by John Ridley
What he wanted was to have a talk with Soledad. And never mind their history-or because of their history, because she ended up free and clear of him-Soledad was glad to take the meeting. To look the bogeyman dead in the eyes.
"I'm not scared of you."
Soledad, Tashjian, were at Pan-Pacific Park, strolling around under the LA sun that was- thanks to a population that refused to stabilize let alone diminish-again losing the fight against the smog that only a few years prior it had begun to get a handle on.
Tashjian responding to Soledad: "I would doubt there's very much you are afraid of. Certainly not me."
"You better believe I'm not."
"And I do."
"You tried to take me out. Didn't work. If you think I'm going to run and hide when you come knocking-"
"You have no fear of me. I take you at your word. But the more you talk… exactly who are you trying to convince, Officer O'Roark?"
At that point, to say nothing more was equal admission Tashjian was right. To let his comment go was backing (Sown, and backing down never felt correct to Soledad. As middle ground: "Just so you understand where I'm coming from. It's not so much that I'm interested in what you've got to say as I am in letting you know I've got no problem with you saying it to my face."
"Understood."
It was odd being out of doors with Tashjian. He was, seemed as though he were, a creature of the shadows. More comfortable in dark than light where his designs could be more easily seen and therefore exposed. A requirement of prestidigitation is that actions be masked. Sleight of hand was Tashjian's expertise. The conceptual dark of others' ignorance was his stage. But here Tashjian was strolling around, walking in the sun just the same as anyone. No longer an object of apprehension, just, more of what he really was. Incredibly normal. Maybe daylight changed Soledad's perception. Maybe it was the change of circumstances; the crushing stone of disciplinary action no longer hanging by a threadbare twine over Soledad's head. Either way, Tashjian didn't seem quite the creep.
"At any rate," he said, "my ultimate objective wasn't to remove you from the department."
"You put a gold medal effort into things for a guy who wasn't trying."
"I told you at the time, I might have been there to help you. You didn't believe me. My intention, my intention was not to bring a good cop to false justice for no reason. It was about getting to the truth. That's what detectives do, be they Homicide, Robbery or Internal Affairs.'''
"I don't have a problem with you getting to the truth. What I've got a problem with is that I told you the truth and you wouldn't take it."
"What kind of detective would I be if I accepted things at face value? It's in the looking you learn to appreciate what you see." As if to demonstrate, Tashjian took a glance around the park. A little spot of green and trees lined by the low-rise apartments, the orthodox business of the Fairfax District.
Tashjian said: "It's in these moments, the casual ones, that I see the reason we do what we
do."
"We? You worked MTac?"
"No. I haven't. I was speaking of police work in general. This"-an arm arched before him-"is why we do what we do."
Soledad looked around, looked at what Tashjian was seeing, A bum, his whole world packed in the Sav-On shopping cart he pushed around the city. A couple of Asian guys, parish skin, shirts off, potbellies revealed, lying out sunbathing. Two softball-playing, Harley-riding, phys-ed-teaching dykes fornicating without care for, concern of, anyone who might be watching.
A cross section of the carnival Los Angeles. Small but representative.
In response to what she saw, to what Tashjian had said: "This? It's a freak show."
A. tic of Tashjian's head. "You and I both know what a freak show is: things disguised as normal but far from. Things that fly, things that change shape or size. Things that, can execute feats which you and I could perform only in our minds and with our best imagining.
"So the oddity around us now, within the city, these very people in the park: They are not so odd, Officer O'Roark. They exist, they are human. They perform simple acts of Irving. They search for love, companionship and meaning in life beyond the cycle of eat, work, sleep. It is these acts that make them human, that drives humanity. And though, per individual, we may not understand or wholly agree with the desires of others, the obligation that you and I and those who are like-minded have undertaken is to ensure normal people have the opportunity to fulfill their legal desires. Our obligation is not just, not merely to protect normal people but also to secure the acts of living to which they are guaranteed. Without that sense of guarantee, would we as people continue as a race or succumb to an emotional extinction? It is hope that gives us a future. So, in aggregate, our job is not to enforce the law. It is nothing less spectacular than to protect the future of humanity. We provide no other service except to ensure a certain peace of mind; that to the best of our abilities we will prevent acts of living from being interrupted. If they are threatened, we will protect. If the life itself is lost, then we will pursue the guilty.
For this social compact to work, you, I, people like us, must follow the letter of the law regardless of our feelings, our personal prejudices or favors. It is the law, as written and interpreted without bias, that must be our guide. Those you may have quarrel with out of uniform, you will offer your protection to under the color of authority.
"If this critical aspect breaks down, I believe- and I say this believing the statement is free of hyperbole-we will find ourselves on a path to anarchy. Worse. To our own destruction.
"We are on such a path, Officer O'Roark. I believe we are. But there is still an opportunity to correct ourselves. So I come to you to ask for your help."
There was nothing but confusion and questions for Soledad. "Help you how? With what? What… what anarchy?"
"You know, of course, of Israel Fernandez."
Soledad's nod "yes'' became a head shake of disgust. A quiet editorial of what she thought of the man.
"His is a death which remains in question," Tashjian said.
