The Baby Squad

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Oh, how busy you must be,” Judy said with a smile.

  He nodded, pressing his rather feminine lips together.

  “Especially today,” Carol said, “as you must know.”

  “Today?” Judy turned to Natalie, who couldn’t help but look away. “Oh. You mean that business with the Marlowe girl and the pills?”

  “That and what happened, yes,” Carol said.

  “What happened?” Judy asked, her eyes wide. Natalie turned back to them, her heart beginning to pound.

  “They found the girl this morning. She was murdered, her head bashed in. Up at the Lakehouse.”

  “Oh, my God!” Judy cried. “Murdered?”

  “You can imagine what that means for our little community. Mr. Borrick is here to help us salvage the situation. We can thank Hattie Scranton for that.”

  “Yes,” Martin Borrick said, his voice betraying a slight lisp, “You are all indeed fortunate to have someone as dedicated as she is. We would hate to see her community besmirched by some pregnant Abnormal and a criminal one at that.”

  “You mean you think the killer is a woman?”

  “Of course,” Carol said. “Who else could it be but someone who was trying not to be revealed? And last I heard, men don’t get pregnant.”

  “How terrible,” Judy said, ignoring her caustic tone. She turned back to Natalie and shook her head.

  The waiter brought their mineral waters and lemon. “Have you decided what you’d like for lunch?” he asked them after he served the drinks.

  “Oh. I’ll have shrimp salad,” Judy said quickly. “Leave out the anchovies.”

  Natalie stared at the table. Her appetite was completely gone, but she didn’t want to reveal that. “Me, too,” she said.

  “You love anchovies,” Judy said, smiling.

  “What? Oh, yes, with the anchovies.”

  “Very good, ladies.” He took back the menus and left.

  Natalie sipped her drink.

  “So,” Judy said, leaning in toward her, “why are you so worried, so distracted, Natalie?”

  Natalie shot a glance at Carol Saxon. The woman looked as if she were listening in on their conversation, but she always looked as if she were eavesdropping on other people’s discussions. Nevertheless, it made Natalie nervous, very nervous.

  “I…”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know what to get Preston. As a celebration gift. I thought we could maybe go to Saks after lunch,” she quickly replied.

  “Oh. Oh!” Judy cried. “I have a great idea for you. Did you see that new briefcase with the built-in cellular, computer, and Web screen?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “You can get it engraved, too. The date and everything. How’s that sound?”

  “Perfect,” Natalie said.

  “Good. You had me worried for a moment. I thought you were going to tell me something absolutely dreadful. Like,” she said, nodding toward Carol, “we haven’t heard enough dreadful news for one day. Who needs any more?”

  Natalie nodded and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Who needs any more?”

  Five

  Ryan Lee stepped out of the CID jet and stood for a moment on the tarmac, gazing at the small but plush mountains that surrounded the Monticello airport. In his right hand he carried his investigator’s bag of goodies. It looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s medical bag, but his military-style haircut, his department-issue sunglasses, and simply his official-looking demeanor told even the most dull perceiver that this was no doctor, not in any medical sense.

  Although Ryan had never been in this specific community before, he had been in the southeastern New York region twice on an assignment for the state’s criminal investigative division, but only to assist a senior officer and to do what he categorized as gofer work: “Go for this, go for that.”

  Finally, he had been given his own assignment, handed something with real responsibility to do. It had taken him almost a year more than any other candidate and trainee, but he was well aware of the reason. He was, after all, the naturally born child of an Abnormal and thus considered inferior. It was the primary reason, despite his test scores and his achievements in preliminary training, that the Federal Bureau of Investigation still rejected him, and there was no way to employ an antidiscrimination law. The Supreme Court had ruled fifteen years ago that taking the method of birth into consideration was not discrimination in any pejorative sense. It was the right of any employer to choose the best-qualified personnel, and that applied to government employers as well. Natals were by definition superior to what were now derogatorily referred to as Abnormals.

  Ryan’s father was Chinese, and his mother was French. He had the classic Eurasian face, with striking dark eyes and the sort of high cheekbones models coveted. Asians were the most resilient group when it came to fighting for natural childbirth. His father had inherited that determination. Ryan liked to believe it was because he had a greater sense of heritage, a greater need to keep himself tied to his ancestors, but even most Asians had fallen in line after a while. He was truly an exception now, and he had to pay a price for that.

  For Ryan Lee, becoming part of the state CID wasn’t a terrible degradation, however. It was still a highly regarded police entity. The division of criminal investigations provided local police departments throughout the state with expert detectives. In some circles, it actually had as impressive a reputation as the FBI.

  Just after the beginning of the second decade of the twenty-first century, the burden for investigating murders and other serious felonies was taken off county and town police departments and shifted to the state police. It was logical to assume that no county or small city, could finance the education and development of a detective division sophisticated enough to practice modern crime-solving techniques.

