by Gary Starta
“I take it you obtained maternal samplings from all three victims then?” Gonzalez asked.
“I obtained samples from the two EMT"s. Actually, the Tampa PD"s crime lab handled that aspect. I wasn’t able to get a sample from Mr. Burnham’s mother as CSI reported she lives out of country and could not be reached via phone. Yet that seems moot. We already know Mr. Burnham died, you pronounced him dead some three hours prior.”
Gonzalez clenched his fists inside his coat pockets. He felt his blood boiling. He suppressed the urge to protest by asking another question.
“Is there anything else that tells us these men died in the crash?”
“Yes.” She shuffled a metal plate from a rack onto her examination table. “In here are two wedding bands. It can be deduced they both belonged to the EMT"s. Both were married, Mr. Burnham was divorced. Also, the family’s identified the bands as belonging to the men. I’m sorry to report such dire news but I’m hopeful the family has been given the closure you sought for them, Dr. Gonzalez.”
“I appreciate that, doctor. Is there anything else that might identify the remains? Teeth…?”
“I stopped searching for dental remains once your CSI"s determined the temperature of the fire inside the van had reached a maximum temperature of 1,857 degrees Fahrenheit. At that temperature, is it likely all teeth were carbonized.”
“Yet the wedding bands remained intact…” Gonzalez pursed his lips and swayed on his heels. A vivid picture of Burnham popped into mind. His eyes had been glued to the fallen officer as he was lifted into the ambulance. Concerned Burnham might pop back to life like Comiskey had done; a photo of Officer Burnham had become ingrained in his memory. “I remember his badge. He still had it on his person as they carried him on the gurney.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Gonzalez. Is the badge pertinent to the investigation…?”
“Please tell me it’s likely the badge would have remained intact.”
“Based upon its chemical properties, I would conclude that to be likely.” McDonald returned the rings to a shelf. “Please tell me why this is important. I would like to include your reason in my findings.”
“My autopsy of Robert Comiskey has revealed the likelihood of a prion disease.”
“Hmmm. So you did CJD testing?”
“Yes. I found protease-resistant prions in the brain tissue.”
“And that means they were most likely infections. Still, how does the presence of a neurological disease in Comiskey pertain to Burnham?” She crossed her arms.
I’ll bet she doesn’t think I can answer that. But I can. And I will.
Gonzalez moved closer to McDonald’s examination table. “I believe he spread it to Burnham via bite.” The coroner hedged a moment. McDonald’s body language indicated his supposition didn’t faze her; at least not externally. She has a hard-outer shell. I’ll bet she’s heard some stories. Traveling through all those jungles…
“You might dismiss what I have to say, Dr. McDonald...”
She cut him off. “Cannibalism…? Are you suggesting Mr. Comiskey ate flesh?”
“I believe he did. What the police didn’t tell you is that I erred.” Gonzalez removed a hand from his pocket to scratch his chin. “I had pronounced Mr. Comiskey dead. But when Officer Burnham arrived at the scene, Comiskey sprung back to life and bit Burnham. The findings from my autopsy posit Comiskey suffered from some neurological disease.”
“So, you believe he passed this on as a carrier to Burnham. And that’s why you think Burnham might have awakened…”
“I know it doesn’t make sense. And I can’t explain why Comiskey appeared dead, at least not yet. At first, I thought it was poisoning. But toxicology tests ruled that out. Now, I don’t ask you to believe, Dr. McDonald. And maybe it’s best you don’t share this conversation with anyone else. But if you do, the point is probably moot anyway because after I meet with Chief Palmieri today I have a strong feeling my services as coroner might no longer be needed. I was ordered not to tell what really happened to anyone.”
“Dr. Gonzalez, I have to say your methodology troubles me. You seem to deal in feelings. I can only utilize empirical data to base my findings. But I do recognize a certain method to your madness.” She paused to offer Gonzalez her first smile. “You have a right to be concerned about an outbreak. Although I’ve never heard of a neurological disease being spread in such a manner, at least not in humans; however, what you propose would indeed make for a fascinating anthropological study. To think…modern day cannibalism…”
“Dr. McDonald, I have never let feelings guide me before. Yet if any semblance of my story seems credible, I think you know why I have to buck the chief on this one.”
