Killer Z (3 page)
T
he morning goes painfully slow for Larry Anderson.
Half the precinct called in sick with the flu. He twists his class ring around
his finger and misses home. The rings engraving reads
John C. Fremont Senior
High, Los Angeles, California, Class of 1981.
His last days in L.A. had been spent with K9s searching for bodies after multiple earthquakes destroyed
much of the coast. Many were still out there trying to rebuild, but his mother
insisted he relocate to D.C. She had moved years before with her fourth
husband, a retired chief of police.
“Is a football game on or
something? Everybody called in sick,” Larry says.
Alberto, his partner, shakes his
head. They have nothing in common. Alberto is young and spends way too much
time in the gym. Women liked real men, not pretty boys like that. In Larry’s
mind he looks like Bruce Willis, rough, heroic, and attractive. In reality
Larry is balding, built like an ox and has a tendency of offending women.
“Larry, is Pixel ready?”
“Yeah,” Larry mutters and glances
at the dog in the back seat.
The German Sheppard barks.
“Pixel is a stupid name for a
stupid dog,” Larry says.
“What crawled up your ass?”
“Just because some geek in
computer crimes made a stupid comment about her fur doesn’t mean it should be
her name.”
“Joe’s right, her fur looks
pixilated.”
“Whatever, I’m bored.”
“We’re cops. Being bored is part
of the job.”
Larry swishes his travel mug.
Adding vodka to his coffee keeps the stress away. He scowls realizing the cup
is empty.
“Larry, we got one!”
The radar gun clocks a truck with
a Minnesota license plate going 87 mph. Larry flicks on the red and blue
lights. Pixel’s eyes brighten and ears perk. The police cruiser zips into the
rushing I-270 traffic.
The truck pulls over under a
Burger Baron billboard. Larry collects Pixel as Alberto approaches the driver’s
window. He makes a
tsk
directing the dog to sniff the suspect’s car.
Pixel whines and pulls him into the grass.
“No stupid dog, this way.”
Pixel sniffs at the grass for a
moment, loses interest, and then finally sniffs the car for narcotics and
explosives.
“Car is clean,” he says and
returns Pixel to the police cruiser.
Alberto writes out a speeding
ticket as the radio cackles, “Security detail needed at the West Lawn of the Capitol Building. K9 requested.”
“C
heckmate,” Harry Riberdy says.
The vet moves the white
queen across the weathered chess board and tips over his opponent’s black king.
“Another ten dollars wasted,” Tom
replies and rises from the table.
“You need to focus on your end
game.”
Harry, a veteran of the
Korean War, shifts his weight on the bench of one of ten cement chess tables in
DuPont Circle. Congressmen, senators, businessmen, tourists and homeless vets
like himself could be found in the park any day of the week. He’s gained the
reputation of being a good player.
“Tom, are you heading out?”
“Yeah, I’m hungry.”
“Have you seen Riley?”
“Nope. How’s your favorite chess
buddy been doing?”
“Riley hasn’t been around for over
a week.”
Harry resets the pawns with his
right hand. The left arm and hand has been missing since the Forgotten War.
“Burger Baron is training newbies.
We could steal grub when they aren’t looking.”
Tom was once a banker but lost his
family and career to booze. Harry tried helping him but man is dedicated to
mooching.
“Nah, you go on. I want to reel in
a few suckers.”
“Have a good one, Harry.”
Tom leaves and Harry places thirty
two chess pieces neatly on the board. His 80
th
birthday is steadily
approaching. A guy dressed in slacks, a black dress shirt, and white shoes sits
down. Harry looks him over - a college student, probably an intern of some
sort. An easy target for sure.
“Twenty dollars a game, if you
lose I win twenty, but if you win, I give you twenty.”
“Wassup, I’m Greg,”
“Nice to meet you Greg, I’m Harry.
How would you like it? Fast and hard, or long and drawn out?”
Greg places two tens under the
chess clock timer and says, “Neither, how about I win.”
“You can try. What’s with the
flashy white shoes?”
“They’re comfortable.”
