by Angi Morgan
If she couldn’t perfect the act of death herself, she’d enlist others to help in her research. Simple enough.
She covered her lips and giggled, ready for her day of research to begin. She couldn’t say that she loved this day each week. As Dr. Roberts pointed out, the unfortunate attachment disorder kept her from loving anything. But this day gave her a bit of excitement to look forward to. Moving toward the completion of a project should give a normal person a sense of accomplishment.
And she was so close.
The alarm went off on her phone. She gathered her things from the hall table. Purse, lunch and then the clean surgical gloves and mask from their dispensers. She walked to the door and stood there waiting for it to open, then reminded herself that she had the right to open it when she wanted.
Four years away from the prison they called a hospital and she still had moments where she forgot she was free to move as she wished. It was less than a minute of her life every now and again, but she resented every wasted second it took to force herself to reach out and turn the doorknob.
Thinking about her habits, she crossed the parking lot and climbed the steps to wait under the awning. Dwelling on the idea that her quirks were odd was a waste of time. That’s what had sent her to Dr. Roberts to begin with.
A mistake. But a corrected mistake. Using Victor Watts had been an uncontrollable moment of fury. Talking to him before his test had always been nice. Pity because he seemed perfect for the ultimate experiment.
Taking a job at the Veterans Affairs Hospital eighteen months ago had been a moment of brilliance. Her father’s attorney had used very little energy to convince the owner of a pathetic little box of a house on Denley Drive to sell. She would have preferred to continue living in the five-star hotel. Her parents could afford it. Instead, her parents insisted things would be better if she didn’t.
At least the new house had a specific and organized place designed to meet her more than rational needs. And if she wasn’t allowed to drive, walking across the parking lot to the Dallas Area Rapid Transit station was at least convenient. The last time she’d met with her father’s attorney, he joked how fitting it was that the two stores nearby were a pharmacy and second-hand shop. He’d laughed at her.
The light rail arrived to take her down Lancaster Road. The job was mundane, her social life nonexistent, but it was all worth it for her research.
The Veterans Affairs Hospital gave her the subjects she needed. Broken, easily manipulated men who had the strength and the wherewithal to perform the necessary duties. Ha. Duties. They had the strength to fulfill the experiment Dr. Roberts wrote would never come to fruition.
The doctors were wrong. Everyone was wrong.
Perfection in death was possible.
So close. So so close.
Moving from this venue would be difficult. But working with this group of men and women was coming to an end.
Changing a variable in last week’s test would be interesting today. The small amount of excitement she could feel recharged her with purpose.
“Hi, Abby,” Dalia said from reception. “Looks like we have a full day of appointments. You’re going to be busy.”
“Wonderful.” She’d practiced the good-morning smile and mimicked the intonation most used when they were excited for their day. The smile that continued on Dalia’s face indicated that Abby had managed to keep her voice free of sarcasm.
She picked up the charts as she did every morning and took them to their small, efficient office. There were tapes ready to be transcribed and yes, a full day of veterans checking in for their sleep studies. The private at eight o’clock would be perfect. According to the notes in Simon Evans’s chart, he didn’t have a history of violence, but she could change that.
She could definitely change that.
Simon arrived right on time. Abby prepped him for his EEG and then the technician applied the nodes to begin the procedure. No one could connect her to the actual study, which was in a sleep lab, on a different floor, on different days. No one at the shorthanded Veterans Hospital ever questioned her competent help.
The electroencephalogram monitored brain waves while a patient slept. It set up a baseline and then monitored the volunteers throughout the sleep studies. Perfect for her needs since each participant needed a session per month.
Two of her experiments had succeeded recently.
It wouldn’t be long. Not long at all.
Simon was snoring. She checked the monitor. He seemed to be in full REM. She locked the outside door so they wouldn’t be disturbed, cautiously placed earphones over Simon’s head and turned on her carefully recorded message.
For the next hour, her softly spoken words about injustice, violence and murder repeated. Keywords that helped the subject draw the logical conclusion that death was the only possible solution for their problems.
The tape ended. Three hours of sleep was all the patient was allowed. The timer dinged, she awoke Simon and alerted the technician it was time to finish. Once he cleaned up, she brought the questionnaire to be completed along with the second page for her own study.
Simon passed the next appointment on the way out—Private Second Class Rashad Parker with debilitating night terrors. He’d already tried to choke his girlfriend in his sleep. Abby went through all the steps, waited until he entered rapid eye movement and introduced her tape.
Curiosity was the closest she got to elation. She thought Rashad would have succumbed to her mind-manipulation last week. With her new keywords, culmination was probable within the next couple of days.
Wouldn’t Dr. Roberts be surprised if she was still around?
She covered her lips and giggled.
Chapter Three
Wiping down yet another table, Vivian Watts stepped back to let a man slide into the booth. “I’ll be right back with a menu.”
