The early afternoon sun glowed its way through Brian's light blue Oxford shirt. He'd abandoned his coat and tie in the backseat of one of the police cruisers. He was on his third packet of Odorscreen. None of the other cops had taken him up on his offer of sunscreen, but his extra Odorscreen packets had temporarily made him the most popular detective on the force.
He watched the evidence technicians carefully gather up soil from around the body in the pit. The coroner's wagon would be there soon to pick up the body. There had been a delay of two hours because by the time the police were ready to have the body taken away the Medical Examiner's office was in the middle of their shift change.
The lieutenant had arrived around noon. He was keeping a discreet and upwind distance from the body. Brian stood in the sun and half listened to the sergeant explaining to him what they'd found.
"You can see needle still sticking out of his arm, right there." He pointed, although they were too far away to see. "He's like a moment frozen in time. He must have OD'd and his friends buried him here."
"'First time I've ever seen that."
"Yeah, that's pretty, um, consciencious of his friends. It's not like they had to dig a whole. There was a natural crack or crag in the earth here, they just had to cover him up."
"'Still pretty unusual. Druggies usually leave their friends just wherever. They don't call an ambulance when they OD and they're still alive. They sure don't bury then when they."
"Well, maybe he got a little bit of help OD'ing."
Brian tuned out their conversation and listened to the two beat cops he'd given the Odorscreen to. They were standing right by the pit.
"The maggots had a field day with this one, they sorta wriggled this body half-way out of its clothes. See the white down there in his lap? That his bones."
"Yeah, I see it. What a mess."
"D'you hear Gene found a body in a van last week?"
"Yeah, I heard. It was an OD like this, right?"
"Yeah, another dumb-ass hype, but not like this. Gene's was fresh. The van was parked in back of a pizza place. hype was living in his van, and he was sitting down when he OD and he sort of slumped over when he died..."
The other cop made a face, he knew what was coming.
"...So when the M.E. guys moved him, man, his face looked like a pizza. And with the pizza smell coming from the building, oh, damn, I almost lost my lunch." They chuckled.
"What did Gene do when he found him?"
"That guy is so stupid. He probably saw the hype sitting up in the van was all like 'get out of the car!"
"Yeah, he'd be the only one who'd bring in a dead body on a resisting arrest charge."
"Yeah, he'd try to put cuffs on him and his arm would fall off." They started laughing. A little whistling past the graveyard. They saw Brian; they usually weren't as friendly with him, but the Odorscreen had put them in a good mood.
"Hey, Brian, take a look at this guy." He pointed to an open gym bag next to the corpse in the ditch. "He's got all his works in nice, neat plastic bag. A little box of hypodermic needles, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs in a ziplock. His clothes are all nicely folded. This guy was like the Martha Stewart of hypes. "
Brian stared down at the body. Something wasn't right. He looked at the exposed bones of the pelvis where decomposition and insect activity had almost completly exposed the bone. In contrast, the arms were almost pristine. The parts of the arms closest to the ground were black from pooled blood, of course, but the rest of the skin was only slightly green and barely puffy from the gasses of decomposition. The arms must have gotten splashed with the bleach. That would explain their condition. But something wasn't right.
"Hey, look, the guy had good taste in cars. There's a '72 Oldsmobile 442 mechanics manual in his bad. 'Looks like a couple other manuals too." The cop leaned over a little, but he couldn't read the names of the other manuals, but he notice something else, and the two joking cops grew as quiet as Brian, as quiet as the body in the pit.
This guy didn't work on cars. There was no grease on his small hands. There were no track marks on his arms. And his bare pelvis showed a large oval-shaped pelvic opening.
The wise-cracking old cop swayed a little in the dry, afternoon sun.
"This is a girl."
Monday, June 30, 2008
Chapter 8.5
Geena, Jeffries and White walked across the parched, dry dessert of the old military base. Graceless, regimented streets, dreary beige and white buildings, lots of space where there once was poorly-tended grass and were now dried up weeds. It looked like any other closed based in the country. There still remained the traces of expectancy, of the youth and even the excitement that was once there. Cheap base housing - duplexes that were once alive with young families. Wide streets that big trucks and jeeps once rumbled down. The atmosphere was still evocated. It brought back memories for White. It was alien to Geena, and, of course, it meant nothing to Jeffries.
