Vicarious
Jon F. Merz
Vicarious
Copyright © 2010 by Jon F. Merz
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter One
The city always looked different after someone had been killed.
At least, that's what Curran thought as he stood on the rain-slicked street enveloped by a cold mist and cigarette smoke. He imagined the water running off the cracked sidewalks could just as easily be the blood of all the victims of every killer he'd ever stalked.
A lot of rain, he thought.
A lot of blood.
Streetlights and multi-colored neon signs cast weird shadows that bounced off of limousines and nightclub fronts. Beat cops corralled drunken clubgoers while thick yellow police tape drew the attention of every news cameraman in town.
Curran took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the gutter. The red cinder died as it touched the water and got swept away into the storm drain.
Where does all the blood go, Curran wondered as he ducked back inside the nightclub. Where does it all stop?
He heard the low growl - a creeping bassline to the dissonance of voices and other ambient crime scene noises. The heavy gauge steel zipper ground its teeth together; the body bag closed over the corpse inside.
Curran shuddered.
The sound always made him feel so hollow inside, a cobwebbed shell of a man so unlike how he'd been years ago.
"You okay, Steve?"
Curran glanced down. Kwon. The ever-efficient medical examiner's eyes stared at Curran, concern clearly evident.
"You don't look so good, pal."
"Sound of that zipper drives me nuts. Means another person's died and I've got the case."
"Just be glad you're hearing it from this side of the bag. Probably worse on the other, amigo." Kwon squatted next to the bag and gave last minute instructions to his assistant. He stood and looked at Curran.
"An awful thing - this happening to the nightclub circuit."
"Could have happened anywhere."
Kwon sighed. "Yeah, but I love these joints. I come dancing down here all the time. Before, people used to ask me what I did, I could have lied. Gig's up now for sure. I spotted a few waitresses who looked horrified to see me hop out of that meat wagon out front."
"Your poor rep," said Curran. "How long before you know what killed him?"
"Are you planning on solving this case tonight?"
Curran looked around the club. The music had long since stopped but some of the lights still whirred overhead, casting reds and oranges and yellows onto barstools and the parquet dance floor. Partially emptied glasses still littered the tables, condensation clearly evident in the warm still air. He looked back at Kwon. "I might get lucky."
Kwon rubbed his expanding bald spot and nudged the bag with his foot. "Tomorrow, I guess. I gotta get some damned sleep. Been working thirty-six hours straight."
"Didn't they put enough money in your budget for help?"
"Sure, but she's out at a conference in San Francisco right now. Be back in a few days."
"In the meantime - "
"In the meantime," said Kwon, "I wouldn't know a scalpel if you put one in front of me."
"Any chance I can get you to crack this guy open tonight?"
Kwon yawned. "I don't suppose you know a pair of nymphomaniac twin sisters?"
Curran lit a fresh cigarette, took a long inhale, and blew out a thin stream of smoke. "If I did, I'm not so sure I'd share that information with you."
"What's so special this guy can't wait until tomorrow?"
"He's got no wounds for one thing."
"Maybe he had a myocardial infarction - a heart attack."
"There's no blood pooling anywhere."
"That's not necessarily unusual." Kwon zipped up his jacket.
Curran sucked the cigarette. "No powder burns, either."
"So he wasn't shot."
"No broken bones."
"None I can find on a crude surface examination anyway."
"There's nothing," said Curran. "I don't like corpses with no discernible signs of death." Curran watched Kwon's assistants roll the gurney outside. "Especially when dying looks like the last thing that should have happened to them."
Kwon sighed. "Look pal, this is Boston. We've got plenty of bodies with no reason to be dying. But they do anyway. That doesn't mean they get bumped to the top of the line."
Curran chewed his lower lip. "How about doing me a personal favor, then?"
Kwon laughed. "What kind of bullcrap is that?"
"No bullcrap."
"Buddy, how long have we known each other?"
"Maybe five years."
Kwon nodded and slid his hands into his jacket. "We've worked a lot of hellish cases together, you and I. I'm the best friend you've got in this town. If you know something about this, you'd better not hold out on me."
Curran looked beyond the maroon velvet curtains. The shadowy entrance of the club seemed to bleed right into the dark of night outside. Kwon's crew negotiated the corridor and bounced the gurney out. Curran felt his head begin to pound. He closed his eyes. He saw the same images - different cities and different bodies.
But always the same result.
With no answers.
He opened his eyes and looked at Kwon. "Maybe I've seen this before."
"Maybe's are for politicians and other scumbag liars." Kwon fixed one of his hard stares and waited.
Curran stubbed out the cigarette in a silver ashtray and dropped the butt into a glass of something blue. "Before I came to Boston."
"Back in the Bureau?"
Curran winced again. Hearing those words still made his gut ache. Five years away from the Washington backstabbers - the Old Boy network that had raped him hard - hadn't dulled his wrath. Curran doubted if anything ever could.
"Yeah. And I'm not excited that I'm seeing it again."
Kwon held up his hand. "Okay, okay. You bring your car?"
"Parked down the street."
"Meet me back at the office. Bring some damned coffee."
"Thanks."
Curran followed Kwon outside. The November night had turned colder, aided by a fierce wind that swept over Fenway Park and stabbed down into the collar of Curran's coat. He shivered and walked back up the street toward his car. Around him, the uniforms yanked down the yellow crime scene tape and began laughing away any of the remaining tension.
If only it was that easy, thought Curran. He felt a deep gnaw at the pit of his stomach and frowned. His gut was trying to tell him something.
Curran ignored it.
He knew a lot of cops who went out of their way to trust their instincts. Curran preferred hard facts and cold figures. The more he could rely on science and logic, the better he felt.
He lit a fresh cigarette. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt a presence. Curran wheeled around, expecting to see someone.
He saw no one.
Curran stood there, cigarette dangling out of the side of his mouth. His eyes searched the passers-by, looking. For what, he didn't know. But something felt oddly familiar.
Déjà vu?
