by A J Jameson
And that’s when Axel collided with a person standing idle on the sidewalk.
“Watch where you’re walking,” the man said, annoyance registering on Axel’s MI.
“Pardon me, sir, I did not mean to annoy you,” Axel said.
The man’s plumpish cheeks did a jiggle as Axel unblinkingly stared at him, recording a visual example of annoyance for the facial simulator database. The ring on the man’s finger glowed a bright yellow, as did his metallic belt. Axel’s eyeglasses failed to detect any weapons on his person.
Axel turned back to Jordan. The kid had a hand pressed against his chest, curled into a fist with its thumb sticking out. He drew a small circle. A circular fist…what did that indicate?
Axel signed again, and Jordan repeated the motion. A small fist, balled up and pressed against chest, drawing a small circle. A common sign, Axel was sure. But he couldn’t think of it, and soon he found himself travelling through the rooms of his mind, tiptoeing past the old recliner in which a young version of his father snoozed, past the window that looked into a yard occupied by seven-year-old Axel, his young mother explaining to him why it wasn’t right to dig up all the earth worms.
He left his mom for a corridor. Dark wallpaper hung in strips like peeled bananas. As he travelled the corridor’s length, the walls brightened until the paint was so fresh it was still drying. A young memory. Or maybe Axel’s strongest memory as a young child. He opened the door and stepped through, his bare feet sinking into warm sand. The ocean threw its waves forward and drew yelps of joy from those it tackled and splashed.
A shed, small but inviting, stood beyond a lifeguard stand, which stood beyond a bright beach umbrella that provided shade for seven-year-old Axel and his family. A few feet away from the family was a volley ball net. A dozen young adults jumped and dived in the sand as they chased the ball, a ball that would bounce out of bounds and end up in Axel’s hands. But instead of giving it back, he’d charge the ocean and toss the ball to the sea, curious to learn how it rode the waves compared to the people standing on boards.
A tug at Axel’s sleeve yanked him back to reality. Jordan released Axel’s cuff and then drew a small circle on his chest again. He handed a piece of paper to Axel. It read Sorry. Axel duplicated the sign twenty times before they reached Jordan’s school.
“What kind of ASL classes do you provide to the general public?” he asked a woman ushering in a group of elementary students.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
Axel balled his hand into a fist and signed Sorry. “What kind of classes do you—”
“Oh no, I don’t work here. I’m just dropping off my kids.” Uncertainty, Axel’s MI whispered. “Maybe if you ask…” she frowned, searching the room for something.
A tug of the sleeve. Jordan pointed at a woman standing in the main lobby of the small school. She looked much like the frowning woman, both dressed in professional attire, but less confused. She spotted Axel and seamlessly changed into a different person, her tense posture and demeanor lightening and loosening like a bird spreading its wings after a lengthy free-fall.
“How may I help you?”
“What kind of ASL classes do you offer the public?” Axel asked.
She smiled for a moment before her mouth flat-lined and her body shivered. Then her eyebrows raised. Surprised? Axel wondered.
Axel repositioned himself, keeping the woman directly ahead of his line of vision to optimize the facial recording. She stepped back from Axel. Then held up a defensive hand as he pursued her, the many rings on her fingers glowing bright yellow. “I’m going to call security if you don’t leave.”
Behind her, Jordan was waving goodbye, completely unaware of the woman’s threat. Axel returned the motion and then heeded the woman’s words, giving her space.
“I’m a friend of Jordan’s.”
“You need to leave, now,” she said, Axel’s MI interpreting her mood as frightened and genuine.
“Sorry to frighten you,” Axel said.
Outside, beeping horns flooded the airways. People occupying the sidewalks chatted and murmured. Some sang and played instruments. One preached a holy sermon of damnation and eternal hell. A steady bombardment of disruptive noises, clogging Axel’s MI and muddling his thoughts.
