“This isn’t a discussion. Do I have to have Officer Beatty over there put you in your car? Try me, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid, you’re five years older than me. It’s not my fault you look fifty.”
Detective Markov pointed to the cordon. She looked at Officer Beatty trying to take a selfie with the crater. Jackass.
“Fine, whatever.”
Karen was not fine.
•
0830 Hours – Day 2 – The Pinnacle Apartment Building
Detective Karen Hall turned the shower handle and the steady stream of hot water slowed until it was a subtle drip against the white tile. She wiped water from her eyes with the back of her hand. Somehow she still had early morning crust in them. Karen collected her short blonde hair and twisted a bit of water out. She was still used to having shoulder-length hair and actually being able to wring it out. Her new pseudo-pixie cut was still a bit weird to her. Her bangs about hit her cheekbones and the back was marginally shorter. She was still experimenting with ways to wear it. Most of the guys in the department took the new look to mean she was no longer batting for the same team. To her, it was about freedom. She did it to boost her confidence. The jury was still out on the verdict.
Karen toweled off and stepped up to her vanity, leaving wet footprints on the cold tile as she moved. Her bathroom was small, but it had everything she needed. She wasn’t one of those women that required a tub with jets and all the bells and whistles. She had a tiny shower, a toilet, and a pedestal sink. Every product she owned could fit snugly in the medicine cabinet above the sink, which doubled as the mirror. She wrapped her towel around her torso and used her hand to wipe steam from the mirror.
She focused on the two wrinkles forming on her forehead. Thirty-Two was too young to be getting wrinkles in her opinion. Karen gazed at her own light blue eyes. In her mind they were easily her best features. Markov used to tell her they were the most feminine thing about her. Karen didn’t know whether that was a compliment or meant to be derisive. With Markov, it was never easy to tell for sure.
Something about her eyes was off. A small blob of green liquid bubbled up in the corner of her eye before shedding an emerald tear down her cheek, leaving a glowing trail behind it. She used a hand towel to wipe it off, smearing it across her cheek. She continued to wipe it until it was gone.
“What the hell?” Karen said aloud.
Her stomach turned and she clutched her stomach before throwing up a mixture of her breakfast and blood. Karen grasped the porcelain pedestal sink with both hands to brace herself. She swore to herself this would be the last time she bought a frozen burrito from the gas station. This was shaping up to be worse than the raw chicken debacle of 2013.
What made her the angriest was that bastard Markov had just told her not to eat those things anymore. He was always butting in on her life. It was her body and she could deal with the consequences. Her stomach constricted again, sending a bolt of vomit into the sink. She didn’t think she had anything left.
Afraid to look in the mirror again, she slowly raised her head until her eyes were visible. The green liquid had ceased its flow. Relieved, she turned on the faucet and shoveled water into her mouth, slurping it down like an animal hovering over falling water. When she looked at her reflection once more her eyes gave a glimmer like a cat in the night.
8
1220 Hours – Day 2 – The Pinnacle Apartment Building
Ding! Detective Karen Hall thrust open the microwave door and grabbed her frozen lasagna meal, now piping hot. The overheated package smelled of burnt plastic and manufactured cheese. Delicious. She cut her fork into the lasagna and began eating her lunch. Karen lived in a small one bedroom apartment with two tiny windows in the living area. Detective Hall preferred it dark because she would often find herself working unpredictable shifts. Living in a cave helped make the transition from nights to days smoother. No one ever said being a cop was glamorous.
Her apartment lacked most of the amenities the people on those HGTV shows were looking for. No dishwasher, no nice counter tops, and no stove unless you counted her broken hotplate on the counter, though the kitchen didn’t lack a space for one. Every time she was about to go buy a stove she remembered that she either used her microwave or went for takeout for every meal. Karen had the Jade Palace on speed dial. Cooking from scratch was out of the question.