They were walking slowly, from the parking lot to a giant hanger some distance away. Slowly, for the benefit of Geena, who was pregnant. Jeffries walked just a little ahead, Geena and White behind. White's body was turned toward Geena as he walked, in a protective, solicitous posture. His arm hovered behind the small of her back, as if he wished to support her but had too awe of her pregnant state to dare touch her.
A construction crew was at work. The threesome could see their trucks parked around the hanger, and could hear very faint noises of the work they were doing.
White was relieved when they walked into the shadow of the hanger, and some moments later, when they actually entered the huge structure, he relaxed and dropped his hand to his side. The three found some aluminum chairs and sat down near the great open doors. It was cool there.
They talked about the plans for the construction of what would be a combination maternity ward, school and laboratory.
"Are you excited, darling?" Jeffries patted Geena's swollen stomach. She put a loving hand over his and clicked their wedding rings together.
"To think, this place was once devoted to war. And now it's going to be devoted to creating a new type of human, one that will help us evolve past war."
Jeffries gave her a heartfelt- and genuine-looking smile. "Of course that's our plan, but don't let any of the brass hear you talking like that. The Army is funding us to create a super soldier, not a super peace-maker."
She smiled back. It felt good to be pregnant. Tired and sore and clumbsy, but good to be the mother of something really wonderful and special. She put her right hand over her husband's hand and reached out her left to Dr. White. It was a good day.
A large truck pulled up to the far side of hanger doors. Geena, White and Jeffries watched the workmen unload several room-sized, heavily reinforced animal cages.
They were walking slowly, from the parking lot to a giant hanger some distance away. Slowly, for the benefit of Geena, who was pregnant. Jeffries walked just a little ahead, Geena and White behind. White's body was turned toward Geena as he walked, in a protective, solicitous posture. His arm hovered behind the small of her back, as if he wished to support her but had too awe of her pregnant state to dare touch her.
A construction crew was at work. The threesome could see their trucks parked around the hanger, and could hear very faint noises of the work they were doing.
White was relieved when they walked into the shadow of the hanger, and some moments later, when they actually entered the huge structure, he relaxed and dropped his hand to his side. The three found some aluminum chairs and sat down near the great open doors. It was cool there.
They talked about the plans for the construction of what would be a combination maternity ward, school and laboratory.
"Are you excited, darling?" Jeffries patted Geena's swollen stomach. She put a loving hand over his and clicked their wedding rings together.
"To think, this place was once devoted to war. And now it's going to be devoted to creating a new type of human, one that will help us evolve past war."
Jeffries gave her a heartfelt- and genuine-looking smile. "Of course that's our plan, but don't let any of the brass hear you talking like that. The Army is funding us to create a super soldier, not a super peace-maker."
She smiled back. It felt good to be pregnant. Tired and sore and clumbsy, but good to be the mother of something really wonderful and special. She put her right hand over her husband's hand and reached out her left to Dr. White. It was a good day.
A large truck pulled up to the far side of hanger doors. Geena, White and Jeffries watched the workmen unload several room-sized, heavily reinforced animal cages.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Chapter 9
“So, how is Chapman doing?” Faber spoke without turning his eyes from the wheel. His mother had taught him the importance making of eye contact when speaking, and the importance of not making it while driving a car.
“Oh, just fine, just fine. He’s all grown up now.” Becky really didn’t know what to say. She was always startled when Faber asked about Chapman. They’d never even seen each other, but Becky had once mentioned that there was a little boy Faber’s age living at the laboratory, and Faber had occassionally asked after him ever since.
“Maybe I can finally meet him when we get to the lab.”
“Uh, huh,” Becky said non-commitally. Fat chance, she thought. She would never allow the two to meet; she’d kept the two apart for the last thirty years; she wasn’t going to introduce them now. Chapman was the last person she’d want to introduce to anyone. She loved him, but he was not a good person to know.
