by Mark Gardner
Massey looked around and found the familiar face of Officer Felix Wallas. He beckoned Wallas to follow him as he walked around the playground taking in the surroundings.
“Any witnesses?”
Felix nodded. “One jogger and a newspaper stand seller. They said Miles appeared out of nowhere near the playground and stared at—" Felix coughed nervously before continuing, "—the victims for a few seconds before, uh,” Felix paused, flipping through his notebook, searching for the right words, “before making his hands turn blue, a glowing blue and aiming them at the people. Then his victims just sort of dropped to the ground according to the witnesses.”
“I want any CCTV surrounding this area to be checked first,” Massey said taking in the information. Miles hadn’t just appeared there. There was an explanation, and it was somewhere on those tapes.
Felix nodded again.
“We located one camera across the street at the ATM and one at the intersection. A pizza place on the opposite end of the park has two cameras—one at the front entrance facing the street and one at the back, but I reckon we need what’s on the front-facing one.”
Massey raised an eyebrow.
“Owner says they had a few nasty robberies in the past, so they put in the CCTV.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Massey murmured. “Get the tapes and give them to Ray. Tell him to look for anything out of the ordinary, not just the suspect.”
Officer Wallas paused, notepad in hand and the pencil halting above the paper. “Suspect, sir?”
Massey turned around to face him. “We don’t know whether this man did anything wrong. Until we have enough evidence, he ain’t guilty. And to do that we’ll start with you bringing Ray the tapes from the CCTV.”
Felix tried to say something else, but Massey clapped his hands.
“You’re not on vacation, Officer Wallas. Today would be good.”
Son of a Glitch
As Felix backed his cruiser away from the crime scene, Massey heard his name being called. He scanned the crowd to find Andy pushing through the journalists, waving his hand at him. Massey cursed under his breath but gestured to the officers to let him under the line.
“I thought I told you to stay in the car and keep an eye on Joaquin.”
“Joaquin’s a big boy he can take care of himself. Besides, I have this.” Andy waved the press pass at his face.
“You do know I can bust you in for impersonating a reporter, right Mister Kitz?”
Andy smiled at him. “But you won’t, Detective, because you need me more than you want to admit. I know you didn’t drag me along all the way here just to sit in a car.”
Massey put his hands akimbo. “How’s that then?”
Andy took a few photos of the scene with his camera then turned to face Frank again.
“This is something you don’t see every day. I’m willing to bet that these people will be the first of many innocent casualties. We’re witnessing the uprising of something scarier than a mere civil war, Detective, and I have the means to help fight it.”
Massey nodded for him to continue.
“I think you forget about my line of work, Detective. My tracking system is very efficient. Anything out of the ordinary that goes out in this city, any possible supers sighting, real or fake, I have photographed, recorded and documented. My network is small, but it’s resourceful. If you were to give me Miles Jensen’s file I might be able to scavenge the Last Regiment and find out more about him.”
“Can you tell through your ‘Last Regiment’ whether Miles was capable of killing these people?” Massey asked, hope rising in his voice.
“There’s a good chance, yes. We’ve written an algorithm that can predict the growth of the supers’ power or the opposite: its decline, based on their demonstrations throughout the city. If there’s anything on Miles Jensen in there, it’ll help determine whether he did this or whether he’s innocent.”
Massey counted the possible entry points to the park. There were too many alleys, too many hidden spots. At this hour in the day it was practically empty save for the poor mothers and their children and the occasional joggers. It would be nearly impossible to find Miles on the tapes. It was possible more witnesses would come forth, but that could take days.
“I’ll get you the profile and bring it to your place later today.”
“Detective Massey! Detective Massey!” Frank looked up to see Officer Patterson out of breath, rushing to keep up with two suited men leading a small envoy of SWAT officers. They were given space and allowed through the yellow tape and the barricades.
“You better find something else to do,” Massey whispered to Andy.
“I’ll be waiting at my place,” Andy whispered back and swiftly snuck back into the crowd.
The party approached Massey. Officer Patterson stood next to him, trying to explain, but the shorter of the two men interrupted her and offered his hand which Massey shook reluctantly with a raised eyebrow.
“Special Agent Charles Batiste, FBI. This is my partner Special Agent Ozlovsky.”
“Detective Frank Massey, Seattle Police Department.”
“We know,” Batiste smiled. “The Bureau has taken an interest in the Miles Jensen case and would like to kindly ask you to depart the premises and instruct your officers to hand over any current evidence and documentation regarding the case that are in your possession.” He paused. “Including Mister Jensen.”
Massey snorted at them. “Like hell, I will. This is my case.”
The SWAT members spread out, encircling the middle of the crime scene and instructing people to leave the premises. Their black reflective visors agitated him. This was not any ordinary strike team; they were suited to tackle terrorists, not unarmed men. Massey grabbed for his holster but the taller man, Ozlovsky, tutted.
“There’s no need for that, Detective. Technically this is East Precinct’s area, so you have no jurisdiction here. Besides, they already gave the authority over to us.”
“Bullshit. The city council assigned West Precinct to these matters. And what the hell do you think this is?” Massey said, waving a hand at the SWAT team.
