What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  Haarmann stared at him in confusion. “Wait, what?”

  “I’m asking if you guys wouldn’t mind taking the table somewhere else. It’d be nice having the break room back.”

  Haarmann’s expression became one of curious amusement, as if he were watching a child playacting at being an adult, but ultimately missing the mark. “Look, Dad, the LT said it was cool, so—”

  “Detective Jarsdel.”

  “Huh?”

  “My name. It isn’t Dad. It’s Detective Jarsdel, officer.”

  “Oh, right. Detective. I’m sorry, tell me again how many years you been LAPD?”

  “Okay,” said Jarsdel. “All you had to say was no, if that’s the way it’s gonna be. I was only trying to be polite and see if we could work something out.”

  “Tell you what—why don’t we wrestle for it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Have a seat. You beat me and we’ll find another room. You lose and we stay. Seems fair.”

  Jarsdel regarded him as coolly as he could manage. It wasn’t easy. Everything about Haarmann—the small, deep-set eyes; his upturned, vaguely porcine nose; the twisted little mouth; even the way he stood, with his elbows turned out to maximize the outline of his biceps—it all rankled Jarsdel, at once smothered and repulsed him.

  Eventually he found his voice. “Sorry, but you’re suggesting we engage in a physical contest to determine primacy of the break room—is that accurate?”

  “Easiest way to work it out.”

  “Wow. You’re not even wrong.”

  “What’s the—”

  “Not even wrong. Your premise—that there’s anything to work out—is false. This is a shared break room, and this”—Jarsdel stabbed a finger at the arm-wrestling table—“effectively turns it into your personal clubhouse. And your answer to this non-premise, that we resolve the matter through what’s essentially a trial by combat, is at best a fallacy of relevance—ignoratio elenchi, if we’re being precise. So you’re guilty of compounding idiocy with further idiocy.”

  “Careful, Dad. You—”

  “Which—are you listening?—is actually pretty impressive.”

  Haarmann’s buddies, who’d been watching the exchange with undisguised glee, now looked toward their chieftain to see how he’d respond. Haarmann took a step toward Jarsdel, paused, then took two more steps. He was now close enough for Jarsdel to feel his breath. Jarsdel didn’t flinch. He returned the patrolman’s beady stare with plenty of his own venom.

  Haarmann cocked his head. “You’re in the wrong world. You know that, right?”

  “No. You’re in the wrong room.”

  “There was a guy like you back when I worked Valley Bureau. Threw his weight around, got in my face.” Haarmann turned to his friends. “I ever tell you about this guy?”

  The men shook their heads, grinning.

  “Weirdest thing. Someone beats the shit out of him one night, just fuckin’ pops him. Duracell shampoo, full deal. It’s like he’s waiting for him, too. No cameras, no witnesses. S’fucked up. And the guy’s not much of a cop—you know—mostly talk, and that’s the night he finally gets it. He understands now. No street degree. You can’t fake that, can’t fake a street degree. You might have sunshine tumbling out your asshole far as those pointy heads at PAB are concerned, but you gotta ask yourself—how’s that working out for you in the real world, right?”

  Jarsdel reached up to touch the scar above his ear. Enough hair had grown over it to keep it covered, but he could easily feel it just beneath—a thick worm of tormented flesh stretching from the base of his skull all the way to his temple. It throbbed when his heart rate sped up—seeing a beautiful woman could be enough to set it off—and sometimes it laid him up in bed with eye-popping headaches.

  Not long ago, Jarsdel would’ve been rattled enough by Haarmann’s performance to begin issuing preemptive apologies, but since the night of the scar he’d gained new insights on fear. The man who’d given it to him had intended on killing him, and there was nothing quite like fighting for your life to put things in perspective. He thought of that night, of the battle, and of his own willingness—perhaps raw instinct was a better word—to kill if it meant he might live. At the memory, the man now before him seemed less important.

