Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  “You—you don’t worry?” he said.

  “Nope.” She took a breath, still thinking. “But for now, you’re still stuck over there, on that side. You still have shit to do, big boy.”

  His gaze drifted away, and he muttered, “I don’t know how to anymore, baby.”

  “Mm-hmm, you know what your problem is?”

  He looked at her, shook his head. “No. What—what’s my problem?”

  She reached toward him and her hands came out of the mirror protruding toward him until he could feel them on his face. He swam inside her touch. She said, “Trying to forget me, you forgot yourself, Bernie. You let them fucking doctors take your brain. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that?” he said, mesmerized.

  “Hell no,” she said, pulling her hands back into the mirror. “Listen, you’re a good man, Bernie. Your heart—it’s solid. You do shit, crazy dumb stupid shit, for the people you care about. I’ve seen it, remember? That’s why I fell in love with you, baby.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  A tiny, sad grin broke across her face as she shook her head and took another drag. “I don’t have any idea, babe,” she said, blowing out. He looked down, deflated. She said, “Well, there is one thing.”

  He looked back into her with eyes bleeding to know.

  She said, “William. He’s all that’s left of what you were. And those were good days.”

  “William, yeah,” he whispered.

  “Remember when I told you to let him help you on that case—you know, the dog shooter case?”

  “Parks case. I remember that.”

  “Well,” she dragged again, and said, “Maybe—just maybe—it’s your turn to help him now. Maybe he needs you, Bernie.” She leaned toward him and said, “Maybe he really needs you.”

  He looked at her nodding his head, yes.

  She leaned back again. “But first, you know what you should do, babe?”

  Now he looked at her shaking his head, no.

  “Get drunk, for crying out loud.” She spoke very plainly, but with a warm smile on her face. “You were always better when you were drunk, sugar.”

  39

  Blast Off

  When Bernie reached for her she was gone. His hands met the mirror and staring back was only himself. But there was something strange happening inside him, something new. He felt light, not heavy, not burdened. Iva. He’d turned to her in the past many times, ribbing her for support, never outright asking for it, just talking with her, listening to her. She had never failed him. Somehow, through some mixture of street wisdom and chemistry, she had always known exactly what to say to him. She was simple. Basic. She was the female Bernie.

  And now.

  She had done it again, even from beyond the world. Maybe it was a deep, cathartic moment of truth he’d encountered trapped away inside him, that piece of him that knew Iva better than anything else on earth, affirming that his demons were actually his angels, that his vices weren’t vices at all. They were blessings. Or maybe it was real—maybe she had visited him from the other side, protecting him, offering that time-tested wisdom one last time. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

  Because he felt cleansed. He felt like a piece of the here-and-now again. In fact, standing there, staring at his reflection in the mirror watching tears stream down his face, he felt better than he had in six months. He felt better than he had in twenty years. He hadn’t felt this good since being on his college football squad.

  He spun around staring down that whiskey bottle from across the house. It waited for him, whispering sweet nothings at him, a great, fat trophy just sitting there looking nervous. He marched over to it, snatched it up and held it at arm’s length with a determined look in his eyes.

  Iva, God bless that beautiful woman, had just affirmed …

  He licked his lips.

  That some men …

  He brought the bottle full tilt to his mouth.

  Were just meant to be …

  And he chugged a big, savory, beautiful gulp.

  Drunk.

  And reckless.

  Bernie hit Alameda at the transit station feeling that first, tickly buzz hit him. He couldn’t stop laughing. Oh, let the angels sing. He had his Jack. He had a mission. And, by God, he had a clear mind.

  Thank you, Iva. Thank you, baby.

  He banked the Chrysler into the train station whizzing past the ornate Palms standing in a long row taking a swig from his bottle. It was like medicine. It was like heaven, the remedy to six months of doldrums and sickness. He was back in the saddle. He felt huge.

  Jerking the car up to the long drop-off zone with his tires squealing rubber, he laid on the horn like a mad man. Passenger window down, he screamed, “Kid! Fucking kid!” between honks. People got the hell out of his way.

  “Kid, kid!”

  Honk! Honk!

  He didn’t even know if Jacky was still here. He had said something about the midnight runner taking him into Pomona or some such. No one came out the big front entryway looking for him. Shit—not here. He’d have to swing around the north carport. He looked at his watch.

  11:51.

  “Awe, hell.”

  He squealed off bumping over a curb and jumping back onto Alameda. He blasted the horn bringing a motorist to a stop and arced through the Spanish style archway over the road. The station was to the right, the trackways were directly ahead a few hundred feet. There’d be people milling around. He roared down the driveway and slammed to a stop, honking some more, eyes darting toward the lit waiting area. More people.

  “Kid!” he shouted. No answer. He threw his door open and got out looking over the top of his car. “Kid, goddammit!”

  A woman sitting on a bench looked at him sourly and gave him a pfft!

  “Oh, what’re you looking at you old bag? Kid! Kid! Awe, damn.” He got back in, reversed it turning the wheel, threw it into drive, initiated a powerful U-turn, and stomped it back toward Alameda. His eyes went up to the rearview wondering if he’d gained any unwanted attention. Security was sure to come down on him hard. He’d broken fifteen rules already. All he saw was someone running after him on foot waving his arms wildly. Bernie’s eyes went big.

