Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  The improvised partition suddenly flew open, and Mark saw he had his first visitors. Ben, Alex, and Natalie brought a ‘Get Well Soon’ card from the Station. Out of the three, only Alex looked more or less presentable: in wrinkled, but reasonably clean uniform pants and shirt, and with sandals on. Ben and Natalie were both in stained scene coveralls. Ben had rubber boots instead of his usual office shoes, while Natalie had no shoes at all.

  “Here is our hero!” Ben exclaimed.

  “Hero? Getting oneself shot – is not much to be proud of, man! Glad to see you, guys,” Mark smiled to the colleagues. “Why are you in coveralls? Working a crime scene, or something?”

  “No, not this,” Ben smiled too. “My place is gone completely, so Alan was kind enough to let me borrow some of his scene gear while I send the uniform to a laundry. Natalie has the same problem: no place to call home. Now we have a little club of homeless policemen, all camping at the Station, for the time being. The Station was also flooded, but not too much, and we have cleaned most of the crap already.”

  “Oh! How is your family, Ben?”

  “Besides the destroyed house, everything is fine. Sylvia and the kids are on the way to her parents, in Brenham. After the floods, I told them right away: just leave everything and get the heck out of here! Before the city is quarantined, or something. We lost all our bikes, but one. Well, the family had to take a little hike: ninety miles. By now, thanks God, they are about half-way there. Sylvia just phoned, and sounded optimistic. They will get there eventually, no problems. And about the quarantine – I was damn right! Do you know we have cholera in Houston?”

  “Yes, about the cholera – Clarice told me already,” Mark nodded. “Need to be damn careful of what we eat and drink.”

  “Talking of which, this is for you – from the Station staff.” Natalie passed a plastic bag to Clarice. Inside were presents: two little tin cans of tuna from military rations (dated 2023 – where did they find such a treasure?) jars of honey and homemade jam, and a loaf of freshly baked bread.

  Ben reached to his pocket and added a thin bundle of crumpled banknotes. “Sorry, man, it's not much. All we managed at the Station. The city is in a cash crisis of sorts. And a crime crisis too. You won't believe how many cases we have after the floods. In our territory alone – four to five thousand dead. Of those, about five hundred – we cannot write off on the hurricane.”

  “Nothing as difficult as the Butcher case, sir,” Natalie smiled. “All routine things: stabbings, beatings, armed robberies. Trivial, but a lot of work.”

  “We are so bloody desperate to get you back,” Ben said. “We are an official disaster zone. From two days ago. But the federal help had been minimal so far. If not to say: non-existent.”

  “Non-existent?”

  “Yeah! We were explicitly told to rely on the local resources. And so I will. With a stretch of imagination, I can fit at least fifty cases under your FBI jurisdiction. Your personal jurisdiction, that is. Get ready, man!”

  “I am a vet now. Do you still need a one-armed cripple?” Mark pointed with his left hand to the gauze contraption on his right side.

  “Dude, be realistic. As the Police Station Chief, I don't give a damn how many arms you have. For Christ sake, you are an FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, not a bloody lumberjack,” Ben laughed. Not too bad, Mark thought. Apparently, the FBI was still operating, despite the hurricane, and he was still a Special Agent-in-Charge, despite the loss of his arm. Marvelous!

  “Ah, if I were you, I would stick in here for a while. Let our dear boss re-sharpen his investigation skills,” Alex joined to the joke. “And talking about your arm: my son asked to pass you this.”

  He gave Mark a business card. A piece of yellowish recycled cartoon, not printed, but hand-written in neat calligraphic letters. ‘VET-TO-VET. Prosthetics, Orthotics, Mobility Aids. Independent private clinic.’ The phone numbers followed.

  “Your William may be interested too, by the way. Although, Peter said: they have never done an artificial arm, so if you volunteer, you will be used for the human test subjects of sorts. Guinea pigs.”

  “Your Peter started a prosthesis business?”

  “Yep. Right after we clean up our first floor from the flooding mess. And you thought, the gas torch he bought the other day – is for his Dad to give gangsters free proctology exams?”

  “OK, I will pay Peter a visit. However, I don't think you can compete with the government clinics from your garage. All those fancy components: titanium, carbon fiber and all. But most importantly, they give the arms and legs to the vets for free! Difficult to beat the competition on price, if their price tag is – zero!”

  “Ha, this is the exact point! Well, it was in the rumors for a little while, but now it's official. We have a confirmed intel there will be no competition. Direct from a trusted source.”

  “What source?”

  “One of the Peter's friends, he has been laid-off yesterday. From the government clinic. The Limbs for Life in Houston will be closing down! Such a business opportunity; the boys with their equipment are at the right place, and at the right time.”

  Mark looked at the card once more. It was puzzling. First, Ben told him the federal agencies offered little to no support to the hurricane-affected counties, and now Alex was telling him the government veterans' rehabilitation program had been abandoned. And it was not the pre-election year either. Perhaps, this time over, there would be no Air Force One with the First Lady and the free school uniforms on-board.

