by Scott Sigler
What a pompous ass. “And you know this because you got your medical degree where, exactly? You don’t get to dismiss my results because you don’t like what they say, Rich.”
Verde threw up his hands in annoyance. “The boy was attacked by a guy, a couple of guys, whatever. They beat him and sicced a fucking animal on him. The animal tore off the kid’s arm, the kid died, done deal. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and—”
“It doesn’t quack,” she said. “And it doesn’t bark either. All the DNA I recovered was definitely human.”
Robin had given case results to Rich many times before. He was always a bit of an asshole, but normally he seemed interested in every detail. Why didn’t he care about the details now?
“I only have evidence for one assailant,” Robin said. “I have saliva and hair from a person, Rich — can your little mind process that?”
Bobby was smiling, and not the way men did when they thought she was pretty. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that she pushed back. The veins in the sides of Rich’s thinning temples throbbed and pulsed — they looked like they might pop at any moment.
She’d lost her temper a little, but now she seemed to have Rich’s full attention. He looked angry. Calm, but angry.
“So,” he said, “you’re telling me this can’t be an animal attack?”
Robin paused. She had genetic evidence of a human killer, but the tooth marks were definitely from some kind of animal. There had to be some element of the animal on Oscar’s body, she just hadn’t found it yet.
“I’m sure an animal was involved, but what I’m telling you is I have specific evidence that can help you find the guy responsible for Oscar’s death,” she said. “I found indicators of three chromosomes, two Xs and a single Y.”
“Three?” Bobby said. He seemed to perk up at the first mention of genetics. “You said it was one killer. Guys are XY. Wouldn’t three chromosomes indicate a second killer?”
Verde glared at Bobby.
Bobby shrugged at him. “Rich-o, seems like we’d need to know this stuff, don’t you think?”
Verde’s jaw muscles twitched. He turned back to stare at Robin. “Go ahead, busy bee — tell me what you found.”
He’d looked angry before. Now he looked downright furious.
“If there was a second male assailant, I’d have found evidence of another Y chromosome,” she said. “Even if a second assailant was female, I’d have at least found evidence of a third X chromosome. That leads me to believe Oscar’s killer is trisomal, which means he has three sex chromosomes instead of the normal two. If the assailant is XXY, he probably has a condition called Klinefelter’s syndrome.”
Bobby nodded. He had the same look in his eye she’d often seen in Bryan — to guys like them, clues were crack cocaine that got their pulses racing. “I’ve heard of Klinefelter’s,” he said. “But that’s not the only possibility, right? I mean, couldn’t two people have identical chromosomes? Like twins? Not the identical kind, but fraternal twins?”
Robin smiled in surprise. For a layman, that was a brilliant question.
“It’s possible the killers could have been male and female twins,” she said. “And technically, normal brothers with the same father have the same Y chromosome. However, I’m almost positive the samples show we’re dealing with a single killer. I’ll run a different kind of test to be sure.”
Verde’s eyes narrowed. “And what kind of test would this be?”
“It’s called a karyotype,” Robin said. “We need living cells for that, but the saliva on the body was only a few hours old, so we have plenty. A karyotype shows the total number of chromosomes in an organism. You, me, Bobby, pretty much every person you know has forty-six chromosomes — that’s normal. If the test shows the perp has forty-six, that means my extra X is from a second killer. But if the test shows an individual with forty-seven chromosomes, it means we have just one killer with a unique genetic disposition that will help you track him down.”
Bobby smiled. “Sweet,” he said. His gold tooth made him look like a pimp.
“Metz didn’t run tests like that,” Rich said. “You shouldn’t, either. And we don’t need that test — we’ve got some leads we can’t talk about.”
She noticed Bobby suddenly look at Rich in surprise. If there were such leads, it was news to the younger of the two partners.
Robin crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you telling me you don’t want more leads? If our guy has Klinefelter’s, he could be confused about his gender or possibly express sexual deviation that’s been recorded. You could look for mixed-gender support groups, or—”
“Do your job,” Verde said. “You get paid to look at stiffs. You don’t get paid to solve cases. Leave the detective work to the detectives. Just do the basics. Bobby, let’s go.”
