by RJ Blain
“I’ll try,” I promised.
Twenty
I don’t want to think about insurance right now.
Everything about the deaths of the senators bugged me. Exsanguinators couldn’t punch a hole in a skull, and after sending Mickey into the kitchen to help my mother, Mr. Tawnlen laid out every picture of the bodies he’d been able to get a hold of. Bradley had a few photographs of Senator Godrin, too, taken on the sly with his cell phone. The hole in Godrin’s head reminded me of a bullet hole, although larger and more jagged around the edges. The other photos, mostly of Senator Tomalin’s body, had similar markings.
“It’s like a gunshot wound but not quite,” I muttered, shaking my head over the inconsistencies between the injuries and what I expected from a bullet tearing through somebody’s skull.
Mr. Tawnlen tapped on the photograph of Senator Tomalin’s head, which had been cleaned to better show the injury. “Right. It very much looks like an exit wound from a distance of no more than fifty yards with a 9mm if you were to restore the jagged sections. From everything I’ve been able to get on the other victims, this is consistent. Something else added extra damage, but it’s possible the damage was done to mask the exit hole.”
“And the entry wound,” Bradley said, grabbing one of the photographs of Senator Tomalin, who had been in his sixties at his time of death. “But what could possibly hide the entry damage from a shooting?”
“An adept using the same type of reconstruction magic used to work on Janette’s foot,” my boss replied. “If you don’t care about how much trauma you inflict on the victim, it is possible to restore flesh, bone, muscle, and brain matter with magical abilities. An adept can do so quickly. Add in an illusionist, and you have a situation where a bullet wound could be masked. It’s something taught in forensic sciences because of a serial killer over twenty years ago, who masked the cause of death in this fashion. But that serial killer was actually three people, including an illusionist, a bone mender, and a shooter. The illusionist shrouded the victim, the shooter took the shot, and the bone mender, Lauley Rivers, was immune to the illusionist’s ability, and he repaired most of the damage to make it harder to solve the crime. They made mistakes, however.”
“What mistakes?” I asked, making a mental note to read into the serial killer—and to determine if our killer was a copycat. “What happened to those killers?”
“The shooter was killed during a standoff with police, the bone mender escaped custody, and the illusionist was killed during an incident in prison.”
“Then it’s possible this mender is partially responsible for the killing?” Meridian asked, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not sure I want to be tangoing with a serial killer who likes scrambling somebody’s brains after killing them.”
“It’s possible,” my boss confirmed, but after a moment, he shrugged. “It’s unlikely, though. He was seventy-two by the time the police identified the group behind the killings, so he’d be in his nineties now. He has—or had—cancer, and he couldn’t treat himself. That is a known limitation to his magic. While all three of them worked together to pick victims, he tended to pick those in the medical industry.”
“Because of his cancer?” I asked.
“In a way. He liked to target those who hampered research that might lead to a cure for his specific type of cancer.” Mr. Tawnlen searched through a stack of papers. “Ah, here it is. Rivers had juxtacortical osteosarcoma, which means the cancer developed on the outer portion of the bone. It metastasized, spreading from his bones to his digestive system, lungs, and stomach. The notation here states it began in his left knee. In good news for him, the cancer spread rate was at a relatively slow pace, but it would eventually kill him without treatment. Chemotherapy and other treatments used at that period of time proved ineffective. While there are some magic-based treatments effective on cancer, the notes I have state he didn’t have the right type of cancer for it to be effective.”
“So, chances are he’s probably dead?” Beatrice asked.
“By now? He is very probably dead unless there was an advancement in cancer treatments I’m not aware of. Even then, he’s probably dead from old age. Outside of checking corpses if cancer was the cause of death, it’s not something I’m well versed in. Truth be told, most cancer patients I autopsied didn’t technically die from their cancer. They died from complications associated with their cancer. Flesh-eating bacteria is a very common cause of death among cancer patients, for example. When I worked in the morgue checking into suspicious deaths, I did try to denote that the cause of death was related to cancer, however. I couldn’t, not always. But I did try.”
Something about my boss’s tone bothered me. “Why is that important?”
“Insurance purposes,” he spat.
Well, shit. That made a disturbing amount of sense, and I regarded my foot with a scowl. “I don’t want to think about insurance right now.”
Bradley, his mother, and his father snorted.
“What? It’s true. I don’t want to think about it.” I pointed at my foot. “This thing creates hundreds of pages of paperwork a year.”
“That thing is your foot, and it will heal,” Bradley’s mother replied. “I don’t doubt the amount of paperwork it has created for you, however. We’ve recently gotten a taste of the paperwork. Some of us dislike it more than others. The insurance angle is an important one, however. Insurance companies will do anything to get out of paying out in case of death. If they can find a loophole to escape making a payment, they will. Many cancer patients, at least in our area, have special policies that pay out a certain amount depending on the cause of death. Some have tried to get out of paying end-of-life benefits to benefactors founded solely on the cause of death being something other than directly cancer.”
