As her charges filed inside Misty approached the gate. The man was lying a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring up into the bright sun. That was when Misty noticed the facial discoloration, the swelling, and the hundreds of tiny stitches that ran around the circumference of his face and formed clusters here and there. What the heck?
Misty opened the gate and knelt by the man’s side. Because the Sunday school teacher was a nurse she knew how to check the man’s vital signs and proceeded to do so. The results were unequivocal. He was dead—and had been for some time.
Misty fumbled for her phone, dialed 911, and reported the find. “My name is Misty Roker. We have a man down behind St. Patrick’s Church. He’s unresponsive, cyanotic, and I can’t detect a pulse.”
The dispatcher promised to send an aid unit, and as Misty waited for the medics to arrive, she noticed the white envelope. It was protruding from the man’s shirt, and when Misty pulled it free, she saw that Father Benedict’s name had been written on it. Deep down Misty knew that she shouldn’t open it, but curiosity got the better of her.
The envelope wasn’t sealed. So all Misty had to do was pry it open. That was when she saw five one-hundred-nu notes and a single piece of paper. She opened it up and read what was typed on it:
Dear Father Benedict,
This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.
Thank you,
Alcmaeon
Misty frowned. Alcmaeon? What kind of name was that?
By that time a siren could be heard in the distance. So Misty stuffed the note back into the envelope—and slid it back into Joel’s shirt. The EMTs arrived a minute later along with a police car. The medics went through the motions of checking Joel out, but he was dead, and all three of them knew it. The envelope went to one of the patrol officers, who was careful to hold only the edges of the object before sliding it into a larger envelope. Then, after taking Misty’s name and contact information, he turned her loose. Sunday school was over.
* * *
Cassandra Lee and Lawrence Kane were looking for a place to live. The decision to live together had been made during a recent vacation, and now they were looking at condos in Santa Monica, an area that both of them liked.
But they were very busy people, which made finding the time to tour properties difficult. And, now that Kane’s existing condo was up for sale, the task was urgent. So they’d gone to see two different homes in the morning and were about to discuss them over lunch.
The restaurant was called Mac’s and it was located about a mile away from the famous Santa Monica Pier. It had large windows that looked out over the highway to a sandy beach and the pale blue ocean beyond. “So,” Kane began, once they’d been through the buffet line and taken their seats. “What did you think?”
Lee nibbled on a huge strawberry. It was delicious, and the process gave her an opportunity to stall. In spite of the fact that they’d been through a great deal they hadn’t known each other all that long—and she wanted to provide a considered response. “Well, the first place is the larger of the two, and I liked that. But it needs a new kitchen.”
Kane had a straight nose, even features, and was wearing a white polo shirt over jeans. He nodded. “True . . . And the head chef needs a good place to perform his culinary miracles. It might be fun to do a reno. Then we could have the kitchen exactly the way we want it.
“How ’bout number two?” he inquired. “It’s smaller, but it comes with two parking slots plus a place to keep your bike.”
Lee’s Harley Road King Police Edition motorcycle was a problem since most condo buildings provided two parking places max, and she hoped to keep the bike nearby. Lee was about to respond when her phone started to dance across the table. Kane made a face. But he knew that Lee was on call. “Hello, Detective Lee.”
“Sorry,” Deputy Chief Jenkins said. “Life sucks.”
“No kidding. What have you got?”
“Something weird,” Jenkins said. “That’s why I called you.”
“Screw you,” Lee replied. “And the horse you rode in on.”
Jenkins laughed. “Somebody dumped a body in the parking lot behind St. Patrick’s Church.”
“Okay,” Lee said. “But that doesn’t qualify as strange. Not in LA.”
“True,” Jenkins admitted. “But, based on a preliminary evaluation by the coroner, this guy probably died as the result of a botched face transplant.”
“That is weird,” Lee agreed.
“Oh, but there’s more,” Jenkins responded. “The dead man is B. nosilla positive.”
