Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  The woman replied. “Sure thing, Mister… Pendigus. My Pedro is, like, a bit taller than you. And very strong. Can lift, like, three hundred pounds. I reckon, that's why the man decided to run away. He got it, like, no freaking way, he can overpower my Pedro. Besides, 'bout the man…”

  “Yes?”

  “The man – he was running. To the bushes. Like, limping. To his right. Nope, sorry. That would be – our right. Sure thing. To his left leg. Sure thing, sir. He had, like, a slight limp. In his left leg. How else he could be limping?”

  After clarifying some minor details and filling the paperwork, they targeted out. Kim casually crouched down, Kate put one arm over his neck, and the Deputy easily lifted his girlfriend onto the bike. Obviously, they had done this trick few times already.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Missis Espinoso?” Kate smiled to the girl who was standing in the door frame waiting for them to depart.

  “Sure thing, ma'am.”

  “You keep looking at my legs… My missing legs, I mean. All the time… Like, are you scared or something?”

  “…Oh, how to say it…” the pregnant teen responded after some hesitation, “you see, ma'am, I mean: you're a vet, don't have no legs. I mean, sorry, it's no your fault… But I'm, like, expecting… A baby…”

  “So what?”

  “If I look at you… I mean, with no legs… My baby may come out, like, with no legs too…”

  “That's a superstition. Your baby will come out just fine.”

  “I don't know, ma'am. It happens… Our neighbor, there, on the other side… Last year, she was, like, pregnant, and all was fine. And she was, like, very happy. Smiling, yeah! Sure thing: too much smiling, and she ended up with the baby like this!”

  “Like what?”

  “In January, she comes over. With the baby on the back. Like, in the Slum, almost all got babies on the back. And she is, like, sad. Not smiling anymore, sure thing! So, we, like: why are you sad? And she, like: wanna look how my baby came out? We, like, sure thing, look us the baby! She, like, takes the baby from her back. Oh, shit! The baby doesn't have no arms! No arms, jus', little flippers, yeah! And no legs, too. How would the legs grow? And the baby has only one foot, and even that – butty!”

  “Butty?”

  “Yeah! That's what my Pedro said: ‘butty!’ The foot grows straight from the butt, see. And only has two toes. That's all she had! Two toes and the little flippers instead of the arms.”

  “And now all this, exactly, relates to my missing legs?” Kate asked.

  “Ah, sure thing! We, like asked Parry… That's the neighbor name: Parry… Somebody scared you before the birth, or something? And she's like: sure thing, scared! I was in the park, like, in the night, and there was, like, a legless vet! He, like, scared me, to death! That's what she said, sure thing! So it must be true. If you look at the legless vet, the baby may come out like this: with no legs, get it?”

  “Is your neighbor working at the 'Fill or something like this?” Mark asked.

  “Sure thing, sir! At the 'Fill. Where else? Jus' as I said: the baby was on the back. Who work at the 'Fill, all put the babies on the back, see? So both arms are free. And all the Parry's family is at the 'Fill: her husband, her sisty, her ma… They all work at the 'Fill, sure thing.”

  Dioxin. Or some other wonder chemical. We are sailing straight into the Middle Ages, Mark thought. One more generation, and we will be attributing infectious diseases to bad spirits and not to the dirty water and poor vaccine availability. Or start catching witches for spoiling milk and burn them at the stake…

  “OK, what are you two making of this?” Mark asked Kim and Kate as they reached the paved road.

  “I am not sure, sir,” Kim replied, “at first, I thought this is just a coincidence. It very well could be the Butcher. But also, could be not so. No idea, honestly.”

  “I believe this was the Butcher, beyond doubts,” Kate said with a confident nod. She was using the brief stop to roll herself her usual To-Ma-Gochi, “OK, the Army knife could be from practically anybody, but considering the sporty shoes and the gloves…”

  “The victim did not tell us anything specific about the shoes and the gloves. All we know is that the shoes were ‘sporty’ and the gloves were ‘Mickey Mouse’,” Kim masterfully played Devil's advocate.

  “How do you imagine yourself a pair ‘sporty’ shoes? Not sandals, not 'flops, not army boots. Specifically: the ‘sporty’ shoes?” Kate was eager to defend her theory.

  “From the academic standpoint, the term ‘sporty shoes’ could mean anything. Joggers. Football boots. Sporty sandals. Sporty flip-flops. Even sporty high boots. For the horse riding, for example.”

  “Sporty flip-flops! How wonderful! What do you understand in sporty shoes, Mister Academic?”

  “And what do you, like, understand in sporty shoes?”

  “‘Like!’ I know a thing or two about the ‘sporty shoes.’ At least more than you do. Comparing to the locals, I am a goddamn expert! I walked in the ‘sporty shoes’ all my life! Here, in Houston, everybody goes either in cowboy boots, or in 'flops and sandals. Or barefoot! I will look at you, how you walk barefoot in Detroit, especially in the winter!”

