Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  Brisby nodded, looking overly contemplative. “Biotechs,” he said. “Who would have seen it coming? I know oil's been dropping on its own, but I never thought it'd be overtaken on the Fortune 500 by this. Did you know more than half of the people who start a gene factory these days can expect to make up to a million dollars in profit the first eighteen months? That’s the kind of entrepreneurial incentive that can’t be destroyed by a handful of whackos with a bomb book. Better to hedge their bets that their company won’t be the one to get hit.”

  McCutcheon sank back in his seat. He almost didn’t want to talk about it anymore. When reliable scumbags like Ross became unreliable, it was time to stock up on antacids. He figured, at best, his own theory was correct: Ross was settling for any piece of BioCore he could get. And at worst, it could be just part of a meticulously crafted battle plan that the maniac had been drawing up patiently, for years, designed to finally end his self-proclaimed war once and for all. McCutcheon pressed on his brow. In either case, the bureau had their work cut out for them.

  Brisby saw the depletion of energy in McCutcheon and empathized. They really had been burning the stick of dynamite at both ends since they returned from Washington. They needed a break. Brisby aimed his nose at the webscreen pinned to the wall at his right. “WNN”, he squawked and the webscreen blinked over to another station. Brisby’s preferred source of news was the neophyte WNN (Wireless News Network), a twenty-four-hour global news organization that merited itself as “disconnected” from any political or financial interests and totally devoted to non-sensationalistic, unbiased, straight-from-the-source reporting. In an attempt to uphold this dubious characterization, it employed the untested, meretricious practice of using computer-generated reporters, in a computer-generated newsroom to report from sites that, one could only hope, were not computer-generated. Still in its infancy, it was only a guess as to the network’s ability to propagate its style of faceless reporting. But Brisby hoped very much that it would catch on.

  The webscreen cut to a replay of a crowd of flesh-and-blood reporters gathered at the downtown headquarters of the Cleveland Police Department. A press briefing had taken place there less than an hour earlier. The androgynous, blue and silver colored CGI desk reporter was running off an update of a multiple homicide that had happened on the outskirts of Cleveland while Brisby and McCutcheon were down in D.C. tailing Emil Bruckner.

  “This was the scene earlier today of the briefing from CPD Capt. Horace Penfield,” the image said, “who spoke to the press about the ongoing investigation in the triple murder of officers Louis Percy, Hamilton Bowen and Detective Perry Jones, who were apparently killed in the line of duty yesterday afternoon by a person or persons connected to a radical feminist organization.”

  McCutcheon looked up from his drink. His jaw fell open like the drawbridge of a medieval castle.

  Brisby leveled up the webscreen's volume.

  “There have so far been no reports as to a motive for these killings,” the report continued, “and sources say it is yet unclear whether or not twenty-five-year-old Glenda Jameson, a part-time student at Case Western Reserve University was a victim or a participant in the murders, along with an unidentified male accomplice. Jameson has apparently had some minor incidences with the law in the past and is noted as being a member of Feminine Future Perfect—a new wave feminist organization that until more scandalous and violent events, was considered a mild, if not inconsequential, force in the undefined neo-feminist culture. It is also not known whether Glenda Jameson was a proponent of the group’s former leader and convicted terrorist, Hellene Dickerson, per se, but Jameson's status as a member of the organization has been confirmed in this investigation. WNN was also made aware of a possible hostile exchange between Jameson and investigators at the Cleveland Police Department while being questioned in regards to her report of an alleged assault against her the day before the shootings. Jameson apparently became belligerent after the investigating officer accused her of lying about the attack. The detective in question has not responded to our requests for an interview.”

  “Damn,” Brisby said. He fell against the back of his chair. “Can you believe that?”

  McCutcheon placed aside his cola and folded his hands in his lap. His mouth and brow were crumpled so badly, it looked like he was trying to do macramé with his face.

  Brisby eyed his superior concernedly. “Boss?”

  “Not now,” McCutcheon said. “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  McCutcheon exhaled windily. “Retiring.”