  The NYSCID, as it was known, was educated and trained in a special facility resembling the FBI school at Quantico. Preliminary testing to qualify for the vigorous training quickly culled those who would have little or no chance at success. Ryan had scored at the top of his group and, at the CID school, always remained in the top 10 percent. However, once his background was revealed, his superiors always had the same reaction: they anticipated a breakdown, failure, the inability to contend with pressure whether it be physical or mental. He never failed them, and slowly, over time, he emerged as what they grudgingly called an anomaly.

  He proved just as effective and as efficient in the field as any Natal. Finally, he was called into the command office and handed this case: the apparent murder of a teenage girl in a small Catskills community. For him, more than any other officer in the CID, failure probably meant the glass ceiling. He would go not a step further in his career, and he would even be encouraged to back up and look for a lower-level police position. He had nightmares in which he saw himself directing traffic.

  At six feet two, firm, muscular, and athletic, Ryan had an impressive presence the moment he stepped onto a crime scene. He had a dark complexion with a strong, masculine mouth to complement his strikingly piercing eyes and high cheekbones. At school, he was affectionately called Captain Abnormal. In short, no one looked more the part, even the young men who had been born in the Natal laboratories with high IQs and genetically created physiques that rejected too many fat cells and were as easy to mold as children’s clay.

  Ryan’s voice had a thick timber, but he could be underestimated because of his seemingly aloof demeanor. The truth was, he not only heard every word spoken to him but read the nuances in the rhythm and tone of the speaker, his or her posture, the smallest eye movement, even a flick of the tongue. People, especially potential suspects, were truly like open books to him. He scoured every aspect of their being and targeted anything that triggered his own suspicions. He was an observer’s observer. It was as if Ryan Lee had a sixth sense when it came to crime detection, and this wasn’t something that could be programmed, even in a genetic lab. It fell into the realm of talent.

>   Despite his achievements and his apparent emotional armor, Ryan was sensitive to critical eyes, to those who he knew expected him to fail. His CID psychologist accurately diagnosed his obsession.

  “You want not only to be successful, Ryan, you want to prove you’re just as good as, if not better than, the Natals. In your case, that extra motivation gives you an added edge. You’ll hammer harder, turn over more rocks, sniff deeper cracks, go one more step than most of the trainees here. Just don’t let it destroy you,” he admonished. Then, with a smile, he added, “Ironically, you could lose your humanity faster than the rest of us.”

  The warning took a seat in the front row of his thoughts, but it didn’t slow him down, not yet. He was still on that mission, and this was a prime opportunity toward completing it.

  He drew a long, full breath and walked toward the police officer there to greet him. The policeman was accompanied by three women.

  “Henry McCalester,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Ryan Lee, fifth level, CID.”

  “Glad you’re here. This is Hattie Scranton and two members of her committee.”

  “Committee?”

  “We’re the Sandburg baby squad,” Hattie said proudly, even arrogantly.

  Although Ryan knew there were such groups in various cities and towns throughout the state, none of them had any real official sanction. They were the closest thing to old-fashioned vigilantes, and professional members of law enforcement were not happy about them or supportive. However, everyone recognized their political influence in their communities.

  “I see,” Ryan said.

  “We asked Chief McCalester to let us accompany him to meet you today so you could fully understand what’s going on here.”

  “Oh? What is going on here?” Ryan asked, noting how quiet and subservient the policeman was in their presence.

  “It’s a particularly nasty situation. The day before, this same girl was found with prenatal vitamins and pulled in by our baby squad to be examined.”

  “Was she pregnant?” Ryan asked quickly. It would hardly surprise him to hear that someone had battered an Abnormal to death.

  “No, we believe she stole those pills or got them from someone who is, and you know what that can do to a community,” Hattie replied.

  “I see.”

  “We hope you do see. We’d like to bring this to as quick a conclusion as possible.”

  The woman looked as if she had a backbone constructed out of steel and oil running through her veins. The only colder eyes he had ever seen were the eyes of the dead.

  “Those are exactly my sentiments as well,” Ryan said, gazing around as if he couldn’t wait to get out of this place.

  “Everyone is looking at everyone else, everyone who is of the age to become pregnant, I mean,” Hattie continued, not satisfied with his response. “A natural birth on top of this would be devastating for our community. We’re here to see that doesn’t happen.”

  Ryan winced but didn’t clear his smile. No one had told the local police or anyone else about his own background. He could thank Lieutenant Childs for that, he thought. He was giving him a chance to prove himself in the field without any added baggage. Besides, if no one knew he had been born naturally, no one would hold back his or her thoughts, especially these women, Ryan concluded.

  “I understand,” Ryan said as firmly and convincingly as he could.

  “We hope you do. We are going to make ourselves available at all times during this investigation. Chief McCalester knows how to contact us, and we’ll do all we can to solve this as well.”

  Ryan reluctantly nodded.

  “We welcome, no, we expect you to utilize us,” Hattie concluded. She paused as though she believed her words had to sink well into his brain before she could leave. Then she glanced at McCalester and turned away.

  Ryan and McCalester watched the three women walk to the terminal.

  “They won’t be looking over your shoulder,” McCalester said. Ryan was about to smile when McCalester added, “They’ll be on your shoulder.”

