Singularity

by Joe Hart

  “No problem, we understand. We just wanted to ask Mr. Fairbend a few questions, but I suppose he does need his rest,” Sullivan said as he looked at the prisoner. Fairbend’s eyes met his for a moment and then slid away to examine a patch of wall at the other end of the room. Sullivan thought he saw something, just a fleeting look of victory and then gone.

  “Perhaps later this evening you could stop by when he’s more rested?” Dr. Erling asked.

  Sullivan nodded. “Of course.”

  The group moved away from the bed and Sullivan looked one last time at Fairbend. The prisoner yawned and rolled onto his side. Sullivan blinked and stopped as the others walked toward the door. It had looked like the inside of Fairbend’s mouth was coated in a grayish hue. Sullivan stared at the man for a beat, waiting for a convulsion or the onset of a seizure. Fairbend merely closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.

  “Sully? You coming?” Barry asked from the doorway. The group watched him from the hall outside the room.

  “Yeah,” Sullivan said. Without another look back, he followed them into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

  “I think maybe you should stand instead of sit out here, what do you think?” Dr. Erling said to the uniformed guard. The guard merely nodded and stepped back to the side of the door, his hands clasped behind him. The doctor motioned toward the lobby and began walking.

  Sullivan and Barry fell into stride behind her. Amanda walked at a brisk pace until they’d cleared the security doors and stepped into the open space of the lobby. Sullivan glanced at the front entrance and saw nothing but a sheet of falling rain outside.

  Amanda turned to both of them and sighed. “I want to apologize again. I’m just not myself today. I shouldn’t have interrupted your investigation, but thank you for complying.”

  “It’s not a problem, Doctor. We just need to ask Mr. Fairbend a few questions to clear some things up about the altercation last night,” Sullivan said.

  Amanda’s eyes darkened and she looked at the floor. “Is it as bad as they’re saying? Was he … was he beaten to death?”

  “We’re really not at liberty to say at the moment, I’m sure you understand,” Sullivan replied, glancing at Barry.

  “Of course. Well, if there’s any assistance that I can provide, please let me know.”

  Both agents nodded and watched as the doctor walked away. Sullivan noted the slight swing of her hips as she moved and the way her hair contrasted with her white coat. As the door slammed shut behind her, Barry backhanded Sullivan’s shoulder with a loud slap.

  “The fuck was that for?” Sullivan said, rubbing the spot through his shirt and glaring at his friend.

  Barry grinned slyly. “Really? I’ve never seen you look at a woman that way before.”

  Sullivan blew air noisily between his lips and shoved Barry as he walked by. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, buddy.”

  “Oh, yeah, whatever. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You’re lying,” Barry goaded as he followed Sullivan across the floor toward the front doors. “When’s the last time you were on a date?”

  Sullivan stopped, and for a moment all he could see were red tablecloths and candles in crystal holders. A fireplace blazed somewhere nearby, and he felt a ring between his fingers, the sharp edges of the diamond cutting into his skin but feeling so right. He could smell steak and wine and he could taste something on his lips. He could taste her.

  “Sully?” Barry gripped his shoulder, and the vaulted ceiling along with the hard floors beneath his feet came rushing back. Sullivan breathed deeply and rubbed his face. “You okay, man?” Barry asked.

  Sullivan dropped his hand from his cheek and swallowed the faint taste of Cabernet Sauvignon. “Yeah, just fine.” He feigned a weak smile before walking toward the front doors again. When he stopped at the double glass and peered out into the downpour, he noticed the line of the scar above his eyebrow glowing in the reflection. Soon, Barry was standing behind him, rummaging nervously in his pockets.

  “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bring anything up.”

  “I know,” Sullivan said. “It’s not your fault.”

  Lightning flashed just outside the canopy of the prison entrance, followed almost immediately by thunder that vibrated the windows and doors in their frames.

  The entrance to the main holding area buzzed open, and when the agents turned they saw Don Anderson leading the rest of the crime-scene team into the room. Even from a distance Sullivan could see Don’s face was beyond haggard. His normally merry eyes drooped behind his glasses. One of the other techs carried a black evidence bag in one hand. The bag bulged near the bottom, as if a rotted cantaloupe sat in its recesses. Don spotted them by the door and walked over, his head down and chin tucked tight to his chest like a prizefighter.

  “Hey, guys,” Don said as he approached.

  “Hey, yourself,” Barry answered. “You look tired, my friend.”

  “Yeah,” Don said.

  “So what did we come up with?” Sullivan asked.

  Don pinched his nose between a thumb and forefinger, which pushed his glasses onto his blank forehead. When he settled them back into place, Sullivan saw something he had never seen on the examiner’s face before: disquiet.

  “Not that this is something to talk about over lunch, but I’m starving and so are my guys. Can we eat?” Don said.

  Sullivan glanced at Barry, and both agents agreed that they also could use something in their stomachs.

  “Good,” Don said, as he turned and began walking toward his two waiting techs. “Nothing like a good murder scene to get your appetite up.”

