In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

Hank was drawing a blank.

  “Stephen King?”

  Hank shook his head. “It’s from the guy who interrupted our dinner.”

  “Interesting. We got a call that some weirdo was seen leaving this warehouse, yelling his fool head off. Think he’s the same guy?”

  “If he is, he blew up all over the restaurant.”

  “Like a suicide bomber?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Let’s see if Clare’s found anything. By the way, how’s the shoulder?”

  “Got my stitches out. Still itches like crazy. Dumb vampire wannabes.”

  The detectives returned to the laboratory. Clare was sealing an evidence bag. She placed the see-through plastic on a table with the rest of the collected evidence.

  “I don’t believe these are the beginnings of a start-up company.” Clare leaned back against the edge of the table. “Not operating in a warehouse like this. For one, wafer fabrication is always done in a clean environment to guard against contaminants. This is something entirely different.”

  “I’ll bet it’s somehow linked with human trafficking,” Bill said. “Would explain the bodies.”

  Hank looked over at the table. “So, what have you bagged?”

  “Some nine-millimeter cartridges. We’ll know more about their origin when I catalog them at the lab. The packing slips on those shipping crates should give us a lead as to who placed the orders and where this equipment came from. We’ve got hair, chewed gum, cigarette butts, a slaughterhouse full of blood for DNA samples, though I doubt we’ll get a match. The medical examiner will have more after the bodies are examined.”

  Hank glanced over at another table. “Wait a minute—I thought this wasn’t a drug operation.” He walked over to a stack of clear bags containing a white substance. “Each one of these must be a kilo, easy.”

  “Try some,” Clare said.

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Hank dabbed the sample of granules that had been poured directly on the table with the tip of his finger. He put his finger up to his mouth, took a lick. He spat it out. “It’s sand!”

  “Weird, huh?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Come, take a look.” Clare stepped over to the next table. “See this dust outline? A piece of equipment was here.”

  “Anything else?” Hank asked.

  “Found this.” Clare held up a bag containing a single microchip.

  “I wonder what—”

  Gunshots erupted outside, followed by a loud peal of screeching tires.

  Hank and Bill rushed from the warehouse to discover Officer Silverman kneeling on the sidewalk.

  Hank helped him up. “Who shot at you?”

  “Not sure. They were in a black Expedition. The windows were tinted. I think it was an Uzi.”

  Hank looked at Bill. “Drug cartel?”

  “That smuggles sand? I doubt it.”

  ***

  The next morning, Hank drove their Ford Crown Victoria through a middle-class suburban neighborhood of aging two-story homes, each with a cracked driveway that ran up the property line to a single-car garage tucked in the rear of the backyard.

  Bill noted the street numbers on the curb from the passenger window. “Couple more blocks. This Patrick Manning could have covered his tracks better.”

  “Maybe he left those packing slips on purpose.”

  Bill studied the report on his lap. “He used to work for a big microchip manufacturer. There was some dispute over patent rights, so he left the company six months ago.”

  “What was he working on?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  Hank paused at a stop sign. He checked both ways before proceeding down the lane, which was shaded by old elms. “Clare showed the microchip she found to one of her techs, who used to be an electronic engineer.”

  “That might be a lead.”

  Hank shook his head. “He’d never seen anything like it before, though he was certain the chip had enormous memory capacity.”

  “Like what? A super chip for storing data?”

  “Some new age technology.”

  “This is it.” Bill pointed to a house with a small patch of brown lawn in the front.

  Hank pulled up to the curb. He shut off the engine.

  They got out of the patrol car. As they were heading toward the steps to the front porch, Bill suddenly stopped Hank. The detectives stared up the side driveway. A black SUV was parked in front of the single-car garage.

  “Could be our Expedition,” Bill said.

  “Let’s go pay them a visit.”

  The detectives drew their weapons. They scurried up the driveway, staying close to the side of the house, ducking each time they came to a window. Edging around the corner, they came to a set of wooden steps leading to the back door.

  Hank crept up. He peered through the smudged window.

  Two men in plaid shirts sat at the kitchen table, which was cluttered with empty bottles. They were drinking beer, joking in Spanish.

  Hank banged the door open. Bill stormed in behind him.

  The one with the raven-black ponytail grabbed his Uzi off the table.

  Hank shot him two times.

  As he flipped backwards in his chair, the man’s finger tugged on the trigger. The machine gun sprayed the header above the back door, squiggling up the wall and onto the ceiling.

  The other man swung a sawed-off shotgun out from under the table.

  Bill nailed him with a slug to the head before he could release a shot.

  The man toppled from his chair onto the linoleum floor.

  The detectives stood over the bodies.

  The kitchen clock on the wall kept ticking, its plastic face cracked from a bullet.

  Another sound seemed to be coming from the cellar.

  Hank looked at the door leading downstairs. “Man, I hate basements!”

  “Don’t worry. I got your back.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Hank pushed the door open. He stared down into the gloom for a moment before slowly descending the flight of stairs. Bill followed two steps behind.

  Coming off the bottom step, Hank located a light switch on the wall. He flicked it on, illuminating the dank space.

