by R. L. Akers
Mack nodded thoughtfully.
"But it wasn't until I ran into the Howells' granddaughter in the lobby that it all came together for me. She's graduating college in a few weeks, at which time she was planning to move into their unit with them. That would allow her to establish residency, and when the Howells eventually passed, the unit would continue to be rent controlled for her too. It came to me as an idle thought at first, how frustrating that must be for the landlord, that he'd never see more than $200 a month out of that unit. And then it finally hit me that he had more motive for this crime than Barton Chan did."
The other detective just shook his head. "Life's never dull with you around, Gray. I'm glad you're back on the job."
"Talk about never dull," Bobbi interjected. "What's with that tie?"
"My tie?" Gray asked in confusion, looking down at the necktie tucked into his suit jacket.
"Yeah, man. I mean, you've always been a snazzy dresser, and I respect that. But that choice is just a little too bold, if you catch my drift."
Gray looked to Mack in bewilderment, and his partner shrugged with a touch of embarrassment. "The colors do seem to clash. But what do I know?"
Gray stared at the pages of his notebook. Not the one he'd carried with him earlier at the Harkley Building; this was one he kept at home. Three words stared back at him from an otherwise empty page:
Achromatopsia. Hemeralopia. Prosopagnosia.
By the time he and Mack had wrapped up, it was safely twilight. He'd allowed Mack to drive him home, where he'd taken a long shower and changed into sweats. He'd ordered a pizza then, from a place he liked down the street—but as he waited for his dinner to arrive, this notebook had started calling his name again.
Achromatopsia, otherwise known as color blindness, a condition that could be either congenital or acquired through damage to the brain's cerebral cortex. Hemeralopia, colloquially known as day blindness, a common side effect of the sorts of injuries that could cause achromatopsia. And prosopagnosia, the inability to recognize faces, another disorder often coexisting with cerebral achromatopsia.
Grayson Gaynes suffered from all three conditions.
At least, he thought he did. He hadn't discussed any of this with a doctor. In fact, these sorts of conditions often went undiagnosed unless symptoms were reported by a patient. But Gray had done his research, and there was little doubt in his mind. He had taken a terrific blow to the head five weeks prior—exactly the sort of injury that could cause all three of these conditions.
Unbidden, his thoughts returned to that day in early April. It had been unseasonably warm, a perfect day for a picnic. And since it was also their wedding anniversary, he and Rose had packed a basket and headed to the park. They'd spread a blanket and lay there for hours, talking and laughing. Together. They'd eaten cheese sandwiches and kissed, and wondered at the fact that a whole year had passed since their wedding day.
Her long hair had been up in a braid, wrapped around her head in the way he loved. His chest ached now as he remembered it, remembered the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Rose was a beauty. Ginger hair, icy blue eyes... conceptually, he knew that had been her coloring, but he couldn't see it anymore. Rose had been reduced to gray tones, even in his most precious memories of her—and that day in early April had become his most precious memory of her.
The last time he could remember looking upon her, she was smiling mischievously, skin bunched up over her nose, eyes crinkled in mirth. She'd been giggling, and even now, that sound tinkled joyously in his memory.
And then Gray had looked away, catching sight of a man standing about twenty yards away. Rose's killer. Gray knew that the man in his memory was the killer, because he'd been holding a bat—the same weapon that had knocked Gray unconscious and killed his wife. Why had that not seemed suspicious to Gray at the time? If Gray had seen the man from that far away, how had he allowed him to get close enough to hurt them? These were questions he would never know the answer to; whatever had happened in the minutes following his glimpse of that man, his memories were forever lost as a result of the blow to his head.
The last thing he remembered was meeting the man's eyes. And in his memory, the man looked... familiar.
Gray's next memories were of the hospital, and the week that followed remained a blur. The funeral stood out, of course. He'd already been suffering from the day blindness by then—he knew that now—but he'd been weeping, and the sky had been overcast, so he little noticed the effects. It hadn't been until the following week, after returning home, that he'd begun to really notice his new impairments.
It was vital that no one else notice. When it came to police work, these conditions would be serious impairments indeed, and he would undoubtedly be forced into early retirement if anyone else found out. That meant lying to the people who trusted him most. It meant putting Mack at risk, since Mack believed Gray had his back. But how could Gray have his back when they were outside and he couldn't even see straight? And God forbid that Gray should ever have to discharge his weapon while half blind.
The only honest, safe thing to do would be to admit his infirmity. To take his pension and get out before his selfishness led to more people getting hurt. But Gray couldn't do that. He needed his shield, he needed his authority, and he needed the resources of the department if he was ever going to find and punish the man who had murdered Rose.
There'd been no witnesses and no suspects. The murder had been ruled a mugging gone wrong, a random act of violence. And yes, when first responders had arrived, they found all of Rose and Gray's valuables missing. But Gray knew better. Burned into his memory was that feeling of familiarity when he'd seen the killer's face. He couldn't remember the face now, wouldn't be able to recognize it even if he could, but that face had been familiar at the time—and that meant there was nothing random about this attack. That man had probably intended to kill Gray, and Rose was just collateral damage. And that suggested a connection to one of the cases Gray had been investigating at the time. All the more reason for Gray to get back to work as quickly as possible.
