8

Interlude 1.b: Empathy Impulse Resonance

"You still working on that Hebert case, Doyle?"

Detective Kevin Doyle looked up from the file he'd been staring at for what felt like hours to the face one of his fellow officers, who was holding a steaming mug of coffee. Kevin sighed and leaned back into his chair, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It just won't stop bugging me."

"It's been three months without any leads; most guys woulda given up, by now, 'specially with this caseload you got sitting here," said Detective Ryan Richards. He took a long, loud sip of his coffee, and a brief surge of jealousy welled up in Kevin's gut. Bastard always went out to get his coffee, and the rest of the precinct — Kevin included — slummed it with the sludge from the coffee machine in the break room.

Not everyone could throw around the kind of money Richards did, after all.

"You're probably right," Kevin admitted, purposefully ignoring what smelled like ambrosia in a cup. "But that's the thing that bothers me."

"What?" Richards arched an eyebrow. "The fact you got no leads?"

"Right." Kevin nodded. He tapped the file with the fingers of one hand. "No fingerprints on the locker aside from the vic's, plenty of DNA, sure — but no way to connect anyone to anything, considering all that…that shit in her locker. The sheer volume of female samples means we can't definitively finger any one girl for the deed, so it's circumstantial, at best."

"And no witnesses," Richards finished for him.

"And no witnesses," Kevin agreed. "The Hebert girl can name names, sure, but since she never actually saw who locked her in, her testimony would never hold up under scrutiny. Any lawyer worth his salt would poke so many holes in it, it might as well be Swiss cheese. It wasn't even enough to get a search warrant for those three girls' cell phones. But the thing that really gets me, see, that really twists my head around — you remember high school, right?"

Richards offered something like a grin. "I try not to."

"You and half the world," Kevin shot back. "Anyway — I remember nothing happened when I was in high school without half the school knowing by lunchtime. Who broke up with who, who lost their virginities over the weekend, who got his head shoved in the toilet — if someone passed gas in first period, everybody else knew by fifth. Point is, if there was something worth talking about, then there was someone who'd seen the whole thing with his own eyes, and he told anyone who listened."

"Not that different from the real world, actually," Richards remarked. He slurped another sip of his coffee. "Tabloids are always talking about something, after all."

"Right. So, there's this big prank in school. A girl gets shoved in her locker and left there for several hours, and in the first few minutes, you know she's gotta be screaming her lungs out, banging against the door for all she's worth. Teachers are probably already in their classrooms or whatever, but at this point, most of the students are either just showing up or heading to their own lockers, right?"

"I'd guess so, yeah," Richards allowed. "I mean, that's the first thing I did in the morning, yeah, so most of 'em were probably at their lockers."

"Right." Kevin nodded again. "So the girl gets shoved in her locker, the other kids are milling through the hallways, she's screaming to raise all hell, and…somehow, no one sees who did it or hears her screaming. Not a single one of Winslow's students, some…what? Fourteen hundred or so? None of these fourteen hundred kids hears her screaming or sees her get shoved into the locker or by whom. Does that make any sense to you?"

"You're forgetting about one thing."

"What's that?"

Richards reached down and tapped the stack of papers in the file folder, the one labeled "WITNESS STATEMENTS." It was a depressingly small and sparse pile, and most of the statements in it were from kids who'd said they hadn't seen or heard anything at all. It was the most anemic and useless stack of witness statements Kevin had ever seen; there were mob hits with more substantive evidence.

"Winslow's a shithole," Richards said plainly. "Half the kids in there are part of one gang or another. None of those ABB chinks or E88 skinheads is gonna be willing to put themselves on our radar by being a witness in a police investigation, least of all for what seems like the local pariah. See, their friends and their bosses'll only see them being all buddy-buddy with us, won't even bother asking what they're doing, just put a bullet in the back of their head. Gangbangers ain't exactly the brightest bulbs in the box, but they ain't stupid enough to risk themselves like that, either."

