Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  The agent nodded to the chart. “So, what did you learn?” he asked, but Orion simply pulled a face expressing his directionlessness. Connor snickered and relieved him of the clipboard. He squinted a bit at the script and then pronounced, “After a while, you sorta learn how to read these things. There’s abbreviations and shorthand and terrible handwriting, but…” He trailed off as he concentrated. “So, this is the part that drew our attention,” he said, pointing at the chart as he explained. For lack of a better term, the coroner had listed the cause of death as “old age”—which was not a recognized medical diagnosis—despite the victim’s official record declaring that he had been only thirty-eight. When the medical examiner had asked for clarification from the coroner, the explanation had involved the same kind of multiple organ failure associated with the elderly at the end stages of life. Even the victim’s skin had lost its elasticity and had sagged and shriveled around his facial area. However, his body weight and musculature had remained normal, and tissue samples had returned without anomaly, leaving officials baffled as they had quietly changed his cause of death to the more formal “unknown.”

  “That’s all in there?” Orion asked incredulously.

  Connor shrugged. “Mostly. I also read the BSI report on the way over. The medical examiner confirmed it though, which you might have picked up had you been listening,” he replied. “Bodies like this turn up about every year and a half, and they never know what to make of it, but the victims are of the same age range, physical type, race, and that sort of thing, which would indicate a serial killer if not for the odd method of death.”

  Orion scowled. “So, who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re here to figure out, mate,” he replied cheekily. “If we’re lucky, we can figure out what kind of Other it is before we head into the field, like we did with your sister, but that’s not the typical routine.” He explained that while the latest murder had happened recently, he and Orion were still pursuing what was practically a cold case: Their target apparently had their powers under control and only struck intermittently. Headquarters saw it as a good start for Orion, as it allowed him to put his toe in the water and learn the ropes while not being under intense pressure to solve the case; more experienced agents than he had failed, so there would be no administrative repercussions if he made no progress.

  “Since this is a relatively dead end, our next step is to interview the guy who found the body.” Connor cocked a grin. “I hope you were paying attention. It’s your turn to do the interview.”

  Orion’s face contorted with dismay. He was not ready to speak with another stranger today; he had been anxious enough coming into the building. Interviewing for a job after his college graduation had been one of his greatest fears, and even though he’d be on the other side of the metaphorical table, he did not feel any more self-assured. Connor’s grin split wider, showing his teeth. “I’m joshing you. You should see your face,” he teased. He placed his arm around Orion’s shoulder and pulled him close as they left. “This is great! I don’t know why I didn’t pick up a partner earlier.” Orion simply cursed inwardly and mused that he’d liked the aloof, borderline-rude agent better than the boisterous version with whom he now appeared to be stuck.

  - - -

  Jody Barles was no longer a young woman. She was now entering what was considered middle age, but her short stature and chubby face often made men underestimate her maturity. She appeared to be on the cusp of jail bait, and she knew that this appealed to most men. In conjunction with her light skin and dark hair, her Filipina blood softened her features, further muddying her age. As she sat on the stool and sipped the establishment’s version of a Barbie—which was mostly sweeteners, such as pineapple and sprite, with a dash of vodka—she mused that she had never really dated anyone. But this was probably for the best, as in her experience, men were after only one thing, which was fine because so was she.

  She’d chosen this bar because it attracted the type of men she targeted: primarily lowlifes who had either just gotten out of jail or hadn’t yet been caught, though a few seemed to be genuinely down on their luck and poverty-stricken. There were drug dealers, carjackers, gamblers, and petty thieves. She hated pimps the most, but they seemed to avoid this bar; maybe it was out of their territory, or she hadn’t attracted the attention of any yet.

  She caught the eye of the bartender and gestured for another drink. Despite the alcoholic mix being a bit extravagant for her surroundings, she was beginning to blend in and become a regular, which was a bit of a problem as well. Anonymity was her ally, and an attractive woman was easily recognized—especially one who was meticulous about keeping her fair skin covered whenever she went in public—and her gloved hands were exceptionally conspicuous. She spoke to no one, save the bartender, and contentedly observed the patrons in silence night after night until she found a target. She generally didn’t need to find one more frequently than every few years, but her last encounter had left her unsatisfied and had initiated a creeping doubt that she’d been misguided in her selection and execution. After seeking out a similar hunting ground, she was shortly able to find a new target, and this bolstered her conviction that she and her mission were righteous.

  She surveyed the room again, more slowly this time, and sighed heavily when she confirmed her target’s absence; this was the third time in a row that he had failed to show. She casually shifted her weight to one foot as she stood and paid her tab after a few unhurried minutes. She knew that he would return in a few days, as she had observed him and his routines for some time; she just needed to remind herself to be patient and that waiting was an inevitable part of the process.

  When she left the bar, the streets were dark, with only a few scattered, dim streetlights to illuminate her path. The city had stopped trying to replace the lamps after they’d kept breaking mysteriously less than a week after their installation; if this neighborhood wanted darkness, there was no reason to waste funds on replacement lights when there were thousands of other items on the budget competing for attention. The darkness didn’t bother Jody like it used to when she was a child. She knew now that she was the most powerful creature on the streets, and confidence oozed from her pores like a protective layer.

