Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

Roberts tugged at his nose. He knew this was coming, but Penfield's diffidence wasn't very encouraging.

  “Tracing a lead on the Jameson case,” he answered.

  “She used to work there?”

  “No.”

  “So you identified the vagrant, and found out he used to work there?”

  “No. He still hasn’t been ID’d. Street camera video is no good and he never took his cap off in the doughnut shop. All we’ve got so far is one-third of his face from chin to nose. Northcutt’s been repaying a favor by burning the midnight oil, using the new software to find a match.”

  “So why were you there?”

  Roberts scratched his ear. “I...was talking to a doctor, a scientist named Ruiz. She...uh...was a colleague of Richard Kelmer’s.” Roberts flinched on the last two words, as if he were about to be punched in the face.

  There was a long pause filled with the excitement of Penfield tapping his fingers on his desktop and looking at Roberts under his graying, wolfish eyebrows. “Andy...you’ve got nothing but a couple of phone calls you never even heard and for all we know don’t even exist,” he said.

  “They do exist, Captain. The phone records have a call to her apartment at the exact same time she said...”

  “Two calls that came from a public vid with no picture. It could’ve been a crank for all...”

  “It wasn’t a crank; the guy’s missing. She said the guy who jumped her in the alley spoke about finding him, practically threatened him.”

  “Don’t know that either.”

  “He hasn’t been to work in over four days; nobody knows where he is.”

  Penfield pursed his lips. “I got a call from Wallace’s lawyer this morning.”

  Roberts backed up.

  “He says Kelmer was fired over some disagreements they had about his work,” Penfield said.

  “I’m sure he did,” Roberts sighed.

  “Bottom line, is that you have no reason to go back there. You barely had one in the first place.”

  “Is that still the lawyer talking?”

  Penfield gave the comment a second to bounce off. “This department has been put through the bowels of the ringer, Andy. We’ve been bludgeoned by the press, vilified to the public, and all of it is thanks to the man in the mirror. We do not have the resources to defend ourselves against Jerome Wallace. He could have the mayor, the city council, and if necessary, the governor giving us the wet-works if we start making life uneasy for him.”

  “Captain...”

  “He's the city's largest employer. Giving him reason to pack up would not endear us with the people we’ve been sworn to protect and serve. And have I mentioned we’re not so popular with them right now?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day when you ran...”

  “Finish that sentence and you’ll leave here without your badge!”

  Roberts bit down. Okay, it was a dumb thing he almost said, especially since he knew better. Penfield had made a career of going to bat for his investigators and Roberts had thirteen years of being on first base while he did it. And Penfield did have a point. Roberts's tactics were legit, but he hadn't fully considered the repercussions of casting dispersions on Millenitech.

  Penfield sighed, silently forgiving his detective. “Look, I understand that you want to take this one as far as it can go. The circumstances certainly warrant that. But I’m not going to let you fly head-on into a mountain when you’ve got passengers on the plane.”

  Roberts nodded wistfully, taking Penfield’s handout. When the man was right, he was right. If Wallace was up to no good—or no worse than his usual, vis-à-vis poisoning the environment and sucking up city funds from vital services—the old bastard could rain down twice as much hell on the department than the scandals did. Shock and awe would be the order of the day and they’d have lost before a single warrant was issued.

  “All right,” Roberts said. “I still got other angles. I’ve wanted to take another shot at Malcolm Block, anyway. His type can't stand being in the cooler this long. He's probably itching to cough up the goods by now.”

  Penfield looked away, as he was reminded of the second reason he had called Roberts into his office. Roberts, not being blind, got the signal straight away.

  “Captain,” Roberts said inquisitively.

  Penfield cocked his chin. “Malcolm Block is dead. They found him taking a swim in one of the prison laundry’s industrial Maytags. Nobody’s talking so far, but he’d been tenderized pretty good. They’re figuring some of the other inmates gave him the once-over on Glenda Jameson’s behalf.”

