by Maria Siopis
Table of Contents
THE DEVICE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE END, FOR NOW ...
THE ABDUCTION | Chapter One
THE DEVICE
A Novel by Maria Siopis
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Copyright © Maria Siopis March 2019
THE DEVICE
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To my brother, George, a brave soul, who battles schizophrenia and misses all that life has to offer.
Chapter One
May 21, 1997
He adjusted his glasses, pushing them farther up the bridge of his nose and looking at the open manila folder on his desk. Today, he had a decision to make, and the matter was more important than any other he’d considered in his life. The device he was looking at had never been used before. No scientific evidence declared with certainty that it worked well in humans, and his only son was to be the recipient. On the other hand, he knew his capabilities, and he would perform the operation and install the device. Yet, he was so emotionally charged with the responsibility that the thought of something going wrong made him quiver. He had to go for a walk in the park. That was the only place where he gained confidence before performing an operation or making decisions.
He shuffled the pamphlet for the last time, glancing at the facts and bypassing the possible side effects; he would deal with them as they appeared. He stretched his legs under his desk a few times and then pushed his chair back, rose, and approached the window. Spring was settling in quickly. The tree branches were showcasing specks of green, the sun toyed with the clouds, emerging a few times to dazzle the streets before disappearing, and the warm temperatures were declaring their dominance over winter’s cold.
He smiled, a crooked grimace materializing, and he touched his lips with his fingers to capture this rare occurrence. He was not content with his life. He loved his family, but his wife’s and son’s instabilities were taking a toll on him. His perfect family was on the verge of collapsing, and he worked way too hard to be defined by a moment or a stroke of luck. He was beyond human simplicity. He would lure and entice his fate by employing a different approach.
“Hold all my calls until I return, and in an emergency, you know how to contact me,” he said to his assistant as the door closed behind him.
He heard her loudly asserting her opinion on the need for an umbrella, but he was not going back; he urgently needed to reach a resolution. The morning rush had subsided, and the yellow cabs and city buses going down Fifth Avenue were claiming the streets again. He waited until the traffic light changed and crossed the street, longing for the immensity of Central Park. He held his breath with amazement, looking at trees that could have been eons old and still stood strong. They towered above the ground, and humans were mere dots in comparison to their imposing forms. He felt the roughness of cobblestones pushing at the soles of his shoes as he walked parallel to the park, the entrance a few yards away where a cement walkway intertwined with nature’s habitat. He could not wait. He disliked cobblestones with their lack of order and straight lines. The smooth, round-shaped stones were good to look at but hard to walk on, and as soon as he reached the entrance of the park he sighed with relief. He entered, scanning his surroundings for an empty bench. He had to put everything in perspective. He must gather his collection of ideas in one place and sift through them until all angles were covered. He passed a bench where an old man silently observed the birds that touched down in search of food, then another where a couple sat in companionship. He knew, undoubtedly, they were a pair since their hands were tightly woven and they kissed as he watched. He moved forward, following the pathway, and as a left turn approached, he saw an unoccupied bench. He sat down, closed his eyes, and recalled his inner dispute. The psychiatrist, a good friend of his, was adamant about his wife’s and son’s conditions. He said he had compared their brain activity with others and the abnormality was evident. He felt the signs would surface soon. His wife already exhibited abnormal behaviors, and his most prized possession, his son, would soon see things and would be accountable for his actions. He stayed a while, going back and forth with the arguments and occasionally pushing his glasses toward his face with his index finger, this action a routine. He scrutinized some runners for mere seconds and then looked up to measure the sky. His gaze caught two blackbirds between the leafy branches, who were fighting for a good nesting territory. It was two females, and their wrestling match was more aggressive and violent than he had previously observed on his exploratory walks in the park.
He felt the first drops of rain land on his face unannounced. No thunder or lightning had crossed the sky, although he had been anticipating them. He was convinced that all nature’s elements were aligned for a spring thunderstorm. Oh well, he thought as he hastily rose, determined to make it back to his office before the rain picked up. He gazed toward the other end of the park and noticed police activity just yards from his position. There were no sirens to declare their presence. That is curious, he thought while contemplating what to do next. He had a choice: he could offer his help or leave without a word. He recognized that going or not going would not be a determining factor in their judgment of his morality if he was uncovered, yet a force that formed within thrust him forward.
