The Dead and the Dying (12 page)

Paula Clarke

He lives in Queens.

It's a little after 3am, and I've been following the guy for hours. He took a slow, meandering route home, stopping off along the way to do a little shopping at a late-night convenience store. Finally, however, the old idiot returned to his house, and I stand in the shadows on the other side of the street and watch as he slowly, painfully hauls his aching body up the steps. It's pathetic, really, to see the way he forces himself to keep going.

I don't know why, but he pissed me off from the moment he offered me his coat while we were all waiting outside the prison. There was just something about the way he assumed I'd need his help. It was as if he saw me as some desperate little asshole who'd come out into the night and was now shivering, as if I couldn't look after myself. I hate when people treat me like that. It's as if they only see me as some kind of weak little woman, and their paternal instinct kicks in. I'm sure he thought he was doing a good deed, but he's a perfect example of the kind of guy who just helps to prolong the problems that exist in the world.

Once he's headed inside, I pause for a moment. I should just turn around and go home, and I don't even know why I bothered to follow him; still, I feel as if I need to get closer, to understand more about this guy. Hurrying across the dark street, I make my way down the side of his house and finally, without really having any kind of plan, I haul myself over the fence and into his garden. My heart's racing and I have no idea what I'm going to do next, but I feel as if I desperately need to get closer to this guy. He's a perfect example of the kind of person I hate, and I need to see him in his natural habitat.

Creeping through the bushes, I eventually reach the house and peer through the window. It's mostly dark inside, but there seems to be a light in one of the other rooms, so I make my way through the shadows until I'm huddled beneath a brightly-lit window. I can hear him shuffling about inside, clanking cups and occasionally coughing. Figuring that there's no way he'll spot me, I lean up and take a look inside. Sure enough, he's in there, taking a seat at the kitchen table and warming his hands over a steaming cup of coffee. For a moment, I'm filled with pity for him, but finally I recognize him for what he really is: he's a part of the cancer that's destroying this world. He's a part of the problem, and I'm a part of the solution.

I take a deep breath as I try to decide what to do next. I know from bitter experience that there's no point trying to talk to this kind of person. After all, how do you explain to an idiot that he's an idiot? Still, I hate the idea of just walking away and leaving him to get on with his pathetic existence, and I'm particularly incensed by the thought that he might go to his grave without every realizing the true nature of his stupidity. I hate the way that so many monsters live in this world and never have to face the truth about their existence. Hell, this old idiot would probably be shocked if he realized that he's a monster. He'd defend himself, and he'd act as if he was hurt by such an accusation. It wouldn't change anything, though. He's still a monster, like almost everyone else in the world. Someone should make him understand the truth about his disgusting life before he dies.

And that's when I realize I could kill him.

A kind of cold chill passes through my body as it occurs to me that it would be insanely easy to just go into his house, smash him over the head, and leave. No-one would ever be able to connect me to this guy, so long as I was careful to not leave any fingerprints, and it's startling to realize that in effect this would be the perfect crime. I really, truly could just go in there and kill him.

It's so simple, I can't work out why I never thought of it before. It's unnatural for stronger people to let weaker people live. Why shouldn't I kill someone who makes the world a worse place? Why shouldn't I go in there and wipe out some old guy who's probably spent his whole life supporting the hegemonic status quo?

I take another deep breath as I try to think of a reason why I shouldn't take matters into my own hands, and I come up with nothing. Sure, I've never considered myself to be a killer before, but the idea actually seems vaguely appealing. I figure most people would recoil in horror at the idea, but not me; instead, I'm calmly weighing up the advantages and disadvantages. It's a little surprising to realize that I have this capacity, and there's a part of me that wonders whether I could actually go through with it.

Maybe it's time to find out.

I watch as the old man drinks from his cup. He has no idea that I'm out here, no idea that his life could be about to end. Figuring that I need to test myself, and to prove to myself that I'm able to take direct action, I hurry around to the other side of the house and reach out to open the back door. Carefully, quietly, I take hold of the handle and try to turn it, but it's locked. With the sleeve of my coat, I quickly wipe away the fingerprints before turning to look back at the window. I don't mind the idea of going into the house and killing the old man, but I don't want to have to actually talk to him, so knocking on the door is out of the question.

Finally, I decide that maybe tonight isn't the night. I feel as if anger is rising through my body, but if I'm going to kill someone, I need to plan more carefully. Besides, as I turn and hurry away into the night, a chill wind blows past and I realize I'm actually feeling pretty cold.

Joanna Mason

"Schumacher wants to see you," Dawson says as he takes a seat opposite me. It's 9am and, having barely slept all night, I'm sitting in a coffee shop while I wait for the side-effects of the pills to completely subside. It's not an easy process, almost my pee has been a little less green over the past twenty-four hours and I'm hopeful that my brain will eventually settle back into its normal patterns. "He wants to see you
real
bad."