He frowned. Please no, he thought. Not here in my town.
My new town.
He slid inside the Toyota and shut the flashing blue strobe off. He tucked it back under his seat and sat there for a second, inhaling hard on the filter. After so many medical warnings, Curran may as well have been suckling at the breast of death.
It didn't bother him much.
What did bother him was this body.
He gunned the engine and backed the car up the street, u-turning and jumping down into Kenmore Square. He took Commonwealth Avenue until it ended near the Public Gardens, swung around and over the backside of Beacon Hill, dropping into Albany Street and parking in an 'authorized vehicles' only slot.
He grabbed two black coffees at the twenty-four hour donut stand by Government Center and then cut back toward the Medical Examiner's office.
At one-thirty in the morning, most security guards would have been fighting sleep, but the old fellow manning the checkpoint at the entrance to the City Morgue looked chipper enough.
"Dr. Kwon says you should go straight on in there," he said after checking Curran's identification.
Curran walked down the linoleum floor toward the heavy blue swinging doors. He sighed. The air around him felt cold. Like the death that hung over this entire section of the building. He hated coming here. Hated being surrounded by the dead.
But he knew the answers lay beyond the swing doors. He pushed through.
The outer office consisted of a few small desks, file cabinets and computer terminals. Curran noticed a set of coveralls, an apron, face shield, two pairs of gloves and shoe covers laid out for him. He glanced through the window separating the examination room from the outer office and saw Kwon looking up. His voice spilled out of a metal speaker by Curran's right side.
"Hurry up. I'd like to get at least two hours sleep tonight."
"You want the coffee?"
"Leave it for right now."
Curran slid off his jacket and stepped into the coveralls. "Aren't these gloves supposed to kept in a sanitary dispenser?"
Kwon smirked behind his plastic shield. "You aren't going to make this guy any sicker, Steve. Get in here already."
"You got any of that...stuff?"
Kwon sighed. "Second drawer in my desk."
Curran opened it and found the small vial of eucalyptus oil. He dabbed it under each nostril, slid on his shield and gloves and then walked through the door.
Kwon waved him over. "You made good time."
"You made better. I wouldn't have thought you'd have him unloaded already."
"I have help," said Kwon. "Couple of heavies who can haul bags like nothing make all the difference in the world."
Curran glanced around and saw they were alone. "Where's the diener?"
"Gone for the night. I don't need to remind you we normally perform our autopsies between 8 in the morning and four in the afternoon. This is a bit unorthodox."
"The death could well be as well."
"Well, since you insisted on this, you'll be my assistant tonight."
"Me?"
Kwon smiled. "No one else is here, pal."
"You know I don't do well at these things."
"Then tonight's your lucky night." He smiled. "Are you ready?"
Curran noticed his breathing had increased. Keep it together, Steve. He clenched and unclenched his hands.
"Yeah."
Kwon switched on the recorder with his other hand. Curran heard him clear his voice and begin speaking the particulars into the tape.
Curran looked down at the corpse. Nude. Limp. Completely devoid of life. But how had he died?
Kwon measured the body and called out the numbers to the recorder. He looked at Curran. "Help me with the body block, would you?"
"The what?"
Kwon held up a small rectangle of plastic. "Got to slide this under his back so I can get to the chest cavity better. You lift and I'll slide it under."
Curran frowned. "Wonderful." He slid his arms under the small of the back and the neck and lifted. Kwon slid the block under and Curran let it down. The corpse's arms dangled back slightly, making the chest protrude upwards more.
"Good," said Kwon. "Preparation for the initial cut. Begin making a Y incision from the pubic bone up and branching off toward each deltoid..."
Curran listened to the running commentary. He saw Kwon's scalpel cut deep into the skin. A red line broke in the scalpel's wake, but not as much blood appeared as Curran would have thought.
"It's pooled," said Kwon. "Only a bit presents at the initial cut if the corpse has been this way for a while." He glanced at Curran. "Ready to pull the flaps back?"
Curran took a deep breath. "Guess so."
Kwon nodded. "Let me cut the muscles and soft tissue off the chest wall." He stooped lower and Curran heard him make some quick cuts. He leaned back, bloody blade in one hand. "Okay. Pull the chest flap up and over his face."
Curran grasped the angled sides of the initial cut and felt the skin give easily. It flopped up over the face. The underside reminded him of a pizza without the cheese on it. The smell hit him a second later. "Christ."
Kwon frowned. "You know, to me this smells like raw lamb meat."
"Wonderful."
"What - you never had a gyro before?"
"Only one I ever ate gave me food poisoning back in high school."
"You never had another one ever again?"
"Do we need to discuss food right now?"
"Sorry." He hefted a small electric saw. "Let's open the rib cage." The saw switched on with a high-pitched whine that sounded a bit lower in octave than the drill at the dentist. Kwon leaned over the chest cavity and Curran heard the blade bite into bone. A small amount of smoke crept out. Small bits of white bone leapt out of the cavity. Curran thanked God he hadn't eaten in a while. Most of the autopsies he'd seen before were after all the dissection had occurred. Going through the process bit by bit was something new to him.
Curran wasn't sure he wanted to repeat the experience any time soon.
Kwon lifted off the plate of ribs and handed it to Curran. "Put it down there in that tray." Curran did so and looked back to see Kwon examining what he thought looked like the heart.
"What are you doing now?"
Kwon began probing with his finger and then made a cut. "Opening the pericardial sac. I need to find the pulmonary artery - where the blood leaves the heart - and check it out."
"For what?"
"Thromboembolus. Ever hear of it?"
"No."
"It's a blood clot that's broken off somewhere else in the body. It travels into the heart, gets lodged there - usually by the pulmonary artery, and causes sudden death." He glanced up. "I know you've got some theory of how this happened, but I'd like to be able to rule out any possibles."
"I'd rather it was something like that what you just described," said Curran.
Kwon grimaced and prodded for another few seconds. "So much for that."
"Nothing?"