Sign language should not be stored in a shed on the beach. He should keep it on the end table next to his bed, where it would be easily accessible. Or on his computer desk, or in his computer files. But wasn’t his mind like one big computer file? And the drawers that held memories like computer folders, meant to keep things organized?
The blaring horns ceased. The words of singers and preachers diluted with distance. But it wasn’t quiet. The sound of so many feet scraping the sidewalk filled the void. A stampede of unnatural materials, steadily wearing away. Polluting the air and his mind with stimulus and degradation.
He pushed the thought away. The melody of swarming discontent would be as real as the waves in his mind soon enough; nothing but memories he couldn’t touch, and in turn couldn’t touch him.
One more stop to make. After that Little Eye would inject herself into his life and dictate his actions. And focus my thoughts. Axel checked his watch. 7:53 AM. Seven minutes. He had to run if he wanted to make it in time to fill out the adoption paperwork.
He took off sprinting but collided with someone crossing the sidewalk. He apologized and continued at a light jog all the way to Givit Adoptions. Somewhere in those fifteen blocks he kinked his knee, a light click emitting from his left leg with every step. And on top of that he forgot to catch his breath before entering.
Inside was a reception desk, occupied by a wide-set woman, and a few cushioned chairs, two of which were taken. In the first sat an elderly man, his eyes squinted at a magazine despite wearing glasses. The second was occupied by a young woman in a business suit, her eyes glued to her phone.
“I’m here to, adopt Jordan, Bellower,” Axel said between gasps.
The broad woman looked up and smiled. When she spoke, her tooth filling glowed a bright yellow. “You need to fill out a background check before we can discuss the adoption process.”
Axel accepted the pen and paper and sat in a chair between the others. The old man nodded. The young woman paid no mind.
Axel had jotted only the A in his name before Little Eye called his MI. There was no way to ignore her. “You should have arrived home by now,” she said. “What’s your location?”
“Givit Adoptions,” Axel said. “I’m actually busy right now filling out paperwork for a background check so I can adopt Jordan Bellower.”
“You’re WHERE?” Little Eye screamed.
Axel adjusted the MI’s volume and mentally noted its need of an automatic noise-reduction feature. “I’m at Givit Adoptions filling out paper—”
“I understand your location, what I meant to ask is why are you attempting to adopt Jordan Bellower?” Her voice lowered but retained its jittery tone. The MI gave no impression of her attitude. She must have muted it on her end. Luckily, Axel maintained override authority.
“MI, analyze Little Eye’s mood,” he said, noticing that all three people in his presence were now staring at him.
“Worried, upset, concerned,” Little Eye said. Exasperated.
“I don’t mean to exasperate you, and regarding your question, I need to be Jordan Bellower’s guardian so I can obtain a record of his school’s ASL program. I’m not sure if his needs are being met.”
“Randy,” the receptionist said, leaving her desk to approach the waiting chairs.
The old man muttered two “yeses” before setting his magazine down. It took much effort for him to stand, and even more to keep pace with the receptionist as she led him into a different room.
“I understand your concern,” Little Eye said. “But what you’re doing right now is inappropriate. I told you before that you are incapable of caring for other human beings. If you don’t leave that office within the next five seconds, I’m blowin
g the whistle. No more money skims, let alone walks with Jordan to school. Instead you’ll be locked inside a cell. No computer. No justice.”
“You wouldn’t,” Axel said, rising from his seat. “MI, run analysis on—”
“Axel,” Little Eye cut in, but then went silent. Axel was getting the impression she had disconnected by the time she threw her bait. “I’ll help you get Banshee.”
All had been quiet in regards of C3U, but Banshee had maintained a spotlight on all major news outlets for some time. Mostly people calling in to give their opinion on whether the killer’s motives were justified against the abusive parents, spouses, and colleagues that perished. Some said it was undermining the authorities. A murderer hiding behind the mask of a vigilante. Others said it was acceptable behavior. Some even encouraged it, since law enforcement couldn’t be everywhere at once.