“Well, you don’t need a forensic anthropologist. You need a molecular biologist first and foremost. And it goes without question the CDC should be brought in.”
Gonzalez produced a nervous smile. “So, you believe in my theory?”
“I believe in precaution. Also, I can’t claim we know everything about prion related diseases. When a protein misfolds into a prion state, designated stop codons are no longer adhered to, meaning the cell might read beyond the codon so genetic information previously dormant might become activated. I won’t hazard to guess if dormant genetic coding might instruct cells to bring a person back to life, but it is of interest to note that these new traits might be passed on. I can’t say you are wrong. Yet, exhaustive research would be necessary to prove your theory. I don’t believe your police chief would be entirely neglectful to dismiss your supposition. You’re going to have a hard time proving DNA was changed in both Comiskey and Burnham to facilitate such a resurrection, not to mention the viability of spreading such genetic changes via body fluids.”
“I appreciate your candor, doctor. But I must act with my conscience on this one.”
Gonzalez was nearly out the door when McDonald stopped him.
“Dr. Gonzalez, I will not mention your …findings…in my report. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But you might be vindicated with time. One day, maybe your theories will be proved. I will admit it is interesting to ponder how the human species might evolve through disease.”
***
Some of the wind had been taken from Gonzalez’s sails. He had two pretty good working theories, but evidence of a prion disease and a missing badge probably wouldn’t hold up if this were a trial. Sure, the information presented might constitute reasonable doubt, but absolute proof, hard evidence, was lacking.
Gonzalez wouldn’t be facing a jury though. Nor would he be facing off against a scientist like Dr. McDonald, one who dealt only in empirical data. He would be arguing his case with a police chief, a civil servant who had an obligation to protect and serve.
Wouldn’t precaution constitute protection?
If Gonzalez and Chief Palmieri were fighting in a ring, the chief would have taken the first round. She came prepared. She had read up on the matter. “If there is evidence of a prion disease, there is no proof it can spread like a virus. So, if this is the crux of your argument then I can’t authorize a manhunt for an officer who has most likely taken the form of bone powder.”
“Okay, even if Burnham remained dead, what about the real perpetrator? For God’s sake chief, isn’t it better to err on the side of caution? There’s a real possibility of a Patient Zero out there. It’s unlikely some junkie gave Robert Comiskey a brain disease.” Gonzalez fought to remain seated in his chair across from his sparring partner.
Palmieri threw a virtual left hook.
“My point exactly, doctor; a junkie did not give Comiskey anything except a bite to the neck. Most unusual, but it’s not evidence of a pandemic.”
“So, you believe Chomsky’s brain disease just happened to trigger now he was bit? Who’s making up stories now?”
“You’ll remain respectful, doctor. I’m willing to listen to your arguments,
after the fact.”
“Of course, Chief, I’m sorry for my behavior but I won’t deny what I saw. I won’t deny possibilities, no matter how extreme they appear. Prions affect the way genetic coding is read. So, who’s to say a person might not be revived from a death state. And if coding has indeed been altered, there is a possibility a brain disease might be passed along like a virus. You can’t say for sure. And I can’t either. But reasonable doubt has to side with the populace. I took an oath to protect them.”
“Are you saying I’m not? I warned you doctor.”
“What about the crash?” Gonzalez now up and out of his chair pointed his index finger at Palmieri. “Dr. McDonald can’t prove Burnham’s remains were in the vehicle.”
“She can’t prove that based upon the fact we couldn’t obtain a DNA sample from his mother.”
“That’s not all, Chief. I recall Burnham had his badge upon his person. It was not found. How much reasonable doubt do you need to do the right thing?”
“So that’s why the department should risk complete embarrassment? We should expose ourselves as incompetent and invite ridicule because a brain disease might cause humans to behave like cannibals and zombies?”
