Evil Like Me

by Steve Bradshaw

  “The five in Shelby County died at the hands of a ‘real monster’,” he said.

  “A ‘real monster’? I’ve not heard those two words used together professionally.”

  His catatonic gaze found her. “I’ve chosen the words carefully. This is not my first time to have this discussion. I assure you my intent is accuracy.” He looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and found Petty’s challenging eyes.

  “‘Real’ means it is true, not merely ostensible, nominal, or apparent. It exists or occurs as fact. It is actual rather than imaginary or fictitious. ‘Monster’ is any animal or human grotesquely deviating from normal shape, behavior, or character. It is a person who excites horror by cruelty and wickedness.”

  Petty showed nothing. The motor in the wall stopped churning on the word “wickedness”. Only the laminar airflow blowers in the autopsy room broke the morbid silence of the dead county morgue. She watched Swenson swallow and his eyes dart to the closed door.

  He’s afraid of this “real monster”, she thought. He thinks it is out there following him. All three of are nervous, pensive, and absorbed. What is this thing they fear?

  Swenson’s eyes jumped back to Petty. “The Shelby County victims died like all the others.”

  “How many others?” she asked.

  “Thirty-eight and counting.”

  “Including my five?”

  “Yes,” Swenson shot back.

  “And what is the cause of death, doctor?”

  “‘Lethal telepathic manipulation of the amygdala’. As you’ve already experienced, your four unsolved homicides with amygdala lesions were staged as either stabbing or strangulation homicides. And, I will add here, some were hidden in the natural death category like Mr. Pella.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Petty pushed at the open letter on her desk like it was a failing term paper. “Are you telling me the U.S. Attorney General is hunting someone with some science-fictional murder weapon?”

  “Yes. And it’s not just the Attorney General, Dr. Petty. This has the attention of certain members of Congress, the CIA, and the White House.”

  “This sounds absurd,” Petty scoffed.

  Swenson held up a hand, more to gather his thoughts than to stop her rant. “The person we hunt operates outside known sensory channels, Dr. Petty. This monster kills without physical contact. We classify this ‘new’ manner of death as ‘remote homicide’.”

  “Dr. Swenson. A telepathic induced brain lesion is an enormous reach.” Straightening the already neat stack of files on her desk, Petty processed the obscure concept attempting to manage her tendency to dismiss new concepts—a known weakness following her through life. “You’ll excuse me if I have a problem with your theory.”

  Dr. Swenson paused to allow her to search her medical databank. Immediate denial was not a surprise—he saw it every time. Each ME brought into the program handled the information the same way. First they completely rejected the possibility. Then their curiosity took over. Grasping the concept would always be difficult for the scientifically advanced. It broke every rule in their book.

  “Spontaneous tissue alterations caused by external forces other than electrical, chemical, and physical are theoretical at best. Telekinetic manipulation of tissue is unproven fantasy. Scientific evidence does not support the existence of such a bizarre paranormal phenomenon,” Petty orated as if correcting a medical student in front of the entire class.

  Swenson sprinkled more on her fire of doubt. “There is a clairvoyant component.”

  Dr. Green spoke for the first time. “With advanced extrasensory skill sets, our psychic killer obtains current and future information, including the location of the next victim.”

  “When the time is right, we will provide proof,” Swenson said.

  Petty tapped her ink blotter with a painted nail. “This is not going well for you, doctor. Two of my unsolved homicides died from strangulation, and two died from exsanguination following massive, aortic lacerations. All four are traumatic deaths due to observable, physical attacks. And Mr. Pella is a natural death. Nothing you’ve said to me changes those realities. You have made unsubstantiated, grandiose, laughable claims, and I still have nothing on my amygdala lesions, the tissue samples I sent to Bethesda in good faith.”

  “I believe we need more …”

  Petty cut him off. “Rather than results, I get this malarkey.”