There were no decorations or cute knickknacks in the kitchen. The counters were once white, but now were faded to a sickly off-white. Apart from the empty beer bottles next to her sink, the only noteworthy aspect of the room was a yellowed newspaper clipping taped to her fridge. She examined it for a moment.
The headline read: “Rookie Cop Busts Gang Leader for Murder.” The picture under the headline was of her and Markov avoiding the photographer’s lens. Those idiots at the Chronicle tried to blast her face everywhere and had almost gotten her killed. Apparently retribution wasn’t in their vocabulary. Every once in a while she still got the feeling she was being followed. The chance of a drive-by was still an inherent possibility in her mind, even years later. Regardless, she’d decided long ago to be unafraid of reprisal. It was really a breath of fresh air to throw her fear away and embrace the dangers that came with her work. She opened the fridge and grabbed a beer, cracking it before stepping back into the living room and flipping on the television.
She threw the bottle cap to Gizmo, her large brown tabby cat. Gizmo was a gift from Markov once upon a time. It had started out as a joke, emanating from her partner’s description of her as the crazy cat lady without the cats. But the longer she had him the more attached she became. Even if he did attack her head while she was sleeping and always seemed to find his way into her sink to take a nap. Then he acted surprised when she turned on the water. He was big enough that Karen believed he had at least a little Maine Coon in him. He stretched his twenty pound frame and went after the rogue bottle cap, collecting it in his mouth and running off to a corner with his prize.
Karen liked to keep things simple. Her living room was sparsely furnished. She had only a small chair that was a sickly green color which was supposed to spin around but hadn’t in years. Next to it was a red leather couch which clashed horribly. Her old television sat on top of an empty case of Coronas. She wasn’t a heathen or anything, she remembered to put a white cloth over the case of beer to be extra fancy. Her coffee table was also made of empty cases of beer, which Gizmo liked to topple over any chance he got. She leaned down and poured a bit of beer in his empty water bowl. Gizmo could be a bit of a dickhead, but he was her dickhead.
Karen stood in front of the television, one foot on top of the other, yelling at the screen through mouthfuls. Fox News had gotten a hold of cell phone videos of the incident at the BART station and she had been watching it play over and over from multiple angles for the past hour. The pedantic commentary coming from the host irritated Karen to no end. She hated the 24-hour news cycle. An attractive female anchor wearing a too-short skirt was debating a NASA scientist about the chances of meteorite strikes in the United States.
Gizmo began lapping up the beer loudly. Karen hated the sounds he made when he drank, but watching him wobble back to his blanket on the couch made it all worthwhile.
“So, Dr. Webber, what can you tell our audience about this phenomenon?” the host said while flipping her chestnut hair and appearing concerned. She continued, “Is this just a freak occurrence or should the American people be worried about a growing trend?”
Dr. Webber held up his hands in defense and commented, “The American people have nothing to worry about. Meteorites strike the Earth every hour, but they are so tiny, generally they produce no noticeable or lasting damage. To pose a serious threat to the Earth, the meteorite would have to be astronomically bigger and we would know it was coming years in advance. You actually have a better chance of being struck by lightning than being hit by a meteorite.”
The Fox News host turned back to the audience and said
, “There you have it folks; death by meteorite remains a product of science fiction, at least for today.”
An animated red banner floated across the television screen and a dramatic sound effect blasted through Karen’s cheap television speakers. The words ‘Breaking News’ spanned the screen in bold letters.
The banner cut to an African-American woman wearing a bright red dress which clung to her attractive body.
“Good afternoon, I’m Janine Jarrett with an urgent news bulletin from our Portland Fox affiliate, Fox 5 news. An Oregon man from the town of Dundee was found dead in what some are calling a freak accident. He was found in the bottom of a crater along with a meteorite, though the authorities say he was not struck by the interstellar object; this, according to the coroner’s report, occurring mere hours before the incident at the San Francisco BART station, the details of which are still trickling in. Diane, back to you.”
