“That’s incredible.” Heisen squatted beside Amos.
The cop waved his pen around. “That’s nuthin; look around, detective.” Amos swiveled his head theatrically, and then faced Heisen, his eyebrows raised. “Nothing else is burned. The heat happened right here, right on her, just on her, for a few seconds, and then just as miraculously, turned itself off.”
Heisen grunted and looked up – the ceiling was also unharmed. He nodded. “Well, wasn’t a flamethrower, that’d fry the plaster overhead, or at least leave a helluva stain.”
He sniffed. There was a strange smell, but not the greasy odor he expected when a body was cooked. He’d seen people burned up before and the fact was, Joe or Jane Doe contained a good percentage of fat, women more so. Even a healthy woman carried about ten percent body fat – burning it should have filled the room with greasy smoke and the smell of fried pork. Instead, there was nothing but a sharp metallic odor.
Heisen pulled on his lower lip as he thought for a moment, and then clicked his fingers. “Microwaves.”
“Huh?” Amos looked at him as if he had just started to speak in another language.
“Microwaves. You know, like what you get in a microwave oven. I hear that the military is working on some sort of device to project the waves that’ll cook you from the inside out – leaves all the buildings intact.”
Amos’s expression didn’t soften, but his head tilted by about half a degree and one of his eyebrows went up by just as much. “Rays? Army fucking mi-cro-waves? Is that your deduction, detective?”
Heisen half shrugged. “Well, what’ve you got?” He didn’t really think that. He’d also read that the devices were as large as a good sized refrigerator – not exactly something you’d cart up to the first floor of some back-alley flea-pit, use it to fry a young woman, and then slip out the back door with it hidden under your coat.
As Amos turned to speak to a couple of uniformed policemen, Heisen stepped back to look down at the outline again, trying to imagine how the girl had been standing before she had fallen back or been pushed to the ground. One arm was up, appearing as if she had the arm across her face at the moment of death, perhaps trying to protect herself from whatever killed her.
Heisen tried to twist himself into the right shape. With his legs splayed, one arm out and the other over his face. He let his eyes move to a doorway on the other side of the apartment. She would have been facing that room. Whatever had killed her had come from there. The door was closed.
The shove to his back nearly threw him to the floor. He spun to see six enormous human beings, all dressed in plain black coveralls, push into the room – five men, one woman, all with faces hard enough to dent a steel door.
One calmly started giving orders, and immediately the group began to spread out, some waving strange devices, the rest joining the guys in hazmat sits and taking their reports from them. Heisen noticed all had powerful looking sidearms strapped to their thighs.
“Hey, who the fuck are you guys?” Amos charged over waving his arms, flanked by two young policemen. The senior policeman went to grab one of the men by the arm. The effect was immediate and alarming – like lightning, Amos’ hand was grabbed and twisted. The senior cop screamed, and the two policemen went for the guns. Before they could even get close to drawing them, five weapons were all aimed at the policemen. The young cops swallowed; behind them the technicians froze. The policemen’s eyes slide to Amos.
Heisen recognized the guns – all Heckler & Koch USP Tacticals. What caught his attention was the modified o-ring barrel with polygonal bore profile and taller sights for using sound suppressors. It also had a slide rail for laser sights – these were not your standard kit, even for the Kommando Spezialkräfte.
“Let him go,” the leader said softly.
Amos was released, and he rubbed his hand, looking like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk away or go for his own gun. The leader, and the only one who hadn’t bothered pulling a weapon, touched something at his ear and spoke a few words. The cop’s phone began to ring.
“Answer it,” he said to Amos.
Heisen watched as Amos kept his eyes on the big man and pulled out his phone. He lifted it to his ear. “Amos.” He listened, his brow folding.
He disconnected and turned to his officers. “At ease; that was the boss.” He shrugged “Actually, further up the chain of command.” He turned away, rubbing his arm. “Let these… agents… look around… and give them any assistance they need.” Amos turned back to the man he assumed was in charge. “What’s your name?” The older cop tilted his chin, waiting.
