After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (6 page)

“How is he?” Mika said.

Blackwell and Fairchild exchanged quick looks. It
didn’t require great intelligence to know something wasn’t right.
Harmon did his best to answer.

“Good...yeah, good...well, maybe not good, but—okay.
I mean, well maybe not okay, I mean.”

He sounded like Mr. Kimble tripping over his
thoughts in the television show, Green Acres. He saw the concern
grow in her face.

“He took a hard fall. It’s not been pretty, but you
know Jake, he’ll pull through.”

Fairchild interrupted Harmon.

“Did you make the call?

“No answer. I’m going there right after this. I’ll
give it my personal, face-to-face sir, and report back with said
subject with all due haste. In fact, I’m out of here.”

Harmon rotated in the opposite direction, but didn’t
leave until he gave Mika another workplace squeeze.

“Later, baby.”

Fairchild watched Mika watch Harmon head down the
corridor. When she turned back toward him, he just shrugged.

“Come on, Mika, I’ve got a lot of work to do if I
have to baby sit the FBI.”

She looked back down the corridor.

“Right, there’s a lot of work to do.”

The medical examiner, a gremlin of a man in his
early sixties, was anxious to explain the special nuances of
performing an autopsy to his newest assistant. The enthusiastic
young student hung on every syllable as if his career depended on
it. It did.

“You can hear what they’re saying if you know how to
listen,” Moss said.

“A forensic pathologist is a physician trained in
criminal investigation. Are you writing this down?”

Few of the other medical professionals there paid
any attention to the gremlin anymore. He craved the spotlight, so
they let him break in the new ones. The clinical and dire setting
of the morgue caused Dr. Moss to do his best to keep it as upbeat
as could, to take the edge off. The tiled room was Antarctica, with
extra-bright lights in the ceiling. The two of them wore Plexiglas
visors. The chemical smell, the discoloration of the human skin,
and the fact a man had been murdered was just some of the gruesome
details they had to deal with.

As he spoke into the microphone hanging over the
cold, dead man lying on the even colder stainless steel examination
table, a recording of his findings was made. For some stupid
reason, the man would mimic a Gestapo voice then he would lean over
the cadaver’s mouth as if the dead could answer.

“How are you feeling today, a little achy, muscles
stiff? Got a little gas?”

He thought he was hilarious. With scalpel in hand,
Dr. Moss proceeded with the “Y” incision. He recited the exact
location of the incision he was making.

“Left shoulder, drag, split the nips, raise, and
right shoulder.”

It sounded like a workout video, or dance
instructions. Moss glanced at his new recruit to see if he was
still standing. Most observers fainted, or dropped to the floor to
puke. From the right shoulder, he started another deep incision
that continued straight down toward the genitals. In this case, the
victim’s genitals were missing from their original location, and
lying in a plastic bag at the end of the table. The assistant
followed closely with his nose noting the escaping gas from the
body cavity wasn’t as strong as it should have been. When queried
about it, Moss explained the open wound had allowed most of the
gases to escape at the crime scene.

Moss also explained the difference between a slash,
and stab knife attack. The student simply looked on and didn’t seem
fazed at all. Moss figured he’d surely get to him when he reached
in with both hands and popped the victim’s brain out later. If the
“Y” incision didn’t get them, popping brain always did. Moss waited
for a laugh when he said he might take the man’s larger organ home
to surprise his wife. None came. Dr. Moss could only hope his next
assistant had a sense of humor. The job was tough enough without
one.

“What do you think God would say about what we’re
doing?” the student said.

Dr. Moss stopped, held the scalpel straight up, and
considered the question. Then he let loose.

“There is no God. I couldn’t do what I do, if I
believed there was. People do horrible things to each other all of
the time. Nothing stops them. If there was a loving, all-knowing,
merciful God, why would He allow that?”

The student considered Moss’s answer. He wisely let
it go. Their visors met.

“You’re right, doctor, there is no God.”

