The Surgeon

by David Beers

  Tommy looked over the torso, seeing that Luke was right.

  He knew what came next. Luke Titan's genius. The reason for his rapid rise. Insight.

  "Motive?" Tommy asked.

  Luke didn't look away from the body, and in fact, leaned in closer. He put his nose to the woman's savaged neck and breathed in. Tommy felt his stomach threatening to turn. Even after a year of working with the man, he still grew sick at this part. He didn't ask why Luke did it, though. He had once, and the answer had been simple: sometimes you can still smell their soul. He hadn't smiled as he said it.

  Finally, after a large breath, Luke turned and looked at Tommy.

  "I'm not sure yet. The cops, though, were right to call us. This may be his first, but it won't be his last."

  Chapter 2

  Christian Windsor looked into his phone, the front facing camera showing him exactly what he thought was happening.

  His tie.

  His freaking tie.

  He could never get the knot right—had never been able to—and now the damned thing looked absolutely ridiculous.

  "It looks ridiculous," he said, not noticing the woman sitting next to him on the train. "Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous."

  There wasn't time to redo it. He had exactly four minutes until his stop, then another seven and a half minutes to cross the two blocks to the FBI headquarters.

  "This is bad. So bad."

  The woman slowly turned her gaze back to her own phone.

  Christian put his down and did his best to keep his thoughts from venturing back to his tie.

  Your thoughts don't control you, Melissa said. He saw her standing on the train, holding on to one of the poles. Of course, Melissa wasn't there—his psychiatrist was in her office, probably helping other patients, but it was still comforting to see her there. To hear her words.

  Comfort is good for everyone, his mom said, her voice coming from a few seats back. Christian didn't turn around to look at her, because he knew that wouldn't go over well with others on the train.

  Comfort. My thoughts don't control me. Take solace in comfort. He repeated the words inside his head, trying his best to push the damned tie knot away.

  The train arrived at his stop and he stepped off. He didn't need a map to know where he was heading, though it was the first time he'd been there. He had studied the Washington D.C. roads and train lines years ago, and still knew them as well as the rooms in his mother's house.

  "Except for the new ones," he said aloud. "They're always building new ones ... that's why I regularly check them."

  No one paid any attention to the young man speaking to himself as he walked up the left side of the metro's escalators. It was October, so there wasn’t a ton of tourists in the city—tourists knew nothing of the escalator's rituals: you always stood on the right, and let those needing to walk go left. Christian thought that a businessman in winged tip shoes might slit some tourist's throat one day, someone standing on the escalator's right side.

  He found himself at the crosswalk in front of the building he needed. Three and a half minutes. He'd make it.

  Christian was very, very concerned with punctuality.

  He entered the building, showed his badge at the front desk, and then the nervousness really started. He didn't want to be here, at all. In fact, he was regretting every decision made in the past two years—starting with the decision to apply to the FBI.

  "An analyst," he said. "I wanted to be a freaking analyst."

  The security guard at the front desk looked up. "Excuse me?"

  "Nothing. Just talking to myself."

  A few more seconds passed before the guard handed him a temporary ID badge. "Go back to the right. Keep going. It's going to be a long walk. When you get to the elevator, there will be a security guard there. Show him your ID, then place this temporary one inside the elevator card reader. Once you do that, it'll let you off on the correct floor."

  "Thanks," Christian said, already walking off. His mind was calculating the time it would take. Probably two and a half minutes, maybe a few seconds more on either side. It depended on the technical specifications of the elevator, as well as the floor it was currently on.

  The panic rose in him with each step he took.

  "Analyst, analyst, analyst," he repeated to himself.

  He didn't look the next security guard in the eye. He just placed his badge in the elevator card reader, and sure enough, it started rising. Ten seconds for the elevator, he decided based on its ascension velocity.

  And finally, he was where he didn't want to be.

  In the Director of the FBI's front office.

  Christian shook his head side to side quickly as he stepped off, knowing simultaneously that he didn't want to be here and that his tie was a mess.

  "Hi, Mr. Windsor. Please have a seat, Director Waverly will be with you in a second."

  Despite Christian's nearly crippling panic, his mind began doing what it had always done. It took in everything around him, almost at once. The assistant was forty-two years old, and had smoked at one time. Her teeth still held the stains, but her fingertips were no longer yellow. Her smile was genuine, reaching up to her eyes as well.

  Christian knew all of this without concentrating on it. He would, of course, be able to consult the information if he ever needed it.

  On the surface, though, Christian sat in a chair and continued obsessing over his tie.

  Your tie is fine, Christian, Melissa said. She sat next to him, wearing a dark suit. He didn't look over to her. That wouldn't be smart. Christian had learned—or rather his mother had taught him—that the things he saw was his mind's way of helping him deal with stressful situations.

  "It's okay to use them as tools," she told him when he was ten. "You just don't want other people to know that you're using them; there's nothing wrong with it, but other people might not understand."

  That's what Christian understood: most people would never really understand him. His mother did. Melissa did. That was all, and also all he wanted.

