by Scott Sigler
Robin turned to look at her former lover. “Bryan.”
He nodded once. “Robin.”
That was it. No God it’s good to see you, or I hope you’ve been well, just a simple Robin. Something on his forehead caught her eye.
“Stitches? What happened?”
“I fell in the shower,” Bryan said.
He needed to trim that beard of his, and he looked so tired. Not so much the bags under his eyes as a pallor to his skin, an expression that seemed … lost. What was he going through?
There was something about Bryan she’d never been able to define, never been able to ignore, and despite his sickly appearance, that something still burned hot. Her attraction to him hadn’t dulled in the least.
She stared at him. He stared right back with those beautiful, distant green eyes.
“Guys,” Pookie said, “I know y’all have a bit of backstory to work out, but can we lay off the wistful gazing? This ain’t a Joan Wilder novel, if you dig what I’m saying.”
Robin looked away from Bryan and back to Pookie. Pookie smiled apologetically, but he was right — this wasn’t the time to play who hurts more with her ex.
“Okay,” she said. “So I know I have to give all this info to Rich and Bobby, but it’s weird … it seems like Rich isn’t really that interested in the case. Bobby is, I think, but Rich calls the shots. What I discovered is kind of a big deal. Since you guys found both bodies, I figured you might have a vested interest. But can you keep this quiet? Chief Zou asked me not to talk about the case, to anyone — if she finds out I did, it could jeopardize my candidacy for the chief ME position.”
Both men nodded. Pookie mimed turning a lock in his lips and throwing the key behind him. Maybe Bryan wasn’t the best boyfriend in the world, but he never went back on his word and neither did the incorrigible Mr. Chang.
Robin led them to her desk and called up the karyotype test results on her computer.
“We isolated samples from Oscar Woody’s body,” she said. “I’m ninety-nine percent confident that all of the samples come from a single person, meaning Oscar had just one killer. That killer’s DNA exhibited evidence of an extra X chromosome. Because of that, I ran another test assuming I would see XXY. Instead I found this.”
She pointed to the bottom of the karyotype.
Bryan leaned in to look, so close that his chest touched her right shoulder. He felt warm.
Pookie leaned in over her left shoulder. “I recognize that Y-thingee from my science classes, but what is that next to it?”
Robin shrugged. “I’m calling it a Zed chromosome.”
“What the hell is a Zed?”
“It’s like a Z,” Bryan said. “Only with higher taxes and with universal health care.”
“Ah,” Pookie said. “Canadian-speak.”
They all stared at the strange result; a Y and something else, something significantly larger. An X chromosome did, indeed, look like an “X” — two lines crossed up high, pinched together like a twisted balloon animal. Naming the male sex chromosome “Y” was a bit of a stretch, as far as name-equals-appearance went: two short, fat chunks came together, with a tiny ball of material where they joined.
The new chromosome looked like a chain of three sausage links. Sharp bends at the two joints made it sort of look like a Zed — or maybe that was just the first thing that popped into Robin’s mind after years of looking at Xs and Ys.
“This is totally unheard of,” she said. “There’s a Z chromosome in birds and some insects, but in those animals the chromosome is a little blob — it doesn’t actually look like the letter Z. So I’m calling this Zed to differentiate. This is the genetic code of Oscar Woody’s killer. It isn’t a fluke — this is a legitimate chromosomal aberration.”
Pookie stood straight and raised his hand. “Teacher, which weighs more, a fluke or an aberration? Or in other words, what?”
“I mean this isn’t random genetic damage,” Robin said. “It’s in every cell. The killer was born this way.”
Pookie crossed his arms. “Are you trying to tell us we’re dealing with some kind of fleshy-headed mutant from Planet Six or something?”
“Maybe not that, but something strange,” Robin said. “Come on, I’ve got something else to show you.”
She led them back to the body refrigerator. She opened a door and rolled out the tray holding Oscar Woody. Robin gloved up, then pointed to the parallel grooves on Oscar’s ravaged scapula. “This scoring appears to be from incisors spaced three-point-five inches apart. Average spacing for an adult man is one to just two inches, tops.”
