by Sonya Jesus
The Bullet Theory
Dr. Nolan Mills
Sonya Jesus
Copyright © 2019 by Sonya Jesus. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing & Proofing:
Dr. Plot Twist, Development.
Barren Acres, Editing.
Cam Johns, Proofing.
Cover Design: Covers by Christian
Disclaimer: May contain foul language and scenes not suitable for all audiences. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Previously published in the Leave Me Breathless Black Rose Collection.
Created with Vellum
To Johnny. My heart stealer.
Love, Amy. Your heart keeper.
#nothingchanges
Contents
1. Tyler
2. Subjects
3. Shrine
4. First Session
5. Interviewing
6. Session Two
7. Coralee
8. Blinks
9. Mistake
10. On the Verge
11. Credit taker
12. Delivery
13. Answer Me
14. Revenge
15. The Shed
16. N-this
17. Brilliance
Epilogue
Sonya’s Villains
About the Author
1
Tyler
Eleanor Devero
Kace slams the door shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts and his sidearm. I wrap my fingers around the black metal and bring it closer. The smooth, shined surface conceals the ugliness of its power, and the weight is nothing compared to the heaviness in my soul. I can’t escape my thoughts; they follow me around, gnawing at the parts of me that want to forgive Kace for falling in love with me—for wanting a normal life with normal things.
We should’ve known better.
Not everyone has the luxury of a safe life, especially not law enforcement. Kace and I dedicated our lives to helping others feel safe, only to put our lives in danger. Well, not technically, our lives.
I glance down at my now flat belly and smooth my hands over the severely scarred skin, tracing the healing ridges. Tenderly, at first, over indents extending from my navel to my sides, then more abrasively until the beat of my heart pulses through the pads of my fingers.
I touch the loss.
It pumps through my full veins, leaving me vacant. I attempt to summon a trace of positivity, but all I can muster is guilt. Disasters don’t have a ‘bright side,’ nor is there healing in the aftermath. There’s just loss and hollowness and a shit ton of darkness to wade through. Time passes, sinking me deeper into the obscure depths of despair.
People keep telling me I’m going through a phase, and with time, I’ll somehow emerge from all the pain, healed and ready to move forward.
Bullshit! Every day my heart hurts worse than the day before. There’s no closure, no end—just a gaping hole inside me. One day, I went from crib shopping and ultrasounds to Kace bringing me in to help with an undercover case. They needed a pregnant cop to infiltrate the Pregnancy Center, and I was the only one at the precinct who fit those qualifications.
I shouldn’t have gone.
He shouldn’t have offered me the opportunity.
Every damn minute I tell myself both things, and his words haunt my thoughts: ‘It’s safe. All we need is a layout of the ultrasound room.’
It was safe. The baby was healthy and strong, and the doctor under investigation for drug trafficking was kind to me. Then again, the doctor also strapped women with hollowed-out rubber bellies to traffic drugs between dealers, so nice didn’t exactly fit him.
One way or the other, I walked out of the center perfectly fine, went to the bathroom at the bus stop where Kace was waiting for me, gave him the camera, and continued on with the plan. In case anyone had been following me, I was to go shopping for baby clothes downtown until I got the all-clear.
I didn’t make it to the store.
When I got off the second bus, I was shot.
In the stomach.
I didn’t see the shooter or hear the asshole coming. I was in a blissful bubble, daydreaming about names and godparents, wobbling my way down the steps. The next thing I knew, I was bleeding, and wave after wave of intense pain crumpled me to the ground before I passed out.
My son was murdered at twenty-nine weeks.
By who? I still have no clue. After I was released from the hospital and able to return to work, I obsessed over every detail of the case. Kace suspected the drug doctor, while his partner suspected one of the warring gangs at the time. Considering the doctor worked with both gangs, Kace and Frank pursued the angle together but yielded nothing. At least nothing about my shooting.
Me? I suspected everyone. Someone doesn’t randomly shoot an unborn infant. Whatever reason had to do with me, or with Kace, or with something we did. So, I questioned every detail of my life and Kace’s, dug into family members and friends, even investigated my neighbors and bridal party. Nothing resulted from it, except getting sent home on unpaid leave and mandatory counseling.
No son. No job. No love left to give.
I shut my eyes and find reprieve in the seconds between my aching heartbeats, longing for the moment when the pain becomes dull enough to breathe again.
I hold my breath.
And hold it.
And hold it until thoughts still.
My fingers roam over the area below my belly button. Just below the layers of skin there used to be a pear-shaped organ made of complete muscle, capable of stretching and forming a human life inside of it … but it had not been strong enough to stop a bullet.
The engagement ring on my finger serves as a reminder of a happier time, but it was so long ago I forget what a smile feels like.
