Chapter One

The room was cold and ominously quiet until the door was swung open, and three aides drug an unconscious man onto the middle of the floor. One aide with short brown hair knelt down and tugged the straps of the straight jacket tighter around the unconscious man's waist. The three aides left without a word, one glance at the two-way mirror on his way out the door. Another shot and triple-locked the reinforced steel door and leaned against the adjacent wall to stand guard with the other two. All three were nervous, each fidgeting despite themselves. They had strict orders to stay vigilant and to be ready for anything.

The hall they stood in was long and wide. It was white-washed and smelled of disinfectant, bleach, chlorine, and faint traces of formaldehyde. There were no windows in the large brick and concrete building except the one huge bay window in the front office. Ventilation systems gave the feeling of "fresh air," and the fluorescent lights were the only substitute for the hospital's sunlight.

Suddenly, footsteps rang down the hall, and the aides turned their heads to look. Three men and one woman approached and entered the observation room. The door shut with a click, and the three aides glanced awkwardly at each other. Silence then ensued, making the hallway hot and smothering.

Inside the observation room, two laptops hummed in a corner, recording the patient and his surroundings. Two men sat in office chairs while the remaining man and woman stood by the two-way mirror and peered at the unmoving man.

"Where did you find him?" the woman asked.

"Alleyway between the illegal loft housing and the corner of 15th," the man beside her answered.

"Who else was with him?"

"A dead body, presumably his brother."

"His brother?" the woman asked incredulously.

"It appears so," the man answered grimly. "His body is in the morgue. Would you like to see it?"

"Certainly," she answered. She turned to the two seated men, "he moves; I want to be the first to know about it." They nodded and watched the two leave.

The woman flashed a smile to the aides and turned left, headed to the stairs, the man following close behind.

"Miss, the body, is quite…gruesome, and I strongly—"

The woman stopped, facing the doctor. "Dr. Bradley, I've probably seen much worse on the streets of Compton. If it's worse than the sight of a raped and mangled body of a six-year-old little girl whose face was bitten by human teeth to the point where it is stunningly unrecognizable, I'll buy you lunch," she said bluntly. Dr. Bradley simply blinked and nodded.

"Follow me," he said shakily and unclipped his I.D. from his white jacket. She watched with interest as he swiped the card in front of a scanner. The red light turned green, and the lock on the door clicked open.

"After you, Agent Greene," Dr. Bradley insisted as he held the door open. She walked through, her normally mellow mahogany eyes blazing with curiosity. They were silent as they traversed the steps, the temperature dropping. Two doors and three corridors later, they arrived at the morgue. Greene pulled her shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail and accepted the gloves that Dr. Bradley had held out to her. She put them on and scrutinized the rows of covered bodies on the gurney after gurney.

"He's over here," Dr. Bradley gestured to a gurney with a particularly bloody sheet covering a body at about 5' 11" in length. "He was pronounced dead on the scene. Are you ready?" Dr. Bradley asked, his hazel eyes wary. Greene nodded and held her breath as the doctor carefully pulled down the sheet. Greene gazed upon the man expectantly. She gasped as her eyes followed the contours of his handsome unmarked face, down his neck, to his torn and mangled throat. Blood no longer pulsed, but it was dried and a dark muddy crimson. Bits of flesh stuck up and around his throat, and blood was smeared in dark, dried splotches down his chest. His stomach, which seemed to have been pretty toned, was now split open horizontally, intestines just visible through the abdominal cavity. Greene wrinkled her nose at the sight of it. Dr. Bradley nodded and pulled the sheet down the rest of the way. A towel was wrapped around the man's waist in a thin strip, leaving him some dignity, even in death. His right thigh was bloody and had a gaping bullet hole wound, showing Greene the mangled sinews of flesh and bone. Greene frowned.

"Why the bullet wound?" she asked aloud, more to herself than to the doctor. He shrugged anyway. Greene forced herself to look back at the face.