“A simple matter of precaution, I can assure you. Major Globe worries about the citizens’ safety. This savage attack has proven his point and furthered the city council’s decision that the Seattle PD can’t be expected to handle such people with superhuman abilities on their own.”
Massey took a step further, pointing his finger at Batiste’s chest. “Listen, Agent, you can’t be seriously expecting me and my precinct to back off so easily. Doctor Globe can parade all he wants that the city is in peril but the way I see it, we have it under control. These extreme measures will only do harm. It’ll cause a panic.”
Batiste gently pushed away Massey’s hand and looked up the taller man straight in the eyes, still sporting a greasy smile. “You needn’t concern yourself with the Major’s motivations. It’s all for the greater good of the city, and that’s all you should know. I’m sure that you would be more than happy to go back to petty crime solving and what not. I hear there’s a lot of gang trouble stirring the Downtown Business District. You think the West Precinct can handle that?”
Batiste and Ozlovsky left Massey’s jaw tight and fists clenched. He understood he’d lost this fight by the SWAT officer’s nod toward his M4 carbine. It was time to start walking.
As Massey made his way toward his car, he pulled Betty aside.
“Officer Patterson, I need you to take the Miles Jensen file with you and the tapes from the CCTV before they’re delivered to the precinct.”
Betty looked puzzled. “But the FBI...”
“Just do it, alright Betty? Bring them back to my place. You know the address, right?”
Betty nodded and sprinted toward her vehicle.
Jacob Globe, who preferred “Doctor” to “Major,” watched the live body cam footage from his Special Weapons and Tactics team. The stream wasn’t secured by technology, but by a super whose
power involved the electrical manipulation of data. The young girl was one of the notorious and most feared hackers in many years. In a world ruled by information, those that could control those little ones and zeroes controlled it all.
Now that the young woman had been brought into the fold of Globe’s new organization, she was free to tap into her powers. He insisted on a rigorous training schedule to mold her into the perfect stealth hacker. One of his supers implanted memories into her mind that compelled her to be loyal to Globe.
Another super painstakingly hid what was done to the young woman, and yet another made sure she slept peacefully at night, in a clean room devoid of any electronics, or even electricity for that matter. Globe sighed. He was weary from all the subterfuge, and he hated being constantly reminded that he had to rely on them to move his agenda forward. He was an anxiety hurricane. Globe clicked his tongue. He had to grow out of the habit of referring to his hacker by a number. It was demotivating. He liked the one name he had chosen himself and implemented into her mind. Yes, he had great plans for quiet Sindi, hidden in her dark room.
He had no qualms about using the supers for his own purposes. Still, he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the events of the last few days left him a little queasy. He recited the old adage like a mantra: To make an omelet, you had to crack a few eggs.
He smiled. No doubt if Anne were there she would berate him for saying it wrong, or regale him with some long, boring story about how the saying had been corrupted over the years and was originally this or that. Globe exhaled. That woman is trying on so many levels, he thought.
He saw the dejected police detective burrow a finger into Batiste’s chest just below the spy cam. Globe smiled at the detective’s response when Batiste slapped the finger away. As Batiste turned to issue orders, Globe pressed a few keys on his keyboard. The screen switched from the operation in Madison Park to the lab hidden under so many layers of concrete; if the world ended tomorrow, the lab and cockroaches would be the only survivors.
The origin of all his newfound success lay on two gurneys. Peter and Kristof were still ensconced in wires, sensors, IVs, and other medical apparatus, but the list of those who had access to them kept getting bigger and bigger. Globe sighed again.
Denisha’s pleasant face filled the monitor after Globe entered another key sequence into his keyboard. She wasn’t aware that Globe had extricated himself and the entire organization from the purview of the Army. He was satisfied with that arrangement, even if he had to handle Denisha’s father with kid gloves. He hoped that that leverage was something he didn’t need to use. He rather liked Denisha.
A chirp on the telephone perched on his desk drew his attention from the lovely features of his overpaid secretary.
“Doctor Globe.” Her lips silently formed the words on the monitor, and he heard them in syncopation over the telephone on his desk.
“Go ahead, Denisha,” Globe replied. He had an inkling as to what she was going to say. On the monitor, a shadow fell across her desk.
“Silas is here, and he insists on speaking with you right away.”
“Send him in, Denisha.”
The door to Globe’s office opened and Silas stepped through. He paused, then awkwardly closed the door behind him. Several lumbering steps led him to Globe’s desk. Globe saw that his eyes were devoid of life and sighed for the third time in only a few minutes.
Silas cocked his head to one side and declared, “Her Majesty, Princess Bree, and her entourage have arrived.” Silas concluded his announcement with a giggle that had no business emanating from the dapper man.
“Bree,” Globe replied, “please release Silas.”
Silas looked up and pouted. “Meanie,” he declared, and slumped from a trance.
Silas recovered, looked around Globe’s office, and scowled. “I wish she wouldn’t do that,” he hissed, remnants of disorientation evident on his face.
Globe held back another sigh. No matter how much power he accumulated, no matter how many hash marks he placed in the win column, he would forever play second fiddle to the likes of Anne and Bree. Being at the whim on an eleven-year-old infuriated him. It was a situation he hoped to resolve sooner, rather than later.