  “Some more invites for you, Mark,” Alex continued: “Kim and Kate said hello. And invited you for the wedding.”

  “A wedding? Really? How these two are getting on?”

  “They are fine, could not be any better. Lucky bustards! Even their shack is still standing! Oddly enough, the hurricane damage in those slums was less than elsewhere. Probably, because they a little farther from the Gulf?”

  “No, I think this is because that area is a little higher,” Mark disagreed, “or just because a slum is a slum. By definition, there is not much to be destroyed. Let say, if the hurricane blows a piece of plywood from your shack, – you can pick it up and stick it back in no time. It will not be any better, but it will not be any uglier either.”

  “By the way, I just forwarded an official request to the Sheriff. Deputy Kim and Miss Bowen will be getting medals. And Deputy Tan – too. I will be also pushing Kim to do the Sergeant exam – he qualifies next year,” Ben remarked.

  “What the hell have they done this time?”

  “Well, these three – they are all from the Navy, right? Crazy sailors. During the hurricane, they appropriated someone's inflatable mattresses, got some timber and ropes. Built themselves a raft. Organized a team of locals. And went on rescuing people all night – those who were completely flooded. In their beat, there have been only twenty-seven flood casualties… Sad, but compared to some other areas… There are beats there they still cannot count all the dead – four days after the disaster.”

  “Tan, he is not a crazy sailor. He told me once he was in the Marines,” Mark smiled, “for sure, Kate convinced him to participate in such a madness. Said something like: let's go shipmate. Show us the Marines can be useful too, once in a while.”

  He remembered how he gave Kim advice to marry Kate. As I told him: this girl was a survivor type. If the things progress that well, by fifty years of age I might even begin to understand people…

  Alex smiled. “Kim says, they will hold their wedding until you are out of the hospital. You are – a mandatory guest. So – keep in mind. Oh, I nearly forgot… Your cell phone.” He reached into his pocket and handled the phone to Mark. “Fully charged. In case you want to read your e-mails, or something. Your ‘Glock’ and your laptop are both OK. Alan Moss keeps them for you in the lab. The papers and the map in your box – I am afraid, they got a bit wet. During the evacuation. But the deputies saved your laptop totally intact. No damage.”

  “Thanks, Alex. The pap
ers can go to the shredder. We caught the Butcher, right? How is our good doctor doing?”

  “Same-O. Complains, complains. Chronic caffeine deprivation. Apart of that, fine. Cuts the stiffs left and right. He asked to say hello and pass you a message. Something like: you are always welcome to make an unofficial visit, but his official appointments are booked for the next forty years. Not sure, what it's all about.”

  “Oh, that is the funny conversation we had on the ‘Zodiac.’ Never mind. How is Tom?”

  “Got himself whacked by the flying debris,” Natalie replied instead of Alex. “A huge slash in the calf and two broken ribs. Already working at the Station, but all covered in plasters and bandages. Well, this actually means I am the only field-qualified CSI at the moment.”

  “You are stretched, guys. I will have to get out soon enough, then. Besides, I am dying to see the Sheldon Butcher being tried and executed,” Mark nodded.

  “No trial and no execution, Mark. Sorry. You have no luck here. Unfortunately, our friend died. On the way to the jail,” Alex said with mockery tragic in his voice. “Must be from his burns. With the acid burns, it so happens: one minute you are kinda OK, then: bang! And you are very, very dead indeed. It was sad to see how the poor thing was suffering before the end,” He smiled and winked. Mark instantly understood what Sarge meant.

  “Good riddance,” Ben smiled, “I am already pulling twenty hours a day. No time to sit and do all the paperwork for this scumbag. Man, I always hated to fill the paperwork.”

  “And who ever liked it?” Mark nodded, “by the way, have you got a positive ID on the Butcher? His surname is not Spalding, right?”

  “Right,” Ben confirmed, “I didn't want to give you any more grief with this serial killer business, but since you are asking for it yourself…” Out of the breast pocket of his coverall, Ben extracted his mobile phone, and moved his finger across the screen. “Read this.”

  Mark clumsily sat the phone on the bed sheet. Need to learn how to operate this thingy with one hand, he noted. On the little screen, there was a standard military personnel file. Judging by the photo, this was the night watchman from the gasoline plant. Farmer, Richard S. Born in San Francisco, California, 1994. Volunteered for the Army, 2015. A paratrooper training. Deployment to Mexico. No decorations, but no injuries either. Became a Corporal in 2016. Extended the contract and was promoted to Sergeant in 2018. An accelerated chemical warfare training course. And after that, the paths of Richard Farmer and Eric Spalding had intersected: in 2019, the Sergeant was assigned to the same Royal Navy airbase in Yeovilton, the UK. In 2020, Farmer received a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart. And then, in 2021, together with Captain Spalding, he found himself in the US military correctional facility at the Royal Air Force base Lakenheath. But unlike Eric Spalding, he was not discharged from the Army. The file ended quite unexpectedly: “Died in a prison fire, January 11th, 2027.”