The backdoor swings open. I aim the weapon at the person standing in my doorway.
“Put that down, Ellie!” Kace shakes his head and closes the door behind him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to work?” I lower the gun and put it back in its holster, which is hanging on the chair beside me. Another piece of evidence I’m oblivious to. Kace goes nowhere without his gun. Had I been in my right mind and attentive to details, I would’ve noticed.
“I went to take out the trash.” He grabs the holder and secures it around his waist. “Today is Tuesday.” He avoids staring at the littered countertops, full of opened jars, dirty dishes, and pantry items.
I avoid looking at all the stuff I didn’t do too. “So you don’t work on Tuesdays?”
He runs his hand over his thick, dark hair and sighs in defeat. “We have our first therapy session in about an hour. Don’t you remember?”
I have my first mandatory session; he insists on couple’s counseling. “No amount of therapy will ever fix me, Kace.”
He slides into the seat beside me. “You don’t need to be fixed, Ellie. You’re grieving and angry … and pissed off. I am too. Someone took our baby from us, but you can’t do this to yourself anymore.” He points to the soggy cereal and untouched spoon. “You barely eat or talk or function. Ever since the captain sent you home, you’ve been…”
“Different? Depressed? Emotional?” I spit out words to finish his sentence. “Did you expect me to be the same?” My forehead, right above my left brow, aches. My m
igraines always seem to start there.
“I expected you to be more resilient.”
“Resilient?” The throbbing vein doesn’t ease, so I cradle my head on my hands and rest my elbows on the table. Resilience is for people who have hope.
“I mean…” He stops and shakes his head. “Babe, I don’t even know what to say anymore. Nothing I say is something you want to hear.”
Then. Stop. Talking.
“You walk around here like a ghost. You wear sweats all day, and how long has it been since you combed your hair? I’m worried about you.”
My gaze cuts to him, warning him to shut the hell up. I look better than I feel, that’s for damn sure.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Ellie. That’s what I’m trying to say.” His ordinarily strong voice is softer and needier than usual, but my heart is too hurt to give a shit. “I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”
Three months ago, I would’ve run my fingers through his dark hair and touched my forehead to his before placing a soft kiss on his lips. Today, I glance over my shoulder, through the open space, at the unmade sofa bed and visualize the separation between the two of us. Ever since getting back from the hospital, I couldn’t sleep with him beside me. I blamed him, and us, and it no longer felt right to fall asleep in his arms.
“Babe?”
I sigh and exhale the air between my teeth. “I don’t know, Kace.” Maybe a part of me deep down longs for Kace’s touch—to feel the warmth of his skin touching mine—but that part of me is buried under hours of wishing for life to rewind. No matter how much I miss the feeling of being loved, I miss my baby more. “I don’t know how to exist without him.”
“Exist with me, Ellie.” He puts both hands on my thighs and turns me toward him, locking my legs in between his knees. “We were us before him.”
I hate Kace for being able to move on. For seeing life without our child—without Tyler—in it. “It’s not the same anymore.”
His finger slides under my chin, and he tilts my head up to meet his gaze. “It can be. We can rebuild. I want to be us again, Ellie.”
It hurts to hear the hope in his voice, especially when I don’t find anything to be hopeful for. “I’m not the same person.”
“Yes, you are.”
He doesn’t know what he’s saying. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s always wanted children. Lots of children that I can no longer carry for him. He doesn’t understand the ache in my bones—the need for revenge that flows through me with every passing moment.
“I don’t want to be those people anymore, Kace.”
He doesn’t release me, but a glimmer of shock flickers over his face before he says, “You don’t mean that, or you wouldn’t still be wearing this ring.” He brings my hand up in the air and thumbs the diamond.
“You’re right.” I remove my hand and slide my ring off. I hold the engraved side up and read the inscription. Three become one. Before he can say anything, I remind him, “We’re not going to be three ever again.” I don’t have a uterus anymore, and adoption requires someone financially and emotionally stable, and that’s not me.
“So let’s work on being two first. Then figure out the rest.” Though his tone has become harsher, he’s still trying.
Something I’m no longer willing to do. “The only thing I want to do is find who killed our son.”
“Then let me help you find who is responsible.”
“They took you off the case.” It’s low priority since it’s not considered a homicide. Last time I was in the precinct, they were chasing down a killer known as the Bullet Man. It took forever for the cases to be connected, and only recently did they realize they were searching for a proxy killer. “Any leads?” I switch the subject to something I’m more comfortable talking about—murderers.
“No, and we are up to eight victims now. He’s escalating, and we have no leads.”
“Eight murderers, you mean.”
“They are still victims. He solves cold cases and gives the grieving families a bullet with the name of the murderer on it. We’ve looked into every private investigator, cop, lab tech, and gun shop. Nothing turns up. We don’t know how he’s choosing his victims, or how he’s solving the cases we couldn’t.”
