Rosie turned the corner with one final glare which was filled with judgment. Karen couldn’t help but laugh a little inside. Sometimes you just can’t make everyone happy.
Karen cracked the door to the lab. The lights were off and the agents had left. Karen slid under the yellow caution tape and flipped on the fluorescent lights. They gave a flicker of brightness and then slowly increased their glow. She waited far too long for the lights to kick in fully. The last thing she wanted to do was step on evidence. Karen hated those damn lights.
The lab had two rows of chemical-proof tables with black tops and stations for at least four technicians. The coroner had already taken the body to the morgue, so all that remained were a few numbered plastic signs next to some broken slides and a toppled microscope.
Karen found a box of purple latex gloves on the edge of the desk and slipped one on over her hand. On top of Dr. Hannover’s lab station was a picture of him at a comic book convention dressed as Wolverine from X-Men. His belly squeezed out of his costume. Hanging off the edge of his neighbor’s desk was a black spiral notebook with a Swiss Cake Roll on top.
She flipped through the pages of the notebook. In the inside cover was written: Dr. Hannover’s Log. There were several weeks of notes written with immaculate penmanship. Karen wondered how he became a doctor of anything with that kind of handwriting. She turned the pages to the final entry and read.
0105 –
Doctor Kim has completed the brain biopsy on the patient. After initial analysis I am convinced the material pulled from the Basal Ganglia is abnormal. The sample has exhibited properties of microbial life. The exact properties of the sample are still unknown pending computer analysis, but I am willing to wager it is some kind of parasite, though not one I am familiar with after examination. The computer analysis will complete its cycle at 0200. For now, I’m calling the patient “Patient Zero.”
Karen didn’t remember Markov saying anything about a parasite. How could they have missed this log? Maybe they thought it belonged to the guy sitting next to him? Either way, she needed to get her hands on that computer analysis. She scanned the room and saw numerous pieces of equipment that fit the bill. Karen didn’t speak geek. Her favorite subject in high school was P.E.
She backed away from the desk and assessed the scene again. Small plastic signs labeled one, two, and three lay haphazardly on the ground, but only two items were present. Where was the third? It suddenly clicked. The feds had bagged it. She knelt down on one knee put her head close to the plastic number three, scanning the floor for any sign of what was there before. The florescent lights glinted on an emerald droplet the size of a pinhead, which clung to the ground next to the desk.
Karen gently touched the bead of fluid and it rippled, rolling in a perfect sphere on her glove. She examined it closely under the movable light attached to the desk. It was familiar somehow. She felt like it was watching her. Karen’s eyelids grew heavy and she felt dizzy. Her pulse quickened and a thousand vivid images entered her mind with no apparent order; no rhythm. No sense.
She gripped the desk and clenched her teeth together. Her head thumped along with her quickening pulse, growing to a frightening cadence. Detective Hall had experienced migraines before. As a police detective, she had her fair share of days that never seemed to end and cases that haunted her at night. This was something else entirely. It was a white-hot pain that emanated from the center of her skull, blurring her vision and causing her ears to ring. It was an itch she would never be able to reach, though she would give anything to make it stop.
On her finger, the small bead of emerald pulsed with her brain until little by little it seemed to evaporate into the air. She heard a chorus of voices enter her head, their rhythmic sounds indistinguishable from one another. It was the sound of a crowd that slowly began chanting the same thing, in time with one another.
Let me in, it said eerily.
Karen tried to scream but there was no way to tell if the sound came out. The chanting began to dwindle as she slowed her breathing and focused her thoughts elsewhere. The pounding slowly subsided and ringing in her ears quieted down to the kind of dull sound one hears after a rock concert. When Karen opened her eyes she was sprawled out beneath the desk. In her furor she had kicked the broken slide and plastic numbers in all directions. Two nurses stood over her shaking body in awe. Before blacking out she wondered why they didn’t try to help her.