  “They haven’t been on the crime scene, have they?” he asked.

  “No,” McCalester replied. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t care if they want to parade around and show off their power, bullying people in your community,” Ryan said, “but the moment it even looks like they’ll compromise a murder investigation, I’ll make them wish they were investigating the black market for dogs and cats instead.”

  McCalester laughed. “I’ll be right behind you, about half a mile,” he honestly admitted.

  “Has the ME been to the murder scene yet?”

  “Everything’s waiting on you, detective. That’s the procedure.”

  Ryan grunted. How many times had he seen the procedure adjusted to fit the egos of local authorities?

  “Let’s just get right to it, then.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell me about the girl,” Ryan ordered, avoiding any small talk. CID officers as a type didn’t bother being overly polite. Once launched, they were robotic military machines. It was expected. People were going to jump when he made a demand, and he didn’t want to do anything to give anyone any doubts about him or his abilities.

  McCalester had so much to say, he talked almost the entire trip. Despite the size of the growing community, Ryan wasn’t surprised at how much Henry McCalester knew about Lois Marlowe and her family. He had been brought up in a town not much larger or more populated than Sandburg and remembered how much everyone knew about everyone else. So much of what was once considered private was public when it came to people’s histories. Employers had a right to view their candidates’ health and physical records, including their genome descriptions as well as their entire education and behavior records. It was easily accessible. What weren’t were the small nuances, the little things only small-town people knew about one another. When a wife complained about her husband’s snoring or a husband complained about his wife’s cosmetic bills, it was pretty common knowledge in a very short time.

  Historically, people became accustomed to personal revelations years and years ago. One by one, the privacy laws were abandoned in the name of the public good. Big Brother was in your face at plane and train stations, even by remote from taxi cabs. Sociological historians argued it was the natural progression of things. Ryan had seen some of the vintage television programs archived in which people on talk shows described the most intimate details of their marriages, their family lives, their own eccentricities. Nothing seemed very sacred by the end of the twentieth century, so why worry about your prospective employer getting access to your personal history? The word private had almost dropped out of the lexicon.

  “I roped off fifty meters in every direction,” McCalester told Ryan as soon as they started up the gravel road to the lake. It was the prescribed procedure, and he wanted Ryan to know he was far from some small-town, bumbling policeman.

  “Good. Anything resembling a weapon?”

  “Not that we could see immediately, but remember, we just protected the crime scene,” Henry made clear. He knew the CID hated local police authorities poking around before they had arrived.

  “Right.”

  Butch Decker was leaning against his truck, talking with Carl Osterman, Henry’s other deputy chief, when Henry and Ryan drove in. They stopped talking and looked toward the patrol car.

  “That’s the guy who found the body,” Henry quickly explained.

  Ryan nodded, grabbed his bag, and got out. He stepped forward, first to take in the environment before he even began questioning Butch, who looked at Henry and Carl and then, along with them, watched Ryan look first at the bike and then gingerly step around Lois Marlowe’s corpse. As McCalester claimed, nothing had been disturbed. The ants were still feasting. Ryan looked down at the lake and turned slowly toward the clearing behind and to the right.

  “Kids are always coming up here to park. It’s a regular lovers’ lane. Been that way a long time,”
Butch offered without any prodding.

  Ryan glanced at him, the short but intense look scrutinizing enough to make Butch nervous.

  “Call the ME,” Ryan told McCalester, who nodded at his deputy to go to the car.

  Ryan then knelt at the bike. He lifted it with a small steal rod he drew from his inside jacket pocket and studied the frame for a very long moment before lowering the bike again.

  “All right,” he said, approaching Butch. “Tell me about the discovery.”

  “The discovery?”

  “Finding the girl,” Ryan snapped back, his eyes so fixed on Butch he had to swallow and glance at McCalester.

  Did they think he had something to do with this?

  “I just, I mean, I just came up here on a work order. Pole 7001,” he stammered, “and started to eat my lunch first when I saw the bike.”

  “Not the girl?”

  “Not from back here. Look for yourself if you want. Go sit in my truck,” he said defensively. “You can’t see her even sitting up there.”

  “But you did see the bike?”

  “Right, and I wondered why it was there, so I got out and went to see, and that’s when I saw her.”

  “What did you do then?” Ryan asked.

  “I…” He looked at Henry. “I got sick for a minute and went down to the lake. Then I hurried back to the cab and called dispatch to get hold of Chief McCalester.”

  “Do you know the girl?”

  “No.”

  “Did you touch her or the bike?”

  “No. Hell no. I lost my lunch over that,” he said, nodding toward the corpse.

  “Did you see or hear anyone in this vicinity at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Show me where you walked exactly,” Ryan ordered. Butch did so, avoiding looking at Lois Marlowe. “Okay,” Ryan said. He turned back to the crime scene.

  “Okay?” Butch looked at Henry. “Does that mean I can go back to work?”

  “Sure, Butch. Go back to work,” McCalester told him. “We know where to find you if we need to find you.”