Surgical Precision

by Patrick Logan

  It took him all of thirty-five seconds to find the girl with cystic fibrosis: C.J. Vogel, nineteen years of age, diagnosed three months ago. According to the file, she hadn’t returned for any follow-up visits since the initial diagnosis. Brittany Laberge was diagnosed one week later.

  He must have switched the samples somehow, Beckett thought for the thousandth time. But how?

  He was about to log out of the system when he realized that the terminal had a drug dispensing tray. The image of his small black case at the bottom of his luggage flashed in his mind.

  Inside was a pair of syringes and a scalpel. The problem was, the syringes were empty.

  Beckett quickly navigated to the drug ordering system and punched in a request for midazolam.

  He retyped the nurse’s password to confirm the order and the tray popped open. Beckett scooped up the vial of midazolam and shoved it in his pocket. As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple of blank patient forms beneath the keyboard bearing Dr. Blankenship’s header. He grabbed a few of those, too.

  Who knew when they would come in handy.

  Then he hurried out of the hospital, hoping to never return.

  Chapter 52

  As with most criminals, when they survived the first round of interviews, when they thought they’d outsmarted the police, they got cocky; Brent Hopper was no exception.

  Which is why it wasn’t difficult to find the man and apprehend him.

  After work, Brent had gone straight home and had plopped himself in front of the TV with a cold one. When SVU practically broke down the door, the man didn’t even put a fight; these kinds of assholes rarely did.

  They preferred to pick on people who were unable to defend themselves.

  Like little boys.

  Yasiv's executive decision was to keep Dunbar in the observation room, while he and Detective Crumley interrogated the suspect. Dunbar wasn't pleased about this, but Yasiv refused to budge. He wasn’t going to let a temper tantrum spoil what seemed like a slam dunk conviction.

  They’d placed the video camera that was confirmed as the one that Brent had stolen months ago in the center of the table. And the moment he laid eyes on it, he knew the gig was up. It was only a matter of time before they broke him.

  “Brent Hopper, you’ve been read your rights and you’ve waived your right to a lawyer. This interview is being recorded, but I'm sure you won’t have a problem with that, given the fact that you seem quite comfortable behind the lens,” Crumley began.

  Brent grunted something incoherent, but while he was still trying to act tough, it was all a facade.

  They knew that Brent and Winston had raped and killed Will Kingston, so it seemed reasonable to assume that Brent was paying the rent to keep them quiet. It was also clear that the whole videotape scenario had been a ruse to set up Wayne Cravat, one that had very nearly worked.

  “Play the tape,” Crumley instructed, and Yasiv obeyed.

  The video started to roll, and Brent immediately looked away.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Crumley said. “You’re gonna watch.”

  Brent was shaking now, and even though he was pretending to look at the viewfinder, it was obvious his eyes were locked on the table in front of it.

  Yasiv took the opportunity to speak up.

  “This is why you were at Wayne's trailer the other day when we grabbed you, isn't it? It wasn’t to check up on Wayne but to try and find the tape. You thought he might've recorded more than what they played during his trial, which is why you paid both him and Winston off. But you couldn't find it, could you?” Brent said nothing, but Yasiv continued, undeterred. “And when you couldn’t find it, and they refused to tell you where it was, you killed them. You killed Winston and made it look like a suicide and then you took out Wayne, didn't you?”

  Brent suddenly glared at him.

  “I didn't kill Winston—I didn't do that. And I had nothing to do with Wayne disappearing, either. Shit, I didn’t kill the boy. That was Winston.”

  Yasiv nodded.

  “Yeah, you did. I'm guessing that you didn't know which one of them had the tape, so you took out Winston first, thinking that Wayne would be too scared to talk after that. But then I’m thinking that you got nervous, maybe because Wayne was opening up at the PTSD meetings in the church.”

  Brent started shaking his head violently.

  “No, no, no, no way. It was Winston's idea to grab that boy. Not mine. I don't want nothin’ to do with that. I-I-I was just there. But I didn’t touch him, I swear. An-an—and then Winston said that we’re both going down for it unless we could get someone else to take the fall. So, he came up with the idea of the video camera and getting Wayne to record it ‘n shit. But I didn’t—I don’t know what happened to Winston or Wayne. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  The man was on the verge of breaking into tears now.

  “We’ll let the jury decide what role you had to play in Will Kingston’s death. I think this time, though, they’re gonna come to a different conclusion than they did with Wayne’s case, don’t you think, Sgt. Yasiv?” Crumley asked.

  Yasiv nodded.

  “It's pretty convincing if you ask me. Look, you're going down for the murder and rape of a young boy. What difference does it make if you killed Winston? Shit, if he was responsible for murdering Will, you probably did everyone a favor, no?”

  Brent gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

  “No, I didn’t kill him. I swear. I didn’t kill the boy, either, that was Winston. But there was this guy, he was following Winston around, Wayne, too. I never thought that Winston committed suicide, he wouldn’t do that. It was this guy, man. He was like, hunting us, or something. Fuck.”

  He’s rambling now, trying to get out of this impossible jam, Yasiv thought.