The lunch rush was over and in another hour she’d be off until she came back for the double tomorrow. And then she’d be done and never wanted to see another chicken wing as long as she lived. When she told the manager she’d need off next week for the trial, he agreed and promptly fired her.
Nothing personal, he’d said. Of course it was, she’d replied. And that was the end of the conversation. One more day to feel greasy. At least she’d be clean while standing on the precipice of bankruptcy.
Was it really bankruptcy if you didn’t own anything to be lost? Probably not. So technically, she’d be homeless without two shiny dimes to her name. Technically.
If all else failed, she could reenlist in the army. Who knows, this time she might be a commissioned officer since she’d earned her degree. She really didn’t want to go back into uniform. Of course, it would be better than wearing this little chicken wing thing.
She dropped the dirty stuff behind the bar, stuffed her last tip into her apron, grabbed a water and snatched a menu on her way back to the new table. It would be another single instead of the four-top that just filled up.
“Here you go. Can I get you something else to drink?” The nice hands taking the menu drew her to take a closer look at her latest customer.
Beautiful blue eyes shone bright in a tanned face. Very clean-shaven cheeks and chin, which was unusual with the beard fad for the twentysomething crowd. Crisp, overly starched shirt. There was a cowboy hat resting on the table to go along with the open badge of a...Texas Ranger.
Open in the way they identified themselves. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“I get it, Miss Watts, and I’m sorry to bug you at work. I’m not here in an official capacity.”
“The badge looks pretty official to me.”
“Yeah, I get that. I wanted you to know who I am and that I’m legit.” He pushed the badge back into his pocket. “I know now’s not a good time, but I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions at your earliest convenience.”
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“That also sounds very official.” She glanced around at the emptying tables. “If you aren’t going to order anything, I’d appreciate you leaving. The manager is particular about wait staff fraternizing with the customers. He particularly hates it.”
“Oh, I’m ordering. I’m starved. I’d like a basket of ranch habanero wings, side salad, fries and sweet tea.”
“This is a real order. You’re not expecting it on the house or anything? If you want the cop discount, I have to get the manager or it comes out of my check.”
“Real order. Real tip. Especially if the tea glass never runs dry.” He handed her the menu. “I’m Slate, by the way.”
“I’ll be right back with your tea.”
A week before Victor’s trial and a Texas Ranger shows up saying it’s unofficial business? Hope. A slim chance of it bubbled into her heart. Just as quickly, her rational mind took out a needle and popped it.
It had been over a year with no hope. A year of visiting her brother and faking a positive attitude so he didn’t lose all hope. She wouldn’t allow this one man who was here in an unofficial capacity to rattle her heart.
All the emotional strength she had left was reserved for her brother. Period.
Tea and salad to the table. Menus to another. Sneak a look at the ranger who’s watching something on his phone. Clear and wipe down a booth. Salt shakers filled for the next shift. Order up. Wings for the ranger.
“Need anything else?” she asked, sliding the basket in front of him.
He performed an ordinary shake of his head just like many customers had before him.
“Why should I talk to you without Victor’s lawyer present? Not like he’d know what to do if I wrote it all out for him. Why should I listen to you?”
“I just have a question.”
“For me?” She stuck her thumb in her chest, realizing too late that it drew his eyes to the bulging cleavage her waitress outfit emphasized. “Not Victor?”
The ranger dropped his hands in his lap and looked at her. Really looked at her, like very few people had in the past year.
“I can’t make any promises, Vivian. I just picked up your brother’s file this morning, but I have a question that I hope you can answer. Maybe it’ll lead to another question. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”
Honesty. Clarity.
And a trickle of hope.
“I...uh...I get off at two.” She was about to cry because of that one snippet of misplaced emotion.
“Can I meet you—”
“I no longer own a car, officer.”
“Slate’s fine. There’s a coffee shop three doors down. That okay?”
“Sure. I’ll get your check.”
She turned quickly and used the corner of the bar towel to wipe the moisture from her face. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Who was she trying to fool? Looking at her—really looking and connecting with her eyes—that’s why she was crying.
He’d seen it.
She punched in his ticket number and waited for the printout. No one else noticed her shaking hands or her racing heart. No one noticed anything except her hurrying through the rest of her shift.
Slate finished his wings with half a pitcher of tea still on his table. She’d dropped it off so he wouldn’t run out. He paid and was gone forty-five minutes before she finished up.
She grabbed her jacket and wished she’d brought a change of clothes. Having a serious, even unofficial conversation in the short, revealing T-shirt would be hard. She could keep her jacket on.
Sure. Coffee. That’s all this was. One Frappuccino and one question.
With the stupid hope that it would be another...and then another...
And then the reopening of her brother’s investigation and surely proving that he was innocent. No trial. They could go home.