The color blindness was the least of his issues, something he could easily hide. His issue with faces was going to be trickier, both to hide and to avoid it affecting his work. But the day blindness was the killer. So he'd gone online, ordered several pairs of very expensive sunglasses with intense light-filtering lenses; he could only hope they would be enough to help mask his condition and allow him to at least move around in daylight without endangering himself or others. Too bad his purchase had arrived only today, while he was out, rather than over the weekend.
Then again, if the sunglasses had arrived before now, Robert Saunders would have gotten away with his scheme. Gray wasn't sure what to think about that. He had lied to cover up his condition, and only because of that had Saunders been brought to justice. Was that providence? Or just dumb luck?
Gray's pizza arrived, and he paid the delivery boy, tipping him generously. He flipped back the lid and inhaled deeply, allowing some of the tension to go out of his shoulders. The pizza might look nasty, its cheese gray and unnatural, but it smelled glorious. How could it not, laden as it was with three types of cheese and four types of meat, all ringed by a garlic-infused crust?
Unless he was assigned another grisly murder between now and 8 a.m., Gray would find himself back in the office tomorrow morning, lying to his friends. But that was tomorrow. Between now and then, he had a fresh, extra-large pizza to binge on, along with a stack of black-and-white movies he'd rented. He would eat and watch and eat and watch, distracting himself from his pain until he could no longer keep his eyes open. And then, maybe, he would find sleep.
He hoped his dreams would be more pleasant than Barton Chan's.
Sunday, August 9th
New York City
The row of designer suit coats hung neatly on the rack at one of New York's finer menswear establishments, a thousand stylish options in shades of black, brown, blue, and beige. And all of them
were gray.
Grayson Gaynes, NYPD detective third grade, pulled one jacket from the rack and rehung it sideways, stepping back to inspect it with a critical eye. It was angora, two-button, single-breasted but double-vented, with traditional flap pockets and the additional ticket pocket Gray had always preferred. Peak lapels. Leaning close, he could tell it was a check pattern. But what was the color?
A figure appeared at Gray's elbow. "Bold choice," the man said, his tone neutral.
Gray eyed him. "Good bold or bad bold?" Of late, he'd heard that word applied to his clothing choices more than he cared to; that's why he was here.
The man smiled without giving anything away. "That depends on the message you're trying to send." Yes, this guy was clearly a salesman.
The detective sighed internally, turning back to inspect the suit coat. It was a European cut, trendy to be sure, but bold? Yes, the peak lapels might be considered bold. Or, for all Gray knew, the jacket was bright red with the check pattern stitched in forest green and plum. That would be the kind of boldness he was trying to avoid.
Gray had always taken pride in his wardrobe, and though he was one of the younger homicide detectives at the precinct, he used to think he set a good example when it came to appropriate professional attire. That had changed four months ago. Since losing the ability to distinguish color, he was sure some of his ensembles truly had been bold, and while that didn't embarrass him like it once would have—he found he little cared about mundane matters like clothing these days—it did represent a very real danger.
His colorblindness was a result of the injury he'd sustained the day his wife, Rose, was murdered. Gray himself had taken a terrific blow to the head, which had robbed him not only of his ability to perceive color, but also his ability to recognize faces, and even his ability to see clearly in daylight. And it was imperative that no one else at the NYPD learn of these infirmities; for as soon as the department found out, he would be forced into early retirement.
Gray needed to find his wife's killer first.
"Perhaps something a little more traditional would be... safer," the clerk said, interrupting Gray's thoughts. The detective realized that, while he himself had been inspecting the jacket, the man had been inspecting him just as closely. Was Gray mismatched at this very moment? He really should have worn jeans and a t-shirt; that, at least, was hard to mess up.
Returning the "bold" jacket to the rack, Gray turned to the salesman and steeled himself. "Can you help me out? I, um... I admit I don't really know anything about dressing up."
The clerk continued eyeing him for a long moment, no doubt wondering why Gray didn't just go to a department store. He'd actually been tempted to do exactly that, but it's hard to buy off the rack once you've grown accustomed to tailored suits. Finally, the other man said, "Is this for business or a formal event? Do you have any preference on color?"
"For my job," Gray said. "We actually have a bit of a dress code. Two-button, solid-colored suits only. Needs to be in shades of gray, with white shirts." That was all bogus, of course, but he'd been thinking about this; if he removed all pattern and color from his suits and shirts, then Gray would be safe to wear whatever necktie he chose, regardless of its pattern or color. That much of his wardrobe, if nothing else, could be salvaged.
"I see," the clerk responded. Did Gray detect a slight curling of the man's lip, or was he imaging that? "Well, let's start with a black, then. If you're only going to have one suit in your closet, black is the most versatile."
"Oh, I was planning to buy at least three," Gray assured him. "A black and a charcoal, plus a midrange gray. Maybe another black in a different cut."
The other man's attitude seemed to improve at the prospect of a bigger sale—even if the inconsistency in Gray's responses confused him—and he started pulling options from various racks.