10
1545 Hours – Day 2 - St. Mary’s Hospital
Detective Markov stood outside a recovery room waiting for a report from the nurse. That lady had been gone for twenty minutes already and he was growing impatient. He didn’t like to wait. He was already headed back to St. Mary’s to meet with the coroner when the Captain called him about Karen. Markov didn’t know how she did it. Wherever she went, trouble was sure to follow. If Markov spent any more time at the hospital he was going to have to request his own parking spot; maybe his own coffee mug in the ER. He thought of poor Officer Ramirez.
It was a shame what happened to him. The surgery was successful in stopping the bleeding and they managed to transfuse some blood, but a sudden infection killed him by morning. The doctors said they started giving him antibiotics immediately before surgery. It was too little, too late. Whatever killed Ramirez worked fast. A sick part of him kind of admired it. Markov liked efficiency.
Detective Markov had been a cop for fifteen years and with Homicide Division for the past seven. He was the three-time winner of the San Francisco Beach Body Contest and had the trophies to prove it. A lot of the guys around the department called him a meathead, but Markov liked to think of himself as a bit more intelligent than that. He was a damned good detective and that had to take some brains, didn’t it?
Markov’s second wife could testify to that fact. She was a professor at San Francisco State University and married him for his mind. Her words, not his. Ironically, when he had his hernia and stopped lifting, she filed for divorce. Markov vowed his third wife would be as hot as his first wife and as intelligent as his second, with none of the bitchiness of either. Since he’d packed on a few pounds that was easier said than done.
A nurse turned the corner and marched up to him, snapping him out of his train of thought. He uncrossed his arms expectantly. She was some kind of manager, running around with her head cut off since the night before. She must have worked insane hours. The nurse bore the look of a woman who needed to rest but couldn’t afford to go home. Phone calls would surely follow her wherever she went, so what was the point in leaving?
“What’s the word?”
“It’s hard to say,” Rosie hedged. “She could have just fainted.”
“The other nurses said they heard screams.”
Rosie’s jaw tightened.
“Yes, well, from our standpoint, there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with her.”
“Useless,” Markov grumbled.
“I assure you, we’re doing everything we can for her,” Rosie said with a sigh. “But until she wakes up we won’t know if she saw a mouse or had a seizure. Her vitals are normal and she’s resting, so please be patient.”
Markov huffed and turned to look through the recovery room window. Detective Hall lay motionless with a furrowed brow, sweat beading up on her forehead. She seemed to be concentrating on something as though in a frustrating dream. From Markov’s experience, that could fall anywhere on the spectrum of a bad date to a murderer getting away. Karen’s arrest record was damned good; regardless, she was frustrated a lot.
Rosie apologized and turned to walk away, stopping with her back turned.
“I spoke to her shortly before she fell,” she said, hesitating before turning to face him once more. “She was investigating Dr. Hannover’s death.”
Rosie walked toward Markov until she was within a couple paces and held out a crunched black spiral notebook.
“She was clutching this when we found her.”
Rosie turned and walked away,
disappearing past the nurse’s station. Markov stood there staring at the notebook in his hand. For a second he debated whether to arrest Rosie for withholding evidence or scour the notebook for clues. He chose the latter. He didn’t like paperwork.
Markov scanned the document until he came to the final passage. As he read it he moved his lips, silently piecing together what Detective Hall was looking for. At the end he stopped and gazed through the recovery room window. What the hell had Karen stumbled upon? Was this homicidal maniac contagious? If so, why wasn’t anyone else exhibiting symptoms? What were the symptoms?
He retrieved a notepad from the pocket in the lining of his brown blazer, flipping through pages until he reached his notes from his interview with Officer Johnson.
-Suspect ravaged grocery store, eating everything in sight.
