ColdScheme (3 page)

I wondered what I had compressed when I’d straddled Brick’s
body because I saw only remnants of tissue and bone, swimming in red mud,
drying up.

This was not dissolution of nondurable parts of the body. It
was just as Joe said, instant liquefaction.

“Could he have walked fifty feet after his chest exploded?”
Ken asked.

Joe gave him a “You from Mars?” look and said, “One second
and his mind registers that there’s something amiss. Two seconds and whatever’s
happening in his chest is powerful enough to lift him of the ground and three
seconds later, he is lying like roadkill on the hood of your car.”

“So he must have changed his mind when he got out at the gas
station and headed for the convenience store,” Ken speculated.

Joe nodded. “He made it to your passenger side fender when
it hit.”

“Would he be able to run and could he have been running?”
Ken wanted to know.

“Sure—run, swim, climb—he probably lived a normal life.
Well, as normal as any man who has that kind of nasty shit planted in his
chest. It may have been a pacemaker but it wasn’t for medical reasons.”

“How could you tell that he had a pacemaker?” I asked.

His finger hovered above the chest, in the vicinity of the
victim’s heart. “This is the focus of trauma. It started from here and spread
quickly, whatever it was that consumed tissue and bone. I’d say thirty seconds
post activation the toxic agent was no longer the strength that would pose harm
to the living. I don’t think it was an aerial agent. It didn’t linger or mix with
blood. Your hands are all right and you did the CPR on him. It was flat by
then. What I saw happening was just the tail end of a chain reaction, the kind
you can’t stop once it starts. The substance reacted in a flash. It became
inert in an incredibly short span of time. I don’t know anything, medical or
experimental, that can do that.”

“But why a pacemaker?” I insisted. Mysterious substances
were Joe’s territory. “Why not a bullet, or some other projectile?”

“Too small. From the amount of damage, it would have to be a
very hefty bullet. I’m sticking with an implant device, explosive and filled
with unknown poison. No projectile.”

“You just don’t want to be dragged into another argument
about walking ghosts,” Ken murmured. He had often argued with Joe about people
who lived for years with imbedded projectiles inside their body.

“He could have been a walking ghost.” Joe tilted his head,
holding the drumstick. “That’s what it had to be. He had to walk with that shit
in him for some time.”

I wondered whether I should spoil his midnight snack and
tell him that the victim had been missing for four years. I looked at Ken. He
blinked. I understood.

“Have you read any good medical research journals lately,
Joe?” Ken asked. Keeping abreast of the latest bizarre medical inventions was
another one of Joe’s hobbies.

Joe tossed the drumstick behind him. It landed on a gurney.
“Whatever that shit was, it didn’t come from Johns Hopkins, not legally that’s
for sure. I’m going to biop the tissues and send the blood samples over but I
don’t think there’s anything there to find anymore. You go and work on his
employment, hobbies, friends, family—a name might be nice to have too.”

“Jonathan Anderson Brick, age thirty-five,” Ken said. “His
wallet was in his jeans. The car ownership, registration and insurance were in
his car.”

“There you go,” Joe exclaimed happily. “You’ve got more than
enough to start pounding the pavement, looking for the nasty person who
executed him.”

“Executed?” we echoed.

Joe smirked. “What he had implanted into his chest wouldn’t
be cheap. It shouldn’t malfunction. Hell, our military would be rattled to know
that someone can do that sort of thing—you know, long-distance and on command.
He probably knew it was stuck in there but didn’t know how to get rid of it.
Even a crooked veterinarian would be tempted to report that kind of strange
device to the police. He must have known and couldn’t tell anyone.” He looked
down at Brick’s sharp profile, eyes now closed.

“Kidnapped, tortured—and executed,” I murmured.

“Four years between kidnap and execution,” Ken whispered
back. Joe heard him.

“What do you mean four years?” His head reared and his
features stiffened.

I nodded at the body. “Mr. Jonathan Anderson Brick is a cold
case in the truest sense of the word. Four years ago, he went out for popcorn
and pop to a 7-Eleven and never returned to his fiancé, waiting for him on a
couch in front of a TV.”

We went outside to hail a taxi.

“Do you think Joe will ever go into a 7-Eleven again?” Ken
asked, grinning.