Joaquin’s face was glued to the tinted rear window of the police cruiser, watching as a group of black-clothed, heavily-armed men faced the gathering crowd. He couldn’t hear what they said, but whatever it was, it worked, and the bystanders slowly dispersed. Soon enough Massey emerged from the thinning sea of people and crossed the street to where the car was parked. He looked pissed.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, Massey rubbed his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.
“What happened out there?” Joaquin inquired.
Massey adjusted the rearview mirror and regarded Joaquin’s reflection. “Major Globe’s people. No doubt he put them on the case to slow things down. Anne tried to warn us about this.”
“What are we going to do?” Joaquin demanded. He wanted to say, what are you going to do because he had the vigilante idea at the tip of his tongue, but recovered before he could blurt it out.
Massey went silent with his hands on the wheel, knuckles white, and his jaw working back and forth as he ground his teeth. Joaquin could hear the steering wheel’s leather protest under his tightening grip.
“I don’t know,” Massey finally spoke and started the car. “But we need to find a way to contact Anne and fast.”
“Officer Patterson, I need you to take the Miles Jensen file with you and the tapes from the CCTV before they’re delivered to the precinct.”
Massey’s words hammered in Betty’s head as she followed the black FBI Ford in her cruiser. She didn’t want to seem suspicious— more like an escort to her superior officers—so she kept a respectful distance, sirens off. Once they hit the main lane, Betty was going to swerve her vehicle and take a shortcut, avoiding the slow and cumbersome traffic, fast forwarding before the feds and arriving first at the precinct. That way she’d be able to secure the evidence and the file would be out of the FBI’s reach. Her experience taught her to leave no move up to chance. Betty was prone to mentally mapping every second with precision. Every decision mattered.
On a red light, a procession of bikers rounded Betty’s cruiser, their Harleys booming and revving. They made a wall to Betty’s left and right, and when the light hit green, they funneled in front of her; a pack of chrome, black and steel beasts glimmering in the sun. For a moment Betty was cut off from the black Ford. “Really nice timing, boys,” she mumbled to herself. She only saw its taillights, as the car was turning right following her intended shortcut. Betty swore under her breath and put the car in gear. If her prediction was correct, she would be lacking seconds behind the agents and she would need to gain those back and fast. She knew what to do, no instructions needed. She was good at this, better than most of her colleagues. All the more, Massey trusted her to pull this off. So Betty knew she would work them to her end.
When she arrived at the parking lot, the same FBI Ford had already parked. She pulled into her spot and from the glove compartment took out her blue latex gloves, neatly folded them, and hid them in her pocket. Then she took to a sprint.
Officer Betty Patterson pushed through the glass doors of West Police Precinct. Everyone was busy frowning and muttering about the gruesome deaths at Madison Park. Hardly any of the other officers paid her any mind, a happening she was thankful for. Betty quickly climbed the steps to the second floor where Massey’s glass-windowed office was located.
The FBI agents were already here, making her grit her teeth over the rookie miscalculation. There were seven —of them – more than she had anticipated. The single parked Ford, the one she had trailed had thrown her off, but she quickly devised that they’d sent their agents beforehand. Was she late then? No, they were paused, relaxed. She was right on time. Betty allowed herself a small smirk. She was coming up with a plan B.
As she paced through the precinct she saw they’
d already started collecting the data and evidence from the Miles Jensen case. Betty saw some of their agents refilling their cups of coffee while supervising the “raid.” She, too, disliked the idea of giving the case over to the feds as much as everybody else and Massey had gotten jumpy when he sent her to secure the case file and the tapes. Betty stopped dead in her tracks, her adrenaline subsiding. She’d snapped to the task, but she was about to steal sensitive and vital information concerning the case and on top of that sneak it under the feds’ noses. If anyone were to find out what she was about to do, Betty’s days on the force would be over. But, her head detective had told her it was important to do so, and Betty believed him. She’d never had any reason to doubt him, so she carried on with her mission, trusting Massey’s instinct.
When she neared his office, she cursed under her breath again. The shades were pulled up, showing her that there were already FBI agents inside. Betty put a shoulder to one of the supporting columns and peeked: a short woman looked through Massey’s computer; a task Betty deemed odd. Another filled boxes with manila folders, all bearing the sigil of the precinct. The FBI had wanted just the data on the crime from the morning, which was scarce at the moment, so why were they going through the head detective’s personal things? Suddenly Massey’s worrying tone from earlier frightened Betty as well.
Betty scanned the room. She needed a distraction to get close to the boxes sitting on Massey’s desk. She trusted her colleagues, but in her mind, there wasn’t anyone who was going to help her lie to a bunch of FBI agents and steal the file or the tapes they were so keen on having. Sure, no one was all too happy for losing the case to the feds, but at the same time, no one wanted to lose their jobs, so they cooperated. Betty was also sure that the reason lay somewhere within the truth that the men and women on the force were scared. What had happened in the morning was frightening and beyond anything anyone had seen before, and yet the city swarmed with such people as of late: “supers,” they called themselves.