by Steven James
“It’s the perfect storm,” Lien-hua replied as we took our seats. “A psychopath with CIPA. He feels no pain in his body and he feels no pain in his heart. Here is a man who has never felt discomfort or guilt or shame or suffering of any kind—either mental or physical.” As she spoke, I thought of the astronomical odds against a psychopath also having CIPA, but then I remembered Tessa’s comments about the way Dupin approached his case: as impossible as it seems, it did occur, so it must be possible.
Lien-hua went on, “Psychopaths don’t feel either empathy or compassion and never develop close enough relationships to feel heartache. Instead, they just look at other people as objects to be used and then discarded when they no longer enjoy them. Often they become addicted to controlling people, and when they get obsessed with something, their obsession can go on for decades.”
I took Lien-hua’s words to heart and wondered what it would be like to live, as Melice put it, in a “painless hell.” How different would that be from a “joyless heaven”? Maybe no different at all.
“What about the interrogation?” asked Margaret. “The things he told you?”
“A classic example of ‘semantic aphasia,’” Lien-hua said. “That is, using the words that your listeners want to hear. It’s a way of manipulating people. Career criminals are experts at it. They only care about getting their way, exerting power. So it’s tough to say how much of what he said could be taken as a confession. I’d need to talk with him more. But I can say this much—he knows the mind of a killer. And he likes fantasizing about death.”
“Or maybe,” I said, “he just likes watching people do the one thing he can’t do—suffer at the hands of others.”
Then Margaret folded her arms and looked back and forth from Lien-hua to me. “Now,” she said coolly. “Tell me what you two know about Project Rukh.”
85
What? Where did that question come from?
“Project Rukh?” I said. “What do you know about Project Rukh?”
“I’m the one asking the questions, Dr. Bowers,” Margaret said in a clipped voice. “Kindly address them or refrain from participating in the conversation.”
OK.
A moment earlier I might have considered mentioning that I’d found the device, but since she was acting so Margarety, I decided to keep that information to myself for the time being. The device was safe, and until I knew more, it seemed like a good idea to keep its location a secret, so instead, I told her the sketchy facts that I’d discovered about Cassandra’s shark research, Dr. Osbourne’s neuromorphic engineering studies, and the possible connection to MEG technology.
“There is a device,” she said. “Do you know anything about a device?”
“Shade mentioned something,” I answered. “I believe it was from Building B-14, but I don’t know what it’s used for. Do you?”
“Was it destroyed in the fire?”
“If you don’t mind me asking, Margaret—”
“I do mind you asking.”
Lien-hua held out her palms. “Help us out here, Margaret. What are we looking at?”
Margaret folded her hands, looked at her watch, and then to my utter amazement, spoke with stark candor. “Most of what I was told is classified, of course, and eyes only for people above your pay grade, but, since I believe this may bear some relevancy to the case, I can tell you that Drake Enterprises was contracted to design a device that would use electromagnetic imagery to find bodies in rubble or in buildings where thermal imaging can’t reach.”
Electromagnetic sensory location, just like sharks do with buried fish.
Remembering the radiation warnings on the device and the trace radioactive isotopes found in Hunter’s apartment, I said, “Does it use radiation? Radioactive isotopes?”
Margaret’s eyes became inquisitive. Maybe suspicious. “It does. Cesium-137. It’s found in certain medical devices and gauges that are used to treat cancer, but it’s also used to measure the thickness of materials—metal, stone, even paper. That’s what helps the device ‘see through’”—her tone of voice laid quotation marks around the last two words—“matter to find the electromagnetic signals.”
“Wait.” It was Lien-hua. “It can see through buildings?”
“It can’t exactly see through matter,” Margaret explained, “but it can sense the location of the electromagnetic impulses of muscle twitches and brain activity of people who are buried in rubble.”
“It makes sense,” I said. “Remember? Sharks can locate prey buried in the sand. Thermal imaging is similar, but this would simply register magnetic or electric impulses rather than heat. By using neuromorphic engineering it could be possible to replicate the sixth sense of sharks.”
Margaret’s impatient sigh was her way of asking for another turn to speak. “I was told that the purpose of Project Rukh was to develop a device that could be used to find terrorists in caves, miners in cave-ins, skiers in avalanches, and so on. After the towers fell on September 11 and the government had to resort to tapping on metal pipes to search for survivors, they began looking for more efficient ways of finding survivors in wreckage or debris.”
I weighed what she was saying with the facts of the case. The pieces just weren’t adding up here. “No, that’s not big enough,” I said. “It has to be something more. It has to have another use.”
Margaret leaned forward. “Dr. Bowers, it may surprise you to hear me say this, but in this case, I agree with you wholeheartedly.” Just then, a knock at the door. Ralph.
“Come in, Agent Hawkins,” Margaret said. “And close the door behind you.”
86
As Ralph entered and shut the door, Margaret said, “I believe that Building B-14 was burned down to mask the robbery of the device that Drake Enterprises was contracted to develop.”
“Terrorists?” asked Ralph.
“No,” she said. “I think it might be someone related to the research, someone in the government or the intelligence community, or possibly—”
“Detective Dunn,” said Lien-hua.
