SUMMATION

by Daniel Syverson

  Regardless, he was almost home now, and at a reasonable hour, and in a reasonable condition.

  It wasn't because he was drunk, far from it. It wasn't because he ran out of money, though he'd used most of the bills he'd stashed in the back of his wallet. It wasn't even because he had pissed off the bartender, one of the few who had tolerated his moods for far too long, (business was business, and he was a paying customer, though the bartender never put it quite that way). It was because he was so frustrated he found that even drinking didn't touch it. Not like drinking had helped in the past. Now, though, the alcohol seemed to just mock him.

  He had been so sure that the lock box was his big chance, sure it was some kind of treasure. But nothing. Nothing. He'd been so pissed off about it he'd nearly hit one of the customers sitting next to him, after first cussing him out. He couldn't even remember why.

  He'd blown up at the waitress filling drinks at the station to his right. And then, when he told the bartender himself off, his support group dropped down to two, Captain Morgan and himself, and even the Captain was getting shaky. In a mood foul even by his standards, he left no tip, just got up and walked out.

  No one seemed to mind.

  Frankie turned up his street, stopping at the steps to his front door. He didn't notice the guy leaning against a car at the building after his, but then, there was no reason to. He also didn't notice that his front door lock had been picked. And again, there was no way he should have noticed. The tiny scratches left behind were on the inside of the lock, the talented gentleman who picked it leaving no marks. He didn't even notice the man sitting in the dark in his living room.

  Until he turned on the light.

  The man outside now stepped inside, giving Frank a shove forward before closing the door behind him.

  "Good evening, Frank." The smaller, seated one smiled.

  The other one didn't.

  Oh, shit. "Who are you? What do you want?" He looked around, wide eyed. He'd never had anything like this happen before.

  "I haven't got anything. Look around - there's nothing here." He reached into his pocket, pulling out the few bills he had left.

  He wished he had bought another drink with those bills before leaving, seeing as he was going to lose them anyway. Reluctantly, he held the bills out to the seated man.

  "Here, take it. That's it. That's all I've got. Look around. I haven't got anything."

  It was true. In the hour they had had to kill waiting for him, they had looked around, checking things out, looking for weapons. He was right. There wasn't anything here of value. He obviously lived alone.

  There was a wedding picture, clearly from long before. Certainly that hadn't worked out either, but no ring in the dresser. Probably hocked, by the look of the place. Both of the uninvited guests had been surprised at the squalor that passed for his apartment. They knew he was employed - several pay stubs were stuffed into the pencil drawer of the small desk. At least that drawer worked.

  Of the three drawers in the pedestal of the desk, one had the guide bar snapped off, jamming it shut, and the other two were filled with an eclectic mix of old bills, overdue notices, pictures from long ago, and an occasional candy wrapper. Empty bottles and wrappers from carry out filled two separate trash cans, and one bag of trash sat near the door, tied up, ready to go. However, by the odor, it must have been waiting to go for a while.

  The television, though not new, was adequate. The screen had even been wiped down in the recent past. A stack of lottery tickets, all losers like the owner, were stacked on top of it.

  The men didn't move. The smaller one continued the same smile, although no one would have confused it with a happy smile. In fact, it was a rather disturbing smile.

  As intended.

  "Frank, we're here about that lock box. Where is it?"

  Frank just stared at him.

  "The lockbox, Frank."

  He almost choked. You have got to be kidding. He stared at them. How could they know? And even if they did, why would they possibly give a shit? He had just found out about it himself, how could they? In a couple of hours? For a box with rocks? Even if, as some speculated, there was a meteorite or fragment in there, so what? They were found all the time.

  He literally did not know how to respond.

  "Frank? Did you hear me?" The voice was so reasonable, as if this was an everyday occurrence, like shopping at the mall, or asking for a pack of cigarettes at a gas station.

  "Frank, the chest, if you please."

  Manny continued smiling. His friend continued not.