“Dead burglars, abusive and negligent parents, and one high-executive death,” Axel said, recalling the information he had gathered from sweeping the police databases. “Five murders within the past year. No ID on the killer, no personal information. I’ve already looked into Banshee’s files.”
“But I haven’t,” Little Eye said. “And it’s unfair to conclude evidence found on Banshee without allowing me to weigh-in.”
Axel considered this as he paced back and forth in the waiting room. The young woman who had been staring at her phone was now cowered behind the receptionist desk, her expression of fear obvious to even Axel. Her voice grew louder with panic as she said, “Please hurry,” into her phone. Panic. Axel turned around to find the cause of her panic, but all was clear. Who is she afraid of?
“Axel, come home,” Little Eye said.
The worry in her voice sprouted goosebumps on Axel’s neck. “Fine,” he whispered. “I’m coming home.”
He sprinted out the door, unapologetic to the many pedestrians he bumped along the way.
Chapter 5
Zyta turned around in her seat and spoke to Ivan through the police cruiser’s metallic partition. “That’s everything you’ll need. Good job.”
Ivan pursed his lips and gave a thoughtful nod. “Very well. Shall we?” He frowned, the façade of a medical professional wiped from his features. “Do you think the spectacles are too much?” He removed his non-prescription glasses, looking more like his natural self from the neck-up. Neck-down he wore a white lab coat, professional dress shirt, and gray slacks.
Marek glared at him through the rearview mirror. “I don’t understand why a person who has been wearing glasses since the fifth grade would suddenly question their applicability.”
Ivan immediately put them back on.
“He’s right,” Zyta said. “Prep-phase has ended, and we’re currently engaged. All questions about clothing, necessary equipment, or any contingencies need to be addressed beforehand.”
Ivan nodded, his lips stiff and eyes unflinching.
Zyta glanced down at her waist belt. “Twenty-inch flashlight, two pairs of cuffs, radio, ammunition pouch, taser, first-aid kit…think I want to slug all this crap around?”
“Understood,” Ivan said. “Thank you for the ride, officers, but I must insist we move forward in a timely manner, so I can conduct my examination.”
Marek offered the rearview mirror a slight grin before opening his door. Zyta put on her patrol cap and exited the vehicle. She let Ivan out, and the three approached the morgue. Ashy brick and dusty windows, the building seemed to be plucked from a post-apocalyptic era. Standing guard at the entrance were two police officers.
Marek greeted them. “How are you doing? We’re with the 43rd precinct off Posen street. We have a warrant.” He handed them the sheet Yolanda had fabricated back at C3U. “We need to conduct a comprehensive medical examination.”
“Can you believe this shit,” the red-cheeked officer said. “They send us here, watch this, I mean patrol that…” He turned to enter the morgue, his partner nodding; whether at the warrant or his colleague’s grumbling, Marek couldn’t tell.
The impassive officer returned the warrant to Marek. “We’ll stay out of your hair for the exam, but, unfortunately, we can’t leave without orders from our superior.”
That was impossible. They had to leave. Or have their heads in the clouds long enough to overlook the swapping of two dead bodies. And since the examination would be conducted inside the morgue, there’d be little reason for the officers to leave their post. They needed to be called offsite.
Marek was about to inform Yolanda of their first misfortune when the red-cheeked officer returned, the coroner by his side. The inspector wore a plastic face shield, scrubs, and shoe covers. Marek couldn’t help but to glance down at Ivan’s exposed leather oxfords. How did I miss protective shoe-coverings? He had surely read about it during the research phase…another nudge from Zyta. Pay attention.
“It’s fine, my diener is on break right now,” the coroner said. “We’ve hit a bit of a snag, so it’s all yours.”
“Coffee?” the impassive officer asked.
“Sure, thanks,” the coroner replied.
Marek declined, Zyta and Ivan echoing his response.
“Please, right this way,” the coroner said.
It was Ivan’s turn to take point. He hurried past Marek and Zyta, launching his bombardment of questions as they entered the building. “Have you found anything significant in the X-rays, dental work, or any signs of rape?”