  Jacky.

  He stomped the brakes, dropped it into reverse and white smoked it backward. He came to a screaming stop. Leaning over, he threw open the passenger door as Jacky caught up to him.

  Bernie called out slurring the edges of his words, “Get in here, you little turd! We’re gonna go find Will!”

  40

  Electrocution

  Graves was nowhere to be seen. He had lumbered away after their last conversation, fading into the shadows, more creature than human, and hadn’t come back. It had been hours.

  William surveyed his surroundings frantically, collecting every detail. There was a way to escape. There was always a way, no matter how unlikely, no matter how thin his chances. Nothing had occurred, except the hope that Jacky was out there somewhere looking for him. He had the resources. He had the intellect. He could do it.

  And of course, there was always the L.A.P.D. He had less faith in them, though. He had only been able to find Graves’s lair by pursuing angles the cops wouldn’t, or couldn’t. In truth, they probably didn’t know they were looking for this place at all.

  But for now, William was on his own, plain and simple.

  A noise echoed from the far end of the warehouse. It made him flinch. Graves was home, and he was emerging from his steel basement hatch. William lifted his head, tried to see, but his view was obstructed by Graves’s long workbench.

  Another noise followed, a clamorous sound, something heavy being pulled up from the tunnel and set down on concrete. Then a squeak that repeated over and over, like a wheel, drawing slowly closer.

  William felt his heart skip. Panic began to surface. Whatever solution there could be to his situation, he alone would have to devise it. He forced his head up, l
ooked toward his feet. Graves’s workstation was several paces away. One length of the makeshift bench housed his meticulous assortment of stainless steel operation tools. They glinted in the dimness all nasty looking, poised for some nasty intention.

  That squeaking was getting closer, whatever it was. Also, the sound of haggard, gurgled breath came at him. It wasn’t the man; it was the monster, and it was coming nearer.

  Next to the assortment of tools was a computer monitor flickering in sleep mode. William beamed at the setup momentarily. He shot a gaze to the EKG machine beeping incessantly, then to the dialysis machine he’d used as a reverse blood pump for Mark Neiman. How was Graves getting power to his electronics? The warehouse was still on the city electrical grid. He’d heard of this—abandoned structures being overlooked by the electric company, lines of communication never being crossed by the city. Nevertheless, there was electricity powering this place.

  Graves’s shadow emerged on the floor, signifying approaching doom. It chilled William’s blood, made the panic grow to a zenith.

  He threw his gaze back to the computer monitor. There was a wireless keyboard. His eyes widened. There was access to a computer. That meant access to the internet. A call for help was possible. But how would he get to it? There were puzzle pieces in the dark. It made William lick his lips, think, work it out.

  Put the pieces together. Force them to fit.

  Graves emerged from the other side of his workstation. A wagon trailed behind him. A wheel squeaked and loped. It carried a five-gallon, metal container with wires protruding from the lid—big black cables. One of them dragged behind on the floor revealing an alligator clip spliced from a pair of automotive jumper cables.

  He knew what he was looking at—a high-power voltage supply. All Graves would need is a circuit board, a flyback transformer and a light ballast for voltage control and he could turn this metal table into an electric chair. He apparently had them mounted and wired inside the container.

  William jerked impulsively against the restraints. “Graves, what’re you doing?” William said, though he already knew. It was obvious.

  Oh, God no.

  He was going to fry him, make his heart stop.

  Graves dragged a foot behind as he approached in a step-slurrrr, step-slurrr fashion, like some beast relegated to its dungeon. Graves tugged a power cord from the body of the five-gallon container and dragged it across the floor, step-slurring as he did. His mind had obviously been taken by his disease, operating on pure pragmatism. Kill. Kill. Kill. He plugged the cord into a two-hundred and forty volt outlet.

  Two-hundred and forty volts.

  William knew electrical fundamentals and how they played out inside the human system. Voltage didn’t kill. Amperes did. That was the fatal current. “Jesus, Graves, listen to me!” he shouted. The man simply continued slowly and deliberately about his task. William knew what to expect.

  At ten milliamps the muscles contract.

  At twenty-five, breathing becomes labored.

  At seventy-five, respiratory failure occurs.

  At a hundred, ventricular fibrillation occurs, blood vessels burst. Eyes flood red.

  At two-hundred milliamps major organs explode. Bones snap under duress. Flesh begins to melt.

  Two-hundred and forty volts could easily carry the necessary amperes.

  Graves came to William hacking and growling, holding one alligator clip in each hand. He clicked them together throwing sparks in a sudden, blinding starburst.

  “Graves, listen.”

  He clamped one of the clips to William’s toe. He jerked his foot back and forth, but to no avail. The clip held, its teeth biting into his flesh.

  “Graves, stop.”

  Graves hovered the other cable over William’s wrist. The clip was open, waiting to spring down.