"Nada. We'll cut the abdominal walls next so we can get to the organs inside." Kwon made some more cuts with the scalpel and Curran saw the sides of the stomach fall apart.
Kwon leaned back. "Okay, pal. Here's where we play hand-off. I'll remove the organs and you place them down there in those trays for dissection later on, okay?"
Curran winced. "Great."
"It's in one big block. Be cool." He pointed at the counter. "Hand me that string would you?"
"What's this for?"
Kwon felt around the neck. "Cut me off two lengths about six inches long. I've got to cut the subclavian and carotid arteries. I'll tie 'em off and that way the mortician will see the string and know where to inject the embalming fluids."
"Nice of you to make it convenient for them."
Kwon leaned back. "Okay. Now I'll make some cuts, give you the organ block and then we'll move on to the brain."
Curran watched Kwon make a few quick slashes with his scalpel. He heard the squishy and springy sounds of tendons and ligaments snapping after being cut. He saw the precision with which Kwon operated.
And still he didn't feel comfortable.
Kwon looked at him. "You ready?"
"Yeah."
Kwon scooped out the organ block, which ran from just under the neck to down into the intestines and slid the gooey mass into Curran's cradled arms.
Curran saw his arms instantly slick over with bright red. His fingers closed around the organs and he hurriedly dumped the block into the stainless steel tray over the corpse's feet.
Kwon yanked the body block out and positioned it under the corpse's head. To Curran, it looked like the corpse was reaching up for a kiss. Kwon's scalpel bit into the corpse's head behind his right ear. Kwon cut all the way up and over the top of the head, down to behind the other ear. He took the scalpel out and smiled at Curran.
"Ever scalped someone before?"
"Excuse me?"
"There are now two sections of the head. The front flap and the rear flap. We need them both pulled back to expose the skull. Which end do you want?"
Curran wanted a cigarette. Badly. "Front, I guess."
"Don't be afraid to use a little strength. That can be tough sometimes." He motioned for Curran to position his hands. "Okay, give it a good yank."
Curran felt his fingertips slide under the lip of skin on either side. He pulled and it suddenly came loose in his hands. The skin came down just over the forehead. It looked like the corpse had a mask halfway off his face.
Kwon repeated the procedure for the rear flap. Curran saw the skull exposed and tried to keep from remembering what the image looked like.
"Hand me that Stryker saw, would you?"
Curran picked it up and handed it to Kwon. Another high-pitch whine filled the air. Kwon bent low and began cutting around the equator of the skull. Curran stood back.
Please, he prayed, please don't let it be.
Kwon finished cutting and looked up. "You okay, Steve?"
Curran opened his eyes. "Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Are we almost done?"
"I'm ready to remove the calvarium - what we call the top of the skull. Don't get freaked out by the sound."
"Is it bad?"
Kwon grinned and grasped the top of the skull. Curran heard a wet sucking sound and then the top came off in Kwon's hands.
No!
"Jesus H. Christ."
Curran exhaled. It couldn't be. Not here. Not now!
Kwon leaned back against the counter, skullcap still in his hand. He pointed at the exposed brain. "Is that your theory, Mr. Homicide Detective?"
Curran nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"You've seen this crap before?"
"Yeah."
"That brain is green, Steve."
Curran sighed. "Yeah. It is."
"That's not normal. Not one goddamn bit."
Curran shut his eyes, but the images already filled his mind. After all this time. After the peace. The quiet.
Shattered.
God help me, thought Curran. God help us all.
Chapter Two
Curran drove the long way back to his three-bedroom Colonial in West Roxbury after the autopsy. They'd finished around two-thirty. Curran was due at work by nine, which meant he'd have about six hours worth of sleep.
He figured he needed about a million times that amount to help make him forget the realization that the horror he thought he'd left behind all those years ago - the horror that had infected his life - seemed to have once again returned to his world.
Cold drizzle still coated Boston's streets and gave them a black tarry look. Curran could almost imagine his tires getting stuck in the wet ooze, like some kind of evil force was reaching up for his car.
And him.
His right hand withdrew the crumpled pack of Marlboros and flipped it until one of the butts inside tumbled onto the seat next to him. He jabbed the cigarette lighter in his car and waited for it to pop moments later.
I ought to quit these damned things, he thought. Gotta be a cheaper method of suicide out there. The lighter popped and he almost grinned.
Later.
He touched the hot metal coil to the end of the tobacco stick and inhaled, nursing the cinder. It caught and he took a lungful of smoky death into his body.
He savored the nicotine.
His pulse steadied.
Could it be something else that had killed the guy tonight? Some other cause for the death that he hadn't looked for yet?
Kwon had sent some blood down for a toxicology work-up, but he seemed convinced that the green brain was somehow a major factor in the death.
Unfortunately, so was Curran.
He already knew what to expect from the toxicology screen. There'd be substantial amounts of glucose present, the result of an incredible surge of adrenaline just prior to death. Curran had seen the toxicology reports from six other cases back when he'd been with the FBI.
Toxicology hadn't helped one bit.
Nothing had.
He wheeled his way down the Jamaicaway, rounding dangerous curves that sent most drivers whimpering for second gear. Curran handled them at forty miles per hour, enjoying the slight fishtail action of the car before he righted it again.
It had to be him. The same killer Curran had unsuccessfully tracked. A killer so adept at dealing death that his victims showed no signs of it, other than the green brain.
The sole souvenir of their demise.
Curran drove past Holy Name on Centre Street. The spire rose high above the other rooftops nearby. Almost like it was calling out to get his attention. But he hadn't been to church in years. His faith had suffered. Curran wasn't sure it could ever be salvaged.
Not after...
He blocked the images and drove on, anxious to get home.
His mind's eye played back the image of the corpse on the floor of the nightclub. According to the wallet the first uniforms found on him, Gary William Fields was thirty-two years old. His short brown hair and thin mustache made him look older while the sleek black satin shirt, gold chain, and tight black pants made him look sleazy.
