Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  That’s why she had joined the force right out of college and remained part of it. Even if she had come to realize that some of the good guys weren’t so good, some of the bad guys weren’t so bad, and that “justice” was often in the eye of the beholder.

  The sixth floor was home to the Chief of Detectives, her staff, and about sixty “real” detectives. “Real” being Lee’s designator for people who logged more street time than chair time. All of them were housed in an open area that had been subdivided into a maze of cubicles called the bull pen.

  Of the larger force, only twelve men and women were members of the elite Special Investigative Section charged with going after the city’s most dangerous criminals and taking them off the street. That was the unit Lee belonged to—and the one Conti wanted to join. She led him back to the corner where half of the S.I.S. detectives were gathered around a long table. All of them were dressed in variations of street clothes and said their hellos as Lee and Conti sat down.

  Deputy Chief of Detectives Ross McGinty was there along with Assistant Chief Sean Jenkins. What hair McGinty still had was military short. His eyes were the color of faded denim, his face was narrow, and his lips were thin. “Well, well,” he said. “What have we here? Detective Lee and Detective Conti. A word to the wise, Conti. In spite of what Lee may have told you, members of the S.I.S. team are expected to show up for roll call on time.”

  Lee smiled sweetly. “Conti made me stop for breakfast burritos. That’s why we’re late.” Nobody believed that, and, with the exception of McGinty, all of them laughed.

  They spent the next half hour on HR stuff, arrangements for an interdepartmental softball game, and updates on active cases. “Thanks to Detective Howe and his team, the Bradley brothers are living in the slammer now,” McGinty told them. “But our work is never done. Now there’s a new set of assholes to deal with. They call themselves the Freak Killers, or FKs, and claim to be folk heroes out to protect norms from the plague.”

  He looked from face to face. “And they are mutant killers. They’re killing mutant merchants who enter the city on short-duration visas. There have been three murders so far, which means we need to find the FKs and do it fast. Once this meeting is over, Lee and Conti will report to my office for a briefing.”

  Lee felt a rising sense of anger. The mutant thing was a shit detail . . . McGinty’s way of punishing her for calling him “a jerk” two weeks earlier and for being her father’s daughter. Frank Lee and Ross McGinty had been partners once. Back when both men were patrolmen. And, according to the stories she’d heard, they’d been friends. Then something happened. No one knew what led up to it, but there had been a fistfight. McGinty came out on the losing end of it and, according to departmental lore, had been pissed off ever since.

  The meeting ended shortly thereafter, and the two detectives followed McGinty to his office. Jenkins, coffee mug in hand, brought up the rear.

  In contrast to many of his peers, the walls of McGinty’s office bore no pictures of him shaking hands with the mayor, accepting a commendation, or fly-fishing. And every item on his desk had a purpose. It was as if everything about the inner man was locked away. “Okay,” McGinty said as he pushed a pair of manila folders across the desk. “Here’s what we have on the Freak Killers. They are both an underground hate band and a gang. Their leader is a three-time loser named Cherko. His street name is Popeye.”

  Conti opened his folder. “Like the cartoon character?”

  McGinty shook his head. “Nope. This Popeye has protruding eyes. Thus the name.”

  Lee was looking at a mug shot by then. Cherko had no visible eyebrows, which served to make his bulging eyes even more noticeable. In that particular photo, he was sporting a nose stud, a “fuck-you” smile, and a goatee that was supposed to hide a weak chin. “So what have we got?”

  Jenkins had black hair, green eyes, and brown skin. “Popeye has a tendency to shoot witnesses,” he replied. “But one of them survived. She was married to victim three. We have a hold on her.”

  “How ’bout family?” Conti wanted to know. “Does this piece of shit have one?”

  “He had a mother as of six months ago. That’s when he was released from Corcoran,” McGinty answered. “But it looks like she has moved since then. Another family is living in the apartment now.”