Richards had a point. Gangsters and thugs distrusted the police on principle, and the feeling was pretty mutual. No way any of the ABB or the E88 were going to put themselves out there to testify for an unpopular loner like Taylor Hebert — it was just a fact of life.

But Kevin already knew that. Richards hadn't told him anything he hadn't already figured out for himself.

"I already figured that, though," Kevin replied. "Sure, the guys from the ABB and the E88 wouldn't say anything unless it was to point us at the other side, and the guys looking to join up would keep pretty mum, too, but not everyone at Winslow is a gangster. There's plenty of kids there who wouldn't have any affiliation with either gang, and something this big is gonna be all over the school. In spite of that, none of them have come forward to say anything about who pushed the Hebert girl in, and none of them thought to go and let her out. Why?"

That, Kevin felt, was the million dollar question. Why? Why, in a school with more than a thousand students, had not one of them had the common human decency to pull the girl out of her locker? Why had it taken several hours and a janitor for someone to notice the smell? Why hadn't one of the teachers noticed it on the way to lunch?

Why was everyone, including Winslow's staff, trying to pretend it had never happened?

Richards scoffed and sipped some more of his coffee.

"Jesus, Doyle, it's not like it's some kind of conspiracy."

"That's the part I can't figure out," Kevin said, "because it certainly seems like one. The ABB and E88 kids, I buy. Hell, a few of them not wanting to out their crushes or the Track team not wanting to turn on one of their star runners, I'd buy that, too. One or two not wanting the attention of Emma Barnes and her lawyer father, I'd even buy that. But the entire school? What are they all hiding? What are they all afraid of, that no one is willing to testify or go on record about what happened that day?"

"Fuck if I know," said Richards.

Kevin sighed and rubbed at his forehead, where he could feel the beginnings of a headache forming. It really was maddening.

"Yeah. Fuck if you know, fuck if I know, fuck if anybody knows. Only ones who know what happened have sealed their lips tighter than Fort Knox. As far as anyone is saying, that girl wound up in her locker by magic and a ghost closed it behind her."

And didn't that sum up the situation? There was plenty of evidence, sure, but none of it of any use. They had three suspects who had been named, but aside from the victim, who couldn't say beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were even responsible, no witnesses to place them at the scene and no proof they'd even been there at all. There were no fingerprints, too many DNA samples to be reliable, and they had so little to go on that they hadn't even managed to convince a judge to hand them a search warrant.

If there was any evidence to be had, Kevin was sure it was on those girls' cell phones, but without a warrant…

So, as far as the law was concerned, Taylor Hebert's locker had been filled with a biohazard by God or the Devil or something, she had wound up inside of it through magic or some contrivance of coincidences, and a ghost or a wandering spirit — or hell, the wind — had shut and locked the door behind her. Sophia Hess, Emma Barnes, and Madison Clements had nothing to do with any of it, and anyone who said otherwise was spreading baseless accusations.

Alan Barnes had made sure to throw around words like "slander" and "libel" and "lawsuit" when Doyle had gone to ask the Barnes girl a few questions.

Kevin sighed again and sagged back into his chair, slumping. He rubbed idly at the spot on his hip where he'd taken some shrapnel during an encounter with Oni Lee — it'd been acting up, lately, to match his stress levels.

"I think I'm gonna buck this up the chain, see if I can't get the FBI or Homeland to take a look at it."

Richards, who had been the middle of taking another sip, startled and choked on his coffee, pounding on his chest with one hand as he coughed.

"Wh — uk — what?" he asked. "You serious, Doyle? Get the Feds involved?"

"Deadly," said Kevin. "Probably shoulda gone to them in the first place. You read the report on what all was shoved into that locker, Richards?"

Richards made a wagging motion with one hand. "Sk — uk — skimmed it."

"Lucky you weren't assigned the case. The captain don't take lightly to doing things half-hearted like that."

"'Scuse me if I didn't feel like ruining my lunch."

