The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

2.

308 West St.

September 27th

11:35 AM

Back Alley off of 308 W.

Detective Russell Williams pulled to the edge of a horseshoe of squad cars surrounding an alley entrance. He placed his silver Impala in park and slid into the brisk morning. The flash of squad cars' lights diverted traffic away at a gawker's pace. Russell sidled between the bumpers of two cars, edged past paramedics along an ambulance's far side, and lifted the yellow tape around the crime scene.

The alley was the usual side-street scene in Oakton—save the corpse beside the dumpster. Littered with trash and covered with a fine layer of muck, the place smelled of rotten eggs and roadkill. Ahead to the left, three men's blue coats read “OCF” in yellow stencils across their backs. They congregated around the body, apart from others bearing the Oakton Crime Forensics insignia. Markers were laid randomly around the scene, OCFs scouring the place for any minute clues.

Russell ran his fingers through auburn hair. His brown eyes darted over the scene, his mind ready to piece together the awaiting puzzle. A subtle knot in his gut told him something was off, but he couldn't place what yet.

A black haired, uniformed officer stepped up with his arms crossed, hiding his name-tag. “Hell of a mess,” he said with a crackling candor.

His eyes bounced warily over the scene. Thin lips concealed disgust. He rubbed his clean-shaven, angled jaw, then re-crossed his arms. Russell agreed, his hands on his hips. The name Bryce rang the bell he needed; Allan Bryce, a rookie who'd never seen Oakton's darker side.

By any veteran's assessment this was tame; a single body, left where it fell, and only dead. It could have been a lot worse. In Russell's experience, it usually was.

Since he was a child, he'd heard Oakton's horror stories. Once an eavesdropper to his father's tales on-beat, he learned early the true purpose for the after-work straight-whiskeys. Unable to speak until after his third or fourth drink, Russell's father would then convey the savagery to Russell's mother—and unbeknownst to them, the young child as well.

Gentle as she was, the grizzly reality was well-known to her too. As she once put it, “What isn't on your father's desk, ends up in my E-R.” A lifelong nurse in Oakton, she'd seen her fair share of gang violence, soured back-alley deals, attempted murders, and numerous near-hits.

Emotionally, she became cold, disconnected, allowing her training to take over. Conversely, his father bottled the worst up until it manifested in trembling depression. Russell had learned to control himself for fear of either extreme.

After a stint in the Mid-East as an EOD tech, Russell returned home to follow in his father's footsteps. In contrast to other legacy cops he knew, he'd made a conscious decision to join the force. Most others were coerced by familial duty or lack of opportunity. Unlike them, Russell knew there was more to police-work than a badge, a gun, and an ego: for as many times as he'd seen his father drink in depression or grief, he'd also seen him tearfully thanked. Russell sought to impart that same joy however he could.

But there was no joy in the back alley off 308 West, just a faint smell of death and the vile knot in his gut. He crossed his arms at his chest with authority, “Sit-rep.”

“Sir?” Bryce asked, confused.

Russell's instilled military training always took over, either through habit or for easing jumpy colleagues. It seemed to work well enough most times.

A horn blasted in the distance and crawled through the alley, “Situation report; what do we know?”

Bryce pulled out a notepad and began reading, “Asian male. Approximately thirty-five years old. No wallet or ID. Three gunshot wounds to the chest. A few scattered shells here and there.” The officer pointed to the ground beside a second group of OCFs. He shifted toward the body, “Large caliber. Likely a rifle. There's also a few stray rounds embedded in the brick above the blood smear. Three near the top.”

Russell reconstructed the victim's death in his head; a faint imagery played like a video. He saw ammunition divot the bricks, the body fall back with fresh wounds, then slide to the ground beside the dumpster.

“So the victim slides, dies immediately or is paralyzed and can't move. He bleeds out. Otherwise, we'd have found him elsewhere.”

The question was meant to test the rookie. Russell knew the assessment was correct, but Bryce's response would show the type of man he was. Too many greenies had only been taught what to think, not how.

Bryce answered astutely, “I'd say so, but you're the vet on this one, sir. If I had to guess, I'd say a drug-deal gone bad, but we can't know anything 'til the coroner's office runs the B-C tests.”