The future pathologist nodded toward the forensic
pathologist who wasn’t quite sure if the assistant was for real, or
just jerking him. It didn’t matter. It was time to get back to the
gruesome task he had started. A murderer was running loose on the
outside. Moss needed to finish the autopsy. After the “Y” incision,
Moss began sectioning the organs. Tissue color and stomach contents
were next. A ladle was used to scoop out the contents of the
stomach. Plain brown paper bags wrapped around both hands were
removed. The CST’s had bagged them to preserve fingerprints, and
any other evidence present beneath the fingernails. There didn’t
appear to be any defensive wounds. Moss made a special note.

Identification in this particular case was not in
question. Dr. Moss knew Thaddeus Abrams personally. Moss agreed
that dental x-rays for identification would be overkill, but he
still planned to have the forensic odontologist make an impression.
He thought that statement was hysterical, so he laughed. The
student just nodded.

Well into his first autopsy, Moss’s assistant
mentally prepared himself for what was coming next. He had heard it
was dreadful, but it would not compare to what he witnessed. Moss
moved to the head of the table. A body was a body, but a face was
different. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, words had come out
of the mouth, and thoughts circulated in the dead man’s head. The
smile on his face distinguished the man from others. After making
an incision along the curvature of Abrams’s hairline, Moss folded
back the face. With the electric saw elevated, he buzzed through
the skull. A fine white dust filtered up into the surrounding
airspace. It was similar to working on a home project in the
garage. Archaic as it seemed, Moss chiseled away the skullcap. It
made a popping sound and flew up. The assistant caught it inflight.
Out came Abrams’s brain and Moss held it up to the light as if he
had delivered a child.

The student felt like retching, but needed the job.
He remained standing. He also wondered if there were any last
thoughts trapped inside the exposed brain. Completing the autopsy,
Moss and the new kid labeled the blood, saliva and semen samples.
DNA would be analyzed. All Thomas Moss had to do was write the
report, which would cross the desk of his impatient and easily
annoyed boss. The demands of the position made the coroner a man
who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to impale anyone who approached
him at the wrong time, with shoddy work.

* * *

The cacophony outside Ed’s office door included
scratching computer printers, humming computer terminals, ringing
telephones, and fax machines. The “homelesscide” were there
too––homicide detectives with no home lives because they were
dedicated. They scurried from desk to desk, while conspiring to
stop the bad boys. The third-floor residence of the homicide
division was chaotic. It always was. Ed loved everything about it.
He was the glue that held it all together. Framed over his desk
were the words “Myth of Full Enforcement.” They were in bold red
letters. It was a constant reminder to him that not all of the law
was applied equally to everybody, and in spite of all of the
efforts of the good guys, some of the bad boys would get away. It
was ugly and dirty out there on the street, but he did his best to
make it all work. He shouted from his office door. Heads rose and
it got quiet fast.

“People. I want you to go out of the box on this
one, beyond basic police work. Above all, keep your heads. Do not,
I repeat, do not jeopardize this investigation in any way. This is
part of a federal investigation, and I don’t want this department
to look incompetent in front of the feds.

He paused.

“Also, most of us knew Dr. Abrams. He’s been a
friend of this department for years. He has been there for many of
us when we needed him. For that, and for the sake of his wife,
Anna, I want this perp found and brought to justice. Now you all
have work to do. I want all detectives in briefing room A in ten
minutes.”

They scattered like ants with their heads down, each
multitasking. All detectives within earshot of Fairchild’s command
hustled to the briefing room. Special Agent Mika Scott stood
outside room A’s doorway. Ed joined her there. Fairchild marveled
to her.

“The place has filled up since you left, with
energetic, aggressive females proving they can do the same job as a
man.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Mika said.

“Should I?”

He thought about it a moment then shrugged.
“The complaining is the same.”