The screen cut back to Diane, the Fox News anchor, who was rustling around some paperwork and speaking to a producer in the background.
“Can we get Dr. Webber back, please?” she asked the producer.
The television went split-screen and the NASA scientist sat back down in his chair while a technician fastened a wireless lapel microphone to his inexpensive suit. When he fixed his collar Karen noticed he had multiple patches on the elbows. Karen wondered how much money NASA scientists made. He looked more like a college professor in her book.
Gizmo sauntered over to her and bashed her leg, almost making her drop her beer with the force. She swore his head was made of rock. He nibbled on her socks and dug his claws in affectionately making Karen wince. She kicked him off and focused on the television once more.
“Dr. Webber,” Diane began, “Given the breaking story out of our Portland affiliate, would you like to amend your previous statements?”
Detective Hall pressed the power button on the remote control, killing the feed. She had heard enough. An acidic thought trickled up her spine, leaving a chill. She placed the remote on her kitchen counter, her hand quivering with fear. Karen knew patterns. It was her job. She didn’t believe in coincidences, but that meant whatever happened near Portland was related to her case. Was that possible? Karen’s stomach rumbled. Her hand found her belly and cradled it gently. The lasagna was her second meal in as many hours. She usually only ate that much on leg day.
The connections still bothered her, but what could she do about it? She had her orders. Stay put. Even if they did come from Markov. Karen peeled back the skin of an orange while she weighed her options. If she was going to get any closer to finding the homicidal patient, she was going to have to see the dead body in the lab. Whatever strangeness she found there would surely be linked to the patient, and perhaps to what was happening to her.
Detective Hall found her black leather jacket draped over the sofa and grabbed her badge from in between the seat cushions. She brushed the cat fur off her jacket and slipped it on. She decided to take her personal handgun. She wouldn’t be ‘on duty’ strictly speaking. Markov couldn’t control what she did in her off time. Last she checked this was a free country.
With that thought, Detective Hall rushed out the door and descended the elevator to street level. Inside her beat up old car, Karen revved the engine and pressed play on her CD player. Some hard classic rock blasted through her speakers and out her cracked windows, bass spilling out into the street. A couple walking their Yorkie sped up, hazarding a cautious glance in her direction as Detective Hall sped off toward St. Mary’s Hospital.
9
1315 Hours – Day 2 – St. Mary’s Hospital
The Bay’s morning fog had dissipated by the time Detective Karen Hall reached St. Mary’s Hospital. The midday sun reflected off the mostly glass exterior of the hospital. It was San Francisco’s premier medical center, housing some of the most advanced technology and best doctors in the country. She stopped her car on the top level of the adjacent parking garage, having to settle for a tight spot between a jacked-up black Silverado and a soccer-mom’s mini-van. The silver van had small flames emblazoned on the side. Ten to one that soccer mom van belonged to a man. She was just happy she said no to dessert so she could finagle her skinny body out of the car door.
Karen wondered why so many people were at the hospital despite the news of the murders. Her radio station was blowing up that morning and even the national news mentioned it briefly before going into a story about a bear roaming a suburb of Cleveland. Normally hospitals would divert patients to one of the other hospitals across town in such a situation. Maybe Americans were getting jaded from all of the shootings and violence in the area. Hell, if Karen had a choice between going to Oakland and going to St. Mary’s, even post-killings, she would have to choose the latter. Then again, she was always armed regardless of what the hospital signs directed.
Karen rode the elevator down to the third floor, where a raised walkway connected the parking garage to the main building. She walked through the large sliding glass doors into a reception area. An elderly volunteer greeted her from an information desk, slowly rising out of her seat.
“Can I direct you, young lady?” the shriveled woman asked.
Karen smiled brightly and said, “No, thank you, I know where I’m going.”
The elderly woman appeared disappointed and sat back down, using the counter as leverage.