  “So, guys, you are telling me I was shot by a dead man? For a zombie of 2027 vintage, he was surely well-preserved,” Mark grinned.

  “What you see is what you get, Mark,” Natalie said, “of course, we did not compare the face and the fingerprints. Both were pretty much eaten by the acid. But: no problems, we had a perfect DNA match. The error probability is less than one to ten million. Even more, it turns out this guy had some criminal background. He volunteered for the Army to escape an investigation.”

  “They were trying to get him in for an assault and a rape,” Ben continued, “a perverted rape, at that! However, the only witness refused to testify in court, so technically he got away clean. And to how he survived the fire and how he became Eric Spalding? Most likely, this bastard somehow managed to fool the airbase prison guards. Hard to tell. Apparently, there was a big fire, and many convicts and guards perished, all together…”

  “The Pentagon should have all the details.”

  “You betcha they do! I sent my request to the Pentagon twice. Pulling info out of them was not easy, I can tell you that much! The first request just came back instantly: we don't have anything about it. No problems: I asked the FBI liaison officer in Wash to help out. Finally, the Pentagon replied, but with something totally unintelligible. Yes, yes, there was a flight accident, helicopter emergency landing, killing all on board, except for Captain Spalding and Sergeant Farmer. No explanation why they went to the military prison and why seven years later Richard Farmer became Eric Spalding and vise versa. Pass me the phone, dude, I'll show you the bloody letter.”

  Ben again moved his finger around the small screen and handed the phone back to Mark. Mark looked in and whistled. The Pentagon document was dated 2021, but besides the names: Eric Spalding and Richard Farmer, it was incomprehensible. Ninety percent of the text had been carefully censored with a black marker. What was left vaguely described some kind of special operations, in the most difficult environment, in an unmentioned location and almost unclear when.

  “As expected, Ben,” Mark said. “My guts are telling me, the Pentagon will keep sending us the same mambo-jumbo. For reasons of the national security, we aren't supposed to know. This Spalding, sorry: Farmer, he told me a little about what they did in Libya. He was in some funny Special Forces unit. The Firebirds.”

  “The Firebirds? This is the first time I hear about something like this.”

  “I too didn't hear a bit, Ben. Not until I met the Butcher. You remember the incident which started the Libyan war, do you? The operation Gas Shield?”

  “I vaguely remember, there was something on the CNN. The terrorist attack on our base. Chem' or bio' weapons were involved. Ricin, something like this. Four hundred dead. Then, later on, they found a mobile chemical weapon factory in Libya, with the traces of Ricin, right?”

  “Exactly! So it all clicks in. Captain Eric Spalding was the group commander. And at the same time – a CSI expert. A specialist in planting the fake evidence, to be precise. Sergeant Rick Farmer – a specialist in the chem' and bio' warfare. They had other experts in the group. But – we will never know. What do you reckon – is it worth digging more into this crap?”

  “Probably not, Mark. Probably not… Imagine, I suddenly received a call – all the way up from the FBI in Washington, D.C. OK, first they asked: how is our Special Agent-in-Charge doing? I said: still listed critical, but seemingly getting better. At that time, you were still in critical condition, man, but already after the operation… Then, they asked: how sure are you this Richard Farmer is your Sheldon Butcher? I said: he is not ‘mine,’ sir. But the Sheldon Butcher – definitely, one hundred percent. The CSIs have positively identified his knife. We have his tennis sneakers. The bustard glued some old tire on the soles, so the footprints looked like from a pair of the locally made flip-flops. Besides, these shoes were once white, but he painted them black. And so goes all the other evidence: the black backpack, the black balaclava, the polka-dot working gloves…”

  “We have also got a positive ID on the gloves,” Natalie interjected. “At one place, two rubber dots are missing. Coincided with the imprint from the case number twelve.”

  “Don't interrupt, Natalie, this is not too important anymore. So, back to that phone call. As I said, all indications line up. And the guys in the Wash FBI tell me: thank you for all the help with the investigation, Major. The perpetrator is dead, the case is closed. For the Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass – an attaboy from the FBI's HQ. A bonus pay and possibly even a grade promotion are to follow. The CSIs will also get something nice – directly from the Harris County Sheriff's Office. Blah-blah-blah, all hunky-dory. And then, these bustards gave me a friendly advice: about the Butcher's military background – please forget it ever existed. I have responded as the FBI does in such cases: I can't recall, sir, what military background are you talking about?”

  “Righty-right!”

  “I take it, like, we will not be able to unearth anything else about these Spalding, Farmer and their former colleagues. So I advise you, guys: keep your mouths shut. The
Sheldon Butcher is surely Richard Farmer, but the latter has never served in the Army.”

  “I can't recall, Major. What Army service are you talking about?” Mark replied with a wry smile. He had no doubt the Pentagon had few more such Firebirds, all around the world. Now they sit, let say, somewhere in Brazil jungles and prepare a ‘pirate attack of the Brazilian Navy on the United States' peaceful ships.’ And all the necessary evidence will be planted – with perfection. A war for the ability to make war for the ability to make war…