Faber turned the pickup onto the last stretch of empty road and they finally arrived at the laboratory. It was a long, steel building, a huge old Quonset hut. It looked like a gigantic tin can half-buried on its side in the desert, dome-shaped from the front, rectangular from the back. The inside of the building was a sharp contrast to the dusty outside. Skylights in the roof let in a filtered light that, augmented with cunningly arrayed artificial lights, fed and illuminated a maze of ornamental trees and hanging and potted plants. Stepping into the building, one almost had a feeling that one was stepping outside instead of going inside. The carpet was green and the rows and rows of office cubicles almost looked like a Pueblo village. A village abadoned by everyone except a lone security guard. No one worked on this floor. All the operations took place far underground.
The guard greeted Becky and nodded to Faber as they headed toward the elevator. Down five stories. The Quonset hut sat above an old missile silo. It was wonderfully cool and quiet in the laboratory and the linoleum and acid green walls of its Army days had been redecorated; it was now all gleaming white, brushed steel and chrome. Sterile, but in a stylish way. Lights set near the floor washed the walls with a pearly glow.
They headed down a moodily-lit corridor toward Becky’s office. Becky stopped for a moment and picked up a piece of paper from the floor. Faber looked over her shoulder to see what it was. In the barren glamor of the hallway, it was fascinating to see a piece of trash. So out of place, as if it might carry some significance.
They both shrugged when they saw what it was.
“It must have fallen out of Joe’s pocket,” Becky said. Joe was the security guard. “I guess his wife must have sent him shopping.”
“I guess they’ve got a lot of washing to do, Mom.” They chuckled. It was almost humorous, and they needed humor. They were both worried about the source of the blood. That’s what they were there for. Faber crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket. He’s throw it away when he came across a garbage can. It was just a grocery store receipt for three gallons of bleach.
“Oh, just fine, just fine. He’s all grown up now.” Becky really didn’t know what to say. She was always startled when Faber asked about Chapman. They’d never even seen each other, but Becky had once mentioned that there was a little boy Faber’s age living at the laboratory, and Faber had occassionally asked after him ever since.
“Maybe I can finally meet him when we get to the lab.”
“Uh, huh,” Becky said non-commitally. Fat chance, she thought. She would never allow the two to meet; she’d kept the two apart for the last thirty years; she wasn’t going to introduce them now. Chapman was the last person she’d want to introduce to anyone. She loved him, but he was not a good person to know.
Faber turned the pickup onto the last stretch of empty road and they finally arrived at the laboratory. It was a long, steel building, a huge old Quonset hut. It looked like a gigantic tin can half-buried on its side in the desert, dome-shaped from the front, rectangular from the back. The inside of the building was a sharp contrast to the dusty outside. Skylights in the roof let in a filtered light that, augmented with cunningly arrayed artificial lights, fed and illuminated a maze of ornamental trees and hanging and potted plants. Stepping into the building, one almost had a feeling that one was stepping outside instead of going inside. The carpet was green and the rows and rows of office cubicles almost looked like a Pueblo village. A village abadoned by everyone except a lone security guard. No one worked on this floor. All the operations took place far underground.
The guard greeted Becky and nodded to Faber as they headed toward the elevator. Down five stories. The Quonset hut sat above an old missile silo. It was wonderfully cool and quiet in the laboratory and the linoleum and acid green walls of its Army days had been redecorated; it was now all gleaming white, brushed steel and chrome. Sterile, but in a stylish way. Lights set near the floor washed the walls with a pearly glow.
They headed down a moodily-lit corridor toward Becky’s office. Becky stopped for a moment and picked up a piece of paper from the floor. Faber looked over her shoulder to see what it was. In the barren glamor of the hallway, it was fascinating to see a piece of trash. So out of place, as if it might carry some significance.
They both shrugged when they saw what it was.
“It must have fallen out of Joe’s pocket,” Becky said. Joe was the security guard. “I guess his wife must have sent him shopping.”