"You should take a look," said Kevin. "Really read it through. Rotted blood, bugs of all kinds, used tampons and stuff like that. ME called it Satan's Stew. There was enough hazardous material in there to call it a biological weapon. Hospital report said it's a miracle the Hebert girl didn't die of Toxic Shock or catch an STD or something."

Kevin was the lead detective on the case, so he'd seen it personally (and nearly thrown up from the smell). He'd also been the one to talk to the doctors who'd treated the girl, get their statements about the situation, what they were legally allowed to talk about, anyway. Even from the outset, he'd been keenly aware that this whole situation was seriously fucked up.

Richards grimaced, took a look at his coffee cup, then set it aside. "Biological weapon, huh. Bioterrorism, in other words. Yeah, that shoulda gone straight to the Feds. Any idea why it didn't?"

Kevin shrugged. "Captain decided not to send it up to 'em. Don't ask me why."

Richards snorted.

"That's 'cause he didn't want it getting solved. Winslow's a shithole, Doyle. Any chance this could wind up putting away one of the gang kids would mean the whole place blowing up in the aftermath. Captain probably didn't want to risk it for a girl who came out the other end of this shaken up, but otherwise fine."

Kevin scowled and the embers of frustration that had simmered in his gut for three months flared up into anger and indignation.

"All the more reason to send it up the chain, then," he said a little hotly. "The captain can yell at me all he likes, afterwards. As long as this case gets solved, I'll take it without complaint."

Richards's brow furrowed. "You really mean that." He sighed and scratched at his stubble. "Jesus, Doyle, what's got you wound up so tight about this case? You a family friend of the Heberts or something?"

"Never met 'em."

Richards stared at Kevin for a long moment, as though trying to catch him in a lie, but it was the truth. Kevin had never met the Heberts before this case. He'd heard vaguely about Danny Hebert — guy was practically legendary for his temper and his passion and especially for being good at keeping the dockworkers out of trouble — but never actually met the guy some of the detectives in the organized crime unit called The Bull. Not until this mess, that was.

Then, Richards glanced around Kevin's desk, and Kevin realized all too late that he still had a photo of his family propped open in the right hand corner.

Richards snatched it up almost before Kevin could think to grab for it.

"Cute kid," said Richards. He held out the photo and pointed at Kevin's wife, Jenny, who was holding a swaddled baby girl. The photo had been taken three days after they'd brought that little girl home. "How old is she?"

"…Ten months, next Friday."

"You know," Richards set the picture back down, "I'm pretty sure one of the big things they talk about at the academy is not getting personally involved, not letting your feelings affect how you tackle a case. Ain't that lesson one on how to be a cop?"

"Oh, like you've never had a case that felt really personal!" Kevin snapped. He reached over and rearranged the picture of his wife and daughter so that it was set the way it'd been before Richards had picked it up. "You're always trying to snag anything that deals with the mayor. Isn't your sister married to the guy?"

Richards' lips pulled into a frown. He picked his coffee back up.

"Fair enough," he said, before taking a sip.

Kevin sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just…I can't help but think about what her dad must be going through. If it were my little girl shoved into a locker, and no one and nobody was even bothering to come up with answers…"

Probably the most surprising part of the case was that Danny the Bull hadn't kicked up more of a fuss, considering his reputation. If it had been Kevin's little girl who'd been stuffed in that locker and left to rot — well. They'd still be picking up the pieces of whatever poor sap had had to deliver the bad news about how horribly the case was going, to say nothing of the girls who'd been responsible for it.

Kevin had heard something about the school seeking a settlement, though, and the dockworkers had been hard up for jobs since the Bay's economy crashed. Maybe Hebert had been forced to settle because he hadn't been able to afford pursuing the case in court? Kevin didn't know.

"Yeah." Richards sighed, too. "Alright. Listen, you go ahead and try to get this sent to the FBI, get the Feds to come down and take over. You're right, a biohazard like that is a big deal, no matter how you slice it. If that don't work, or if the captain needs a little convincing, I'll talk to my brother-in-law and see if I can't get the big man to throw some of his weight around. That sound okay to you?"