“There’s no interaction between the people who receive the bullets and the sender?” I ask.
Kace smiles softly. “It’s dropped off through couriers. None trace back to the same person. We’ve hit the pavement, tracing leads, and have nothing except more bodies and more solved cases.”
“Have you pulled out all the cold cases and tried to find similarities?” Hope finds a way to embed itself in my tone.
Kace picks up on it and smirks. “There’s the girl I fell in love with. I can pull a few strings. Maybe if we play our cards right, we can get you back to work, or I can talk to Cap about bringing you in to consult. Your expertise could come in handy.”
I slip my ring back on and force a tiny smile, playing the part. “Maybe this is what I need? A case to distract me.”
But I don’t want to arrest him, I want to hire the Bullet Man.
2
Subjects
Dr. Nolan Mills
I have a theory about a bullet and a tortured heart. When both items exist, the only variable is opportunity.
That’s where I come in. I solve the unsolved cases and provide the survivors with the chance to get their justice. Of course, choosing my test subjects requires time and a bit of social interaction. Being a cognitive neuroscientist with an emphasis on psychiatry, who specializes in grief counseling, gives me an in. With the right questions, I pinpoint key details of the investigation and find ideal candidates. An emotional scorecard, which I fill out during my first few sessions with the patient, is crucial in my selection process.
Priors, registered weapons, level of education, forms of abuse during childhood, relationship status, intelligence quotient, medical history, trauma, and much more become data points in my study. Quantifying the quality of a patient’s past and present provides a solemn hypothesis on his or her future. I have three groups based on scores: those I presume will not seek revenge, those who I’m quite positive will, and those who I’m unsure of.
Despite my initial assumptions, I’m very strict about hindering my own investigation by adding bias, so I never sway results. Patients come to me for support, and I help them through their emotional process, never pointing them in a particular direction or dwelling on revenge. Exploring their feelings is the ultimate goal, not finding test subjects.
I confess to finding it much more enjoyable when the two overlap. It’s my only sense of entertainment.
As a survivor of crime, I understand grief. My first opportunity to help someone through their ache and guilt came in college.
Then, six years ago, I was recruited to help with the exclusive Kaleigh University’s Forensic Program. They reached out to me after reading one of my less famous papers on quantifying neuronal processes via mapping and image analysis. They wanted my cognitive behaviorist perspective in order to help attribute a number to each member of society—the criminal probability.
Awarded a billion-dollar, renewable ten-year funding by the government, the goal of IQ3, Intelligent Quantum Quality Quantification, is to create nationwide ballistic fingerprinting database that can assess for wear, use, and batch similarities of weapons, and combine this information with psychological profiles of people within the vicinity and pinpoint likely assailants. It gives me access to everything I need to solve the unsolvable cases, including access to The Tank—the place where State’s evidence goes to be forgotten.
One of those cases should be solved within the hour.
Yesterday, I slipped the evidence from Elijah R. Bitten’s unsolved case to the top of the pile, and if everything comes back the way I expect, I’ll have a bullet to engrave tonight.
Bitten Senior survived his son, who was shot twenty-six times in multiple parts of his body. Before this, or more
likely during—according to the coroner—Elijah had been tied to a chair and burned. His torture lasted over three hours until a final, fatal shot pierced his main artery.
It had been a brutal murder, televised all over the state, and believed to be gang-related. Elijah’s best friend, who was the main suspect at the time, had recently involved himself with one of the deadlier crime syndicates in the neighborhood.
I watched hours of interrogation footage, and the police overlooked a vital piece of information given by their prime suspect: Elijah had been dating someone who ‘didn’t fit the life,’ as he put it. Despite the insistence of the best friend, no one followed the lead.
Pressure to resolve these media-picked cases trickles from the mayor and chief, putting political pressure on the departments. Coining it as a gang-related crime, unfortunately, assuages all elements involved, except the survivors.
With IQ3, I have access to prisons in order to conduct interviews with the criminals. It’s not often that petty crimes are of importance, but just this morning, I interviewed and assessed Elijah’s friend. We started with the interviewee’s drug-related incarceration and his past, and the conversation naturally transgressed to the Bitten case. The death of his best friend, who died three years ago, weighed heavy on his conscience.
His theory pointed toward the girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend. Previously, I looked into this wealthy boyfriend; not only did he own a gun, but so did three members of his family, and those were the registered weapons. I doubted the grandfather and father, who were both dead, had anything to do with it. This leads me to believe, the name on the bullet will most likely belong to Aaron Borshin, who had been implicated and arrested for armed robbery with multiple arson charges, but none stuck. Money can buy a lot of things in this city, especially freedom.