Russell nodded. Bryce was respectful, but uncertain, passive. Russell let it lay, too unsatisfied by the knot in his stomach.

The high-powered flashes from OCF cameras flared around him, “Any signs of gang activity?”

“Not so far's we can tell, sir,” Bryce admitted. “Place doesn't seem to be a usual haunt.”

Russell watched the OCFs step away to allow their photographer closer to the body, “Get reports from the local businesses. Ask if they've seen a man fitting this description in the last day. Pull any external surveillance from the surrounding buildings and find out if he was with anybody.”

Bryce scribbled into the pad and turned away from the scene. Russell stepped for the body, crouched beside the photographer. The victim lay slumped against the dumpster, head on his right shoulder, tattooed arms at his sides, palm up. His hands were ashen black, boots caked with mud. It was obvious he'd come from outside the alley, probably chased there.

The more Russell saw, the less a drug-deal theory fit. Most gang-deals ending this way involved the victim face down, shot dead after trying to run, or otherwise drug into cover and left where they lie once cold.

Gang activity was out of place. Moreover, such monikers were usually Homicide write-offs. Russell wasn't ready to write this one off yet.

He spoke to an OCF beside him, “Two days since the last rain?”

The man answered with a tenor, “Sounds right.”

He bounced an idea off him, “Long time to be caked up with mud.”

“Maybe, but the temp's keeping things half frozen at night, 'n cold during the day. Might not've  evaporated yet.”

“Must've been running for a while then.” He turned his head to the gray-haired man, “Any mud in the alley way?”

“No sir, just on his shoes.”

Russell's eyes narrowed. He spoke at a languid pace, “Have your boys test the residue on his hands and cast his shoes. Get someone to search any nearby greenery. If there's anything to help there, we could use it.”

The OCF photographer nodded, “Sure thing.”

Russell eased upward, “When OCF's ready, ship the body to the P-D's coroner with a rush-order. I'd like to get a jump on this A-SAP.”

The man stood beside him, “We'll send him now. They'll do an analysis on the body and blood. The department'll let you know in a few hours. B-C might take 'til tomorrow, but I'll make sure it's rushed.”

“Thank you.” He turned with a final thought, “Tell Bryce to search for the foot-prints. Send one of your guys with though—you know, so he doesn't step in them.”

The OCF chuckled and agreed. Russell headed for the road. In a way the comment was a joke, but then again, he'd seen enough young cops stumble into evidence and entirely corrupt or destroy a crime scene. The kid was smart, sure, but he was still new.

Russell reached the street, sighed at the knot still strangely prevalent in his gut. He edged back around the ambulance and between the squad cars. Amid the din and gusts of traffic, he slid into his Impala and ignited the engine. His free-hand dialed a cell-phone as he steered into morning traffic.

The tone sounded twice before his department head answered with a low baritone, “Switzer.”

“Chuck,” Russell said, eyes on the road.

“Yeah, what've you got, Russ?”

“Got time for coffee?” He asked, stomach rumbling.

“Sure.”

“I'll be there in ten.”

He ended the call and made a left from 308 onto Union. It ran perpendicular past the alley for the heart of Oakton. All around the city teemed with life. People scurried about along lines of various shops interspersed by private restaurants, fast-food chains, and locally-owned apartments.

Downtown's center drew nearer with a shifted landscape. Large office-buildings, franchised banks, international businesses, and expensive hotels dominated the scenes. With them, the people changed too; from street clothes to suits and something called casual-formal—an expression a man perpetually in jeans, sneakers, and a windbreaker never understood.

As his destination neared, the juxtaposition of the few small diners within the franchised district rang vaguely nostalgic. He smiled at the thought, parallel-parked behind Chuck's black Silverado, then stepped out to edge between bumpers for “Ma's Sport's Cafe.”

Beside the door, Switzer's large frame broadened beyond Russell's own, lean figure. It would've seemed menacing to a passersby, whom might peg him for a thug long before a decorated OPD veteran. Russell chuckled in thought, stepped to open the door ahead of Chuck.