Kevin offered Richards a weary smile. "You know, Richards, you ain't nearly as bad as all the rumors say you are."

Richards laughed.

"Don't go telling anybody, though. Next thing you know, everyone'll be asking me out to have a beer."

"God knows that would be a tragedy."

"'Course it would. I hate the stuff."

Richards tipped his coffee cup up and drained the last dregs of his expensive brew, then crumpled the cup up with one hand and tossed it in the trash. Kevin watched it go a little jealously — Starchild was Starbucks' more expensive, more exclusive younger sibling, and Kevin had only ever bought coffee there once. It was that good and that expensive.

"You get everything organized and put together — don't want the whole thing falling apart because you forgot to cross your t's and dot your i's," said Richards, "try and get it sent on up to the Feds. If someone tries to give you the runaround or the Captain tries to stonewall you —"

He reached for Kevin's notepad, flipping to a blank page, and tore it off, then grabbed one of Kevin's pens and scribbled out what looked like a telephone number.

"Here," said Richards. "This is my cell number. Call me and give me the word, and I'll talk to my brother-in-law, see if the mayor throwing his weight behind this'll get it where it needs to go. In the meantime, I'll make some inquiries with the Winslow staff, see if I can't figure out what's got everyone so afraid to say one bad word against those three girls."

"Doubt you'll get anywhere," Kevin told him.

"Probably won't," Richards agreed.

"But thanks, Richards. Whether or not this works out, I'll owe you one."

Richards grinned. "I'll make sure to collect on that, one day. For now, though, you and I both got cases we still hafta take care of, and if we sit here yacking back and forth for too much longer, Captain'll probably show up and tear us both a new asshole for slacking off."

Kevin laughed and shook his head. "Ain't that the truth. He'd probably say something like —"

"Like what, Detective Doyle?"

Kevin froze, then slowly, hesitantly turned around to find beady-eyed Captain Simmons staring at him over his bushy mustache, arms folded. The streaks of grey hair stood out at his temples, where a large vein bulged prominently. It was something of a joke around the precinct that it visibly throbbed whenever he was delivering a reprimand, but Kevin couldn't find it funny, now.

"Nothing to say?" Captain Simmons huffed. "No jokes? No wisecracks?"

"N-no, sir," said Kevin. "Never, sir."

"Then you have a case to work on, don't you?" Captain Simmons asked rhetorically. "A murder, if I remember right."

"Yes, sir."

"And you," Captain Simmons turned his attention to Richards, "are still on the Ruby Dreams investigation, aren't you?"

Kevin remembered hearing about that one; apparently, the Undersiders had decided to bust it up. Why the PRT had handed it to the BBPD instead of claiming their usual jurisdiction was something he didn't understand.

"Was gonna send it over to Bradley," grunted Richards, "over in organized crime. Seeing as we're pretty sure it's tied to the ABB."

Captain Simmons' eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. It was like looking into the face of a particularly angry pitbull.

"Then that's what you should be doing, isn't it?"

Richards swallowed what was probably a witty retort, for that would only serve to dig his hole deeper, and replied, "Yes, sir."

"Good," said the Captain. "If you've got time to flap your gums, you should be using it to work on your caseload, and if your caseload is light enough that you can flap your gums, I've got another dozen or two cases waiting for someone to take them. Now, get back to work!"

Captain Simmons spun on his heel and left back towards his office, stalking with large, heavy footfalls that echoed off the floor. They didn't call him Captain John "the Bear" Simmons for nothing.

"Hardass," muttered Richards.

"And don't you forget it!" Captain Simmons shouted over his shoulder. The sound of his office door slamming seemed to vibrate through the entire precinct.

Once he was gone, Kevin sighed and turned back to Richards. "Better get to it. If he decides he needs to come back a second time…"

Richards grunted. "Yeah. Knowing him, he'll be talking suspensions, next."

"Don't be a stranger, Richards."

"See you later, Doyle."