Lee was surprised. The John Doe was a mutant! Thirty-one years earlier, back in 2038, a terrorist called Al Mumit (the taker of life) had turned a spore-forming bacteria called Bacillus nosilla loose on the world.
The bioengineered bacteria was delivered to Kaffar (unbelievers) all around the world by 786 Shaheed, or martyrs, each of whom had been selected because they had light-colored skin, were elderly, or only a few months old.
The results were even better than what Al Mumit had hoped for. Billions fell ill as Bacillus nosilla spread, and of those who contracted the disease, about 9 percent survived, with slightly better odds in developed countries. And of those who survived many but not all went on to develop mutations. Some of the physiological changes were good, but many were disfiguring, or in some cases lethal.
In Los Angeles, hundreds of thousands of people were declared communicable, some mistakenly, and herded into hastily organized “recovery” camps. Over time the recovery camps morphed into “relocation” camps and untold thousands of people were loaded onto trucks and sent east into the states of Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona. The sudden influx of mutants caused the “norms” in those states to flee west—and those who were B. nosilla negative were allowed to stay.
Meanwhile other parts of what had been the United States were going through a similar process. The result was a patchwork quilt of so-called red zones, where mutants lived, and the green zones, occupied by norms. It wasn’t long before zones and collections of zones gave birth to nation-states like Pacifica, which consisted of Washington, Oregon, and California.
Meanwhile the Republic of Texas annexed Idaho, Utah, and Arizona. And that, Lee knew, was likely to be the area where the dead man had come from. “This is going to be tough,” she predicted. “Assuming this guy came in from the RZ, he’ll be hard to identify.”
“Patrol officers responded,” Jenkins put in, “and they found a note on the body. According to the person who wrote it, the deceased is named Joel. But I agree. That isn’t a whole lot to go on. Head out to St. Patrick’s and collect what information you can.”
“I’m on my way,” Lee replied.
“Yanty will meet you there,” Jenkins said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Lee heard a click.
Lee looked at Kane as she put the phone away. “Sorry, hon . . . Gotta go.”
Kane had been through it before. He smiled. “No problem . . . Let me know if you’ll be home for dinner. So, if you had to choose between the condos we looked at today, which one would it be?”
“The larger one,” Lee replied, as she took a final sip of coffee. “It had an incredible view of the ocean. There’s a room for your office, and a kitchen reno would be fun.”
“And your bike?”
“There’s bound to be a storage unit somewhere nearby.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“I can be nice,” Lee said, as she got up from the table. “Sometimes.”
Kane laughed. “Shall I get a box for your food?”
“Please,” Lee said. “I’ll call you.” And with that, she left.
Since Lee was on call, both of them had driven cars to Mac’s. Lee’s vehicle was a so-called creeper, which was street slang for an unmarked car. Except that most of them not only had been tagged a dozen times—but were often decorated with the letters TIACC. “This is a cop car.” Her sedan was no diff
erent.
Lee’s vehicle was equipped with a nav system, which she rarely used. After college she’d gone straight into the police academy, graduated near the top of her class, and spent four years as a patrol officer before making detective. And, like most street cops, she knew the city like the back of her hand. So she chose to take 10 east and exit onto National Boulevard, which morphed into Jefferson Boulevard. The latter was a four-lane road that delivered her to the church with a minimum of fuss.
St. Patrick’s was a large building with a green roof, towers that were somewhat reminiscent of the Spanish missions, but with a more modern aesthetic. That’s Kane talking, the voice in her head said. Since when did you care about architecture?
So? Lee answered. That’s how it is when you have a relationship with someone. They rub off on you.
Or they come to own you, the voice suggested.
That’s bullshit, Lee thought, as she pulled in behind the church. Maybe you would like to spend the rest of your life with a bunch of cats. Personally, I’d prefer a man.
“This is 1-William-3. I am Code 6. Over.” There was no need to say where she was, since the dispatcher could see the creeper’s location on the computer screen in front of her.
