by Julie Cave
"Yes, I do!"
"I'm not sure that you do. The church is a family, a support network where you can learn more about God and deepen your faith," said Faith. "Ideally, you should become part of a home group so that you can study the Bible together and share with each other. We weren't created to be isolated."
For Dinah, who was a natural introvert and found it hard enough to go to church by herself, the suggestion to join a home group sounded like a nightmare.
Again, she fibbed, "That's a great idea. I'll make sure I do that this weekend. I really mean it."
Faith sighed. "I'll see you next week, Dinah. Don't forget!"
Dinah hung up, relieved, and turned to smile weakly at Cage. "Well," she said. "If you're done, let's go!"
"Everything okay?" he asked, frowning.
"Perfect." Two can play at this game, she thought. He won't talk to me about something as trivial as his last partner, I'm sure not going to talk about this.
They climbed into the car in silence.
****
Ella Barnett woke with a gasp, suddenly wide awake, her heart thudding in her throat. She stared into the darkness of her bedroom, while her ears strained to hear what had awoken her. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that there was no immediate danger and her heart rate began to slow. The adrenalin shot into her veins left her shaky and hyper-alert.
She heard a faint noise and she listened intensely, but couldn't work out what it was or from where it was coming. But she knew that it wasn't ordinary, and so she climbed out of bed and opened her door a crack.
The noise was a little louder in the hallway, and it corresponded to a splinter of light spilling from the attic trapdoor. A tight spiral staircase at the end of the hall allowed access to the attic and Ella moved slowly toward it, trying to quell her raging fear. Her heart had begun to race again, preparing her to fight or flee.
She checked her father's bedroom on the way and discovered it was empty. This strengthened her resolve to investigate the attic, if only because her father might be in danger. Her imagination began to run wild, envisaging that morally bankrupt burglars had taken her father hostage and were trying to make him tell them where the family riches were hidden; or that they were using him as bait to lure her into their clutches.
She ascended the staircase slowly, her palms slick with sweat and the sound of blood rushing in her ears like a great river. At the top, she inched the trapdoor across so carefully and slowly that her nerve almost deserted her.
Finally, when there was a space big enough to peer through, she muttered a quick prayer and forced herself to look.
She expected to see more than her father hunched over an old trunk, the room lit by two dim, bare bulbs. Still not totally convinced the house was free of intruders, Ella scanned the room cautiously until she was confident enough to enter the attic.
Then she realized what the sound was that had awoken her. It was the sound of her father sobbing — great, gut wrenching moans that literally shook the old man's shoulders.
Ella felt suddenly cold all over as she listened to him, a feeling of unshakable dread and anxiety making her stomach twist and writhe inside her.
Eventually, she found the courage to speak. "Dad?" She hesitantly moved closer to him, instinctively afraid that he might lash out. "Dad, are you okay?"
Though he didn't recognize her when he looked up through his tears, it didn't seem to matter. Ella saw that he clutched a book close to his chest.
"What have I done?" he asked her, anguish raw in his voice. "How can I live with this?"
"It'll be okay," assured Ella. "It doesn't matter now."
"Don't you see?" he implored. "It does matter. It matters very much." He looked down at the book and began to cry again.
Before this disease, Ella had never seen her father, the cornerstone of the family, cry. Even then, she'd never seen him sob so powerfully that his whole body shook. In fact, he'd never shown great variances in his emotions. A proud smile was as powerful as a disappointed frown. The depth of the sadness he felt here was shocking to Ella.
She could see that it was the book causing him distress. She reasoned that if she could get the book away from him, he would begin to calm down. She glanced around and saw an ancient, overstuffed armchair nearby.
"Can I at least give you a chair?" she said. "You can't kneel on these hard floorboards all night."
"If you knew what I'd done, young lady," he said. "You wouldn't offer me a chair. You'd turn and leave and never set your eyes on me again."
"Dad, that's not true," Ella said. "Please sit. You'll be much more comfortable if you sit down."
It took several minutes of cajoling, but finally the old man allowed himself to be led to the battered armchair. As he sat down and Ella got a good look at his face, she could see he was pale, drawn with exhaustion.
He seemed to retreat then, refusing to answer Ella's gentle questions or suggestions. He stroked the book, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just don't know how to make this right."
Ella decided there wasn't much else she could do. She found an old, thin mattress that smelled of mildew and a blanket that smelled of wet dog. She lay down near her father and waited for fatigue to claim him.
She was too wound up to sleep, her mind now turning at a frenetic pace, trying to understand what she'd seen.
Finally, several hours later her father finally dropped into heavy sleep. The book fell from his clasp into his lap. Ella retrieved it, careful not to wake him, and looked at it with intrigue.
It was titled The Lost Boys, by Peter Kilpatrick and Henry Black, and there was a black and white photograph on the front cover of two young boys, each with an old-fashioned haircut. It looked like an autobiography.
It was decades old, and briefly Ella thought of her father's well-organized study downstairs, where he kept and displayed every book he owned with pride. He treasured books and could read them over and over again.
Except this one, hidden in the attic for dozens of years.
