent of highly valued and highly skilled scientists working here, under my direction. To ride rough-shod over them, and by that I mean micro-managing their every move, would stifle their spirit, not to mention their creativity.”

  “Creativity?” Colby said. “I thought you were into research?”

  Jetters stared back smugly. “We look for creative ways of approaching a problem. Something police would do well to consider from time to time.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Colby said. “In the meantime, we need to interview this guy Krems.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not working today.” Jetters said it a little too quickly.

  “Go figure,” Colby said. “Who’d have thought you’d be keeping that close of an eye on him?”

  “When will he be back?” Leslie asked. “I’ll have to check,” Jetters said.

  “How about giving us his address?” Colby asked. “We can save you the trouble.”

  “You’ll need a subpoena for that,” Knox said.

  Colby turned and stared at him.
“A subpoena? Why’s that?”

  Knox smiled. It was an attempt to look benign, but Colby had already caught a glimpse of the guy’s fangs.

  “Civil liabilities, and all that,” Knox said. “I’m sure you understand. We can’t very well violate an employee’s privacy on the whim of the police now, can we?”

  “Heaven forbid,” Colby said. He glanced at Leslie, who had an interesting look in her dark, brown eyes. “I guess we’ll go get one.”

  “Good luck with that,” Knox said. “Toronto’s a bit far out of this jurisdiction, isn’t it?” Looking from Knox to Jetters, Colby couldn’t resist taking one more shot. Plus this one was related to his own task at hand. “What was Norton’s connection to Morgan Laird?” Jetters looked like somebody’d punched him in the gut.

  “Uh…who?”

  Colby took his time replying. “Morgan Laird. The serial killer. Norton was listed as one of his doctors from prison.”

  “Well, John was an altruist.” Jetters took off his glasses and gripped the bridge of his nose. “He did a lot of charitable work for the less fortunate.”

  “And of course,” Knox said from the side, “anything of that nature would be excluded under doctor-patient confidentiality. We wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss it.”

  “Fine.” Colby said. “We’ll just have the U.S. Attorney write up a couple of subpoenas, then.”

  “U.S. Attorney?” Jetters said, his face darkening. “What would he have to do with a murder that occurred in a foreign country? You’d better be careful throwing around idle threats.”

  Colby smiled and took out his Chicago star.

  “Actually, I’m a lot closer to home than she is.”

  Chapter 10

  Dix knew it would come to this as he sat slouched down in his car and watched the front of the building, trying to decide his next move. He’d used up more than just a few favors calling around to get Laird’s address, a broken-down old apartment building that had seen better days a long time ago. A perfect shit-hole for someone like Laird. And because there was no elevator, a guy in a wheelchair had to be in a first floor room.