  “Open your eyes,” Crumley demanded.

  When Brent just kept muttering, no, no, no, and shaking his head with his eyes closed, Crumley grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.

  Yasiv tensed, ready to walk over and relieve the detective if he went any further. But the tactic worked, Brent opened his eyes just as Will’s pale face filled the viewfinder.

  And then he broke. The man's body literally collapsed as if his bones had been liquefied. He sobbed uncontrollably, and Yasiv quickly offered him a box of Kleenex.

  “I didn't mean to. I thought… I thought we were just gonna mess around with the boy, you know? I didn't even like it, man. But Winston, he-he said that we couldn’t let the boy go, that we had to kill him. That he’d seen our faces, so we had to strangle him. I mean, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to.”

  Brent became a blubbering mess.

  “And you killed Winston because of it,” Yasiv suggested when the man had finally calmed down a little. “You killed Winston because he had this tape and you were worried he was going to go to the police. Then you dealt with Wayne because you thought he’d come clean about the murder at one of those meetings.”

  The man sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, even though there were plenty of tissues at his disposal.

  Then he looked directly into Yasiv’s eyes.

  “No, I didn't do that. I swear to God I didn't do that. It was someone else, man, I'm telling you, there was someone after us. Someone who knew what we’ve done.”

  ***

  “You think the DA’s gonna be satisfied with this?” Crumley asked. Yasiv stared at Brent through the one-way glass.

  “Satisfied? He’s gonna be ecstatic. Sure, he’ll want us to find Wayne Cravat, but this confession is gonna take a lot of the pressure off him, make him look good.”

  “Maybe he’ll break and give us up Wayne's body,” Crumley suggested.

  Yasiv rocked his head from side to side.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  But he didn't really think so. Brent had already confessed to raping and in the very least being complicit in Will’s murder, and yet he still proclaimed his innocence when it came to Winston’s d
eath. What did he have to lose?

  Maybe Winston really did commit suicide.

  “Where’d your partner go?”

  Yasiv looked around. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize that Dunbar wasn’t in the observation room anymore.

  “I don't know. Listen, I've got some other stuff I need to get to, if anything about Wayne pops up, I’d appreciate if you’d let me know.”

  Crumley nodded.

  “Of course. Thanks for your help on this case. We might call you if there's a trial and we need you to testify, but I doubt we'll go that far. Brent’ll probably plead out. Save the taxpayers some money, you know?”

  “Yeah, probably,” Yasiv said. “Take care.”

  It was late, and Sgt. Yasiv knew that he should head home to get some rest. After all, he was exhausted, mentally and physically.

  What had started out as a simple manhunt had become something much more involved. And terrible.

  But part of him was still torn. It was all that stuff that Brent had said about being followed that was nagging him. He was far from the brightest criminal that Yasiv had come across, and he didn’t think the man had it in him to come up with a story like that.

  So, what did it mean? Was there really a vigilante out there hunting first Winston, then Wayne and eventually coming for Brent?

  Yasiv shook his head and started his car.

  Just go home and get some sleep, he told himself. You’ll think more clearly in the morning. Brent’s just making this shit up. You’ll see.

  Only, when he started to drive, Yasiv soon discovered that he wasn’t heading in the direction of his home, but the church.

  And he wasn't looking for salvation. Not for himself, anyway.

  Chapter 53

  Beckett could barely see straight. His head was hurting so much, his headache so severe, that his reality had become a swirling mix of migraine aura and floating shapes. He was fairly certain that he was in some sort of dungeon, complete with large, stone walls and a sandy floor. But the rest was an incomprehensible swash of colors.

  He had no idea what time it was, where he was, or how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was leaving the hospital with midazolam in his pocket and CJ Vogel and Brittany Laberge on his mind. The next thing he knew he was… here.

  Wherever that was.

  “Where the fuck am I?”

  He half-expected the ether to reply and was mildly disappointed when the only thing he heard was the warped echo of his own voice.

  Beckett shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed, trying his best to force away the god-awful headache and remember what led him here.

  When he opened his eyes, reality had forced the aura to his periphery.

  He wasn’t in a dungeon, but some sort of basement, Beckett realized. And it wasn’t completely as he’d first thought. For one, there was a staircase leading to a closed door behind him. There was also a window high above that hung open.

  Is that how I got in here? Is that—

  A sound from behind Beckett made him jump, and he quickly moved away from the shadows. There was something there in the darkness, a table maybe. Squinting heavily, he slowly crept forward.

  Rats? I fucking hate rats.

  “Hello?”

  He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, intent on using the flashlight.

  “Is there someone there?”

  Instead of a verbal answer, he heard that clanging sound again. If he didn’t know any better, it sounded like chains.

  He swallowed hard and took another step forward.

  What have you gotten yourself into now, Beckett? What have you—

  There was a sudden flurry of movement and Beckett leaped backward. His equilibrium was still off from the headache, however, and he tripped and fell on his ass.

  A spindly creature suddenly emerged from the shadows, with long claw-like talons stretching out, desperately trying to grab him.