“I guess they’ve got a lot of washing to do, Mom.” They chuckled. It was almost humorous, and they needed humor. They were both worried about the source of the blood. That’s what they were there for. Faber crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket. He’s throw it away when he came across a garbage can. It was just a grocery store receipt for three gallons of bleach.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Chapter 8
Becky and Faber raced along the desert highway toward the lab. They were in Faber’s pickup truck. It was a little beaten up; it was in full use at the sanctuary, but it was clean. Faber was a careful driver. Not macho, not careless, fast enough to not drive people crazy, but not fast enough to be a menace. Despite his seemingly dangerous lifestyle, he did not take unnecessary risks.
It was still early morning and they were driving into the rising sun. Becky’s felt wired. Too much caffeine and too little sleep, and now the mystery of the blood. She felt like the inside of her head was dusty and eyes were sandy and dry.
The blood. The lab. That place had always been a place of menace. Hope, dreams, love…and menace. Becky looked over at Faber. Such a large and handsome man, long arms, long legs, deeply tanned skin. Intelligent, successful and kind. Becky’s heart filled with pride, and just as quickly the fear rose up in her. Why was motherly pride always followed by motherly fear?
She looked at the spot on her sleeve and thought about Faber’s tasting it to determine it was blood. She wanted to scold him, but he’d been careful and no one had seen him. She tried to be worried that he might have exposed himself to HIV or Hepatitis C, but as a scientist she knew those diseases were caused by blood-to-blood contact and that he was not in any realistic danger. But what if it had been a toxic substance on her sleeve? He couldn’t just going around tasting unknown substances. What if it were lead or mercury or some other poison. She turned to him and started to speak, then turned away. That wasn’t what she was worried.
Why did she let Faber drive her to the lab to investigate a stupid bloodspot? She shouldn’t have worked all night. The lack of sleep had decimated her judgment. She looked at the bloodspot again. Whatever caused it was no minor thing. She knew that. The terrible, decades long menace of that laboratory told her that. She had a feeling that something was happening, something that had been in the works for a very long time. But whatever it was, whatever danger there was, did not compare to the harm that might come to Faber at the laboratory. Not physical harm, but mental harm. They say knowledge is power, but there is some knowledge a mother will do anything to prevent her child from acquiring.
It was still early morning and they were driving into the rising sun. Becky’s felt wired. Too much caffeine and too little sleep, and now the mystery of the blood. She felt like the inside of her head was dusty and eyes were sandy and dry.
The blood. The lab. That place had always been a place of menace. Hope, dreams, love…and menace. Becky looked over at Faber. Such a large and handsome man, long arms, long legs, deeply tanned skin. Intelligent, successful and kind. Becky’s heart filled with pride, and just as quickly the fear rose up in her. Why was motherly pride always followed by motherly fear?
She looked at the spot on her sleeve and thought about Faber’s tasting it to determine it was blood. She wanted to scold him, but he’d been careful and no one had seen him. She tried to be worried that he might have exposed himself to HIV or Hepatitis C, but as a scientist she knew those diseases were caused by blood-to-blood contact and that he was not in any realistic danger. But what if it had been a toxic substance on her sleeve? He couldn’t just going around tasting unknown substances. What if it were lead or mercury or some other poison. She turned to him and started to speak, then turned away. That wasn’t what she was worried.
Why did she let Faber drive her to the lab to investigate a stupid bloodspot? She shouldn’t have worked all night. The lack of sleep had decimated her judgment. She looked at the bloodspot again. Whatever caused it was no minor thing. She knew that. The terrible, decades long menace of that laboratory told her that. She had a feeling that something was happening, something that had been in the works for a very long time. But whatever it was, whatever danger there was, did not compare to the harm that might come to Faber at the laboratory. Not physical harm, but mental harm. They say knowledge is power, but there is some knowledge a mother will do anything to prevent her child from acquiring.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Chapter 7
July 1967
Geena was screaming.
“She’ll just have to endure the pain of childbirth.” Dr. Jeffries said. “Women have been doing that since Eve got kicked out of the Garden of Eden.”
Another contraction and a muted scream this time. Geena was in great pain, but she was also tired almost beyond endurance.
“Recently, it’s only the women whose doctors screw up the epidural who have to suffer like this.” Dr. White said.