He was pushed aside and the agents went about their tasks. Heisen sidled up next to Amos. “Who the hell are these guys?”
Amos shrugged. “From Defense.” He began to walk away.
“Huh? Defense what – army, navy, Spezialkräfte, homeland, who?” Heisen got in front of Amos.
Amos motioned with his hand to the huge agents. “Be my guest.”
There was a woman amongst them, and Heisen switched on his most disarming smile, and approached. “Hi there, I’m…”
“Fuck off.” She kept walking.
“Thank you.” Heisen waved. He decided to watch and backed up to the wall. It seemed the Defense were going to give them nothing. He could try again, maybe beg them for information, or he could do his job. He moved away from the wall, knowing he only had a few minutes before these guys, whoever they were, shut them all down. If he wanted answers, he’d have to get them himself… and quick.
He stepped around the forensics guys down on their knees sifting and lifting minute bits of evidence from the carpet. As he went by he reached down to lift a rubber glove from one of their cases and held it loosely in his hand. He crossed to the closed door the disintegrated woman had been facing, and gripped the handle. He turned it –locked.
From behind him, Amos confirmed what was now obvious. “Locked or jammed tight, and so is the other side door – we haven’t got in there yet and the landlord doesn’t have a key. We’re waiting on a locksmith. And before you ask, we’ve already stuck a peep-pipe in, and found nothing. So… we sit tight.”
Heisen backed up looking around the old door, and then reached up to feel around the frame. From behind, Amos must have been watching.
“Done that – jammed up and no hidden keys. Be too easy wouldn’t it, Heisen?”
“Locked from the inside maybe?” Heisen rolled his eyes and half turned to speak over his shoulder. “Thanks Amos; I’ll take a poke around.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, instead sliding past the cop and then making a sharp turn down a narrow side hallway, continuing on until he came to a door he guessed was a rear exit to the room he had just tried to enter. Using the glove again, he jiggled the handle – loose but also jammed. He looked at the frame – this one was more promising – the wood looked old and damp-softened.
Heisen reached inside his jacket, slid free his handgun, and put his ear to the door. Though Amos had said they’d stuck a peep-pipe, a cord camera, into the room, he knew from experience if someone wanted to hide, they could fold themselves into a freakin’ suitcase.
Heisen let the large gun hang by his side and put his shoulder against the door. He braced one of his legs against the opposite wall in the narrow hallway, and pushed. He gently applied more and more pressure until he felt the wood crunch softly as the lock was torn from its bed in the rotten cavity. He eased the door open and stepped inside. That weird smell again, but stronger – like an electrical short. The word ozone immediately leapt into his mind.
He quickly stepped out of the doorframe’s halo of light – nothing like a little backlighting to make you an easy target. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and gradually the piles of dirty clothing, food wrappers and assorted rubbish on a bench-top took on greater definition. The only sound came from the forensics team on the other side of the far door.
Heisen remained motionless and just let his eyes slide around t
he room. Against the wall there was a new pair of jogging shoes, with clean socks tucked into them – incongruously neat amongst the general disarray. On the bench top, a gold chain with small heart locket, an Yves Saint Laurent wallet open and with several cards in place, a wristwatch – blue Seiko dive model – expensive. Not theft then, he thought. Unless what was taken was something completely different.
Heisen looked around, and grunted. It didn’t fit. The entire apartment block was nothing but floor upon floor of piss-smelling flophouses. The picture of the girl, nice, wholesome, the expensive shoes and personal items – just didn’t fit.
Heisen finally walked towards the centre of the room, and holstered his gun. What’s wrong with this picture? He tugged on his lip and he slowly turned in a circle. He hadn’t been in the apartment long, but as far as he could tell the place hadn’t been tossed. So, whoever had killed the Sömmer girl had found what they were looking for, or the objective was the girl herself – a hit.
