Returning to his desk, he pulled the top five files from the stack and flicked through them. The names — Barrett, Oldham, Bailey, Varacuse and Pulini — were merging into each other. He spread them out like a deck of cards and picked the middle one. Pick a card, any card, shuffle them and put it back, he thought.
The name on the file he picked was Bailey. Although the case was only just over a year old, the file was large and Logan knew what was in store for him inside. He went and poured himself a coffee then returned to his desk to read it through again. What have I missed? he wondered.
Bailey, Anita. It was a home invasion/murder case. The killer had entered through the back door and apparently surprised the victim, Anita Bailey. Logan flicked through the crime scene photos and walked through the house in his mind; looking at the house layout, he blocked out the surrounding noise and entered the killer's mind.
He was crouching outside the kitchen door waiting for the right moment. Why was he there? What was their relationship?
He slowly turned the door handle and slipped open the door. The victim's back was to the killer as she put dishes away in the cupboard. As he grabbed her, covering her mouth, her grip on the plates released and they fell crashing to the floor. He knew there was no one at home to hear this noise and he dragged her into the living room.
Logan looked at the photo of the kitchen again. Broken crockery lay under the cabinet furthest from the door. Both the cabinet and the dishwasher drawers were open; the killer had made no attempt to hide the initial point of contact.
The CSI report said there were traces of chloroform in the victim's nasal passages. All the exterior traces were washed off; the killer was trying to hide parts of his MO. The why was obvious, he'd either done this before, or intended to do it again; either way, he wasn't in a hurry now. The report stated that the victim had been raped and sodomised, using a condom, which they assumed he had taken with him.
Logan stared at the photos of the victim's mutilated body. She had been secured with police-issue handcuffs, tortured, and eventually murdered. To any normal person this sight would have brought feelings of terror and revulsion, but Logan had been hardened to this sort of evidence. His mind looked far deeper than the macabre vision, detaching himself from the physical evidence and focusing on the mental statement.
Logan's mind entered the killer's again.
The victim was subdued, handcuffed, and ready for whatever he had in store. Like a cat playing with its wounded prey, let the games begin. He went back to the kitchen and picked up a large knife, closed and locked the door, and returned to the woman. Using the knife, he cut off her jeans and T-shirt and threw them onto the couch; the pink designer underwear she'd worn just for him made it clear he'd chosen the right girl. He ripped them away, pulled down his trousers and entered her. As she started to wake, he slapped her face; this made her jump to attention, squirming on him. She screamed; this increased his arousal, and his fire. He punched her square on the jaw, breaking it easily. In his mind, he turned her screams of terror into moans of pleasure. She liked to be hurt. He bit her breast hard, tearing the flesh, and her moans increased.
Forcing her onto her front he pulled her arms away from her body, dislocating her shoulders as they popped from their sockets. He entered her from behind and started to slash her back with the knife. Stabbing deeply as he thrust inside her, and dragging the blade across her white skin, blood pumped from the wounds and seeped into the cream carpet as he again rolled her onto her back. Dragging her by the hair to the couch, he straddled her and plunged himself into her mouth. Her head violently shook from side to side; withdrawing, he beat her nose across her face, smashing the bones and blocking the passageway. Then he entered her mouth again, tearing the internal fibres of her throat. With all her airways blocked, her eyes rolled back, she lost consciousness, and died. His passion was unfulfilled and this quickly turned into a frenzied anger. Picking up the knife again, he insanely stabbed at her naked stomach; again and again he thrust the blade deep into her body. As a final symbolic act he pushed her legs apart and drove the blade into her, leaving nothing more than the black and bloodied wooden handle visible to the world.
Sweat dripped from Logan's brow as he came back to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to shake off the vision.
The autopsy officially logged the cause of death as asphyxiation, but her premature death caused the killer to start a stabbing frenzy. Logan believed her quick death to be a blessing in disguise, and probably the best thing that had happened to her throughout the whole ordeal. Reading on, the report registered a hundred incisions, but the actual total was too many to count. The attacker's focus was mainly on the abdominal area, turning her stomach into minced meat.
