Shadows of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  Jason and the EMTs are gone by the time we enter the emergency room. A pleasant nursing assistant directs us down a hall to the left and we catch up to them just as they’re parking the gurney behind a cloth partition tucked away in the corner, away from other patients. The attending nurse, obviously briefed by the EMTs while en route, doesn’t say more than ten words before opening and spiking a new IV bag, which she hangs next to the gurney.

  “Gentlemen, give us some room,” she says briskly, shooing us from the curtained cubicle. She doesn’t ask what Faceman’s crime was, nor does she show any fear as she manipulates his forearms and hands in search of an adequate vein.

  It’s not her first shift among the wicked.

  Detective Sergeant Jason Sturman double-checks the handcuffs that secure the unhinged kidnapper to the gurney and then steps grudgingly away, waving for us to follow. Once out of earshot of the nurse and her patient, he turns and says, “This Onion King might just be in his head. He was saying some pretty outlandish things on the way here.”

  “Such as?” I press.

  “Well, he kept repeating what he said earlier, about her being Eight, as if that’s her name, and how he was going to fix her.”

  “Fix her?”

  “Yeah, I pressed him on that and all he’d say is that she’s broken, that she’s ruining her life somehow and he can fix it.”

  “How far gone is this guy?” Jimmy asks, tapping his right temple with his index finger.

  “He’s pretty baked. Probably should be institutionalized—and I’m guessing he will be after this little episode.”

  “Did he give you a name?” Nate asks.

  “No, but we can’t keep calling him Faceman. I think he likes it.” He unzips his jacket and lets his body breathe. “I talked to the jail ten minutes ago and they’re sending someone over with one of the mobile fingerprint scanners,” Jason continues. “If he’s ever been booked—and I’m betting he has—we should have an identification shortly.” His eyes are suddenly drawn to movement at the end of the hall. “And speak of the devil, here comes our scanner.”

  Lumbering down the hall in a Clallam County corrections uniform that must have been carved from a sultan’s tent is the biggest man I’ve seen since serial killer Pat McCourt leveled a double-barreled shotgun at me almost three years ago. He’s easily six-eight and three hundred pounds, though not an ounce of the man appears to be fat. His uniform ripples and stretches with each movement, as if holding back a nest of coiled car springs. Lieutenant bars adorn his oversized collar, looking small by comparison.

  “Now, there’s a man who’s never lost a fight,” I mutter to Jimmy.

  Jason greets the lieutenant with a handshake that looks like a botched mugging, and then turns our way. “Oak, meet Jimmy and Steps,” he says by way of introduction. “They’ve been wandering the woods with us half the day trying to find this guy. You ever need someone tracked down,” he adds, wagging a finger my way, “Steps is your man. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s scary-good.”

  We shake hands all the way around and I say, “Oak? Is that your first name or last?”

  “Just a nickname,” the giant replies. “Steve McKenna’s my given name, but no one calls me Steve, not since I was in middle school.” He eyes me. “How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, Steps isn’t exactly … well, it’s not really a name, now, is it?”

  “Came with the job,” I say. “That’s what happens when you follow footsteps for a living.” I could give him the long explanation, but I’m tired of the telling. I’ve recited the story so many times at so many crime scenes that I’m starting to hate my own sad history.

  Oak just chuckles and doesn’t push it any further.

  In the lieutenant’s right hand is a smartphone with an attachment at the bottom that adds four or five inches to the phone’s length. Closer examination reveals a small glass screen in the center of the attachment that’s not much bigger than a postage stamp.

  “You want to scan him,” he asks Jason, holding out the unit, “or can I do the honors?”

  “Oh, please,” the detective sergeant says, sweeping him forward with a gesture. As the big guy makes for the curtained partition, Jason adds, “Try not to scare him too badly.” Oak casts a glance back over his mountainous shoulder and grins.

  I suddenly pity Faceman.

  * * *

  Less than a minute later and without a peep from behind the curtain, the lieutenant emerges, his eyes fixed on the smartphone screen as he waits for a digital return.

  It doesn’t take long.

  “Murphy Haze Cotton,” Oak reads off the screen. “Twenty-seven years of age, last known address is on Down Street in Bremerton. No felonies, but several misdemeanor convictions for shoplifting, harassment, and threats.”

  Jimmy scratches out some notes as the lieutenant rattles off the info, which also includes an FBI number assigned to Murphy years earlier, and other data pulled from the National Crime Information Center, or NCIC, the national database that tracks criminal history, warrants, no-contact orders, and other crime-related information.

  “The guy is a nobody,” Oak says in summary.

  Jimmy finishes writing and mutters, “That may be about to change.”

  “Murphy Cotton—sounds like a brand of underwear,” I say, “or bedsheets or something.”

  Jimmy looks at me.

  “Murphy Cotton,” I repeat, stressing the words, but he still doesn’t get it.

  Retrieving the phone from his jacket pocket, Jimmy dials Diane. She answers on the first ring and in two condensed sentences he gives her Murphy’s horsepower—his identifying info, such as date of birth, height, weight, FBI number—and asks her to dig up as much as she can. He ends the call, stuffs the phone into his pocket, and stands there staring at me.