  Roberts simmered a moment, unable to decide on, “I told you so,” or “Sweet Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?” “You don’t believe that,” he said decisively.

  Penfield rolled his eyes. “Prison brawls do not a conspiracy make.”

  “Well, at least their hearts were in the right place. I’m guessing yours was, too, and that’s why you didn’t tell me about Block when I walked in.”

  “I wanted to see where you were with this Kelmer angle first. If I had told you about Block from the jump, everything I just said would’ve been in one ear and out the other.”

  Right again, Roberts thought. If he'd been told about Block before Penfield’s lecture, Roberts would have been too concerned with overturning Millenitech’s fat cat litter box to consider the woes of the department. Now, it didn’t matter. With Block dead, the knot tying Roberts’s hands had just gotten a whole lot tighter.

  “Then you won’t have to put on your glasses, Captain,” Roberts said. A spell of hopelessness nested on his shoulders. “Looks like it won’t be going anywhere.”

  “You have my word,” Penfield said empathizing. “I’ll give you as much leeway as I possibly can. But like it or not, we’re not in a position for you to launch a full frontal assault on Millenitech.” He paused, unsure if he should encourage Roberts in any way. “You’re gonna have to work around the edges. And if you come back with something that just happens to put Millenitech on the radar...then we’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it. Maybe I can get Camille Cosgrove to ride shotgun for us in case we need a warrant. God knows she’d like to stick it to Wallace. I, myself, would love to chop a few inches off of Miles Gabriel, with all the scum he’s put back out on the street.”

  Penfield’s office phone line beeped and he picked up the receiver. Why in the hell he was forever refusing to use a speaker or compiece Roberts could only guess.

  “Aw, shit!” Penfield cursed. “No, I’m not. Tell her she’ll have to wait like the rest of them.” He thrust down the receiver without a goodbye. Maybe that was it? Roberts realized. Penfield enjoyed slamming the phone down in someone's ear.

  “Well, your job just got a little harder,” Penfield said.

  “So I should’ve enjoyed the down time while I had it?” Roberts responded.

  “Press corps is lining up downstairs. I actually had three reasons to call you in here.”

  Roberts shrugged. “I should've read my horoscope this morning.”

  “It seems they broke out their pooper scoopers and have been doing their own digging on Glenda Jameson. They found out about her two prior arrests, including the car theft. Did you know she hit a cop at a FFP rally?”

  “Yeah. The report said she hit an officer who was attempting to site her for disorderly and blocking the entrance to a public building. She said he got grabby and she kneed him where it counts. I also found out that the same cop had been written up twice for sexual harassment; one of them by a fellow female officer. He was transferred, and then eventually fired.”

  “That’s the good news. The bad news is the rally that she was arrested at was organized by Hellene Dickerson. You know, the Sapphic nutcase who shot and killed a police officer two years ago and robbed a dozen adult bookstores across the country before she was hunted down by the FBI? Then there’s that little stink Glenda Jameson raised when you were getting her statement—when she thought you we
re accusing her of lying. They might be looking to spin the Stockholm syndrome on this, and make her out as something other than the victim. If it works, you’d come out smelling like a rose, with having seen through her deception.”

  Roberts looked beyond annoyed. “Aw come on, I talked to Glenda Jameson’s parents and two of her former coworkers. She hadn’t even attended one of those rallies in over three years. They said she thought they were getting too radical for her, that they were more concerned with pissing people off and making the nightly news than they were about changing anything. She’s not even in the same ballpark as Helen What’s-her-face.”

  “If you were a reporter looking for your spotlight, which angle would you play up?”

  “If it goes that way, it’ll only make her more desperate. Guilty or innocent, it could put her that much closer to ending up in a meat wagon.”

  Penfield arched an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Roberts intended by saying that and he wasn’t about to leave it hanging. “Are you saying you think she could be guilty?”

  Roberts turned thoughtful; not to give weight to the question of Glenda Jameson's innocence, but to carefully choose his words to make sure Penfield didn’t misunderstand. “Glenda Jameson is as guilty of murder as you are of...having good taste in ties.”