The coroner stopped walking and gawked at Ivan. “Rape? The body was involved in an explosion. Are you sure you have the correct tag number?” He gave Marek and Zyta a quizzical glance. Why didn’t you two stay outside, like the others?
“My boss expects a thorough report,” Ivan said. “You know how it is. Right?” He gave the coroner a slap on the back.
The coroner chuckled something between fear and pain. He took a few steps away from Ivan. “We can run some tests,” he said, and disappeared into the examination room, Ivan trailing behind.
Marek craned his neck and spoke into his radio. “Eduardo, tail the officers.”
In the ambulance parked one block away from the morgue, Eduardo had already peeled off his EMS clothing in exchange for a leather jacket, protective pants, and boots. Yolanda stood in the rear of the ambulance across from him, the replacement body resting under a sheet between them. She was resetting one of her knee braces, her EMS pants already on the floor.
“You better go before they’re out of range,” Yolanda said.
Eduardo hopped on the motorcycle, inserted the key, and slapped on his helmet. “We risk compromising our identities,” he said, avoiding the awkwardness of referring to Yolanda’s half-nakedness.
“Like a motorbike ripping out the back of an ambulance isn’t an odd spectacle in and of itself.” She unhooked an EMS reflective vest from the wall and used it to cover her chest. “Go.”
Eduardo turned the key, lifted the kick stand, and bumped the ambulance’s back door with the bike’s front tire, swinging it open. He rode out on a wheelie.
Ivan stood with his arms crossed, the coroner pointing at the pin prick that dotted the dead radical’s cheek—the remaining evidence of Marek’s tranquilizer darts.
“These markings give cause for suspicion, and then, of course, there’s the rest of him.” The coroner motioned at the severed arm. The flesh at the stump was darker than the rest of the arm, as if the body hadn’t been transported to a cold chamber soon enough to prevent rotting. The chest, boosted at an arch in preparation for dissection, remained clothed. The coroner hadn’t made much progress.
Ivan improvised the lack of conversational material, leaning close to the puncture wound to give his professional analysis. “I detect an above-average presence of veins in the whites of the victim’s eyes. An indication of high stress levels and possible drowning.” Ivan straightened his posture and fiddled with his glasses.
“That’s, um, an indication of asphyxiation,” the coroner said, his eyes slightly squinted. When Ivan didn’t answe
r, the coroner leaned over to double check the symptoms. “But you are correct in your observation. His eyes are blood shot.”
“And what do you have on the urine and blood samples?” Ivan asked.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the body is still contained in its original bag.” The coroner sighed. “We’ve been having issues with our X-ray machine. A technician was supposed to arrive,” he checked his watch, “twenty-seven minutes ago.”
Finally, something Ivan could run with. “Well, he’s late, which makes you late, and me late. And I’m never late.” He itched the cuff of his sleeve, pressing the hidden button to notify Marek of the upcoming contingency. “We can take the body to our own lab and perform our analysis there.”
“Did I just hear that right?” Zyta said, her attention pulled away from the coroner’s computer.
Marek remained in the doorway of the office—the door held open—with his feet situated in mid-stride. If Ivan and the examiner were to happen upon his position, he’d put his step in motion, and apologize for entering the wrong room in search of the doctor.
He radioed Yolanda. “Forget about wheeling in the replacement body and see if you can make room for the original.”
“Done,” she responded.
Marek glanced at his sister. “No links between the body and C3U?”
“Nothing yet,” Zyta said. “But I’m not finished.”
“This is absurd,” the coroner’s voice streamed through Ivan’s radio. “I cannot allow you to displace a body currently under examination because it will make you late in your reportings. I’m sorry, but I can’t allow it.”
Ivan answered in a furious string of condescending remarks. He was buying time, Zyta realized. Marek must’ve been thinking the same thing because he contacted Eduardo to get the location of the officers.
“Still inside the bagel shop, eating,” Eduardo said. “No, wait, they just got up. They’re leaving. You got a few minutes.”
