Authors: Jason Austin
“
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.”
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.”
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 g
angly
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
.