by Gary Starta
According to Palmieri"s version, Det. Comiskey never rose from the dead or what Gonzalez was currently theorizing as a drug induced stupor. Any remains of his exploded skull were going to be identified as Vice Officer Derek Burnham’s killer, a crazed drug addict or possible gang member who presumably returned to the scene to clean up loose ends. Officer Burnham fired upon his assailant and died a hero, protecting Gonzalez. Identifying the remains of the assailant would be ongoing matter.
“Chief Palmieri, I understand damage control and containment. But if anybody really dug into this, they’d realize this so-called assailant’s body would be missing entirely from the scene. If you give me more time to prove my theory that Comiskey was infected by a poisonous drug, possibly tetrodotoxin, it would certainly explain Chomsky’s paralysis, his nonexistent pulse rate…”
Palmieri shrugged her shoulders and waved a hand at Gonzalez.
“Yet that doesn’t explain how this drug might have been injected into Comiskey in the first place, doctor. You said he initially suffered a bite to his neck, no other wounds to suggest an injection. Of course, I don’t have a medical background but I would posit this drug could not have been administered via saliva. And if it could, then you need to scientifically document how this would be possible. Are we clear on this, Dr. Gonzalez?”
“Yes, chief.” He didn’t believe he had convinced the chief by his body posture. He slouched on his chair, his hands fiddled with a file folder and his mind was racing so hard he knew his eyes would betray such an easy surrender. While he certainly wasn’t anywhere near to being „clear" on the matter, Gonzalez stopped himself from pointing out that a full autopsy of Comiskey might reveal a puncture wound, giving credibility to his theory that at least one drug was responsible for the bizarre circumstances.
Chief Palmieri resumed her prior posturing with hands folded and resting on her desk. Her eyes left no wiggle room. No more space for theorizing. She did offer the doctor a small bone, however.
“You should be pleased to see I’ve approved the employment of your requested forensic anthropologist. Our crime analysis unit reports all ashen remains recovered from the exploded ambulance are now in her possession. And I hope this will quell any urges to put any of your unexplained theories into future medical journals. I am granting you a luxury, doctor; please understand the anthropologist’s two main questions have already been answered for her. She already knows who the victims are and what happened to them. Out of respect for your years of exemplary performance, I am granting you her services at a severe budgetary setback for the department. So please, find it not only in your mind, but in your heart, to let her findings assure you no bogeymen are running rampant on the streets of Ybor City.”
“Thank you, Chief. If we’re finished here, I would like to visit the anthropologist’s lab.”
“We’re done,” the chief said.
No, we’re only getting started…
Gonzalez surmised that even if the anthropologist, Dr. Sheri McDonald, did identify Officer Burnham’s remains, it would still fail to explain how and why Comiskey was attacked; and, most importantly, by whom?
Gonzalez had stopped fooling himself that an animal was responsible. Yet any chance to prove or disprove that theory had left the building when Burnham shot Comiskey. The trauma from the gun blasts compromised Chomsky’s neck wound. A possible reconstruction of the wound might not only require sophisticated machinery unavailable to Gonzalez but countless man hours he did not have the luxury of taking.
As Gonzalez drove to meet McDonald, one part of him hoped she would unequivocally prove Officer Burnham had indeed died in the fire. Then at least only one infected being might still be roaming the streets of Ybor City in search of its next fix. As the doctor neared his destination, he seriously wondered if Chief Palmieri"s damage control might ironically create a pandemic. And when that happened, how would she detour public panic then?
She wore her copper colored hair tied back into a ponytail. Her emerald eyes shined underneath the intense glare of ceiling lamps. She nodded to Gonzalez, assuming he was the coroner who requested her services.
“Come in, Dr. Gonzalez. I’ve already started the investigation. Photos have been taken of the ash found not only in the van but surrounding it. I understand you are quite interested to learn that the occupants of the crashed ambulance either survived or perished in its explosion. Hopefully, 3D imaging might help pinpoint where in the ash I might find skeletal remains, which is really the only means we might have, other than teeth, to identify the occupants. It’s safe to say DNA from flesh or even cartilage was consumed by flames.”