  “It does sound a bit like underwear, doesn’t it?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  An hour later we’re still waiting for the fit.

  Most jails have strict policies regarding an inmate’s condition at booking. Basically, they don’t accept ill or injured arrestees, particularly those who have blood seeping from wounds, are hypothermic, or have other conditions that may cause them to … you know … die.

  You don’t have to work in law enforcement long before you realize that the ridiculous mountain of policies and regulations one must abide by are there for a reason. In this case, aside from concern for the well-being of the inmates in their care, the jail doesn’t want the unpleasantness of a death investigation on the cell block, or the unwelcome attention of a press eager to exploit tragedy for the sake of ratings, or the lawsuit from estranged family members that is inevitable in such situations.

  Because of Murphy’s cracked ribs, sprained ankle, and borderline hypothermia—attested to by his chattering teeth when we walked him out of the forest—we have to follow procedure and wait for hospital staff to declare him fit for jail, which also limits our access and ability to fully question him.

  “He’s fit,” Nate mutters to himself halfway through the first hour. “Wrap his chest, wrap his ankle, and let’s go already.” His frustration is aimed at the hospital staff, though they’re just doing their jobs and he knows it. After you’ve done your share of fits, you get a feel for how it’s going to go.

  Murphy’s fit for jail.

  It’s a no-brainer.

  But it’s policy, so they go through the motions.

  A young nursing assistant arrives with a tray of food: chicken noodle soup, a can of ginger ale, bread, and cubes of raspberry Jell-O, which she sets on a table next to Murphy before hurrying away.

  Margaret, the hard but fair attending nurse, has by this time learned that Murphy Cotton had something to do with the young woman brought in earlier that morning, the woman who now occupies a bed in the intensive care unit and only recently regained consciousness.

  How she came across this information is a mystery, and to protect that mystery, she and I are care
ful not to make eye contact when she suddenly announces that it’s okay to interrogate Murphy right there in the hospital.

  “No waterboarding,” she says as she walks away. Without a backward glance, she adds, “At least not while I’m around.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The interview is frustrating.

  Jimmy seems to take it well, but I’d rather listen to a five-year-old try to explain the complexities of cold fusion than listen to Murphy’s ramblings for one more minute.

  As I stand at the curtained entrance to his semiprivate space, I’m struck by how different he looks after a little cleaning up. His eyes are still bloodshot from the OC, but his face is no longer stained by dirt and ugly tear streaks, his previously disheveled hair is surprisingly in order, and his disposition is relatively calm: no longer the wailing, blubbering mess that he was in the woods.

  Murphy’s appearance is unusual in other ways.

  Taken separately, his features would be of little note, but combined in the whole, they create the image of a slightly odd figure. Jimmy once mentioned a guy in his squadron whom the other airmen referred to as “Spare Parts” because nothing about the guy was symmetrical. One leg was longer than the other; one shoulder seemed to ride higher than its counterpart; one eye loomed larger; and even his hair seemed to favor one side of his head. It was as if someone took apart ten dolls and used one piece from each to build a wholly new doll—a Frankendoll.

  Jimmy assured me that Spare Parts wasn’t that odd, it’s just that subtle discrepancies add up, and you could tell at a glance that one thing wasn’t like another.

  Murphy gives off the same impression.

  His face is pockmarked, which isn’t all that unusual, and he has one prominent gray tooth at the front of his mouth that stands as a tombstone every time he smiles—and it’s a disquieting smile. His thin lips seem to pull tight and stretch over the rows of teeth like taut canvas as it reaches its breaking point. I half expect them to snap like rubber bands. And when they’re not stretched over his teeth, they’re constantly twitching, so much so that he seems incapable of giving them pause.

  Murphy’s ears are too big by half and his hands are remarkably small, the hands of a child. His hair is brown, and if the eyes are the window to the soul, then Murphy Cotton has no soul, for when I look into those dark wells, nothing looks back. They’re simply empty pools of infinite black.

  A soul could not survive such a place.

  * * *

  As Jimmy patiently weaves his way through their convoluted conversation, Murphy interrupts constantly, insisting that he needs to take Eight to his shop, so he can fix her. By this time, we know that the girl in the trunk is actually Charice Qian, recently reported missing out of Tumwater.

  When Jimmy tells Murphy her name, there’s no reaction.

  “I can’t help Eight until I take her to the shop,” he insists, injecting anger into the last word. “That’s where all my equipment is. If the conditions aren’t right I could make a mistake; I can’t have that. Eight is very important.”

  Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “She’s an even,” Murphy replies, shifting uncomfortably in the bed and then yanking on the handcuffs almost comically, as if he expects them to give way. “Odds have to be balanced with evens,” he finally says, settling back down.

  “Odd and even—as in numbers?”

  “Yes! Of course numbers!” He seems suddenly irritated, as if the question is silly or nonsensical. “Seven is an odd; that can’t stand. Everything has to be balanced, like a ledger.”

  Jimmy nods briskly, as if he knew that all along, and lets the question lie, shifting to another. “You mentioned equipment; I bet a guy like you has some pretty amazing stuff.”