  Something warm and wet struck Beckett in the face and then he screamed.

  Chapter 54

  The PTSD meeting wasn't scheduled to start until later that evening, but Yasiv got lucky. He found the man that Dunbar had previous described, the man with a mustache and calm demeanor, having a cup of coffee in the hallway.

  Yasiv introduced himself, and the man shook his hand.

  “Two cops in one week; what’d I do wrong, officer?” Franklin Burnett said with a wry grin.

  Yasiv wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Not after what he’d seen.

  “Detective Dunbar is a colleague of mine, he's a—”

  “—troubled man,” Franklin finished for him.

  Yasiv nodded.

  “Yeah, listen, I, uh, don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just had a few questions for you. I’m working a case involving two people that used to attend these meetings: Winston Trent and Wayne Cravat.”

  “Yeah, your partner was asking about them, too. I liked Wayne.” He didn’t explicitly state that he didn’t like Winston, but the implication was there.

  “Look, this is gonna sound strange, but was there anyone else that came to one of these meetings around the time that Winston had his, uh, accident? Maybe again last week before Wayne went missing? I know that you must get a lot of people coming and going, but I—”

  “There was one guy,” Franklin interrupted. “Came twice, around the times you mentioned. Didn’t say much. Just sat there. That’s not terribly unusual, but the weird thing was? He just kept staring at Winston the whole time. And then when Winston was gone, he stared at Wayne. It was odd, to say the least.”

  Yasiv nodded. Maybe there was something to what Brent was saying, that there was someone after them.

  “And this man, did he give a name?”

  “He said his name was H.H. Holmes or something like that. It was clearly a fake.”

  Yasiv made a mental note of the name.

  “Was there anything distinctive about him? Can you describe what he looked like?”

  “Sure, he wore a hood most of the time, tried to keep a low profile, you know. Also not unusual, but he had this short, blond hair like it was dyed, and I saw some tattoos on his arms when his sleeves moved up. That’s pretty much it. Other than that, he had an average build, mid-thirties, maybe, hard to tell.”

  Yasiv’s forehead suddenly broke out in a cold sweat and his jaw fell open.

  “Sergeant? You okay?”

  Beckett told me to sign off on Winston’s suicide… he said it was better than to let things linger…

  “Sergeant?”

  Yasiv shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts.

  “Sorry,” he croaked. He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his pictures. Eventually, he found one of Drake with his arm wrapped around Beckett. It was taken around the time that they were searching for Craig Sloan. “Can you… is this him? The man on the right, is this the guy?”

  His hand was shaking so badly that he could barely hold the phone steady enough to give Franklin a clear look.

  “The man on the right?” Franklin said, leaning in. “Yeah, I think that's him, yeah. Do you know him?”

  “Th-thanks,” Yasiv stammered as he stumbled away from the man.

  His mind and heart racing, combined with his exhaustion, was making him disoriented. Somehow, Yasiv managed to find his car and get in.

  This can't be, he thought. No way… it’s not—it’s not what it seems.

  Still shaking, Yasiv started his car. Only he still didn’t head home.

  He went to the bar instead.

  Chapter 55

  It wasn't an alien or even some sort of creature.

  It was a girl.

  A girl who was horribly sick, near death, even, and she was chained to the goddamn wall.

  And when she reached for Beckett, it wasn't to maim him or to relieve him of his soul, but in desperation.

  “Help me,” she croaked. The words were horrible wet wheeze, and mucu
s sprayed from her lips and oozed from her nose.

  Beckett somehow managed to rise to his feet and he went to her.

  Close-up, he could see that she wasn’t just near death but knocking its door. And then it hit him. She was in the very late stages of cystic fibrosis.

  “C.J. Vogel?” he said softly.

  The girl somehow managed a nod, her sweat-drenched hair moving ever so slightly in front of her face.

  Beckett looked around, searching for a key to remove the shackle around her pencil-thin throat. His eyes focused the open window again, and he looked out.

  That parking lot… I know that parking lot.

  His memories suddenly started flooding back.

  After the hospital, he'd come here, to the church. Then he’d waited. He waited for everyone to leave before he broke into the basement, intent on finding out exactly how Rev. Cameron was pulling off his scam.

  His headache had been building to a crescendo the entire time and when he’d jumped down through the window, it must have been so bad that he passed out. But now that he was regaining most of his senses, Beckett came to the horrible realization that Reverend Alister Cameron had been keeping C.J. Vogel here the entire time. He had locked her up, denied her palliative treatment, made her final days a living hell.

  “Help me,” the girl croaked again, reaching for him with ragged fingernails. Blood spilled from her mouth and dribbled down her pale chin.

  Beckett wished more than anything that he could help her, that he could cure her of this terrible disease.

  That he could do what the Reverend claimed; that he could cure death.

  But nobody could do that.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

  The girl collapsed to the ground in the heap. She was so thin that her bones looked like they might pierce through the skin.

  Beckett rose to his feet and flicked his phone’s flashlight on. C.J. cowered away from the light, and he moved the beam away from her. A table suddenly materialized out of the darkness and he hurried toward it.