From the Blue

by Mark Stephens

  If this genetic aberration were already viable, then why was someone experimenting to create one? Who were these people and what are their goals? How did they get so good at covering their tracks?

  The answers were buried among the facts of the case, he knew this. It was a simple matter of digging them up.

  The words swam through his head, catching him in the undertow of his thoughts and drowning him in their mysteries.

  Enough.

  Frustrated, he lurched up from his leaning perch and placed the empty mug in the metal sink, not even remembering when he had drank it. Leaving the tiny room, Mark strode down the hallway, throwing a nod to Elise, his secretary, as he passed. Down an adjacent corridor and through the maze of cubicles for the lower-ranked agents, he headed for the bank of conference rooms.

  As expected, Angelo was already in 2-B, waiting for his partner to join him. The bulky Hispanic man was leaning over the strewn file folders on the large glass table, his coat dangling off the back of a chair, his expression anything but friendly.

  In the conference room, the entering agent threw the manila folder amongst the others laying scattered on the tabletop. Mark Fitzsimmons fell into one of the office chairs and ran his fingers through his thick head of hair. He let out a sigh of frustration and looked at the unorganized mess before him. Seeing his partner’s irritation and gratified at the distraction, Angelo commiserated with him.

  “How’d the director take the underwater alien theory?” He said with a relish of sarcasm thrown in.

  “Extremely well.” Mark’s words came out slowly and emphatically, which made Angelo’s left eyebrow arched up. “Yeah, I know. It was almost as if he was expecting the report I gave him, which should have been crazy enough to get me fired, or at least censured.”

  “Either way, that doesn’t matter.” He continued with a faraway look in his eyes. “I still have thirteen murders in my house to worry about and our one lead…well, he’s more question than answer.”

  Mark leaned forward, placing his elbows on the glass surface and covering his mouth with his hand in deep thought. His eyes were staring blankly ahead of him as he thought carefully before voicing his own suspicions.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than we’ve been made aware of.” Mark said, more to himself than to his partner, yet Angelo still piped in.

  “You’re just tired and frustrated, amigo. Seeing things that aren’t really there. We’ll get the bad guys and everything will make sense.” His voice was firm and confident, as if he’d seen the outcome in a cup of drowned tea leaves.

  “Well, that may be true eventually. But, at the moment, we have more questions than answers, no discernible leads to follow and a rack of inexplicable murders to solve. There is a connection somewhere, but I feel like we’re missing a piece that’ll tie some of this together.

  Sitting down diagonally from his partner, Angelo started arranging the loose sheafs of paper and file folders into organized piles. He could plainly see the irritation cross Mark’s face and sought to direct it elsewhere productively.

  “All right. Let’s start at the beginning and look at everything we’ve got so far. Maybe something new will stick out.”

  Mark nodded his agreement, not really wanting to go over material that he had memorized weeks ago, but not knowing what else to do at the moment.

  “We have a total of six crime scenes now, where we found some sort of experimentation on human subjects. Preliminary analysis suggests that they were being adapted to breathe underwater. Several known and unknown chemical substances as well as liquid were found in the lung tissue of the victims. Cause of death in each was drowning, although each of them also had a severe reaction to the compounds they were exposed to.”

  “Very little forensic evidence was left behind. Evidence of heavy machinery can be extrapolated, although it had been moved from each site. Trace metals have been found, but all were common. Otherwise, every site had been wiped clean.”

  Angelo made a pile of crime scene photos and another pile of witness statements and police reports. He hated the jumbled mess of chaos that Mark lived in and worked best in, but he preferred his chaos to be ordered, at least, unlike his life and his job. He picked up another group of twelve folders with pictures of the victims on them.

  “We’ve done background checks on each victim. Six males, six females. There appears to be no connection between them, but we have field agents still combing through their pasts as far back as grade school. The only similarity that we can determine is that each of them was in good physical shape, very athletic. The crime scenes themselves seem to have no pattern as of yet, other than the fact that they occurred in foreclosed or abandoned homes, which really doesn’t help.”