  Chapter 30

  Xavier sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bits of morning sun that dotted the walls as they poked through the separations in the room's curtains. He was trying to decide what he was feeling. After a day and a half without a drink and crying his own weight in tears, he was shocked not to find himself swinging from the end of his brother’s showerhead by a makeshift noose. It was as if his brain was bagging up the worst of the grief, and remorse for use at a later date. It all seemed to collide with an emotional speed-bump—or something like that—and vaporized before it could really rip him to shreds. Xavier pulled the packet of Theracol from his jacket pocket. Two of the little green capsules were absent from the casing. The wonders of modern medicine, he thought. He looked across the room into a full length mirror opposite the bed. Now, if they only had a cure for chronic loser-itis.

  Glenda tried desperately to avoid those awkward sideways glances she was both giving and receiving in Cassandra’s direction as they sat side by side on the broad sectional sofa. Glenda had become fast friends with Cassandra and was starting to agonize terribly over the whole Hannah thing. She longed to believe Cassandra had caught on that it wasn't her real name after the couple of times Glenda had failed to respond to it right off. Cassandra was so accommodating, it wouldn't have surprised Glenda a bit if she had simply chosen to keep mum on the subject. Glenda refocused her attention and giggled impishly as Cassandra's digital photo album flashed to a picture of a six-year-old, bare-bottomed Xavier dancing his version of a foxtrot in front of a television. Xavier was right not to want to stay, Glenda thought. By some miracle, the Hawkins’ were not avid webscreen watchers, but the news was everywhere and it was only a matter of time before they were exposed to all the sexy details of the motel shootings. Glenda cupped her mouth. As if obsessing over her parents' safety and Kelmer's whereabouts weren’t enough; now there was the threat of being on the business end of Cassandra's heartbreak when the truth came knocking. Would Xavier's brother turn them in? This is just...Glenda looked up, her eyes suddenly lit like Times Square. Amazing!

  Xavier had emerged fully dressed from the spare bedroom. He was wearing a crisp, shiny new pair of black Dockers along with a pair of gray, suede Timberland hiking boots. And in place of the old vagabond flight jacket was now a black, leather, Brooks Brothers front coat covering a white polo shirt. Since Xavier and his brother were roughly the same size, everything Xavier plucked from Benny’s closet was virtually a perfect fit.

  Glenda's hand spread even wider across her mouth. What used to look like a dead animal on top of Xavier's head was now a glistening pillow of wavy black locks—a little thin up top, but still good for a few fingers. And for the first time, she could actually see his entire face. No dirt or scraggy beard shadow and the bruises he'd suffered on her account were naturally less noticeable. All the ladies' man hearsay Glenda had gotten from the doctor's wife—some not so flattering—suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched. Glenda stood up and casually closed the distance. Xavier then smiled openly, surprising her with a mouthful of bright, even teeth—the only thing his father had ever given him that was actually worth anything.

  “What do you think?” Xavier asked. “My brother’s a real tight ass, but he’s got good taste in clothes.”

  Glenda smiled back solicitously. She could see now, that Xavier's eyes were a deep, bedroom, brown and had adopted a luster that wasn't their before. However, she could still see the pain of his mother’s death behind them.

  “Yeah. Yeah, he does,” she said. “You look good.” She had digressed enormously. In fact, it was all she could do to keep from applauding. Xavier hadn’t just cleaned up well; he was downright handsome. Hell, he looked like something that had been carved from marble. Glenda wanted, very much, to touch him, but honestly didn't know where to start.

  “Thanks,” Xavier said and smiled at her again, this time holding it a while...then a while longer. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess.” Glenda glanced quickly at Cassandra to make sure they were scrupulously out of earshot. “Things were getting a bit 'normal' here anyway.”

  “I know. But we have to go. I never would have come here in the first place if I’d known my brother was married. And he has a baby on the way. I can’t stand the thought of what could happen if they get dragged into this. No more than I can stand the idea of something happening to you.”

