Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  It amazed Danny to no end how Teresa Roelig could sleep at night. One of the perks of being the mayor’s niece, Danny grumbled, was the ability to forever remove any odor from one’s professional fecal matter. Teresa was annoyingly cute to look at, Danny had always thought. There was very little that was professional about her demeanor. A perfect combination of a go-getter’s spirit mixed with the flighty, almost stereotypical ditzy blonde routine. Her dark brown eyes were anything but observant, showing an almost constant “VACANT” sign. There were many times, during morning briefings for example, when Danny felt an impulsive desire to ask Teresa if perhaps she might need an interpreter to help her understand the big police words that the Watch Commander was using. Ambition without brains. Desire without direction. Confidence without logic. The faith of a child, lacking in the adult reality of one’s limitations. This was Teresa Roelig.

  “Well,” he whispered under his breath as he approached Teresa, “At least I outrank her.”

  Though his orders had not expressly stated he was to take charge of the investigation, standard departmental policy would have dictated that the highest-ranking officer would take charge of the scene. Given two officers of the same rank, the one with the most seniority was in charge unless otherwise specified by a higher-ranking officer. Standing 5’9 with his shoes on and just shy of 175 lbs, Danny did not have the most commanding physical presence in the world and he knew it. But what he lacked in size he more than made up for in well-earned confidence. He’d been a detective for several years. He’d watched his enforcement star rise as others fell by the wayside. He’d been shot at seven times that he could recall and only hit twice. One of those was by his ex-girlfriend, who was a total psycho anyway.

  Approaching 40, Danny’s naturally blonde hair had all but vanished in the last couple of years, to the point that he finally decided to shave what was left, grow a thin but manly, golden goatee, and hope to add something of an intimidation factor that his otherwise average appearance.

  Danny wasn’t afraid of much. He’d been raised the youngest of three boys, learning early on the pitfalls of being the youngest and smallest. His brains and quick reflexes had become quite an asset over the years and, by the time he reached high school, often made the difference in surviving the sibling ridicule he often faced. Still, if the harassment he received at the hands of his brothers did any good, it certainly gave him a horrible disdain for bullies. It was just the one time that Danny’s father put his hands on Mrs. Peterson, but after the beating he received from Danny and his older brother, he promised never to do it again. A promise he kept until the day he died, seven years later.

  Danny hadn’t come from an abusive family. That “one time” his father grabbed his mother really was an isolated incident. In all the years they were married, Danny could scarcely remember another time his dad had ever raised a hand to anyone in the house. His mother on the other hand, while not violent, was not slow to administer a fair share of physical discipline when the moment called for it. It was almost laughable then, and had only grown more laughable over the years, that less than six days before he shipped out to join the Navy, Danny’s oldest brother Donny had been on the receiving end of an honest to goodness “over-the-knee” spanking at the hands of Mrs. Delores Peterson. Whenever a crime scene grew too graphic or a case proved too frustrating, the mental image of 4’11” Delores Peterson bending her 6’1” nineteen year old son over the knee and going to town on his backside proved just the right amount of comic relief. As Teresa Roelig opened her ditzy blonde mouth to welcome Danny to the crime scene – and those were her exact words – he knew he’d need that mental image many times in the coming days.

  Chapter 6 ~

  His 2002 Bonneville was dark metallic blue with tinted windows, split bench cloth seats and a V-6 engine that ran like a bat out of Hell. What a fitting analogy, He laughed. But He was no ordinary bat, scurrying out of some dark, damp forest cave. He was alive. He was living, breathing, patiently-waiting, Death. Patience was his greatest virtue.

  Death came for everyone. He’d heard someone say that the only two inevitables in life were death and taxes. Whoever said that probably never realized they were only half right. There were ways to avoid paying taxes. Tax shelters, investments, donations, or just flat out “cooking the books” were all methods that people employed to hide from old Mr. Taxman. But, no matter what method they tried – eating right, exercise, plastic surgery, constant prayer – nothing stopped Death from coming. Death, He knew, had long been an all-too-real method used by people who could not find any other way out of paying their taxes. The irony, He thought to Himself, was that most of the practices designed to delay Death’s call, oftentimes had the opposite outcome.

  The definition of eating right seemed to change every five years. Exercise dropped more people with heart attacks than an entire lifetime of fried egg platters. As for plastic surgery, One needed to look no further than the supposedly sterile operating rooms to find a hundred causes of death, illness and chronic suffering. If the surgeon didn’t screw up the surgery personally, the patient was likely to catch some virus that would eventually lead to his untimely demise. If not, then perhaps too much anesthesia would be administered, leaving the patient with a great new nose, but without the mental faculties to appreciate it.

  As for prayer, all that involves is communicating with some Being that no human has ever come close to understanding. Was there a God? Sure there was. But He wasn’t nearly as powerful as He liked to claim. He couldn’t even save His own earth-born son from Death, much less the world! He was nothing but a lighted up magic trick. He was a universal smoke and mirrors routine. The master of the supernatural bait and switch. He promised big – even going as far as to say He could grant eternal life – but delivered nothing short of lies and broken promises. There was protection from taxes, that imaginary inevitable, but not even the supposed Master of the Universe could protect his most fragile creation from the true Lord of Life and Death. Death comes for us all.