Witnesses? Hardly. Curran frowned and skirted another pothole. The people closest to Fields when he suddenly dropped said that they hadn't noticed a thing. And the club had been far too crowded for it to seem unusual if another person wandered close by.
The club's video surveillance system covered everyone coming into and leaving the club, but Curran doubted he'd get lucky there. Thousands of people passed through the doors of a club each night. Still, it was a lead one of the junior grunts in Homicide would no doubt get stuck with. Especially if they eventually got lucky.
Luck.
Curran sniffed. As if such a thing even existed.
He slid the window down and tossed the cigarette butt into the slipstream. What made Fields so special that he had to die tonight? And would this mark the start of another wave of bodies just as it had all those years ago?
The key, he decided as he turned on to his street, was Fields. In the morning, he'd pore through the computer databases and put a picture together of what Fields might have done that warranted someone killing him.
Curran felt pretty certain he knew who had killed him.
But after so many years, he wondered why.
***
In the darkness he felt the pressure of its gaze. The heavy stare cloaked his mind from an unseen source, boring into his skull with relentless zeal. He could feel it lapping at the fringes of his subconscious, tasting and drooling with desire at the thought of causing mayhem in the city.
It will be.
The velvet voice oozed over his mind, seeping into his head. It repeated itself over and over again like a mantra of evil.
It will be.
Curran wanted to shout but his throat felt thick. He wanted to claw at the voice but a million arms grabbed him and held him fast. He struggled but nothing would work. His legs felt rubbery and his arms were pinned behind him.
In the darkness in front of him, a face emerged. But it was unlike any he'd ever seen before. It didn't look human. It didn't look like anything he knew.
Two cold yellow eyes swept over him. He felt himself go cold as the stare bore down on him.
From a gaping maw a spindly tongue rolled out, flicking at the air by Curran's face. Flecks of spittle dropped onto Curran's skin and he almost retched. The tongue touched his cheek. Curran grimaced as the wet sandpaper rubbed against him.
The voice spoke inside his head again. You will never be able to stop me.
"Why are you back?"
I never left.
"Why now?"
Because now is the time. It will be.
"NO!"
Sunlight exploded into Curran's eyes as they snapped open. He shot upright in bed, whirling his arms around trying to punch and kick at the same time.
"-wha?"
The alarm clock on his nightstand read 6:30.
Curran slumped back against the pillow.
A dream?
"Jesus Christ."
A nightmare?
The sheets - what Curran thought were arms holding him - had wrapped themselves around his body. They felt wet. Sticky. Soaked with Curran's sweat. In the struggle of the nightmare, he'd managed to get tangled up in them.
Or was it a nightmare?
The voice.
Curran rubbed his eyes. That voice. It spoke to me. And I spoke to it?
Impossible.
He felt wrecked. Like the four hours had rushed by in the space of five minutes. Curran glanced at the bedroom window, at the gray daylight poking in through the wooden blinds he'd installed a few months previously. Another cold November day.
But Curran wasn't thrilled at what today might bring.
More sleep, he thought as he closed his eyes again. He needed more sleep.
If he could just keep the dark at bay.
And the evil he knew it contained.
***
Curran took Centre Street down to Columbus Avenue to work after he'd showered and shaved. Next to him on the seat, he'd brought a large container of orange juice and a banana muffin - testament to his fledgling exercise program. Curran wasn't fat and he wasn't out of shape, but he did want to lose a few paunchy pounds.
He sighed when the glass brick building that house the Boston Police Department headquarters appeared. A few years before, the department occupied a white stone building over on Berkeley Street just outside of Copley Square. Over the years, the number of cops inside had grown while space had dwindled. The city finally coughed up some money and built a new police headquarters.
Curran would have rather stayed at Berkeley Street and he knew plenty of cops who felt the same. The new building looked like someone had gone bargain shopping on the set of the Brady Bunch and pocketed the savings. The building was a shoebox of glass bricks and blocks. Even the simple sign wasn't original. It was a direct rip-off of the one used by Scotland Yard.
Curran parked his car and walked into the building, showing his identification to the bored desk sergeant before heading upstairs on the elevator to the homicide division.
He sat at his desk, placed the bag of orange juice and muffins on one side and then unlocked his file drawer. Just as he was about to reach in, the phone on his desk purred. He grabbed it.
"Homicide, Curran."
"It's Kwon."
Curran glanced at his watch. "It's only nine. Shouldn't you be home asleep?"
"I should be, yeah. But I'm not. I'm at the office. You busy?"
"I was going to get a detailed jacket on the deceased from last night. Try to figure out why he got clipped."
"Can you come down later? I want to run some more tests on this guy's brain and see if we can't figure out exactly why it is...the way it is."
I already know, thought Curran. But he couldn't very well tell Kwon that modern science didn't have an explanation for it - annoying as that was to Curran. "Gimme two hours."
"Good." Kwon disconnected leaving Curran holding a dead phone and looking at his banana-nut muffins with a sudden lack of appetite.
He took a bite and swallowed, flushing it down with a healthy drag of orange juice. He turned and looked at the files in the drawers. Toward the back, he scooped out a five-inch stack of them and spread them out over his desk. Most of them were marked with the words "FBI: Official Government Property."
Curran opened several of them and instantly felt himself transported back to when these cases were still fresh. He felt the sudden stir of adrenaline. The thrill of the chase reappeared.
For just a moment.
Now the case files were several years old.
Dusty.
Old.
Like Curran.
He frowned.
These files might just be useful again. Curran hoped they would be. He didn't want to have to go through that hell again of trying to solve a case all of his former colleagues considered a dead-end.
Of course, things were different now. Now he didn't have a wife to worry about. And now he didn't have to think about his career with the illustrious FBI.
He slid the files aside and looked at his dark computer monitor. Curran liked it fine when it was dark and lifeless. Unfortunately, nowadays everyone worked on the things. And Curran's old method of writing and using notebooks was deemed archaic.