“Well, you should have done it yet. I’m not a obstetrician.” Geena was staring at Jeffries, but wasn’t seeing him. She was in her own world of pain. Jeffries looked down at her and Dr. White watched as he rearranged his face into something approaching sympathy.
“Great bedside manner, Doctor, but I kept telling you we needed to bring an obstetrician in here, or at least a midwife.”
“We couldn’t do that, and you know it.” Geena moaned. The contractions were coming very fast. “Why do you always have second thoughts at the very last minute? We don’t know what this baby is going to look like. If it’s all covered in brown fur, do you really want this birth announced on the front page of the --”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not argue – Oh, God.”
The baby’s head started to emerge. Both doctors, although not obstetricians, knew what to do. With barely a word, they worked like a well-oiled machine, bringing the baby into the world, giving it an APCAR score, putting silver nitrite into the eyes. Perfectly healthy. Dr. White held the baby as they two men examined here. Full head of black hair, darkish skin with pink fingertips, slighter long-than-normal arms, much leaner than a baby human. She was exactly what they expected, half human and half Bonobo Chimpanzee.
She looked back and forth between the men. Her big brown eyes seemed extremely alert. This looked hopeful already. Jeffries smiled, a real smile for once. The little creature was actually cute.
Dr. White brought the baby to the head of Geena’s bed. “She’s adorable, Geena. We’ve done it. You’ve done it. You’re the mother of a new type of human. Would you like to hold her?”
Geena put her arms out for the baby. She glowed, just like all new mothers, her face filled with love. Then she drew her arms back and screamed in pain again.
A twin was emerging.
Geena was screaming.
“She’ll just have to endure the pain of childbirth.” Dr. Jeffries said. “Women have been doing that since Eve got kicked out of the Garden of Eden.”
Another contraction and a muted scream this time. Geena was in great pain, but she was also tired almost beyond endurance.
“Recently, it’s only the women whose doctors screw up the epidural who have to suffer like this.” Dr. White said.
“Well, you should have done it yet. I’m not a obstetrician.” Geena was staring at Jeffries, but wasn’t seeing him. She was in her own world of pain. Jeffries looked down at her and Dr. White watched as he rearranged his face into something approaching sympathy.
“Great bedside manner, Doctor, but I kept telling you we needed to bring an obstetrician in here, or at least a midwife.”
“We couldn’t do that, and you know it.” Geena moaned. The contractions were coming very fast. “Why do you always have second thoughts at the very last minute? We don’t know what this baby is going to look like. If it’s all covered in brown fur, do you really want this birth announced on the front page of the --”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not argue – Oh, God.”
The baby’s head started to emerge. Both doctors, although not obstetricians, knew what to do. With barely a word, they worked like a well-oiled machine, bringing the baby into the world, giving it an APCAR score, putting silver nitrite into the eyes. Perfectly healthy. Dr. White held the baby as they two men examined here. Full head of black hair, darkish skin with pink fingertips, slighter long-than-normal arms, much leaner than a baby human. She was exactly what they expected, half human and half Bonobo Chimpanzee.
She looked back and forth between the men. Her big brown eyes seemed extremely alert. This looked hopeful already. Jeffries smiled, a real smile for once. The little creature was actually cute.
Dr. White brought the baby to the head of Geena’s bed. “She’s adorable, Geena. We’ve done it. You’ve done it. You’re the mother of a new type of human. Would you like to hold her?”
Geena put her arms out for the baby. She glowed, just like all new mothers, her face filled with love. Then she drew her arms back and screamed in pain again.
A twin was emerging.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Chapter 6
The night sky was black. 'Not a sight many southern Californians get to see. Before moving to desert ten years ago, Brian had always thought the day sky was greenish-greyish blue and the night sky was pink. Here it was actually black, with dark blue circles around the countless stars. The desert floor was beige and the moon made outlined the distant hills in silvery tan.