Harry shrugs as Greg concentrates
on the board. He’s good but makes a fatal error mid-game. Fifteen moves later
and Harry tucks another twenty into his pocket. As the college kid leaves he
wonders where Riley is. He recalls their last game.
“Morning, Harry.”
Riley, a tall, lanky African
American hospital maintenance worker sits down across from him. He’d been
coming to the park ever since his wife passed a year ago. He loses every game
but still comes to play.
“How was your weekend, Riley?”
“Oh, quiet,” Riley says as he
moves a black pawn forward two squares. “Kiddo was with her friends all
weekend, gaming again. I wish she would go to college.”
The “kiddo” is Riley’s twenty year
old daughter, Juliet.
“Your daughter, hell, this whole
country just needs to get outside more often. You want to lose in ten moves or
five?”
The janitor laughs and says,
“Ten.”
Riley creates a solid defense with
his white pawns but makes a foolish move and loses a bishop.
“I think she’s just sticking
around to look after me.”
“That’s not bad is it?” Harry says
and takes a rook.
Riley shrugs, not really considering
the idea.
“I don’t know what to do with
her,” he continues, his moves becoming careless. “Her mother was the most
beautiful, elegant woman I’ve ever seen but Juliet’s a mess.”
His voice lowers as he says, “I
need to tell you a secret.”
“What’s that?” Harry asks, not
wanting to be distracted and takes the queen with his knight. “It’s your turn.”
“Something bad is happening at the
hospital.”
A competitor impatiently stands
behind Riley. The janitor absently moves a pawn and leans in closer to Harry.
“People are getting hurt. I worry
something might happen to me…”
Harry checkmates Riley.
“Checkmate. Look, I’m sure
everything will be fine, man. Don’t worry so much.” Harry resets the chess
pieces as Riley rises. “Sorry, but I need to keep playing to pay the bills.”
“I pray to Jesus if something
where to happen to me someone would watch over my little girl.”
Harry looks at him. “If something
happens to you, I’ll help her. But nothing is going to happen, so don’t worry.”
Harry looks over the empty park
and stomach growls. Burger Baron doesn’t sound bad.
“Rebecca, I don’t feel like a
burger,” Michael says.
“You promised it was my turn to
pick.”
“But of all the varied and quality
cuisines in the metro D.C. area you have to pick Burger Baron?”
“I like burgers,” she says
petulantly.
“Fine, order and I’ll find
somewhere to sit.”
Several homeless loiter around a
drug dealer in the lobby. Michael tries looking casual and keep his distance. A
middle aged man dressed in a green flannel and stained blue jeans sits
alone. The redneck’s features are weathered. Thin silver hair is brushed
over the top of his balding head.
“Do you mind sharing your table?”
Michael asks.
“It’s a free country last time I
looked,” Fred says with tired eyes.
Michael sits down and says, “I’m
Michael.”
“Fred.”
“What do you do Fred?”
“Does it matter?”
Rebecca sits down with two burgers
and fries. She flicks a questioning glance towards Fred and Michael shrugs as
she hands him a burger. At the next table two men swap money for drugs.
Fred continues to eat and mumbles,
“Sorry, I’m tired. I’m a machinist for Crown, Cork and Seal.”
“Who are they?” Michael asks as he
looks at his sandwich and feels queasy.
“It’s a Coca Cola factory in Farmington, Minnesota.”
“Oh, we’re from Michigan. Where’s Farmington?” Rebecca asks.
“It’s a small town south of Minneapolis. We have the best steakhouse in the world. Last few years the kids have been
putting up murals with the local art teachers and everything looks real nice.
My wife likes that type of thing, so she helps out, but I’m into fishing.”
“With a six-pack?” Rebecca jokes.
Fred laughs and says, “Yeah, give
me a beer and a fishing hole north of the Twin Cities any day.”
Fred crumples his sandwich
wrappings and pushes the tray away.
“Well I have to be going. Nice
meeting you folks, have a nice day,” Fred says and leaves.
Michael’s food remains untouched
as Rebecca continues to eat. His phone chimes with a text message.