  “Listen to me, Graves. This isn’t you. You don’t have to …”

  Graves jabbed the alligator clip down on his skin releasing the current. William’s head slammed back onto the table. His fists clenched, knuckles cracking. Everything flexed—neck, back, shoulders, arms, legs, even his toes. His last breath came out in a scream that hiccupped and skipped like a broken CD player.

  Then everything released as Graves yanked the alligator clip off and dropped it to the floor, and William felt his body go lax on the table gasping for air. The whiff of electricity hovered over him. Between breaths he heard himself groan, “Graves, you bastard.”

  “It like Christmas,” Graves mumbled in a deep, cracking monotone. He picked the clip up off the floor and hovered it over his wrist again.

  William’s terror flared. This was about to be enormously painful. If nothing else, he simply wasn’t in the mood to die again. “Graves, goddamn you,” he cried, “don’t do it!”

  The sizzle of electric current filled the air again as Graves set the clamp to him. William went rigid, thrashing back and forth, every fiber inside him, right down to his tiniest parts, contracting powerfully, turning him to stone. His cognition shot into hyperactive mode collecting every tiny piece of his final moment. The scent of burning flesh mixed with the acridity of energized air. The table superheated underneath him. The tendons in his wrists and neck became steel wire. His voice cried in a prolonged, involuntary, baby-like scream.

  Graves lumbered from his bedside, abandoning him to suffer the electric shock. Seconds passed, ten seconds, twenty, half a goddamn minute. Even still, despite the chaos bouncing through his brain, his mind assumed the amperes weren’t high enough to pop him like a tick, just high enough to make his heart bounce like a ping pong ball in a lotto wheel. His teeth clenched until jaw muscles began to spasm. His lungs crushed under a flexing diaphragm. His heart trembled. There was a tiny pop and one eye went dark. Then the other. Blind—he was blind!

  Goddammit—how long must this go on? How long must this be endured before death. Oh, sweet death.

  41

  Gamma Oscillations

  All eyes were on the debate team. They were at the front of the class. It was time for their test run.

  William and DeAnna shuffled manila folders from their debate boxes preparing them in order. DeAnna glanced over at William’s stack. One of the tabs read: heinous nature of crimes. She nudged him with an elbow, shook her head, no, making a secretive face. William shoved the file away and whispered, “Right. Sorry.”

  Milo projected a transparency of his initial script. It was outlined with pieces of their argument fully scripted, others appeared as bullet points. “Okay—so far, we’ve outlined three primary areas. First is, um, let me see.”

  “First is crime as a national responsibility,” DeAnna said.

  “Right,” Milo said, placing his finger on the projection screen pointing at the first of three headlines. His finger showed up on the overhead screen as a comically large shadow puppet.

  Milo continued, “Second will be taxpayer burden vs. taxpayer benefit, which will breakdown responsibilities from local law enforcement agencies vs. large scale agencies like the FBI, that kind of thing.”

  “Okay. What’s the third?” Ferguson asked, looking back at Milo.

  “The third area will deal with technology, and how continuing to fund the search for unsolved crimes increases technology creation in the private sector.”

  “Oh, interesting,” Ferguson said. She looked over at Tanvir. “And as a mock rebuttal?”

  Tanvir said, “From what I gather, I think our opponents will have the easiest time countering the second and third area.”

  Ferguson agreed. “They need work, but this is an early review. I suggest finding data from crime reports to strengthen the second, and industry numbers to strengthen the third. All said, I think the team has developed a strong outline for competition. Any resignations from the class?”

  No one raised their hand. But William did. Ferguson gave him a curious look. “You disagree with your team’s platform, William?”

  “Well, I,” he switched a look to DeAnna, then to Milo. Th
ey had betrayal in their eyes. He grinned nervously and said, “Well, I think we’re missing a potential piece of the case.” He paused. They waited. He cleared his throat and said, “We should argue moral parameters.”

  DeAnna gave an exasperated groan.

  “Meaning what?” Milo said.

  “Well, I mean,” William shifted nervously. “Look, I’ve been researching specific cases, specific unsolved crimes. They’re totally inhumane. They’re utterly heinous. These crimes are cold-blooded in nature and with cruel malcontent. I think that could be a basis for arguing a continuance of federal, fiscal expenditure in itself. Just the … the moral obligation we have to pursue these crimes.”

  Mrs. Ferguson leaned back in her chair, thinking. “Can you make a viable case on that, William?”

  He scratched his head. “I can.”

  “Do you have time? You’ve already lost three days.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve already got the material. Look,” He pulled out his heinous nature of crimes folder. “There’s all kinds of information. I have it right here.” He started rifling through his printouts, photo sheets, reports. “I mean, look at this one in particular. Where is it? Portrait Killer, they call him. We could build a case around this one guy. There’s no way the other team could mount a counter argument. They’d look like A-holes.”

  The class laughed. Ferguson gave him the mean eye.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I mean, but—this guy’s a total winner for our case. You should see some of these photos.”

  “That won’t be necessary, and please don’t bring those up in competition,” she said, holding up a hand to stop him. After a moment she concluded, “Go ahead with it. It might play out in our favor. But be careful with that information, William. It could backfire in competition.”

  “I will,” he said, and started cramming papers back into the folder.