Brian bounced along in the passenger seat of a police car. The powerful 8 cylinder Ford Crown Victoria functioned surprisingly well off road. The uniform driving it simultaneously talked on his cell phone, typed into the car's police laptop, checked his pager and ate a cheeseburger. Brian, still a bit groggy, had thought riding with the patrol officer would be safer than following in his own car. All things considered, and given that there was no other traffic, he was comfortable with his decision.
"Damn, I am hungry. " The officer once he got off the phone. He took another bite and then said through a mouth full of cheeseburger, "I had my lunch I got the call." He pointed to a crumpled wrapper in the passenger footwell. "Watch out for my other Big Mac you get there. 'First time I ever threw up on the job. Darn waste of money." He took a swig of diet Coke, expertly avoiding spilling anything as they went over another depression in the desert. Then he a box of onion rings out of the fast food bag. Keeping his eyes on the road, he nudged Brian with it, his way of offering some. Brian took an onion ring, then the uniform took the box back and started feeding himself with his left hand while holding the steering wheel with his right.
"It's not even like it's the middle of summer. That's when bodies really, really reek. It's barely spring, but I guess it got warm enough."
They both munched their onion rings in silence for a moment.
"It's the stomach acids that do the damage, you know."
Brian nodded absently. The cop was treating him like a ride-a-long instead of like a fellow cop. That tended to happen when you were young and weren't wearing a uniform. Plus, the cop was talking to cover his own nervousness about what he'd seen.
"See, when you're alive, you produce mucus in your stomach. It's like snot. It keeps acid from burning right through you." He dug around for the last of the onion rings. "But when you die, the snot stops and the acid eats through, and then the intestines get exposed, and it's just a mess."
"Yeah, I know." Brian said.
"It smelled awful."
"Yeah, I bet."
"And it would change too, like if the wind would pick up a little, the smell would change a little, just enough to keep it fresh, to keep your nose from getting used to it."
This was getting old. Brian stared out the side window and mumbled, "Haven't you ever smelled a dead body before?"
"Huh, yeah, I have. I dunno why this one bothered me so much. But it kinda hurt my nose. All that gross dead-body smell with a double-helping side-order of bleach."
Brian's stomach involuntary clenched as he turned and stared at the cop. "Bleach?" A dead body has a distinctive sweet-rotting smell of sulfer and methane and butyric acid. Bleach was not normally in that mix, but Brian had smell that mixture before. He immediately understood the cop's extreme disgust and at the same time his worry and curiousity was stimulated. He'd seen a case ten years ago where a body had been found, covered in bleach. Could this be the same killer?
Brian bounced along in the passenger seat of a police car. The powerful 8 cylinder Ford Crown Victoria functioned surprisingly well off road. The uniform driving it simultaneously talked on his cell phone, typed into the car's police laptop, checked his pager and ate a cheeseburger. Brian, still a bit groggy, had thought riding with the patrol officer would be safer than following in his own car. All things considered, and given that there was no other traffic, he was comfortable with his decision.
"Damn, I am hungry. " The officer once he got off the phone. He took another bite and then said through a mouth full of cheeseburger, "I had my lunch I got the call." He pointed to a crumpled wrapper in the passenger footwell. "Watch out for my other Big Mac you get there. 'First time I ever threw up on the job. Darn waste of money." He took a swig of diet Coke, expertly avoiding spilling anything as they went over another depression in the desert. Then he a box of onion rings out of the fast food bag. Keeping his eyes on the road, he nudged Brian with it, his way of offering some. Brian took an onion ring, then the uniform took the box back and started feeding himself with his left hand while holding the steering wheel with his right.
"It's not even like it's the middle of summer. That's when bodies really, really reek. It's barely spring, but I guess it got warm enough."
They both munched their onion rings in silence for a moment.
"It's the stomach acids that do the damage, you know."
Brian nodded absently. The cop was treating him like a ride-a-long instead of like a fellow cop. That tended to happen when you were young and weren't wearing a uniform. Plus, the cop was talking to cover his own nervousness about what he'd seen.
"See, when you're alive, you produce mucus in your stomach. It's like snot. It keeps acid from burning right through you." He dug around for the last of the onion rings. "But when you die, the snot stops and the acid eats through, and then the intestines get exposed, and it's just a mess."