All three of us turned toward her. “Dunn?” asked Ralph.
“I’ve been thinking.” Lien-hua flipped through her notepad, read some of her scribbles. “Detective Dunn was at the scene of the suicide Monday night. He showed up at the Sherrod Aquarium— the site of Cassandra’s abduction. He was also at the warehouse, and he made sure he spoke with Cassandra before the paramedics wheeled her away. He prepared the room for Melice and demanded to be present during the interrogation.”
“Was he ever alone with Melice?” asked Ralph.
“I saw him, just a few minutes ago,” I said. “Talking in the hallway with Melice and the officers who were taking him to the infirmary.” A thought began circling, like a buzzard, through my mind. “Wait . . . Melice specifically asked for the FBI, asked for Lien-hua by name, and agreed not to have a lawyer present?”
“That’s right,” said Margaret. “Now, if we can get back to—”
“Wait a minute, Margaret—”
“Dr. Bowers, might I remind you that I’m—”
“Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow.” As Margaret opened her mouth to respond, my thoughts zoomed back to the previous night, and before she could lay into me, I said, “Ralph, at the warehouse, Lien-hua and I were by the tank, you were sweeping the north side of the building. The door that Lien-hua kicked open was between us. Melice could have left, could have slipped out the door, but he didn’t. He doubled back. Why didn’t he just leave?”
“You think Melice wanted to get caught?” Lien-hua asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “His lawyers stalled until this afternoon. Why?”
Melice decided when the interrogation would end by biting off his finger . . .
Timing, location. Timing, location.
I stood, started for the door. “The infirmary, Ralph. He wanted to go there.”
“Why?”
Psychopaths only care about getting their way . . . exerting power.
&
nbsp; “They would have to take off his cuffs to treat his finger,” I said. “He planned this all along.” At the end of the interrogation Melice looked at the clock . . . I glanced toward Ralph. “Do people with CIPA itch? Did you find out?”
“They don’t itch.” Ralph saw me throw open the door, and he rose as well. “What’s going—”
“Move.” I bolted down the hallway. “Shift change, 5:30. He’s going to try to escape—”
And that’s when the police headquarters’ intruder alarm began to squeal through the halls.
87
I raced down the stairs to the second floor, took a quick glance through the infirmary doorway, and saw that, although there was at least one officer down, five people had already come to his aid. But that’s not where I expected to find Melice anyway. No, he had another destination in mind.
I ran to the evidence room, whipped out my SIG, and kicked the door open. “Riley?” I said. No one at the counter. “Are you here?”
No reply.
“Creighton, you’re not going to get out of the building,” I called. “I know what you’re after.”
Amidst the wails of the intruder alert, I swept the series of tightly packed rooms just like I’d been taught at the Academy, letting my gun lead me around each corner.
Run the walls, dig the corners.
Clear.
It’s never like you see in the movies. You don’t blaze into a place waving your gun in the air.
Run the walls, dig the corners.
Clear.
Any moment someone might shoot you, rush you, attack you. Not knowing what lies around the corner is the most frightening thing of all.
Heart beating. Heart beating.
The last room. I stepped in, scanned it. Saw my computer in the corner, the duffel bag missing. No other people.
Clear.
Then a moment to breathe.
So, Melice was gone. So was Kernigan.
How did Melice know the device was here?
Shade must have told him.
Shade. Shade.
Dunn? Kernigan? Melice’s doctor? Well, whoever Shade was, if Melice did get away, the two of them would be getting a little surprise when they opened their duffel bag. After all, before I exited the evidence room earlier today, I left my card wrapped up with my lovely makeshift contraption, along with a note scribbled on the back of the card: “If this one doesn’t work, give me a call and I’ll let you play with mine.” I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before either Shade or Melice contacted me
The tables were beginning to turn.
I saw the duct tape I’d used still laying on the counter. Wait. The custodian’s closet. One more door.
I steadied my gun and edged to the closet. “Creighton? Are you in there? Come out.”
No response.
My heart beating and my gun ready, I threw open the door.
Inside, I found Officer Kernigan alive but unconscious. His uniform was missing.
Melice is dressed as an officer.
Even if the clothes didn’t fit well, even with his bloodied face and hand, Melice might still be able to slip away in the confusion. I rushed to the hallway and pulled a sergeant to the side. “Don’t let anyone leave the building. Melice has an officer’s uniform. Make the announcement over the PA system. Do it now.” She looked at me quizzically for a moment. “Go,” I said, and at last she hurried off.
I ran back to help Officer Riley Kernigan and found he’d been pistol-whipped. Probably had a concussion, but he looked like he’d be all right. He was stirring, so I helped him sit up and lean against the door. “You’re going to be OK, Riley,” I told him. He nodded.
After making sure he could sit up by himself, I verified that the actual device was still hidden safely behind twenty-five years of evidence, then I located an officer who’d been trained as an EMT, and I asked him to attend to Officer Kernigan.
Before leaving the evidence room, I went to the log-in forms to see if anyone had stopped by to look at the “video camera” since I’d first visited the room. After Lien-hua’s suggestion that Dunn might be Shade, I wondered if I might find his name.
