According to the rookie who’d written the report, James Smithson, a forty-two-year-old white male, had left his house heading for work on the morning of January second and simply never returned home. His wife, Alicia, had called the police that evening. Beyond taking a short report and broadcasting a “Be on the lookout” description, the officers on duty didn’t really do anything.
I flipped over Benson’s case notes next. A few days after the original report, Gary had found time in his busy schedule to make a follow-up phone call to Alicia Smithson. She stated him that her husband had worked as a public school teacher, and that his fingerprints should be available from his job application. Shockingly, Benson had actually gone so far as to pull Smithson’s fingerprints from the Charleston County School Board and enter them into NCIC. The final note in Benson’s log said that he made another follow-up phone call just a few weeks later, but that Mrs. Smithson still hadn’t been contacted by her husband.
I closed the file in disgust. Ordinarily, I’d wager that Smithson had probably just run off with a young girlfriend or something, but there had to be other factors at work. It was almost certainly drug-related, like most of the other missing persons cases I handle. Maybe it was even a combination of drugs and women, like Smithson was shacking up with some cokehead stripper downtown, but it occurred to me that Smithson might even be getting down with some other guy, too. There was no way of telling, but I’ve heard that married suburban life can drive some men to switch teams like that. I thought about it for a while longer, but couldn’t come up with any other reasons why a middle-class, middle-age white guy might have been hanging around the bummy homeless shelter.
Since the case file that Benson had bequeathed me was pretty thin, I figured that I’d probably need to talk to his wife at least once, if only to put something recent in the notes. After a minute’s consideration, I decided it was better to hold off on mentioning the newfound fingerprints to her, at least until I had a better handle on the case. The Smithsons’ address was listed as Ocean Neighbors Drive, which is this classy subdivided neighborhood down near Folly Beach. The folks who live out that way are the type of idiots who pay high dollar prices for these huge houses with beautiful marsh views, then they get all bent out of shape whenever the occasional alligator crawls up in their yard. The way I see it, the alligators were there first so if anyone had a reason to get upset it’d be them.
But all things considered, it was actually a pretty convenient case since Ocean Neighbors was only a few miles down the road from my apartment. Big Jim had clearly directed me to get the Smithson case mopped up in a hurry, so I figured that I’d better pay a visit first thing the next morning. That way I could sleep in a little longer than usual, make a quick appearance with Smithson’s lonely wife, and not have to show my face around the Department until at least lunchtime.
I fooled around shooting rubber bands at Clyde Edwards for a few more minutes before I finally gave up the ghost and headed out the door towards MUSC. It was getting late in the day, almost three o’clock already, and I still needed to come up with some form of patient records for Leonard Encienario. I couldn’t hold back my grumbling, since finding a missing patient in that maze of a hospital was going to be harder than finding an innocent man in municipal court.
There was some construction going on at the light where Lockwood Boulevard meets Calhoun Street, so I had no choice but to sit in traffic for a few minutes. I could feel my blood pumping warmer at the unexpected delay, so I finally threw the bubble light up on the dashboard and yelped the siren a few times. Once a few cars had pulled aside to let me through, I raced up a couple blocks and pulled the cruiser up onto the sidewalk. See, after twelve years in law enforcement, I’ve come to the conclusion that the one decent perk this job provides is that you can pretty much park wherever you want. I hopped out and hustled into the MUSC’s administration building, hoping to call it a day as early as possible.
I checked in with the receptionist and picked out a seat in the lobby next to a younger, professional-looking guy. The dude seemed healthy enough, but you can never really be sure about stuff like that. I mean, the guy could’ve been sick from some strain of bird flu or swine flu or something. Just to be on the safe side, I leaned far away from him and covered my face with a magazine.
The strategy seemed to work, but I was about halfway finished paging through Field and Stream when this heavy-set black woman walked into the lobby and shouted my name. Not wasting a minute, I walked over and flashed a big smile, hoping to avoid the whole handshake routine. The close encounter of sitting next to Patient X had been enough of a germ scare for one day. The big lady smiled back at me as she said, “Miriam Smith, pleased to meet you.” She stuck her chubby hand out into the air, and after it hung out there for a few seconds I really had no choice but to take it.
I held my breath, grasping her hand with the softest touch I could manage. Two pumps with no squeeze, strictly business. “Detective Mike Larsen. Ma’am, is there somewhere we can talk?”
Mrs. Smith turned to lead the way down the hall, and I took the opportunity to wipe my hand on the seat of my pants. She left the door open as we walked into the office, which I took as a clear sign that I wasn’t invited to stay very long. Trust me, that was completely okay in my mind. I snuck a quick peek around the place as Mrs. Smith squeezed her wide bottom behind her desk. The furniture was genuine wood grain, and there were a set of colorful posters from the Spoleto Arts Festival hanging on the wall. If I had to guess, I’d say that you could’ve fit Big Jim’s broom closet inside Mrs. Smith’s place at least three times over.
I still had a shot at getting home on time, so I whipped out a notebook and cut to the chase. “I know you’re busy, ma’am, so I won’t waste your time. I’m trying to wrap up a few loose ends on the man who was found here yesterday morning.”