  Jarsdel smiled. There was no artifice in it, no intent to throw Haarmann off-balance or engage in any further playground brinkmanship. He felt a surge of the purest gratitude at being alive, gratitude that the greatest threat in his life was this smirking patrol officer. But something in his expression must have given the other man pause.

  Jarsdel stood, chewing the last of his falafel, and tossed the carton into the trash. “Sorry to hear about your colleague,” he said, unscrewing the top of his thermos. “Policing’s a dangerous job. They ever catch the guy who did it?”

  Haarmann’s swagger returned. “Gosh no, they never did. And you know it wasn’t long after that he decided to cash in his chips. Ten years too early though, so forget about the pension. Bummer-ooni.”

  “Bummer-ooni,” Jarsdel agreed, and upended his thermos over the arm-wrestling table.

  The two officers who’d been seated sprang up from their chairs, cursing. Haarmann and the others watched as the amber liquid and ice cascaded down. Jarsdel poured the Arnold Palmer over one vinyl pin pad, then the other, then dumped the remainder on the custom logo centered between them. He let the thermos continue to drip, then gave it a little shake to splash a few more drops onto the table. Once the dripping slowed, Jarsdel replaced the cap on his thermos. He took his time, locking eyes with Haarmann. The muscles along the cop’s jaw tightened and loosened, tightened and loosened. But he made no move toward him.

  Jarsdel nodded at the patrolmen and ambled out of the break room.

  6

  “We all had chores growing up,” said Dr. Varma. “But my older brothers always thought they had it tougher than me. They were the ones who had to muck out the gutters or haul heavy boxes down from the attic. But I would’ve happily traded with them, because one of my duties was cleaning out the garden shed.

  “I dreaded this job. Every time, no matter what, I’d always run into spiders. They were just part of the work, always there, always scattering when I’d lift a pot or move a box of trash bags. I didn’t know if they were venomous, but that’s not what really mattered. What bothered me was how they always came back and set up their little colonies in there.”

  The detective squad room was filled to capacity, which usually only happened during mandatory meetings called by Captain Sturdivant or the chief himself. Jarsdel noticed that several patrol officers who usually didn’t work Wednesdays were also attending, in uniform, their faces stern and eager as they watched Varma’s presentation. The Galka homicides, it seemed, had put everyone in the mood for answers.

  “It occurred to me, eventually, why I kept running into those spiders. It wasn’t because I moved stuff around that was the problem. It was because I didn’t move stuff around nearly often enough. There’s only one word that matters when it comes to crime—to all kinds of crime, whether impulsive or premeditated—and that’s stagnation.” She let the word settle in a moment, then repeated it. “Stagnation. It’s that simple.

  “This isn’t a new idea, not by any means. I’m sure you’ve heard those old sayings. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings,’ or ‘He that is busy is tempted by but one devil; he that is idle, by a legion.’ It’s long been noted that humans are restless creatures and crave excitement. This excitement, the excitement that’s borne of stagnation, is usually destructive. The purposelessness, the lack of drama and vigor, these all impel us toward overcompensating, grasping at bigger thrills.”

  Varma crossed to an easel. It bore a huge blowup of the underside of a human forearm. Thick blue veins pushed out against the pale flesh. A caged work light, currently turned off, was clamped to the top of t
he easel.

  “I wonder,” said Varma, “how much of the narcotics pumped into human bodies every year is done simply to stave off restlessness. Some species of sharks drown, you know, if they stop moving. This makes physical sense—they depend on ram ventilation, on the steady supply of oxygen moving over their gills—but is there more to it? Idleness is a kind of uselessness. And if the creature were experiencing total idleness, if there were truly nothing for it do, might it on some deep level perceive its own futility? Happy, fulfilled people don’t, as a rule, commit crimes.”

  She reached behind the easel and flicked a switch. The light mounted above the photograph snapped on, bathing the photograph in a strange glow. There was something unpleasant about it, a kind of shimmer that irritated the eye.