  There were quiet voices whispering to her left, and she didn’t deign them with a glance. The criminal elements tensed, but perhaps sensing there was something wrong with the situation—no unescorted woman should be so self-assured in that neighborhood late at night without a reason—they did nothing, and she passed by unharassed. She supposed that’s why she never had any trouble at the bar with any supposed pimps; she was a “trap” no one could figure out. She snickered at the small gang’s timidity and continued on her way. If this street was full of predators, then she was the apex and not the prey.

  - - -

  Sone thought he’d hidden fairly well by taking refuge in the supply closet. It smelled stale, the redolent cardboard boxes obscuring the lingering scents from chemicals, old files, and assorted equipment. He sat behind one of the metal shelves, knees up to his chest, and let his mind drift. He heard the faint whine of rusted hinges and the scrape of footsteps across the cement, but he disregarded the sounds until a feminine head appeared around the corner. “That’s what I thought,” she said.

  Naught was approximately his age, though one would not have guessed it by her appearance. Her eyes always seemed to harbor dark shadows beneath them, and the thin streaks of white that ran through her hair seemed to testify to the hard life she’d lived. Her minor medical knowledge had been put to good use as the facility’s unofficial medic, and she’d become affectionately known as “Doc” around the canteen. Through their limited interactions, Sone had come to know her as a kind and compassionate individual, despite her reluctance to socialize, and she’d made an effort to seek him out once she’d learned of Rho’s death. Since she was not gifted with tact, she’d blurt
ed out that she’d heard the news, but the subsequent conversation had been salvaged by her genuine concern, and they had struck up a burgeoning friendship.

  She inhaled sharply, plopped down in front of him, and crossed her arms. “What happened back there?”

  Sone snorted dismissively. He did not like speaking specifically about himself; his father had instilled in him the knowledge that he was only a cog in a greater machine and that as his son, he would never simply be a person. He was a symbol: He represented SION and, by extension, all Others. Sone had taken this doctrine to mean that his personal life—and, in particular, his emotional well-being—was secondary to the cause. His silence was met with wide, expectant eyes, and he eventually relented to her bated breath.

  “I froze,” he admitted softly. “That’s the first time he ever invited me to speak about her.” Her kindhearted expression transformed into one of surprise, and he just shook his head. “Stephanie Moreau and the mother I remember are two completely different women. He’s always told me about her. Lectured. Placed her up on a pedestal. It’s the same speech he gives everyone else, but it’s supposed to have special meaning for me because her sacrifice was for me.” Though Charles Moreau hadn’t spoken to his son about his mother at first, Sone had begun inquiring more insistently as he’d grown older, and he’d received the same recycled speech that Moreau gave his flock. Stephanie had been held up as an impossible martyr, and her real memory had slowly faded.

  “But that’s not how I remember her. She was either a stay-at-home mom, or she worked from home. I don’t know, but she was always in the other room while I played on the floor in the living room.” Sone continued to speak, easily recalling to his receptive and supportive audience the things that a six-year-old comprehended. When they’d thought that he’d been asleep, his parents had fought, mostly about how frustrated she had been about caring for Sone alone all day and never being able to leave the house to socialize. While their voices had carried through the walls, it had been only the sound that had scared him; her malcontent, if it had existed, had been hidden in the daylight, and his young mind had not known the concept of divorce. She had baked and cooked with him and had sometimes partaken in his games of pretend. She had been his only playmate for a long time because he hadn’t attended public school, which was a fact that his father had later attributed to his mother’s supposed insight that Sone was an Other.

  Naught smiled supportively. “I think that would have been a fitting tribute,” she said. “You remember her as she was: human—not a hero. It makes her more real, and it doesn’t knock her off her pedestal, if that’s what you’re afraid of. People aren’t perfect, and neither are their relationships.”

  He shook his head; she didn’t understand the legend that had been drilled into his head. Stephanie Moreau had been a saint and the epitome of Others: different but flawlessly integrated into society instead of posing a threat. His father wouldn’t agree with Naught’s appraisal.

  “In any case, Dr. Moreau recovered just fine,” she continued. “He probably should’ve warned you about having to give a speech in the first place.” She punched him in the shoulder playfully. “So don’t worry about it.” When she didn’t receive the anticipated response, she became serious and asked, “Does it still hurt?”

  He looked at her, considering. While they had spoken about Rho’s loss, he had seen it as a relationship that had been forged out of convenience: He’d needed to talk to someone, and she’d been available. Her further attempts to connect with him were not unexpected or unwelcome, but he wasn’t certain how to proceed. Despite sharing a partnership, he and Rho had rarely spoken of their pasts or their thoughts beyond superficial gossip and conversation, and even though he’d considered Rho his best friend, in retrospect, they hadn’t been as close as they could have been. Before that, he’d had only his father—a man who should have nurtured him but who was instead a distant figure who preached that Sone needed to be strong to avenge his mother, and so he was. Naught’s continued concern about his feelings was as alien to him as affection. “I’m fine,” he replied, probably cutting off any future connection.