  Chapter 5

  The commons was much busier than when Sullivan and Barry had eaten earlier that morning. Close to a hundred prisoners sat at the long tables, shoulders and heads hunched down over their trays of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Only a handful of prisoners looked up from their lunch when the five men entered the room and gathered food from the lunch line. The techs had stored the evidence bag containing Alvarez’s remains in a guard locker beside the interview rooms. When Sullivan asked Don why the bag looked so light, the older man waved the question off, his eyes saying, Not here, not now

  Several armed guards stood watch on the main floor, and Sullivan counted three more above them looking down with disinterest from the wraparound balcony. The group picked a vacant table in the farthest corner and sat at the very end so that their conversation couldn’t be overheard. Again Sullivan was struck by how quiet the room was, as he settled down with his tray of steaming mush that did not resemble any type of meatloaf he had ever laid eyes upon.

  Don scooped a heaping pile of the stuff with a spoon and shoved it into his mouth hungrily. After chewing for a few seconds, he tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “I could get used to this.”

  “Jesus,” Barry muttered as he picked at a dissolving heap of mashed potatoes.

  Sullivan took a sip of water and looked across the table at the forensic head. “Spill it, Don. We’re at a slight loss here without your expertise.”

  The balding man chewed another mouthful of the meatloaf, and then sat forward a little, his voice lowered. “Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, boys. And this ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “You sound like the sheriff,” Sullivan said.

  “Yeah, well, he and I are on level ground, then.”

  “So you found the rest of him in the pipe? Shoved down there like you thought?” Barry asked.

  Don merely closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “You’re kidding,” Sullivan said, the surprise evident on his face as he fought to control the volume of his voice.

  “We extracted the head from the drain, and I was hopeful since there was some blood and tissue in the pipe when we shined a light in there. But when I looked further, there wasn’t anything substantial. It looked to me like the blood stopped after a few feet.”


  “That’s not possible,” Barry said. His tray was shoved into the middle of the table and he looked to be avoiding eye contact with it.

  “Like I said, guys, never seen anything like it in my career,” Don said, resuming his meal.

  “Could someone have washed the pieces down the drain?” Sullivan said.

  Don considered it for a moment. “Yes, I suppose if the chunks were small enough and the suspect had enough water pressure. Sure, it’s possible.”

  “I didn’t see any fire hoses in that cell, did you?” Barry said.

  “No, just throwing out ideas,” Sullivan answered. The table fell silent and the only sounds in the spacious room were the occasional clank of silverware and the connection of a plastic cup with a tabletop. Sullivan closed his eyes and reviewed the cell in his mind. He turned in a circle, as if studying the layout of the room in a 3-D rendering on a screen. The head in the drain, blood everywhere, bits of bone and flesh clinging to the walls like a psychotic’s interpretation of a Pollock.

  “Murder weapon?” Sullivan asked finally.

  “Not sure on that either yet, but I’ll say this, a cutting instrument was used, and not just one.”

  “How many? Two? Three?” Barry asked.

  “I’d say closer to thirty.”

  Both agents squinted at the forensic specialist for a moment, and Sullivan wondered if Don was actually having fun with them. But when the older man merely looked back and forth without smiling, Sullivan spoke.

  “Thirty? You’re joking? Thirty different knives?”

  Don held up a hand. “I didn’t say knives, just instruments. And yes, at least that many different weapons were used.”

  Barry’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “How can you be sure?”

  “From the lacerations in the flesh of the victim. Each wound was fairly unique and the pieces of tissue that were on the floor and walls also held definitive incision patterns. Whoever did this also bashed him hard against the walls, like we thought earlier. I haven’t determined if he was cut first or bludgeoned.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “We have a real psycho here, fellas.” Suddenly the interview with Nathan rose in his memory, and he explained the details to Don, hoping that something would click with the older man.

  But after a few minutes of thinking, Don unfolded his arms and leaned his elbows on the table. “That doesn’t make sense either. You say the guard saw Alvarez’s eyes?”

  Sullivan and Barry nodded.

  “Well, then my only hypothesis is this: the killer either must have been still in the room when Hunt looked in or was very nearby. As soon as the kid leaves, the killer cuts the remains to ribbons and batters the head down into the hole with some type of blunt tool, then makes his escape before Hunt comes back with reinforcements.”

  “That’s a ballsy play, if you ask me,” Barry said.

  “Yeah, but it’s the only one that makes sense, right?” Sullivan asked. “So what does it mean? The guy’s already dead, why go back into the cell or spend any more time trying to shove his head down a drain?” Sullivan stared around the table at the watching faces. “To send a message, that’s why. That’s the only reason the suspect would take a chance like that. He wanted to make a statement, loud and clear to everyone.”

  “And what is it?” Don asked.

  Sullivan shrugged. “Fuck if I know.” Don and Barry huffed laughter and the two techs just stared. “But we’ll find out.”

  Don finished eating and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Sullivan wished he could have eaten something, but the food and the quiet in the vast room were so unsettling, he really didn’t feel hungry.

  “What’s next on the agenda?” Barry asked, pushing his tray even farther across the table.

  “Well,” Don said, as he rose and his two techs stood with him. “I believe it’s time to unravel the mystery of Mr. Alvarez and cut what’s left of him open.”