Beneath the bright, buzzing, fluorescent ceiling
lights, Fairchild asked her if she thought it was quite a climb to
the third floor. He was referring to the floor they were on, and
the elevator that the architect neglected to add because the city
refused to pay for it. She didn’t care about the elevator.

“It’s a tougher climb into a man’s world.”

“Get anything out of the National Crime Database?”
Ed said.

“I checked right before I came up. Nothing we didn’t
already have.”

“You can start without me. I’ve got some calls to
make.”

Ed watched his subordinates file past then
disappeared into his office. Mika walked confidently into the
briefing room. Another FBI agent followed her in and quickly took a
seat after closing the door behind him. The male detectives in
attendance noted Mika’s striking features and strut. One whispered
to another.

“Monumental pair of credentials.”

“And an amazing pair of qualifications.”

The rest surmised she was sharp, intelligent and
prepared. Taking the hint from the second agent, everyone sat down
and stopped talking.

“Good morning. My name is Mika Scott. I’m a special
agent and profiler with the FBI. I even worked right here for
Captain Fairchild at one time.”

She added a stern warning.

“If any of you harbor any ‘misogyny’ keep it to
yourselves. For those of you with a limited vocabulary, that means
a hatred of women as a group. We have something far more important
to deal with than gender squabbles.”

She looked at each of them to reinforce her
point.

“We want to apprehend a serial killer before he
kills again.”

Both female detectives present gave a thumbs-up.

“Our most conservative estimates state that murder
is on the rise across the nation. Serial killing, in particular, is
becoming a national pastime. Humans are natural predators. Up until
recently that predatory nature has been controlled, and kept in
check by law, religion and television. Our over-entertained society
seems bored with simulated death. Now there are calls for televised
reality
executions on death row.”

She paged through her notes.

“Background, you should know. Serial killers come
from all occupations. You would suspect they are psychotic, or
deranged, and some are, but mostly they are your everyday variety
human, with a significantly low score in the feelings and
compassion categories. Some of them actually believe what they are
doing is normal and justified. I see a hand.”

A male detective had an observation he wanted
cleared up.

“You seem highly emotional about this case, Agent
Scott.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve been with the families of the
victims––all of them. They want closure. Our killer is increasing
his activity. The various crime scenes I’ve ben to, suggest
sadistic tendencies with sexual overtones. I want this one stopped
and put away.”

Another agent slipped into the room and stood off to
the side deferring to Mika. He was holding some papers. She smiled
at him then studied the detective’s faces for reactions.

“Statistically, eighty-five percent are male;
eighty-two percent Caucasian; fifteen percent are African-American;
a mere two-point-five Hispanic and the remainder is Native American
or Asian. They’re normally between the ages of twenty-two and fifty
years old. Eighty-seven percent are loners. It’s rare to find one
that is McNaughten Rule insane.”

Ed spots me as he leaves the briefing room, and
makes his way toward his office. I just entered through the double
doors at the end of the corridor. He waves me over. Along the way,
I say hello to several of my peers before reaching his doorway. The
grip of his handshake is firm. Some guys feel the need to turn it
up hard to establish control early on, but not Ed. His eyes are
those of a professional hunter and warrior––eyes that see
you
in a crowded stadium. They were eyes that noted every
characteristic, scar and tattoo. Standing before him, you could
almost see the mental notes he was writing in perfect
penmanship.

“Roberts, you’re abusing the payroll.”

“Stealing is a necessary form of survival. Steal a
little, all of the time. Steal a lot, and do the time.”

“You’re a lawman,” Ed said.

He isn’t quiet during all of this. Most of the
department is listening in on our private talk. Using well-chosen
words from his body language, Fairchild sits on the edge of his
desk and towers over me. There is no doubt he is in command. I take
it all in, the sights, the sounds and the smoke from his cigar.

“Did you got your act together yet?”

It’s clear to me that my tactic of blatant
disrespect, isn’t working and wearing him down like I thought it
would. I‘m no longer too proud to try for sympathy, so I go for the
man’s heart.