  “Yeah, right, you are a goddamn expert! In Houston, the ‘sporty shoes’ are unnecessary! Especially for you. You are Kate-on-Skate, with the little wheels instead of feet, and you don't need any shoes: ‘sporty’ or ‘not sporty.’ Not even the Houston boots, 'flops or sandals!” At this point, Kim received a playful, but heavy slap on his back.

  “Stop fighting!” Mark interrupted their ‘academic’ dispute, “I also believe this may very well be the first show of our man, guys. First, consider the height. She said: 5-8 or 5-9. OK, we have one more eye-witness who tells us the perpetrator was 5-9. Besides, we have those Indomerican lovers who saw a suspicious man in the woods, although not at the crime scene. They also told us the man was about 5-9. A mere coincidence? Possible, but I hope for the best. Second, it is likely the Butcher had some special ops training in the military.”

  “Why?” Kim and Kate asked simultaneously.

  “He appeared as if from nowhere, ten or twelve feet from the potential victims. Was quiet and determined to attack. The knife in his hand, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Observe the sequence of events. Our Pedro suddenly jumps up, and our perpetrator… Remember, what the girl said? He steps to their left side. To the left side! An average Joe would either boldly continue into the attack or hesitate and step back. That is how our basic instincts work. Stepping to the left of the opponent – that's what they teach in martial arts. So either our perp was a primary school Karate enthusiast, or he was in the special ops. My vote is for the latter.”

  “Still, how do we know it wasn't a common robbery?” Kim asked.

  “Well, we can't be hundred percent sure. But here is the third reason: an average robber seldom wants to kill his victims. Bad for the business, especially if you eventually get caught. You may even get into Lynching and get yourself hanged on the spot, something along these lines. A robber would come along, show his knife, and clearly communicate his intentions. ‘Gimme your wallet, man!’ Something like this. The man, who attacked Espinosos in the woods, was determined to kill. No talking, no intimidation. Pure, direct action. He didn't even have a mask! If you plan to kill your victim anyhow, why hide your face?”

  “But you said the other witness saw him in some kind of mask. A black balaclava, right?”

  “Well, he may have learned his lesson from his first attempt. In case of a failure, minimize the chances of being recognized. Also conceivable, he thought that the open face gave him away in the darkness and spoiled his attack.”

  “If he was in the special ops, he would put a face paint instead of the balaclava…”

  “He knows better. The face paint is superior to a mask, but only for the military ops. Believe me, in the city, you don't want to walk away from the crime scene with your face pa
inted. And the balaclava is just perfect. You pull it off and stick it in your pocket. The only thing that does not really match, is exactly the one you were fighting about, – those ‘sporty shoes.’ Linda said, the shoes were ‘light’ color. But the other witnesses said they were either black or khaki. The perpetrator either dyed them or changed them. To make them less visible in the night. Or Linda remembered it all wrong.”

  “OK, as a former qualified shoe user, I agree those ‘sporty shoes’ don't quite fit the picture. However, the girl was so focused on the knife, she hardly remembered anything else,” Kate said. “Besides, this Linda doesn't appear to be exceptionally bright. I had my share of ‘likes’ and ‘sure things’ for a full week! I am thinking: Kim can go and talk to Pedro Espinoso in the evening? Only, this time – I won't go. If the girl pups out a baby with no arms and no legs, she will blame it on me, LOL!” She laughed and made another puff on her ‘medicinal purpose only’ cigarette.

  “Too late, Katy-Skaty! Too late. You've been there, stumping around with your funny wooden blocks. The damage is done. Now, whatever happens, they will blame it on you anyway. Imagine this: Missis Espinoso, you got a deformed baby. Somebody scared you, or something? Sure thing! I am, like, sitting at home. And the Police, like, comes along. And the Deputy, like, brings a legless girl on his bike! And that girl, like, scared me! She scared me to death, sure thing…” Kim masterfully impersonated the possible superstition development.

  “One more ‘sure thing,’ and you can cut your balls off, man! You won't be needing them for the rest of your short, miserable life! Besides all the jokes, you must visit them once more. Pedro is technically a witness. In the same right as Linda.”

  “Sure, I can come and talk to Pedro tonight. Although, don't hold your breath. I remember that Pedro character quite well from their visit to the Beat, – on that particular night. Comparing to her husband, Linda is, like, Einstein! Her Pedro is, like, sure thing… That's another ‘like’ and ‘sure thing’ for you today, Skaty… Ouch!” Kate delivered another slap on Kim's back, this time even stronger.

  “Enjoyed?”

  “Sorry, Skaty, I could not resist… To make it short. The only three phrases he mastered through the entire life were: ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘What, sir?’ At the Beat, Linda did all the talking, and Pedro was only, like, nodding his head. Sure thing… Not at the kidneys, sweety, please… You have such a heavy hand. Pumped your muscles on your bloody skate…”

  “By the way, Kim, what did you do after they reported the assault?” Mark asked smiling. It was fun to observe the Kim's and Kate's mockery fight.

