The Dead and the Dying (17 page)

Joanna Mason

"So I figure we should just get this over with," I say as I take a seat in Schumacher's office. I'm nervous, but I'm damn well not going to show it. "I know what you're going to say, so -"

"You don't know what I'm going to say," he replies gruffly as he sits down. A lumbering walrus of a man, Schumacher has never really made much of an effort to hide his dislike of me; the man tolerates me because he knows that I get results, but with my mind having been affected by chemotherapy drugs lately, those results have been thin on the ground. There's a danger that he thinks I'm losing my touch, in which case he might think I've become disposable. "You should try being less cocky," he adds, arranging some papers on his desk. "A little humility never hurt anyone."

"I fucked up," I reply, taking a deep breath. "I did, and I'm sorry. It's not my fault that Sam Gazade's execution was botched, but I could have handled things differently."

"You had no business being anywhere near the Sam Gazade case again," he says firmly. "Your emotional state is way too warped to be able to handle that guy -"

"My emotional state?"

"You're damaged, Jo," he continues. "After everything that Sam Gazade did to you twelve years ago -"

"That's all over," I reply, suddenly feeling a little breathless. I swear to God, I'm no longer affected by the things Gazade did to me, but sometimes I get a strange, apprehensive sensation in my chest when his name is brought up.

"He tortured you," Schumacher says firmly.

I open my mouth to argue with him, but no words come out.

"He physically and emotionally tortured you," he continues, "and you've never managed to get past that." He pauses. "Of course, it would have helped if you'd accepted counseling, but even then, I doubt anyone could get over the kind of thing that you went through. I know full well that there were things Gazade did to you that are not in any of the reports. Believe me, Jo, I sympathize. I can't imagine what it must have been like to go through that, and I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it so none of that stuff happened."

"I'm fine," I reply, still feeling breathless. I'm not sure if it's nerves, or the mention of Gazade, or some kind of delayed reaction to the drugs, but my chest is feeling tight. Even though I've stopped taking my pills, I'm fully aware that my body is still very much messed-up, which means that I can never be sure what's happening in there. It's as if someone gave control of my vital organs to a madman.

"He tortured you for two days," Schumacher replies. "Two days of pain. Two days of thinking you were going to die. That's not the kind of thing that ever goes away." He sighs. "I blame myself. As soon as Dawson mentioned that there might be a link between the new murders and the Sam Gazade case, I should have known that you'd go piling in at full speed. I should have made more of an effort to keep you distracted -"

"You make me sound like a child," I reply stiffly.

Without replying, he slides one of the pieces of paper toward me.

"I'm not signing anything," I say, staring at the paper with a growing sense of unease.

"This document confirms that you acknowledge your role in the events at the prison. By signing, you'll be formally accepting a written and verbal reprimand that
will
be entered into your file."

"No."

"You'll also be required to apologize to Governor Lockley in person, without a hint of sarcasm or irony, and without having your damn fingers crossed behind your back."

"No way."

"If you refuse to accept the terms of this reprimand," he continues, "I'll be forced to put you on permanent leave." He pauses for a moment, fixing me with a determined stare that seems a lot more serious than the usual tellings-off that I get when I'm hauled into his office. "This is bigger than the department, Joanna. There are senior people in the local government who want to hang you out to dry. Believe me, this arrangement wasn't easy to strike. Governor Lockley has very generously agreed -"

"Governor Lockley can very generously agree to kiss my ass," I reply, interrupting him. "She's the one who ran that prison so close to the bone that they didn't have any back-up supplies. She's the one who dropped the vial. Hell, she's the one who was actively impeding my attempt to speak to the prisoner -"

"I don't give a crap," he says firmly. "For what it's worth, I've spoken to Dawson and I'm pretty sure you're telling the truth. This isn't about truth, though. It's about extracting you from a mess, so Joanna, please, just sign the goddamn piece of paper, apologize to Governor Lockley, and then get on with your work." He pauses for a moment. "What case are you on right now, anyway? You never file paperwork these days. You just -"

"I'm going to need some time off," I say suddenly, shocking myself. I knew I'd have to make a request eventually, and I was dreading the moment, but I certainly wasn't planning on saying anything today.

He stares at me. "You have holiday time coming next -"

"For medical reasons," I add.

He pauses, and I can tell that he knows this is serious. After all, Schumacher knows that I'm not the kind of person to just take off unless there's a damn good reason. "So here's a deal," I continue. "You give me a couple of months off, unpaid if necessary, while I... resolve my medical issues. In return, I don't give a crap what you tell the media of Governor Lockley or anyone. Tell them you've suspended me, tell them you're being tough and cracking down on my bad behavior. I don't care. Whatever. And then I'll come back, and everything'll be okay again."

"You know that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence," he replies after a moment. "If you're sick -"

"I'm not sick," I tell him, before staring at him in silence for a moment. "I just need a minor procedure."