Verde stormed off. Bobby rolled his eyes and smiled apologetically before following Verde out.
Robin spun slightly in her chair, watching them go. So strange — why wouldn’t Rich want to exhaust every angle to solve a horrific murder? Maybe that was a question she didn’t need to ask. Verde had the authority of Chief Amy Zou behind him, and he was right about one thing — solving crimes wasn’t her job. So maybe Rich had her there, but on the other hand, he wasn’t her boss. Neither was Chief Zou. They could make suggestions, but they couldn’t tell her what tests not to run.
Robin could use the new RapScan machine to run the karyotype. All she had to do was load DNA samples into the machine’s cartridges, which took about fifteen minutes. From there, the whole process was automated — it only took a few hours to complete. She’d start the test now, then pack up the work she could finish at home and get out of there.
When she came back in the morning, the karyotype results would be waiting for her.
The Artist and His Subject
Rex drew. He was a good drawer, he knew that. Mrs. Evans, his art teacher at Galileo, she said he had potential. No one ever said that to him, about anything. Not since his dad had died, anyway.
Mrs. Evans was okay, but he had to hide his best drawings from her. The ones with the guns, the knives, the chain saws, the ropes — things like that. She’d seen some of those drawings and pretty much flipped out, so Rex just kept them to himself.
He also now knew he couldn’t let other kids see his pictures. Not ever, or BoyCo might hurt him even worse than before.
But if they did come after him again, Oscar Woody wouldn’t be with them.
Because Oscar Woody was dead.
Rex had made so many drawings. He’d even drawn one of the strange faces he saw in his dreams. That one had gone up on the walls with all the others, labeled with a name that he heard most often during those visions: Sly.
Rex drew. His pencil outlined the oval of a head, then the shapes of eyes, the contours of a nose. Quietly, he worked away, adding lines and shading. Gradually, the face became recognizable.
The sound of pencil on paper picked up speed. A body took form. So did a chain saw. So did splashes of blood.
Rex felt warm. His chest tingled inside.
Erase that part of the nose, redraw … adjust the corners of the mouth, coax the lines and shapes and shades into expressions of agony, of terror.
He felt his own heartbeat pulsing in his neck, bouncing through his eyes and forehead.
Erase the bicep, darken that line … the chain saw had just passed through the arm, severing it in a splatter of blood.
Rex felt himself stiffen in his pants.
He moaned a little as he erased the eyes. They weren’t quite right. Make them wider. Make them full of fear.
Fear of Rex.
He had drawn Oscar Woody, concentrated on Oscar Woody, and now Oscar Woody was dead.
Maybe it hadn’t been coincidence.
And, maybe, Rex could make it happen again.
The new face?
Jay Parlar, the boy who had put the pieces of wood under Rex’s wrist and elbow.
Rex drew.
Big Max
Home at last. Robin juggled a stack of mail and a bag of last-minute groceries — dog treats, dog food, milk, a bottle of Malbec and some Twinkies — as she struggled to find her apartment key on an overfull key chain. Quite honestly, she didn’t know what half the keys were for. They probably opened old mailboxes, storage lockers, gym padlocks, etc. She could never bring herself to throw any of them out because she knew as soon as she tossed one, she’d wind up needing it the next day and would be summarily screwed.
A door opened just down the hall. A gigantic man stepped out and stood still while sixty-five pounds of whining white-and-black whirlwind shot past him into the hallway, ears flapping and claws digging into carpet.
Emma jumped up, almost knocking Robin over. Groceries spilled on the floor. Robin grabbed for the milk, but the plastic quart container bounced on the carpet without breaking and rolled to a stop.
Robin cupped her hands around Emma’s floppy ears and dug her fingers in just enough to shake the dog’s head. Wild-eyed, Emma’s tongue lolled — her body seemed to want to go in five directions at once.