-Appeared emaciated, acted animalistic
-Possibly sick or mentally deranged; check eyes for abnormal green coloring
-Bit Officer Ramirez’s neck, severely wounding him
-Withstood 3 Tasers for short period; check for drugs
-Medium build, approximately 5’ 10”
Great, he thought, he was looking for a guy infected with Rabies and on PCP. He could probably throw a rock in some parts of San Francisco and have it bounce off a number of people fitting that description. He wasn’t a scientist and that description did little to help him by way of leads.
The doctors didn’t tell him anything useful about the patient that escaped. They only showed Markov the grainy surveillance footage and said the guy was in need of a psych evaluation. He needed answers and he wasn’t going to get them from the hospital staff. Normally, Markov was all for keeping the government out of people’s business, but when he was investigating a string of murders he kind of wanted to dispense with confidentiality rights and catch him a killer. It was beyond logic for him. It was primal.
The question was what was he going to do about it? Markov played by the rules when it suited him. Generally, he stopped playing nice when one of his own was in trouble. He had one dead cop and one unconscious; it was time to get serious. He needed to tread carefully to make sure the feds stayed out of his business. The Chief was clear with his orders, but Captain Riggs had given him an ulterior set of instructions. He was to investigate the murders under the radar, never drawing attention to himself.
Between the grainy grocery store footage and the hospital cameras which miraculously showed only the back of the guy’s head, Markov was going to need more to go on. His phone rang. Markov checked his smartphone, which displayed ‘Captain Riggs.’ Not now, he thought.
“Give me something I can work with, Markov.”
“Captain,” Markov began, “Detective Hall is still out—”
“Damn it Markov, Hall’s in good hands. What I need is a murderer behind bars.”
“I’m working a few angles, sir, and every beat cop on the street is out looking for this guy.”
“What do you need from me to make this happen?”
Markov spoke on reflex. He knew the drill as well as the Captain.
“Let’s get Officer Johnson with a sketch artist and blast the drawing out on the local news along with any usable security footage. Detective Goldberg can set up a call center with a tip-line.”
“Done,” he said with a tone of finality. “See what you can dig up at the hospital. Talk to the coroner. We need COD’s for every last body. Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir,” Markov replied, “I’ll report back every hour.”
Captain Riggs hung up the phone. That was one thing Markov liked about the Captain. He didn’t bother with hellos and goodbyes. Everything was to the point. Regardless, after every conversation with the man he wanted to light up a cigarette. He felt over his blazer for the patch on his arm and counted to ten. He breathed out a breath of air and walked down toward the elevator, not satisfied in the least.
When Detective Markov entered the lift he pressed ‘G’ for the ground floor. As the elevator descended he remembered his interview with Officer Johnson. The guy was scared. He had been working the beat for about four years and had seen his share of drugs, violence, and general nastiness that comes along with the job. For some reason, this Neil Meriwether was his limit; his breaking point. Any cop would be rattled after seeing his partner attacked and killed, but something about this guy in particular got inside Johnson’s head. There was something he wasn’t telling Markov. Unfortunately it would have to wait. He had dead bodies to examine and a coroner to interview. It was just another day in the life.
11
1600 Hours – Day 2 – St. Mary’s Hospital Morgue
The double glass doors to the morgue opened smoothly to a sanitary room with clean white floors and a metal reception desk. The room was chilly. It had to have been kept in the low to mid 60s. Detective Markov approached the desk and rang the silver bell; a hollow chime reverberated off the walls. Around the corner, Detective Markov could see rows of stainless steel drawers with the cold dead remains of the victims. He pressed a thick finger on the bell to arrest the sound.
An aging man shuffled out from the examination room with gloved hands held out in front of him like a surgeon prepping for surgery. He used the back of his hand to maneuver his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose. When he did so a glob of green Vapor Rub transferred from his upper lip to his glove. As he tilted his head back to get a look at Markov, the man stumbled and caught himself.
“Damn glasses,” he said in a vaguely European accent. “Doctor gave me these bifocals and I keep tripping when I switch between lenses.”