  Because Death must come.

  Death had come rather swiftly for Dave Collins – too swiftly for His tastes. He didn’t get to linger in the scented cocktail provided by Fear, Anguish, Confusion, Pain, Doubt and finally Resolute Acceptance. What a wonderfully cold sensation of completeness He felt. And yet He felt cheated. The others had taken longer to die. Of course they were younger, healthier and there were simply more of them among which he could divide his attention, thereby prolonging their pain; prolonging His pleasure. Like an orchestra conductor, He’d played the symphony to its crescendo. This instrument then that. Each with its only soliloquy to play.

  He’d chosen The One rather quickly. His flawed body provided a greater chance to show the healing power of Death. The Sleeper would not be strong enough to battle Him. His resistance would be quelled by the promise of increased power. Humans thrived on power. And the weakest among them, those that possessed it least, craved it the most. He hadn’t needed to kill Dave Collins. His life was of no greater consequence than the Collie housed in the back yard, which presently sat licking an annoyingly itchy hind end. He’d done nothing with his life to speak of. So human.

  In the end, that was why he was chosen. He was too human, too fragile. Too weak to carry on any significant purpose. A legend in his own mind, a victim of his own self-promotion. There were others like him, others that, perhaps, were weaker or perhaps those that had done remarkably less with their miserably human existence. Their time would come. Death comes for everyone. It was simply David Collins’ turn. His brother had tried hard to cheat Death by taking his own life. How stupid he was to play a game that can only be won by dying. Only humans rationalized it to be a spit in Death’s face when they seemingly chose their own time to die. Death gives no thought to when or how a person meets their inevitability. Death does not long mourn a cheated feeling when Life is taken away from the world unexpectedly. Death is too busy collecting soldiers to give much thought to the manner in which the so
uls arrive at His doorstep. Death takes great pride in His work and likes it to be done slowly and with meticulous precision. But a messy bullet to the head, poisoned drink or a long drive off a short cliff provides almost as much joy for the innocent observing Death as a heart attack provides to the catalytic participant. He enjoyed His work, and He was good at it. But even Death needed a rest, so He could handle the occasional surprise ending or cheated feeling that often came with His occupation.

  Most saw the struggle as one between Good and Evil, Death of course being given to the latter distinction. He simply saw it as what it was. The futile struggle between Life and Death. Life invariably won the occasional battle. But, in the end, The War was always won by Death. Death was the end of The War. Without Death, there was only struggle. Death provided a way out of War. Most recently, it had provided Dave Collins with a merciful exit from the field of battle. As He watched the policemen scurry around the crime scene, they reminded Him of a colony of ants, feverishly running about in a desperate attempt to rebuild the mound that had just been destroyed by the fragile foot of what must have seemed like God himself. He momentarily considered the possibilities. The mere thought of so many lives instantaneously becoming His sent chills through His body. The Bonneville itself began to vibrate gently in an omnipotent dance of Death’s delight. He slowly scanned the menu and considered the notion of a soul to snack on.

  “No,” He whispered. “In time. All in good time.”

  One of the unmarked sedans let out a small pop. An engine backfired, sending police officers momentarily scrambling, many hitting the ground for fear of an all-out impending attack from forces unknown. He laughed to himself, amused by his little prank.

  “If only they knew.”

  Chapter 7 ~

  The sign outside the ICU wing clearly stated that no one under the age of nine was allowed in the area. Carrying Christina, ignoring that and any other rule she might possibly be breaking, Lisa stalked through the doors into the sterile ICU, a woman on a mission. She had remained faithful to Alex, to the thoughts of his recovery, but she was far too sensible to ignore the risks. The risks that Christina might never get a chance to say goodbye to her father. At four, she’d hardly understand all of the machines, the beeping, the whizzing, or whirring, but she could be made to understand that Daddy was sick and that was what Lisa needed to do. Daddy might not wake up from his nap, she’d told Christina. He’d been made to take a nap by a very bad man and now nobody could seem to wake him up. Christina might not have understood death but Lisa believed she understood, at least on some level, the seriousness behind Alex’s situation. It had scared her for a couple of days, Lisa realized. Every time Christina went down for a nap, she would fuss and cry and whine – something she never did before. It had taken Lisa and Alyson both to finally get Christina to understand that she was not in any danger of falling into a sleep like her Daddy’s. Though Lisa wasn’t sure if it would do more harm than good, she felt like the best thing for Christina was to see her Daddy in his current situation. If nothing else, Lisa hoped, it might help the child understand that her Daddy didn’t just go to sleep and find himself unable to awaken.

  Though Lisa had told Christina, in a four-year-old way, about the bad man, in the end she felt sure that the only way the little girl would truly understand would be to see it for herself.