“Baby girl! I missed you,” Robin said. She pushed the dog away, then knelt to pick up the groceries — a strategic mistake. Emma jumped again to kiss Robin’s face. The dog’s paws hit Robin’s shoulders, knocking the kneeling woman on her behind. Emma’s feet pranced as she launched rapid-fire kisses on Robin’s face.
“Easy, girl,” Robin said, laughing at the dog’s desperate intensity.
Suddenly Emma’s weight was gone. Robin looked up to see Big Max holding the sixty-five-pound dog in his left arm, big hand scooped under Emma’s butt, her head at his shoulder. Emma’s tail thumped against Max’s leg.
“Goodness gracious, girl,” Max said. “That dog just kicked your ass.”
Robin nodded. She put the groceries back in the bag and gathered up the scattered mail.
“Thanks, Max. Thanks for everything.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll watch this little thing any old day.”
Emma just sat there, totally comfortable and relaxed cradled in Max’s huge arm. Huge wasn’t really the word for his arms — gigantic might be more appropriate. Max looked like an effeminate version of a roided-out professional wrestler. Big arms, thick legs, huge barrel chest (which was waxed, of course). The head on top of his beer keg of a neck sported deep laugh lines. A blond goatee formed a dainty point, and the same-color hair sat on his forehead in a moussed swirl.
One glance told you Max was gay, and that was always somewhat of a bitter feeling — the man was a Grade-A hunk. He made for a very interesting neighbor: dog lover, well versed on local politics, worked nights as a bouncer and was trying to break into erotic films. Not a run-of-the-mill guy by any stretch of the imagination.
That was Robin’s best friend: a gorgeous, badass, gay pornstar-to-be.
“Hey,” Robin said. “How did your audition go at Kink-dot-com?”
Max smiled. “Pretty good,” he said. “Were you asking because you’re a polite sweetheart, or do you want to know the gory details of my shoot?”
Robin laughed and blushed. “The former. Not sure I could handle the details.”
“Ah, you modest Canadian girls.”
A second dog came out of Max’s apartment. This one made Emma look tiny — ninety pounds of pit bull with gray fur, white feet, and the sweetest face you could ever see.
Without missing a beat, Max reached down with his right arm and scooped up the pit bull. He cradled one hundred fifty-five pounds of dog like a couple of feather pillows.
“Hello there, Billy,” Robin said. She gave the pit bull a kiss on the nose. Billy’s thick tail swirled in an uncoordinated circle.
Max leaned toward her, breaking the three-foot cushion. His eyes narrowed as he stared at a spot just below Robin’s eyes.
“Honey, look at those circles. That job is going to be the death of you.”
Robin put the mail in the grocery bag (why she hadn’t done that to start with, she had no idea) and finally found her apartment key. She opened the door and walked into her entryway. Max followed her in, still carrying the dogs.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “You should have seen the poor kid they brought in today.”
“Bad?”
“Beyond bad.” Robin set the bag down on her dining room table. “His arm was … wait, are you asking because you’re a polite sweetheart, or because you want the gory details? Because these details are actually gory.”
Max set both dogs down, then waved his hands palms-out. “Oh, I’m just being polite. I like to watch CSI because it’s fake, but your stories make my balls head for high water. Is the case important?”
“It is to me.”
Max smiled, a left-corner-of-the-mouth-curling-up thing that Robin could only hope they put on the covers of his posters, or web pages, or whatever they used to advertise porn.
“I see,” he said. “And would Mister I Dress All in Black be involved?”
Robin felt her face flush. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe you should invite him over to discuss the case. You haven’t been laid since he moved out.”
“Max! That’s none of your business. And how do you know I haven’t been laid? Maybe I’m a regular trollop.”
Max reached up a big fist, rapped his knuckles against the wall that separated their two apartments. “These things are pretty thin. I’d know if you were knocking boots. I certainly knew every time that you and Bryan were … shall we say … discussing a case.”