My boss nodded. “In the morgue, we would make certain to note if the preliminary cause of death was a complication from cancer. That usually closes those loopholes. It’s pretty easy to tell when the cancer is the underlying cause. Normal, healthy people typically do not die from flesh-eating bacteria. It’s a common issue with cancer patients.”
“If I acquire cancer, please kill me before I get to the flesh-eating bacteria phase,” I muttered.
“It’s an unpleasant way to go,” my boss agreed. “In the case of Rivers, I can think of ten different ways the cancer might have gotten him long before old age took him out—or takes him out. It is, technically, possible he’s still alive. Unlikely, but possible.”
“But if this Lauley Rivers is probably dead, who is copying his method?” Beatrice asked. “Is this something all bone menders could do, just like all exsanguinators can make us bleed if we annoy them too much?”
I snorted at that. “If only. You wouldn’t have lasted from the day we met if that were the case.”
“Good point. Thank you for not exsanguinating me, bitch.”
“You’re welcome, asshole.”
“You two,” Meridian complained.
Beatrice snagged the papers regarding Lauley Rivers from my boss, flipping through the pages. “It’s a good question, though. Is this something all bone menders can do? It says here Rivers barely qualified to be an adept.”
Mr. Tawnlen shrugged. “Nobody really knows. Bone menders are trained to become doctors, and their training requires them to work at a rate that is survivable. I’m not sure it’s been experimented with much, because doctors undergo a lot of training to make sure they don’t accidentally kill patients.”
“It took them several hours to work on Janette’s lungs. They sedated her for the procedure, but it wasn’t an actual operation,” Bradley’s mother mentioned, and she furrowed her brows. “I was told they were repairing some of the damage to her lungs. There was also a discussion about a medical malpractice case, as the damage was fairly old.”
“Organ renewal is touchy, and while technically not an invasive operation, it has to be done cautiously. A mistake on the surgeon’s part can lead to death. Judging from Janett
e’s lively state, the surgeon didn’t make a mistake.”
“I guess that means I really did have two operations this round rather than just one,” I grumbled.
“That’s a safe assumption.” Bradley’s mother drummed her fingers on the table. “Let’s say someone wanted to treat Janette’s lungs and did so at a barely survivable rate. How long would it take for a mender to work their magic?”
“That depends on a lot of factors, including the state of her lungs at the start of their work.”
“According to the doctor, I was down to five percent lung capacity, and the only reason I’m still alive is because I’m that good of an exsanguinator. Do not tell Mickey I said that. He’ll agree with me, and then we’ll have to have another awkward conversation about me, where I’m discussed in a positive fashion. He might even get me to say something nice about myself again, and that would be a tragedy.”
Beatrice’s grin promised she’d be having a long discussion with Mickey about my abilities as an exsanguinator.
“I’m not a mender, but from what I understand, I would say a minimum of two hours,” my boss replied. “Most people with that much lung impairment are typically in the emergency room undergoing a lung transplant or dead. Mickey would be the better person to ask.”
“Beatrice? Want to go find out some of those specifics? Ask him about restoring a skull and manipulating someone’s brain while you’re at it. And if he doesn’t know, can you ask him to see if he can find out?” I asked.
Beatrice hopped to her feet, snapped a salute my way, and headed into the kitchen.
Bradley rose to his feet, stretched out across the table, and snagged the papers involving the bone mender, flipping through them before taking a page and placing it in front of me. “This seems like our best starting place, then. We need to make a list of who could pull off all elements of the murder. So far, we’re up to possibly two people.”
“Four,” Mr. Hampton stated.
“Four? An illusionist, a bone mender, and a shooter are the requirements, right?”
“Illusionists can’t cover sound. Someone would have masked the gunfire. That requires an acoustics adept. It’s worth noting that the shooter could also be handling another role.”
“Unlikely,” I disagreed. “I can do some impressive work with exsanguination, but I can’t fire a gun reliably and work my magic at the same time. Shooting accurately requires a lot of concentration, and if you’re wanting to make certain of your shot, you can’t afford to be worrying about working magic at the same time. My shooting accuracy is shit if I even think about something other than what I’m doing with my firearm. Training can help overcome some of that, but it’s important to realize how difficult it is for someone to maintain their accuracy during a stressful situation. It just doesn’t seem probable to me.”
I could understand why the licensing for the shooter was so strict; it accounted for the shooter having to handle stressful situations.
It only took one stray shot to kill an innocent.
“Let’s assume the shooter isn’t skilled. What talents would be needed?” Bradley’s father asked.
I frowned, staring at the sheet Bradley had given me. “This is just a guess, but if I were trying to put together a plan like that, I would need the shooter, an adept telekinetic to redirect the bullet to hit the mark because our shooter has shit aim, an illusionist to mask the gunshot while the bone mender worked, an exsanguinator to mask the spray of blood or remove blood from the entry wound, and the acoustics adept to hide the sound of gunfire. And the illusionist would have to be able to prevent his abilities from working on those people, so he is probably an adept.”
“That’s a lot of adepts,” Meridian said, shaking her head. “But why would so many adepts come together to kill these politicians?”