“No, it doesn’t have to be presented in that manner.”
“Come, now. The layperson could only interpret it in that manner. Most will think prions are some new kind of automobile. And the press will run with this kind of story tabloid style, no doubt about it. I can see the headline now: “ZOMBIES WALK AMONG US.”
“I think the only thing you’re capable of seeing is ignorance. Can you ignore the radio transmission recorded just before the accident? The EMT says it’s trying to come through the window. " What else could he be referring to?”
“Seeing as you pronounced Officer Burnham dead hours before, he might be referring to a pesky bug, one of many indigenous species known to Tampa. Maybe that bug distracted the driver and caused the crash.”
“Stop trying to save your own ass. I don’t care about losing my job over this. In fact, I’m resigning as of this moment.”
Palmieri rose from her chair and wagged a finger at Gonzalez.
“Despite my desire to recommend your termination, I ask that you step back, maybe take a leave. Clear your head.”
“So, you still don’t believe me? Do you? That’s what this is all about. My temporary insanity…I just happened to imagine Comiskey rising from the dead to bite Burnham and then Burnham discharging his firearm twice to put down a well-liked colleague and friend…? Well… I suppose you’re right, come to think of it. I’ll just take some meds to get over it I suppose… But tell me Chief, how do you explain the bullets which tore off half of Chomsky’s head? Why would Burnham fire on a dead man? And where is a shred of DNA to prove your so-called assailant came back to the scene? You know, maybe it’s not me who needs the meds…”
“Get out doctor or I’ll have you removed.”
“I’ll leave your office. But I don’t think I’ll be leaving your conscience anytime soon.”
***
He careened off a fire escape. The jump put Derek Burnham no more than an arm’s length from the back of his target, the dealer, who suddenly wondered why his buyer suddenly up and left. When the dealer turned, his expression belied wonder at how a strung out homeless person could manage a cat like pounce from three stories above.
The dealer didn’t stop to wonder long. He yelled at Burnham. Asked him between curses just what the hell he was. Then he ran paying no heed to the money he dropped or the bag of white powder scattered along the concrete.
Several similar investigations not only resulted in the interruption of drug trafficking but the confiscation of money Derek Burnham used to ward off his evil urges.
Subsisting on rare meat, purchased at several Ybor City fast food restaurants, Burnham resisted his prey, the dealers who sprinted from him down littered alleyways during the past few days and nights.
His improved agility would no doubt have given him the means to catch any one of them. His teeth ached with the urge to bite. He had fended it off with bloody animal meat…somehow. But a part of Derek Burnham wondered how long he could hold out from the anger, the rage, the hunger… Yet he had a great distraction. He could now do his job and do it effectively.
His resurrection afforded him tools to be the cop he once hoped to be; the dedicated career cop who sacrificed his marriage for his pursuit and even gave his life in duty, albeit on a temporary basis. Burnham reasoned these were small prices to pay because now he could sneak up on his prey with superior hearing, Olympic like reflexes and little need for rest. One or two hours seemed to be all he needed. So maybe there was a purpose to all this, Burnham thought, becoming more and more careless about disguising himself.
And as Derek Burnham made his rounds, someone else who recently became gifted with superior vision watched from afar.
Chapter 8
Derek Burnham’s body writhed in response to arousal. A sorely missed sensation he had not imagined possible since living on the run. A faint voice in his head asked: Do zombies have sex? His lips curled with a smile as he dreamt lying upon a cardboard bed. Another voice chimed in. Silly question to ask under this circumstance, isn’t it? His mind fancied that question had been posed by his ex-wife. He hated her. But now he succumbed to sensation lost in the haze of an REM state. Midway through the second hour of his nightly nap, Burnham resisted the compulsion to awake, marveling at how real, how tangible dream states felt after one died and reawakened.