"What's his name?" Greene asked.

"Murphy MacManus," Dr. Bradley briefly murmured.

Something in Greene's mind clicked at the name, but she ignored it for the moment. "May I?" she asked, pointing.

"Go ahead," the doctor answered.

Greene gingerly cradled Murphy's lifeless head in her hands. His short, dark brown hair was plastered down, eyes closed, his face calm in death. He had a mole at the left corner of his lips, hadn't shaved the morning of his death, and looked so shockingly young. She set his head down carefully and traced his shoulder to his arm. On the left side of his neck, he bore a tattoo too unrecognizable with the blood and torn flesh for Greene to make it out. On his forearm, he had a large tattoo of a cross, and on his chest, another tattoo—perhaps a name—that was covered in dried blood. Greene leaned forward to study the neck wound. She saw what seemed to be animal teeth marks. She reached out to touch it with a shaky, gloved finger—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep—Greene yelped and jumped back. She patted her pockets for her pager and apologetically smiled at Dr. Bradley.

"It's the guys upstairs!" She exclaimed after looking at it for the second or two it took her brain to register the message. Dr. Bradley covered Murphy MacManus quickly while at the same time, Greene stripped off her gloves and raced to the first locked door. Impatient with Dr. Bradley's slowness, she jerked his I.D. from his hands, ran through every hall, and flew past doors, unlocking them as she went.

Greene dashed down the last hall and into the observation room. The two remaining men, Agent Beckam and a police officer, were standing side by side in the mirror. Greene joined them and saw to her delight that the patient was sitting upright. His dark hair was short but shaggier than his brother's, and even from this distance, Greene couldn't help but stare at his startling deep blue eyes. The eyes of a killer? No…remain objective, she warned herself.

He seemed groggy; his eyes drooped closed every time he opened them. "He just started twitching and sat up seconds ago," commented Beckam. Beckham was Greene's partner and had been since she moved to the 'burbs of Boston a couple of months ago. Vaguely, the MacManus surname rang a bell somewhere in her mind once again, but at the present time, her focus was upon the man in the otherwise empty room.

"Any words?" Greene asked, nearly breathless from her flight up the stairs.

"No."

"Good. I want to be the first to speak to him, understood?" Greene demanded.

"Yes," Beckam replied, looking contrite.

"Can I go in now?" Greene whirled on Dr. Bradley as he just came through the door.

"Agent Greene, he's very dangerous," he replied. Greene only raised an eyebrow under her side-swept bangs, silently daring him to ask about the real danger she'd been in before all this ever happened.

"MURPH!" the man in the next room suddenly screamed out, his voice hoarse with anguish and fear.

"He's calling out for Murphy…." Greene noted sadly as she opened the door to the observation room and stepped outside. She tried to get between the aides, but they held fast and wouldn't budge. "Doctor!" Greene called.

"Let her through," Dr. Bradley said from the doorway, sounding utterly defeated.

The aide glanced at him warily before nodding and wordlessly opening the door. Greene slid through, and the door was locked behind her. She looked down at the man, who was near to hyperventilating, it seemed. His whole upper body was heaving. He looked up at her, his mouth open, ready to yell again, but all that came out was a wheeze.

"Can't…breathe," he managed to gasp in a low voice. Greene looked at the mirror. "Can I undo his jacket?"

"Are you crazy, Agent Greene?" Came the reply from a speaker high above the mirror.

"I might be, but it's not going to be on your conscience," she answered snidely.

"Do as you deem necessary. Your funeral," it was Beckam who now replied.

"My funeral," she mocked. "What's your name?" she asked the man at her feet as she knelt to his level.

"Where's Murphy?" he demanded, his eyes blazing with a fire Greene admired.

"What's your name?" Greene asked again.

He sighed heavily and shifted. "Conner. Conner MacManus. Now where the fuck is my brother?"