He sighs. "When?"

"I don't know yet," I reply. "I need to wait until my doctor can get me in."

"But soon?"

I nod.

"Is this..." He pauses. "Joanna, please put my mind at rest and tell me that this isn't a recurrence of your cancer."

"It's not a recurrence of my cancer," I say, staring at him with impassive determination. At that exact moment, with a taste for irony, my stomach lurches slightly and I start to feel nauseous. I guess my body wants to remind me that it's still got stuff going on, even if my head feels much clearer than usual.

He stares back, and it's clear that he's not sure whether to believe me. He's known me long enough to understand that I lie freely, and that I'll do or say whatever I consider necessary to achieve the end result that I'm after. Fortunately, he also knows that there's no point pushing me; I never change my mind, and if I say that the medical issue isn't a recurrence of my cancer, there's no way in hell I'll ever say anything different.

"This copycat case," he says eventually, choosing his words carefully. "It's Dawson's work officially, but would I be right in thinking that you're doing some unofficial legwork of your own? I've checked the records, and you've been accessing some interesting files on the system."

"I think that's something that I'd keep to myself," I reply, finding it harder and harder to control the feeling of nausea. "
If
I was doing it. To avoid putting you in an awkward situation, Sir." I slide the unsigned piece of paper back over to him. "Am I to assume that, officially, I'm off work as of this moment?"

"You're suspended from duty for two months," he replies sternly. "Let me know if you need longer."

"Two months should be more than enough," I say, getting to my feet. "Feel free to tell Governor Lockley and the other assholes whatever you want. Tell them I had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of the office if you think it'll buff up their grins." As I walk over to the door, I can't help but feel that somehow I've managed to get everything I wanted out of this meeting. I was fully expecting Schumacher to tear into me with unprecedented ferocity, but he seems to be more worried about me than anything else.

"Don't get too close to the Gazade thing," Schumacher says. "Whatever happened in the execution chamber the other day, it still sounds like you misjudged things. That's not like you. You're a pain, but you get things done. For your own sake, I think it'd be better if you kept well away from the Sam Gazade case."

"I'm nothing to
do
with the Gazade case," I point out. "Officially." With that, I head out into the corridor. As soon as I've pulled the door shut, I hurry along the corridor and into the bathroom, before locking myself in a stall and leaning over the bowl. Finally, I stop fighting the feeling of nausea that has been building through my body, and I bring up the food I ate a couple of hours ago. The pain in my side is so intense, I'm starting to sweat, but at least the nausea is starting to subside. Grabbing some toilet paper, I wipe my mouth before standing up.

For a moment, I feel a little dizzy, but finally the sensation passes. I take a deep breath as I realize that I seem to be stable again. For now, at least. These moments of clarity are precious, and I know I need to take advantage of them before they're inevitably subsumed by the fog again. I know the drugs have done permanent damage to my mind, and I'm scared that I might never be my old self again.

Now that I'm off duty, however, I guess I can go and see Dr. Huston. After all, being off duty means I don't have to worry about paperwork, but Schumacher forgot, or "forgot", to take my badge and gun. Hell, I'm starting to think that being off duty is the way to go.

Dr. Alice Huston

"What
is
this place?" Paula asks as I lead her down the steps at the back of the old research annex. She seems nervous and skittish, and I don't blame her; after all, she's still coming to terms with the fact that she's a serial killer.

"The university owns lots of buildings all over town," I reply as we reach the iron basement door. "Most of them are completely neglected. You know what it's like. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand's doing. The janitors don't even know about half of these places, and it must have been easy enough to get a key from the grounds-keeping department. It was used in the 60's for some kind of research project, but it's been left to rot ever since." I pause for a moment, enjoying the look of confusion in her eyes. "Well?" I say after a moment. "Are you going to let us in?"

"Me?" She seems very uncertain, but finally she reaches out and turns the handle. The door, however, is locked. She looks confused for a moment, as if she has no idea what to do next. She's clearly second-guessing herself at every turn.

"You don't remember coming here before, do you?" I continue.

"I've never -"

"You have the keys in your pocket, Paula."

"Keys?" She stares at me. "Of course I don't. How the hell would I have keys to this place?"

"Take a look in your pocket," I reply.

She reaches down to check, and after a moment she takes a set of keys from her coat pocket. There's a look of shock on her face, and I can see the slow dawn of realization. She didn't notice that I slipped the keys into her coat earlier, and now she has no idea how they got there.

"I followed you here a couple of times," I continue. "At first, I wasn't sure quite what you were doing, but eventually I managed to listen through one of the grates near the top. Do you really not remember? Think back to the last time you were here. It was only a couple of days ago. I watched from the road as you came inside. I waited a couple of hours, but eventually I had to get back to the campus for a class."