What could this book contain, that required concealment from even family members, and that could cause such an outpouring of emotion from her father?
In the coming days, Ella would wish she had never found it nor opened the cover to read of its secrets.
****
As Cage and Dinah drove away from the rural property, his cell phone rang. With a weary sigh, he glanced at the caller ID and then put the phone on speaker. It was close to midnight and Dinah's eyes felt heavy and hooded.
"Detective Cage," he answered.
"Hi, it's Zach from the lab." The young crime scene technician sounded just as tired and was subdued, not bothering with his usual trademark jokes. "I've just finished with the preliminary study of the van and I thought you'd want to know."
"Thanks, I appreciate it," said Cage. "What have you got?"
"I found polyurethane flakes identical to those found where the body was found and where the van was parked," explained Zach. "I found them in the drivers' seat and right at the back of the van, where the door opens."
"Presumably he dropped them there while he rummaged around," said Dinah, thinking of the video footage in which the unidentified person had stood at the back of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something.
"Oh, hi, Dinah," said Zach. "That'd be my theory, anyway."
"So can you tell where the polyurethane flakes have come from?" Cage asked. "Our killer is shedding them like my dog sheds hair. Where would he have picked them up from?"
"We'll have to conduct further testing," said Zach. "Unfortunately it has a wide range of industrial uses which makes it hard to single out where these particular flakes might have originated. Polyurethane is used in foam, paint, insulation, sealant, glue, and resin, to name a few. We'll have to look at the compounds of these flakes to work out its purpose."
"But you'll be able to narrow it down to a certain product," said Cage, staring thoughtfully straight ahead at the dark road.
"Oh, yeah," said Zach. "I
don't know if that'll help, though."
"At the moment, we need all the help we can get," said Dinah. "We're running short on leads."
"Well, you know I'll give it my best shot," said Zach. He paused for a moment, and then remarked, "Don't you think it's weird that the media hasn't picked this up?"
Dinah and Cage glanced at each other. "What do you mean?" Dinah asked.
"I'm just thinking about your last case," said Zach. "The media was all over you, pressuring you to find the killer. This time, I haven't seen any attention given to it. There are three victims now, possibly a serial killer in the mix. Usually the press would have a field day!"
There was silence as Cage and Dinah digested his comments, knowing his words had a ring of truth about them.
"I suppose," said Cage eventually, "the victims aren't as high profile as the Smithsonian case."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Zach. "The victims are disposable. The killer is choosing victims that the mainstream press doesn't care about. They're fringe dwellers. As long as normal folks aren't threatened, nobody's interested."
His words brought to Dinah's mind the ugly research she'd done into eugenics and the labels given to certain groups of people, including "undesirable" or "substandard."
"I care," she said tightly. "It doesn't matter who they are or whether society thinks they're not important. I care."
"I know you do," said Zach. "That's why you're good at catching the bad guys. Anyway, that's enough maudlin thinking for one evening. I'll get back to you once we've finished the testing."
"Maudlin?" Dinah teased, trying to lighten the conversation. "That's a big word for you to know, Zach."
"I have many hidden talents," replied Zach. "Being super intelligent is just one of them. I don't like to make you inferior types feel even worse, that's all."
"Well, thank you for your consideration," said Dinah dryly. "I'll sob myself to sleep tonight, though."
"Understandably," said Zach laughing. "I'll talk to you later."
Cage hung up and Dinah lapsed into thoughtful silence.
"How is it," inquired Dinah, at length, "that our guy can kill three people and all he leaves behind are flakes of polyurethane?"
Cage glanced at her. "You feeling frustrated?"
"Yes," admitted Dinah. "Aren't you?"
"I don't let it get to me," said Cage calmly. "It's a competition. He's on one side, I'm on the other. The difference is that he thinks he's winning; I know I'll win."
"How can you be unemotional about it?" Dinah asked. "I mean, I get that all investigators need to leave their emotions behind to some degree. But when I track a killer, I'm consumed with the desire to get him."
Cage looked at her frankly. "We'll get him, Dinah."
Dinah sighed. "Yeah, I know. Are you ever going to tell me what happened with the Internal Affairs thing?"
"Gee, sneaky move!" said Cage, allowing himself a smile.
There was a moment of silence.
"Well, are you?"
"No."
"You are the most frustrating person on the earth!" exclaimed Dinah.
"So they tell me." Cage remained infuriatingly silent on the subject.
Dinah narrowed her eyes at him as the car shot smoothly through the night toward DC.
She vowed that eventually she would get the story out of him.
****
The staff had become accustomed to the killer arriving every day to visit Billy. He was so lovely, spending all his spare time with Billy, they thought to themselves. They didn't bother to check the contents of his backpack and when the two of them sat in the library, they were left alone.
Billy was waiting for his visitor, as usual.
When he asked eagerly, "Did you bring it?" the killer nodded.
The killer carefully scanned the hallways of the palliative care home. They were empty. The day staff had gone home, and a much smaller night staff were busily getting some of the more incapacitated residents ready for bed.