  Chapter 32

  Gabriel thumbed through the menu, glancing back and forth between the busboy and the list of entrees. He was halfway through his cup of black coffee and was contemplating lunch. He watched the boy lift food-encrusted plates and half-filled glasses into the bin, all the while, taking stock of him. The kid was gangly and uncoordinated. Gabriel surmised his awakening hormones to be wreaking havoc on his entire world. He'd probably broken more dishes than he'd served and his pale skin with poorly controlled acne made his face look like an oddly carved loaf of pepper-jack cheese. My god, he's even more uninteresting in person, Gabriel thought. He had done some homework on his young subject, which mostly included a social-networking profile that read like an anorexic’s grocery list. A serial underachiever with mediocre grades and the athletic prowess of a three-legged dog. Gabriel sighed into the last of his coffee. He continued to firmly inspect the youngster until well after he was noticed doing so. CPD had contacted the teenager as recently as yesterday, but got nothing new. Gabriel figured his own chances to be about the same, but long-shots had paid off before. The boy endeavored to avoid eye contact with Gabriel and began wheeling the cart toward the kitchen.

  “Young man?” Gabriel said to the kid’s back. Before he could say another word, the busboy turned and threw out a palm so fast his wrist popped.

  “Look, sir,” the young man said, unnerved, “I don’t mean to sound insulting or anything, but I’m straight, okay!” He eased up. “I’m not saying you wouldn’t have anything to offer, but...”

  “I’m sorry, kid,” Gabriel said. He was amused by the boy’s sincerity. Apparently the kid had been mistaken for gay one too many times in his short life and Gabriel could see why. “I didn’t mean to spook you. I was just wondering how your face might look on the cover.”

  The boy’s nose lurched forward. “What?”

  Gabriel stood up and walked over to him, extending his hand. The boy’s apprehension was already beginning to wane as Gabriel’s aura of savoir-faire overpowered his teenaged angst.

  “My name is Elliot Crowe,” Gabriel lied. “I’m a feature writer for the National World Weekly.”

  “The tabloid?”

  “We prefer the term 'rag', but I guess that’s as good a word as any.”

  The boy blushed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to be...”

  “Insulting? I know. Don’t worry about it, kid. What I do is considered lowbrow yellow journalism; that’s true. But we’re also the third largest selling paper in America. Still in hard print. Believe me, I take great consolation in that. I also take a lot of pride in my work. I write stories that make ordinary people into extraordinary people. I write things that make heroes out of nobodies.” Gabriel paused, poking a finger at the boy. “Out of people just...like...you.”

  “Like me?” the boy asked, no clue whatsoever that he'd just been insulted.

  “You’re Jack Webb, aren’t you?”

  The boy hesitated as if he didn’t know the answer. “Yeah.”

  “I understand you were involved in an incident that took place here the other day. There was a woman who was attacked in the alley next door.”

  “Oh, yeah! That. I really wasn’t what you would call involved. I just sort of walked in on the whole thing. Seeing that one guy covered in puke was gross as hell. The lady was kind of rude, but I guess she did almost get killed or whatever.”

  “Is that all you did?”


  “Well...”

  Gabriel raised a finger. “Because if that’s all you did, then that’s not much of a story. However, if you could say something like...” He splayed his hands demonstrably, “Your sudden presence in defense of the distraught woman evoked a panic in the would-be assassin that caused him to flee the scene in terror. Now that would be something worth printing.”

  Jack scratched his head as confusion continued to stack its sandbags between his ears.

  “Don’t you watch the news, kid?” Gabriel asked. The answer was obvious. “That woman you met in the alley killed three cops and now she’s on the run.”

  “Whoa! For real?”

  “For real. That means this whole thing has become a lot bigger. It’s taken on national notice. I’m offering you an opportunity to have your face plastered on newspapers all across this country.” Gabriel stepped closer. He placed an arm around Jack and benignantly squeezed his shoulder. “Son, do you have any idea how many women are willing to fuck a guy’s brains out just for having his picture on the evening news for ten seconds?”