  “Ah,” she said, perhaps disappointed, and rocked back on her heels. They sat in silence for a few more moments before she quietly excused herself and left. He sighed deeply, steeled himself, and also chose to return to the rest of the world.

  - - -

  They stood in the faintly musty hallway of a typical apartment complex. Wearing suits, with their hands in their pockets, they tried to look casual—or at least Orion did. He didn’t know what to do, so he tried crossing his hands in front of him, and then he folded them as well, but he decided that this looked too aggressive and uncrossed them. He felt like an unwanted missionary waiting on a doorstep, and he hoped the tenant would answer soon.

  Connor knocked again, and there was a muffled “I’m coming!” followed by shuffling. A bleary-eyed man opened the door and peered at them through half-closed lids. With his mussed hair and the partially soiled work clothes twisted about him, he appeared to have just woken up. He scratched his chin absently as he yawned. “Yeah?”

  The agent nodded before officially introducing himself and then Orion as his assistant. After making certain that they were speaking to Lance Trainor, the sanitation worker who had discovered the body, Connor began to clarify statements from the report. Orion noticed that when Connor smiled, the expression was strained, but he seemed to be making a genuinely affable effort, and he wondered if he hadn’t noticed it previously at his doorstep because he’d been intimidated by the agent’s presence. In any case, he scrutinized his body language, the way he held himself so naturally, and he doubted he’d be able to match the agent’s self-security; Orion’s stomach was still in knots despite him being one of the authority figures in the situation.

  Lance shrugged and then shook his head. “It was the damnedest thing,” he confessed, breathing heavily. “He weren’t even hidden… just lying against the wall.” At first, he’d thought that the man had simply been a drunk who’d passed out in the alley or a recently homeless man, but he’d decided to investigate further because something had seemed off about the situation. On closer inspection, he’d realized that the victim’s clumsy positioning had been due to rigor mortis setting in and not to excessive alcohol consumption. He described the victim in much the same way that he’d appeared when they had seen him in the morgue: a tall, middle-aged white male with nothing evidently wrong with his body. “But I ain’t gonna forget his face,” he added and shuddered. He insinuated that it had resembled cured meat, but he didn’t venture into details, and Connor refrained from pressing him further. Orion didn’t think the body’s appearance had been that unnerving, and he wondered which of the two of them were experiencing the incorrect reaction to the corpse. He’d watched his father die, so maybe that event had rendered him incapable of having the proper response. “That’s why I been taking off early when I feel like. Boss thinks if he gives me enough time off, I won’t sue for any kinda emotional damages. He don’t know this ain’t the first body I seen on the job.”

  The agent was uncharacteristically quiet and attentive during the interview, listening patiently to Lance’s words and taking notes as he had done in Orion’s apartment that first day. After clarifying any lingering details, he concluded the engagement by thanking Lance for his time. Lance simply shrugged again and slammed the door. Connor turned to Orion and deadpanned, “So, what did you observe?”

  Orion pressed his lips together tightly in frustration; he was quickly learning that the older man was not much of a teacher. He crossed his arms as a delaying tactic while he reflected on the interview and what his partner had been trying to impart. “How to persuade a witness to talk to you in a casual setting?” he mumbled hesitantly.

  Connor snorted acerbically. “Well, yeah, but that wasn’t what I was going for,” he replied. “Did you notice his bod
y language? How relaxed he was?” After barely pausing, he explained, “It means he wasn’t lying.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of reasons. Maybe he’d been drinking on the job. Maybe he tampered with the evidence.” He chuffed. “Hell, he could have even been our Other. I don’t really know,” he scoffed cynically. “The point is that we need to focus on reading between the lines and not just on the words they’re saying. Sometimes it’s how they say it, and sometimes it’s their body language. If I thought he was lying or hiding something, then I would’ve pressed him for details to see if he knew anything. That’s how I caught you and your sister.” He smirked wickedly. “You’ve got a tell.” Even though Orion’s lips twisted into a frown, he didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Normally, this is a dead end,” Connor continued to lecture. “A cold case. The witness doesn’t really know anything useful, and there were no substantial clues left at the scene. But…” He produced his smartphone from his pocket and showed him the screen, whose lettering Orion couldn’t read at a glance. It appeared to be a document, and Connor scrolled through it casually as he spoke. “… the police managed to trace the victim’s footsteps back to a bar, where he was seen with a woman.” He paused on a fairly nondescript police sketch of a woman of undeterminable ethnicity and scowled. “Well, these things aren’t really accurate,” he commented dismissively. “Anyway, the other victims were also seen in different bars with a woman who matched this description, and all three victims left with her, so that means there’s a pattern that matches an MO. However, since the crimes took place years apart and in different precincts, the police never made a connection, but we did.” He smirked. “Well, our analysts compiled the cases over time. I just used the database to properly connect them.”