  The floor layout looked similar to the equipment table setup at the warehouse.

  A man and a woman sat back-to-back, tied together in their chairs. The man wore a white lab coat, the woman a drab dress. Her brown eyes widened with fright, like a deer staring down the headlights of an oncoming car.

  Hank stepped in front of the man. “Is there anyone else in the house besides those two upstairs?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Are you the police?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank God! Can you please untie us?”

  “Not until you answer some questions. Are you Patrick Manning?”

  “Yes.”

  “The woman?”

  “I believe her name is Anita.”

  “Mind explaining what you do down here?” Hank waved his hand about the room.

  “It’s a special project I’ve been developing for years. Somehow, the cartel got wind of my research. For the past three months, they’ve been forcing me to devise a new method to smuggle in their drugs. If you’ll untie me, I’ll show you.”

  “All right. Keep your hands where we can see them,” Hank said.

  “I will.”

  Bill holstered his gun. He reached between the captives and untied the knots. Afraid that she might bolt up the stairs, he motioned for the woman to remain in her chair.

  Manning rubbed his wrists. He stood, shook out his legs. Then he went to a nearby table and picked up a device resembling a toy laser gun.

  “Hold it!” Hank pointed his revolver at Manning.

  “It’s not a weapon. It’s an injector. They wanted me to inject Anita. Thank God you showed up when you did.”

  “Inject her with what?” Hank asked.

  “This.�
� Manning held up a tiny microchip. He loaded it into the injector, then walked over to the frightened woman. He positioned the end of the injector beneath Anita’s collarbone. “Once I press the button, a stream of high-pressure air shoots the chip into her flesh.”

  “Okay, put it down.” Hank kept his gun trained on the scientist.

  “I was merely illustrating.” Manning returned the injector to the table.

  “I still don’t follow,” Hank said.

  “It’s all part of my invention.” Manning rested his arm on a metallic box. He beamed as though he were about to accept a Nobel Prize for scientific achievement.

  “A microwave oven?” Hank couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Far from it. Allow me to—”

  Anita bolted from the chair. She rushed over to a dark corner of the room and got down on the floor, cowering like a small child afraid of the Boogeyman.

  “What did you do to this poor woman?” Hank snapped.

  “Believe me, I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

  “You mean those bodies we found at the warehouse?”

  Bill interceded. “So what’s with the microwave oven?”

  “It’s actually a converter. I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of mass conversion. I’ve developed a way to store physical mass on a microchip, much as data is stored on a computer chip. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Hank motioned with his gun. “Don’t try anything funny.”

  Manning opened a cabinet and took out a clear plastic bag filled with white sand, similar to the bags at the warehouse. He swung open the door on the converter, placed the bag inside, and closed the door. Then he grabbed a microchip from a tray and inserted it into a slot on the side of the machine. He took a few seconds to type in a start sequence on a programming panel, then pushed a button.

  A steady thrum sounded inside the machine. A bright light flashed behind the glass. The humming stopped.

  Manning opened the door on the converter.

  The bag was gone.

  Hank peeked into the machine. “Where the hell did it go?”

  “Right here.” Manning plucked the microchip from the slot. “The bag you saw me put inside the converter has now been transferred onto this tiny chip.”

  “You’ve discovered a way to miniaturize material onto a microchip?” Hank looked at Bill, who stared by slack-jawed.

  “That is correct.”

  “Talk about wild.” Bill kept shaking his head in disbelief.

  “So why the bags of sand?” Hank asked.

  “They didn’t want to waste the actual product,” Manning said. “There’s a time delay problem with the chip. Every time I injected someone, the matter converted onto the chips expanded unexpectedly, usually within the hour, causing the subject to explode.”

  “I know. I’ve seen it happen.” Hank shook his head with disgust. “So, if it doesn’t work, why not stop?”

  “The cartel won’t let me.”

  “Afraid they’ll kill you?”

  “They have my son. They’re wagering, sooner or later, I’ll get it right.” Manning slumped back against the table, as if the thought of his son with those evil men was more than he could bear.

  “Where are they keeping your boy?” Bill glanced over at the woman, who was huddled in the corner like a tiny creature afraid of being eaten.

  “Not far from here at an auto repair shop. They keep Ricky in a back office.”

  “How many are we talking?” Bill asked.

  “I know of only seven.”

  “Does that include the two upstairs?” Hank said.

  “Yes.”

  “Make it five.” Hank realized he was still holding his gun. He slipped the revolver back into the holster.

  “If you go in with a show of force, they’ll kill Ricky for sure.”

  “Then we’ll have to try another tactic,” Hank said.

  “I have an idea.” Manning stood away from the table. “It’s a long shot, but it might just work.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Bill said.

  * * *

  The detectives staked out the auto repair shop across the street.

  A burly guard patrolled the perimeter of the garage with one hand in the pocket of his bulky coat.

  “Sure you don’t want me to go along?” Bill peered out the window, keeping his head down.

  “Better stay out here in case we need backup.” Hank shrugged out of his suit jacket. He slipped his holster off his belt, unclipped his gold shield. Reaching down, he removed the holster for his backup piece from his ankle. He placed all the items on the seat.