There were a few older cops who still worked like Curran did. But most of them had been farmed out to the district offices where they couldn't infect the minds of younger cops coming up through the ranks.
Somehow, they'd missed Curran.
He grabbed the muffin and took another bite, tasting the walnuts and banana flavors mixing together. He chewed slowly and then flicked the computer on.
It beeped once and then began prompting him for a series of access codes Curran still wasn't sure how he'd managed to memorize them all. Security had become a lot tighter in recent years thanks to the war on terrorism.
Curran didn't mind this part, though. After all, he'd lost a lot of friends in the attacks in New York and Washington. Security was one thing he could put up with.
After completing the log-on process, Curran switched over to the criminal database and entered the name of last night's victim into it. The computer beeped once and then the screen blossomed into a long list.
Curran opened his favorite notebook and began taking notes.
***
By eight-thirty, he had a decent picture of the victim from the previous night.
And it wasn't a pretty one.
Gary William Fields, at the ripe young age of 32, had been a real slimeball. Curran looked at a rap sheet printout twice as long as his left leg and shook his head. Starting at twelve, Fields had been involved in a series of burglaries. By the time he was fifteen, he'd graduated to grand theft auto, assault, and armed robbery. He served a stretch at Norfolk House of Corrections back in the late eighties and then got out early on good behavior.
Good behavior. Curran smirked. As if there really was such a thing.
As soon as Fields got out, he went from bad to worse. Suspected in a series of horrible armed rapes out in Amherst, he was never indicted. And there was also suspicion that he'd killed at least five people in connection with drug trafficking. Sprinkled here and there were relatively "minor" incidents of indecent exposure to children, driving under the influence, assault, conspiracy, and racketeering charges.
"Real piece of work," muttered Curran. He sighed.
If only this was a simple murder case. If only the modus operandi didn't seem so familiar to Curran.
If only...a lot of things.
He grabbed his beeper off the desk and picked up his car down at the parking lot. Traffic crawled up Columbus Avenue thanks to the rush hour being in full swing. Curran flipped around the radio station until he found a music station he could actually tolerate. Lately, there didn't seem to be many of them left.
Kwon split his time between the Albany Street office and the morgue down at Boston City Hospital. Most of the time he was in both places at once. At least that was what people thought. Kwon worked harder than six people and still managed to have an unusually active social life.
Unlike Curran.
He parked beneath the Suffolk County Court House close to where the runoff traffic from the federal offices parked. Upstairs, Kwon was still finishing the paper work when he walked in.
"'Morning."
"The hell," said Kwon. "I'm dead on my feet here." He finished writing something and then looked up. "Got any thoughts on last night?"
"Sure. I had a nightmare about it and everything."
"A nightmare? You?" Kwon smiled. "I've never known you to be scared of anything."
"Some things," said Curran. "They scare me plenty."
Kwon's smile disappeared. "Like green brains?"
"Not the brain's themselves. But what they represent."
Kwon looked like he was going to ask a question, but he never completed it. The door buzzer sounded. Curran looked at the office. "What's that?"
"Someone's coming down. Family, I think. Gonna ID him."
"Is he...presentable?"
"Yeah, I put him back together." Kwon held up a needle and thread. "I worked my way through college in a funeral home. So, what'd you find out about this guy, anyway?"
"Grade A scumbag," said Curran. "Rap sheet's a testimony to that fact. If he didn't buy it last night, someone would have killed him sooner or later."
"So somebody did us a favor," said Kwon. "Getting rid of scum like this, eh?"
"If this is what I think it is, it won't seem like much of a favor."
"Excuse me."
Curran turned around at the same time as Kwon and found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of a thirty-something woman with short brownish hair and carefully sculpted eyebrows.
"Hi," said Curran.
Kwon moved in front of him. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Lauren Fields. You've got my brother here, I think."
Kwon looked at Curran. "Yes. Yes we do." He guided her over to the gurney in the examination room so she could see the body laying on it. Curran followed.
Her eyebrows came down slightly and a frown pressed itself across her face. Curran wondered if she'd cry.
She didn't. She just kept staring at his face. "That's him."
"Sorry for your loss," said Curran.
She almost smirked. "'Grade A scumbag', was the term I believe I overheard you using in reference to him."
Curran cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, that was probably not the best choice of words."
"Actually, I'd say you were right on target." She nodded at the gurney. "That man caused a lot of heart ache. God knows how he survived as long as he did without someone doing what happened last night to him earlier."
Kwon guided her back toward the office. "I've got some forms for you to sign, Ms. Fields."
Curran tagged along. "You knew about his past?"
"Of course. How could I not know what he was up to. We grew up together, he and I. I always knew what kind of trouble he was involved with."
"But you couldn't stop him."
She stopped and turned. "Just who are you, exactly?"
"Forgive him," said Kwon. "He's just a nosy cop with no tact."
"A nosy cop," said Curran, "Who's investigating the death of your brother." He held out his hand. "Steve Curran."
She took it and kept looking into his eyes. "I can't say it's a pleasure to meet you, detective." Her eyes crinkled slightly. "Given the circumstances."
"I guess not."
"You can probably let go of my hand now, too."
Curran stepped back. "Sorry."
She turned to Kwon. "Those forms?"
"Over here." Kwon gave Curran a frown and then led them into the office. While Lauren signed the various forms, Curran examined her as covertly as he knew how.
She obviously kept in shape judging by the trim outline concealed under the slacks and blouse she wore. The outfit itself was modest, neither revealing skin nor cleavage. But somehow, Curran found it appealing anyway.
She finished and straightened, flattening the wrinkles in her blouse with one hand as she tucked away a fountain pen with the other. "Is there anything else?"
"We'll let you know when the body can be taken by the funeral home for proper burial," said Kwon.
"Thank you."
"Ms. Fields?"
She turned to face Curran. "Yes?"
"I wonder if we could speak a few moments about your brother? It'd be a big help."
"You're putting in an awful lot of time to my brother's case, Detective. Not something I'd expect for the likes of someone like him."