  As Angelo made neat piles of the mess, he started to uncover the large blown-up relief map of the Atlantic coast between Melbourne and Cocoa Beach that had been hidden on the flat surface of the table. Thick red circles with numbers 1 through 6 on the laminate surface denoted where each of the bodies had been found and their order of discovery.

  Up until now, Mark had only been half-listening to his partner, more humoring him than anything else. But, as the map became visible, he saw something, something he had never noticed before. Without warning, he stood up suddenly, almost knocking his chair over, and pushed aside the piles of folders, spilling them to the floor and uncovering the entire map beneath.

  “Look at this.” He uttered under his breath. “Look at the locations.”

  “Mark, we already have. We haven’t determined anything to denote a pattern or a migration of any kind.”

  Even as Angelo said it, he could tell by his partner’s expression that Mark had seen something that they had all missed. Which wasn’t surprising. He had learned to trust his partner’s uncanny ability to uncover patterns where there shouldn’t be any.

  “You’re right. There isn’t, but there is an area limitation. Look. The first victim was found in Indiatlantic, the second was just north of Melbourne, the third was just south of Palm Shores.” Mark Fitzsimmons started drawing lines on the map in dry erase marker. “The fourth, fifth and sixth were here, here and here.”

  At each scene, he drew an X and scribbled a few intersecting lines, while erasing other lines. After a minute, he had drawn a large rough semi-circle on the map that enclosed each point within its boundaries. He studied it for a moment and drew a square box on the outer banks of the coast. Excitedly, he offered an explanation to Angelo Rodriguez, who waited patiently next to him.

  “Maybe Dr. Williams did give us some help.” He muttered to himself and then glanced up at his partner. “OK, this is a leap but follow my reasoning. One, these people have large, heavy equipment to move around. We found dust outlines and scrapes in the flooring at each site that indicated as such. That could potentially limit how far they can travel.”

  “Next, our suspects aren’t just random killers. They have an expertise and a purpose. We need to look at existing scientists and anyone with a medical background. Doctors publish their findings. Let’s see who’s been doing what.”

  “Third, their experiments. Think about what the doctor said, Angelo. John Doe needs a high sodium content to survive. If his associates are the same, then these people either breathe underwater or want to create people who do. Look at the map. Each victim was found within a dozen miles of the coast. These guys need to stay close to the water.”

  “All right, Mark, but there are thousands of miles of coastline. Lord knows where they will hit next.”

  “Actually, we can surmise that, too. There may not be a pattern, but six crime scenes is a trend.”

  “I don’t know, Mark.” Angelo said skeptically. “All this is a bit much to take. I mean, really, underwater people. Are they friends with the Loch Ness monster?”

  “Point, but dismiss the fantastical and focus on the hard evidence we have. Treat it as a standard murder case. Killers stay within a certain, finite area, usually not g
oing too far from home. This is a large box to look at, but still limited. Throw in Williams’ assessment, whether plausible or not, whoever our suspects are will stay close to the water, which only reinforces the search parameters, while limiting them.”

  Mark began to trace, erase and retrace the lines he had drawn. When he was finished, he had extrapolated a rough circle, half on land, half over the ocean. The center point was over water, just off the coast. “How much you want to bet that our perps have a home base near this point?”

  Both men stared at the map, trying to uncover any weak points in Mark’s theory.

  “These are a lot of assumptions to swallow, Mark, but Investigation 101 seems to validate your theory.” Angelo eyed him seriously. He’d worked in Special Division long enough to accept almost any hypothesis, even though this was a bit on the weirder side of what he’d seen.

  “So is a man who is able to breathe and travel underwater unaided. And yet, we have a dead one of those in the lab and the failed trials of twelve others. Do you have any better explanation?”