So real, so intimate was the tongue which licked and tickled his neck, Burnham mumbled for his dream woman to continue. He couldn’t even tell who she really was. As with most dreams, the mind sometimes jumbles together multiple personas, some picked from experience, while others are seemingly people you have never met before. The dream person hybrid purred in unison happy to oblige his want. All he could see was some curly auburn hair on this hybrid as he peeked out of a blurry eye. To his relief, it wasn’t Colleen. His ex wore her hair straight, short and bleach blonde.
The licking became more pronounced. When it did, so did Burnham’s apprehensions. Maybe he had already wakened up? Confusion mixed with the hot blaze of pleasure, cooling it. The tongue now felt alien, cold, soul less. What if this is another one…another blood sucker…coming back for more…?
Fully awake, eyes opened, he kicked his legs. The thrust sent him lurching to his right. It had broken the alien contact. He instinctively grabbed upwards for purchase and when he did his hand came upon something recognizable, tender and highly desirable despite his danger. His hand cupped her breast. The mystery woman, tangible, no longer a dream person hybrid, growled, looming over him. Her long curly hair blew back from her face from a breeze. She towered as a goddess in the strobe of a street lamp; a quick scan told him she was tall, at least equivalent to his height. He could make out two blue eyes but not much more of her facial features. The orbs shot into him as if two loaded guns. He removed his hand and as he did she bared teeth.
A strange mix of panic and lust conspired to make Burnham hesitate. She lingered there, hands clenched, almost swearing underneath her breath. For a moment, Burnham felt as if she were chiding herself, forcing herself to resist the hunger. And at that instant, Burnham knew what she was. She was danger. He recognized the compulsions, the obsessive desire not to give into them, the anger nurtured by the hunger and ironically, the anger at the hunger itself. He scrabbled backwards slipping on the slope of a cardboard mattress. His hand finally found a wall behind him and he employed it to hurtle himself forward, tumbling himself towards the middle of the alleyway.
Not far enough away though. She easily pivoted and had him dead in her sights once more. Then the cat talked to the mouse.
“Please stay calm,” she said. Her voice sounded edgy and not the least bit soothing however.
“Stay away!” Burnham stumbled t
o his feet, shuffling backwards.
She sprang at him, easily knocking him off balance. On his back, he felt the weight of her. On top now, she straddled him, her teeth bared. He could only surmise she had attempted to use her womanly charms to ease the struggle. Perhaps this was how she baited Comiskey, kissing him, lowering his defenses before the big bite. He continued to squirm, fighting the two arms which pinned his shoulders on the pavement. Then he eased up to trick her. She came closer, her teeth an inch or two from his neck. As she hovered, he brought his head up and met hers. Stunned, she instinctively dropped back and Burnham freed his arms. Now his hands were interlaced with hers. He rocked her twice before sending her in a somersault tumble up and over him.
Burnham rose to his feet instantaneously, as if someone had pulled a string and he was a marionette. He realized his super agility made this possible. She shared in these gifts as well, already on her feet in a sparring stance. He never saw what came next because he wasted a valuable second lost in deduction. Her booted foot met his chest square on from a roundhouse kick.
Great! Not only gifted but trained in martial arts… Burnham’s feet danced and his hands balled into two fists in response. I can’t let her see my fear…
Apparently, the woman had no reason to waste time reading her prey. She lowered her head and tumbled back towards Burnham like a rolling ball. He jumped to avoid her but her body caught his right ankle in midair. As he fell, his left hand palmed her backside to keep his balance. Crouching over the woman, the game had changed. The mouse had become the cat.
“Stay down!” he yelled. She ignored him, bringing her head straight up to catch Burnham on his chin. He had foolishly tried to reason with her. As a cop, he would have never allowed himself to be put in such a vulnerable position. Enraged, Burnham cuffed her ears with both hands as if he were smashing two cymbals together. Clearly dazed, she inched closer towards him on her knees, moaning and mumbling. Before he knew it, she had fastened her arms about his waist. Dangerously close to his crotch, soft hisses of her breathing intoxicated him once more. She cocked her head and lifted her eyes to his. Her oceanic eyes engulfed him, lit by street lamps. They seemed to ask him, what do you really want to happen?