Decoherence

by Liana Brooks

  “What about a timeline based on when they were reported missing.” He tipped the chair so he could have a better view. “How do you know the victims are related? Do we have a nifty ritual killer?”

  “Nifty ritual killer?” Sam asked in disbelief. “You watch too many bad TV shows. No, I’m linking the cases based on phenotype and cause of death. All are Hispanic, or Hispanic-­looking women, ages twenty through twenty-­six, long black hair, dark eyes, and all were beaten to death. There are no signs of a weapon’s being used. This guy likes to punch.”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed as he caught the scent of prey. “You have a suspect.”

  Bosco, their long-­tailed South African Mastiff, wiggled past her legs, jostling everything on the table, to sit between his two favorite humans.

  Sam reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ear before he lay down. “I’m guessing the killer is male. Call it gut instinct right now. I don’t have evidence, but for a single person to deal this much damage, they need to have considerable mass behind their blows. Statistically, serial killers who favor physical attacks are male. Women usually use something subtle, like poison. But, you know, it could be a woman, or a nonbinary person. I’m open-­minded.”

  “I’m sure the killer appreciates that,” Mac said with a grin. Sam punched him in the shoulder—­ none too lightly. “Ow!”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Fine,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Do you think the killer is stalking his victims?”

  She shook her head. “If he is, he’s really good. None of them filed a complaint with the police, had a restraining order against anyone, or even seemed to tell anyone they felt uncomfortable. There’s no business connection between any of them. They’re from different religions, different political parties, use different forms of social media. I can’t find one place where they would have overlapped.”

  Mac grimaced. “Which is why no one else is looking at this as a serial killer case.”

  “Right. The range is broad. But, statistically, what are the chances that all these victims would die the same way and look so similar?”

  Mac’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “In that part of the Commonwealth? A good 60 percent of the female population is Latina. The age range is a little specific, I’d expect some older or younger outliers, but the body type is average. Average height. Average weight. Statistically, a majority skin and hair color combination.”

  Sam raised a dubious eyebrow. “You don’t think any of them look a little like me?”

  He fanned the flatpics out and shook his head. “Aside from the obvious skin tone, no. The noses are different. The eye shape is different.” He glanced sideways at her. “How much trouble will I be in if I admit that, statistically, you’re average? I mean, I love you and know you’re one in several billion, but . . .” He trailed off with a shrug.

  Sam rolled her eyes with a huff. “Are you saying I’m paranoid?”

  “Maybe, but I’d never say that was a bad thing.” He kissed her temple. “Any ideas on how the killer is covering this large an area? Businesses maybe?”

  “I looked. There’s no commonality.”

  “Not enough.” She pushed away from the table in frustration. “There’s a connection here. I know that. The same bones broken. The style of bruising. Like . . . there’s a rhythm?” She stood up, trying to figure how the attacker might have come at the girls. “Come here.”

  Mac stood up and held his arms open. “Okay.”

  “You’re coming after a smaller opponent, what’s your first move?” Mac had been a US Army Ranger before the Commonwealth formed, and he’d trained in a variety of fighting styles.

  He shrugged. “Why am I attacking them?” He moved behind her, held one arm over her head and one by her chin. “If I need a quick kill and the person is much smaller, I snap their neck unless I can use a weapon.”

  “Right. A splat gun would be better if you want to immobilize someone.”

  Mac stepped in front of her again. “You’re sure this isn’t a ritual of some kind? Initiation? Hazing? There are still gangs that use a group beating to welcome new recruits.”

  Sam shook her head. “The bruises are uniform across the bodies. Same size handprints. Same size boot tread.”

  “Did you find out what kind of boots? That could give us something.”

  “No. It’s not coming up on any of the databases.” She tried taking a step toward him and a step back, trying to imagine how the killer caught the victims.

  Mac held his hands up as if to choke her. “Defensive wounds?”

  “On some of them. Blood and skin under the fingernails, but that’s not flagging anything in the system, either.” She put an arm up to block. “How would this work?”

  “Him knocking a victim down? Hit them hard right away?” He faked a punch that missed her nose by a good six inches.

  She leaned back anyway, slowly staging the crime.

  “Are you assuming he doesn’t know them?” Mac asked. “That changes how I would attack someone.”

  “Right, if you knew them, it would be easier to strangle them, but you don’t choke someone, then beat them, do you? Unless you had a personal grudge, you don’t attack a dead body.”

  “So they’re attacked first? All the bruises are antemortem?”

  “A majority, yeah.” She nodded and motioned for him to throw another mock punch. “You swing.”

  Mac shook his head. “I corner you first.” He marched up to her so their toes touched. “A stranger does this, you back up.”

  She stepped back. “Right, the killer is big. Physically imposing.”

  “The killer encroaches on the victim’s personal space, then they punch.” He backed her into a corner and held his fist near her face. “Now what?”

  “I drop, curl up.” Sam moved down.

  “And then the killer starts kicking.” Mac mimed the motion. “Where were the victims found?”