There were many unanswered questions, but the one that stuck in Logan's mind most was: why was the living room where the murder took place? The killer had time to take her upstairs to the bedroom, so why didn't he? The living room was on the ground floor, so there was a possibility of being interrupted.
Logan decided the living room was a risk, and therefore maybe that was part of the fantasy, but he believed there was more to it than that. For Logan, the living room was the place to focus his attention. Picking up the crime scene drawings and photos, he started with the bloodied mess that was once a beautiful woman. The couch, the coffee table, the bookcase — nothing. They'd been over the scene so many times, but the secret was there in the living room; the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was.
Shuffling the photos around again, he placed the bathroom and two bedrooms above the murder scene photo on his desk. 'Spot the difference,' he muttered. What did the living room have that the upstairs rooms didn't? There was nothing unusual about the furniture in any room; most of it had probably been picked up from Furniture-R-Us or somewhere equally uninspiring. Then his attention was drawn to the stereo system.
'The bastard took his own music to the party,' Logan snarled. He had a lead.
13
DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES
Having been called by Travis to say he'd be out most of the day, Taylor was alone once again in the office. It didn't bother her too much that her boss spent long stretches out of the building — and she certainly had plenty of work to keep her occupied. She was more annoyed, particularly at the moment, at the way he would just up and leave without warning. Most of the time he was an ideal boss, sticking to schedules, and always letting her know where he could be contacted when he did venture out. But sometimes, like today, when he was into something big or top secret, he'd call her at home early or rush out of the office leaving her to cancel meetings or turn away appointed visitors. One day I'll tell him how unprofessional and annoying that is, she thought — and then smiled at the familiar emptiness of her threats.
***
After calling Taylor and freeing himself for the day, Travis took longer in the shower than normal. Today was going to be a big day. His cleansing routine was like a ceremonial ritual. Shampoo first; this did its magic while he used a deep pore-cleansing facewash to remove the ingrained dirt the city spewed over him every day. He rinsed both of these off and applied a moisture-rich conditioner. Shaving took pride of place; he loved the feel of King of Shaves oil, and the tea tree scent made him feel refreshed. Once shaved, he admired his handiwork in the fog-free mirror; he slid his hand around his face, enjoying the smoothness of his skin. Next, the soap-free body wash, and then a full rinse off. His shower unit was set up like a carwash. He entered at one end, showered — jets blasted water at him from all angles — then hit a button to start a drying fan, and finally exited at the other end, clean and dry. After finishing with some post-shave gel and cologne, he was ready to get dressed.
With its daily maid service, his Los Angeles apartment was immaculate. The Presidential Suite in the Grand Hotel was his ideal home, adapted to his own personal taste, with anything he wanted at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day. Opening the wardrobe and walking in, he selected a dark suit fr
om a full rack. He picked a crisp, white shirt and a tie du jour, brought the clothes out and placed them on the bed. As he was dressing, there was a knock at the apartment door. Checking his watch — eight-fifteen precisely — he opened the door, and breakfast was delivered.
Sitting at the table, he lifted silver covers from the plates to reveal scrambled eggs and croissants. He flicked on the TV to watch the news headlines and tucked into his breakfast. The sharemarket was on the rise again, a good omen for the day ahead, he thought. He waited to see what was on the world news segment in case anything interesting was happening around the globe but lost interest quickly and finished his breakfast thinking of the day ahead.
Travis called for his car to be brought to the front of the hotel and made his way to the lobby. Its fine marble, combined with a modern decor, was always a pleasing sight in the morning. He greeted the staff as he walked through the lobby; most of them replied with a cordial 'Good morning, Mr Travis'. In contrast, as he approached the main entrance, he was greeted by the stone-cold face of the chambermaid he'd kicked out of his room in the early hours of the morning. 'Good morning . . .' Travis said, trying nonchalantly to read the name on the badge she was wearing.