Gonzalez forced a smile and shuffled to McDonald’s work table.
“I really appreciate this. You know, I saw you once…only not in person. You were lecturing at a university in a documentary.”
“I do that whenever time allows, which is rare…” She smiled as her eyes scanned the ash. A long moment passed as she did this. Gonzalez hoped she might have some initial lead based upon visual analysis alone. If popularity were any measure of her competence, her success at identifying remains was unparalleled. She had appeared on many PBS programs as well as documentaries run on the Discovery and Science Channels. Gonzalez surmised this woman downplayed her success. She certainly had taken ample amount of time to be interviewed and even filmed while surveying several ancient excavation sites in South America. Gonzalez did not find it comfortable to admit he had seen her on TV on more than just one occasion. She finally broke the silence.
“Even though you have supplied all the pertinent data I need to identify the three crash victims, I will have to warn you that it might take days, if not a week, to determine if skeletal remains exist or not. It is possible all remains might have been incinerated in the fire. I am in contact with your CSI"s who are trying to determine the maximum temperature of the fire within the confines of the vehicle. When that is determined, I will know if I can positively say that the bodies can be identified from the ash or not.”
“So, you’re saying that it’s possible you might not be able to find bones from the three men?”
“Quite right, doctor. Even if I should not be able to locate the smallest skeletal remains of the three victims, there might be a chance that all biological evidence of that person could have been consumed. I’m sorry, but my investigation might put us back at square one. It’s all dependent upon how hot that fire got.”
“And if that’s the case, then we might not be able say for sure if one of the victims might have somehow survived the crash, perhaps exiting the vehicle before the explosion?”
“There is little evidence of that from the crime scene photos I have been given. The ground also was compromised during the fire. If one or even all of the men had escaped we can’t show that by footprints.” She paused to scan the ash again. “But do tell me, Dr. Gonzalez, why do you believe any of these men survived?”
Gonzalez forced to backpedal because of Chief Palmieri"s directives could only manage to explain his family had been very close to both of the EMT"s. “I’ve got to give their loved ones definite closure.”
“I didn’t think I would have to remind you about the dangerous nature of personalizing cases, doctor. I won’t let this factor into my investigation. I can assure you.”
“Certainly, I would not dream of it.”
She shook her head, peering into an imaging screen. “I’m glad we’re clear on that.” She did not take the time to see if Gonzalez concurred. “Is there anything else, doctor?” Gonzales answered „no" and shuffled back out of the lab.
The only thing Dr. Gonzalez was clear on was that he allowed himself to be humiliated in the eyes of the chief and one of the country’s foremost forensic anthropologists.
He wondered if he should begin patrolling the crash site himself but exhaustion and the promise of a setting sun answered for him. Gonzalez would begin a full autopsy of the remain
s of Robert Comiskey tomorrow. Tonight he would make a date with some sleep aids.
Chapter 5
He could barely recall when the first fit of rage began. Or for that matter, how the hell he had managed to cross a highway filled with speeding cars. At one point, he imagined himself jumping very high into the air. Did that happen? Did any of it happen?
The mark on his neck told him it had. It had nearly sealed over. Some dried blood remained there. A loose fitting white shirt told him he had been attended to. He had been wearing a polo shirt when he was attacked. He recalled an intense, disturbing discourse with a coroner. Just before…
Oh, my God! He covered his face for a moment. When he looked at them, he noticed the dirt buried into his fingernails. He had taken a shower this morning. He had been running late. He thought that was a major problem.
Det. Comiskey attacked…ah…bit me. Then I fired upon him…but what happened next…?
He tried to piece it together but the whoosh, whoosh of passing traffic kept breaking his concentration. Damn! He unconsciously grabbed another handful of dirt from the ground he was sitting on and flung it towards the direction of the highway.