Where are you?!? -Mark
“You’re going to be starving by
dinner,” Rebecca says.
Rebecca’s being difficult, sorry.
How long? -Mark
Five minutes.
“Rebecca, we need to go.”
“But I’m not done.”
Rebecca leaves her unfinished meal
on the table and follows as he walks out of the restaurant. She remains sullen
and silent as they walk briskly down the sidewalk. An Asian tour group slows
them to a snail’s pace a block from the Jefferson Building. Roughly twenty
teenagers in identical blue uniforms maneuver the sidewalk with smooth,
snake-like precision. Michaels heart races and perspiration dampens his collar
as they come into view of the Jefferson building. Mark waves them over.
“I would have texted again but my
cell phone is acting up,” Mark says.
Next to Mark is Irina, a graduate
fellow from Russia. Mark and Irina make a striking couple. The petite and
friendly blonde provides a good contrast to the reserved, tall African American
man.
“Did I miss anything important?”
Michael asks.
“Only the mandatory homeland
security drill,” Mark says and fixes Michael with a disapproving glare.
“Veronica covered for you. Homeland Security drills are vital for preparing
against possible terrorist attacks and natural disasters.”
”The metro was running late,”
Michael says sheepishly.
Mark gives him a look and they
walk to the ceremony. They show identification badges and ids to security
personnel and enter the west lawn of the Capitol Building. Roughly seventy
guest’s mill around a stage built at the base of the stairs. Many are scholars
working at the Library of Congress or the Smithsonian; others are friends and
family of the award recipients.
Michael slips into the crowd and
shakes hands with various key guests. Rebecca makes quick friends a visiting Cambridge fellow, Dr. Mary Kinlan, and the two women fall into a conversation on
contemporary romanticism. Mark beckons for Michael at the podium. Standing next
to Mark is a tall, striking woman with sharp features and blonde hair cut
smartly at the jaw.
“…and that’s why the French lost
the bid on the original architectural design for the Capital Building,” Mark says to the blonde.
Mark, a D.C. native, always has a
story about the city’s history.
“This is Susan Bishop with Channel
9 News,” Mark says to Michael. “Susan, this is my colleague, Michael, the
brains behind today’s function.”
Michael cringes as crystal blue eyes
drill into him and says, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bishop.”
“Thank you. I only have thirty
minutes. John Hopkins is giving a press conference about a new designer drug
rumored to cure Parkinson’s disease later this morning.”
Two patrolmen with a K-9 patrol
the west lawn as the Asian tour group reappears and descends into the
underground visitor’s center of the Capitol Building. Next to the refreshment
tent are two men arguing. Michael recognizes both and excuses himself with a
bland smile.
“Hello gentlemen. Is there some
problem I can help you with?” Michael asks as he steps near Kyle and Fred.
Kyle glares at his father. His
cell phone rings.
“Screw the presentation and let’s
get my grandson,” Fred gripes. “I didn’t drive two days to wait on a bunch of
hoity-toity bullshit.”
“Screw you,” Kyle spits.
“Damnit Kyle! I want…”
Kyle angrily retorts, “You’re not
important. I don’t care what you want!”
People start to turn their heads
and watch.
“Not them again,” Fred groans
recognizing the approaching police canine unit. “Can this day get any worse?”
“Please gentlemen; this isn’t the
time or place. Please take your seats.”
Fred begrudgingly sits and Michael
returns to the podium. Kyle remains fuming near the refreshment tent. A dark
blue presidential limousine pulls to the curb. It slows as if to park but does
not come to a stop and speeds away. Whispers ripple through the audience.
“That was the president’s
daughter?” Michael stammers, shocked.
“I don’t know,” Mark says with a
puzzled frown. “I’m calling Director White.”
Ringing chimes from every cell
phone on the west lawn. Michael looks at his phone.
…Alert DC Alert DC… A Tsunami
Threat has been issued for the entire East Coast…This is not a drill… Follow
Evacuation Procedures…More information to follow. Alert DC Alert DC…