"For the freak fuckers. If that's the anarchy you're talking about, as far as I care-"
"You don't. You don't care. For you, yes, that's the natural reaction. But the anarchy I'm talking about is more than a death, or the conspiracy theories that surround it. There have been, over the past fifteen months, several deaths involving people associated with the metanormal community. Some were certainly more questionable than Israel Fernandez's. Some, five of them quite frankly, were murder."
"They were sleeping with the enemy." Not knowing the specifics, not caring for them, Soledad was unmoved, analytical. "Somebody wanted to, wanted to set them straight and went overboard. That's for R/HD. It's not my concern."
Then Tashjian added to the equation: "The five I believe were murdered were metanormals."
And that gave Soledad pause.
"What are you considering?" Tashjian asked. "How people with extraordinary abilities could be killed by anything short of an MTac assault? Or are you pondering the fact that most metanormals now live incognito and in fear of the law, police. If Fernandez was in fact murdered, he was an obvious and easy target. But how did the killer know his metanormal victims were in fact metanormals? The logical conclusion, the unpleasant one: The murders were carried out by those already collecting intelligence on metanormals. Those with an understanding of their weaknesses and how to exploit them, and with a severe desire to destroy them."
"Like a cop."
Tashjian nodded. Added: "Such as an officer within DMI."
"Does it… somebody's doing our job for us-" "It is not 'our job,' Officer O'Roark. Executioners under the guise of the law is what the liberal media, the bleeding hearts wish us to be. But we aren't. If there was a… There is a
child killer living down the block. You know this, you have evidence. You wait for him at night. And when he emerges from his house, as he passes, you press a gun to the base of his skull, and you-"
"That's not what I'd-"
"For the price of a bullet you save society the cost of a trial, the family the incalculable agony of reliving a nightmare."
Soledad said nothing. Tashjian'd made his point.
"As rational," Tashjian said, "as it might seem, there is no rationale for vigilantism. Merely empty justifications. There is also no account in murdering metanormals or their supporters. Their supporters have a right to free speech, and metanormals have the right to due process, the opportunity to turn themselves in, receive reparations. They are incarcerated in the Special Protection Area, yes. At times deported. But they are not executed. They only face harm when they attempt to do harm, or when their identities are disclosed, a warrant is issued and they refuse to surrender peaceably.
"How many MTacs would still be alive, do you imagine, if they were allowed to fire first instead of waiting to be threatened or until they had delivered so-called Civils to a suspect?"
Rhetorical question. But Soledad gave a quiet accounting of dozens and dozens. And how many times had Soledad wanted to shoot first and not even bother handing a freak the opportunity to surrender? But she had not. Never once. Despite her feelings, that wasn't the way things were done. At least, it wasn't how she did things.
The case Tashjian was building was, as to be expected, undeniable.
What Soledad wanted to know: "So freaks, freak fuckers are being killed. Let the cops deal with it. Why do you and me have to take a walk in the park?"
"The murders themselves, quiet, spread out over time among a relatively disenfranchised community, have gotten little attention from the department. At least as of yet.
But what's nearly certain, sooner or later some Intrepid individual at the Times or Channel 4 will piece things together: Metanormals and their supporters are being targeted, being killed by police officers. We are, Soledad, in a very precarious position. Less than a decade and a half since San Francisco, and people-"
"People forget," Soledad finished the thought.
"Worse than that. They have forgiven and are on the verge of shifting blame. The protectors become persecutors: We're too harsh on metanormals. We're too inconvenient in the public's lives. I've heard the word 'gestapo' used with the LAPD, with MTac programs. Hyperbole, but after a time extremism begins to stick. So metanormals, metanormal rights activists being targeted, murdered… which side, do you suppose, will gain advantage from this situation? Who will gain sympathy?"
"I get that. What I don't get: Why me? IA's got a department full of people."
"And you've been at DMI how long now? Already you've seen it's more like a fiefdom than a division. They don't even sit in Parker Center. To try and investigate by ordinary means is pointless. To try to infiltrate one of my officers would be useless. Everyone at DMI would see a plant coming as easily as if they were supervisioned muties. You're in a good position, inside DMI by circumstances beyond suspicion, and your credentials are beyond question. You've distinguished yourself in duty, and that you've been investigated by my department-"
"Tormented."
"Is well known. By rights you should hate Internal Affairs. Why would you ever work with us? You are perfect for what the situation demands."
"Like I was a born rat."
"We can play a game of semantics all day and all night. If you fear being a rat, don't think of yourself as one. Don't disregard the opportunity to exonerate innocent officers."
"And I could tell them that? After this is done, how do you think they'd take it that I spied on them?"
Tashjian made a show of looking confused. His version of sarcasm. "Why would you tell them?" he asked. "They have absolutely no need to know."
"I'm talking about-"
"Honesty. Fidelity. And I appreciate that. What I'm talking about, simply, is maintaining the structure of society as we know it for the foreseeable future. If the door of change opens slightly, it might as well be kicked down. I think so. You are needed to keep the door shut."
More than eight months since IA had gone after her. The bad taste Tashjian, the department, left with her was still strong in
Soledad's mouth. "Won't do it. I'm not going to sell out other cops."