  "Mr. Windsor?"

  Christian looked up at the FBI Director. He already knew the man's height and weight, as well as his curriculum vitae. He didn't match his public picture perfectly, but those things were always taken with the subject's best look in mind. Alan Waverly had a bit of a paunch, though Christian doubted he was in any serious danger of a heart attack. If the paunch continued growing however, he would be one day.

  "Hi. I'm Christian Windsor," he said, standing. The Director extended his hand.

  Christian looked at it for five seconds.

  You have to, Melissa said from behind him.

  He took the Director's hand and shook it. "I'm sorry. I'm not great in social situations."

  Alan Waverly smiled. "I've heard. Let's go back to my office and talk, okay?"

  Christian nodded, dropping eye contact and following the man through the hallway. His peripheral vision allowed his mind to categorize what the corridors looked like without him having to glance around. He hated glancing around.

  They reached the office and the Director walked over to a large conference table. Christian stopped once he entered.

  "This is very nice. Much nicer than the cubicles I assume are on the rest of the floors."

  The office was large, with pictures of the Director along side dignitaries littering the walls. Family photos sat on his desk next to a large monitor, though the screen was currently black.

  Alan Waverly laughed. "Yes, I agree. I imagine they'd rather sit in something like this as well. Come take a seat."

  Christian walked to the conference table and sat. "I shouldn't have said that. I say things without thinking. My mom says I don't have a filter. My therapist says the same."

  Nothing sat on the table, not a notepad nor a tablet for the Director to take notes on.

  What's that mean? he wondered.

  "Well, Christian, I know a bit about you. You wouldn't be at this meeting, especially before becomin
g a full-fledged FBI agent, if I didn't. I know about your idiosyncrasies. I'll tell you when you need to apologize for something you've said, so no need to until then, okay?"

  "Okay," Christian said, staring at the shiny wooden table before him. That was one thing Christian never had any interest in, decorations, so he knew nothing of the wood. Only that it looked extremely nice.

  "Now, do you know why you're here?"

  "Professor Gauge recommended you meet me. He said he thinks that it would be good for me to get in to field work. I don't want to do field work, Mr. Director."

  "Call me, Alan, please," he said, still smiling. Christian wondered if the smile was genuine or if it was simply a politician's tool—much like the one Christian used to get him through the day. "Yes, your professor did end up getting in touch with me, though it took much longer than I would have liked. I've looked over your records. You're number one in your class at Quantico—"

  "Not in the physical trials. I'm not good at those. I'm only in the middle of the pack," Christian interrupted without looking up.

  "I know that as well, and middle of the pack is fine. I'm not looking for an Olympic gold winner. I'm looking for someone with your mental agility. I don't want to beat around the bush here, Christian. I asked you to come because I have a very specific job offer for you, and truthfully, it's a great opportunity. You will be immediately moving up about five years in your career."

  "What is it?" Christian asked, though he already knew. The Director didn't call people to his office for an analyst position.

  "Field work with a very special team. We have a division that deals with exceptional cases, crimes that involve very deranged individuals, including serial killers. The team consists of two people. One is Thomas Phillips and the other is Luke Titan."

  The Director stopped talking, obviously letting the second name sink in.

  Luke Titan wasn't just known in the FBI; he was known throughout the world. Christian knew his age, of course: thirty-nine last month. He joined the FBI two years ago, applying and skipping through the entire Quantico process. The first person to ever do it—the President of the United States had to approve the request.

  Luke Titan had started college at thirteen years old, completing a medical doctorate as well as PhD in astrophysics. Christian, not to mention the rest of the world, couldn't fathom why he joined the FBI. Especially given what he'd accomplished in his other careers.

  "I think you would be a great addition to the team," Waverly said, "and I'd like to offer you a spot on it. They're stationed in your hometown, too. Atlanta."

  Christian started shaking his head back and forth. "I wanted to be an analyst. I signed up to be an analyst. Not field work. I'm not good at meeting people. I don't like groups. I don't like traveling. I don't like any of it."

  "I know. Professor Gauge told me about your resistance. He also told me why you joined the FBI. Your resume isn't something that would naturally lead to us: dual graduate degrees in theoretical physics and psychology. You have a unique ability to understand others and deal with very, very complex numbers. You could be making a lot of money at any university in the world or consulting for almost any firm. Instead, you chose the FBI. Gauge told me, but I'd like to hear it from you. Why did you sign up for Quantico?"

  Christian stopped shaking his head and finally looked up at the Director. "I ... I don't want to say."

  "That's fine, but it doesn't mean you're not going to. We don't have to start there, though. Tell me about the dual degrees."

  Christian closed his eyes. He didn't turn inward, there was no need for that here. He wanted darkness to surround him, because he was being forced to open up. He knew following these directions was imperative if he wanted a career when he left this office.