  Swenson smiled pushing his wire frames tighter to his face waiting for Petty to stop talking. “The amygdala is a fascinating structure with enormous responsibilities.”

  “I learned that my second year in medical school—processing memory, decision-making, emotion, and behavior to name a few. We are all doctors here. We are well versed in the anatomy and function of the human body. That’s not the point.”

  Swenson pushed forward. “I’m sure you’re aware of the universally accepted fact the amygdala modulates aggression, fear, and anxiety. Can we agree on this simple point?”

  “Of course. The function and role of the amygdala is not in question.”

  “You are a forensic pathologist, Dr. Petty. You need physical evidence.” Dr. Blanchard opened a small briefcase and passed a file to Swenson. He removed a report and passed it to Petty. “These are the MRI’s of four of the five Shelby County cases. You are familiar with the lesions on each victim’s amygdala. Note they are identical in location, frequency, and dimension.”

  Petty studied the report scrutinizing the MRI frame by frame. Each was labeled: patient name, processing date, identification markers, and various government seals of authentication. She passed the report back to Swenson. “This only confirms my findings, the reason I sent the tissue to Bethesda for additional assessment. I was expecting more from you.”

  “When we exhume Franklyn Pella, you will see the same lesions, Dr. Petty.”

  “The presence of acute lesions has been established in four cases. How they got there is my focus. Without any proof, you claim a ‘clairvoyant monster’ willed them there. Medical examiners do not do well with outlandish theories and unfounded speculation.”

  “Medical examiners deal in facts,” Swenson said. “Yes. Bethesda confirms your findings, Dr. Petty. Is that enough? Are you now able to do your job?” This time he could see the hesitation in her eyes. “Would you agree the replication of brain lesions is peculiar? Replication four or five or thirty-eight times would be more than peculiar, I would think. Would it be bizarre? Would it be strange? Or would it be impossible? I suppose it could not be impossible because we can both agree it exists at least four times.”

  He passed Petty documents. “The toxicology screens are negative, Dr. Petty. The histology does not support electrical, chemical, or physical intervention. There is no evidence of searing, hemolysis, or disease—past or present. The lesions are spontaneous, acute—not chronic in origin. The lesions are targeted and encapsulated at the cellular level. There is no associated trauma. Electron microscopy shows the brain tissue disruptions come from within.”

  Blanchard left the sofa and leaned over her desk with a photograph of the EM imagery. After she studied it, he passed a photograph of her four unsolved homicides. “Bulging eyes, ashen complexions, and contorted facials—those horrible grins—are symptomatic of the spontaneous, amygdala lesions.”

  Petty’s eyes moved from the photographs to Dr. Blanchard. He backed away and straightened his stance. “You’ve not observed the paralysis, the back arching to the snapping point and joints locked,” he said.

  “The victims of this kind of psychic-attack experience a level of terror so intense their autonomic nervous system takes over,” Swenson said under his breath. “Life support systems shut down. In the end, the heart simply stops.” He blinked back into the moment. “Do you recall the death of Oklahoma Senator Willingham some time ago?”

  “I recall news reports—cardiac arrest, senate floor.”

  “A story for public consumption. Actually, Senator Willingham died in the base
ment of the U.S. Capital building. It was the first time we witnessed death by remote manipulation of the amygdala. I’m sorry. The term’s still new. I meant to say lethal telepathic manipulation.”

  “I’m listening,” Petty said.

  “It happened in the heart of our nation’s capital. I’m sure you can appreciate the potential implications. We had to view it as a possible attack on our government. Was Willingham’s death a test? What were we dealing with: a killer virus, a poison, or a game-changer? Who is the next target? Could it be the president?

  “This new and bizarre national security risk engaged all government investigative bodies. The senator’s corpse was studied. We ran every test known, and some not known. The top forensic minds in the country processed the death scene and conducted the autopsy. Someone attacked Senator Wilber Willingham, Dr. Petty. Unlike your homicides, he died from amygdala lesions alone.”

