by Cade Brogan
“So, these two,” Rylee said, studying the dates, “they go back and forth, back and forth—and then back with no forth.”
“That’s how I see it,” Claire responded. “Oh, and I almost forgot, in searching utility records and a couple of New Day Pharmaceuticals’ suppliers, I found out that while Addison was in rehab, Gordon stopped paying their bills, just let the debt collectors have the company.”
“Just the company bills?”
“Yep,” Claire answered. “He continued to pay his own like clockwork. We need to check to be sure, but I assume he wired payments from West Africa.”
“So, I know he sold his house,” Rylee said, “but how about his stuff, do we know if he had it shipped anywhere?”
“Just checked,” Claire responded. “Seems a South Side auction house liquidated his estate. Proceeds from the sale were transferred to an off-shore account. We need to confirm account ownership, but my quarter is on Gordon Voss.” She smiled. “Not bad for a morning’s work, huh?”
Rylee laughed. “No, not bad at all. I can see right now that I need to leave you to your own devices more often.” She furrowed her brow, studying the list again. “So, this new woman, Jane Aches, is she a scientist?”
“Of course, she is,” Claire answered. “But she’s not just any ol’ scientist; she’s an esteemed scientist, a specialist in viral mutation, and last but not least, the chair of her department.”
“Are you being a smart ass?”
“Actually, I am,” Claire responded with a chuckle. “And here’s the best part,” she continued with a more serious tone, “she quit her job one week after they took that last trip to West Africa. By email, can you believe it? I’ll bet the president of her university was surprised as hell.”
“I’ll bet so,” Rylee responded. “Not what you’d expect from the chair of your science department. That should pretty much guarantee she’s not gonna get that kind of job again.”
“It’s the same for Gordon.”
“No, not really,” Rylee said, “because by owning his own business, he didn’t have to worry about job references.”
“So, maybe she took off, thinking she’d work for him.”
“Maybe,” Rylee said, “but it doesn’t fit. I mean, going to work for a struggling pharmaceutical company seems like quite a step down to me. How about we pay a second visit to Addison Marsh, see if she can shed some light on the situation?”
“Good plan,” Claire responded. “Want me to give her a call?”
“No, I think we’ll just finish up, and head her way.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Claire said, pointing to the paper. “Did you notice who else was on the list?”
“Yeah, Walt Matthews, I saw him,” Rylee responded. “Not too surprising since he specializes in infectious diseases.”
“No,” Claire said, “I just wanted to be sure you noticed.”
*
Elizabeth tipped the box, sprinkling bran flakes into her bowl. Then, she added milk, pressing the arrow on her remote, and tuning in to channel nine. With her attention split between the morning news and her project, she sat down at the breakfast bar, consuming her first spoonful. What a windfall, she thought, sorting her pile of documents, still warm from being printed. They fell into two categories, police and medical. She lifted her gaze, hearing the word, Armageddon, and turned up the volume.
“And, in other news related to the killings,” the anchorwoman reported, “the identity of the ninety-two-year-old Loving Arm’s resident, a recent victim, continues to be withheld pending the notification of her family.”
Elizabeth glared at the screen, dropping her spoon, tipping her bowl, and splashing milk all over the counter. Where do these people get off, withholding your name, and delaying me from planning your Christian burial? She yanked a rag from the towel holder, dabbing documents, and drying the counter. They’re intelligent people, not like me of course, but smart enough to know that proceeds from my lawsuit won’t begin to even the score. She shook her head, pouring a second cup of coffee, and moving to the sofa. They’ll still owe—you and me—they’ll still owe us so much more than they’ll ever be able to afford.
Please, I beg you, don’t worry about such things, the specter responded. You have too much on your plate to concern yourself with the nonsense of evening scores. She’d never been afraid to speak her mind, even knowing the potential for consequences.
I do have a lot to get done, Elizabeth said. And I must admit, I am somewhat overwhelmed. She nodded decisively. Alright, you win. I’ll just collect from the one. That’ll save me considerable time.
That’s good, honey. You always did have the best head on your shoulders.
Elizabeth smiled. Your hair, I just noticed, it’s as it was when I was young.
The specter smiled back, touching Elizabeth’s arm. Yes, golden and in a bun. I am as I was, as I will be from now on.
Elizabeth inhaled a soft breath. It’s comforting. Takes my mind off your loss.
Oh, my darling granddaughter, the ghost responded, I’m not lost. How can I possibly be lost when I’m sitting right here beside you? Look, I’m right here with the others.
I see, Elizabeth answered. I see that you are.
Don’t fret, sweet girl. You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.
“Thank you for talking with me,” Elizabeth said. “I feel much better.”
As we intended. We’ll sit quietly now while you get some work done.