Karen didn’t have a clue where she was going, but she wasn’t trying to run into any of her coworkers. For all she knew Markov was there investigating the same thing. No, it was best to keep a low profile; even if she got lost a few times with the confusing maps on the wall which seemed devoid of any sense of scale.
After ten minutes of searching and after climbing three sets of stairs, she finally arrived at the lab. The blinds were drawn and yellow caution tape clung liberally to the entrance. As she approached, a pair of voices seeped out from the lab. Karen clung to the wall and pricked her ears, listening carefully.
“What do you think this means?” the first man asked in a deep, husky voice.
An unemotional voice replied, “It means we’re running out of time. If word of this gets out, both of our asses will be on the line. Bag that and let’s get out of here.”
She heard the seal of a plastic bag clasp shut and footsteps approaching the door.
An annoyed voice startled Karen, making her jump.
“Can I help you find something, miss?”
An aging nurse with dyed blonde hair folded her arms and glared at her with pursed lips. Her red nametag stood out from her teal scrubs. It read Rosie. Karen could tell she wasn’t the type to go for any sob story. This was a working woman, who didn’t give a damn about your excuses, because the job had to be done her way or no way. She might have made a good cop in another life.
“I’m Detective Karen Hall with SFPD,” Karen said while she pulled her badge out of the pocket of her leather jacket.
After the nurse was satisfied, she asked, “How many of you are they going to send? It’s hard enough keeping people calm with officers roaming every hallway. How are we supposed to provide a safe environment with all of these guns around?”
The ignorance of her last statement lingered in the air. Karen took a deep breath and tried to move past it. She reminded herself of where she was. Detective Hall might have been more at home in a place like Texas, but the Bay Area was where she grew up. It was what she knew. Navigating the sea of ignorance was just one more battle in the struggles of her daily life. Drinking helped.
“That’s exactly why I came alone and in plain clothes,” Karen assured her with a feminine voice, “I understand how hard it must be to reconcile what happened here.”
Detective Hall placed a hand on the nurse’s elbow in consolation. Markov had been teaching her the ins and outs of acting feminine. He had three sisters and each one prissier than the last. Karen was going to say whatever she had to so she could get her way quickly. She knew how this game was played.
“My prima
ry concern is getting to the bottom of this so we can apprehend the man who did this,” Karen said putting an extra emphasis on the word ‘man.’
The cues were subtle, but they were there. This woman had recently been through a rough divorce. The tan line where her wedding ring used to be, the fingernails nervously bitten down to nubs, the recently dyed hair, and she appeared to have lost an unhealthy amount of weight in a short amount of time. Rosie was certainly going through something and man-trouble topped the list.
Rosie uncrossed her arms and softened her stare.
“What exactly are you looking for up here?” Rosie asked, “It happened on the third floor.”
“I’m sorry?”
She lowered her voice and said, “The murders.”
“Actually, I’d like to see the lab first if I could.”
“The police were here earlier and determined that was an accident.”
Karen hadn’t heard anything about a coroner’s report yet. That meant whatever hack was doing the investigating was making determinations without all of the evidence.
“It couldn’t hurt to have a second opinion,” Karen reasoned.
“Third.”
“I’m sorry?” Karen asked.
“A third opinion,” Rosie replied, “The FBI was just here earlier. You might have just missed them.”
“Oh, you know how it is,” Karen said with a sharp laugh, “No one seems to talk to one another these days.”
The FBI? Karen thought. They’re involved too?
Karen had a hunch and acted on it.
“How are agents Smith and Donovan?”
Smith and Donovan were the local FBI field agents that often worked with the police. Despite how many cases they stole from SFPD, they kept their relationship fairly cordial.
Rosie gave Karen half a smirk and shook her head.
“I spoke with Agents Shaw and Brown. They said they send their regards. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Rosie said as she walked off, then called over her shoulder sardonically, “Maybe next time call ahead.”
Symbiote Page 5