“Probably not,” I chuckled, remembering the pathologist’s
shocked stare. “I should have said Nando’s Chicken. It would have saved us a
lot of money.”

Chapter Two

The morning clocked in with all the appropriate stress of
having guests. Jazz didn’t want to set a good example and take down the tent. I
stopped Mrs. Tavalho from doing it.

“Clean up or you’re grounded for the rest of the month,” I
said inhospitably. The girls shrank away. I had four hours of sleep and an
equal amount of fury burning inside me.

“I don’t hear any voice. Do you?” Jazz ignored me. She
turned to her friends for support.

“Jasmine, take down the tent and clean up the living room or
there will be no breakfast for you—or your guests.”

“I’m an orphan and orphans make their own breakfast,” she
declared and moved for the kitchen.

I was about to lose it. Mrs. Tavalho saw it and touched my
arm. She offered compromise. She would help with the tent removal and the
breakfast, while I should go check my messages. She heard my cell phone ringing
in my purse.

She was a wise woman. She knew why Jazz was so difficult
lately.

It wasn’t just the father issue but roots—mine. I was well
aware that the grade four had a new course, genealogical studies but it didn’t
diminish my resistance to give out information on this dangerous topic. I told
Jazz that she should consider herself lucky to have a caring, devoted
parent—her mother. These last few weeks, there hadn’t been a moment of truce
between us.

I returned Ken’s message. I would pick him up in my Acura.
Mrs. Tavalho had a car and the kids would be picked up by a school bus.

“Was I named after someone in our family?” Jazz welcomed me
to the breakfast table.

I ignored her question. “I’ll leave you a message on your
cell phone before three o’clock, to let you know whether I’m going to be late
again today. If I can’t make it home before five, you have the key. Have the
sandwich Mrs. Tavalho prepared and put in the fridge. I’ll pick up something on
my way home—or we’ll order a pizza.”

“I’ll stay until you make it,” the housekeeper said. “Don’t
worry.”

“My partner and I just fell into a blender. It’s not
promising to be something that we can close quickly.”

“I’ve done my gardening early,” she said. “There’s nothing
to do for a while. My family doesn’t need me to pitch in. I don’t mind.”

I was grateful but it was time to leave the house before the
other shoe dropped.

I made it to the door.

“There are agencies that help search for kids and parents
who want to find each other,” Jasmine’s voice floated after me.

“Make sure you mind your manners when you’re dealing with
agencies and government people, or you won’t get any cooperation,” I said and
ran.

I lived on Dellwood Avenue, just west of Johns Hopkins
University. Ken lived further west, on Ulman Avenue. It took me ten minutes to
get there. Brenda lived east of the University. Ken claimed that it was a
balancing act. It allowed him to see the sunrise and the sunset. I wondered
whether he got to see both at the same time.

We took the 83 downtown, exited at East Fayette and five
minutes later, were in our parking lot.

Our Unit Supervisor, Ernst Miel, had retired in January. The
Homicide administration had decided not to fill this position. On an interim
basis, we reported to Newton Bourke, one of the three Shift Commanders. He was
fifty-three and had learned most of life’s hard lessons from experience, not
books or hearsay. His thoughts took the shortest path to become words. Had he
not liked to speak his mind, he would have made captain by now. His gruffness
was textured with humor and all those who had worked for him over the years,
liked him.

“I heard you struck pay dirt last night. It’s going to be a
long time before you get to wash your car,” Bourke greeted Ken. He continued.
“A curious situation. A scorching-hot homicide but it’s yours. I can’t remember
when a cold case came back to life, only to leave it in a hurry…or whatever it
was Joe had said…victim drowned in his own liquefied tissues. And that’s after
his pacemaker slam-dunked him on to the hood of your car.” Bourke nodded at
Ken.

“Did Joe come up with something new?” I murmured.

Bourke grimaced. “Yes. But I don’t need a medical examiner
to get me fired. I can do that by myself well enough. All I have to do is march
into Halpern’s office and lay him out with an uppercut. I might even enjoy
that. What the hell is a battery-powered micro-shock hammer trigger?”