  "The smartest minds in the world are figuring out how to get people to click ads. I have a tough time connecting with people, though I want to. My mom doesn't have that problem. She can connect with anyone and I saw how much of a difference she made for people. I can't do that, ever. But, I thought, there are very severe problems facing the world, and if I could put my life's work to addressing those problems, then maybe I could help people like she did, albeit it indirectly. I didn't want to do that by getting people to click ads."

  "Good. Now tell me why the FBI."

  Christian swallowed, still not opening his eyes. He didn't even bother to think what it looked like to the Director—sitting in this massive office with his eyes shut during a meeting. The panic would be too much.

  "I ... I'm twenty-three. I'm smart. I'm very, very smart. I thought that working with the FBI would allow me to have a quicker impact, and I could spend ten years or so here helping those that are suffering. Then, when I'm in my thirties, I could start working on large scale problems."

  "But you signed up to be an analyst?"

  "Yes," Christian said. "I don't like being around people. I don't like meeting people. I like numbers. I like spreadsheets."

  "Christian, analysts are important in our line of work, but they're a dime a dozen. Any college kid with a finance degree can analyze what we need, and for the tough ones, we have PhDs in statistics and all kinds of other mathematical sciences that I have no clue about. If you're here to help, and you really want to do some good, you need to be in the field. You need to be looking at crime scenes so that we can catch criminals. Not crunching numbers."

  Christian opened his eyes and stared across the table, though he knew Melissa stood next to him.

  If you walk out of here, your career is over. You always talk about wanting to be like your mom. Here's your chance, she said.

  He shut his eyes again, tight, so that creases formed in the corners. "For how long?"

  "The job contract will be for a year. After that, you'll be as free as a bird."

  "If I don't take it, Director Waverly, I've just wasted two years at Quantico, haven't I?"

  "I don't know about wasted," the Director said, "but you certainly won't reach your potential here."

  Chapter 3

  "I did it," Bradley said.

  Charles closed his eyes and wished for death. This couldn't be happening. The orderly had to be messing with him, playing a prank that he'd go back and tell his friends about.

  I got this old fart at work believing I'm a murderer. He's scared shitless!

  "It was ... God, it was good, Charlie. I can't even tell you how it felt, not really. It's something you have to experience. Was that what surgery was like for you? Was there any way to actually describe it?"

  Charles shook his head. His eyes still closed. The orderly came to get him after nap time and was now taking him to the common area.

  This was all a joke. It had to be.

  "I froze one of her eyes last night. I'll figure out how to bring it in here to show you, but I can't just yet. I need to make sure that I keep it frozen. I'm sorry, Charlie. I know you were wanting to see it, too."

  Charles opened his eyes. Thank God, they had arrived. Bradley would have to shut the fuck up.

  "I'll be back with your food in a little bit. Is this okay, in front of the television?"

  Charles nodded.

  The orderly patted his shoulder as he walked away. Charles could almost feel slime where Bradley touched him, a poison the pat had transferred to him.

  Betty Lewis was already heading for Charles, having probably seen the damned orderly from a mile off. Ready to just start gabbing away, not caring in the slightest that Bradley Brown had just confessed to murder.

  "How are ya, Charles?" the old hag asked.

  Charles stared at her with wide eyes.

  "You don't look well," the hag said. "You look like you've just seen a ghost! Did I ever tell you about the time my sister saw a ghost? She must have been ..."

  Charles didn't look at the television. He didn't turn away from Betty at all. He stared at the old hag while she spoke, not hearing a single word.

  He thought about nothing else but Bradley's words—about the fact that a
psychopath had started killing, and Charles couldn't tell anyone without dying himself.

  Christian shook his head in small short bursts. He wasn't sitting in front of the FBI Director now, but his therapist, Dr. Melissa Keens. Well, not exactly in front of her, as they were using their computers to video chat. Since coming to Virginia, he obviously couldn't travel home for his sessions, and he sure as hell wasn't getting another therapist.

  "You're doing it again," she said.

  "I know," though Christian didn't stop shaking his head back and forth.

  "What did you tell the Director?"

  "That I needed a night to think about it. I asked for a night. A night's not long enough, though, not nearly. I don't want to do this, Melissa. I don't want to work for that man or his serial killer group or even the FBI."

  Melissa was quiet for a moment. If she had heard her patient call her by her first name, she didn't say anything—nor had she the other five hundred times Christian did it. Everyone else called her Dr. Keens, but not Christian.

  "What did your mom say about it?"

  "I didn't tell her."

  "Because you know what she'll say, don't you?" Melissa asked.

  "Do you take some kind of pleasure in describing the rope that's tied around my neck?"

  Melissa smiled. "A little. But Christian, your mother will say that you have to take this chance. If you think about it, how many other people in Quantico would kill you ... literally kill you, to have this opportunity being placed in your lap?"

  "I don't know; I haven't thought about how many psychopaths are in my class. Based on usual statistics, probably five would kill me."

  "And how many, based on usual statistics, are envious?"

  Christian didn't say anything; he knew exactly what she was getting at: he had a chance the vast majority of people would never receive.

  "I'd like to know why you're scared of field work?" Melissa asked. "What is it that makes you so against it?"