  “Or Cherko moved her,” Jenkins offered. “It’s all in the report.”

  “Okay,” Lee replied. “That brings us to Conti here.”

  McGinty frowned. “How so?”

  “I don’t want a partner.”

  “Nobody cares what you want.”

  “He’ll get himself killed, or worse yet, get me killed.”

  “You’re way out of line,” Jenkins said ominously. “Conti has an outstanding record. That’s why he’s being considered for the S.I.S.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Lee looked from face to face and knew it was time to back off. “Okay . . . We’ll find Cherko.”

  McGinty looked as if he might be about to say something, didn’t, and nodded. “Get out of my office.” They did.

  * * *

  Lee left the office, cut across the room, and was out in the hall by the time Conti caught up with her. He reached forward to grab an arm, and she turned on him. “Don’t touch me.”

  Conti allowed the hand to fall away. He was angry and let it show. “What was that all about? You don’t even know me!”

  As Lee looked at him, Conti saw something unexpected in her eyes. Sadness? Yes, he thought so. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t know you. And I don’t want to. Because if I do, I might come to like you—and the people I like have a tendency to die. Look it up Conti . . . I’ve had five partners since I joined the force. Two of them are dead.”

  Conti shook his head. “I don’t need to look it up. I did my research . . . And three of them are alive.”

  Lee looked away, then back again. “Okay, Romeo . . . Have it your way. Let’s find Popeye.”

  After retrieving the car from the parking garage, Lee drove it up and out into bright sunshine. She put a pair of shades on at a traffic light, checked the rearview mirror, and drove the car onto 101. That took them east to the North Soto Street exit. From there it was a short ride to Morengo, State Street, and the hospital.

  It had been the Los Angeles County General Hospital once. But that was before a terrorist who called himself Al Mumit (the taker of life), turned Bacillus nosilla loose on the world in 2038. The bioengineered bacteria was delivered to Kaffar (unbelievers) all around the world by 786 shaheed, or martyrs. Some were elderly couples, some were students, and some were infants. All chosen because they had spotless records, looked Western, or were clearly innocent. Like the babies.

  Twenty-two of them were prevented from entering the country they had been ordered to attack for one reason or another but the rest got through. Once they became ill, the shaheed sought out sports events, music festivals, and transportation terminals. Any place where there were lots of people.

  The results were just what Al Mumit had hoped for. Bacillus nosilla spread, thousands fell ill, and unknowingly communicated the disease to others. Within a matter of weeks, hundreds of thousands were infected—and they swarmed hospitals like Los Angeles General demanding a cure that didn’t exist.

  Sadly, people who were trying to get medical attention for the flu or some other common ailment contracted the plague while waiting in line. Some of them dropped dead and were stacked like cordwood until such time as hazmat-suited sanitation crews could come and haul the bodies away.

  Lee hadn’t been born yet. But her father was twenty-three at the time and a street cop. He told her about the panic, the lines that stretched for miles, and the violence that took place as people tried to crowd in. Neighboring Hazard Park had been fenced off and turned into a holding area where exhausted medical personnel worked day and night to sort people
into three categories: those who were dying, those who might be infected, and those who were okay. Unfortunately, very few people fell into the third group.

  Some people survived the disease but suffered terrible mutations because of it. Of that group, some were carriers, and others weren’t. That made no difference however. “Norms,” meaning those who were found to be free of disease, didn’t want to mix with those who were infected, or to witness what B. nosilla did to its victims. So the mutants were forced into “recovery camps.”

  But it wasn’t long before the recovery camps were referred to as “relocation camps,” and the mutants were shipped east into states like Idaho, Nevada, and Wyoming. Meanwhile, a similar sorting process was taking place in other parts of the country. That resulted in the creation of norm-run states like Pacifica on the West Coast, Atlantica in the Northeast, and the Commonwealth in the Midwest.