  Still puzzled, still concerned, especially about the non-smiling man (which was intentional, of course) positioned between him and the door, Frankie finally found his voice.

  "I, I don't have it. It's, it's, it's not here. It's still at work. I never took it."

  The two visitors looked at each other. The seated one continued sitting, and nodded at the other one standing by the door, who took a step toward Frank.

  "Seriously. I don't have it." He looked around desperately, as if help would be available. "You have to believe me. If I did, you could have it. It's just a box of rocks. A box of rocks! What would I want with it? Why would I try to keep it away from you? I sure don't want it."

  The larger man stepped toward Frank, two short, measured steps.

  He was good.

  The man knew from experience that the anticipation, the fear that built slowly, inexorably, starting in the back of their mind, then rising from their stomach would create a deeper fear than the threat of physical violence itself. That self-created fear was much more effective. Another step or two by him in this manner, and people would be beginning to taste their own bile, the literal taste of fear.

  "Really, I can get it, but not right this minute. I work tomorrow. I can get it for you. Honest." He kept glancing back and forth between the two men, unsure of where the greater danger lay.

  "It's in a storage area at work. Come on, honest. I'm not messing with you. I can get it. I will get it. Please!"

  Manny didn't say anything, but he believed him. He obviously wasn't the sort to try to fight back. As he had said, what's in it for him? It was very clear he would have just as soon gone back and had another drink. This was going to be easy, for a change.

  The other took one more step toward him, just for effect. He enjoyed the look people gave him, the look of helpless resignation, when they know they have given up everything, and they are still going to get a beating.

  That, and the smell. There was also the literal smell of fear, to go with the taste. The sudden perspiration, the wiping of the hands on their pants. In some, the wetting of the pants. This was what he enjoyed. And he really did enjoy it.

  Of course, the pay was good, too.

  Manny held up his hand. "Relax, Mr. Notini. We're not here to hurt you. Not at all. Sit down, please. I have an offer for you. One I think you're going to like."

  Frankie slowly sat down. Mr. Notini? Mr. Notini?

  * * *

  A few minutes later, the men left. Frankie sat there, stunned. He couldn't believe it. They hadn't kicked his ass.

  They hadn't even threatened him

  Well, not directly. They hadn't needed to, but he knew, of course, if they had needed to...

  * * *

  And Manny had told him true. It was a good offer. A very good offer. And he had called him Mr. Notini. That's right, Mr. Notini. He stood, alone in his apartment once again, looking around at his imaginary audience, glaring at each imaginary person, each one a tormenter from his past.

  "That's Mister Frank fucking Notini to you, pal. That's right, Mister to you."

  Yes, he was very happy indeed with the offer.

  Chapter 11

  Coroner's Office

  Mike LaHoya looked up at the clock. A bead of perspiration, lying in wait for just this moment, fell off his eyebrow, onto the glass, timed perfectly to blur his view, forcing him to stop, clean his glasses, and take a break.


  Just as well, he was ready for one. Or two.

  He had just been getting off duty when Mount Auto exploded out on 1-90 at the Illinois-Wisconsin border. As the mountain was dismantled, and bodies freed from the wreckage, the victims were brought, one or two at a time, to the basement of the Public Safety Building where each would be examined. Not that there was much question as to cause of death, but that's the way it's done, so that's the way Mike did it.

  Each body was photographed as it came in, then stripped, cleansed, and photographed again. External examination was performed first, documenting identifying features, birthmarks, scars, tattoos, and then revealing, as would be obvious, the massive blunt trauma and crushing injuries. X-Rays were also taken, showing, surprise surprise, multiple fractures, crushed hips, backs, and chest cavities, along with dozens of pieces of automobile, now residing within their owners.

  After opening the body and skull, tissue samples would be taken from the major organs and samples of fluids drawn. Finally, the incisions would be closed and the remains sent to the receiving mortuary or burial facility to be disposed of according to the wishes of the next of kin. Most would at least temporarily be held here while families chose a funeral home to which their relatives could be sent.

