Gray Matter (11 page)

“Yeah, I do. You’re the one who asked me if I had a few minutes. I’ll be at my desk,” he said, pointedly looking around at her office, “going over some photos of the scene. Give me a holler if you need anything.” He rose, leaning on the desk and favoring his left knee. He paused in the doorway and turned for a parting remark.

“Speaking of somewhere else to go, Doc, don’t you have a home life?”

PJ pointed grimly at the door, like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and Schultz ambled through.

Life in the Department was routinely unusual, an oxymoron that people in Schultz’s line of work would nod at and accept, and he had weathered stranger happenings. In spite of his bluster about the computer, he had been amazed at what he had seen, not that he would let on to Doc. It made him feel excited about the future of police work and sad that he was not really going to be a part of that future—he was winding down to retirement, betrayed both by his arthritic knees and an accumulation of the poison that society had been injecting into his veins for decades.

But here he was, doing field work again, sensing that shining thread that led out into the darkness to the mind and heart of the killer, to a man who was not really human even though he certainly wasn’t unique in the human experience.

Maybe the old man wasn’t ready for the scrap heap yet.

Schultz sighed and lowered himself into his chair, which squealed in protest under his weight like a skittish horse. His knees ached, and he opened the second desk drawer on the left and took out an unmarked brown pill bottle. After checking to see if anyone was watching—
stupid shit, nobody’s around down here but me and Doc, and that’s because neither of us have the sense to go home—
he nestled four Ibuprofen tablets in his large palm and swallowed them with coffee.

It wasn’t unusual for Schultz to be in the building at this time, when the night shift alternately dozed and worked in frantic bursts of activity. He and Julia had lost the intimacy of their earlier married life. They lived together now as a practical arrangement, although sometimes even that seemed precarious to Schultz. His twenty-five-year-old son, Rick, seemed to have no career prospects other than petty thievery.

Schultz would never openly acknowledge the loneliness he felt to PJ or anyone else, or the secret dream he had that there should be something more to life, even for a man in his mid-fifties who had seen more pain than anyone should.

This case had high personal stakes for Schultz, not only because he wanted to bring the killer to justice, but because he wanted to prove that he could still do field work. He sensed, behind PJ’s defensive posture, that the stakes were high for her also—she had a great deal to prove about herself and to herself. He understood and respected that.

But he didn’t plan to make it easy.

He removed a large brown envelope from his desk drawer and laid out the contents across his desk. It was a copy of the file set of photos of Burton’s apartment and its depressing contents, including Burton himself. He went over them in detail, trying to reconstruct the murder, trying to inch his way down the thread. After fifteen minutes or so, the Ibuprofen started working on his knees and he felt more relaxed. He crossed his arms on his desk, lowered his head, and slept.

A hand on his shoulder woke him. It was PJ, and she was clearly excited about something. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was only nine-fifteen, less than an hour after he had left her.

He went with her back to her office. She flitted down the hall while he plodded along behind. The office still smelled of coffee and doughnuts, and the cone of light from her desk lamp drew him away from the edges of the room, which were gloomy and ill-defined. Once again she swiveled the computer screen so that it faced in his direction.

“Remember I said that my software had an automatic mode that was boosted by AI?”

“Say that again, Doc, and pretend you’re talking to a human being this time, OK?”

The comment rolled right off her. “All right. When you were in here earlier, I was using the manual mode to step through the virtual crime scene. I mentioned that there is also an auto mode, which directs the computer to fill in unknown events—to use its imagination, I guess you could say. I was getting ready to go home, and I decided to try a quick auto run to test out some changes I made in the facial expression routine. The results were interesting. I want you to see this. Don’t say a word. Just watch.”

Schultz obediently nodded. She made a couple of selections rapidly from the drop-down menus. Once again, the screen showed a 3D view of the porch and the stairs. Genman climbed the stairs, carrying the box containing the flowers, and knocked on the door. Burton asked who it was, and Genman gave his spiel about delivering flowers. The door opened and Genman forced his way in, spilling the flowers onto the floor. Burton stumbled back and fell. Genman hit him on the head with the pry bar, then stood over the prone man and pulled on latex gloves. It was all the same as it had been before. Schultz was about to say so when PJ hushed him and pointed back to the screen.