  The guard turned and marched the length of cyclone fence to the rear of the garage.

  Hank glanced over the headrest at Manning, who sat in the backseat. “Ready?”

  Manning took a deep breath. He gazed nervously out the window. “Yes, I think so.”

  Hank and the scientist got out of the car. They scurried across the street. The bay door remained open, so they ducked inside.

  A lift kept a Mercedes sedan suspended six feet above the cement floor. Twin bays held two other luxury cars with their hoods up.

  Hank and Manning didn’t hear any pneumatic tools or the normal noises associated with the activities of an auto repair shop. It didn’t appear that any mechanics were on duty. Fenders, doors, and various other exterior auto parts from different models of cars were stacked on metal racks in the chop shop.

  “Where’s the office?” Hank asked the scientist.

  “Over there.” Manning indicated a door farther back behind the cars.

  Hank and Manning crept along a wall display of dangling radiator hoses and oval-shaped fan belts.

  “Hands up!”

  Hank immediately raised his hands. He glanced over his shoulder.

  It was the guard from outside. The big man had the stealth of a cat. The muzzle of his Uzi machine gun pressed into the back of Manning’s neck.

  “We’ve got company!” the man hollered.

  The office door flung open. Three men charged out. They rushed Hank, grabbing him roughly. They patted him down for weapons.

  “Are they clean?” a voice called out from the office.

  “Yes, Boss,” said the thug with the Uzi.

  Hank peered into the back room. A thin man wearing a black business suit sat behind a gray metal desk—hair greased back, a goatee, narrow beady eyes. His boney hand rested on the shoulder of a frightened boy seated next to him: Patrick Manning’s son.

  Hank’s white dress shirt hung out of his waistband. They’d even turned the pockets of his slacks inside out.

  “Hey, Boss!” The thug who had searched Manning held up two microchips.

  The boss man got up from behind the desk. He ruffled the boy’s hair the way an uncle might and stepped out of the office. His henchman handed him the microchips. The man studied the tiny objects, then shook his head. “Mr. Manning, you disappoint me.”

  “Please, let my boy go.”

  The boss man stared at Hank. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Patrick’s.”

  “I smell a cop.” The boss man nodded to a thug holding a pistol with a silencer. The man pointed his gun at the back of Hank’s head, execution-style.

  “On your knees.”

  Hank and Manning dropped to the floor.

  “Perhaps it is time we severed our relationship.” The boss man threw the chips at Manning. They bounced off his chest and landed on the floor in front of Hank.

  “Ricky!” Manning shouted. “Son, I love you!”

  Jumping off the chair, the boy cried out, “Dad! Dad! I want to go home!”

  The boss man turned to block the boy’s escape. The guy holding the pistol to Hank’s head awaited instruction from his boss. The three other goons looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

  The two microchips on the floor suddenly swelled, taking on the shape of Hank’s service revolvers.

  Hank snatched the newly materialized .38 snub-nosed with h
is right hand and grabbed the .380 automatic with his left. He raised his right hand over his shoulder and shot the gunman standing over him in the face. With both weapons pointing in opposite directions, Hank fired, dropping the thugs on either side.

  The boss man reached for the gun tucked in his waist band.

  Hank shot the ringleader in the chest.

  The scrawny man fell back, crashing down on top of his desk.

  “You’re dead!” shouted the guy with the Uzi.

  A loud gunshot rang out.

  Hank watched the man drop his weapon and slam down on the floor.

  Bill stood a few feet away, his arm fully extended, his gun smoking.

  Ricky sprang into his father’s arms.

  “I got a little bored sitting in the car.” Bill began to prod the bodies with the tip of his shoe.

  “Thank God you didn’t bring Sudoku. I can’t believe this actually worked.” Hank watched the relieved father clutching his son. “I’d hate to see what would happen if these microchips got into the wrong hands,” Hank said. “Gunrunners and terrorists would have a field day, not to mention the military.”

  “What happens now?” Manning gave Ricky a tender kiss on the head.

  “We’ll make sure you and Ricky are set up in a witness protection program,” Hank said.

  “What about my research?”

  “Is it worth your son’s life?”

  Manning hugged his boy.

  * * *

  Hank sat across from Jackie at the restaurant table. “I like your new dress.” It was the same green as the last dress, which matched her eyes.

  “Let’s hope I don’t get a stain. If my memory serves me, weren’t you going to give me something?”

  Hank took the gift out of his pocket and placed the small box next to Jackie’s dinner plate.

  She removed the lid and peeked inside.

  “Here, I’ll put it on.” Hank jumped up from the table and went around behind Jackie’s chair.

  She handed him the necklace.

  Hank draped the locket around her neck and cinched the clasp, then sat back down in his chair. “Like it?”

  “Hank, it’s lovely.” Jackie held up the gold, heart-shaped locket. She pressed the catch, popping open the locket to look inside. She burst out laughing. “Hank, leave it to you.”

  A miniature photo was set inside each of the hinged hearts: one of Hank and the other of their golden retriever, Bella.