They say clothes make the man, and I was feeling pretty good about sporting a new set of Duck Head khakis in a sensible beige tone. I’d finally bitten the bullet after months of indecision and made the jump up to a size forty waist. I’d probably been putting off that move for a couple months too long, so the relaxing flow of cool air circulating around my junk felt beautiful. Those threadbare size thirty-eights were probably still lying on the floor of the Belk’s dressing room where I’d left them with no goodbyes and no regrets. I guess I could’ve saved them and tucked them away in case I ever lost weight, but when you make a wardrobe power move there’s no room for looking back. Besides, I’d been around enough overweight career cops to know that the road I was traveling was a one-way street.
The coroner’s examining room was small and sparsely furnished. The operating table and the spotlights hanging down above it dominated the room, which was decked out in no-nonsense stainless steel and. It was the kind of place that made me want to walk around flipping switches and pressing buttons, just to see what would happen. The room was so small that there was no possible place to sit where you could avoid having to look at the body but I did my best anyway, dragging a padded armchair in from the lobby and flopping down in the corner. Autopsies are mostly a formality anyway since chances are good that if you see a guy floating face down in a pool, you’re not going too far out on a limb to say that the cause of death was drowning.
The policy manual says we have to file a report for any natural death, unless it occurs in a patient care facility like a hospice. I’d thought about asking Big Jim whether MUSC’s swimming pool room could technically be considered a medical facility, but quickly thought better of it. There was no sense in pissing him off so early in the week and besides, it was a softball case. Once Squealer had run Encienario’s fingerprints through the computer, the National Crime Information Center’s database had sent an automatic notification to the Champaign PD. That made it Champaign’s job to notify the grieving relatives, which was just fine by me since I don’t handle other peoples’ grief too well.
Since the coroner’s office was responsible for packing the body up and shipping it back to Illinois, my job was nothing more than serving as a liaison between everyone involved and making sure the paperwork got filed in the right drawers.
Katie Maslow, the deputy coroner, was already hard at work by the time I’d shown up. Her wide body was bent over the stainless steel table as she arranged her instruments of torture. The spotlights were pulled down low, so the glare reflecting off Encienario’s pale skin made Katie’s face appear to glow. Now I’m not one to call someone fat when I’m definitely no health nut myself, but the way that light hit her pink skin and reflected against the backdrop of glass and steel reminded me of a plump rotisserie chicken slowly turning on its spit.
My stomach rumbled with hunger pains, at least until Katie plunged in with the scalpel and made that first incision. I stuck my nose into Encienario’s file at that point, trying my best not to watch the procedure. The papers inside bore the familiar smell of Jim’s Lucky Strikes, but it sure beat the odor of dead tissue and stale blood.
By the time I’d finished skimming through the folder, the only unusual thing about the case seemed to be the fact that the Champaign cops had wasted their time writing a report on Encienario in the first place. If a middle-aged white male disappears without a trace, it’s usually because he owes child support. Coming in right behind that is when dudes go and trade their wives in for newer models, and a close third is if they run off somewhere on a drug binge. In any case, none of these are really crimes, so they’re usually not matters for the police.
My personal policy is to never open up a missing persons case unless someone is handicapped or a kid or could otherwise be in danger. Very few people actually go missing these days – more often than not, people just get this sudden urge to be somewhere else. Me, I get that same feeling all the time, usually between nine and five, Monday through Friday.
There was a short comment in the remarks section of the report which mentioned that Encienario had served in the Illinois National Guard back in the nineties, and that his fingerprints might still be available through old military records. Apparently they had been, which is how Squealer had singlehandedly raised the bar for police work by making the identification so quickly. It made me absolutely sick to think of that little rat patting himself on the back for a job well done.
Nothing else about the case was unusual, except for the ridiculous length of the incident report. Encienario had simply packed up and left right after Christmas without so much as a “See you later, baby” to his wife and kids. That’s not a particularly uncommon situation, but what made it so strange was that the reporting officer quoted the dude’s wife as saying they hadn’t had any arguments lately, and also that they had a great marriage. I tried to read between the lines of the report to guess at all the dirty laundry that his wife hadn’t wanted to dish out to Officer Friendly. Even with no clues to go on, I’d still put down even money that Encienario had been nothing more than a down-low drug addict gone off on a bender. Being that he was a white guy, it was a safe bet that cocaine was the root of his troubles.
His wife had also told the Champaign cops that Encienario had seemed distant and depressed over the holidays, but I could definitely sympathize with that. I imagine that all the cold weather up north could get anyone down, and maybe Leonard had just gotten tired of shoveling snow every day and went out in search of a different kind of white powder.
Katie was humming tunelessly. When I finally looked up, she was banging away on some scary-looking metal instruments. I swear, there’s nothing more annoying than those rare, jerky people who actually seem to enjoy their work. Those types always seem to make everyone around them miserable by never complaining about anything.
I piped up, trying to throw her for a loop. “Hey, Katie, you know that guy was only forty-eight years old? Check out those wrinkles, his skin looks worse than my uniform at last year’s inspection. Are you sure this dude didn’t die from lung cancer or something?” My words hung in the air as my voice echoed off the stainless steel walls.