Heisen sighed and put his hands on his hips. Or theory three, it was some sort of freak natural phenomenon – ball lightning, maybe? He snorted softly and finally pulled the single glove over his hand. He used a couple of fingers to lift the wallet, carefully sorting through the contents. No receipts, no paperwork, or even a bus ticket… but plenty of cash. A runner’s wallet, he thought.
He lifted open one of the sleeves and dragged out a picture of the girl – standing with a smiling young man holding an old brown skull. She wore a slightly bored expression, and was holding what looked like a weird brushed-metal fountain pen. He turned the photograph over. In small script there were three words: Klaus and me. He turned it back, now having a name to the young face.
“Klaus, huh? What did you two kids find?” He studied it for a few more seconds before slipping it into his pocket and checking the wallet’s other compartments – all empty.
Heisen sniffed again – ozone. Ozone, and piss, and stale cigarettes, and booze and sex. No Club Med, and definitely not a place you’d expect to find a pretty young girl in new running shoes wearing a Seiko dive watch. From the little information Amos had given him, she’d come here a month ago and paid her rent cash-in-advance. In places like this, residents came here for hookers, to do drugs deals, or to hide out. You didn’t stay for the atmosphere or the local restaurant’s cuisine.
He briefly pulled the picture from his pocket and looked again at the smiling face – no way do young girls from good families come here to be incinerated in a two thousand degree microburst. Instead, they come here to meet lovers their conservative parents didn’t approve of… or to hide out. He tapped his chin with a knuckle. A runners wallet, he thought again. But running from what?
He flicked the light switch but no glow came from the bulb - it was blackened inside. Looking to the door where Amos and his team worked, he saw no key sticking from the lock. On closer inspection, he could see that the locking mechanism was fused – welded shut. He frowned. Whoever came out of this room to freak Doris out and then burn her up, had then come back in here afterwards, and then made sure the door stayed closed.
Heisen looked around; whoever it was, had come out of here, come back in here … and had stayed in here. He turned slowly, the Glock hanging loosely at his side.
Where the fuck are you? he thought.
Only one place left to look. He stepped towards the old closet against the wall, and brought the gun up. He laid his hand on the doorknob. An image of the ash outline on the floor flickered in his mind, and he worked to calm his breathing.
One-two-three; he whipped open the door, and immediately something leapt at him. He smashed the Glock into it as he turned side-on, his heart galloping in his chest as he rolled away. He was back on his feet in an instant, gun pointed in a two-handed grip. His vision tunneled as he focused laser-like on the mound lying before him.
“Fuck you too.” He exhaled and laughed softly. “A fucking raincoat.” He holstered the gun; relieved he hadn’t let off a round. He could imagine the look on Amos’ face when the cop busted in to find he had just shot the shit out of a plastic coat.
Heisen lifted his eyes back to the empty closet to continue his investigation. First thing he noticed was that wooden backboard was blackened. Clothing framed the cupboard rear as if it had already been pushed aside. Heisen reached in and touched the back of the big piece of furniture – it was solid, scorched, but solid. He pushed it – no false wall, or sliding panels.
He lifted one of the jackets free and noticed that one side of it was missing. “What the hell?” He brought it closer to his face – it was singed, like the sleeve had been cut away by a red-hot knife. He turned it over in his hands – the other side was untouched. He hung it back up, and pulled a shirt from the other side of the cupboard – same thing, but the opposite sleeve – subjected to heat, but no flame – cauterized.
He leant in and looked down at the cupboard floor – no ash. The sleeves and material just… gone. He replaced the shirt and stood back, hands on his hips again. The scorch mark was oval, about three feet high, and he could see now that where the oval and the clothing had overlapped, the sleeves, and other material had simply vanished.