  Glenda took that for everything it was worth and then some. To have a man, a real man, value her welfare above all else, ready to slay any villain that dared move against her was so...Forgive me, Susan B. Anthony!

  “I understand,” Glenda said, “and you’re right. I couldn’t live with it either.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Benny Hawkins asked. He had walked into the room holding a small white envelope. He took one look at the coat his brother wore and instantly regretted giving him the run of his closet.

  “I got a place in mind,” Xavier answered, purposely short on details.

  Benny walked over to the couple and handed Xavier the envelope. “It’s about seven-hundred; something I keep around the house for just in case.” Benny saw a hint of resistance in his brother. “Just take it. Pay me back when you can.”

  Xavier took the envelope and stuffed it into the coat's pocket. “Thanks, man.”

  “Sure,” Benny said. He then paused for as long as it took to gather his courage. “And uh...try not to be a stranger.”

  Chapter 31

  By the beginning of the afternoon Marcel McCutcheon was already tired of coffee and had moved on to colas. As much as he was drinking, he still hankered for a nap something awful. Just a couple of hours to make up for the last thirty-six he and Brisby had spent picking apart the evidence gathered from the El Dorado motel. McCutcheon collected the two bottles of Pepsi from the chute and then leaned back in a wide full-bloomed yawn. Did they even put caffeine in colas anymore? He raised his chin and flared his nostrils in no particular direction. The Cleveland FBI headquarters had recently been remodeled and still dallied in the aroma of fresh varnish. McCutcheon loved it. He loved everything about the remodeling. The walls and furniture had evolved from the drab grays, blues and whites of your average post office to the chunkier earth tones and wood-grains of a vacationer's cabin in the Poconos. The desks were retrofitted with new computers with holographic interfaces and new lightweight webscreens jutted from the ceilings every ten feet, replacing the old LED televisions. McCutcheon cracked the seal on his drink. There was just nothing quite like the air of newness.

  A few seconds later, McCutcheon was walking over to Brisby, who was cozied at a desk, awaiting the latest findings on the motel evidence. He handed Brisby the unopened bottle.r />
  “It was the only Pepsi the machine had left,” McCutcheon said, “and you said you hated Coke.”

  “It’s all right,” Brisby said. “Diet has come a long way. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, but once you get used to it, it’s pretty good. You should try it.”

  McCutcheon tugged at his belt instead of flipping Brisby the finger. “Sugar is natural, unlike your recommendation for a promotion.”

  Brisby chuckled softly, taking the hint.

  McCutcheon glanced down and noticed the plastic evidence bag sitting on Brisby's desk. “Any luck with the note?” he asked.

  Brisby picked up the sealed plastic evidence bag that had come in, fresh from forensics, while McCutcheon was off taking a pee and getting refreshments. It contained a single sheet of white paper flecked with inconsistent brownish spots.

  “Type-written printout, twenty-pound bond paper,” Brisby said. “No DNA except for Trineer's. Errant blood-spatter.”

  “And the gun?”

  “Same. Only set of prints was Trineer's.”

  McCutcheon guffawed. The fakery of the crime scene was obvious to any detective earning a paycheck. But that was only because Ross didn't give a shit. He hadn't really done it to throw off the police; he just wanted to humiliate Trineer. “Ross must've really hated that guy, resented the fact that there wasn't a bigger talent pool for him to dip in to,” he said.

  He plopped down at an empty desk across from Brisby and took a sip of his cola. “He's frustrated. I bet it took the last bit of cash he had to pull off the hit on MIT.”

  “Another reason to kill Trineer,” Brisby said. “Ross didn't want to pay him.” He shook his head. “A guy who's that passionate about blowing things up—I bet it kills him to have to downgrade to cyber-terror in order to express himself.”

  “Maybe if it were any other target, he wouldn't. But Case Western Reserve is the backdoor into BioCore—the biggest biotech brainwork on the planet. It’s his golden fleece. When it's your dream, something is always better than nothing.”