A swirl of thoughts stopped Robin cold: embarrassment at Max having heard her with Bryan; memories of Bryan making love to her; echoes of the happiness they shared in this very apartment; still-fresh memories of the arguments, of her yelling at Bryan while he just stared back, infuriatingly calm and maddeningly distant. The yelling … Max had to have heard as well.
“The Man in Black and I are finished,” Robin said. “And I’m too busy to worry about sex right now.”
The big man shrugged. “My mom told me there’s two things you should never be too busy to do.”
“Pay taxes and vacuum the carpet?”
“No,” Max said. “You’re never too busy to pet a puppy, and never too busy to make love.”
“Your mom told you that?”
He nodded. “Sure. Before I came out, I mean. Now she focuses mostly on the puppy part. Look, there’s nothing wrong with getting a booty call from an ex. You should have Bryan go old-school fifties-movies on you. You know, shake you around a bit, maybe a little slap or two, then the ravaging.”
Robin rolled her eyes. “He’s not like that, Max. He’s a softie.”
Max laughed and shook his head. “Honey, Bryan may be a gentleman, but he’s no softie. He has a mean streak in him a mile wide.”
Bryan was standoffish, sure, but mean? Nobody besides her — and maybe Pookie — seemed to know the real man. Or maybe everyone did know him, and it was Robin who was clueless. “You’ve only met Bryan a couple of times,” she said. “How can you tell that about him?”
“It’s my job to tell. I’m a bouncer, remember? Your little Johnny Cash is not someone I’d want to meet in a back alley.”
“You outweigh him by at least fifty pounds, Max.”
“Size isn’t everything. Outside of porn, I mean. I like my teeth right where they are, so I’ve learned to watch out for guys like Bryan.”
What a ridiculous concept. Max was so … well, big. Bryan was lean and strong, sure, but was he mean enough to take on a bruiser like Max? It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to think about Bryan Clauser anymore.
“Thanks for watching Emma, Maxie. I owe you dinner.”
“Seven,” he said.
“Seven what?”
“Seven dinners. That’s only for the past three months.”
“Seven? Really?”
Max nodded. “I don’t mean to tell you how to run your l
ife, honey, but Emma is starting to like me more than she likes you.”
“Oh no she is not!”
Max smiled, then walked toward the door. Emma trotted along after him.
“Emma! Where are you going?”
Emma stopped and looked at Robin, then looked back at Max.
Max shrugged at Emma. “Don’t worry, boo-boo, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”
He shut the door behind him. Emma stared at the door, then let out a little whine.
Robin clapped her hands once to get the dog’s attention. “Emma baby, do you want treats?” The dog came running.
Maybe Bryan Clauser didn’t love Robin, but Emma sure did — and if Robin had to buy that love with dog treats, that was just fine. A treat, maybe two (or three, or four), and then it was time for bed.
Pookie Phones a Friend
Sweat started to pool in Pookie’s armpits. Carrying a grown man up four flights of stairs was a surprising and unwelcome workout. His stupid partner needed to find an apartment with an elevator that worked.
“Bri-Bri, if you puke on me, I’m going to punch you in the taint.”
Bryan mumbled something unintelligible. He didn’t weigh all that much, maybe one-seventy, but the guy could barely walk. Bryan was sweating, too, but from a fever as opposed to exhaustion.
Pookie was making bad choices and he knew it. Helping Bryan up to his apartment? This guy could be a killer. Not a sniper from fifty yards kind of killer, but rather the type that tears a kid’s arm off and paints pretty pictures with it.
They reached the fourth floor. Legs exhausted, undershirt sticking to his sweaty skin, Pookie half helped, half dragged Bryan to the door.
“Come on, Bryan, try to walk.”
“Sorry,” Bryan said. “Man, I hurt all over.”
“You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
Bryan shook his head. “Just sick is all.” He dug into his pocket for his keys, tried to unlock the door with a shaking hand. Pookie had to take the keys and do it for him.
“Just sick,” Bryan repeated as they stepped inside. “Feel like the inside of a donkey’s butthole.”