The man in black yelled out, confirming a direct hit.
Confusion set in. Richard felt, saw the flash of the blade as the man in black swiped the knife blindly through the air, missing his chest by a hair. He staggered back, out of the bathroom, praying his knowledge of the house would give him the edge he needed to win this battle. Sudden dizziness pushed him against the wall in the hallway, and he bounded back towards the bathroom just as the man in black charged forward, blindly waving the knife. Richard grabbed the wrist of the intruder, wrestled the knife back and forth. They both tumbled back into the bathroom, falling, falling. They crashed down on top of Samantha, the pain of their combined weight unmistakable as she screamed through her gag.
Richard’s nerves fired. He squeezed the man’s wrist, feeling with his fingertips the plastic handle of the knife. Instantly, his brain recalled a flurry of lost memories (not unlike the desperate situation earlier, when he needed to drive to save his life, and then he instantly remembered how to drive), and in this life-or-death predicament he suddenly remembered how to fight, not in some quick-in-a-panic-like defensive way, like tossing a butcher block, or spraying ammonia. No, he had some expert knowledge now--his brain was telling him how to defeat his adversary, take him down and walk away with minimal injuries, life intact.
Time seemed to stagger, like a film in slow-motion. And yet, his actions seemed to speed to double their normal rate, which he knew was his ingrained past memory taking control, enabling him to become a vicious aggressor in this moment of fight-or-flight. At once he felt like a wild animal, and even though Samantha was buckling in a last-ditch attempt for survival, even though the man in black’s hand broke free of Richard’s grasp, Richard still managed to bring his knee up into his adversary’s crotch, once, twice, three times, showing no mercy, sending him into agony. The man in black’s screams echoed about the house, perhaps alerting the neighbors that something bad was going down at Samantha Sparke’s place. Richard silenced him, chopping the man once, twice, three times in the throat, then slugged him on the left temple, hitting him hard, again and again.
Sighting a window of escape, Richard scrambled back. In a whirlwind of confusion, he climbed to his feet and staggered out of the bathroom, leaving the man in black writhing on the floor, Samantha in her near-death state beside him. Her fate was now solely in the hands of the enemy, for Richard knew there was nothing he could do for her now, lest he surrender his own life to the one who’d set out to kill him.
He stumbled down the hallway, at once questioning his decision to leave Samantha behind. Could he have taken the man in black down, once and for all? Could he have grabbed the knife while he was down, taken it to his throat, given Samantha a chance for survival?
Maybe it wasn’t too late?
He stopped at the entrance to the living room, turned back towards the bathroom, nervously deliberating his next move.
The man in black appeared, staggering, in obvious discomfort, a string of blood seeping from his exposed lips. Even on his black clothing Richard could see fresh wet blood soaking his shirt. The man smiled, then held up the knife. On it was Samantha’s severed hand, speared through the palm.
Jesus Christ!
Richard darted into the kitchen, his eye catching for the briefest moment the keychain holder he installed himself on the wall beside the sliding door. He grabbed Samantha’s car keys...
...I know how to drive now...
...and ran outside. Dizzied, in a rush, he sped around the side of the house to the driveway out front where Samantha’s light blue Corolla was parked. The door was open, and he sat behind the wheel and started the car, rapidly backing out in a fishtail, nearly hitting a middle-aged woman who’d emerged from the house across the street--presumably to investigate all the racket. Richard looked back at Samantha’s house only once, seeing nothing through the living room window: no sign of the man in black. No sign of any movement whatsoever.
The only thing he saw in the rearview mirror as he raced away was the woman from the house across the street, standing in the middle of the street in her bathrobe, staring back at him.
Evidence
After filling up on coffee and muffins, the partners took their box labeled ‘evidence’ to the precinct, set themselves up comfortably behind Leonard’s desk, and began itemizing all the contents. They wrote everything down on a list:
1) One micro-cassette tape recorder with tape inside, retrieved from coffee table beside the deceased.
2) Two additional tapes retrieved from the deceased’s desk.
3) A stack of notes, messages, retrieved from desk.
4) Two files, labeled ‘Sparke, Richard’, retrieved from filing cabinet.
5) One key, used to open filing cabinet.
6) One composition notebook, with pen, retrieved from couch.
7) Additional files labeled ‘related research’, retrieved from desk drawer.
In addition to these items, George Washburn had kept to his promise, delivering a stack of fifty-three crime scene photographs, in addition to the murder weapon (which he placed in a plastic bag after lifting the prints from it), the three blood-stained textbooks, and a complete report of his findings. Yes, George was a bit of a wet noodle, but always got the job done in a timely and efficient manner.
The first thing Leonard attended to were the photos, which he and Kevin scanned with dismay, at times struck with utter disbelief. How could a person do something like this? Leonard’s thoughts kept drifting from the realization that Richard Sparke, the mild-mannered and rather cooperative gentleman they interviewed this morning, most assuredly had an upper hand in this very serious offense. Leonard knew he had no choice but to set aside his gut feelings and submit himself to the facts at hand: that either Richard Sparke himself had murdered Delaney in cold blood, or the still-secretive third party, under the accordance of Sparke, perpetrated the crime. Either way, Sparke would be arrested.