"Yeah, I know." Brian said.
"It smelled awful."
"Yeah, I bet."
"And it would change too, like if the wind would pick up a little, the smell would change a little, just enough to keep it fresh, to keep your nose from getting used to it."
This was getting old. Brian stared out the side window and mumbled, "Haven't you ever smelled a dead body before?"
"Huh, yeah, I have. I dunno why this one bothered me so much. But it kinda hurt my nose. All that gross dead-body smell with a double-helping side-order of bleach."
Brian's stomach involuntary clenched as he turned and stared at the cop. "Bleach?" A dead body has a distinctive sweet-rotting smell of sulfer and methane and butyric acid. Bleach was not normally in that mix, but Brian had smell that mixture before. He immediately understood the cop's extreme disgust and at the same time his worry and curiousity was stimulated. He'd seen a case ten years ago where a body had been found, covered in bleach. Could this be the same killer?
Chapter 5
"Blood? Oh, Faber, du muss nicht das tun. Es it gefahr!" She had switched to German now, so she could speak openly without Katy understanding them. Katy would leave them alone until they switched back to English. She always assumed they were either fighting or talking about chemistry when they spoke German.
"Ist's nicht gefahr," he replied. "It's not dangerous. You know Hep-C and AIDS aren't spread like that." Before she could continue her motherly scolding, he held both her hands, looked her straight in the eye and said, "What's going on? You smell of fear. Be straight with me."
"Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know why." She looked down at their hands. "Yes, something happened. Geena got stuck with a sharp today." A sharp was any kind of medical instrument that might be a bio-hazard, such as a hypodermic needle or disposible blade. Each room at the laboratory had a red box labelled "Biohazard" where sharps were to be disposed of.
"How did that happen?" He was beginning to regret tasting the blood. He wasn't worried about contamination, but the idea of tasting Geena's blood, of being in any way connected with her, made him uncomfortable.
"I guess that's what's upset me. She didn't know. I just saw her arm bleeding. She hadn't even noticed. Then we looked around and found a syringe on the floor, and we didn't know what was in it, or how it got there. We don't even know if that's what cut her."
"She was bleeding and she didn't know it? Where was she bleeding from?"
"Her back, over her left shoulder blade. I saw a spot of blood on her lab coat and asked her about it, and that was the first she noticed it."
"That's a pretty strange place to be bleeding from. And I wouldn't expect a hypo to cause a cut that would seep through her blouse and lab coat."
"Yes, it's strange. We're doing a wide-range test of the contents of the syringe and a test of the blood on her coat as well, we'll have the results in a couple days."
"Why don't you go and get some rest, Mom." I've got a job in the city this afternoon. When I get back, let's go to the lab together.
"Ist's nicht gefahr," he replied. "It's not dangerous. You know Hep-C and AIDS aren't spread like that." Before she could continue her motherly scolding, he held both her hands, looked her straight in the eye and said, "What's going on? You smell of fear. Be straight with me."
"Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know why." She looked down at their hands. "Yes, something happened. Geena got stuck with a sharp today." A sharp was any kind of medical instrument that might be a bio-hazard, such as a hypodermic needle or disposible blade. Each room at the laboratory had a red box labelled "Biohazard" where sharps were to be disposed of.
"How did that happen?" He was beginning to regret tasting the blood. He wasn't worried about contamination, but the idea of tasting Geena's blood, of being in any way connected with her, made him uncomfortable.
"I guess that's what's upset me. She didn't know. I just saw her arm bleeding. She hadn't even noticed. Then we looked around and found a syringe on the floor, and we didn't know what was in it, or how it got there. We don't even know if that's what cut her."
"She was bleeding and she didn't know it? Where was she bleeding from?"
"Her back, over her left shoulder blade. I saw a spot of blood on her lab coat and asked her about it, and that was the first she noticed it."
"That's a pretty strange place to be bleeding from. And I wouldn't expect a hypo to cause a cut that would seep through her blouse and lab coat."
"Yes, it's strange. We're doing a wide-range test of the contents of the syringe and a test of the blood on her coat as well, we'll have the results in a couple days."