I held up a finger. “They aren’t strong enough adepts to be exempt from the new rules.” I held up a second finger. “Their children wouldn’t be exempt from the new rules.” Shaking my head, I raised a third finger. “They don’t agree with the for life contracting system, viewing it as a form of civilized slavery.” The more I thought about it, the less I liked the entire situation, and I lifted my fourth finger. “They belong to one of those anti-adept societies wanting the whole system to be rewritten and are using reverse psychology to draw attention to the bill. Or they belong to one of those anti-adept societies and view the bill as a method of putting even more power into the hands of a few. That one is a little shady to me. There could be other reasons they might want to do that, but I’m really not sure. I could come up with more if you give me some time to think it through.”
Bradley took the sheet back, read it over, and scowled at the sheet, likely fighting the urge to crumple it up. He set it down, smoothed it, and grunted.
Intrigued by his fraying temper, I reached for the page. His glare promised retribution in some form, and I smiled while looking him in the eyes before claiming my prize and reading it over, seeking out the tiny details that might offer some insight into Lauley Rivers. I found little, although a list of his known political affiliations intrigued me. “Rivers was heavily involved in politics?”
“Yes, he was,” my boss agreed. “That was one of the first things to catch my attention about the case. He was known to attend various rallies and campaign events. What makes him unusual is that he would attend rallies and events of all major parties. He’d even go to the events hosted by independents if he felt they had a good chance of winning the presidency.”
“Since when has any independent realistically had a good chance of winning the presidency?” I asked.
My question earned me a chuckle from my boss. “One day, the entirety of America will say that and be shocked when an independent wins the election. It will completely throw off the entire system.”
“Which could be a motive behind these killings. To throw off the entire system.”
Everyone shrugged, and for a long time, we stared at the papers littering the table in silence.
Most days, I ignored politics. I’d learned early on the fastest way to lose friends and add stress to my life was to engage in political discourse. Half the time, I wanted to chuck both primary parties out the window so they’d never bother me again. With less than a year until a new president would be elected, not a day went by without some form of rally or protest going on in the city. While everyone else argued over the number of people required to pull off a killing in public without anyone hearing the gunfire, witnessing the bullet’s entry, and even going as far as fooling news cameras, I checked the political schedules of the four surviving bill sponsors.
Senator Samantha Maybelle had presidential aspirations, and while she held a Democratic seat in the senate, she’d gone in as an independent with support from a small party. I’d never heard of the Social Reform and Abolitionist Party before, which I blamed on my tendency to keep to myself, avoid the politicians coming and going from the library, and otherwise pretend the campaign season didn’t exist. “Do any of you know much about the Social Reform and Abolitionist Party?”
“They’re one of the groups who wants to do an overhaul of the government, starting with the abolishment of the for life contract system. Senator Maybelle’s platform includes jail time and fines for all participants of for life contracts, with the controllers of the contracts paying the government anywhere between a hundred thousand to a million dollars per contract, dependent on the nature of the contract and the general terms. Those who enter into for life contracts will get a minimum of six months plus community service,” Bradley replied, his attention fixed on the papers in front of him. He flipped a sheet over, made a note, and passed it over to Meridian. “Since that wasn’t bad enough, she’s doubling down on religious constrictions, seeking reform there as well. She wants to tax all churches and charitable organizations that do not provide substantial proof of making a difference within the community. Of course, the government gets to decide which charities are making a difference, which
likely means churches will start being taxed heavily. The rest of her campaign promises boil down to changes on how the government operates, tax cuts to certain classes, and so on. Her platform is basically a disaster in the making. She has limited backing among adepts, her backing among the middle ranks isn’t all that great, and she has support among the lower rankings only because they believe she’ll reduce their taxes to almost nothing. In reality, once she’s removed the tax benefits they currently receive, they’ll ultimately pay more in taxes.”
I grimaced, well aware of how much work I’d put into playing the system so I’d get ahead, taking advantage of the various tax breaks the government offered people in my situation. “So, she’s managed to alienate a high percentage of the country through attacking their churches? And she thinks she’s a viable candidate?” Shaking my head, I questioned everything about the case, finding it a lot easier to sympathize with the killers than the victims. “That’s going to ruin a lot of lives. While not all churches are necessarily shining beacons of morality, there are many that do a lot of good in their local communities. Hell, half of our soup kitchens are run by churches.”
“Right, so are a high number of our homeless shelters and other social programs in the city. Church volunteers run and maintain those services with minimal assistance from the government. It’s one of those stealthy attacks on the lower classes, presented in such a way where they don’t even realize they’re being attacked—and because she has enough attacks on the adept class, the lower classes are listening, either ignoring or not caring they’ll be victimized if her campaign promises are kept.” Bradley wrinkled his nose and shoved one of the tablets in my direction. “She has a rally tomorrow at Canarsie Park. Apparently, there will be live music, a cricket demonstration to go with her speech, and a general crafts fundraiser campaign. The webpage I showed you has a list of artisans who will be in attendance for the event, admission prices, and so on.”