Instead of going into the kitchen, Genman left the apartment. He went back down to the alley and opened the passenger door of a stylized car which was not recognizable as any particular model. He removed a large gray case about as tall as his arm was long. It looked substantial, but he had no difficulty carrying it back up the stairs, so it must have been either empty or simply lighter than it looked. Once back in the apartment, he locked the door and went into the kitchen. The display followed him there, into the room piled with cardboard boxes. He encountered the cat, wrapped his bloodied arm in the kitchen towel, and picked up one of the kitchen chairs.

Back in the living room, the killer placed the chair a few feet from the sofa, dragged Burton to it, hefted him with difficulty, and sat him up with his legs straddling the back of the chair. He secured Burton’s arms and legs with two lengths of clothesline from his pockets. Then Genman positioned the gray case next to the chair and unlatched the lid. He took out a rolled vinyl case tied with string and a large item wrapped in brown paper. He put the large package down on the floor and removed the paper. A gleaming, wicked-looking cleaver was revealed, the kind that you might find in a Japanese steak house. He sat down on the large carrying case, putting himself at the right height to work on Burton’s back. Then he put the rolled vinyl case on his lap and took from it a small cutting tool. At that point, PJ reached for the mouse. She double-clicked on the vinyl case. The motion halted and a description appeared in the upper left corner, along with an enlarged view of the open case.

It was a set of sculptor’s tools, with straight and curved blades of varying lengths and thicknesses, some for crude stone work and some for exacting detail.

PJ clicked again, and Genman resumed his grim business. He carved rapidly on Burton’s back, his arm moving in a blur.

“This isn’t real time,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper. “The computer analyzed the detail of the carving and indicated that it took about an hour and a half. I requested a hundred-to-one speedup on this part of the simulation, so it will take about fifty-four seconds.”

Genman changed tools repeatedly in a cartoon-like speeded up way, and blood dripped rapidly on the carpet. Somewhere along the line Burton had regained consciousness, and occasionally he moved, arching his back in pain and throwing back his head. His soft moans were silenced with a click of the mouse as PJ muted the sound. Schultz was surprised to find himself relieved that he could no longer hear the man’s agony. Although his logical mind knew that this was only a simulation, he was caught up in what he was seeing, and thought of the representation on the screen as Burton. After all, it had Burton’s face. He was acutely uncomfortable watching the events on the screen, even though the movements were speeded up a hundred times, which made them look jerky and artificial.

It was a long fifty-four seconds.

Genman’s hands slowed and returned to normal speed. He stood and admired his work. From within the large case, he drew a small thirty-five millimeter camera and took several pictures, starting a dozen feet away and ending with a close-up of the carving.

PJ spoke, startling Schultz. “Serial killers often take souvenirs or photos or both of their crimes. That’s part of the psychological profile I entered.”

Genman put the camera back and took out a black plastic trash bag and set it on the floor. He picked up the cleaver.

Schultz fought the urge to turn his eyes away from the screen. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. The hairs on his arms rose as he watched the three inch figures on the screen perform their deadly duet.

Burton was conscious. He knew what was coming, and he struggled with the ropes as only those who smelled death in the air around them could.

Genman stood up, grasped Burton’s hair, and stretched his neck. With a smooth, practiced swing, he severed the head. The body convulsed, tied in the chair, as Genman held the head over the already blood-soaked carpet to let it drain. When the blood flow diminished, which was surprisingly soon, Genman maneuvered the head into the bag and sealed it.

The tools were meticulously cleaned with white towels and then placed into the large carrying case along with the red-stained towels, the kitchen towel which had stanched the flow of blood from the wound given by the cat, and the head. Genman latched the case and carried it over to the apartment door. The view momentarily left Genman and zoomed in on the carpet, showing the four indentations. The killer’s weight had pressed the rubber feet of the carrying case into the pile.