'You don't even remember my name, do you?' As she spat the words she covered her badge. 'What is it, Mr Travis?' She hissed like a snake as she said his name.
'EMILY, may I have a word with you.' The housekeeping manager had seen what was going on and called her over. Travis watched her being chastised and, for a moment, felt a touch of regret about the whole thing. He made a mental note to try and stay away from the hotel staff, and his bad feelings were quickly erased by the bright and cheery smile of the concierge.
'Good morning sir, how are you on this fantastic day?'
'I'm fine, Robert. You obviously enjoyed the tickets I gave you to the new club opening . . .'
'Sir, you would not believe the time I had last night.'
'Spare me the details; I'm just happy you had fun. Is my car ready?'
'Right outside, all juiced-up and ready to go.' He bounced ahead of Travis and pulled open the car door. Travis slid inside and said goodbye.
The drive to Sorrento seemed to go quickly, probably because he had a lot on his mind. The freeway was quiet but as thoughts raced around in his head, Travis almost missed the Sorrento off-ramp; he cursed as he swung across two lanes to make the exit.
***
The cold, sterile room was located deep within the laboratory. Dr Androna and Travis stood side by side. The pine-fresh smell of the lab didn't bring the image of a forest to Travis' mind; it was more a feeling that they were in the depths of a well-cleaned toilet. There were no windows in the room and only one security-coded door. The two men looked at what was laid out before them.
The long wooden packing crate had been delivered earlier that day with strict instructions to keep it in a cool area. The light brown panelling was covered with black stamps that read FRAGILE and HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE.
'Open it,' said Travis, holding out a crowbar.
'What is it?' Dr Androna took the cold metal rod from him and moved towards the case.
'Open it and find out; I promised you a bonus didn't I?' Even though Travis knew what the crate contained, the anticipation was killing him.
The doctor found a gap in the crate's corner and wedged the thin end of the crowbar into it. He forced the iron bar down, and the creaking sound of nails and wood separating echoed around the room. He slid the bar around to the next tight gap and repeated the process several times before the lid was free.
The two men stood at the ends and, careful not to catch themselves on the nails, lifted the lid. The sides of the crate were quickly peeled away exposing a small coffin. Dr Androna looked at Travis with an inquisitive frown.
'Just open it.' Travis gestured impatiently for the doctor to open the coffin lid. As he lifted it, both men peered gingerly inside as if the contents might jump out and bite them. Inside was a small, mummified body, dwarfed by the size of the coffin within which it lay.
'Where did you get this?' Dr Androna asked, almost rhetorically, his mouth aghast.
Travis lifted his finger to his own mouth and shushed him. 'Let's just say it fell off the back of a truck and I was lucky enough to be there to catch it.'
Having removed the shrouded body from the coffin and placed it on a stainless steel hospital gurney, they were again standing side by side. The bright strip lights shone down on the focal point of the room.
Dr Androna knew exactly who he was looking at. He had followed the story of the corpse from the time it was discovered through to its unfortunate disappearance from London. Lying in front of them was the liberated body of a two-thousand-year-old man.
The doctor had read that the man was either high-born or from a priestly family. Dr Gibson, Director of the Jerusalem Archaeological field unit, discovered the remains in the year 2000. He had been showing students around first-century tombs in the Hinnom Valley when he noticed the blackened shroud. The tomb was situated in Akeldama, the Field of Blood, south of the city's walls and overlooking Mount Zion. The area was believed to have been purchased by Judas with the money he received for betraying Jesus, and was the place where Judas had later hanged himself.
The aged woollen shroud seemed to have welded itself to the bones of the skeleton, preserving the body in a fashion similar to mummification. Dr Androna didn't want to touch it; he just wanted to breathe in its ancient aura. The body below the shroud was over two thousand years old. He wondered what tales this man could tell if he was alive today.