  Meanwhile, mutants took charge of the Republic of Texas, which lay east of Pacifica, as well as the New Confederacy in the Deep South. Territorial disputes had been common during the early years, and wars had been fought, but a new normal had evolved. And the government of Pacifica wanted to preserve it.

  The sign over the entrance to the hospital read: THE CALIFORNIA CENTER FOR INFECTIOUS DISEASES. But in all truth it was there for the purpose of treating one disease, and that was Bacillus nosilla. Before they could enter the hospital, the detectives had to pass through the screening center and put on disposable masks with the word VISITOR printed across them.

  Most of the staff were wearing masks that had been customized to look arty, funny, or featured caricatures of themselves. Such devices were popular on the streets as well—where many wore them for extra protection. Because so-called passers, meaning mutants who looked normal enough to “pass” as norms, continued to infiltrate Pacifica, hoping to better themselves.

  After showing their IDs to the security guard at the front desk, the detectives were allowed to enter the lobby beyond. The witness’s name was Reba Fuentes, and she was staying in room 326, awaiting a clean bill of health and the legal clearance that would allow her to leave LA.

  An elevator took the detectives to the third floor, where the doors opened onto a nurses’ station. Conti showed his ID, and the detectives were sent down a hall to room 326. The door was partially ajar, and Lee knocked. A female voice said, “Come in.”

  After pushing the door open, Lee stepped into a small, cell-like room that had a window, a hospital bed, and hookups for various types of medical gear. A woman stood as they entered. Like most females traveling in norm-controlled territory, she was dressed in a head-to-toe burqa or “baggie.” It was midnight black, and all Lee could see were two brown eyes. And even they were partially obscured by a strip of horizontal mesh. “Mrs. Fuentes?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Fuentes said hesitantly. “They told me that someone would come.”

  The woman’s voice was soft and had a tremulous quality. Lee could understand that. Mrs. Fuentes had lost her husband, was a long way from home, and surrounded by millions of people who feared and in some cases hated her. “I’m Detective Lee—and this is Detective Conti. We’re here to talk to you about your husband’s murder.”

  There was only one chair, and the room felt crowded. “We passed a lounge on the way in,” Lee said. “It was empty. Why don’t we talk there?”

  * * *

  Mrs. Fuentes allowed the detectives to accompany her to the lounge. She could smell herself and wondered if the normales could do so as well. It was difficult to keep up with the drainage. Gary had sworn that he couldn’t smell the pus, but that was a lie. “A love lie,” her mother called it—and proof of his feelings for her. And now he was dead. Killed the way she would swat a fly.

  Were the normales really trying to find Gary’s killer? Or were they going through the motions? From what she could see, the woman was pretty . . . Like the pictures in old magazines. It was difficult to believe that such a person would avenge her Gary.

  * * *

  Lee ushered Mrs. Fuentes into the lounge and closed the door. There was a table and chairs to sit on. Conti placed a small device on the surface between them. “This machine will record everything we say.”

  Through a combination of good luck and skill, most of Pacifica’s commercial infrastructure was still up and running. But according to news reports, tech-related services were spotty in the Republic of Texas, where some residents saw the plague as a message from God. Specifically, Revelation 15:1. “And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God.”

  Mrs. Fuentes nodded. “I know about such devices. That’s why Gary and I came to Los Angeles. We have a shop . . . Had a shop . . . Where Gary would take broken machines and make them function again. But he needed parts, so we came here to buy them.”

  The burqa rustled as Mrs. Fuentes brought a white handkerchief up to dab at her eyes. There was something universal about the gesture and the grief associated with it. “I’m sorry,” Lee said sympathetically. “I really am. But we need to hear what happened so we can find the person who killed Gary.”

  Conti cleared his throat. “That’s right. What happened?”

  Mrs. Fuentes looked down at her lap. “We crossed the border at the Blythe checkpoint. Then we rode a bus to LA and rented a room in Freak Town. Gary placed an ad on the computers that night.”