  The rooms were arranged in a square hallway, with only a singular entry point through which Lisa entered. Four rooms lined each wall, with the exception of the wall through which patients, doctors and visitors were allowed entrance. Unlike most of the rest of the hospital, the walls of the ICU hall were faint powder blue with forest green wallpaper rising from the floor to just above Lisa’s knee level. Whoever decorated this place, Lisa thought, must have been colorblind, really drunk, had a really bad sense of humor, or some combination thereof.

  The hallway snaked itself around a central monitoring station currently occupied by three nurses and some sort of aide or tech or whatever politically correct term was acceptable to the pudgy black woman wearing the shiny purple scrubs.

  Turning toward Lisa, the aide in the purple scrubs frowned at her. Motioning in Christina’s direction, the aide said, “She can’t be in here, Ma’am.” Her fingernails were gaudy and entirely too long to aide her job in any way, painted an equally obnoxious shade of burgundy, sporting swirls of black, red and shades of purple, varying from finger to finger.

  Without speaking, Lisa gently put her daughter down, removed the police badge from her purse and showed it to the aide, who said nothing but turned as if to get the nurse’s assistance. One of the nurses approached.

  “I’m sorry Miss—”

  “Officer Mendez,” Lisa corrected her.

  “Lt. Mendez is resting and cannot be disturbed except by family.”

  Flashing her badge again, Lisa said, “I’m Officer Mendez. A police officer, Lt. Mendez’s wife and the mother of his child. She and I both are family, thank you! But you would not know that. I’ve been coming up here every day for over a week now and I haven’t seen you. So I’ll forgive your mistake and take my daughter to see her father now.”

  Lisa took Christina’s hand and attempted to push past Nurse Ratchet and her purple companion who by now was giving Lisa cause to wonder what had happened to the other Fruit of The Loom guys.

  “She cannot go in there,” said the nurse, pointing to Christina.

  “Honey, look,” Lisa snapped. “I’ve got a badge, a gun and a little girl who hasn’t been apart from her father for more than 12 hours since the day she was born until now. And if that’s not good enough for you, I’ve also got the permission of my captain to be here. He’s taken the liberty of calling your Chief of Staff, Doctor Conrad I believe, and getting authorization for her to be here. So if that isn’t enough for you, then you explain to Dr. Conrad why you are disobeying his authority. Otherwise, step aside or I’ll have you arrested for ticking off a police officer.”

  The nurses stared in disbelief at Lisa who did not waver. Her scowl told that she meant business. And meant it she did.

  Not today, her eyes said. You are not going to get in my way today.

  * * *

  She had taken over pretty easily. There was almost no resistance. And why should there be? She meant no harm to the little girl. Harming The Innocent, after all, would be worse than harming herself. The Innocent knew this, despite her age. The mind of a child works differently than that of an adult. The mind of an adult questions first and trusts last. Life lessons teach the human mind caution, fear and doubt. Teach it not to trust. A child’s mind is more pure, trusting in the inherent goodness of Nature rather than its inherent evil. A child is curious by nature and The Innocent was very curious.

  Where are we going, the child wondered. Mommy’s over there. I shouldn’t leave my Mommy.

  Mommy will be along soon.

  Where are we going?

  To help.

  To help my Daddy?

  To help the world.

  * * *

  Nurse Ratchet’s name badge, Lisa finally noticed, read “Laura Thompkins.” An almost sweet name, Lisa thought. Too sweet for this cow, that’s for sure.

  Nurse Thompkins had stepped in front of Lisa, still bent on getting some sort of assurance that Lisa was who she claimed.

  “Maybe I should check with Dr. Conrad just to be safe,” whispered the nurse. Her sudden humility might have been just an act of covering her own behind “just in case,” but Lisa didn’t really care. Lady, Lisa thought to herself, you picked the wrong day to be thorough.

  “Whatever you feel you need to do,” Lisa said, “but move before I have you removed!” Another nurse had approached, silently standing by like Nurse Thompkins’ able centurion. Her name badge said Maggie Crain. She was young, dishwater blonde, very tall and slender, flirting dangerously between gaunt and graceful elegance. As Lisa momentarily considered turning the ICU into the scene of a bar room brawl, it occurred to her that Nurse Crain was likely
to shatter into a brittle pile of broken bones at the mere sight of violence. Instantly, the “able” centurion didn’t seem so able. Amid the anger that was building inside, Lisa almost found it possible to laugh.

  * * *

  It was a struggle to climb on Alex’s bed; her arms and legs were still those of a four-year-old, though the strength She provided to The Innocent’s body was of great assistance. The beeping machines, tubes, wires and switches proved terribly distracting, even if not fighting the naïve curiosity of The Innocent. Alex’s face was pained. He wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t conscious but he wasn’t resting.

  More distractions. Must focus.

  The father of The Innocent. Daddy!

  For the first time, She felt real resistance. The Innocent was worried. Afraid. Confused. Unsure.