  Varma laughed. “I can see by some of your expressions that my light is already doing its job. And I’m guessing you’re probably not too eager to rush out and buy one for your bathroom.” She passed her hand in and out of the beam. As the light struck it, it appeared to move in alternating slow and jerky motions. Jarsdel looked down at his lap and rubbed his eyes.

  “The human eye requires a very high rate of oscillation in order to perceive a constant flow of light. Anything less than a frequency of about 50 Hz—that’s fifty cycles, or flickers per second—can induce headaches, eye strain, even nausea. A faint strobe effect is also noticeable, as you’ve probably discovered. But!”

  Varma held up a finger, using it as a focal point for her audience’s attention, then swept it in a slow, graceful arc toward the photograph of the forearm. “Notice anything?”

  Jarsdel examined the picture. When he wasn’t looking directly at the light, it was easier to do. Still, he didn’t see anything of particular interest. A genderless forearm, a few ripples of sinew…

  “No?” Varma searched the room, but no one offered an opinion. “Well, I suppose in a way that’s the point. You don’t see anything different because you don’t know what to look for. But an intravenous drug user certainly would. Please look closely. Ready?” She turned off the light, and then it was obvious.

  The veins, the network of sky-blue vessels beneath the skin, seemed to jump out from the picture. Hadn’t they been there all along? Jarsdel remembered them when Varma had first presented the photograph, but something about the light must have washed out their color.

  There was a murmur of excited conversation. Others had seen it, too.

  “How about now?” Varma asked. Then, to drive her point home, she turned on the light again. The veins seemed to vanish. This time there were a few grunts of surprise, and the murmuring of the crowd grew louder. Smiling, Varma held up a hand, and the room quieted down.

  “What you’re witnessing is the power of a compound ultra-narrow spectrum organic light-emitting diode bulb. It’s called PuraLux and represents a tremendous leap in area-denial technology. And because I still want us all to be friends, I’ll go ahead and turn it off.”

  There was some scattered laughter, and Varma cut the power. The veins on the forearm popped out once again.

  “Security need not be barbed-wire fences, snarling Dobermans, or an increased police presence. Rather, security can and should be integrated into all facets of civil engineering. The shape, texture, and visibility of the physical environment itself should address safety concerns and play an active role in discouraging crime. You probably heard of CPTED, or crime prevention through environmental design. This is the next step—a deterrence that’s practically invisible. People won’t know why, but they just won’t much enjoy hanging out in areas covered by these lights. IV drug users won’t be able to find their veins, so they’ll go elsewhere. We also examined findings from European studies concerning the unique properties of pink wavelengths, so we’ve blended those in as well. Imagine the least flattering fluorescent lighting in an airport bathroom, and multiply that by ten. That’s the effect pink lighting has, and it’s been demonstrated to disperse teenagers before they decide to congregate.”

  A hand poked up a few rows ahead of Jarsdel. Varma nodded at the questioner.

  “Uh, yes. What about the effects of this light on the drivers of passing cars?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” said Varma. “Tests have indicated there’s no measurable effect whatsoever on the performance of a driver who might glimpse the light. Besides, we’re not recommending the deployment of PuraLux for street lamps or anything that would potentially interfere with the operation of heavy equipment. Instead, I’d like you to think about public parks at night. I’d like you to think about the service entrances of hotels, apartment buildings, restaurants. I’d like you to think about the kind of good a light like this could do in conjunction with a broader area-denial strategy. You see it’s not simply about preventing crime. It’s about preventing the opportunity to commit the crime. Even deeper, really—it’s about stopping crime even before the potential criminal considers the unlawful act.”

  Varma put her hands together as if in prayer and regarded her audience with renewed gravity.

  “This is the potential we have here. By judiciously employing research-based techniques of socio-civic engineering, we can actually change thought. The impulse toward crime is dampened, even in the habitual criminal, if the opportunity to commit the act is absent. And I’ll take it further. Neuroplasticity. The proven concept that the physical shape of the brain changes in response to the formation of neural pathways—and likewise to the disuse or dormancy of existing new neural pathways. In other words, you change the thought—and you change it often enough—and you change the brain. Change the brain… Well, you’ve just changed the world.”