  Jack panted like a thirsty dog. His sour breath assailed Gabriel without mercy.

  “Trust me, kid. You’d be amazed at how much pussy you can get in fifteen minutes.”

  A minute later, Gabriel was roaming through the alley behind the restaurant with all the countenance of a seasoned detective. Jack remained by the restaurant's rear entrance, peering anxiously at Gabriel's back. Despite knowing better, Gabriel had held firm to the possibility of finding something that the “assiduous” Cleveland Police Department may have overlooked. Plus, he had the inherent advantage of personal knowledge of the occurrence he could apply to his search. Gabriel chewed his lip, as he peered back and forth down both ends of the alley. It was poorly lit and not accessible to a single camera from any of the secured buildings in the area. He raked his hair in abject disgust. Perfect, he thought. Hobson had picked the perfect spot and still blown it.

  “So, what are you gonna call the story?” Jack asked.

  Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Well, that depends on the details. I once wrote this story about a seventy-year-old grandfather who fought off a mountain lion with a fruit knife in order to save his granddaughter during a camping trip. I called it ‘Age Before Beauty.’ My editor loved it.” He turned to face Jack and saw the boy staring at him like an optimistic wife awaiting the results of a pregnancy test.

  “So what happened?” Gabriel asked with a grin. “You burst in on this heinous crime being committed and through your never-ending sense of responsibility and justice vanquished the evildoer and rescued the damsel in distress, right?”

  Jack said nothing, his eyes just looking like buoys bobbing on the water.

  “Okay,” Gabriel sighed. “Let me put it another way. You came into the alley with a bag of smelly garbage and you saw this woman being attacked. Then what?”

  “Actually, I didn’t see her being attacked. I saw her kind of just 'out of it' while the guy in the jacket had the other guy pinned.”

  “I see. Then what happened?”

  “That’s when the other guy slugged the dude on top and ran off.”

  Gabriel paused, looking askance at the poor excuse for procreation. “You know what would really help is if I could find this other guy who was involved—the guy in the jacket. If we could get him to back up your take on things, it might help to bolster the story. The cops are being tight lipped as usual, especially since they can’t seem to keep free of scandal. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I might be able to find him?”

  “Nope. I never saw him before.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. He looked like a million other H-heads scrounging the streets for change.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like? Maybe I could track him down.”

  “He was really dirty-looking, not a big guy, maybe five-foot-ten or something, dark hair, really messed up, and dark eyes, I think.”

  “Nothing else out of the ordinary? Nothing, for instance, the cops might have missed, or you forgot to tell them?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  Gabriel wiped his face as if Jack had spat in it. Except for eye color, which he wasn’t even sure about, the kid hadn’t given him shit.

  Jack looked contrite. “I’m sorry if that doesn’t help much.”

  Gabriel peered at him through parted fingers. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said perturbed. He nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “And don’t let me keep you any longer, huh.”

  “What about the story? Am I still gonna be the hero?”

  “What?” Gabriel asked puzzled. He had forgotten about his cover that quickly. “Oh, well...I don’t have a lot to go on.”

  Jack frowned, heartbroken.

  Gabriel noticed and perked up. “But then again, people like me rarely do.” He thought it best to leave the boy with some hope; it lessened the chances of him talking. “Don’t worry. I’m going to come up with something that will definitely make you the big man on campus.”

  Jack blinded Gabriel with a smile.

  “Oh, and if anybody else comes to talk to you, try not to mention we had this little conversation. If anybody official finds out we talked or if one of my journalistic rivals gets wind of this angle, it could kill the story.” Gabriel smiled, giving himself points for his generosity. Ultimately, it didn't matter at all if this future manager of a fast-food drive thru mentioned Gabriel's name to anyone. If he did, then Gabriel was just doing his job: taking an active role in helping the police focus on the real culprit and shielding his client from any potential public embarrassment due to Richard Kelmer’s deviant acquaintances. Nonetheless, it just made good sense to always Spackle the cracks.