Pookie looked up. “But those marks aren’t from a man. Jimmy and Sammy said a dog did it. There was dog fur all over the place.”
And here it was, the moment where she actually had to say it. She wondered if it would sound as crazy out loud as it did in her head. “That fur wasn’t fur — it was human hair. I’ve seen enough evidence that I’m convinced that there was no animal at all.”
Pookie stared at her, then looked back to the body. “A dude did this?”
Robin breathed deep, then let it out in a puff. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“It would have to be a seriously big dude, then,” Pookie said. “Or a perp with a really wide mouth.”
“Or both,” Bryan said.
Pookie nodded. “Or both. Awesome. Not to insult your magnificent intellect, Bo-Bobbin, but I’m not buying this. You’re saying the killer is big, with wide teeth, strong enough to tear off a guy’s arm with his mouth, and that he’s fucking furry?”
“Imagine that,” Bryan said. “I mean, someone might describe that as werewolf-like, right?”
Pookie looked annoyed. “Big dudes can wear costumes, too, Bri-Bri.”
Bryan shivered, then coughed hard. He sounded like hell. He cleared his throat, then hovered his hand above Oscar’s scapula, using his thumb and forefinger to show the spacing of the parallel grooves. Bryan brought his hand up and held it in front of his own face — the space between the tip of his thumb and forefingers was as wide as his cheekbones.
“A costume that comes complete with big, killing teeth? Come on, Pooks.”
Was Bryan arguing that a werewolf did this? Just how bad was his fever?
Pookie turned to Robin. “Are you sure those marks are caused by teeth? Could it have been some other kind of weapon?”
She nodded. “I suppose, but it would be a weapon designed to act just like a pair of jaws.”
“There’s a name for a weapon like that,” Pookie said. “It’s called fake teeth. Something that might come complete with a Hollywood-grade monster costume.”
Bryan rolled his eyes and laughed. “You’re really reaching, Pooks. And you can’t put a costume on a chromosome. You made a joke that this was a fleshy-headed mutant, but based on what we’ve seen, maybe that’s not a joke at all.”
She knew both men well — Bryan prided himself on being rational. He didn’t believe in monsters or the supernatural. The fact that they were arguing about this seemed completely out of character for him.
“Talk to me,” Robin said. “What did you guys see?”
“Nothing,” they said simultaneously.
So, they weren’t going to confide in her? Just like Rich Verde, maybe they thought her job was to examine bodies, not solve crimes. She wondered if this secret information had anything to do with Bryan’s wretched appearance.
Robin slid Oscar back into the rack and closed the door. She walked back to her desk. Bryan and Pookie walked with her.
“Technically, Pookie is right,” she said. “By definition, we’re looking at a mutation. The perp could have other physical deformities as well. There’s no way of knowing.”
She slid into her chair. They stood at her sides, again looking at the strange image of a new chromosome.
“Hey, Robin,” Bryan said. “Why does the Zed chromosome have two hubcap doohickeys, while the Y and X chromosomes only have one?”
He put
a finger on one of the Zed’s two joints.
“Hubcap doohickey?” she said. “Oh, that’s a centromere. But a chromosome can’t have two cent—”
She suddenly saw what Bryan had seen.
“Jesus,” she said. “How did I miss that?” Bryan had no scientific training, but he was an excellent observer. Far better than she was, apparently.
“Miss what?” Pookie said. “Let’s say the only reason I got an A in biology was because I banged the teacher. Fill me in, Bo-Bobbin.”
“Chromosomes are made up of two paired columns of densely coiled DNA,” she said. “Each column is called a chromatid and represents the copy of the chromosome from one parent. The centromere is where the two lines meet, where they fuse together.”
Pookie touched the screen, his fingertip on center of the Y chromsome.
“So this spot,” he said. “Or the crossing point of the X. That’s a centromere?”
She nodded. “It is. Unless a cell is dividing, and the ones I tested were not, it has just one centromere. The Zed has two. I’ve never seen anything like this. Neither has anyone else. Ever.”