Gray was standing on the tailor's box getting fitted for the first of his new suits when his phone rang. It was the precinct.
"You're up to bat, Gray," said Hannah Goretti, the sergeant on duty. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase—"up to bat"—given the way Gray's wife had been murdered, but it was unintentional, and the sting of such reminders was finally starting to fade. "Uniforms have called in a probable homicide on West 47th," Hannah continued. "Office building."
"Thanks." He thought for a moment. "I can be there in an hour or so."
"Want to work with Mack on this one?"
"Sure, if you think it'll require that much legwork." Patrick McMurphy was an older detective that Gray often partnered with. They worked well together, even though each had certain tendencies that annoyed the other.
"Yeah, this is shaping up to be a strange one," she confirmed. "Right up your alley." Gray knew she was referring to the Barton Chan case he and Mack had worked several months back. Ever since then, they'd had an undeserved reputation for liking "the strange ones."
"How so?"
"Well... Responding officer says it looks like an elephant bled out, but it's hard to tell exactly what happened." She paused. "There's no body."
Gray sighed and shook his head. "Great. Mack will be thrilled."
"I'll text you the exact address."
They said their goodbyes, and Gray returned his attention to the wiry old woman who was making chalk notations on the new suit he wore. "I hope you have what you need, because I've got something of a work emergency."
Blood. Everywhere Gray looked, there was blood.
He stood frozen at the doorway to a spacious corner office on the nineteenth floor of the building where Hannah directed him. Even drained of color, the interior of the office was a scene out of hell. Great gouts of fresh blood had been flung over the rich hardwood-and-leather office furniture, and it appeared to run in broken streams down the embossed wallpaper. Whatever crime had been perpetrated here, it had happened recently, for the blood still dripped from walls and furniture alike, soaking deep into the thick white carpet. It seemed that more of the carpet was holding blood than remained clean, and Gray glanced at the uniformed officer beside him. "You were right. It does look like an elephant bled out here."
The cop just nodded, his lips pursed.
The largest pools of blood met at the center of the room between two leather couches, and an unbroken sea ran from there all the way to the doorway. Just inches from Gray's feet, the stain ended abruptly in an unnaturally straight line; the hidden side of the office's inward-swinging double doors must have been drenched as well.
The similarity to the Barton Chan case was unmistakable. But where that horror had been contained within one small elevator car, this one had been given plenty of space to run amok.
And outside the unnatural line that marked the perimeter of the office, not one drop of blood marred the clean carpet of the hallway.
"What's that smell?" Gray asked, referring to the pungent odor that hung in the air.
"Smells like sulfur," the medical examiner said absently. "Not sure yet what's causing it." He and a member of his team stood in the midst of the horror, the ME swabbing and bagging samples of the blood while the assistant stood nearby, carefully recording the process with a digital video camera; Gray knew from experience that the team would already have photographed the scene from every conceivable angle before stepping into the midst of the bloodbath.
"Sulfur?" Gray said in surprise, but the ME was no longer listening; the man had crouched down to point something out for the camera, and he was quietly dictating notes for future reference.
Gray glanced at the uniform, who shrugged. "Cleaning lady said she smelled it the moment she opened the door, but not before."
"Cleaning lady?"
The cop motioned down the hall a short ways, where a middle-aged woman was huddled in a chair, face in her hands. A younger woman sat nearby, apparently playing a game on her smartphone. "She's the one that made the 911 call, the older lady." He paused. "Well, right after losing her lunch." He pointed out a small pool of vomit near where he and Gray stood.
"You already take their statement?"
"Yeah. Not much to it. The two of them arrive here every Sunday around 5 p.m. to clean the office suite." He flipped open his notebook. "Entire floor belongs to a company called... Advanced Technology Consultants."
"Original."
The cop's lip barely twitched as he flipped the notebook shut again. "Company uses an electronic keycard security system, even for the internal office doors. The keycard issued to the cleaning crew apparently works only between the hours of 5 and midnight."
Gray noted the keycard reader mounted on the wall next to the office door. "The women know who the victim is?"
"They have no way of knowing. They've been cleaning this suite for more than six months, but they were hired through a service; they say they've never met any company employees or even seen anybody here while cleaning."
"Have you managed to contact any company reps?"
"Not yet. I have building security going through their contact list, but far as I know, they haven't reached anyone yet."
"Detective?" the medical examiner called. "You can come in now, if you'd like. Just stay to the periphery." He waved toward the side of the office that seemed least affected by the blood spatter.
Gray dug through a box just outside the door and came away with a pair of paper booties, which he pulled on over his shoes. Then, with a deep breath of the oppressive air, he entered hell.
Stepping carefully, he managed to avoid the bloodstains as he slowly rounded the room. The embossed argyle wallpaper, trimmed by a chair rail, only ran to waist height on this side of the office; above the rail was a sequence of molded shelves built right into the wall, the grain of the wood matching the hardwood furniture. With few exceptions, these shelves stood empty, though there was just enough dust for Gray to see variously-shaped imprints, suggesting that most of the shelves had not been empty for long.