'What do you say? Let's wake him up and introduce ourselves to a very old friend.' Travis emphasized the word old as he spoke.
The doctor tentatively bent towards the body, half expecting it to wake — as in a scene from a horror movie — from its slumber. He took a pair of scissors from the equipment tray beside the gurney. His hands were shaking slightly as he made the first snip in the bandages around the corpse's head. Once this was done, he gently returned the scissors to the tray, then slowly peeled the blackened shroud from the face; his latex-gloved hands trembled in delicate anticipation. He looked at the skull and knew he was looking far into the past. Decomposition of the facial tissue had exposed the man's teeth, creating a fixed, wide grin. The teeth were uneven and misshapen, but they were all there. The dark holes where the eyes had been were staring up at him as though they knew what was about to happen. Dr Androna just stared back. He took his scalpel and cut away the rest of the shroud; as it peeled away, he looked at the whole skeleton.
He ran his fingers over the shrivelled skin. It felt uneven and leathery, like beef jerky, and the body smelled mouldy like a piece of blue cheese well past its expiry date. Travis looked over Dr Androna's shoulder at the wonder before him; he was more amazed at the sight than he thought he'd be.
'What shall we call him?' Dr Androna asked with a smile on his face.
Having mulled over the possibilities since he'd acquired the body, Travis replied, 'How about calling him Probandi.'
Dr Androna looked at him quizzically.
'It's Latin for proof,' Travis said.
Dr Androna didn't understand.
'There are some things it is best you don't know about, my friend,' Travis said, returning his focus to the body. 'So, Dr Frankenstein, can you bring this body back to life?'
Dr Androna looked at Travis, and then back at the body, trying to work out exactly what was going on. 'There's plenty of DNA to work with; are you saying what I think you are?'
Travis nodded. 'I need this person to be walking and talking as soon as possible. Here's your chance to prove that your theory of accelerated growth works!'
Dr Androna walked around to stand at the foot of the body, and admired its condition. 'There are so many things we'll need if this is to work: an embryo, all the proteins I've listed, special maternity and birthing equipment, even a host mother — and that's just off the top of my head. Who's going to fund all of
this? What would I do with my other projects?' His questions were coming thick and fast as the excitement grew in his mind.
'You don't need to worry about any of that. This project is very important to me, and there's plenty of funding available. It can't go through the usual channels, and I'm trusting that we have a code of secrecy between us. But I ask you again, can you do it?'
Dr Androna looked at Travis, and then back at Probandi. The resurrection of Probandi would be the pinnacle of his career, no question of that, and impossible for him to turn down. 'Of course I can. When can I start?'
Travis began to laugh out loud. He grabbed Dr Androna's hand, shaking it furiously. 'There's no time like the present. Give me your first list of equipment and I'll get it to Supplies. I'll authorize a special projects budget, and you can attribute all costs to that; no one from the board will question the expenses. Just keep me fully informed and updated on any significant progress.'
14
SORRENTO, CALIFORNIA
The drugs had affected Mary's mind. She'd drifted in and out of consciousness for the past month, and every time she woke up she learnt more about what had happened. The facts she'd managed to put together so far were: she'd been in a terrible accident and both her parents had been killed; all three of them had been in the car on the way to dinner; and at some time during the drive she'd broken the news to them that she was pregnant. The result was a disastrous chain of events. Shocked that she had been having sex, let alone fallen pregnant, her father had turned to look at her. In so doing, and distracted, he had turned the steering wheel sharply. They'd mounted the pavement and slammed into a lamp post. Neither of her parents had seat belts on, and had exited through the wind-shield. Their deaths had been instantaneous, which was supposed to console her in some way — something about the fact they hadn't suffered. The lamp post had fallen and hit the roof of the car, which in turn had hit her head. The result was a few cuts to her head and a severe case of amnesia.
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