They fell quiet. Together, they stared at the screen.
“Dibs,” Pookie said finally. “If it’s a new species, I get to name it.”
Robin laughed. “Doesn’t work that way, Pooks.”
“Too late,” he said. “I already named it fuckifino whathehellthatis.”
Bryan nodded. “That’s a good name.”
Pookie’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID. “It’s Chief Zou,” he said. “Be right back.” He answered his phone as he walked out of the building, leaving Robin alone with Bryan.
Without Pookie in the room, things felt suddenly awkward. She’d hated Bryan for months, but now that he was here, that hate was nowhere to be found.
“So,” she said. “How you been?”
“Busy. The Ablamowicz case and all. And then those guys tried to kill Frank Lanza.”
Yes, the shooting. Bryan had taken yet another life. She could have been there for him, helped him deal with it. But, apparently, he didn’t need her help. More accurately, he just didn’t need her.
“Yeah, Ablamowicz,” she said. “That case has been going on for, what, two weeks? How have you been for the past six months, Bryan?”
He shrugged and looked away. “You know. Lots of corpses. Never a dull moment in Homicide.”
He was going to play it like that? Well, she wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Bryan, why haven’t you called?”
He stared at her again. She wanted to see some emotion in those eyes — pain, want, need, shame — but he looked as blank as ever.
“You told me to move out,” he said. “You told me not to call you. You were very specific.”
“Okay, but six months? You could have at least called to see how I was doing.”
“And your phone is broken? I’m not sure where in the rulebook it says that phones only work when men use them.”
She bit the inside of her lip — she would not cry. She would not. “You’re right. I did tell you not to call.”
Bryan shrugged. “It is what it is. Believe it or not, I’m happy to see you again.” He looked down, then spoke quietly: “I missed you.”
It hurt to hear that. He could have called her a stupid bitch and it would have hurt less. How could he miss someone he didn’t love? His words were meant to be nice, but they landed like a boot in the stomach — a boot she couldn’t get enough of.
“Tell me again,” she said.
He looked up and forced a smile. “Look, I’m happy to see you, but I’m … I’m going through a lot of heavy shit right now. Can we just keep things professional?”
His face remained an expressionless shell. Bryan was right — it was what it was. Sometimes things just weren’t meant to be, no matter how bad you wanted them.
She nodded. “Sure, professional. Can I at least ask how your dad is?”
“He’s fine,” Bryan said. “Saw him this morning. Oddly enough, he made me promise to start up with you again.”
“And do you always keep your promises?”
“Professional, Robin.”
“Right, sorry,” she said. She bit the inside of her lip again. “If I come up with anything else, should I call Pookie … or you?”
His eyes narrowed, just for a second. The way his skin crinkled when he did that, so goddamn sexy. Was that a look of annoyance, or one of … hurt? Well-well-well, maybe there was some emotion in that cyborg body after all.
“You can call me,” he said.
Pookie came back in, wide-eyed and looking upset.
“You okay?” Bryan asked.
“I’m going to expand my investment with the makers of Depends,” Pookie said. “I hope they have adult undergarments for people with more than one sphincter, because Zou just ripped me a new asshole. Bri-Bri, we got to get out of here, fast. Verde told Zou we interviewed Tiffany Hine. Zou feels like we ignored her order to stay out of the case.”
“But we found a body,” Bryan said. “What are we supposed to do, step over it on the way to getting donuts and coffee?”
Pookie nodded. “I guess. She knows we were told Verde was on the way, but we kept at it anyway and that pisses her off. If she finds out we’re here to look at Oscar, she’ll bronze our balls and put them on her desk next to the picture of her family.”
Robin didn’t know much about internal police politics, but there had to be much more to the story. Would Zou really be that opposed to Bryan and Pookie being involved in this case?
Bryan ground his teeth. Frustration was an emotion he didn’t bother to hide. “So what now?” he said. “Do we turn the fortune-teller lead over to Verde?”