"Why don't you go and get some rest, Mom." I've got a job in the city this afternoon. When I get back, let's go to the lab together.
Chapter 4
Brian woke up to see the sight and sound of his cell phone flashing, ringing, vibrating and doing everything but singing and dancing on his night stand. It started the way the end of the world will start, he thought, with a phone ringing at 3:00 in the morning. It was a line from some book he'd read. He was still half asleep.
He caught the phone just as it skittled off the table, and answered it.
"Reder here." He already knew who it was, and what it was about. A phone call at this hour only meant one thing.
"Lieutenant Reder. Brian? Sorry to wake you." That was Lynn, the police dispatcher, a kindly, middle-aged bleached blond. She was always a mixture of professionalism and motherliness. "We've got a body out in Mary district. The patrol guys thought you should come out."
Not every dead body found in the area warranted calling a homocide detective. Sometimes people died, and it was murder. But when in doubt, homocide was called in. As a detective, Reder normally worked a 9-to-5 day shift, but he was on call 24 hours a day for circumstances like this.
"Okay. What's the location?"
"No address. It's out in the desert. Maybe you should come to the station and a unit can drive you out, or can follow it. That would be easiest for you."
"Okay, thanks. Good idea."
"It's rough terrain out there, too. Better wear boots." That was the motherliness coming in. Brian often got teased about his dapper manner of dress. He was the only homocide detective he knew that actually wore the occassional trench coat.
"Thank you, Lynne."
"Oh more thing, Brian." Lynne's voice sounded a little flat. "The guys asked me...what's the name of that stuff you have, that scrambles your nose or whatever?"
"Odorscreen, Lynne." Odorscreen is a relatively new Israeli product that reduces nauseating odors by 'filling up' the receptors in the human nose that perceives them. In particular, it masks the instinctively revolting smell of bodily decay. Its manufacturer markets it as being particularly useful in the event of widespread disaster with many deaths. Mitigating awful stenches improves relief worker efficiency and reduces psychological trauma. Movies sometimes portray cops as putting mentholatum on their upper lips to hide the scent of death, but they don't. It doesn't work, and it's usually not necessary. Brian had also been teased a couple times for discreetly using Odorscreen.
"The guys were wondering if you could bring some for them."
He caught the phone just as it skittled off the table, and answered it.
"Reder here." He already knew who it was, and what it was about. A phone call at this hour only meant one thing.
"Lieutenant Reder. Brian? Sorry to wake you." That was Lynn, the police dispatcher, a kindly, middle-aged bleached blond. She was always a mixture of professionalism and motherliness. "We've got a body out in Mary district. The patrol guys thought you should come out."
Not every dead body found in the area warranted calling a homocide detective. Sometimes people died, and it was murder. But when in doubt, homocide was called in. As a detective, Reder normally worked a 9-to-5 day shift, but he was on call 24 hours a day for circumstances like this.
"Okay. What's the location?"
"No address. It's out in the desert. Maybe you should come to the station and a unit can drive you out, or can follow it. That would be easiest for you."
"Okay, thanks. Good idea."
"It's rough terrain out there, too. Better wear boots." That was the motherliness coming in. Brian often got teased about his dapper manner of dress. He was the only homocide detective he knew that actually wore the occassional trench coat.
"Thank you, Lynne."
"Oh more thing, Brian." Lynne's voice sounded a little flat. "The guys asked me...what's the name of that stuff you have, that scrambles your nose or whatever?"
"Odorscreen, Lynne." Odorscreen is a relatively new Israeli product that reduces nauseating odors by 'filling up' the receptors in the human nose that perceives them. In particular, it masks the instinctively revolting smell of bodily decay. Its manufacturer markets it as being particularly useful in the event of widespread disaster with many deaths. Mitigating awful stenches improves relief worker efficiency and reduces psychological trauma. Movies sometimes portray cops as putting mentholatum on their upper lips to hide the scent of death, but they don't. It doesn't work, and it's usually not necessary. Brian had also been teased a couple times for discreetly using Odorscreen.
"The guys were wondering if you could bring some for them."
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