Church was over—so there were only a few cars in the parking lot. The body had been removed by then, but a police cruiser was still on the scene, as was the middle-aged crime-scene investigator who everyone called “Moms.” She was busy taking pictures of the area while the bored patrol officers looked on.
Detective Dick Yanty had seen Lee pull in and made his way over to meet her. He was balding, wore wire-rimmed glasses that had a tendency to slide down his nose, and was wearing the usual plaid sports coat. Technically both of them worked for Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe, but both Yanty and a detective named Prospo had been assigned to work with Lee on the Bonebreaker case. “The Bonebreaker” being the name the media had bestowed on the serial killer who was responsible for killing Lee’s father and eight other cops over the last sixteen years. “Hey, Lee,” Yanty said. “Does this suck or what?”
“It sucks,” Lee agreed solemnly. “So what, if anything, do we have?”
“First there’s this,” Yanty said, as he handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s a copy—so don’t worry about prints.”
Lee read it:
Dear Father Benedict,
This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.
Thank you,
Alcmaeon
“Alcmaeon? Who the hell is that?”
Yanty pushed the glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “What did you do while you were in college? Everybody knows who Alcmaeon of Croton is.”
“That’s bullshit,” Lee replied. “You ran a search on it.”
Yanty grinned. “Yes, I did. It seems that Alcmaeon of Croton lived in the fifth century BC—and was one of the most eminent medical theorists of his time. Although he wrote about medical stuff, most of the time he studied astrology and meteorology, too.”
“So he was a nerd.”
“Yup.”
“That’s interesting,” Lee said. “And it seems to support what Jenkins told me.”
“Which was?”
“The coroner thinks Joel might have died of complications following a botched face transplant. We’ll know after the autopsy. But try this on for size . . . The hack who botched the operation felt guilty about Joel’s death. So he dumped the body here, along with some money to pay for a burial.”
“And signs the note Alcmaeon because he or she identifies with the old goat for some reason,” Yanty put in.
“Exactly,” Lee said. “And how much you wanta bet that the perp is Catholic?”
“Perhaps,” Yanty replied cautiously. “But maybe Joel was Catholic—and the doctor knew that.”
“Good point,” Lee said. “How ’bout video? Do we have any?”
“Yes,” Yanty replied. “The church is equipped with a full-on security system, so we could get lucky. A guy named Mike agreed to work on that. Come on . . . Let’s see if he found anything.”
Lee followed Yanty through a small playground and into the church. They found Mike in a nicely furnished office sitting in front of a monitor. He turned to look over his shoulder as they entered the room. Lee assumed that Mike was one of the parishioners. He had mocha-colored skin, short hair, and a serious expression. “I have it,” he announced. “At least I think I do.”
“This is Detective Lee,” Yanty said. “You sound doubtful . . . What’s the problem?”
Mike nodded to Lee. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words,” he said. “Watch this.”
So the police officers stood behind Mike as he started a black-and-white video clip. Lee could see a time and date stamp in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. It read: 05/12/69 04:12.
As the three of them watched, a white box truck drove into the lot behind the church, did a U-turn, and came to a stop. Lee expected to see someone get out, open the back, and remove Joel’s body. They didn’t. The truck drove away. And there, lying on the pavement, was the corpse. “Damn,” Yanty said admiringly. “That was slick!”
“The perp cut a six-foot-long hole in the bed of the truck,” Lee said. “It had to be on one side or the other to avoid the drive shaft.”
“And that means he or she has done this before,” Yanty said. “Or plans to do it again.”
“Precisely,” Lee said. “Mike, can you zoom in? If so, I’d like to take a look at the license plates coming and going.”
It turned out that Mike could zoom in, and he proceeded to do so. The results were disappointing. There weren’t any plates. That meant the driver had been careful to remove them prior to the drop with plans to replace them later. “So we have nada,” Yanty said. “Shit.” Lee was in full agreement.