"That's nice," I mutter, sipping from my coffee. "Tell him I miss him too." Grabbing his newspaper, I take a look at the front cover. "Lou Reed died? That sucks."

"Don't change the subject," he says firmly.

"I saw him live a few years ago," I continue. "Down at this place in Greenwich Village -"

"Don't change the subject!" he says again.

"Then don't bore me," I mutter, finally giving up.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" he continues. "Hazel Lockley has made it seem as if you basically stormed into that execution chamber and broke the last vial deliberately. I know that's not true, but she's doing a damn good job of portraying you as some kind of loose cannon. She's trying to cover her own ass by giving the media a scapegoat, and she's doing a pretty good job."

"That's not what happened," I point out.

"I know. I was there."

"Schumacher won't believe all that bullshit," I reply dismissively.

"From what I've heard," he mutters, "he already
does
believe it." He pauses for a moment. "There are a lot of very powerful people who want your head, Jo," he continues eventually. "Schumacher's not gonna defend you forever. If it comes down to it, he'll have your badge. Hazel Lockley has powerful friends, and if they can save her career by sacrificing you, they'll do it."

"For what?" I ask, shocked that anyone could even contemplate taking things this far. "For doing my job?"

"Did you get any answers from Gazade?"

Sighing, I take another sip from my coffee.

"Your job, like mine, is to catch this copycat killer." He sighs. "So far,
neither
of us can say we're doing our job. Not very well, anyway."

"I'm just waiting for inspiration to strike," I reply, even though I know my voice sounds weak.

"If this new killer is a copycat," Dawson says after a moment, "there's going to be a new murder today. If that happens and the media picks up on the story, you're going to be screwed. They're going to portray you as some kind of idiot who's hellbent on keeping Gazade alive for your own perverted reasons, and they're going to claim that you can't do your job. They're going to rid you to shreds and feed you to the media, and they're going to claim that you're out of control."

"I thought this was your case," I point out.

"You're the one in the cross-hairs," he replies. "You're making a hell of a lot of trouble, Jo, and you're not getting results." He pauses. "This isn't like you. The trouble side of things is old news, but you usually turn something up at the same time. That's kind of what you're known for. You make waves, but you get the bad guy. Your reputation -"

"Screw my reputation," I mutter darkly, inexplicably feeling as if I might suddenly burst into tears.

"You don't seem like yourself, Jo," he says after a moment.

I want to tell him about the pills. I want to tell him that I've been doped up on drugs to fight my cancer, and that they've been clouding my judgment. Unfortunately, if I tell him all those things, I'll also have to tell him about the fact that I'm sick again, and then inevitably it'll get out that I'm going to have a mastectomy. He knows that I fought cancer before, and he was a good friend back then, but things have changed. He's married now, and the world has moved on. The last thing I want is to have people gossiping about me. Besides, I know what they'd all think; they'd all think I was going to die. They might be right, but I don't want to feel like a dead woman walking. Not yet, at least.

"If you can't tell me," he says eventually, "who are you gonna tell? 'Cause you have to tell someone, or it's gonna burn you up. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed by finding Sam Gazade's diary," I reply. "When he told us about that damn thing twelve years ago, we all thought it was a lie. He said he'd left clues when he was testifying at his trial, and he said we'd never be able to solve those clues and locate the diary. We thought he was trying to waste our time, but now it's clear that it really existed and someone else obviously went through his trial testimony and found those clues. Someone beat us to it."

"And that pisses you off?"

"It's more than that!" I say, raising my voice for a moment before realizing that I'm starting to draw attention to myself. I take another sip of coffee. "Some asshole saw something that we didn't."

"Is that what's wrong?" he asks. "You're pissed off that someone got there first? You can't solve every problem, Jo. No-one has a perfect track record, not even you."

"I was arrogant," I continue. "I couldn't find any clues, so I assumed they weren't there. Now someone has got the diary and they're using it to copy his murders. Whoever we're dealing with, they're smart. Real smart." I pause for a moment, still feeling as if tears might flow down my cheeks at any moment. My mind is foggy, and I don't know how long the side-effects of these pills are going to last, but I need to get my head straight as soon as possible. "If we can follow the trail to the diary," I say eventually, "we can get a better idea about who found it the first time."

"Maybe you should take some time off," he says suddenly.

"What the hell does
that
mean?" I ask, shocked by the suggestion.

"It means you're stressed!"

"Fuck off!" I say, and then - without any further warning - a single tear falls from my right eye.