Elizabeth nodded, setting her dish on the lower shelf of the dishwasher, and picking up the first of three documents—Claire’s unfinished police report. Very well written, she thought, taking a long drink, and scanning for a reference to the ninety-two-year-old woman—her Grandma Marge—disappointed that she was referenced only by her age. Either Claire didn’t know, or she couldn’t write it. She moved on to read the CDC’s report. Impressive, she thought, studying the 3-D imagery of the virus in atomic resolution. “Breathtaking specimen,” she murmured. “Absolutely gorgeous.” When she laid that report aside, she read the poor quality one from the ME’s Office. The killer must be a scientist, she surmised. No one else would know to do what he or she has done. She wrinkled her brow. And, whoever managed to do it has to have a lab of their own. It would be too difficult to do it without one, to spark an epidemic, to secretly mutate a virus, under the watchful eye of an employer. Or even worse, shoulder to shoulder with prying colleagues. And they won’t just have any lab; she reminded herself, they’ll have one equipped to handle BSL-4 viruses. She bit her lower lip, planning her attack, deciding to search every name in the reports, to check scientific online chat boards for relevant activity, to check lab suppliers, and to focus her efforts on the most critical periods. She’d narrow her parameter to just before and after the virus was discovered in West Africa, to just after patient zero contracted it, and at the time of the first mutation. If the killer was a scientist, and she had no doubt of that being the case, he or she would frequent online spaces, bragging and consulting. But who should be dispatched first? Kenzie Bigham or the Armageddon Killer? There were pros and cons for both options, making it a difficult decision. If she dispatched Kenzie first, under the nose of her homicide detective, she’d have Rylee on her knees, and the police force spinning. That would leave the coast clear to dispatch the other, whoever he or she was. But the problem with that plan, one that she feared could foul her up, was that the thrill of that kill could throw her off. And the stakes were too high to be in the game without complete focus. So, you need to pray about it, get closer to the date, and then decide. And with that, she gathered up her dampened documents and slipped them into a folder.
It’s a beautiful day, the Rational One said. You should get outside, go somewhere, somewhere that’s not too public.
I should, Elizabeth responded, switching off the tv.
Maybe the lab.
Yes, the lab, Elizabeth answered. Excellent suggestion. Beautiful days deserve spectacular poisons. She smi
led. And I just happen to need a couple.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ChiTownBreakingNews.com
LOVING ARMS WOMAN IDENTIFIED
Sources have confirmed that the ninety-two-year-old woman who died recently at the Loving Arms facility was Esther P. Rittman. Her name had been withheld pending notification of next-of-kin, a daughter, traveling in Israel, and unable to be reached by phone until this morning. In related news, nearby facilities will continue to care for Loving Arms residents through the weekend. Those wishing to locate or check on a loved one are directed to call the main number. Due to ongoing and unrelated issues with the Loving Arms' message system, calls are being automatically transferred to the cell of an on-call staff person.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Addison winced, pressure sores having never crossed her mind until she became paralyzed. Now, she’d no more than get one healed than another would break through her skin, ulcerating.
“You call if you want me to come back,” the home health care aide said, applying an ulcer care dressing to the wound on her shoulder blade. “I don’t mind, really.” She worked six days, off one.
“I know you don’t,” Addison answered, “but I’m certain I won’t need to.” No way would she bother Cordelia on her day off. At minimum wage, she didn’t pay her enough to be her beck and call nursemaid.
Cordelia furrowed her brow, re-checking the seal of the bandage. “I just don’t feel good about this one. I think you should go in to see the doctor.”
“If I saw the doctor every time one of these got a little infected,” Addison responded, “I’d need a daily standing appointment.” She met her gaze directly. “You worry too much, Cordelia.”
“Possibly,” Cordelia answered, “but I guess that depends on your perspective.” She noticed the clothing draped over the end of the bed. “Your navy pants and green blouse, my favorite outfit.”
“Mine too,” Addison said, accepting assistance with her pants. Dressing was an activity that she could do on her own, that is with the aid of a clothes hook, but chose not to undertake on Cordelia’s days.
Cordelia reached around, clasping her hands, and pivoting Addison to her wheelchair. “Now remember, you promised to call if you needed me.”
“If I needed you,” Addison echoed, pressing the lever, and rolling behind her down the hallway. “But I won’t.”
*
Addison closed the door, relieved that for this day, the ordeal was over. Not because of Cordelia, because as caregivers go, she couldn’t have done better than that woman, but because of embarrassment. For forty long minutes, six days each week, she experienced a disconnect, a place where her mind struggled to believe what was happening to her. Lying naked, depending on another to wash her parts and dress her wounds was a waking nightmare. And yet, that was her lot in life, leaving her no choice but to get through it. She sat in the entryway, adjusting her mindset, before considering her workday. Then, she poured herself a cup of coffee, placing her cup in a holder. So much to get done, she thought, flipping the switch that deployed her laptop from the rear of her motorized chair. It was well known that people with physical limitations were underemployed in the sciences, but devices like it would eventually correct that disparity. She booted her device, touching her screen, and activating a live video feed. As she waited to connect, she opened her computer algorithms application.
“Oh, good morning, Dr. Marsh,” the man greeted. “I didn’t see you pop on.”
“I just got here,” Addison responded. “Did the bioreactor come in?”
“No, not yet.”