She shakes her head. "I've never been to this place before in my life."

"Of course you have," I reply. "It's your base of operations, Paula. It's where you do everything." I wait for her to say something, but her sense of shock seems to be complete. "Are you going to let us in?" I ask. "It's kind of chilly out here."

She stares at the keys in her hand, and it's clear that she's terrified.

"You have to do it," I continue. "You've done it a lot of times before. The only difference is that now I'm here, which is preventing you from erecting the mental screens that usually allow you to block your ability to remember what you're doing. The first step on the road to recovery is for you to take charge of your own life, unlock this door and come face to face with the reality of everything you've been doing over the past few weeks. You can't continue to hide from your own actions forever. You don't want to end up getting caught, do you?"

"Caught?"

"You're a serial killer, Paula. The police tend to look down on that kind of behavior." I watch her expression closely, looking for any sign that she might be doubting what I'm telling her. "I'm not judging you," I continue, "but you need to be careful. The police are undoubtedly aware of your activities by now, and I'm sure they'll be looking for you. They've found the first couple of bodies, and I can assure you, they'll be conducting forensic analysis as we speak. Have you been covering your tracks properly?"

"I don't know," she says, with a hint of panic in her voice. "I have no idea
what
I've been doing. What if they come for me?"

"Relax," I say, placing a hand on her arm. "I'm sure you've been doing a good job. If you'd been leaving bloody fingerprints all over the place, they'd have found you by now. You're obviously capable of getting the job done, even if your coping mechanism prevents you from remembering." I pause for a moment, watching as she continues to stare at the key. "Let me help you, Paula," I say eventually. "Let me give you the guidance you've been lacking all your life. It pains me to see you floundering like this. You need someone to help point you in the right direction, and I'd like to be that person."

"Why?" she asks, with tears in her eyes. "Why didn't you just go to the police when you realized what I'd been doing?"

"Because I happen to agree with you. And because I think you've got potential. It'd be a far greater crime if you were left to rot in a cell for the rest of your life. You've got so much potential, and one of my jobs is to bring out the potential in every student I teach. It's just that your potential is a little... different... to the potential I see in others. I really think you could be something important, Paula, but it's time for you to stop hiding your true nature. Embrace the truth, and start by unlocking this door and seeing what you've been doing all this time."

Tentatively, she slides the key into the lock and turns it. There's a clicking sound, and finally she pushes the door open, revealing the dark, windowless interior.

"Here," I say, reaching past her and flicking the light switch. As we step inside, a set of fluorescent lights flicker into life above us, illuminating the sparse room. Over by the far wall, there's a bench with various tools laid out, and at the other side of the room there's a large box with a heavy-duty lock on the front. As I push the door shut behind us, I can't help but notice that Paula seems totally enraptured by the whole place, as if she's entering some kind of wonderland. So far, however, she's holding up very well.

"I don't remember it," she says, walking over to the middle of the room before turning back to face me. "I don't remember ever being here before in my life."

"You've been here at least twice in the past week," I tell her. It's a lie, of course, but it's one she'll believe. "Probably more times, of course. I haven't been able to follow you constantly. You've spent many hours in this place, though, working on your projects. It almost seems like a kind of second home for you."

"What projects?" she asks.

I walk over to the metal grid on the floor, which is used to drain away the blood. "I thought you'd remember by now," I say quietly, before glancing over at her. "I thought that somehow you'd have a moment of realization."

"I feel like I've never been here," she says. "I'm not doubting you, Dr. Huston, but I swear, this all seems completely new to me." She walks over to the bench and looks at the tools. "I don't even know how to use half of these things."

"You do," I reply. "You
really
do, Paula."

She picks up one of the electric bone-saws, examining it as if it's a new toy. She's never touched the damn thing in her life, of course, but she needs to believe that she's used it to cut up bodies. I watch as her fingers move over the tool's surface, leaving prints behind. I've carefully kept my own fingerprints from every surface in the building, but Paula clearly doesn't understand the importance of being careful. I'm quite relieved, in a way. She's a smart girl, but she's obviously not cut out for this kind of activity, which means it should be easy enough to ensure that when it's all over, she's the one who gets blamed for all the deaths. I have to admit that even though I planned the whole thing methodically, it's still extremely satisfying to see it all coming together.

"What was that?" she says, suddenly turning to look at the long box on the other side of the room.

"Did you hear something?" I ask, my heart racing as I realize that she's about to face her greatest challenge yet. The box is a couple of meters long and about a meter tall and wide. It's more than big enough to store a human body, as I've already determined on a number of occasions.

"It was like..." She pauses, and I can see that although she hasn't said the words yet, she knows what she heard. "It was like someone was... scratching..."