“Hell no,” Pookie said. “In fact, I just called Mister Biz-Nass and he’s expecting us in twenty minutes. Listen, Robin, we gots to go. Mum’s the word on this visit, right?”
“Of course,” Robin said. “Like I said earlier, I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
Pookie walked out. Bryan looked at Robin for a long moment, then followed his partner. Robin stared after him, already trying to read meaning into his words, and already hating herself for doing it.
Mr. Biz-Nass
North Beach, San Francisco’s “Little Italy,” sits right next to Chinatown. As a little boy, Bryan had often walked through both neighborhoods with his father. The change from one to the next is so abrupt, so distinct, Bryan thought that gates manned by international border guards wouldn’t have seemed the least out of place. One minute you’re walking through dense throngs of Chinese people picking through the fruit- and vegetable-packed crates outside tiny grocery stores, all signs and conversation in Asian languages, the next minute you’re looking at calm sidewalks with café tables full of people drinking espresso, old dudes letting out snippets of conversation in Italian and every lamppost ringed with stripes of green, white and red.
North Beach primarily supports two types of street-level businesses: an endless supply of food represented by restaurants, bakeries, butchers and candy shops, and then the kitsch, represented by stores full of souvenir crap, overpriced clothing and even more overpriced art. Above those numerous food and kitsch shops sits the second layer of North Beach, represented by faded signs in the windows that advertise importers, exporters, olive oil merchants, tailors and more.
Mr. Biz-Nass had one of those second-story stores, just a flight up from Stella Pastry & Café. His sign wasn’t faded — a blue neon eye set in a red neon hand with the white neon words FORTUNE TELLER curving beneath.
“Convenient,” Pookie said. “Once we’re done talking to this guy, we come downstairs for some Sacripantina cake.”
“The choo-choo needs gas?”
“The metaphor is coal, actually,” Pookie said. He adjusted the four overstuffed manila folders under his arm just before their contents spilled onto the sidewalk. “Brains require chemicals, like potassium and sodium. Sugar is also a chemical,
Bryan, ergo, my brain needs sugar. It’s what they call science.”
“The guy who believes in the Invisible Sky Daddy is quoting science?”
“Yep,” Pookie said. “And he’s about to have a nice chitchat with a black-magic pagan. Confession will be a bitch this week. By the way, I didn’t tell Mister Biz-Nass we were cops.”
Bryan nodded. “Always good to surprise ’em a little.”
“Far as I’m concerned, this guy is a suspect,” Pookie said. “But I don’t want to move too fast. He’s the only person of interest we have.”
Bryan wasn’t going to get excited about this, not yet. The fortune-telling Thomas Reed, a.k.a. Mr. Biz-Nass, had only been looking for info on the symbols. That meant he might have some connection to the case, or, more likely, he’d just seen the symbols somewhere and wanted to know more. Still, people didn’t make requests to the SFPD and to the city out of pure curiosity.
“Pooks, what kind of a name is Biz-Nass, anyway?”
“Maybe he’s like Elvis,” Pookie said. “As in, taking care of business. Ready to get some answers?”
Bryan was. He’d take just about any answer at this point. He had a small headache, and that was the least of his pains. His rebellious body tried to drag him down, but he refused to give in. At least for now, he could muscle through and ignore the fact that it hurt to move, even hurt to breathe.
They entered the ground-floor door, then climbed the stairs. The smell of incense from above mixed with the smell of pastries from below. No question which upstairs door belonged to Mr. Biz-Nass — it was bright red, with a blue eye icon painted on it. They walked in.
Inside was a man dressed in red robes with blue trim, and a blue turban decorated with glass rubies. He had to be sixty; if his face was any benchmark, every one of those sixty years was hard. He sat in a red, thronelike chair. In front of his chair, a blue crystal ball rested on a table draped with a red velvet cloth. Two cheap, blue plastic chairs sat on the other side of the table.
His outfit was something one might find on a 1960s Hollywood prince of India, but his face looked anything but royal: thrice-broken nose, pallid, wrinkled skin and a left eyelid half hanging over his iris in a perpetual stop-action wink.