I looked at Ken and sighed. “Joe went to catch up on the
latest developments in medical journals, probably right after we left. He must
have flown over to Hopkins, delivering those tissue and blood samples by hand,”
I said.

“I’m not even going to print out that preliminary report he
emailed me,” Bourke threatened. “A gadget, similar to a pacemaker, had been
implanted in the victim’s chest. This alien marvel contained a triggering
device—this battery-powered micro-shock hammer—which, when a signal was given,
sparked and blew up the victim’s chest. What kind of immediate cause of death
is that?” he demanded.

“Explosive,” Ken deadpanned.

“You print out that piece of shit and then fill it with a
story that the victim ran around for four years with a bomb planted in his
chest and I’ll sign it. But I’m not reading that micro-shock shit again. He was
an economist, for God’s sake, a research assistant with the International
Monetary Fund, not a guinea pig for alien mad scientists.”

“It’s probably the four years, running around, that made Joe
plunge into those futuristic medical journals—and visit Hopkins,” I commented.
“When he disappeared, Brick was an economist with the IMF, working at their
Langtry Office, developing mathematical models in their statistics division.
But when we found his body last night, in addition to his own, he carried on
him eight different identities—none of them even remotely connected to
economics.”

“Like I said.” Bourke smiled. “You’re going to have a busy
year, checking out alternate identities. It’s your case. Go solve it,” he said
and dismissed us.

“Micro-shock,” Ken murmured, when we were already outside.

“Joe’s appetite sure could use a macro-shock,” I said and
got in the car.

“Meg,” Ken grabbed the wheel. “Before we start checking out
all those IDs, why don’t we drop by Mongrove?”

“Brick’s fiancé is still languishing in the psychiatric
facility?” I was shocked.

“Brenda checked it for me. Patricia’s never made it out, not
even on a day pass.”

Brenda was a pediatric nurse at Johns Hopkins. We dropped
by, now and then, to have a quick lunch with her. She would have connections to
check on the residents of a psychiatric facility.

Mongrove was in Brooklyn Park. The building was a colonial
brownstone with white columns. It sat in a tranquil setting, surrounded by
asphalt, industrial storage units and abandoned rail tracks. I heard wounded
screams from gulls and seabirds, scavenging for food across the barren concrete.
I felt it didn’t bode well.

Inside, it was just as majestic and impressive as the
outside structure. The unspoiled ceiling soared. The bare stone staircases rose
in regimented straight lines. The building was untouched by man’s rabid
progress into the twenty-first century. It looked as inviting as it did two
centuries ago.

That’s when it rose, to threaten the neighborhood. We saw
steel-meshed screens, covering every opening larger than a mouse hole.

“We haven’t had our grant approved this year yet.” A young
resident doctor welcomed us with those words. He continued, “That’s why there
are no fences outside. We’ve just about covered up everything inside. We’re
hoping and praying that grant arrives.”

He was about my age and not a type I’d picture sitting in a
worship shrine, praying. He had approached us as if the huge floor of this
stone-padded fortress was a stage, with arrogance. His honey-blond hair was
nearly as long as mine. I longed to ask him for the name of his hairdresser. I
loved his layered shag. It gave a new meaning to authority when he tossed his
head. My instinct told me that he was one of those trick-or-treat people. If he
liked us and was having a good day, he would be witty, glib and droll. If we
pissed him off, he would turn into a King Cobra.

“Maximum security?” I asked with a careful smile. He must
have liked my effort because he used wit to carry us over these difficult first
impressions.

“Minimum staff,” he panned back, his slate eyes sparking.
“We’re a State-funded institution. How do you do? I’m Doctor James Patterson,
the Chief Resident here.”

I introduced us and handed him our business cards. He
wordlessly tapped his chest pocket with the chipped plastic nametag. The
gesture glibly drove in his point about the economy status of the facility.
Still, no matter how good, I thought he was too young to be a Chief Resident.
Mongrove was a huge State facility. Places like this would be filled to
capacity, because of the economic structure of our society—the ratio. Only two
percent of our population fell into a category that would eschew state-funded
facilities. The rest would opt for State assistance, when the joy of living
sanded them down to screaming level.

My curiosity was itching. I asked.