  “The senator’s autopsy and related files will be downloaded to your computer,” Blanchard said holding his cell phone.

  Swenson’s confirmatory nod pulled Petty back. “You’ll see some proprietary testing methods revealing the cellular aberrations unique to the senator and others. After you review this material, I’m confident many of your questions will be answered.”

  “The files should be on your computer now,” Blanchard said.

  Petty jiggled her mouse. Her screen came alive, but it was not her regular desktop. She saw the gold seal on the letterhead centered in a sea of blue. Below were two words—Rejdak Project.

  “What is the Rejdak Project?” Petty asked.

  “This is Dr. Green’s area,” Swenson said nodding to the silent one on the sofa.

  He had the voice of an old woman with bronchitis—weak and raspy. “Zdenek Rejdak is an Eastern Bloc parapsychologist most noted for his work, 1950s through the 1970s. He led the way on psychotronic research, the study of the ability to sense places and events from great distances. It is remote viewing.”

  “I’ve read about ‘mind control’ and ‘remote viewing’,” Petty said. “The research is lean at best. It generates more questions than answers.”

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘psychic-weaponry’?” Swenson asked.

  “No, but I think I can grasp the concept.”

  “Psychic-weaponry has received serious attention from the world’s top governments. At this juncture I’m not at liberty to discuss the extent of U.S. involvement. However, I can tell you we are involved and significant military applications do exist.”

  “Did one of your lab rats escape, doctor?”

  Swenson blinked as if a book slammed on a table behind him. “The level of psychic manipulation we are seeing is beyond our laboratory experience.”

  “The so-called threat is new. Is it home grown or imported?” she asked.

  “New. We think home grown. Based on the ramping kill rate, we project a catastrophic future. If left unabated, lethal telepathic manipulation, or LTM, of the amygdala could be a top five cause of death in our country.”

  “If your psychic-monster increases targets or the skill set spreads,” Petty scoffed.

  “I suggest you begin to consider adjusting your flippant view of a delicate matter you do not understand,” Swenson scolded. “This is not the government’s problem alone.”

  “Our only chance of stopping this is to expand knowledge it exists,” Dr. Green said.

  “You want me to believe psychic-weapons suddenly exist,” Petty said rolling her eyes.

  “What you believe changes nothing. They do exist. Entities developing them threaten our nation. If they use them to attack us, they will likely be successful. The advance will alter the balance of power in the world and change the course of history.”

  “LTM is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction,” Blanchard said. “When future wars are fought with it, there is no battlefield. The enemy population dies where they stand in their homeland.”

  “Efficient geopolitical and socioeconomic genocide,” Dr. Green said.

  “And our government is the one who needs to control LTM,” Petty said with disdain.

  Dr. Swenson stared without emotion. “Can you think of another place safer?”

  “I’m sorry you view me uncooperative, doctors. My life is about operating with empirical information. Everything I do is based on known science and verifiable observations. I do not do anything based on wild theory and pure logic. You’ve only begun to share information.” Petty picked up the letter and waved it at them. “I suppose working with the ‘feet on the ground’ is the best way for the federal government to get ahead of this. Tell me the other cities involved?”

  “Henryetta, New York City, St. Louis, Washington D.C., and Boston.”

  “Our work is top secret. The public cannot know. If knowledge of this dire situation got out, it would have an increased negative impact our projected morbidity calculus. We would need to factor in collateral deaths due to mass hysteria and alerting our nemesis.”

  “When can I talk to the other medical examiners?”

  “Only after we validate the Memphis cases.”

  “And if they’re not linked?” Petty asked.

  “We won’t bother you anymore,” Dr. Swenson said as he got to his feet.

  The old motor in the wall jumped back. The frames and bookshelves rattled. Petty watched Dr. Swenson tuck his leather notebook in his coat breast pocket. Dr. Green closed his briefcase and stood at the sofa like a boy waiting for a school bus. Dr. Blanchard hung over Petty’s computer screen tapping the keyboard with spread-handed flurries.