"I'm putting in the sort of time my career demands. Professional," said Curran. "Whether or not your brother was the kind of guy I'd recommend for sainthood isn't the point. A crime was committed and I aim to see it solved."
"Admirable."
Kwon frowned. "Don't let him fool you, Ms. Fields. Curran is probably the straightest-laced cop you'll ever find. If it's work, he gives one hundred and ten percent."
"That must not leave much time for anything else," said Lauren.
Curran shot Kwon a look. "I take my job seriously is all. I'm lucky to have a lot of time to devote to my job."
"Not many people in today's world commit themselves so entirely."
Curran shrugged. "Can I take that as a yes that you'll sit down and talk to me about your brother?"
"You aren't going to posthumously persecute him for some of the things he did while he was alive, are you?"
Curran smiled. "Last I checked, I don't think our courts work that way."
"All right then." She dug into her pocketbook and extracted a vanilla business card. "My number's on the back. Call me this evening. I've got some free time then."
"I'll do that."
She nodded at Kwon. "Nice meeting you. Please let me know about the body. A proper burial's important to me."
"Will do," said Kwon. He and Curran watched her go.
"Damn," said Curran.
"Kind of an understatement, Steve. She's a knockout," said Kwon. "But hey, you got her number. That's gotta count for something."
"No thanks to you trying to cut me down at every opportunity."
"Didn't you once tell me nothing worth having ever comes easy? I know how much you groove on challenges. I was just trying to make you appreciate the gal."
Curran smirked. "Of course you were. And really, I do appreciate it."
"Always glad to help out," said Kwon. "Now will you get out of here and let me work?"
"I'm going," said Curran.
At the door Kwon stopped him. "Steve."
"Yeah?"
"I want details. You got it?"
Curran smiled. "Sorry, I don't kiss and tell."
Kwon sniffed. "Steve, if you get any kind of play at all, you won't have to say a word. It'll be all over your face in big bold letters: FIRST TIME IN YEARS."
Curran gave him a smile, then extended his middle finger and walked out.
Chapter Three
I don't know why I agreed to this, thought Lauren as she entered the restaurant. She could already see the smile on Detective Curran's face, but kept her own face neutral.
He stood as she got to the table. "You look great."
Lauren narrowed her eyes. "That's not usually the type of comment I hear about this outfit." She ran her hands over the white blouse and gray herringbone skirt. "Most people think I look too much like a school teacher."
Curran smiled. "I used to have crushes on all my teachers."
Lauren ignored him, glancing around the room. "Interesting choice for our meeting - pastel pinks and yellows on the walls and stainless steel lighting."
"This is gourmet Chinese. The owner used to collect art all over Asia so this is something of a gallery for his acquisitions."
"Gourmet Chinese? What exactly does that mean?"
"Means you don't have to skirt puddles of grimy water and urine down in Chinatown to get a decent meal. You do eat Chinese, right?"
"Sure." She noticed him staring at her neck. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing at all. I was just wondering if that gold cross you're wearing is something special."
She fingered the cross, feeling the cool metal against her fingertips. "Special is measured in a lot of ways, Detective."
"Steve."
She eyed him again and he looked away. Lauren almost grinned. She knew her gaze could be unsettling when she wanted it to be.
Curran turned his attention to the menu. "The Mandarin beef is excellent here."
"That sounds fine."
He put the menu down. "Is something bothering you?"
Should she tell him? Her stomach felt queasy then. She noticed the smells of the restaurant and felt her appetite wane. Lauren took a breath and exhaled. "Why did you ask me here?"
"I told you earlier, to find out some background about your brother."
She shook her head. "You say that, but I feel like there's something more."
"What are you - psychic?"
"Are you confirming my feeling?"
Curran looked at her. "I'm not the enemy here, Ms. Fields."
"Lauren."
He smiled. She shrugged. "Seems only fair if I have to call you Steve."
Curran folded his white linen napkin on his lap. "I'm just a cop trying to figure this whole thing out."
"Figure what out: my brother's killer or me?"
Curran smiled. "Yes."
She tried to hide the small grin. "At least you're honest."
"So?"
She sighed. "There's not a lot to tell. My brother was the only real family I had left. Our parents died a number of years ago."
"But you don't seem all that broken up about his death. You said yourself this morning that he caused a lot of heart ache."
Heartache. If only it had been that and nothing else. If only he'd only caused a fraction of the horror he'd wrought. She sipped some water. "My brother was a complete piece of garbage for the majority of his life."
"I think we've got most of it in his jacket down at headquarters."
Her stomach churned again. You don't know any of it, she wanted to say. Nothing! She wanted to yell and cry and vomit then. Even after so many years, the pain could still surge without warning.
"Are you all right?"
She took another sip of water. It slid down her throat, cold against the rising heat within. She felt flushed and wondered if Curran could see the turmoil coursing throughout her. He seemed astute enough.
"I'm fine."
Curran's eyebrows waggled a bit but he went back to studying the menu. She felt better with his eyes not boring into her.
"You're not being entirely up front with me, Lauren."
"There may be some things I'm not ready to share."
He looked up again. "Even if they help me catch this killer? Even if they help save the life of another person?"
"It's not that easy."
He nodded. "I've seen a lot of miserable crap in my life. I know not everything is as it seems on the surface."
That was the problem. On the surface, Lauren could keep everything calm. But deep down inside she knew the death of her brother would haunt her for years. Just as he had in life.
"I don't see how what I could tell you would help you catch this killer. And it's probably better that I don't."
Curran set his menu down and stared at her again. She could see his eyes soften, almost like his pupils had expanded. Darkened. They drew her in. She found her breathing relaxing. She felt her shoulders loosen.
"Whenever you want to tell me, that will be fine."
Even his voice had softened. Deepened. It almost seemed to resonate within her. She felt the heat dissipating.
The waiter came by and Curran gave the order all the while still looking into her eyes. When the waiter disappeared again, Curran broke the eye contact and took a sip of his water.