I was in the ambulance. I woke up. I was angry…I tried to ask them what had happened…
His mind concluded he had been wounded by Chomsky’s attack, probably passed out and was being transported to a nearby hospital for treatment. But for the life of him, he could not recall why he had woken up so angry. Why such a rage engulfed him seconds before the ambulance burst into flames. Oh…shit. I left them behind…to die…
His feet had given him no other choice. He had been in flight mode. For how long, he did not know. He vaguely recalled trying to quell his anger by ripping branches off trees and smashing them against the ground. At one point, his errant ramblings allowed him the fortune to stumble upon some discarded wrappings. Furious inspection of the container resulted in the consumption of some half eaten fast food. It had curbed the anger, the rage and the hunger…for the moment.
Vice Officer Derek Burnham’s instinct told him it would return. Only a matter of time separated him from another bout of insanity.
The connection must be Comiskey. It had to be. He gave it to me.
Burnham recalled the doctor’s fear that Comiskey had been attacked by something other than a wild beast. Something which had thrown itself upon Comiskey with purpose; a corporeal type of evil, possibly still on the loose.
The insatiable appetite of curiosity compelled Burnham to return to the side of the highway. He spent almost an hour trying to flag down a car. He fumbled around his belt and found his badge. It was the last remnant that confirmed he was Derek Burnham, an officer of the law, not some roadside vagabond who ate other people’s garbage and fled from trouble like a jackrabbit. Further inspection revealed his gun had been removed along with its shoulder holster. His blue shirt… Hell, he was shoeless.
I am still him…I am still him… Burnham repeated this to himself over and over to curb a rage which was now boiling to a fine simmer in the pit of his stomach.
In the waning remnants of sunlight, Derek Burnham found a Good Samaritan. She traveled along the Cross Town Expressway in the direction which would take him back to Ybor City. His cop instincts told him answers could be found there.
Her black afro was highlighted with silver. Something shiny hung around her neck. Burnham could not be sure until he entered the vehicle.
“Thanks so much for stopping, Ma’am. I need to get to Ybor City. Can you get me there?”
He pleaded with his eyes, realizing with no wallet, he had no means of compensating the women who only shook her head at him.
“You’re in my car, aren’t you, child?”
Burnham turned his face to the woman for the first time and grunted.
“Oh, dear…” She nearly gasped. Burnham cocked his head to the right so he could see his reflection in the side view mirror. His face had lost much of its pallor; nearly white as a sheet, he identified veins running along his face with his fingers.
“Wait…I can explain. I was in an accident. Nobody could find me. I stumbled from out the woods. But don’t worry. I’m going to be okay.”
“What we’re you doing before the accident?”
“I don’t know…”
“Try and remember. I used to work as a nurse. Maybe I can help.”
“No, Ma’am. I don’t want to put you out. And truth is…you can’t tell anybody you found me. I’m on a police investigation…” He pointed to his badge.
“So, you do remember. Show me.” Her eyes left the road, they were demanding.
He pulled it from his belt.
It felt heavy in his hands, heavier than it had ever been. Yet, it didn’t seem to satisfy the driver’s curiosity.
“Now child, I said I was a nurse. Whatever you have can’t even begin to scare me. What’s more, I can’t be sure about your badge. I mean, even if it’s yours, it is issued by human beings. You see what I’m wearing…”
She twisted it in her hand so Burnham could see. It was a cross.
“This is God issue. I’m wearing the real deal here. Don’t forget that. And just like you think that badge empowers you, you haven’t begun to imagine what power this silver darling beholds.”
“I have no question, Ma’am.”
“Don’t lie to me! Your current circumstance shows you have NO understanding and many, MANY questions.”
Burnham began to feel for the door handle. The rage in the driver began to ooze towards him. He could feel it punch him in the stomach.
“Please…please…Ma’am. You’re right. I think I have a condition. I can’t be excited…”
“Are you ready to repent?”
“I swear I will. I’ll do it as soon as you take me back to Ybor City.”