  7

  In the gunmetal gray of morning, as Los Angeles struggled from its torpor, employees of the Bureau of Street Lighting—a branch of the Department of Public Works—fanned out across the Southland. They gave particular attention to public parks—MacArthur, Griffith, Elysian, Lake Hollywood. They changed out the bulbs inside all restrooms maintained by the city and, because PuraLux was rated for outdoor as well as indoor use, replaced exterior lights as well.

  That done, they turned their attention to freeway underpasses. These areas were poorly lit—if they were lit at all—and provided shelter for the homeless. Some became accustomed to the lull of cars humming across the concrete overhead, to the thrum of the earth beneath them. They snored as the Public Works personnel stepped between their sleeping bags and army surplus blankets and piles of castaway T-shirts, and began changing out the bulbs. A couple turns, and the PuraLux glow washed across the slumbering bodies. A few winced and turned over. Others woke, irritated, and watched in confusion as the workers finished screwing on the protective housing over the new bulbs.

  Once this was done—and with the aid of computerized maps—the workers began replacing all exterior lighting on downtown city property. The process would likely take weeks, but Dr. Varma had triaged the locations in order of importance. The Stanley Mosk Courthouse, the Men’s Central Jail, and Skid Row were first.

  Though the operation was carried out in the wan light of early morning, both the Los Angeles Times and the LA Weekly got wind of the proceedings. Reporters from both papers intercepted city workers as they traded burned-out old fluorescents for the certified ten-year PuraLux bulbs. None gave comment, but that didn’t dissuade reporters. If anything, the cold reception piqued their curiosity, and it wasn’t long before television news outlets like KCAL 9 and KTLA joined their peers. Cameras zeroed in on the Public Works personnel. The men were at turns shy and annoyed. They were just replacing old bulbs, and weren’t interested in becoming part of any controversy.

  Roberto Contreras was no different than any other city employee at the supervisory level. He did his job, ground away at the years with dogged resolution, and looked forward to a pension that drew closer by the hour. But he got caught, on camera, gesturing to a grimy, darkened fixture outside the LA Public Library Somethi
ng about that gesture, and the bland, thin-lipped expression on his face, inspired outrage. What was he up to? Whom did he really represent? And what was this sudden impulse to repair derelict lighting in Los Angeles? Surely anyone who could manage such a business-as-usual affect didn’t have the public good on his mind.

  Contreras became the face of the city’s dark scheme, whatever it might be, and his picture soon appeared beside bold headlines and outraged opinion pieces. His identity was leaked, and he had to change his phone number. But that only made him more attractive game. Late one night someone threw a brick through the living room window of his Alhambra home, and the following day his twenty-year-old son was run off the road. The infamous picture of Contreras with his hand raised toward the light fixture was photoshopped—an SS uniform pasted over his coveralls—and distributed throughout his neighborhood.

  The Bureau of Street Lighting offered Contreras an early retirement package. He accepted.

  Still, during all of this, old bulbs were taken down, new ones put in their place. The light spilling out from the PuraLux bulbs was terrifically bright and harsh. It also made a large percentage of those who stood in its beam feel headachy, nauseous, or just generally uneasy. Those who worked in buildings near PuraLux fixtures complained of an increase in both the frequency and intensity of nightmares.

  8

  From Matter over Mind, Chapter 7: Consequences of Poor Enforcement

  The most widely overlooked characteristic of crime, of wrongdoing, is its seductiveness. When an illegal act is committed, two powerful ideas are communicated. The first is that such an act is possible. This may seem an obvious point, one so obvious it isn’t worth mentioning; upon closer scrutiny, however, we see that without the successful commission of a crime, it remains abstract—in the realm of theory. It isn’t until a crime is carried out in the physical world that it is given life, that it is translated from conception to execution.