But I didn’t.
I found Margaret’s.
And the facts of the case began to spin apart once again. I retrieved my computer. I could review the video in a few minutes to see if Margaret knew more about the device than she was letting on. But first, I needed to stop by the infirmary to see the extent of the pain Melice had succeeded in causing.
88
The second floor hallway of police headquarters was filled with scurrying officers, shouted vows of what would happen to Melice when they got their hands on him, and the incessant whine of the intruder siren.
I found the exam room overflowing with police officers, FBI agents, and medical personnel, so rather than crowd them any more, I stood beside the door and surveyed the scene. One of the downed officers appeared to have been stabbed in the neck, and since the paramedics weren’t working on him, I realized that, tragically, his wounds had been fatal. The other man was fading into and out of consciousness and had a thick bandage with a stain already spreading across it wrapped around his left eye.
Only after the siren finally stopped did I hear the announcement that the suspect was wearing an officer’s uniform, but I suspected the announcement had come too late. Too much time had passed, and Melice’s escape had been too well planned.
I saw Graysmith and approached him. “What do we know about Melice?”
“We’re sweeping the building,” he said between clenched teeth. “We set up a six-block perimeter.”
“Video?” I asked.
“No, not in the exam rooms. Privacy concerns.” His voice became taut with resolve. “This is a police matter now. He killed one of my men. We’ll take it from here.”
“No,” I said. “We’re all on the same team, Lieutenant. I don’t care who gets the credit, let’s just nail this guy. Once we have him, I’ll have Ralph do all he can to give you full custody.”
He hesitated.
“Trust me,” I said. “I keep my promises.”
After a moment he gave me a tight nod. “All right.”
He began to step away, but I called him back. “Just a second. Can you tell me why Dunn was at the site of John Doe’s suicide the other night? It might help us out. It’s one piece that still doesn’t fit.”
Graysmith took a cautious breath, then said softly, “We’ve had more and more suspicious suicides near trolleys over the last year. I started wondering if there was someone out there who likes tossing homeless people to their deaths. I wanted Dunn to look into it.” Graysmith’s explanation didn’t resolve all my questions, but considering the circumstances, it did seem plausible. Then he added, “Now, let’s get this creep.”
He left to find Margaret to coordinate the search for Melice, and Ralph’s eyes found me from where he stood in the middle of the room. “Pat, what do you think?” He stepped closer to me. “Melice waited until he was in here because it was easier to escape? Less security?”
“Probably.” I lowered my voice. “Plus, it’s right beside the evidence room. Melice stole the device, or at least he thinks he did. But I’ve got the real one. Listen, he knew it’d be in there. And I think he knew the shift change was at 5:30.”
“Someone told him,” growled Ralph.
I thought of Dunn speaking with the officers who were leading Melice to the infirmary, and then of Margaret’s sudden interest in the device. “Yes. Someone did.”
While Ralph and I were talking, a number of the officers stepped past us, leaving the room to join the search for Melice, so I was finally able to approach the dead officer and study the wound on his neck. “Does anyone know what he was stabbed with?”
“Piece of metal,” someone said. “A shiv of some kind. Parkers told us that much before he passed out.” I assumed Parkers was the man with the battered face.
“All right,” hollered Dunn. “He was cuffed. Where d
id he get the shiv?”
I examined the dead officer’s neck more closely. A thin tip of metal protruded from the wound, but it hadn’t passed all the way through the man’s neck. Using my hand, I measured the diameter of his neck . . . about fifteen centimeters. Then, I compared that to the size of my hand . . . about ten centimeters.
“I think,” I said, “Melice might have had it with him, hidden in his hand, probably embedded at the metacarpophalangeal joint. That’s what he was picking at. He wasn’t itching, he was digging at the skin, pulling it away. We missed it. And now this man is dead.”
“Who inspected this guy?” Ralph’s fists tightened. “Who processed him?”
Detective Dunn took a flat breath. “I did. I processed Melice.” Then he stared at the two officers, one dead, one seriously wounded. “And I’m gonna be the one to kill him.” Then Detective Dunn thundered out of the room.
Could Dunn be Shade after all? What about Margaret? Gray-smith?
More evidence, less conjecture.
Eliminate your theories, don’t try to prove them, try to disprove them one by one.
I didn’t know who to trust, but I figured as long as I had the device, Shade would come looking for me. “Ralph, meet me in five minutes at the work space I was in earlier.”
He agreed, and I went to get set up.
I’d recorded over three hours of video, but thankfully, my laptop’s media player allowed me to slide the cursor along the control module to quickly scan the footage until I came to the image of a person dressed in civilian clothes. At that point, I played the video at normal speed and saw the lights in the room blink off and then a person stepping cautiously into the darkness.
Since the person was starkly backlit and walking through the dark, I couldn’t make out a face. Unbelievable. Shade was smart. Very smart. I had to give him that.
He took only three steps into the room, then eased backward and left, keeping his face in the shadows the whole time. Whoever it was, he was probably just verifying the presence of the device. I checked the time on the video marker—2:58 p.m., the time we were all off by ourselves researching Melice. Anyone might have slipped in here.