  She turned in time to watch a horizontal bar fill and close. “I can access data?” she asked.

  “You are cleared for phase one,” Blanchard said.

  “SgME6 is your unique, proprietary access code,” Swenson said.

  A simple code I’m sure, she thought.

  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Petty.” He paused and smiled. “And yes, it is a simple code for sure.” Swenson winked and the three filed out of her office.

  The motor in the wall stopped. The fume hood fans in the autopsy room stopped. The lights flickered and a light popped out. Victoria Petty was not alone with her thoughts.

  Five

  “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  Winston Churchill

  He let me live …

  Billy Dodson pushed back in his seat toweling off and releasing the airbrakes. He started crunching the gears. The semi crawled onto the empty highway with two objectives, build speed and get distance. Every three seconds Dodson shifted and the tractor trailer lunged forward for a short-lived whining climb and the swallowing of another thirty yards. When he got the nerve, he looked in the side mirrors. The man in the hoodie was gone.

  Dodson held onto the wheel with a shaking hand and lit a cigarette dangling from his taut lips. Then he pressed every button on his dusty console opening every window and vent for precious air. He even turned on the small cab fan and aimed it at his face.

  As he gained distance from his imminent threat, the sixty-mile-an-hour whirlwind cooled his wet head, soaked shirt, and burning skin. Dodson’s ears popped and heart slowed—at last. Sound exploded back into his world like he broke the water’s surface after a deep dive. With five miles of black asphalt behind him, he could breathe normally again.

  In the middle of the flat, dead cotton fields of northeast Arkansas, the forty-ton tractor trailer lumbered along I-55, and Dodson kept looking in his long rectangular side mirrors. When he pitched his second butt out the window and saw the exploding ashes, he started to worry again.

  What if he climbed on the back? I’ll call police. They’ll find me. I won’t stop until I see them on my tail. Dodson checked his mirrors again—still nothing. But he could be on top of the trailer or behind my cab waiting for an opportunity. Dodson hit the door locks and raised the windows.

  He fished for his cell phone swerving the rig. I’m not calling some Podunk police department in east Arkansas.
All I need is a Barney Fife type to get me killed. He regained control and swallowed hard. The weirdo said he was out of Memphis. Maybe the cops are looking for em. If they’re not, they should be. The guy’s dangerous. Dodson called the MPD.

  “Memphis police, how may I direct your call?” The voice was female and strong. It helped his nerves.

  “I was almost killed,” Dodson said.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “I’m Billy Dodson. I drive a truck—Louisiana Missouri Express.” He slapped his face and blinked sweat from his eyes.

  “Mr. Dodson, are you in danger now?”

  “I don’t know. He got out my truck. I’m driving away. He could be on the back. I just don’t know for sure.”

  “Keep driving. Don’t stop. Lock your doors. Did this person threaten you?”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t know. It felt like he did. I think he’s a serial killer. He said he’s responsible for a lot of people—dead. I’m still not sure why I’m alive. He said I was going to die tonight. I thought he was gonna take me with him.”

  “Where are you now, Mr. Dodson?”

  “Interstate-55 north of Blytheville. I picked him up outside Memphis. He was walking on the side of the highway. I shouldn’t have, but it was raining hard. He looked harmless. I just wanted to help.”

  “I’m transferring you to homicide, Detective Wilcox. Please hold.”

  “Wilcox here, who’s this?”

  “I’m Billy Dodson. Driving a truck on I-55 a few miles north of Blytheville.”

  “Why’re you callin’ Memphis PD?”

  “I picked up a man. He said he killed people. He said he had problems with police in Memphis. I thought you guys would be looking for him. Country cops will get me killed. I think the guy’s on my truck, behind the cab or on top of my trailer. He got out. I pulled away. He was gone too fast. Then I started thinking.”