Leonard and Kevin paid close notice to a series of photographs showing a single set of bloody footprints leading away from the victim. They circled near the bookshelf, then steered out of the office. There were photos taken in the hallway, with the footprints disappearing through the fire exit, and then down the stairs where they faded upon reaching the asphalt parking lot.
After placing the photos aside, Leonard checked out George’s initial report of the scene, reading it out loud to Kevin:
The scene, although rather clean--the result of a calculated crime--was riddled with fingerprints, as if they’d been purposely left behind by the perpetrator. The initial sweep found the murder weapon, (exhibit A), which was layered in blood. Comparable prints were located at seven pinpoints on the handle of the weapon, one unobliterated specimen on the blade. All have been dusted and classified--see attached printouts, each of which have been prepared for scanning. Comparable prints were also located on three text books (see exhibits B, C, D) retrieved from the CS floor. As well, they have been dusted, classified, and printed. Initial scans show these specimens to be exact to those found on the murder weapon. Four human hairs (exhibit E) of a dissimilar color variation to that of the victim were recovered at the CS and have been labeled and sent to the City Crime Lab for DNA testing.
Leonard paused, head cocked in thought.
“What’s up, Len?”
“I have an idea--a damn good one, too.” He punched up the hospital and asked to be connected to George Washburn’s office. George answered in his predictably malaise tone: “Pathology.”
“George, it’s Moldofsky.”
“I delivered everything a half hour ago. Ask Fran for the--”
“Thanks--I got it all,” Leonard interrupted. “Listen, I need you to call the Lab. Ask them for the results of a DNA test taken, uh...” He gazed at the calendar on his computer monitor, clicked back two years and pinpointed the date Samantha Sparke was attacked. “September 23, 2000. There should be two separate tests, George. The first from blood and skin samples found under the nails of an ass
ault victim named Samantha Sparke. The second is from a blood sample provided on the same date by her accused attacker, Richard Sparke. Have the DNA of these compared to that of the hair samples you found at the scene. Can you do that?”
“Len, the hair could be from anyone. I took four different samples. It might not make any sense to look into that right now.”
“Well...can you at least do the blood?”
“Sure I can...isn’t ‘Sparke’ the name of the accused from today’s murder?”
“Yeah,” Leonard answered, brushing him off. “How long do you think it will take?”
“I can have the results from the old tests to you in the morning. If you want a comparison to the blood found at the scene, it’ll take a couple of days with a PCR test. That’s the quickest there is.”
“Please, call me as soon as you have the results.”
“Sure, ASAP. What are you up to, Len?”
Ignoring his question, Leonard thanked George, then quickly hung up. Kevin offered Leonard a smug grin, as if to say ‘nice thinking, boss’, and Leonard went right back to reading George’s report:
Numerous blood samples were taken from ten points at the crime scene (see photos 1A, 2A, 3A). All appear to be consistent with blood from the victim. Tests to be ordered will confirm the possible presence of blood from the offender, although it appears doubtful that the murderer was harmed in any way, given the lack of blood and skin beneath the nails of the victim, or a second discernible weapon. The victim was killed quickly, the throat deeply penetrated with a precise knife slash which severed the jugular and trachea, the severity of which indicates an offender of powerful strength, most likely male. The victim’s death came, in my estimation, thirty to forty seconds after the initial wound was in place, the primary cause a combination of massive bleeding and suffocation. Immediately following the death of the victim, the offender utilized the murder weapon to puncture the victim’s body in a multitude of places (Len--please keep in mind that this is just a preliminary report based on initial observations, and not an official statement. I will have a more detailed report on the victim’s injuries to you following the autopsy, which I will perform tonight). No signs of struggle are evident, outside of some spilled books from the shelves to the right of the room, which may indicate a rather staggering and abrupt exit by the ‘bloody’ killer. Supporting this are a single set of bloody footprints (see photos marked 4A-12A) encircling the area near the bookshelf, then leading away from the scene.
Leonard placed George’s report on the desk. “Kev...is it possible that Sparke left the room, just like Carol Davis said, and then the murderer went in, killed Delaney, and bumped into her on the way out?”
Kevin rubbed his eyes, more confusion setting in, compounded by fatigue. “Sure it’s possible. Seems to make sense...but would the killer have had enough time to commit the act?”
“Carol Davis indicated a five to ten minute gap between the time Sparke left, and the time she went in to check on the doctor.”
“It is possible then. However, let’s not forget that Sparke could’ve murdered the doctor, and then somewhere along the line a third party entered the room, saw the murder scene and ran away, but not until after Sparke calmly exited.”
“It doesn’t seem likely that someone would walk into the room, wallow around in the blood, and then run away.”
“I agree...it appears to me our speculation of Sparke being in cahoots with a third party who committed the killing might be our only explainable theory.”
“It will also explain, as we discussed earlier, the situation with Samantha Sparke two years ago, and in theory, the mystery with Pamela and the blood on Sparke’s kitchen floor this morning.”