  Murphy’s eyes brighten and his face bends into a proud smile. “You should see it,” he replies with childlike glee. “I had to do some serious hunting to find the right chair. Everything else I found on eBay and Amazon, but that chair…” He shakes his head to emphasize the scope of the challenge.

  “What do you use it for?”

  Before answering, Murphy glances around. Then, lowering his voice, he says, “It reclines. That’s very important to the process.” He nods, his features now serious. “OK says Eight is broken, and only I can fix her; it’s because I figured it out. I know how to make people better, even when they’re so broken they’re almost gone.”

  “What do you mean by broken?” Jimmy asks.

  “Broken,” Murphy snaps, as if the answer is self-evident. “Not the people they’re supposed to be.” He taps the side of his head sharply with his index finger. “They’ve chosen destructive behavior. Not thinking straight; not taking the path.”

  “The path?”

  “The life path! The right path. The path we all take, broken and unbroken, until we reach the door. Choices!” He nearly shouts the word. “We all make choices, only some make the wrong choices and have to be shown the way. Sometimes their choices have to be simplified, and then life becomes easy. Friends, limited choices, joy—these are the path to the door.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I hear Nate mutter to Jason. They’re just outside the curtained partition behind me, watching the interview in amazed horror.

  “Right, right,” Jimmy says, as if this were obvious. “But how do you fix someone like Eight and get her back on the path?”

  He moves closer to Murphy and drops his voice. “It would take a person with some amazing skills to do that. I just don’t think it’s possible.” His posture, words, and mannerisms are those of a confidant or devotee, one mesmerized by the suspect’s every word. If it weren’t for the handcuffs and Murphy’s hospital gown, they could pass for close friends talking in conspiratorial whispers over a beer in the local pub.

  “Oh, no!” Murphy says with a guarded laugh and a wave of his finger. “You want me to give away secrets, and I can’t do that; it’s all part of the transcendence. Besides, it would be cheating. OK told me—”

  “OK? You mean the Onion King?”

  “Yes,” Murphy says, drawing out the word. He scrunches up his nose. “Easier to call him OK, don’t you think? Besides, he doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Why’s he called the Onion King, anyway?” Jimmy asks casually, studying his fingernails intently, as if the answer carries no importance other than the weight of idle chatter.

  The corners of Murphy’s mouth suddenly shoot up into an exaggerated, impish smile, revealing large dimples for the first time. “He’s the king of Onionland.” The words burst from him as if born of electricity, sparked from the core of his tongue.

  “Onionland,” Jimmy says in an enchanted voice that almost goes too far. “I like the sound of that. Is that where you meet to do the fix?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve never met the Onion King three-dimensionally.”

  “Three-dimensionally?”

  “You know, face-to-face, like you and I.” He smiles. “It won’t be long, though. I think we’re almost ready for the revelation, and then I’ll finally meet him for the first time. I’ll stand beside him as we explain the process, and he’ll give me most of the credit—because that’s the way he is. In truth, I had most of it figured out before he provided the final piece.”

  “So, you’ve never been to his house?”

  “Oh, no,” Murphy says with a chuckle.

  “But he must live close, right?”

  “I suppose. We’re not really supposed to talk about stuff like that.” He gives a knowing nod. “For security reasons, you know?” He lowers his voice and leans toward Jimmy. “He has mentioned a few places in the Seattle area, so I guess I always thought he lived there.”

  Murphy looks suddenly startled. “I shouldn’t have told you that.” The timbre of his voice changes and he says, “He warned me to always be careful.” His face contorts into a tortured mask. “I tried. I did!”

  “To be careful?”

  “Yes, to not let it out; to not give it away.”

>   He sighs, his breathing now short and shallow. “I’m always careful—doing it just the way he told me, borrowing cars and always driving the speed limit.” He grows quiet a moment and turns to the side, rocking his body side to side as his mind begins to race. The smile is gone now, replaced by a dour face and eyes watered in misery.

  “He said to be careful. I try to be like him, but I’m not.” A small portion of the smile returns, and he gasps, “He’s so smart.”

  The words are reverent, worshipful.

  He shrugs his shoulders lightly. “It’s not that I’m stupid, least not compared to most people, but everyone’s stupid compared to the Onion King. I came up with most of the fix myself, even ran some early tests, but OK helped me make it better.”

  “Early tests?” Jimmy asks, hiding his sudden alarm. “On other victims?”

  “They’re patients,” Murphy snaps. “And of course not. I’d never experiment on humans. The only reason I can use the process on Eight is because I know it works.”

  Turning his body again, he leans closer and lowers his voice. “I’m not a real doctor,” he says, “but I consider myself a metaphysician. I’m still learning, reading books, that sort of thing, and my research helped me come up with the fix … to help people.”

  “So, you care that people are hurting?”

  “I care that they’re broken.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Murphy shrugs. “I’m good at fixing things—computers, game consoles, TVs, just about anything, and now even people.” He smiles and tries to extend his uncuffed right arm to show Jimmy the watch he fixed, but then realizes it was booked into evidence after his arrest. The smile fades; the arm drops to his side; the room grows quiet.

  “I like to fix things,” he says at length.