  Barry made a clicking sound in his throat as he swallowed and threw a disdainful look in Don’s direction.

  Sullivan just smiled wickedly and reached across the table to slap Barry on the arm. “Since leaving right now’s not a good option, I think I know just the place.”

  ==

  The day was cooler compared to the last time they’d been outside, and Sullivan squinted at the hovering clouds, trying to discern if they were breaking apart or only amassing for another attack. The rain had dispelled somewhat, and now only a mist enshrouded the wet grounds as Sullivan led the group out from the canopy near the front doors. Barry followed close behind, his thinning hair already beginning to stick to his scalp. Don and his team came next, the last tech carrying the black bag containing Alvarez’s remains. Dr. Erling trudged after them, bundled in one of the customary prison-issue ponchos, her head tilted toward the ground and her expression unreadable. Last came Mooring, his eyes burning holes in anything and everything he looked at as he stalked several paces behind the doctor.

  Barry quickened his step and fell even with Sullivan, and he nudged his friend in the side. “How the hell did you know that the mental facility would have a better medical ward?”

  Sullivan’s mouth twisted up at one end in the semblance of a smile, the mist coating his face in a light sheen. “My grandfather worked at a state mental facility for a while. My dad used to tell me stories of when he would visit him at work. Dad mentioned a couple times how terrible the sick room smelled, like formaldehyde and shit all mixed together. But even back then, he said it was big, with lots of beds and equipment. I suppose there’s more injuries and attacks at mental facilities than at prisons. Just a guess.”

  “Did the warden seem irritated that we asked to use the room at New Haven?” Barry asked.

  “Maybe a little. I think he sent his golden boy back there with us just to make sure we don’t walk off with some gauze and Q-tips.”

  Barry smiled. “And the good doctor?”

  “I think she’s just curious,” Sullivan said. Then he snorted. “Morbid, if you ask me.”

  Barry barked laughter, which died in the suffocating mist around them. They followed a trail that had been concrete for a while but soon gave way to gravel, which in turn became mud that they all tried to avoid without much efficiency. The trail led down the side of the prison and away from its rear, into a copse of hardwoods. Sullivan could hear drops of water snapping from leaf to leaf as it made its way to the ground, searching for a river or stream that would eventually carry it back to its mother sea. Off to the right the cleared yard fell away, and Sullivan could make out a drive of sorts, or what he assumed was a drive. Water had stretched up from the nearby swamp and reclaimed the area for its own, and all that remained was a cleared path through the trees that twisted and turned around several corners. A few boulders poked above the surface of the water and an unseen bird called a lonesome cry that sounded like it was in pain.

  The trail curved through the overhanging trees, and after one last bend to the left, a chainlink gate came into view. Razor wire adorned the entrance and Sullivan could see the corner of a building through an opening a few hundred yards on the other side of the fence.

  Sullivan’s phone chimed at almost the same instant Barry’s did. Without looking, he reached down and pulled the slim device from his pocket. “Benny must have come through with those videos.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when he felt the phone slide from his grip. The black case pirouetted once in the dim light and then landed face-down in a large puddle.

  “Fuck!” Sullivan cursed and bent to retrieve the phone. When he picked it up, he already knew it was too late. Water coursed out of the bottom connection point and he could see moisture beading beneath the screen. In his peripheral vision Sullivan saw Barry shaking his head and wagging his own phone back and forth.

  “Good thing one of us played college ball. Never dropped a pass,” Barry said.

  “Fuck your college hands,” Sullivan said as good-naturedly as he could, but the irritation of ruining his phone wa
s maddening. He pushed the on button a few times, and when nothing happened, he slid the wet paperweight back into his pocket.

  Mooring had caught up with them by then, and he walked by, shooting daggers at both agents. Without a pause, the officer strode up to the control box on their side and slid an electronic keycard through a slit in the device. A motor hummed nearby and the gate slid open before them like a starving man’s mouth accommodating a large bite.

  Mooring waited for the group to clear the gate before closing it with the matching control panel on the opposite side. Sullivan tried to read the man’s face as he watched the steel fence slide shut. Pronounced frown lines hung on the outside of Mooring’s mouth, and Sullivan noticed the officer’s gaze glazed over when he thought no one was looking. The gate snapped closed and Mooring glanced up, into Sullivan’s probing eyes. A look of surprise surfaced and submerged on the guard’s face.

  “Something in my teeth?” Mooring sneered.

  Sullivan shook his head, smiling. “Not that I could tell.”

  Mooring scowled even more deeply as Sullivan began walking toward the opening in the trees. Amanda fell in step beside Sullivan and he looked over at her. Her face was covered by the edge of the poncho, with just the tip of her nose poking out into the afternoon mist. A strand of her hair drifted in the breeze.

  “How long have you been here?” Sullivan asked after a moment.

  He saw the poncho tilt a little and then face back toward the building ahead. “Three years this fall. I did my residency at the Mayo and came up here after that.”

  “Why so far north?”

  “I like it here. It’s slower and more peaceful. I never liked the city life. I got tired of the people coming and going,” Amanda said.

  “Not sure if you’re in the right profession if you don’t like people.”