“I’m a doctor. I can assist,” he proclaimed to the police officer with a blend of determination and assurance. His face went ashen for a spilt second when he noticed the markings on the victim’s face. Unmistakably, it was the work of a person he knew only too well. The red lipstick did not follow the lines of the victim’s lips, the green eye shadow generously covered th
e eyelids to the edge of the brows, and the eyeliner was thick like the paint football players utilized to deflect the glare of the sun. He composed himself and recovered from the sighting speedily before confirming the death of the victim, who had been viciously attacked.
He believed there was a defining moment in everyone’s life that unleashed uncontrollable forces. That moment was his, and consequently, it determined his future actions. When he reached his office, his clothes were saturated, and he was dripping with his every step.
“Schedule surgery tomorrow at seven,” he commanded his assistant before he entered his office and closed the door behind him. Given an opportunity, he was certain she would have made known her feelings about his foolishness for leaving the office without an umbrella. He did not intend to give her that opportunity.
Chapter Two
May 21, 2017
The New York Special Force (NYSF) was a newly conceived unit where Fiona Sapiro had been working the past two months as head of the department. The shortcomings in security amid the horizontal immensity of Manhattan required a special force to tackle the murderous intentions of dangerous individuals. The unit overlooked tactical procedures and bypassed the usual territorial perimeters that other police precincts were protecting. The NYSF was excused for behavior that would be criticized as cruel, unusual, and a violation by others; there were almost no limitations on them. Fiona wasn’t keen on the idea of having an entity with so much autonomy, and she convinced the mayor to mandate it back to the tactical procedures of the past while still liberally allowing the crossing of jurisdictions. She wasn’t keen on the idea of leaving Manhattan to hunt for criminals either. Yet, on more than one occasion, she travelled outside the boundaries of the city that she so passionately loved. Strangely, Fiona didn’t see the spatial restrictions of Manhattan—the island was approximately thirteen miles long and about two miles wide—but she saw the immensity of the skyscrapers.
The limitation of the land wasn’t an obstacle for the early occupants of the island either. They had simply conquered the skies to gain space. The skyscrapers began to pop up in the early years of the nineteenth century. The Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building were completed in the 1930s. The Chrysler Building was a seventy-seven-story-tall structure, while the Empire State Building topped it by twenty-five floors. Fiona appreciated the conformity, enormity, and vastness of the latter, and she visited the skyscraper at least once a year now, more out of habit than for pleasure. When she was young, she loved to be on the observatory deck looking down on the toy-like buildings, cars, and humans. Sometimes, she fantasized that she could reach down and pick them up and place them on the other end of the island if she wanted. She took out-of-town family and friends there as well, showcasing the building like it was her own. Now, Fiona had lost the pleasure she experienced when she first visited the vast structure. Perhaps, being a New York police detective marred her perspective on life.
Fiona was a good detective and had served enough years to claim retirement, but she knew that boredom would set in and indignantly pushed the idea out of her head. She was waiting until they kicked her out. Now, she was assigned to head a unit that required intelligence and guts ... and luckily, she had both. She was well-versed in her profession and held two masters’ degrees: one in Criminal Justice and one in Forensic Psychology. The first, she applied when she encountered a case where victims and offenders survived the crime, and the second, when she needed to ascertain the causes of the crimes. She had earned both degrees in two and a half years, and she excelled despite feeling the pressure of her work.
She finished all post-graduate requirements while holding a full-time job as a police officer. Her father was a firefighter, who had hoped his daughter would follow his path, and her mother was an English teacher. At first, Fiona followed what seemed to her to be the right progression. She became a history teacher in defiance of her father’s steering her toward the fire department. Next, she taught history for two years in a public school in Manhattan, but soon, the fire of instilling knowledge in her students burned out. She left without ever looking back, knowing she had made the right decision. When she announced her desire to join New York’s finest to her parents, they both accepted it as if they had given up on her. Fiona knew that the fire and the police departments were at odds at times. Who was she kidding? They were at odds most of the time. She had expected her father to put up a fight and was surprised by her father’s lack of an argument. She never questioned him, and she forgot all about it once she entered the academy. She graduated the academy with distinction, was assigned to a precinct in Brooklyn, and enrolled in college, focusing on psychopathology and criminality. She felt she had obtained a type of balance in her life for the first time. She had taken control of her own destiny at last, without the external influence of her parents.