“This is a demanding job,” Patterson replied, nose
quivering. “But I have to admit that there were not too many challengers
clamoring after this position. I applied in the morning, had my interview at
noon and by four o’clock, I was already serving a night shift.”

I decided that I liked him. Ken explained why we were here.

“Patricia Vanier,” his forehead creased with wrinkles. I
felt this disturbance was not serious, merely a convention. “If you’re lucky,
she won’t shut up. Then again, if you’re lucky, she won’t say a word.”

“So the extremes are tolerable but anything in-between is
risky?” I smiled, understanding.

He whistled at me with his eyes. “You’ve got it. It’s the
long stretch of violent history and roaming, between the extremes, that has
kept her here for four years. She’s approachable when she talks, even though
it’s a disjointed, one-sided conversation. She normally stays in one spot,
without gestures and words pour out. She’s tolerable when silent, because she
doesn’t move. It’s when she strikes out at the residents or staff and roams,
that restraints must be used.” He sank his hand into the pocket of his lab coat
and motioned with his head. The shaggy mane whipped around his shoulders,
forcing us to turn.

“Our monitor,” he said.

I was surprised to see such a huge screen. I had thought it
was a sheet.

He continued, “I thought you’d like to take a look first,
check the situation. This is for the visitors, the loved ones with fragile
disposition, who want to see the family member but would be overcome with
emotions in a physical setting. Then again, some of our residents might find
physical intrusion disturbing—spying on them. This is for the benefit of both
parties.”

We were lucky. Patricia Vanier was in a talkative mood. She
was a thin, frail woman. She didn’t look older than her true age, thirty-four.
She had a crew cut. It was a necessity in a place with minimum staff to provide
grooming care. She was dressed in a dingy beige tracksuit. Her face was pale
but not ghostly. I couldn’t find anything outstanding. Her features were
competent. Her nose was an appropriate size for her small, round face.

I imagined that four years ago, she would have been one of
those pleasant young women who dressed in suits and always wore pantyhose, even
in summertime, prim and proper. She would have been a perfect companion for an
economist. She was in a lounge behind us, inside a steel-mesh screened area. It
was populated by surreal, swaying figures. No one milled around.

I wasn’t a relative and this wasn’t a visit. I smiled at
Patterson, thanked him for the show, turned and approached the real-life
situation.

In addition to thick walls, the place had to have extra
insulation in the patient areas because the lounge was quiet. I was ten inches
away from the meshing. All I could think about was that I was listening to a murmur
of voices in a distant cavern.

“You picked a good time to visit,” Patterson’s voice sounded
behind me. “It’s quiet. Two weeks from now, the night of the full moon and this
lounge would scare you away.”

“Do lunar cycles really affect…” I looked at him. His tone
was flat. I couldn’t tell whether he was in the trick or treat mode.

“We have twenty-five years of studies that say so.” He
nodded. His shaggy hair only stirred. He had to be serious. “She’s over there,
by the wall.”

In real life, much like on the screen, Patricia Vanier was
having an animated conversation with a blank wall. Next to her, leaning against
the whitewashed masonry, dispirited and wanton-looking, was a young woman. She
reminded me of Brenda. Ken noticed too. I glanced at him. He started to bite
his lips.

Patterson sent in two orderlies. They guided Patricia
outside. We went to sit at the table in another fenced area.

The doctor nodded at me and spoke to her. “Patti, you have
visitors. This is Detective Stanton and Detective Leahman. They would like to
ask you a few questions. Do you feel like talking to them?”

No sooner had his words sounded than the floodgates burst. I
motioned to Patterson to let her carry on a one-sided conversation for a while
and then nodded at him again to intervene, since this was his territory. He
knew what to do.

“Patti, these police officers want to ask about Johnny.”

It worked. The torrent halted. Patterson gave a sign with
his hand to ask questions.

“Patti, do you remember the last time you saw Johnny?” I asked.

“They were following him. They pushed and pulled him. They
kidnapped him. They hurt him. He had bruises, chicken tracks. They made his
head throb. They put greasy things inside. He wouldn’t let me touch it. I
couldn’t kiss it. It smelled of chicken. Johnny wanted to run. We wanted to run
away. The islands. The chickens can’t swim across the channel. They tortured
him.”