  Not many open caskets after this one, he thought.

  He had done pretty well, working steadily through, one victim at a time. Like all medical and emergency people, he had developed a detachment from his work. Not that he didn't feel for the families of each one, or sympathize with the pain some had gone through, and wonder at the unfairness of children taken away so early and so violently.

  But that pain would be felt later.

  Mike had developed the detachment necessary to do the job without the emotional load slowly leading you to a breakdown. Still, the combination of hours and hours of back-breaking, mind-numbing work bent over the table, the nightmarish condition of each of the bodies, and finally, the sight of the entire Foster family, laid out side by side on a conference table (they had run out of gurneys hours earlier) about did it. He was just plain exhausted, mentally and physically.

  He heard the swinging door open, and he looked up, expecting another body to be wheeled in. Instead, a familiar face.

  "Sue - what the hell are you doing here? I thought - I just talked to you. You better not have cut that trip short."

  "Just shut up and say thank you." Sue grabbed the clipboard with all the info sheets of the incoming, then looked up at the corner of the ceiling, thinking for a moment. "I guess that didn't make much sense." She looked up at him. "I mean the shut up and say thank you."

  "No, that wouldn't make much sense. But no more than you coming back down here. What'd I tell you? I still run this show, you know. You aren't indispensable. We can get by just fine without you. Get your ass out of my building and go back north. You're supposed to be taking time off."

  "Okay, Mike scratch the 'just say thank you' part, but keep the 'shut up' part. I'm here to help, and then I'm gone. Believe me, I'm not giving up my time off." She looked straight at him.

  "So, whatcha got?"

  Mike caught his glasses, slipping off the end of his nose, then found a clean section of sleeve and wiped his face.

  "Alright, alright. You never listen anyway." He shook his head and gave her a crooked smile.

  "And thanks. God knows I can use the help. I guess I owe you."

  "Big time. So what's new?" She looked around. "Who should I start on?"

  Mike pointed to a row of tables by the wall. "Those are the Fosters. The entire family. Wiped out. This has just been unbelievable. If you could start there..."

  "No problem. I'll just change and be right back."

  "... and we'll finish them up in the morning." But she was already gone.

  Mike was just getting started on his next one. This one was a little different. Although photos had been taken, and samples taken by needle, no autopsy had been performed, nor would one be done. The German embassy had called and been emphatic about that, as had the representative of the U.S. State Department that had been on the phone with him. It seemed the family did not want the body desecrated. The matter would be handled at home. Mike had had no problem with this. No criminal matter was involved, and he wouldn't have to deal with all the international bullshit, so he was more than happy to go along with the request. Only physical exams, photographs, X-Rays, and fingerprints would be taken. So far, everything had been normal on this one as well, as expected.

  Normal, that is, for someone crushed by a falling truck.

  X-Rays would have to be retaken, though - the head area was fogged on the film. Either the head had moved hold your breath until I say breathe, please, light had leaked in during development, or perhaps it was just a bad piece of film. Anyway, everything else was fine, and as soon as he had the new films, he would return the body to storage, and Mike himself would become a corpse himself at home, in his own bed. At least for a few hours. The rest could wait until morning.

  "Dr. LaHoya?" It was Jenny VanKelp, the X-Ray tech. She only worked part time, though she'd been on since yesterday as well. "I've got those new films, but I've got the same problem. I did it a third time, and it's the same thing. I don't know what's going on."

  Mike looked at the films. All three were fogged in the area of the upper half of Hans Richter's head. It was fogged badly enough that one couldn't get a good look at any of the bones of the skull. What could possibly cause that, he wondered. What would make film fog like that? Then, it flashed, and he suddenly had a sick feeling deep in his stomach. "Oh, my God," he whispered, then "Get me the Geiger counter". Sue's head jerked up from her table where she was just about to start on the Fosters.

  "Mike? What's that?"

  Jenny just stood there puzzled.