"Are you all right now?"
Lauren smiled. "Fine. Thank you."
Curran grinned. "For what?"
"Whatever you just did there. I felt like I was being relaxed. Almost hypnotized."
"Oh that."
"Yes. That."
"You wouldn't believe the things you pick up being a cop. I learned that from a psychologist one time. I probably shouldn't have done it with you, but you looked so concerned - no, terrified. I figured it wouldn't hurt if I took you down a notch."
Lauren nodded. "It worked quite well."
"You feel like talking any now?"
"Do we have to?"
"No. We don't have to do anything except eat. But it would help me out an awful lot if I knew something more about your brother. Especially since I can see there's plenty that didn't show up in his file."
She sighed. Would it ever get easier? Would it ever go away entirely? There was only way to find out.
"You know all about how he started breaking into homes, right?"
Curran nodded. "Sure."
"And then he worked his way up to stealing cars. He used to get into fights a lot, too."
"Assault. Yeah, I saw plenty of that in the jacket."
"Was he suspected of murder?"
"Couple of times. Nothing ever stuck to him. Especially since he got involved in organized crime back in the late 80's."
"He killed easily enough, my brother did." Lauren closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the images of her brother covered in blood coming back one night.
Curran's voice was a whisper. "What else, Lauren?"
Lauren looked down. Her eyes felt moist. Hot. Her throat closed. She clutched the napkin under the table. Twisting it into knots.
"Have you ever done any reading on the criminal mind?"
Curran nodded. "Most of us cops have."
"Then you probably know that the experts always say that criminals - the really deviant ones - don't start out as horrible as they eventually become. They start small at first."
"An experimentation stage, in other words."
"Exactly. Experimentation." The word made her shudder.
The hot and sour soup arrived. Lauren didn't look at it. Neither did Curran.
"Go on."
"In order for a creature of habit to become that, he first needs to find a habit he enjoys. Do you follow me?"
"I don't really know."
She looked at him. "Evil doesn't exist solely on its own, Steve. It can't exist without being nurtured. An evil act cannot stand on its own; it needs roots. It needs time to grow."
"You're likening this to a seed."
"That's exactly what I'm doing. My brother didn't become a monster overnight. He didn't even become a monster just in the pages of whatever file you have on him down at the police station." She took a deep breath. "He started a long time ago. Ages before he came to the attention of the police." She turned away. "He started in the shadows and the whispers of dark scary nights when no one else was around. No one...but me."
Curran cleared his throat. "Lauren-"
"No. Don't stop me, Steve. Please."
"We don't need to talk about this now. Not here."
"If not now then when? I've kept things to myself for too long." She smiled around the tears that dribbled out of her eyes. "Believe me, I walked the path of the victim for years. It's a stupid waste of time. Far better to make peace with the past you can't change and forge ahead into the future. That's become my mantra of sorts."
"That's a tough path to walk alone."
"It's the toughest thing I've ever done." She sat silent for a minute before looking at the soup. The swirling contents mirrored the churning deep down in her bowels. The thought of putting any of it into her mouth repulsed her. She bit down on her lip, trying to stem the rising gorge at the back of her throat.
"My brother raped me, Steve."
He nodded like he'd known. Like he'd been able to see into her soul and feel her torment.
"Was that the start of it?"
The waiter reappeared with the main dishes. Lauren watched the plate of beef, set off with red peppers and broccoli, sizzle on the table. The waiter brought two small rice bowls, each packed with white grains. The Szechuan chicken completed the meal. Curran didn't acknowledge the food and the waiter looked annoyed as he walked away.
Lauren waited until they were alone again. "It didn't seem so evil at first. Does that sound foolish of me?" She shrugged. "Maybe it is."
"It doesn't."
She tried to smile. "But maybe that's what makes evil so potent: in the beginning it's never easy to see."
"What happened?"
Lauren looked away from the food. "At first it was the silly kind of stuff a brother and sister might do. Peek-a-boo here and there, you know? We were both young. It could be forgiven by even the most uptight therapist as completely natural."
"But it didn't stay there."
"No." Lauren sighed. "When it became too much for him - when his hormones became too much for him to control - he forced himself on me. Countless times."
"You couldn't tell anyone?"
"It's funny that everyone who hears about sexual abuse thinks it's the easiest thing in the world to just tell someone."
"I wasn't saying that-"
"But it's not, you know? It's the scariest moment in your life when it happens. And when it keeps happening. How could I tell anyone? I thought I'd been the reason why he did what he did. I thought I was to blame."
"It wasn't your fault."
"But in some way it felt like it was. I don't expect you to understand that. I doubt very much anyone who hasn't gone through what victims of those crimes go through would ever understand it. It's the most horrible feeling in the world. I didn't feel safe anywhere. I couldn't hide. I couldn't run away. All I could do was wait for the next time. And pray every time would go faster than the last. That he'd...finish quicker than before and leave me alone to cry into my pillow again."
She saw him lower his eyes again. "I can't imagine what that must have been like."
"Don't try." She sighed. "It happened throughout most of my junior and senior year in high school. Thankfully, he left soon after to live on his own. He found...other playmates."
"Victims, more likely."
"That's probably true." She sighed. "My brother, he was probably one of the most evil people I ever met. Him being my brother didn't make that fact any easier to take. I heard about his atrocities. He used to even brag sometimes about things he'd done."
"He used to visit you?"
"He tried to. I moved around a lot but somehow he used to find a way to run into me. He never touched me after he moved out, but I could still see the desire in his eyes. There was that gleam. But there was something more - something vile about him. In so many ways, he seemed to bleed lechery like it was the plague."
"You know if he used to prey on anyone else?"
"He used to brag about his sexual conquests all the time. Whether they were true or not, I don't know." She felt her stomach lurch again. "The odd thing is, I can't figure out who would want to kill him. I mean, sure he had enemies, but the kind of enemies he had wouldn't have killed him in such a nondescript way."