  “Right. I get it.” Jack said. He then turned and strutted back inside the restaurant.

  Once Jack was gone, Gabriel pulled out his key ring and twirled it on the end of his finger; a nervous habit he'd picked up during his law school days waiting for exam results. There has to be a way to...The keys bounded from Gabriel's hand. They hit the ground with a “clink” and skidded under one of the dumpsters flush against a wall in the alley. Gabriel uttered an expletive, walked over to the dumpster and crouched down. The shadow of the filthy iron tub had completely swallowed his keys. “Terrific,” he grumbled and quickly began scanning for something to place between the urine stained ground and his $800.00 suit. He found a flattened cardboard box with a Budweiser emblem on it and dropped it before the dumpster. He then knelt onto the cardboard and reluctantly stuck his arm under the dumpster, probing for the keys. When he thought he touched something “organic” in nature, he jutted his hand to the right, and wouldn’t you know it, knocked his keys into a half-open sewer drain just short of the dumpster’s edge. Mumbling more profanities, Gabriel slid the cover from the drain and eased his hand inside. He was relieved the drain was short enough where he could touch the bottom just before it elbowed. His fingers danced from side to side, inching further along the drain until they hit something hard. It felt like metal. It was solid, but not fixed to the inside. Instinctively, Gabriel grabbed the object and lifted it out.

  A gun.

  Gabriel's car keys had gotten hooked by the hammer of a nickle-plated .38 caliber revolver that had somehow ended up in the drain. It took Gabriel all of a millisecond to recall Hobson’s excuse for his failure with Glenda Jameson: “the bum had an old gun”.

  Chapter 33

  Translucent clouds of thick herbal cigarette smoke swirled around like a living watercolor painting as they encompassed the big circular bar in the center of the Blacklight Tavern. The law had recently been finagled to legalize herbal cigs in bars, comparing it to burning incense indoors. Good god, Xavier thought, tweaking his nose at the sugary stink. Maybe it was never the nicotine. Maybe people just became addicted to having some form of controlled fire suspended from their mouths. He patted the envelope in his pocket. He prayed Benny's money wouldn't run out too soo
n; he'd hate to have to beg his old friend for a loan on top of everything else. He and Glenda were already down forty bucks from the cab ride out of the suburbs. Using the side streets, they'd ditched the Civic as far from Benny's house as they could get. Xavier figured they'd have at least until the end of the day before someone noticed the plates or called in the abandoned vehicle.

  Xavier cased the bar carefully, growing more and more nervous with every second. He guessed it would have been too much to ask that Max should resettle someplace else. The man loved Cleveland and it's not like he was the type to pull up stakes as part of some grand gesture of psychological recovery. If anything, Max was so family oriented that it made perfect sense he would rely on returning to his roots to see him through the bad times.

  Last year, when word about Max owning his own bar had filtered down to the VRC, Xavier made a mental note to steer clear of the Blacklight should he have ever been in the neighborhood. Serving Schnapps and cranberry juice to a bunch of out-of-work accountants was a far cry from the future of rising through the ranks of Army special forces Max had planned. A future that Xavier had helped eradicate. What am I doing here? Xavier asked himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and eyeballed a lustrous bottle of Absolute amid a glittering pyramid of fine liquors in the center of the bar.

  He was astonished.

  There he'd been, standing in the middle of a bar—for how many minutes?—without having the slightest itch for a drink. Correction, he thought. It seemed more like he could go for a drink, but didn't absolutely need to have it. He wasn't salivating in anticipation of the gin's smooth cottony warmth lubricating his gullet. I'll be damned. Xavier extended the back of a hand, splaying his fingers in front of him. Steady as a rock. On the outside. Inside, there was...“something else”...something Xavier had never quite felt before. Confusion? Disorientation? It was like he all of a sudden didn’t know what to do with himself. For whatever damage it had done, alcohol had still always been a reliable escape...an excuse. Shit, what now? he honestly asked himself.