  In his head, Mark Fitzsimmons was having a hard time with his own concocted story, yet the puzzle pieces seemed to fit into place. But, he had learned early on in his long career to trust his gut and this felt like the correct path to him.

  Mark’s question hung in the air unanswered, making him look up at his partner. Angelo’s face was twisted with doubt and concern and Mark realized how crazy he must be sounding.

  “OK, listen, I’m not saying I believe all this hokum about underwater people. Surely, there’ll be a logical and scientifically explainable answer and we’ll find it eventually. But, at the moment, we need to find these killers and trying to get in their heads is the best option we have available to us.”

  “OK, so what’s next?” This time it was the Hispanic agent’s turn to sigh.

  “Well, using my theory, we now have a place to start. I want three teams of agents assigned to us to do the legwork and be sent out to scour the foreclosed homes in this area. Subpoena the court records for filed foreclosures and start there. We can canvass the real estate agencies and mortgage companies for lists that may not be in the court system yet.”

  “That’s still a huge tract of land and a lot of paper to get through. I mean, that box is still at least a hundred square miles. It’s going to take some time.” Angelo added, even though he was already reaching for the phone on the desk to order the warrants and organize the searches.

  Jotting down Mark’s instructions with phone in hand, Angelo inquired, “What else?”

  “Get Wilkinson to spearhead the ground effort. He’s our top logician and I don’t think he’s assigned to anything currently. If he is, pull rank and get him.”

  Angelo nodded, agreeing with his partner. “And us?”

  “I think the two of us are going to start looking for their home base.” He tapped the small round dot in the center of the square box he had drawn on the map. “We’ll start here in Inlet Cove and work our way outward from there.”

  “And what exactly are we going to be looking for?” Angelo was already dialing the lead agent’s extension from memory.

  “Anything out of place. Someone new in town. The first murder was found seven weeks ago so we start looking for anyone that’s arrived in the area in that time frame. It’s a small town. Someone will have noticed if they got new neighbors.”

  Chapter 10 – La Bella Notte

  The next day and a half passed in an anxious leisure that Dylan was sure would drive her mad.

  She tried to read and couldn’t concentrate on the words. Television held no allure as her mind was creating a much more interesting program in her head. She tried to fill a few hours with useless chit chat and gossip with Alex and Jaime, but she quickly grew bored with what everyone else was doing. There was only one person whose doings interested her.

  It was a bit frustrating for her. Any other boy and she would have been texting him and calling him, making plans and remaking them, but Jaron was one of those mysterious anomalies in the present day: old fashioned. She still found that endearing, but less so now that she couldn’t even talk to him or confirm her date. For all she knew, he was just playing with her.

  She couldn’t allow herself to indulge in that thought. That would only have hastened her descent into madness. Still, no matter what distraction she engaged in, that dubious feeling continued to worm its way into her thoughts when she least expected. By mid-afternoon, there was only one thing left to do.

  Her aunt was enjoying one of her rare days off. Paula sat in the recliner by the front window, soaking in the sun and the crossword puzzle in her lap. With her legs tucked under her, she watched as Dylan traipsed up and down the stairs, each time in a different outfit.

  White blouse. Tan skirt. Too bland.

  Checkered hoodie. Stone washed jeans. Too hot.

  Beret. Over the shoulder shirt. Sundress. Too dated, although she gave that one a second glance. An old fashioned guy might like that

  By the sixth clothing choice, Paula had given up on her puzzle and just watched the parade of outfits. Soon after, she had lost count.

  “Honey, you know it’s five o’clock. Didn’t you say he’d be here at 6?” she finally called up the steps. A knowing smile pursed her lips when she heard a sudden rustle of movement and a quick flight down the stairs.

  Dylan breezed into the living room, wearing an untucked, dark blouse over a denim skirt she had forgotten she had. Her favorite lucky black leather boots were on her feet and her hair was pulled away from her face in a bobbing ponytail.

  “How’s this?” she asked her aunt and twirled in a circle.