“New suppliers,” Addison said, frowning. “Be the last time we use this one.” She released a breath, reacting to the sound of the buzzer. “It seems I have a visitor,” she added, “I’ll catch you later.” She terminated the video feed, touched the button on her watch, and activated the intercom. “Yes?”
“It’s Detective Hayes, ma’am.”
“And Detective Robbins.”
“Sorry to bother you,” Rylee continued, “but we have a couple more questions. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I’m just out of the shower,” Addison said, “and not at all prepared for company.”
“This won’t take long, ma’am.”
“Very well,” Addison responded, flipping the switch to store her laptop. “I’ll get dressed.”
*
Rylee leaned against the brick wall, then brushed off her trousers. “Get the feeling we’re gonna be here for a while?”
“Yep, afraid so,” Claire answered. “Don’t think she’s one bit happy to see us back.”
“Nope,” Rylee said. “But I thought we needed to catch her off guard, so, oh well.” She checked her messages. “Hey, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll leave you by the buzzer while I call home.”
“No problem,” Claire responded, watching her walk to the corner, and thinking that she should call Elizabeth. She’d seemed off that morning, distracted, and when she was like that it was never a bad idea to check in.
“Detectives?”
“Yes, right here.”
“I’ll buzz you in if you’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Claire said, “buzz away.” She held the door open until Rylee got back. “Everything okay at home?” she asked, stepping onto the elevator.
“Not too bad,” Rylee answered. “Kenzie said that when Abby got up, she ate some lunch, and they talked for a little bit. I guess they both felt better.” At the sound of a ding, they got off, turned, turned again, and knocked loudly.
“Come in,” Addison called out, touching the tiny button on her wristwatch. “It’s open.”
“Sorry to just show up,” Claire said, “but with the situation, we have to keep moving.”
“Understandable,” Addison responded. “Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s not been the best of mornings.”
“Not a problem,” Rylee said. “We’ll try to keep this as brief as possible.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Addison responded, nodding toward the kitchen. “I have coffee if you’d like some.”
“None for me,” Rylee said, “but I can see that my partner’s gonna take you up on it.”
Claire smiled, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, I am.” She noticed a colorful bead bowl on the counter. “This bowl, it’s gorgeous.”
“Yes, a beautiful example of fine craftsmanship,” Addison responded. “A one of a kind, made by a dear friend in West Africa. Cups are on the holder,” she added, “to your left as you face the pot.”
“I see ‘em. Thanks.”
Rylee sat down in her previously occupied spot.
When Claire returned, she sat across from her and opened her notebook.
“So, we have a few questions,” Rylee said, “about your partner, Gordon Voss.”
“Ex-partner,” Addison corrected.
“Yes,” Rylee said, “that’s right, your ex-partner.”
Addison flattened her lips, nodding. “I thought you might.”
“And why is that,” Claire asked, looking up from her notes, “that you thought we might?”
“Because I follow the news,” Addison responded. “And once they confirmed that Armageddon was our virus, I figured it’d be a matter of time before you’d be back with more questions.”
Rylee cocked her head. “But what made you think we’d be asking about Gordon?”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d be asking about the science of viruses,” Addison responded. “So, that left people, and with regard to people, quite frankly, who else would you be inquiring about?”
“No love lost between you two, huh,” Claire interjected, “Gordon and yourself?”
“No, none at all,” Addison responded. “But that said, if you think he’s somehow connected to the intentional spread of our virus, he’s not.”
“So, you’ve had contact then,” Rylee said, “because as I see it, that’s the only way you could know.”
“No, I haven’t
had contact, not a birthday card, and not a phone call,” Addison responded. “But regardless, I know.” As her gaze drifted to the rooftops, her tone softened. “There are some things that you just know, Detective.”
Rylee nodded, maintaining eye contact, and encouraging her to go on.
“We were lovers,” Addison continued. “The day before my accident, he asked me to marry him, and while I was in rehab, he took up with another woman.” She locked gazes. “Trust me, Detective, I know what he is and isn’t capable of.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Claire said, “that’s tough.”
“So, remind us,” Rylee continued, “the last time you saw him was just after you had your accident, right?”
“Yes, a few months after,” Addison responded. “When I was in rehab.”
“Anyone else who worked with you two?” Claire asked. “Anyone who’d know the virus like it was their own discovery?”
“No,” Addison responded, “not like we did.”
“And how about this mutation they keep talking about?” Rylee asked. “Who’d know about that part?”
“No one that I know of,” Addison responded, making firm eye contact. “But these days, there are many scientists capable of creating mutations in the lab.”
“How about Gordon, would he be capable?”
“Yes, very.”
“And how about yourself?”
Addison smiled. “Back in the day, I was.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PatientZero.com
POLICE HAVE ARMAGEDDON KILLER PERSON OF INTEREST
A source close to the Armageddon Killer investigation reports that detectives have zeroed in on a person of interest. Officials at the police department were contacted, but none were willing to confirm or deny this report. They did, however, want us to assure the public that catching this killer is their number one priority. Check back for further updates.