Oh, my gosh. That was why she hadn’t let herself hope during the past year. One small peek at the possibility and she was back to leading a normal life in Florida. She couldn’t do this to herself and certainly couldn’t do it to her brother.
She hated...hope.
Chapter Four
Meeting Vivian Watts at work seemed like a smart thing to do, until Slate remembered the waitress uniforms at the restaurant. But that was after he’d walked through the door and asked for her section. Immediately noticing how smoking hot she was stopped coherent thought.
And then she’d cried.
Mercy. He was just like any man wanting to do the right thing. He wanted her to stop crying.
He knew he could help make that happen. All he had to do was find a murderer.
Choosing a table in the far back corner of the coffee shop, he opened a file no one in the room should see. The chicken wings sat like a lump in his gut. Maybe the acid from the strong brew would help with the digestion. Good thing he didn’t have a weak stomach or he’d be losing it all by studying the murder scene pictures.
He wanted to help Vivian and Victor Watts. But it did all boil down to one question that no one had ever asked her brother.
“Officer.”
He flipped the file shut and stood, pushing back his chair. “You want something?”
“No. I’m fine.” Vivian sat and pulled her coat tighter.
It was sweltering hot inside the shop despite the November chill that hung outside. Well, she was wearing hot pants and half a T-shirt.
“It’s Slate. Lieutenant if this was official, but again, I can’t make any promises.”
“I stopped believing in promises about the time my brother was arrested for murder. Every promise that was made to us by the Dallas police was broken. And then there’s been the three court-appointed attorneys who promised they’d find the real murderer.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this experience. It doesn’t feel fair, but the evidence does point to your brother.”
“Spare me, Lieutenant. Until you’ve lost everything you’ve had and are about to see your only family convicted of murder in a state that has the death penalty... Please, just ask your question so I can go home.”
“Sure.” He opened the file to a copy of the murder victim’s journal entry. “Can you tell me if your brother ever participated in a study performed by Dr. Roberts?”
“The answer is already in your file. He was seeing her for a sleep disorder. Night terrors. Yes, he knew the victim. Yes, he had an appointment with her the day she was murdered. No, he’d never mentioned that he had a problem to me. No, he never mentioned wanting to kill anyone. No, he hasn’t been the same since he was discharged from the army.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for taking a look at Victor’s case. But I really have to get home—”
“Subject Nineteen. Was that your brother’s number?”
“What are you talking about?” She sank back onto the metal chair.
“No one’s ever mentioned how your brother was linked to the murder before?”
“All I know is that my brother was participating in a VA-approved sleep study sponsored by Dr. Kym Roberts. She was one of the doctors conducting the study where she was murdered.”
“That’s all in the file.”
“So what does this subject number mean?” It was actually the answer he wanted to hear.
Watts was a part of the study. The police had verified that much. But there was nothing in the file verifying he was Subject Nineteen. What if it was a different person? They’d have another suspect. But he couldn’t share something like that. It would wreck the prosecution’s case. Slate wouldn’t get “box” duty like Wade. He’d be looking not only for a different job, but a different profession.
No one would hire him if he shared that type of information.
“I can’t show you the evidence.”
“You mean whatever made you question Victor’s innocence?”
“Yes. So you’ve never heard of his status in the study as a subject number?”
“As far as I can tell, it wasn’t a blind study if that’s what you’re referring to. I have a copy of it at home. It doesn’t include the names of the participants but it has information specifically for Victor. Do you need it? Could I bring it to your office tomorrow?” Vivian scrunched her nose, sort of grimacing.
“You said you don’t have a car. Perhaps I could give you a lift home.”
“There’s an office supply store around the corner from my apartment if you need copies.”
“That’ll work.”
“Lieutenant, I know you said you weren’t reopening Victor’s case. It does sort of sound like you’ve found something new.” She bit her lip, pulling her jacket even tighter around her.
“Why don’t you show me the copy of the report you have? That’s the first step.”
The sky broke open in a severe thunderstorm that had been threatening all day. Slate stuck his hat on tight, tucked the file into his shirt and gestured for Vivian to stay at the door. “No sense in the both of us getting soaked. I’ll be right back.”
Slate ran the two blocks to his truck, dumped his hat in the back seat, locked the file in the middle compartment and drove back to the coffee shop. A little over ten minutes. But when he pulled up outside, Vivian wasn’t standing near the door. He waited a couple more minutes. Then he pushed on the flashers and ran inside to see.
“Hey.” He got the attention of the barista. “Where’s the woman I was with a few minutes ago?”
“You left. She left. I don’t know where.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all.”
Cranking the heat once inside the truck, he dialed Wade.
“So?” his friend asked first thing.
“I met with her. How ’bout you look at the list of things in the evidence file?” Slate paused, slapping the file against his thigh waiting while Wade pulled up the rest of the information.
Information he’d deliberately left out to entice Slate to look further into the case.