Katie glanced up at me with an annoyed look which seemed to say, “Are you still here?” She made a few more quick snips with a scissors, then used a forceps to hold up a greasy sack of pink tissue. “No way, Mike. Look at this virgin lung. There’s no way a man of his age could have lungs as clean as these and be a smoker.” She stared at the organ, looking over her thick-framed glasses. “In fact, I’d even say that Leon exercised pretty regularly.” I glanced away as my stomach did a backflip. Swallowing hard, I stuck my nose back into the safety of Encienario’s case file. From the corner of my eye, I saw her hold the lung up to examine it in the light for a few more seconds before tossing it into the tray, where it landed with a sickening “Smack”. It sounded exactly like the time I slipped on the wet floor at Jersey Mike’s and my foot-long BLT sub with extra mayo splattered and skidded all across the tile. Yeah, now it was official, my appetite was shot.
Katie took a few more whacks at the body, but it sounded as if she was winding up. If a corpse doesn’t have any kind of gross wounds from a gunshot or a stabbing or some other violent, her heart’s not really into the work. Finally, she raised the spotlights and said, “Well, no outward signs of injury, so foul play’s probably out. I’ll get his blood samples down to the laboratory and we should have the toxicology reports back sometime tomorrow.”
I wanted to put down some cash on whether we’d find traces of cocaine in his bloodstream, but I thought better of it. Gambling on duty, or should I say getting caught gambling on duty, would have meant another week-long suspension, and Katie struck me as just the type of person who’d snitch you out in a heartbeat. Her eyes were small and beady, just like Squealer’s.
I gathered my papers and stood up while she continues running her mouth. “Both lungs were filled with fluid, so the cause of death is almost certainly drowning.”
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That’s probably because we found him in the deep end of a pool, I thought, but I knew better than to say that out loud. I just pretended to scribble down a few notes instead. “You don’t say.”
Katie’s been putting up with cops for her entire career, so she gave me a pass on the snide remark. “I took some fluid samples from the lung so just to be sure, we’ll run a chemical analysis to match the chlorine concentration and Ph balance to the water in the pool. If you want, you can go ahead and start closing it out as an accidental death.”
I’d already started closing the case out in my mind, so her guidance was music to my ears. I stretched out my arms and stole a glance at my watch, trying to disguise the movement to avoid showing how anxious I was to leave. It was almost three-thirty by that point, which was close enough to five o’clock for me. “Thanks Katie, it’s been a pleasure as always. Just leave a message for me in Central whenever the test results come back.”
She rolled her eyes at my false motivation and began cleaning up her bloody mess, which I took as my cue to head out to the parking lot for some fresh air.
I figured that if I hit the Interstate, I could be pulling up in front of my apartment in just under twenty minutes, which would be cutting out just a hair too early for a Monday afternoon. On the off chance that anybody would be looking for me, I decided to play it safe and settled on the scenic route home.
TUESDAY
The Oracle is a man, or at least he once was. There are no words to describe what he has become now. Half-man, half-machine, he no longer walks the streets but glides over them. The Oracle lives and breathes Metropolis. Shadows like myself whisper that his heart beats with the very rhythm of the city.
My quest to see him calls for the utmost caution, as dangerous creatures live in dangerous lairs. I ponder whether he lives this way by cunning design or out of some strange necessity, but I know not and refuse to speculate. The Oracle comes and goes as only he sees fit. I must have his wisdom but for that, I need patience. Like all ethereal beings, time holds no meaning for him.
I wait.
Day turns to night, as it always has. The Shadows pass me by. Some are servants of the Oracle, some are renegades, a few were once heroes as I was. None of them notice me in the dark night. Again, my mouth fills with distaste at my behavior. What kind of hero cowers in the corner? But then I remember, I am a hero no more.
The wait seems endless, but it is said that a teacher will appear only when the student is finally ready. The sounds of the Shadows around me fade to a rustle of whispers as the Oracle appears. I have spied him before, of course…haven’t we all? But few have ever seen him as he truly is.
If The Oracle was once a man, he has evolved. Weak flesh has given way to cold, unyielding steel. His dark eyes hold my gaze with a face that shows no judgment. He knows my predicament. He knows why I am here. Moments pass as he mutters strange incantations I have never heard. Tongues from the old world perhaps, or mysteries of ancient knowledge. I feel a chill, as being in the presence of the Oracle feels like being in the presence of the Universe itself.
Time passes. I cannot know how long. The Oracle turns and kneels reverently before a small altar, perhaps acknowledging those mysteries which are greater than even he. He makes deft, flowing motions with his fists of steel, releasing a fragrant incense from the altar. He breathes the air of the cosmos as clouds, skies, and planets reflect in the depths of his eyes.
Again, he turns to behold me, and I know. My answer is his, and his mine. His wisdom flows from the fumes of incense, as this one source pushes his vision beyond time, beyond space. Suddenly and without words, I am dismissed. I rise, reverently touching the altar before turning to leave.
My task is daunting, but not impossible. Nothing is impossible. The mountain that lies before me is high, but it can be climbed.