They took their usual places beside a window of the retro-50's diner. Windowed booths lined the walls across from a long counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. A cashier there—a young, twenty-something woman—leaned in at a low conversation with a waitress, inaudible over the din of metal on ceramic and conversing patrons.

The scent of frying foods wafted over as Switzer adjusted his jacket, stretched his arms across the back of his booth-seat. Russell unzipped his windbreaker, readjusted the gun at his hip. A middle-aged, brunette waitress stepped up to take their order. Patty looked like a caricature of a bygone era in a pink and red, polka dot, maid's outfit and bright, red Lipstick.

She smiled, “Usual, boys?”

Russell looked to Switzer whom nodded with a scrunched face over a yawn. Russell mimed it. Patty gave a short bow and turned away.

“So what's it looking like?” Switzer asked.

“Bleak, man. Stiff in the alley today? Something was off. OCF's all over it, but…” Russell hesitated. The knot tightened. “Something's not right.”

Chuck's brow rose with curiosity, “Wud'ya mean, Rus?”

Russell half-winced to keep his mind from running away. He leaned back, “OCF's thinking it's just another random. Even the rookie pegged it as a bad deal.”

Chuck nodded, “But it seems like something more.”

“Maybe.” He mentally examined the sensation in his gut, mused aloud, “OCF's not gonna' come right out and say it's a deal, but they all seemed to think so too.”

Patty returned with coffee, interrupted him, “Eggs cookin', bacon's frying. You boys need anything else?”

“No thanks, hon,” Switzer said with a wide, toothy smile. Patty returned the smile and turned away.

Russell kept himself calm despite a well-spring of disdain, “It's too common, Chuck. Unless we see an
immediate
connection, everyone  wants to be done with it—leave the investigative work out. That's what Homicide does nowadays. We leave things unfinished, half-solved.” He sighed heavily, at a loss, “But this? I can't do it with this. Something just doesn't
feel
right
.”

Chuck frowned, “In the gut, you mean.” He nodded. “Rus, you gotta' accept some things won't get solved. Hell, most shit that comes 'cross my desk is days or weeks old. There's no trail
left
to go cold by then. Shit's just frozen out.”

He managed his words with difficulty, “I accept that, Chuck. That's why I'm not a cold-caser. But this is different.”

Chuck understood with a quick once-over of Russell's posture, “I get it.”

Russell explained with a distant look, “When I was deloyed, I felt like I'd started to sense those IEDs. Like, I could feel them or something. It got to the point where I started trusting my gut more than dogs or mine detectors. I know I saved lives 'cause of it, and now I'm thinking I feel the plastique again.”

Chuck was silent. He considered Russell's words while Patty returned with two steaming plates, “One regular. One extra crispy. Want a refill?” She tilted the carafe at Russell. He thanked her as she poured, “Anything else?”

“That's it for now, hon,” Chuck said with another toothy smile.

Patty rushed off as Chuck sank back into his thoughts. He tore the paper ring off his silverware and dug in. “Well Rus,” he said between chews. “I'll give you a week. That's all I can afford. You're a high priority—the best, but I trust you.”

Russell nodded with gratitude, took a swig from his coffee, “So, what do you think then?”

“Well,” Chuck paused to shovel a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He sloshed it down with a drink, “If you're smelling plastique, you'd better find a way to disarm the damned thing before it all goes to shit.”

Russell looked sideways out the window, “Yeah… right.”

3.

Mr. Ryusaki

September 28th

12:15 PM

57
th
Street Train Station
 

Maggie stepped from the El onto the platform of the 57
th
Street Station. She carried a large bag of warm food at her side, faded in and out of a crowd surging and filtering through the train. Steam blanketed the air from mouths that spoke into cell phones or at one another in a steady gurgle. All were summarily overwhelmed by the departing train.
 

The cacophony faded as the mass divided for various staircases. Maggie streamed along one crowd to the street, hesitated at the curb for a line of cars. The mass further divided until she crossed the street ahead with only a few, random people left. They dissipated through the parking lot as she crossed it.

She zipped her wool coat closed against gathering wind, passed several rundown buildings bearing fluorescent-green stickers. She walked these streets every day, sometimes three or four times, and could pace it out blindly.