“Fucked if I know,” he said softly to the dark interior. He pulled off the glove and stuck it in his pocket. He’d run a trace on the girl, and try and find out who the mystery man was. At least now he had a name and a face, and somewhere to start.
Heisen paused at the door, looking back at the room. From this angle, the dark oval in the cupboard looked longer… almost like a tunnel. He shrugged. A trick of the eye, he thought. He closed the door behind him, just in time.
* * *
Monroe watched his team move through the rooms like a school of sharks parting the smaller baitfish as they went. His Defense team didn’t work with the police, or any other law enforcement body. What they usually fought didn’t obey the rules, so neither did they.
Monroe looked around the room, taking everything and everyone in. His agents, Harper and Felzig squatted by the outline of the body, taking digital pictures, samples, and readings, and in a few moments, Agent Carter appeared at his side, leaning in close, small box in hand.
“What’ve you got, Carter?” Monroe said.
Carter held up the tiny illuminated screen. “Weird; I’ve got extremely high gamma radiation traces, bordering on dangerous. Also, some other form of background trace I can’t identify here.” He nodded towards the locked door. “And that’s the focal point.”
Monroe turned to the door. “Let’s have a look then.” Monroe crossed the room.
“Locksmith’s on his way.” Amos called from behind him.
At the door, Monroe didn’t stop, and simply lifted one huge boot and kicked out. The old door exploded inwards. He stood in the centre of the doorframe, just letting his eyes move over the empty space. Beside him his agents had already formed up, weapons pointed onto the room.
“Clear.” He walked in, followed by Benson, Carter holding out his reader, and Raptor with gun probing the dark. They went around the room quickly and professionally. The first sweep was looking for anyone or anything trying to conceal itself. Then they performed a more focused search – looking for trace and clues.
Monroe stood before the cupboard, looking in at the oval scorch mark. Carter held the reader towards it, and half turned.
“Off the scale, right here.” He tapped the burn mark with his knuckle. “Solid.”
Raptor had appeared beside him. For a big man he moved silently. “Want me to tell you what I think that looks like?”
Monroe exhaled. “You don’t need to.” He turned to Carter. “Get those readings back to base. I want to know what that unknown radiation signature is. And I want it locked in for tracking.”
“Move out.” Monroe turned away. “We’ve already missed this party. Let’s try and get in front of the next one.”
At the door he stopped and gave Amos a small salute. “Thank you for your cooperation, officer.”
~5~
The General’s voice boomed inside the large room. Senior science officers and Cleanup team leaders sat looking down at hands clasped on the desk.
“Every zone trip costs us close to a trillion euroyuan.” He looked from Gilbred to Jax. “And both of you are now into me for about ten times that much.” The General walked slowly along behind the rows of seats, and sighed. “This is turning out to be a real shit day.” He continued for another few feet and stopped behind Gilbred, who obviously sensed the big man, and visibly gulped. The General leaned around in front of the science officer.
“Gilbred, isn’t it?” The General grinned like a shark and didn’t wait for the man to respond. “You and your entire science division better start pinpointing better zones for us right now. Because, if we keep stepping in and out of that sort of zone, sooner or later something bad is going to happen.” The General’s jaws worked. “Because in that zone, they’re getting smarter, and I for one, don’t want one of those big ugly mothers working out how to follow us back here.” He straightened, but kept one large hand on the back of the man’s neck. “So, just to be clear. I couldn’t give a fuck about you, your division, or anyone else in this goddamn room.”
The general pushed off from Gilbred and turned to face Jax. “Take a proximity bomb – if you can’t get your hands on the burner, then get as close as you can and take every-fucking-thing out nearby. I authorize you to use all force necessary to retrieve or destroy the device.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Jax sat straighter. “Permission to take language converters and conduct Gimp interrogation, sir.”
The general turned. “Authorized, Master Cleaner.” He folded his arms, and glared at Gilbred. “Get it done, and get it done quick. Retrieval or destruction – no other options.”
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 18