I will need all of my cunning to defeat Doctor Demming.
I will need all of my power.
I will need the Cruxion.
4.
Having a pager clipped to your hip 24/7 is no way to go through life. Once again, the sun was barely up in the sky and once again, my pager had rudely awakened me. This was getting ridiculous, I cursed to myself. I mean, I wasn’t even supposed to be on call that particular week. That clown Chadwick Lyons had the duty, but his wife had gone into labor a couple weeks early without even having the courtesy to give proper notice. That had been over two full days ago, and I grumbled as I wondered exactly what in the hell Lyons could still be doing to help her out. I could see him maybe, just maybe, needing two full days off if the baby had popped out from between his own legs or something.
I used the heel of my right hand to pry one eye open and slapped around with my left to find my pager. The message read, “63 @ 571 Meeting for an 07, 911.” I had to look at it twice, thinking that it must have been Slipper’s idea of a joke. “911” on a pager message means move it or lose it, but there’s usually no need to rush to the scene unless the crime just occurred. I swung my feet out of bed, grabbed my cell phone, and punched in Slipper’s number from memory.
My buddy must have glanced at the caller ID, because he picked up on the first ring. “Don’t try to get out of this one, Goosey. Just hurry up and get on down here.”
I mumbled a few more curses under my breath and looked over at the alarm clock. 6:05 a.m. Damn, I thought, I can’t even remember the last time I’d been up that early. “C’mon, Slipper, you wake me up just for a freaking 07? What’s the rush? He’s not going anywhere if he’s dead, is he? I swear, this dude better have a knife stuck in his back and OJ’s bloody glove lying next to him.”
“Goosey… G Man…” he laughed. “Have I ever let you down?”
I was about to start naming off just a few of the times that he actually had, but he interrupted me before I could get going.
“This one’s good, I promise. You won’t want to miss it, bro. And bring your camera.”
“Damn it, Slipper, throw a blanket over him and call me back in an hour.” I mashed down the End button and slid back into bed, but it was no use. The sun was already peeking through the blinds and filling my tiny bedroom with light. I wouldn’t have been able to go back into a deep sleep knowing that there was work waiting for me, so I got up and headed for the shower, cursing Slipper every step of the way.
My mind wandered off on its own track as I took my time lathering up, and I wondered what kind of surprise Slipper could have in store. I figured that the 07 might have been some bigwig, maybe, but since the possibilities were literally endless my mind ran wild. Whatever it was hadn’t sounded too serious over the phone but then again, Slipper’s never been one to say something’s worthwhile if it isn’t. In the end, I grabbed my new khakis up off the floor and rooted through the laundry basket until I found a dress shirt that was still unwrinkled. It was mostly free of stains, but the armpits were a little ripe so I hit them with a couple shots of air freshener.
A few minutes later, I was turning off Folly Road onto the James Island Connector. The rising sun was blinding and with everything that had gone on the day before, I still hadn’t remembered to look for my sunglasses. Squinting,
I managed to find the turn off for Calhoun Street, then took it over to Meeting and headed north. It was so early that no one was out moving except a newspaper deliveryman and a pair of joggers. I gave the deliveryman a nod and the joggers a glare.
I checked on with the dispatcher working Channel One and counted off the street numbers as I passed them by. I’d never worked patrol downtown in Team One and I never would if I could help it, since the whole place is nothing but an urban jungle and I had no interest in becoming a full-time zookeeper. Up ahead, the flashing amber lights of two patrol cars pulled up on the sidewalk caught my eye.
I whipped a U-turn in front of the Crisis Ministries Homeless Shelter, where there was an EMS wagon stuffed into the narrow alleyway. A handful of homeless bums were nosing around, so I checked to make sure my doors were locked and my wi
ndows rolled up as I dragged my heels across the pavement, cursing Slipper every step of the way. If that bastard called me out so early in the morning for nothing more than some dead ragpicker, I’d do my damndest to make the rest of his work week as miserable as mine.
Slipper’s rookies had the alley blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. They had run the mess all the way into the next lot, even wrapping it around the entire O+M Grocery Store for good measure. To be honest, I’m not sure what either the O or the M stood for or if it even stood for anything at all. The owner was probably some Arab named Omar Mohammed or something, and he was only using his initials to make the place sound more American. The store had clearly seen better days, and now it looked more like a supply depot for drunks and crackheads than an actual place of business. I’d be willing to bet that the O+M only stocked a couple major staples of ghetto life, things like forty-ounce bottles of King Cobra malt liquor and mentholated Newport cigarettes.
The building itself was a typical old Charleston style single house, tall and skinny, with a junky apartment on the second floor which was available for some foolhardy tenant to rent out. The white paint had almost completely peeled off the wood siding and the entire building listed to the right at a sharp angle. It looked almost as if it was peering down its nose at the housing project across the street but come to think of it, all the houses on this side of town looked like they were in constant danger of collapsing. The original builders had probably designed them that way in the hopes that they’d tip over eventually, part of some grand master plan to run the blacks completely off the peninsula. These days, gentrification is a much simpler process since raising property taxes seems to get the job done.
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 4