  “Honey, you looked great in everything.”

  Dylan cocked her head and glared at the woman. “Stop being a mother.”

  “OK. It’s a little conservative, but it gives off a playful, yet hands off kind of vibe.” She added with a smile and climbed out of the chair. “Should be appropriate for a first date. So if the fashion show is over, I think I’m making dinner for lonely old me.”

  The extremely tacky cat clock with the tail that swung back and forth like a second hand read 10 after five as Dylan watched her aunt disappear down the hallway and into the kitchen. Left to her own devices in the living room, Dylan took up watch by the front window, although she knew there was almost an hour before Jaron was due. Her thumb rubbed her palm nervously and the seconds ticked by loudly and slowly.

  Restless by the inactivity, she got up after five minutes.

  She checked her phone and returned a text.

  She leafed through the pile of mail on the credenza by the door.

  Picking up a pen, she wrote two answers in the crossword puzzle at the back of the TV Guide.

  She made a circuit from window to door to stairs to kitchen and back again for the rest of the hour. As six o’clock neared, her aunt peeked out of the kitchen and began to laugh at the anxious spectacle.

  “Dylan, calm down. You’re going to wear yourself out with all this pacing back and forth. And, if not you, you’re definitely going to wear out the carpet.” Paula’s tone was mildly amused under a veil of concern. All Dylan had been able to talk about in the past 36 hours was this boy, this Jaron, she met at the beach. Her niece’s enthusiasm had been ramped up high enough that she was even quite anxious to meet him.

  Dylan rolled her eyes at her aunt. Her nerves were already on edge and her aunt’s attempt at levity wasn’t helping.

  It also didn’t help that Dylan’s own self-effacing negativity had convinced her that Jaron wasn’t showing up. He’d found a prettier girl to hang out with. Maybe someone smarter or taller. Someone less prudish than she had been.

  She glanced up at the wall clock and saw that another entire minute had elapsed. It was inconceivable that time could move much slower than it was at that moment.

  He’s not gonna show. He’s not gonna show.

  She repeated the mantra in her head, preparing herself for the inevitable. Somehow sh
e had known all day that he was going to stand her up. She had felt it in her bones like arthritic Mrs. Lutz across the street always knew when it was going to rain.

  “It’s not funny, Paula. He doesn’t have a phone so if he’s running late, I won’t know. If something’s happened, I won’t know. If he decided that I’m ugly, I won’t know.” Dylan’s voice broke down into panic by the time that she finished and she was on the verge of crying. Paula walked into the living room with an oven mitt still on her left hand. She wasn’t so old that she had forgotten the acute anxiety of dating from her own high school years at Beach Side.

  “Honey, I’m sure he’s on his way. Just be patient. It’s not even six o’clock yet.” Paula swept her arms around her niece and hugged her ferociously, trying to squeeze the menacing tears back in. When she released her, she held Dylan at arm’s length and gently pushed back that wild strand of hair that never seemed to want to be tamed. “Besides, I want to meet this boy that lives in this day and age without a cell phone or internet access. I didn’t know those boys existed anymore except maybe in North Dakota.”

  “How’s it any different than when you were younger?” Dylan asked with an edge of defensiveness.

  Paula glanced at her niece, ignoring the attitude, and answered, “It isn’t. I’m just saying it’s a bit peculiar is all.”

  The cat clock began to meow mechanically, announcing the time to the house. Dylan looked anxiously towards the clock as it went through its hourly routine. With each cracked cry, her expression fell a bit further and her hold on her aunt grew a bit tighter.

  And, as the sixth meow echoed through the house and started to fade away, three firm knocks took their place in the growing silence of the house. Both women jumped at the sudden disruption. Dylan looked at her aunt, disappointment turning to relief and exhilaration in a split second. She rushed off to the front door, leaving her aunt to cross her arms and wait to meet this foreign exchange student, prince or whatever he was, that Dylan had not stopped talking about.