Watchfully, he closed the library door and pushed the lock mechanism silently. Then he switched off the overhead lights and allowed only the table lamps to remain burning. The room was bathed in pockets of soft, yellow light with long, slanted shadows reaching dark fingers up the walls.
He unloaded the backpack. Inside, he'd brought a bottle of whiskey and a large bottle of barbiturates. Using the back of a spoon, he began to grind up the drugs into a fine powder.
Billy watched him, unperturbed.
The killer glanced at him. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
Billy closed his eyes briefly and said, "Yes."
The killer swiftly fixed a drink long on whiskey and short on Coke. He stirred in the ground-up barbiturates and put it on the tray in front of Billy. Carefully, he moved the straw so that Billy could easily sip the drink.
Over the next hour, they sat together comfortably, Billy sipping down the drink and the killer making light conversation. Inside his head, he was thinking of the conversation he'd had with Billy at his last visit.
Billy hated being trapped inside a deteriorating body. He could no longer work or take part in any of his favorite pastimes. Most painfully, he could no longer pitch a ball or slug a home run. He rarely had visitors and he was crushingly lonely. His dreams of marrying a girl and having a family were over. How could he be a proper father as his body wasted away? How could he offer a potential wife any sort of life? All he had to look forward to was watching television and listening to audio books until those senses failed him, too. Eventually, all he could look forward to was death, the only release from the tedium of his wasted life.
When the killer had brought up the concept of suicide, Billy had eagerly grasped the idea. He was physically unable to do it, but he had almost begged the killer to do it for him.
Being devoid of any sense of normal morality, the killer had agreed, though he had of course pretended that the idea disturbed him. He could quite happily make his point, regardless of how Billy died.
Now he glanced over at the young man. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. Something deep inside him seemed to care about Billy's predicament. He couldn't quite fathom it himself.
Billy paused, gathering his strength. Then he said as forcefully as possible: "Yes!"
There was no doubting his intentions. He took long sips of the doctored brew, talking occasionally. Mostly, they sat in companionable silence.
The killer thought this was how it should be. How many people wasted away in homes like these, living an existence that could barely pass for a life? Wasn't the humane thing to do to help them shuffle off this mortal coil? The resources, time, and money that went into keeping them alive were astounding. It benefited everyone to help them die with dignity,
The killer watched Billy, as he fought sleep. Finally, his eyes closed and his head drooped in his wheelchair.
Still he waited in the dark room, as Billy's chest moved up and down rhythmically at first, then more slowly. His breathing grew shallow and the color in his face slowly drained away, indicative of the life itself within Billy slowly ebbing to its end.
Finally, Billy stopped breathing altogether. The killer waited for about 30 minutes, wanting to make sure that a nurse wouldn't find him and resuscitate him. Eventually, the killer touched Billy's wrist, searching for a pulse. The skin was cooling and waxy, and there was no sign of a heartbeat.
The killer pulled a card out of his pocket and read the message slowly. Perfect, he thought.
He placed the card inside Billy's T-shirt, next to his chest. Then he hoisted the backpack up and walked out of the library.
As he left the home, he said goodbye to the nurses cheerfully. His mind had already left Billy and the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home far behind.
He wanted to find out as much as possible about Detective Samson Cage and his consultant, Dinah Harris. Perhaps it was time to eliminate those who were hunting him, so that he could continue his most important work.
C
hapter 14
The next morning, the extensive task of questioning the eugenics society members began. Detective Cage had organized a team of detectives to help out for the day so that the assignment wouldn't take several weeks. Edward Sable complained bitterly over the phone of discrimination and being treated like criminals because of their affiliation. Dinah told him archly that if he had nothing to hide, then it wouldn't be a problem.
All members of the society would be called upon in their homes or workplaces to give their statement. Dinah was relieved to see that together with Detective Cage, they would interview Edward Sable first, followed by the hotheaded Leonard Marks.
Once again they found themselves inside the plain office of Sable's organic supermarket. This time, Sable was clearly antagonistic. "I don't know why you're harassing me," he snapped. "I told you everything I know."
"Are you the only eugenics society in DC?" Cage asked, ignoring the man's remonstrations.
"Yes." Sable glared out of the tiny window, his jaw tight and angry.
"Bear with us, and tell us about your mission again," Cage suggested, his tone faintly derisive.
Sable made a great show of heaving a big sigh. "As I already told you, we strive to educate society about the importance of leaving a wonderful legacy to future generations."
"And what legacy would that be?"
"Good health and excellent intelligence."
"And why do you think it's so important to society?"
"We are concerned with the human race evolving in an unfavorable direction," Sable said, playing with his grey ponytail absentmindedly. "And if we continue to do so, our civilization will steadily decline until chaos takes over. Is that what we want for our children?"
Dinah stared at him. "So essentially you would like to breed out problems like stupidity and illness and immorality?"
"That's a bit simplistic, but yes. Imagine the growth of our civilization if we could achieve this!" Sable looked momentarily misty-eyed.
"Therefore, you'd support a program of forced sterilization of people who were of low IQ, or mentally ill, or immoral?" Dinah asked.
Sable didn't see the trap. "Yes, I would. Our country used to do it for more than half a century. I think it would do society a great service to bring it back."