She took off her thick glasses and rubbed her temples. “Yes, that was such a shock to us all. We’ve taken measures to prevent something like that from ever happening again. Our security staff has increased their nightly rounds, and the pool room will now be locked whenever the lifeguards go off-duty.” Mrs. Smith spoke in a slow, controlled tone, clearly choosing her words with care. Her pacing made her words come out a little strange, but I guess managerial types like her always have to be thinking of ways to dodge potential lawsuits.
I pressed on. “Earlier today, we were able to make a fingerprint identification of the victim. Leonard Encienario, originally from the state of Illinois. As it turns out, he’s been missing for several months now, but there’d been no trace of him before yesterday morning. It’d really be a big help if you could check your hospital records to see if he was a patient here, maybe see if one of the doctors was working with him.”
She nodded, punching a few keys on this sleek desktop computer. After just a few seconds she said “I’m sorry but no, we don’t have any record of a patient by that name. Have you already made inquiries at the other facilities on the peninsula? It’s common for patients from Charleston Memorial Hospital or Roper-St. Francis to get turned around and show up here by mistake. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but with all these tall buildings so close together I’ve actually gotten lost a time or two myself.” I could almost see her thick frame rise up as the weight of any potential liability lifted off her shoulders. “He is, however, most certainly not one of our patients.”
I saw my early ride home going up in a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, that’s probably what happened. I guess I’ll head over and check around those spots.” I figured that Encienario must have been some kind of a patient, since only an invalid or a sex pervert would have gone around town wearing nothing but an open-assed hospital gown. As I stood up I said, “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”
She nodded in a dismissive manner, both at me and the open door at the same time, which I took as my cue to leave. Mrs. Smith snatched up her ringing telephone as I headed out, no doubt attending to some urgent hospital business. A lot of the other cops don
’t care for those white-collar folks with their management jobs, but I’ve never really let the upper classes get to me. By my way of thinking, there was no way that the stress of being chained to a desk sixty hours a week could be worthwhile, even if the job did come with a six-figure salary. I might never become rich by working as a detective, but at least I could do my own thing most of the time.
As the afternoon passed, it took me the better part of two hours to strike out with the records offices at both the Charleston Memorial and Roper-St. Francis Hospitals. Neither of them had ever heard of Leonard Encienario, so I was feeling pretty annoyed as I hiked back towards my cruiser. Strolling down Courtenay Street, it was a struggle to clear my head. Encienario had been found wearing a hospital gown, so if he hadn’t been on his way to some kind of a homosexual costume party when he simply had to have been a patient somewhere. And since I had just ruled out the most likely scenario, that he’d been staying at one of the downtown hospitals, it looked as if I’d have to spend most of the next day calling around to every single outpatient facility and hospice care place in the whole damned city.
When I had almost made it back to my car, I caught sight of some old fart leaning heavy on his cane, trying to squeeze past my cruiser where it was parked up on the sidewalk. The dude shot me a pitiful look of helplessness, so I shook my head in sympathy while I covered up my badge and gun with my right arm. I kept walking past the car until he was well out of sight, then doubled back and jumped in my ride.
It had been a miserable day, and I was just plain sick of dealing with incompetent hospitals and their feeble patients. To be completely honest, I was sick of worrying about missing persons and policework in general. The pace of my investigations had just about worn me out, so I really couldn’t focus on anything other than the thought of lying down on my couch with a cold beer. For some strange reason, though, I just couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that my week was only going to get worse.
WEDNESDAY
Why is it that men are seen as heroes if they manage to triumph over insurmountable odds, but should they stumble and fall, we call them fools for their misguided efforts? Tonight, this thought comes back to me again and again. Am I a fool for trying to battle the evil Doctor Demming, or am I a valiant hero for making the attempt? In truth, it does not matter. I do this because it must be done.
The concrete cavern is dark and quiet. Crouched in the shadows, I cannot be seen. The slightest noise echoes, and I guard against making a sound. My hands tremble, but not from fear. This weakness is merely a sign of what I have become, a frail and timid shadow. Who would have thought when this all began that I would be in hiding, like some coward? Heroes do not hide. But then, I tell myself, heroes do what they must.
It is just a matter of time before Doctor Demming arrives. When he does, the fiend more floats than walks, gliding down toward his carriage. My eyesight has faded, but I can clearly spot the case carried in the beast’s left hand. I am shocked to see he is not along, moving alongside my last compatriot. Shawn is unable to resist him, and I bite my quivering lip to stifle the tears. Though I had to know it would all end like this, it still pains me to see young Shawn end his days so soon. Heroes are supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, not down with a whimper like an unwanted puppy.
Doctor Demming places the case inside his carriage, then turns to face his prey. I edge forward to hear his cruel words. “Shawn, it pains me to do this. Please remember the others who will be helped, so many others. We do what we must for the greater good.”
Shawn does not break away from Demming’s evil gaze, but stares death straight in the face. I smile with approval. ’Attaboy, kid. Although Shawn’s shoulders are trembling ever so slightly, it would be disrespectful of me to notice this.