Lee managed to clear the crime scene by three and made it home by four. Except that the condo didn’t feel like home after what had taken place there a month earlier. But Lee was determined to ignore that . . . And Chef Kane helped her do so by serving cocktails, tossed green salads, and some perfectly browned sole.
Then it was time to sit on the deck and watch the sun go down. “We need a view like this one,” Lee said as she sipped her coffee. “What a great way to end the day.”
That led to a discussion of all the properties they’d seen over the last two weeks and how to rank them. Later, as Lee lay next to Kane, she thought about the way her life had changed. There were things to look forward to now—and a person to share them with. That was new, and for the first time in a long time, Lee was happy.
* * *
Lee had never been good at getting up in the morning and was often late for work—until she moved in with Kane. Every morning, he woke her with a kiss on the forehead or a pat on the bottom, depending on what part of her was available.
Then, as Kane went out for his morning run, Lee would shower and get ready for work. Then they usually had a cup of coffee together prior to going their separate ways. So Lee was standing in the kitchen and Kane’s coffee was ready as he reentered the condo at precisely 6:32 A.M. He was dressed in a tee shirt, blue shorts, and running shoes. “You’re right on time,” Lee observed. “A shrink with OCD . . . Someone should write a paper about that.”
“A cop who breaks all the rules,” Kane countered. “Someone should write a paper about that. And maybe I will.” They laughed.
Kane took a sip of coffee and gestured to the small flat-screen TV that sat on the countertop. “So what’s in the news this morning?”
“It sounds like peace could break out at any time,” Lee replied. “The Aztec ambassador is scheduled to meet with a representative from the Republic of Texas in El Paso. And our secretary of state will be there too.”
Both of them knew about the conflict between the Republic of Texas to the east and the Aztec Empire to the south. The tecs insisted that all of the lands that had once been part of Mexico should be returned to
them regardless of the treaties signed in the past.
So their army had crossed the border at a point halfway between San Luis and Nogales and had been slugging it out with the Republicans for months. The fighting had been confined to Texas and Arizona thus far. But there was a very real possibility that Pacifica would be dragged into the conflict because the Aztecs believed that California belonged to them. “I’m glad to hear that everybody’s at the table,” Kane said. “Maybe they can work something out. How about you? Will this be a normal day?”
“I hope so,” Lee replied. “I’ll call or text you if things go off the rails.” Lee gave him a coffee-flavored kiss followed by a wave as she headed for the door.
Lee knew that there were a number of people who would like to kill her, including the Bonebreaker. So she was careful to scan her surroundings as she left the condo, entered the elevator, and rode it down to the parking garage. The car appeared to be undisturbed but appearances could be deceptive. So Lee removed a handheld GPS and cell-phone detector from her purse, turned it on, and circled the vehicle. If a tracker had been placed on the sedan during the night the device would warn her. None had.
So Lee got in, started the engine, and drove to a restaurant called Maria’s, where she ate a breakfast burrito before completing the trip to work. The LAPD headquarters building was known for its angular appearance—and cost $437 million old bucks to construct back in 2009. Unfortunately, the façade had been damaged by a rocket attack in 2065 and was still awaiting repairs.
Lee entered the ramp that led to the parking garage, paused to show her ID, and continued down until she located an empty slot. Then she rode an elevator up to the sixth floor, which was home to the Chief of Detectives, her staff, and about sixty detectives. All of whom occupied the maze of cubicles generally referred to as the bullpen.
Of the larger force, only twelve men and women were members of the elite Special Investigative Section (S.I.S.), charged with getting the city’s most dangerous criminals off the street. That was the unit Lee belonged to—and she made it to roll call with a minute to spare. The conference room was about half-full, and that was typical, since five or six detectives were out of the office at any given time. But Yanty was there, as was Prospo, and both of them looked glum. The likelihood was that they knew something she didn’t.
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