Now, in her early forties, after solving five cold cases and catching a serial killer and numerous offenders, she settled into her loneliness in her high-rise apartment on Ninth Avenue. She felt deep inside that she was happy. The truth was, she was extremely pleased with one aspect of her life: her apartment. Although it was small, it was high enough for her to enjoy the spectacular view of the city and the sky. Fiona lived on the fortieth floor of a residential tower in the west part of Manhattan facing the Hudson River. In the morning hours before the sun drenched her apartment, she had her coffee in the little nook off the kitchen while gazing at the view. She particularly liked to watch the stormy sky as the dark grey clouds rolled in and the thunder bolts of electricity traveled deep into the horizon.
The nook contained a round table with two chairs that served as her elaborate dining room. She was content with it and besides, no one was invited to her apartment for dinner except a few female companions and her mother when she was up to traveling to the city.
Surprisingly, the rest of the apartment exhibited elements of class and exuded femininity with its candles, artwork, and furnishings that only a woman would choose. Of course, her mother provided the décor, and Fiona subserviently accepted her involvement. Fiona couldn’t be bothered decorating her newly-acquired apartment while criminals roamed the streets of the city. She gave her mother total access to her space and advised her to use her artistic flare. Her mother was retired, and her father had passed on years ago. She was the only daughter, so Fiona felt it was her duty to keep her mother busy. Decorating Fiona’s apartment had occupied her mother for quite a while. Fiona originally set up a timetable to personally fill her mother’s daily schedule. She tried in the beginning, and now, Fiona traveled to Queens just once a week. Her mother never complained or put any expectations on her, though she expressed her enjoyment of the time spent with her only daughter. Fiona often felt guilt creeping up on her for not checking with her mother more often, but she dismissed it, trusting that her mother’s new companion, Mr. Peters, was keeping her busy nowadays.
The red sectional sofa that her mother chose for her space contradicted the style Fiona normally preferred. Now, she had gotten used to it and she even liked it. The tedious and tiresome off-white color on the walls was not important when there were hints of color from everywhere else. It was a well-balanced room, minus the rustic coffee table. The rough surface, the two dark locks, and the rectangular shape of the table suited her well when she was reviewing a case. She kept copies of cold cases in the bottom drawer, retrieving them on her days off, when she usually leafed through them in an attempt to uncover hidden clues or some point she had missed.
Fiona was usually too observant to have missed details or evidence that led to the resolution of a case, but at times, she felt inadequate and insufficient when she dealt with cold cases. There was one cold case that had crossed her desk twenty years ago and still remained unsolved. Today, on her day off as always, she would open that file. She turned on the coffee machine and ambled toward the living room, opening the bottom drawer of the coffee table and retrieving the file. She placed it on the table and returned to the kitch
en, patiently waiting for a cup of freshly-made coffee while gazing outside. The sky was blue and welcoming, and she had become lost in its immensity when she heard bubbling sounds erupting and turned her attention to the cup underneath the machine’s spout. It was generously filled, and the smell of the java filled the room. She removed it and walked back to the living room to begin the task of finding a miniscule detail that would assist her in uncovering an important clue. Maybe she was a fool to believe it, yet, hope never left her. She approached her cases with a renewed curiosity about the human nature that could undermine what was pure and decent. She maintained the microscopic hope that good would outweigh the bad; however, she often found herself more disappointed than rewarded by people. Unfortunately, she discovered that pure evil had existed long before the formation of humanity. It had to, otherwise she could not explain the infliction of pain that one human caused another, and she knew it was often more than pain and went far deeper.
She picked up the case file and looked at it, knowing there was minimal material to guide her. The little evidence that had survived over time wasn’t enough to provide clues. The few color pictures cruelly displaying the crime committed had led her to a dead end more than once. The victim remained a Jane Doe; no missing person report was ever filed that resembled her. Fiona had checked the police and the FBI’s National Crime Information Center database numerous times, and the offender seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Fiona made it her personal business to contact the Doe Network and have them include this unidentified victim in their electronic catalog. Her unidentified body was discovered in Central Park in the morning hours of May 21st precisely twenty years ago. Fiona was a rookie then and had been inexperienced and terrified when she saw the crime scene.
The pictures landed on the couch as she stretched her long legs. She picked them up and looked at them like it was the first time, intensely gazing at the images while sipping her coffee. She then withdrew her concentration from the pictures and looked at the transcript on her lap where something caught her eye. She let the pictures fall from her grip, picking up the transcript to study the single line and trembling with the discovery. She knew she had something tenable to restart her investigation, something more than the indecipherable pictures could have given her. How was it possible she had missed it previously? Was it a valuable lead? Her heart began pounding in her chest.