  “The Internet,” Conti suggested.

  “Yes, the Internet.”

  “What did the ad say?” Lee wanted to know.

  “It said that Gary wanted to buy used hard drives, video cards, and old motherboards.”

  Conti turned to Lee. “Chances are Popeye looks for ads like that . . . He knows it’s the sort of stuff a mutant would buy—and that a mutant would have to carry gold.”

  Lee looked at Mrs. Fuentes to see if Conti’s use of the word “mutant” would bother her. The mesh in front of her eyes made it hard to tell. One thing was for sure however . . . Something smelled, and Lee thought it was Mrs. Fuentes. Almost anything could be concealed under the baggie. A shriveled limb, a misshaped torso, or an open abscess. “Yes,” Mrs. Fuentes said. “The ad was a mistake. But it was our first trip, and we didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Conti said sympathetically. “So you were there? You witnessed what happened?”

  “Yes. The man you call Popeye sent a message. He said he had components to sell. Gary agreed to meet him across from a restaurant in Compton. We went there by taxi. I wanted to keep the car, but Gary said no, that would cost too much money. So we waited. A gray especiale passed us two times.”

  “They were checking you out,” Lee observed. “Looking for a trap.”

  “Then the car stopped,” Mrs. Fuentes said. “A man got out. He had bulging eyes and rotting teeth.”

  “This man?” Conti inquired as he pushed a picture of Cherko across the table.

  “Yes.”

  “So he wasn’t wearing a mask.”

  “No.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “The man got out of the car and spoke to Gary. I was too far away to hear what was said. But it was only a minute or two before the man pulled a pistol and shot my husband in the chest. Then he spit on him and called him un maldito mutante.

  A fucking mutant, Lee thought.

  At that point, Mrs. Fuentes started to sob, and Lee circled the table to put an arm around the other woman’s shoulders. The smell was worse than before. “Then what happened?” Conti asked.

  “I ran. He shot me in the back. The impact threw me forward. It hurt, but I knew he would come, so I played dead.”

  Lee returned to her seat. “And it worked.”

  “Yes. He kicked me. It was hard to remain silent, but I did. Then he went back to get Gary’s money belt.”

  The interview came to an
end shortly after that. Lee signed the legal release that would allow the mutant to leave the hospital—and promised to let her know when they caught Popeye. “So,” Lee said, as they left. “Tell me, Romeo . . . What, if anything, did we learn?”

  “Not a damned thing. Everything she said was in the initial reports.”

  “That’s right,” Lee agreed. “You were paying attention.”

  “Does that mean I can drive the car?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Conti grinned. “Just checking.”

  They went to lunch after that, followed by a long afternoon spent chasing leads that didn’t produce anything. Around four thirty, Lee parked the car in front of her apartment. Lee got out and Conti came around to the driver’s side. “One last thing,” Lee said as she looked up at him. “You gave Mrs. Fuentes something just before we left. What was it?”

  Conti looked embarrassed. “Fifty bucks.”

  “You’re a sucker. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Here’s twenty-five,” Lee said as she peeled some numoney off a small roll and handed it to him. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Conti wanted to say something, but Lee was walking away.

  Once inside her apartment, Lee traded her street clothing for a tee shirt and shorts. Then she went out for a five-mile run. The badge and the revolver added some weight but made her feel more secure. Lee was careful to vary the routes she used, but all of them took about thirty minutes.

  After returning to the apartment, she showered, microwaved the same chicken-and-veggie dinner she ate every night, and sat down to watch the news. None of it was very encouraging. B. nosilla was continuing to mutate while scientists searched for a cure . . . And it did so with such speed that they hadn’t been able to catch up.

  There were rumors that a terrible storm had devastated coastal Atlantica. Forest fires continued to rage unchecked in Washington State. And based on some iffy reporting, norms in India were battling mutants from China. It seemed like the whole world was fucked up. Lee sighed and turned the TV off.