"Your brother had ties to organized crime. If they'd wanted him dead, it would have been a showy execution."
"Bullets flying everywhere, yes." She frowned. "But instead..."
"I know," said Curran. "It doesn't make sense."
"Something else that doesn't make sense." She peered into his eyes. "You."
Curran grinned. "Me?"
"You don't seem nearly as fazed by this as the medical examiner did."
"Yeah, well, I see a lot more garbage than Kwon does."
She shook her head. "That's not it. I get the feeling this case almost seems...familiar to you."
She stared at him. Curran looked away and toyed with his chopsticks. "I might have heard about some cases sort of similar to this."
Lauren frowned and stabbed her own chopsticks into the bowl of rice. "You're lying."
Curran removed her chopsticks. "Don't do that."
"What?"
He pointed. "Never leave them pointing straight up in a bowl of rice."
"You're schooling me on etiquette now? That's going quite a ways to change the subject."
Curran shook his head. "Leaving your chopsticks like that means death in most Asian cultures. They look at it as an omen of sorts."
"How'd you get so acquainted with Asian culture?"
"Military."
"Before you joined the police?"
"Before I joined the FBI."
Curran was a G Man? That surprised her.. "You were with the Bureau?"
He smirked. "Impressed? Don't be."
She smiled. "I wouldn't tell you if I was. And I still think you're lying."
"Maybe I can't talk about it in front of you."
She frowned. "That's ridiculous. I just sat here and spilled out a host of ugly skeletons that most folks would try to bury. And you can't even discuss your experiences with unexplained deaths?" Lauren rested her elbows on the tabletop. "Any time you want to talk will be fine."
He sighed. "You don't give up easily."
"I've been told that."
Curran sighed. "When I worked in the FBI, I came across a series of murders that happened in Miami. Unexplained deaths, all of them."
"How many were there?"
"That we knew of? Five in Miami. Privately, I suspected there were many more."
"So what happened?"
"I got assigned the cases. I was a young hotshot eager for a tough case. I guess I wanted to prove myself as capable. I tried my damnedest to do just that."
"But?"
Curran frowned and Lauren watched his eyes go dark again. But they didn't stare at her any longer. Curran was a million miles away. She watched what must have been awful memories pour across his face in rapid succession. Dark shadows that creased his forehead and made the crows feet at the edges of his eyes seem more pronounced. What has he gone through, she wondered.
"It didn't work out," he said.
Lauren never blinked. "I just watched a dozen nightmares play across your face. That was some 'but.'"
"Probably better if we don't discuss that right now. I may not be as strong as you."
"All right."
He sighed and reached for his water. "They stopped eventually - the murders I mean."
"In Miami?"
"Yeah. Thing is, for a serial killer, which is what we pigeonholed this guy as, it didn't quite make sense. The experts figured he'd start up again somewhere else. Once the fury got too much for him to handle."
"You keep saying 'him.' Do you know for sure it was a man?"
Curran shrugged. "Statistically, most serial killers are white males in their mid-thirties. And I guess for some reason, right at the beginning, I felt the killer was a man."
"So, were the experts right?"
"Yeah. They were right. Six months later. Dallas. Another bunch of bodies with no discernible marks on them start showing up. Each one during the post mortem had characteristics that fit with how your brother died."
"Like what?"
"Like blood work showing an abnormally high level of glucose spikes just prior to death."
"Glucose?"
"It's a side effect of a sudden adrenaline rushes. Like what might happen if the victim knew they were in trouble. It's that fight or flight instinct response programmed in us all."
"But they didn't fight, did they?"
"And they couldn't flee, either. So this massive dump of adrenaline floods their system. On the outside, it almost looked like they'd been scared to death."
"There was nothing else that would help unravel the case?"
"Each victim did have a peculiar oddity to them."
"What's that?"
"During the post-mortem examination, the prosector - that's the guy who does the autopsy - discovered the victims - all of them - had green brains."
Lauren leaned back. "Are you joking?"
"I don't have an explanation for it. I'm just relating what I found out."
"Did my brother-?"
"Yeah," said Curran. "Kwon and I did the PM last night - this morning really - and confirmed what I thought I might find."
"You had a suspicion you'd find it?"
Curran shrugged. "I'm a cop, Lauren. I see scores of dead bodies. Most of them have gunshots, stab wounds, foamy mouths, something that tells me how they died. I came on the crime scene last night, your brother looked like the picture of perfect health. No reason for him to be dead. It kind of stood out as unusual."
"Especially since Miami."
"Right."
"Have there ever been any witnesses?"
Curran motioned for the check and then frowned. "Well, in Dallas, some woman in a nightclub saw someone close to the victim right before it happened. She confirmed it was a man."
"She saw him kill the guy?"
Curran smirked. "That's the problem. According to the woman, the killer simply walked up and touched the man on his shoulder. After a few seconds, the person dropped dead."
"You're dismissing it."
Curran smiled. "Well, come on. How silly does that sound? I've done a lot of research into Asian cultures and the closest thing I could dig up was a martial art technique called the death touch. But even that didn't work that fast."
"There are other traditions out there that might have something like that in them."
"You know of any?"
Lauren shifted in her chair. "Actually, it sounds something like a reverse laying of hands."
Curran shook his head. "Never heard of it."
"Laying of hands is a traditional, albeit unusual method of healing."
"You mean holistic?"
"Something like that. It's widely accepted by the Catholic Church as a special occurrence. The healer places their hands on the afflicted and helps heal them using special energies."
"Special energies?" Curran smiled.
Lauren pointed at him. "Don't look so surprised. A minute ago you were telling me about green brains, after all."
"Touché."
"Laying of hands has been acknowledged in the writings of the church for many years and while most consider it something of legend, there are reasonably accurate accounts of healers being able to cure in the name of God."
"There's a flip side - that reversal thing you spoke of?"
"I don't know." She took a sip of water, thankful her stomach didn't vomit it back up. "I could research it. See if there are any references to something like it anywhere. It sounds pretty odd, I know."