There was a pause of thought-filled silence. “What’s next?” Kevin finally asked. “I’m dying to sink my teeth into the file.”
“Cool your engines. We save the best for last. We’ll get a lot more done if we take things slowly, and efficiently. Next up, we run scans of the prints.”
Leonard found the envelope marked print scans and took them into Captain Reese’s office. He noticed that with the exception of Fran and two other officers on desk duty, the precinct was empty. The manhunt is on, he thought, pitying the poor slobs going around door to door with photos of Sparke, looking for someone who might have spotted him. The canines would be out, raised and bred by local retiree Roger Pierce, who under contract, was on call to supply his pets should the need arise. Reese would also have a helicopter flown in from the city airport to conduct a sweep of the area. A stakeout was probably being held at Richard’s apartment, and additional officers would end up at Pamela Bergin’s apartment and Samantha Sparke’s place.
Leonard pulled the 3.5” disc labeled print scans from the envelope and put it into the computer on Captain Reese’s desk. He pulled up a photo index containing eleven digitized photographs of fingerprints taken at the scene. Each had been enlarged and cropped to show only the specific print in question. Under each print was a line of text indicated the location the print was found. Only where the prints overlapped did George make note of any type of obliteration. Leonard was only interested in the one print George found on the blade of the knife. It was the first in the index. He clicked on the thumbnail photo and brought it up full-screen. Crystal clear it was, the lines and swirls spiraling in their design like something made on a child’s Spirograph.
“A perfect specimen,” Leonard noted. “Almost too perfect.”
“As if he put it there on purpose, like George had said.”
“Considering there weren’t many other instances, I’d say he did. The question is, why?”
Leonard directed the computer to search the database of prints on file, nearly ten-thousand fingers scanned and recorded since the software was installed nine years ago. In less than a minute, the screen flashed red. They had a match.
“Bingo,” Leonard said, clicking on the ‘display’ button. The second print scrolled down beside the first, revealing that the print at the murder scene belonged to a man who’d been booked at the Fairview police department in the past.
Thirty seconds later, when the image finished loading up on the screen, they had an answer.
The print at the crime scene belonged to Richard Sparke.
Mountains
Speeding through the dusk, deep into the cooling night, from the borders of Fairview and onto the freeway, then onto the Interstate, past Wellfield and Huxton, skirting the city and then traveling far beyond into the mountains, Richard had plenty of time to settle down and think a bit. Mile by mile, the sprawl of the city fell behind, the lights of society growing smaller, dimmer. The mountainous area expanded abundantly the further upstate he went, vast stretches of raised woodland surrounding him, darkness unfurling away on all sides where the only things he could see were a few cutting rock formations and the tips of pine trees capped by a rising moon. The natural landscape exhibited a stunning combination of simplicity and grandness, and it fostered a good deal of introspection as the restful hum of the tires and the slight vibration of the steering wheel gently massaged him away from the hell he left behind.
His world seemed surreal, not simply due to the horrific events that had taken place, but also by the fact that he’d somehow obtained the knowledge to drive so well. And of course the emergence of all those other ‘previously lost memories,’ as he now ascribed them, like skillful fighting, and the ability to stealthily escape his adversary as he did. At times these and other sudden recollections interfered with his concentration--complex math problems, numbers riddling his mind, flitting in and out of his conscious thought with utter ease, scientific research--somehow he knew that if given the opportunity to sit in front of a computer, he’d be able to tackle any challenge presented to him, even though he’d never, as long as he could recall, owned a computer. Where was all this knowledge coming from? It seemed apparent that Delaney’s hypnosis triggered something powerful inside him, even if it wasn’t exactly what the good doctor ha
d originally intended.
He tried to relax, to concentrate, his mind working hard to shun away the frolicking lost memories in an effort to devise a plan. To distract himself, he recalled the two instances he’d had the upsetting sense of being followed: earlier in the woods while fleeing, and then again at Samantha’s house while blindly searching all the rooms, unaware that the man in black was hiding in the bathroom all along. Now, although common sense dictated his general safety at the moment, he still had the foreboding suspicion of his adversary on his tail--even though no headlights appeared behind him. Obviously the man in black madhad known where Richard was heading when he decided to go to Samantha’s house; he would have to assume the same of him now, regardless of time limits, or physical limitations. When it came to his ‘other self’, abilities of boundless proportions seemed to be the norm, and Richard had to accept this without argument. For Christ sakes, the guy came out from his dream! He also had no choice but to believe the man in black would go to no ends to torture Richard.
And just what kind of torture was it anyway? Certainly the man in black could have killed Richard long ago, no? Clearly he made the effort to eliminate friends and loved ones--both in the real world, and from his dreams--before he even tried to put an end to Richard himself.
Now, deep in the country, Richard was able to clear his mind of many thoughts--even the newly found ones--as he considered a hiding place for the night. He exited the interstate at Bledson Hills and continued south along State Road 35, at once grateful for the slower pace the curves demanded; his muscles were starting to cramp, and with darkness now enfolding, he felt it necessary to take things a bit diligently--what would happen if he suddenly forgot how to drive again?
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