Walking over to the box, I look down at the lock and realize that I need to be careful. This whole thing needs to come across as being Paula's idea. She's fragile, and while it's important to expose her to the full horror of everything that 'she' has been doing in this place, I also need to ensure that she doesn't lose her mind completely. Not yet, anyway. There'll be time for that later.

"Those keys," I say, turning to her. "Maybe one of them opens the box."

She stares at me, with fear in her eyes.

"You're right," I continue, listening to the faint scratching sound, "there
is
something in there. Paula, do you your next victim lined up?"

"I don't have victims," she snaps back at me, as if she's starting to panic. "None of this is true. You're setting me up. You're making me believe things that aren't true." With that, she turns and starts hurrying to the door, but I manage to catch up to her and grab her before she gets outside. "Why are you doing this to me?" she shouts, trying to get free. "This is all you! You're trying to 0"

"I'm trying to help you," I say firmly, dragging her back over to the box and pushing her down onto the floor. "Open it!"

She fumbles with the keys for a moment, before turning and trying to get away again. Grabbing her shoulder, I pull her back.

"Open it!" I shout. "Paula, you have to face the truth about what you've done! You have to embrace your crimes! If you keep running from them, you'll never fulfill your potential! Is that what you want? Do you want to be just another of the cowards who see how the world should be changed but who don't get up and do anything about it?"

"Please don't make me do this," she says, starting to sob again. "I can't. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I don't know why I did all these things, but I want to stop... I want to go to the police... I don't want to be a murderer, not anymore... Not like this..."

"No," I say forcefully, "you have to continue. You're doing good work, and the world will be a better place, but only if you have the stomach to keep going. I can't do it for you, Paula. You're the one!" I pause, realizing that maybe I've gone too far. Still, she's clearly wavering and I need to make sure that she plays the role that I've laid out for her. "Maybe you're the one who can change the world," I continue, watching as she stares with breathless horror at the box. "Maybe, Paula, you're the one who can finally fix everything that's wrong. Wouldn't that be good? Wouldn't you like to show everyone that they're wrong? You're smart, and you're capable, and you've got the guts to do this. But you need to face your own actions." I look down at her hand and see that she's trembling as she holds the key. "Open the box," I say finally, taking a step back.

She pauses, and then slowly she slips the key into the lock and turns it. Her hands are still trembling as she grabs the sides of the lid - once again, leaving fingerprints everywhere - and finally she opens the box.

"I didn't do this," she says, staring with horror at the shivering, bleeding figure chained inside. "I didn't do this. I didn't... I couldn't... I wouldn't... This isn't me..."

"This is your next victim," I say, stepping closer and staring down at Harry Gillespie's terrified face. Gillespie's mouth is firmly gagged, to ensure that he can't tell Paula that I'm the one who kidnapped him, and he's completely naked. I would have killed him a couple of days ago, but I needed to wait until Paula was ready. "You drugged him," I say, placing a hand on Paula's shoulder, "and you brought him here. I don't know how or when, but you managed it somehow. How else can you explain everything?" I wait for her to reply, but she's clearly stunned and horrified by the sight of the man's terrified face. "Embrace this side of your personality," I add. "You've killed already. There's no reason to be scared."

"I can't," she whispers. "This is Dr. Gillespie. He works at the university. If I kill him, people are going to start making links..."

"It's too late," I reply, amused by her concerns. "He's seen your face. Besides, the guy's an asshole. He always got the better funding deals, while my work was left to rot."

"But -"

"Here," I say, taking a knife from my pocket and holding it out to her. "You can use this to perforate his heart. You'll be copying Sam Gazade's third murder in every detail. This is exactly what he did to the third woman he killed."

She shakes her head, but I place the knife in her hand and carefully close her fingers around the handle, before putting my hands around hers and tilting the knife down toward Gillespie's chest.

Filled with terror, Gillespie struggles desperately to get free. He's trying to shout out at us, probably to tell Paula that I'm lying to her, but there's no way he'll be able to get that gag out of his mouth.

"You can do it," I whisper to Paula, gently pressing the blade against Gillespie's bare chest. "Be brave. You've done it so many times before. Just focus."

"I can't," she whimpers, with tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto Gillespie's skin.

"You already are," I say, applying enough pressure to slip the tip of the knife into the man's flesh.

Gillespie lets out a stifled scream as blood starts to flow from the wound.

"That's not me," Paula says quietly. "It's you, Dr. Huston. You're the one who's pushing down."

"No," I reply, as the knife slides between Gillespie's ribs. "It's you, Paula. Don't try to hide from the truth. You're the one who's doing this. My hands are just resting on yours, to help you." With that, I apply the final pressure that's required to push the knife into Gillespie's heart. The blade grates against his ribs before puncturing his heart. His body jerks several times as he continues to scream, but finally he falls still, with his eyes staring straight at me. Slowly, I take my hands away, leaving Paula holding the knife handle, with the blade buried deep in the man's chest.