Markov didn’t have a response to that, so instead he flashed his badge and declared, “I’m Detective Markov from SFPD. Have you examined the victims?”
“Yes, yes, come this way,” the elderly man replied while waving his hands toward the examination room. “I’m Doctor Ellis by the way.”
The medical examiner scurried his short legs toward the examination room, calling behind him, “Please mind the smell; I’m in the middle of an autopsy.”
Great, Markov thought, looks like I’m skipping dinner tonight.
The pungent aroma of dead flesh filled his nostrils, forcing Markov to cover his nose in the nook of his elbow. The coroner held out a tub of Vicks VapoRub with an odd smile crossing his lips. He was enjoying this. Markov dabbed a finger and spread it under his nose. The effect was instantaneous, though not entirely satisfying. He still smelled dead flesh, but it was masked with the strong scent of menthol. Markov cursed. Now he was craving a cigarette again. Even the ashy aftertaste was better than the pungent odors finding their way into his nose and mouth.
The man on the table looked wasted away. He had skin that suggested he was once a very husky man, but that flesh appeared to roll on top of itself revealing every rib beneath. A broad V was carved into his chest with a thin blade. The doctor must have just started. Markov tilted his head and noticed that the man on the table had excreted a trail of feces on the table. He put a hand to his mouth and tried to hold back the urge to vomit.
No one ever said death was clean, he thought.
Dr. Ellis put on a plastic face shield and picked up his scalpel, continuing the Y-cut he had already started. When he was finished, the doctor placed the scalpel on the steel tray adjacent the examination table and picked up an oddly shaped instrument. He jammed the device in the center of the Pathologist’s sternum and split open his chest. Dr. Ellis had a strange look on his face as he worked. He was humming an unfamiliar tune with a smile across his face. Markov knew it took a special type of person to be a medical examiner, but this was ridiculous.
Markov took a few steps back and turned his back to the examination table. He had seen bodies before of course, but the smell of internal organs was something he’d never experienced. When he visited morgues in the past the autopsies had been completed and the bodies on ice. Most of the innards that produced the rancid smells had been removed or the body at least sewn up. Some things were me
ant to stay inside the body. When Markov turned around, he noticed droplets of blood spattered around the table and on the ground. Markov checked his suit.
Damn, he thought, those were brand new shoes.
“Ah, very interesting,” Doctor Ellis said to himself.
“What’d you find?”
The doctor waved Markov closer and pointed to what he imagined was supposed to be the stomach. What he pointed at looked more like a giant prune. It was discolored and unnatural. It didn’t take an expert to see something was wrong. Detective Markov remembered dissecting cats in his anatomy class in high school. Even the alley cat had nicer looking organs than the pathologist.
“You see here?” Doctor Ellis asked. “The stomach is shriveled, as though it’s been wrung dry.”
“What could have caused that?”
“Hard to say,” the doctor said, trailing off in his faded accent.
He removed the stomach, slicing off the connections with a scalpel and placing it in a separate steel tray. Doctor Ellis moved a light closer and made an incision along the stomach lengthwise. A yellow-brown fluid seeped out, thick like molasses. The scent wafted up to Detective Markov, who had to step away at the rank odor. The doctor examined the fluid carefully before nodding to himself and returning to the body.
Doctor Ellis used a variety of instruments to take measurements of each organ. As he did, he spoke into the voice recorder on the steel tray, tracking each move he made. Occasionally he removed an organ from the body and weighed it, though he left the heart intact. Markov stood nearby awkwardly. He had no idea how long an autopsy took, but he grew more uncomfortable by the minute. Finally, after more than an hour, Doctor Ellis flipped up the shield of his mask and huffed.
“Before you arrived I did a cursory evaluation externally,” Doctor Ellis began. “Obviously he’s lost an inordinate amount of weight in a short period of time. What’s strange is he continues to lose weight, even now.”
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