Genman noticed the flowers on the floor. In the kitchen he opened cabinets until he found a cut glass vase. He filled it with water and took it back into the living room, where he arranged the red rosebuds artlessly and stood the vase on a marble-top table.

The case was heavier on the way out. Genman toted it down the stairs with both hands and put it back into the passenger seat of the car. The screen went black.

Schultz breathed out noisily. His face was hot, and he was certain he looked flushed. ‘That’s some story you’ve got there.”

“Yes. It affected me, too,” she said simply. Schultz glanced at her. He could tell that was an understatement. The tightness of the skin around her eyes and mouth made her true feelings apparent.

“Can you show me that carrying case again? I’d like to see it close up.”

“Sure.” PJ ran the simulation back a short way, until the case was on the screen. She double-clicked on it. The enlarged view showed first the outside and then the inside, padded with gray foam shaped in a bumpy pattern. The text indicated that it was a hard-shell case used to carry photographic equipment or large slide projectors, the kind that have a built-in screen for presentations.

Schultz stood and found that his legs were shaking. “I don’t know about you, Doc, but I’ve got to get away from this place for awhile. Let this whole thing sink in. See what comes of it after a night’s sleep.” He met her eyes, and saw that excitement had replaced the sadness of a few moments ago. It was a feeling he knew well: the excitement of the chase.

“Come on, Leo. That was the most dramatic thing you’ve ever seen. Don’t I get a few words of encouragement, or even some faint praise?”

“Let’s not rush it. There are some good ideas there, but don’t underestimate good old-fashioned detective work.”

“And you’re just the good old-fashioned detective to do it.”

“Damn straight.”

“Well, that part about the night’s sleep sounds good to me,” PJ said. “I’m famished, though. Can I take you to dinner first, before we split up? Kind of celebrate?”

“I’m not sure what we’d be celebrating, and no dame takes this married man out to dinner.”

“Tell you what. You know this city a lot better than I do. You choose the place, and I’ll pay.”

“We split the bill,” Schultz said, already halfway out the door, “and I’m not sure I know the kind of places where shrinks congregate. Especially brainy female shrinks.”

“Why, Leo, I didn’t know you cared.”

He ducked his head back into the office to scowl at her, but she was on the phone with her son.

“Tuck yourself in,” she said in a soft voice, “and I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek when I get home. Miss you.”

The scowl slid off his face like syrup sliding off a stack of pancakes, and he was stabbed by a longing for close family ties, intimacy, or just a sincere “miss you” on the phone. He put his hands in his pockets and hurried off down the hallway, leaving her to catch up with him.

T
HEY ENDED UP AT
Millie’s Diner, an unpretentious place with chrome-legged stools, glass sugar dispensers with shiny tops, the kind with little flaps that always dumped out too much sugar, and black-and-white checkerboard linoleum. PJ wasn’t exactly sure what the difference was between linoleum and vinyl flooring, but she was certain that the floor of Millie’s Diner was linoleum. It had just begun to rain outside, and flashes of lightning stopped the rain drops in midair and froze the wetness in rivulets as it ran down the large windows. The rivulets formed a pattern on the window that reminded PJ of the veins and arteries in the Visible Man she had put together as a child. She had been fascinated with the plastic man, with his hands spread as if in supplication and his see-through abdomen that opened so that the organs could be removed and studied, and the tantalizing but undetailed bulge of his groin.

There were a few customers at scattered tables, but no one at the counter. PJ would have preferred one of the tables near the windows, but Schultz headed directly for the counter and she trailed along like a baby duck following Mama.

“Hey, babe,” Schultz said to the woman behind the counter, “saunter over here and take our order, willya? A guy could starve to death in here.”

The woman shot him an icy stare and returned her attention to her order pad. Apparently it contained something fascinating, because it was a full five minutes before she approached them. PJ passed the time listening to her stomach rumbling and flipping open the flap on the sugar dispenser with her fingernail and letting it fall.