  “They were all killed in public places while alone or isolated. Work, school campus, bus stop . . . oh, no, the teacher was killed at home.”

  “All places with corners, trees, walls. The killer is controlling the environment. Picking the hunting grounds.” He held a hand out to help her up.

  Sam stood and made a note. “Controlling the environment, picking his targets, but which comes first?”

  Mac nodded as he thought. “No victims found in cars?”

  “Or in parking garages. Which is odd. That would be a good place to corner someone.” She sat back in her chair, resting her chin on her hand.

  “There is steam rising from your head,” Mac said as he rubbed her shoulders. “Stop thinking so hard. We don’t need to solve this tonight.”

  “But—­”

  “But what? Even if we solve this, how are we going to tell anyone?”

  “Anonymous email?” she said hopefully.

  He leaned close to her ear. “Sam?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You are not getting paid for this.”

  “But . . .”

  “And it’s after nine.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  “Mmmhmmm.” His lips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck. “Come on, sweetheart. Let it go for a few hours. You know that cases don’t get solved overnight. This is real life. Someone has to go knock on doors, pound the ground, sort through personal effects. Eventually, a link will appear if there is one. No crime is perfect. But sitting here and getting upset won’t speed up the process.”

  Sam let him tug her away from the computer. “You’re right. You’re perfect.” She squeezed his hand in thanks. “Do you still want shrimp?”

  “We have leftovers from yesterday.” He kissed her, long and slow.

  When she opened her eyes again, Mac was smiling.

  “You said I wa
s perfect.”

  Sam laughed. “You already knew you were the most perfect man alive.”

  “Did I tell you that you were perfect? Because, you are.”

  “Does that make us the perfect ­couple?” She was going to kiss him again, but Bosco wiggled in between. She shot the dog an angry look.

  “Want me to heat up the spaghetti from last night?” Mac asked as he kissed her temple and nudged the dog away with his foot.

  “Not really,” she admitted. She smiled. “I’d rather strip you naked.”

  “Oh?”

  “You still have energy left? Or is it too late?”

  Mac picked her up and spun her around. “It’s never too late for us.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Of all the possibilities I’ve seen, only the future remains a mystery.”

  ~ excerpt from the private journal Agent 5 of the Ministry of Defense I1—­2063

  Day 186/365

  Year 5 of Progress

  (July 5, 2069)

  Central Command

  Third Continent

  Prime Reality

  Lockers rattled and the building shook as Donovan’s team jumped through time. The MIA was getting a workout this week. Futures were fracturing as the world government argued. Jump teams sent to ensure the future of humanity were leaving on an almost hourly basis, reacting to the splintered paths of probability.

  Rose slammed her locker shut, avoiding the mirrored, chrome surface and the wraith’s face she knew she’d see there. Lack of sleep was catching up with her. That, and the constant barrage of the war with time. She tugged her thinning hair into a tight ponytail and shoved away the memory of thick black waves curling over a face fat from luxurious living.

  In other iterations, she was a pampered diva, a politician, a police officer, and a motivational speaker. She’d watched her other-­selves from a sniper scope and pulled the trigger without hesitation every time. Those Samanthas were a lie, the person she would be if she were willing to trade fame and luxury for the future of humanity.

  Not even an option.

  Metal rasped against metal as the MIA warmed up again. In the far corner, a locker painted matte black popped open.

  With a curse, Rose crossed the room, then crossed herself. She believed in no god, unless feverish devotion to the math equations of time counted as a religion, but the motion of her hands touching forehead, heart, and shoulders was grounding.

  The Locker of Doom rattled, the engraved plaque with the warning never to store anything here and the number 666 swung loose. Rose caught the plaque, rehung it, and glanced inside.

  Silky black curls damp with blood obscured the face of a woman wearing a lacy canary-­yellow camisole. She’d been folded in thirds, legs tucked up close to her chest, and placed in the locker. This was exactly the sick sort of joke that she didn’t have time for.

  Automatically, her hand went to the comm unit hooked on her belt, then she hesitated. There was no one to call. Emir had ordered the police force out of Central Command four months earlier. The military police loyal to Central Command weren’t equipped to handle an investigation, and they weren’t allowed in the building anyway.

  The closest thing to a detective who was available were the forensic techs who worked with the infiltration teams exploring new iterations.

  Rose knelt, anticipating the first round of questions: Who was she, and where was she from? Brushing aside the hair so she could see the girl’s face, she tried to match the deceased with anyone she’d ever seen. Elegant lines of a thin, aristocratic nose and high cheekbones—­one cracked by the force of a blow—­with skin the color of dark sandstone, and all unfamiliar. The woman could have been any of the millions of women in the world with the dominant genes for darker coloring. Smeared black eyeliner and gold eye shadow gave her away as a stranger, a victim from another timeline. There was no makeup in the Prime. Little wastes, that’s what they were . . . paints and colors and brushes that served no purpose and squandered workers’ time.

  Emir would never authorize a tech to investigate. There was too much at risk right now and too good a chance that the dead woman had come from a now-­vanished iteration.