"If they're murderers, if they are killing people-"
"Freaks aren't people. They don't have rights."
"Neither do dogs, but you can't shoot one in the street. The transgression is the same. So is the threat to you and me and everything that we believe in."
"That's kinda much, don't you think?"
"Maybe. But is that the chance you want to take? Hate me. O'Roark. From where you stand. I deserve your hatred. But don't hate me so much you would condemn us all to returning to a time when freaks ruled and humans clung to relevancy. Understand, that is where we are now: a point of advancement or reversion.
"I don't know what destiny has assigned us. Whether it's to change the course of history as we know it, or just bust a few dirty cops. Honestly, even thinking like that… well, I stand on very ordinary legs. What I do know, for whatever reason, whatever the outcome, we have been delivered to this moment to do something or to do nothing. My question to you, Officer O'Roark: Which will it be?"
It started as a John Doe. A body, no ID, clothes partially burned away, found at the bottom of the LA River. Not that the LA River was particularly deep. More like the LA stream. The stiff was stiff, probably dead forty-eight hours by the rigor, the lividity, but lack of decomposition. A bum, probably. Dead from too much booze, too little shelter. The body got transported to the LA County Forensic Science Center. Fancy name for city morgue. Given the same deference as the inanimate slab which it had ended up, the body would get processed, paperworked, stored, then prepped for an eventual dump in a potter's field.
Routine.
In LA, in a city that manufactured 158.9 bodies a day, this John Doe was just more of the same.
Would've been.
Except for the mandatory autopsy that the assistant medical examiner finally got around to performing six days after the body arrived. Except that when the AME put a scalpel to the John Doe to open his flesh, the flesh would not open. Not with the scalpel. Not with a bone cutter. Not with a hacksaw. Not with a Black & Decker power drill the AME pulled out of the trunk of his Dodge Stratus.
Who the John Doe was, was still unknown. What he was, was becoming real clear. What he was, was a freak. An invulnerable. Dead, probably, a lot longer than forty-eight hours prior to its discovery. Impossible to know. A hundred years from now his body might, slightly, begin to decay. Somewhat. Nobody knew for sure. As there had only been a very few exanimate invulnerables as case studies, the rate of their decomposition was still being surveyed.
So who the freak was, how long it had been dead were questions. But neither was the question. The question, the one that got the examiners at LACFSC nervous as they called DMI. reported what they had: What is it that killed an invulnerable freak?
“He's a freak."
Soledad and Donate!! stood just inside the doorway of the house. Nice house. Really nice. Palos Verdes nice. Big. Ocean view. The house was nice to the point the guy who owned the house probably referred to his "inside the doorway" as a foyer or anteroom or something else classy-sounding.
The guy who owned it: Fong. An Asian guy with an English accent. Either born in Hong Kong or educated at Oxford. However it was, the end result, he'd ended up in the south bay area of LA with enough dough to live well. Real well. The only stress in Fong's life, apparently, was Ms neighbor.
"He's a freak," Fong said again.
Soledad and Donatell gave very little outward reaction. Donatell-Mike Donatell-might've reacted the hell out things. His face, hard to tell. Donatell, when he was MTac, had ended up on a bad call against a fire freak. Donatell had been severely burned. Donatell's skull looked like it had molten flesh poured over it. Ears and nose made out of melted, discolored wax. He was a sight. Not a pleasant one.
Donatell: "When you say he's a freak…"
&n
bsp; "When I say he is a freak, I mean that he is a freak. I'm not sure what, else there is to say."
"What kind of a freak?"
Hesitation from Fong.
"What are his abilities?"
"Well, they are subtle. But they involve his vision. I believe he has, has the ability to see through solid objects."
"X-ray vision," Soledad prompted.
"I believe. And he is superstrong."
"Thing is, freaks only have one metanormal ability. So which is it?"
Hesitation from Fong.
Soledad, again: "Which is it?" Soledad had been "graciously invited" along on the interview by Donatell. Strictly, she wasn't sure she should be asking questions. But, response by response, she was getting a sense of things. Her sense, her time was being wasted.
"X-ray vision. I believe."
"And you know this because…?"
"Because I've seen him use it."
"You've seen him use X-ray vision? How were you able to see someone use X-ray vision?"
"Why would I lie? What reason do I have to lie about that… that freak being a freak?"
"Did I say you were lying?"
"Mr. Fong," Donatell stepping back into things, "before we deal with the situation, we need to be absolutely sure of what we're dealing with."
"And I have told you." Fong did not, could not look at Donatell. Donatell's aspect too severe to handle.
"Yes, you have." Donatell's mouth was nearly fused shut. His 'words were permanently slurred, and every sentence uttered ended with a slurping sound. Donatell sucking in air and sucking back saliva. A couple of scenes from The Elephant Man jumped into Soledad's head. "'But we have to be sure of what we're dealing with. Every detail has to be considered. Can you give us a description of the individual?"
"He's Mexican."
And Soledad got it. No matter the guy was doing well enough to afford a place in Palos Verdes-which meant he was doing better than ninety-five percent of the working stiffs in