  "Just a second. I know where it is," Mike told her. "Don't go near the body til I get back. Don't let ANY one get near him." He ran into the storeroom and unlocked the metal double door cabinet that secured some of their more expensive equipment. Who would have believed it. Mike grabbed it and turned it on to check the battery charge. The gauge read full.

  Note to self - send note to maintenance thanking them for attention to details.

  "Mike?" Sue again asked. She had put down her scalpel and taken off her gloves before coming over with Jenny. "What's going on, Mike?"

  "These films were fogged three times - look at 'em. The only thing I can think of that would fog those films coming from his body would be-"

  "-radioactivity," she finished for him. "Oh God, oh my God."

  Mike turned the volume up loud on the internal speaker of the Geiger counter, so everyone could hear. It started out with the sound of a few taps, not unlike hail hitting vinyl siding. This was the normal background radiation present everywhere. He knew that would change as he got closer to Han's head. Mike moved closer, as everyone held their breath....

  The only sound was that same tap, tap, tapping.

  No change.

  Mike continued moving closer, until he was literally touching Han's head. There was no change. Everyone relaxed, and smiled, if only weakly. Mike was certainly relieved as well. No radioactivity. "Sorry to spook you all." Everyone returned to their tasks. "Then what the hell caused that fogging?" he asked himself.

  "Let's try the fluoroscope," Sue suggested. Mike agreed, "Go ahead." The fluoroscope was similar to an X-Ray machine, but it gave an immediate, live, moving picture on a screen. Though not as clear and sharp as an X-Ray film, it showed everything in real time. It allowed the user to shift and rotate the unit to get different views while watching everything on the screen. Jenny rolled the unit out. Sue and Mike slid Hans over the end of the table so his head was hanging clear. The fluoroscope was shaped like a 'C', and they needed to get his head into the middle, but without the table in the way, interfering. Jenny flipped the switch and adjusted the settings for penetrating the skull.

  Mike looked at the screen. "Can you adjust that any?" he asked Jenny. She tried. No g
ood. "Check his hand - see if that works." She slid the machine over to the side of the table, and pulled his arm into the space between the arms of the 'C'. This time, bone was clearly seen, though overexposed. She adjusted the settings, reducing it for the arm, and it came into view clearly. "It's not the machine."

  "Well, what's going on? Something sure as hell is blocking those rays. Jenny, how about getting the maker of that film on the phone, and ask them what could keep fogging the film. Then, could you check with the fluoroscope people? I want to do some checking on my own. Sue, why don't you just go ahead and start on the Fosters." Two of them turned to attend their tasks, but Sue stood still.

  "Uh, Mike?" It was Sue. "I don't think Jenny's gonna get anyone. Look at the time."

  He glanced up at the clock, suddenly realizing how long they had actually been there.

  "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, never mind." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Just a second. I've got a number, let me see, should be right - here it is." He pulled a card taped onto the back of the machine off. "This is his home number. I talked to him a few days ago about an upgrade. He told me if I had any problems to call him there anytime. Here you go, Jenny. Just tell him you're calling for me. He knows me. Tell him it's important or I wouldn't be calling. I'm gonna check some stuff."

  Mike grabbed a radiology text from the shelf in his office, then walked down to the lounge to grab his forty-second cup of coffee. He was still reading when Jenny interrupted him. "I just got off the phone with your buddy, Dr. LaHoya. The Fluoroscope rep? He was real nice about it. The only thing he could suggest was perhaps a strong magnet nearby, or powerful electric line - something throwing a strong electromagnetic field, perhaps, though he didn't sound convinced. Didn't sound like he could be too helpful. Actually, he said he couldn't imagine why you could examine the arm and not the head – it's just a matter of intensity settings.

  "Then I called our film supplier. At least they have a 24 hour number. They're international. They weren't very helpful either. He wondered if we had fogged the whole box of film accidentally. I told him about the fluoroscope, and he was lost. No idea. He said we could send a couple in and they would check it with their lab, if we wanted."