  Rose closed Locker 666, shoving it shut and checking the lock. The murdered girl didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong to her.

  Yet she felt the dreaded tug of curiosity and guilt. She was the Paladin, after all, a node who held the future together simply by existing. Paladins were meant to be champions who could see past the surface to the potential of a person. It sounded strangely unscientific the first time Dr. Emir had explained her role in the world. Math and physics she understood. Gravity was the same anywhere (or anywhen) on the planet. But intuition?

  Her fingers lingered on the lock.

  Intuition said this wasn’t just an anomalous murder victim who had been picked up by the MIA’s oft-­generated temporal cyclones. She wouldn’t have been able to explain why she felt it, but this felt intentional.

  She’d been on the team that had calculated where the temporal cyclones could appear in Prime, and all of those were sealed with black pillars. Their work had taken the bulk of a year because the calculations required working with complex equations. For someone else to do the math and find an unguarded touchpoint was unlikely, but the Locker of Doom had its name for a reason. Every so often, the temporal waves shifted just right, and everything in Locker 666 was pulled into another iteration.

  Usually, the temporal cyclones brought back odd things. A lost sock, a patch of grass, a set of unfortunate koi from someone’s pond. To the best of her knowledge, a temporal cyclone had never brought in a body. It wasn’t impossible, of course. Her team had used the anomalies to infiltrate well-­guarded iterations before, then made every effort to prevent intruders from using the same manner of ingress.

  She bit her thumbnail and looked back at the locker. Somewhere among in her infiltration gear she had a fingerprinting kit. No one would raise an eyebrow if she searched the massive database stocked with information from thousands of variations of history.

  The building shook again, and as the locker rattled, the sound hollowed. Without looking, Rose knew the girl had been swept away, another piece of flotsam in the ocean of time. Her body perfectly hidden from all authority. Taken by time, and with her, time took Rose’s chance to make a different decision.

  She stood, studying the locker until she saw what her intuition had picked up before her conscious mind acknowledged it: blood drops on the outside of the locker. Jane Doe had been outside Locker 666. Child of another time though she was, Jane Doe had been here. Possibly even killed here.

  She grabbed her travel kit from her locker and pulled out an evidence bag for the blood sample. Central Command probably didn’t have the woman’s files, so there was unlikely to be a way to look for a genetic match, but it didn’t matter. Even when a timeline was destroyed, there were echoes.

  Every crime left a trace.

  Swabbing the sample, she cleaned the floor with a frown and marched out of the locker room. No one looking would see a change in her behavior, but it was there as she watched the techs run past. She saw the morass of humanity swirling around her and watched for the killer who hid in the crowd.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Only a law that treats everyone as equals has a right to be called a law at all.”

  ~ excerpt from a speech by Mississippi Governor Chantrell Norin I2—­2051

  Thursday October 31, 2069

  Florida District 18

  Commonwealth of North America

  Iteration 2

  “And this,” Dr. Runiker said with a ringmaster’s flourish as he pulled the sheet off the body, “is another kind of corpse.”

  “Looks Latina to me,” said one of the students with a laugh.

  “Looks hot,” whispered his friend in a voice that made Ivy take a lar
ge sidestep away from the university biology students.

  They were on an anatomy trip for class credit. She was there on a goodwill tour because no one else from the New Smyrna Police Department wanted to drive four hours. The fact that she was a Shadow—­a government-­owned clone freed from her master because of her gene donor’s sudden death—­meant she was low person on the totem pole. It didn’t matter that in January she’d be a legally recognized human being—­it was easier to remember that until then, she was just another corporate bot. She didn’t let it faze her, though. Better a grunt than property.

  So here she was, unhappy about the babysitting assignment but knowing it could be worse. She looked at the bruised corpse, trying to guess what made it special.

  Runiker waggled feathered eyebrows. “What makes this body unique?” he asked the crowd as if echoing Ivy’s thoughts. “What makes her different than all the others.”

  “Type of death?” one of the girls asked. She had a red kitten heels and a look that said I Am Going To Be Your Boss Someday. Very Type-­A—­and exactly the kind of person who would hate Ivy for existing.

  Because clones like her took up valuable jobs. Or so the opposition argued. Ivy worked at the police station, and she’d never seen anyone offer to take her jobs, whether it was sorting through garbage looking for evidence or cleaning the drunk tank. Seemed to her that she was doing five jobs for a meager paycheck that went straight to her caseworker. But what did she know.

  I’m just a Shadow.

  Her pen bent in her fist.

  “Wrong,” Runiker said. “This woman was beaten, probably in a case of domestic violence. Next guess?”

  “Importance of the victim?” a baby-­faced boy asked.

  Runiker pointed to him. “Close.”

  “Identity?” Ivy said.

  The doctor looked at her for the first time.

  Ivy pointed to the corpse’s feet. “No toe tag. She hasn’t been identified, or if she has, her family is paying to keep her identity secret.”

  Runiker inclined his head. “Thank you, er, is it Officer?”