“Shoot. You think repentance means feeding your hunger. I know all about your damn condition. You’re some damn junkie, aren’t you? So strung out you can’t stand to hear noise. And you took that badge off god knows who. And by the way, I heard what you said…you said back to Ybor City. That’s a haven for drugs. That’s probably where you got messed up in the first place.”
She drove for a moment in silence, fingering her cross, eyes wide in thought.
“I have a theory. Do you want to hear it, officer?”
Burnham did not answer. Slumped against the window, he stopped fumbling with the door handle. The driver, clearly agitated, was exceeding the speed limit. He could not risk jumping out now. He would have to ignore her. Dismiss the rising anger, because after the anger, came the hunger…
Finally, Burnham mumbled. “I can’t be compromised, I am a cop. I am what I say.”
But Burnham felt totally compromised. He has not only been separated from the life he knew, but maybe from the world he knew. This woman talked so much of religion. Her zealousness reminded him he was a believer. What would God think of him now…?
The idea finally gripped him just as he began to dare a peek at the driver. She still had the cross wrapped within her fist. He had to entertain the possibility that Comiskey spread his sickness to him. If so, it meant he wasn’t being treated in the ambulance. They had declared him dead, just like Dr. Gonzalez had done with Comiskey. Only Comiskey came back…
He moaned, “Oh, God!”
“That’s right, child. Find him in your soul. He’s calling for you, answer him.”
If he had indeed died, what was he now and what would become of him? The kingdom of heaven would not open its gates to such a being. Every cop instinct, every fiber of what he could hope was his remaining humanity told him so. He was indefinable for the most part and that made him a reject…an outcast…a fallen angel… Shit, why did I meet this woman? Is it for a purpose?
He found courage to speak. Please don’t think I’m rude. But I can’t look at you. I’m afraid it will disturb
me. I’ve seen something…during one of my investigations…it changed me…”
“Hey! Don’t start the lies again!” Her hand waved at him, finger pointed. He could see it from the corner of his eye, even though he fought every urge not to look at her.
“I don’t want to spread it. Please…” His fingers scraped the leather upholstery of the interior door.
“Watch it! Don’t damage my ride! I’m not above hurting you! Now calm down and pray, ask the Lord to take you back.”
He mumbled, “But can he? I’m not…”
She cut him off. I’ll put you out right now if you don’t hang your head and pray for His forgiveness.”
Burnham’s closed his hands tighter around his badge.
“Do it now!”
“I am, Ma’am. This has always been my salvation.” His lips trembled as he lifted the badge for the driver to see.
“No. I still don’t believe your story. Not your whole story. And the good Lord won’t either. He knows…” She paused. A fire burned in her eyes. Burnham imagined he could see the flames from the ambulance shining within them.
She ripped the cross from her neck, beads from the chain scattered all over the seat.
“HE will tell me what to do with you. Don’t bring this judgment upon yourself…” She moved her hand closer and closer to Burnham. He could see the silver cross in the side view. “I’ll whip your ass if HE tells me to. I won’t hesitate. No sir, I will smack your sinner ass from this car and send you scurrying back to your devil’s lair. I will not be TESTED! I am a BELIEVER!”
He could take no more. The anger burned from the pit of his stomach to top of his head.
Now fully confrontational with the driver, Burnham screamed, “I’ve already came back! I can’t be brought back. I already AM back!”
“Good lord!” The woman began stammering. Spittle flew from her mouth against the windshield. Her head shook side to side like one of those Bobble head toys. “You…you…can’t be telling me this! Pretending to be our Savior… If that doesn’t beat all, riding with Lucifer himself on the Cross Town.” She smacked herself on the forehead with her cross. “I am on the crossroads. I am at the twilight between heaven and hell. Why couldn’t I see this before? Well, I’ll tell you mister…” Her hand shot back across the seat, her fist still clenching the cross, connected with his jaw. “I am expelling you from heaven, you SOB! I will continue to ride the path towards heaven…I always will…”