  “What could I do, sir? They were attacked at something past nine, but reported it at eleven – thirty. In two hours, the perp could be ten miles away. Or more. I cycled to the scene, looked around. My torch light gave up after ten minutes. Came again, after the sunrise. Nothing. Besides, nobody was killed, nobody injured, nothing taken. Well, heck with it: we had a lot of other things to deal with. I put the report into the folder and asked Tan to go and do a friendly talk with the known offenders. In case it was one of them…”

  Upon his return to the Station, Mark raced to his little office and opened the spreadsheet with the three hundred and eighty-seven names. OK, special ops men, who of you would fit our profile? The people in this, shortened, list had been already sorted by their height. Now he wanted to select all, who could plausibly pass for a ‘White or maybe a white Latino’ definition. First, he tried to sort the records by complexion, but quickly abandoned the idea. Instead, he began opening each of the personnel files in the PDF reader and sorting the candidates by the photos and by the age at the same time. To be on the safe side, he included everybody from twenty-five to forty. The information from the teenage mom was not that robust. In about one hour, he managed to flip through one hundred records and had thirty four potential candidates. To make a short break, he went to pay a visit to the CSI bullpen.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Tom was doing some programming magic on his computer.

  “How was that system administrator girl in the AFCO office?”

  “Cute.”

  “An avid player. Unfortunately, she bats for another team,” Natalie giggled from her cubicle.

  “Well, yes, she is a Lesbian, and bravely admitting it…” Tom nodded.

  “You better follow up on that girl from the 'Fill,” Natalie said, “Alice, right? The one who shot video for us. She's clever and cute. I'm so jealous at her tattoo, although she could be a bit more selective about her ear-rings.”

  “Never mind,” Tom shook his head, probably considering if to proceed with the cute fashion-obsessed scavenger. “I got all the purged records! Just need to sort them out and start my script. Unfortunately, the initial list is quite long: almost three hundred and sixty thousand.”

  “That many vets?”

  “No, not that. For starters, about three hundred thousand have been purged due to the old age. The registration is only for the ages from fourteen to sixty, right? Then, twenty-two thousand have been killed in action.”

  “Twenty-two thousand?”

  “Yep. In about thirty years. And recently the numbers are increasing. In the East Houston database alone, they had almost sixteen hundred KIA on the last DB purge.”

  “Wow! That's sad. How many vets, then?”

  “Whatever remains. Thirty-five thousand. And here is the problem. I expected to get far less, five or six thousand vets, max. Something is wrong….”

  “And the total population covered by this DB?”

  “Approximately one point four million. Give or take one hundred thousand. This basically means one out of each forty people is a vet. I see no fault in my data, but sounds far too high to be true. I am afraid, we are double-counting something.”

  “There is no fault, Tom. Last time I spoke to my friend in the Salvation Way… He estimated about the same: two point five percent, or one out of forty people…” Even in our own cul-de-sac the statistics caught up, Mark thought for himself. This morning, while cycling to the Station, he suddenly met a neighbor boy. Mark was not sure if the boy was drafted last year or the year before. But now he was back – without a leg and walking on crutches. The mathematical law of large numbers had caught with them too: their cul-de-sac had not seven, but eight vets in total. Exactly two-point-five percent. And at least three young men from their neighborhood were killed in action.

  “Strangely enough, there is no such thing on the news. Not even on the Internet. As if the vets don't exist,” Tom shook his head in disbelieve.

  “That's all the Government can do at this point of time, Tom. To smile and pretend this is all absolutely normal… Anyhow, out of these thirty-five thousand vets, how many are between twenty-five and forty years of age?”

  “Are you still guessing the Butcher's age or there is something new?”

  “Something new. Remember I mention Kate Bowen yesterday?”

  “Deputy Kim's new girlfriend? With no legs?”

  “Sure thing…” Bloody teenage mom, Mark smiled, now this ‘sure thing’ was going to pop up everywhere! “Kate Bowen, A.K.A. Kate-on-Skate, A.K.A. Sherlock Holmes on skate, A.K.A. Hercule Poirot, A.K.A. Miss Marple. Infrequently, works under the name of John H. Watson, MD. The rising star of the Harris County Police. She dug out a two-year-old record of an attempted robbery. It has never been to the case database, just a paper record… It looks like, this is the first time our Butcher got out to the woods and tried to kill a love-making couple. Although, this time the couple was lucky. What we learned today: our man is likely to be White, and between twenty-five and thirty-five. OK, make it forty, – just in case.”

  “Sherlock Holmes on skate? Cool. Sorting by the age is easy.” Tom punched few buttons. “Well, it's twenty-one thousand records. Plus change.”

  “OK, now sort them by the service branch. Anybody who can potentially have the special ops training?”