Doctor Demming looks past his victim, out into the skyscape of Metropolis. The night is quiet and thick. He pauses for a moment, as if the fiend could have possibly felt a twinge of remorse. The pause is just long enough for a false light of hope to rise in my chest, which crashes back down as he pushes Shawn out into the nothing. The kid doesn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing a scream, though. If not for a sickening crunch two seconds later, it would have seemed as though Shawn had just flown off into the sunset the way we all dream of leaving this Earth.
The monster reflects over the Metropolis sky for what seems like an eternity. What thoughts could occur in that devil’s mind? Remorse? Pride? Fury? Or all of these? I do not know, and I do not care. He must be stopped. But suddenly, with an air of determination, the doctor turns and marches back toward his lair. My heart falls, and I know that his evil scheme must not yet be complete.
My friends are gone. First Leonard, and now Shawn. The burden is mine to bear now, and my shoulders sink with the weight of the task. I alone must defeat Doctor Demming. I may die in the process, but to steal the fiend’s own words, it is for the greater good.
But I am weak, and I must have strength to move on. I stumble from concealment, stricken with grief, and hunch down beside my enemy’s carriage. Beneath the clear glass armor, lying there mocking me, is the case containing the Cruxion. So near, but as I pound my fists helplessly on the glass, my goal still seems so far.
With each feeble blow, my heart sinks lower. What little power I had has left, and Doctor Demming may return at any moment. I slump to the ground in despair. Is this the way it was meant to be? Is this how it all ends? My head sags lower until finally, my eyes are level with the pavement. But then, like manna from Heaven, the answer is before my eyes.
A brick. Nothing more than a rock to most, but divine intervention to me.
I seize the brick and rise with a burst of newfound power, raising it over my head with both hands. In spite of myself, in spite of the trials I face, I laugh.
Demming will not win.
He will not win.
He will not win!
I scream, bringing the rock down with all my strength. The glass armor shatters and falls away.
The Cruxion has become mine once more.
8.
You gotta be shitting me, I thought as I heard that damned pager go off yet again. It was the first time I’d ever had three straight callouts in three straight days, and that had to be some kind of record. The whole week had been enough to make me want to re-think my career path, and by that point even going back to working in a patrol team was starting to look good. I made a mental note to check and see if I could even still fit into my dress pants and gun belt.
I rubbed my eyes, looking over towards my alarm clock, which was glowing “6:30” in bright red letters. Once I’d found my pager, the urgent message read, “63 @ MUSC, 911, for an 07.”
“Crap! Crap! Crap!” I spat out to the emptiness of my apartment. It looked like I was in for yet another trip down to the hospital, but at least I wouldn’t have to rush since the victim was already dead.
I rolled out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt that didn’t smell too bad. The dirty pants atop my laundry pile were uncomfortably tight in comparison to my brand new khakis, but I sucked in my gut and somehow managed to get them zipped. Once I’d clipped on my badge and holster I was out the door with blazing speed, thirty minutes flat.
I’m not usually one to rush on over just to see a dead body, but that morning happened to be Slipper’s day off. Since I wasn’t sure which Team One supervisor would be on duty, I figured it was better to be safe than sorry since I sure wasn’t in any kind of mood to catch hell from one of the college boys who were passing for sergeants these days.
I’ll be honest, I was also just the slightest bit curious about the fact that a second dead body had popped up at MUSC. As I fired up my cruiser, I made a little wish for Miriam Smith to be at the crime scene. It’s not often that a cop gets a chance to talk trash to upright citizens, and I figured that it was my chance to get in a couple good digs about how her hospital was turning into a morgue.
Once I pulled onto the Connector, I checked into service on the radio and stomped down
on the gas pedal. The dispatcher responded with a burst of static and a muffled voice, sounding like she was talking through a mouthful of chicken biscuit. My best guess was that she had just told me to respond to the high-rise parking garage down on Charleston Center Drive, and only a few minutes later I saw the entire street blocked off with patrol cars and crime scene tape. When I noticed that Sergeant Dookie Wilson’s squad was handling the action, I kicked myself for rushing. Dookie, that living legend, was leaning back against his double-parked cruiser, his uniform shirt unbuttoned and a stained white T-shirt showing through underneath. He was smoking a cigar and looking like he didn’t give a damn about anything, which is pretty much normal for him.
Back in my patrol days, I always tried to stand next to Dookie during our uniform inspections. Even if I’d forgotten to iron my shirt or shave my face, the dude made me look good by comparison. I parked my cruiser and walked toward him, wondering just what could be so special about this 07 that it warranted calling out a detective so early in the morning. Dookie’s the type of cop who’s much more likely to just drag a dead body back into the marshes and leave it for the dayshift patrol cops to find.
I got a few more feet before I spotted the body, which was lying face down in the middle of the road. From what I could tell, the victim was a flattened white guy wearing nothing but a hospital gown, his naked butt cheeks sticking up out of a large dent in the asphalt. It didn’t take a genius to solve that case, seeing as how the dude had obviously jumped off of the seven-story parking garage.
“Whatcha got, Dookie?”
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 8