"Jesus Christ," he replies, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hiss, "are you crying?"

"Fuck off," I mutter, wiping my eyes. "I'm not crying. I just need to find a way to..." I pause for a moment. The truth is, I need to find a way to get my old mind back. I used to be the smartest person on the force. People used to come to me, looking for insights into their own cases. With this cancer in my body, however, and with the drugs I've been taking to counteract the spread, I've lost my brilliance. I'm just ordinary. "I need to watch the tapes," I say finally, sniffing back some more tears. "I need to watch every second of Gazade's testimony, and I need to spot the clues that this other maniac has spotted."

"And what if you can't?"

"I can!"

He pauses. "For the first time," he says eventually, "I'm not sure that's true."

"No-one can beat me," I reply firmly. "If someone else has managed to find the code that Gazade used to reveal the diary's location, then
I
can find it too! I made a mistake twelve years ago. I was arrogant. I thought Gazade was trying to waste my time, so I gave up on the diary too easily. It wasn't that I wasn't smart enough, it was that I was too impatient! Now I see that I was wrong, and I'm going to correct that mistake."

"This is my case," he says, "and you're not doing anything without running it past me first."

"I thought you said Schumacher was going to take me off the case," I reply solemnly. "Now it sounds like
you're
the one who's telling me to get lost."

"I have to solve this," he replies. "I can't afford to have some kind of loose cannon careering through everything, scattering all the logic and getting in the way of my work. You've always relied on your instincts, Jo, but if those aren't working anymore, I need to get on with some good old-fashioned, methodical, step-by-step police work. I know that kind of thing is undervalued these days, but it might just get us somewhere." He stares at me for a moment. "In case you're still a little confused," he adds eventually, "
you're
the loose cannon I'm talking about."

I take a deep breath, as another tear runs down my cheek.

"Tell me what's wrong," Dawson says softly, as if he actually cares.

"Give me a little more time to come up with something," I reply.

"Tell me what's wrong first," he continues. "Is it work? Is it your health?"

I shake my head.

"You're scaring me," he adds. "It's been a long time since I've seen you cry."

"I don't care." I pause. "I'm going to watch the tapes from Gazade's trial," I say eventually, finally managing to make myself feel a little calmer now that I've got a proper plan. "I'm going to go through the transcripts, and I'm going to find the clues he left behind, and then I'm going to understand the kind of person who found the diary, and then..." My voice trails off, as the fog in my mind seems to grow strong for a moment. "I, uh..." I continue, momentarily struggling to remember what I was saying.

Dawson waits for me to finish. "And then what?" he asks eventually. "You're going to rely on the old Jo Mason magic to give you a moment of inspiration?"

"It's worked before," I point out. "It's how I caught Gazade twelve years ago. Everyone else was floundering around like fucking fish on a jetty, and I managed to track the bastard down."

"What if -"

"And I still have it," I add. "That inspiration. It's a kind of gift, and it's still a part of me. I'm still that person." Damn it, I know I sound arrogant again, but I can't help it; I have faith in my abilities, even if right now I'm not sure how to get those abilities back under my control.

Finishing his coffee, Dawson glances across the coffee shop for a moment, as if he's waiting for his own flash of inspiration. "Fine," he says eventually, turning back to face me. "I
know
something's wrong with you, and I
know
you're not telling me the truth. If that's how you want to play it, go ahead, but I have to be tough here. I can't allow you to endanger my investigation, especially not when people's lives might be on the line. You're my best friend, Jo, but for your sake and mine, I'm going to continue the investigation without your input."

"But -"

"I've made my decision," he says, getting to his feet. "Good luck with the tapes and the transcripts. I have no doubt that you'll spend all day and all night on them, and I hope for all our sakes that you come up with something."

"Don't," I say firmly.

"Don't what?"

Staring straight ahead at his empty coffee cup, I feel a kind of sharp, powerful anger rising through my chest. I want to shout at Dawson, to tell him he's wrong about everything, but I know he'd just take my protests as further evidence that he's right about me. Besides, maybe he
is
right. I've been assuming that the effects of the pills would wear off after a while, but suddenly it strikes me that they might be permanent. I might never get my old faculties back, and this fog in my mind might be permanent.

"I'll see you around," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder for a moment. "Schumacher really
does
want to see you, by the way. Ignoring his calls won't work forever. You're only making things worse for yourself, and you need to face the music and do a little damage limitation work. I've tried to help, but you need to go into his office yourself." He waits for me to say something. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't you have anything to say?"

"Don't
you
have an investigation to be getting on with?" I ask, still staring at his empty cup.

Without saying another word, he turns and walks away.

I wait a few minutes, until I'm certain that he's gone out the door and headed well away from the building. I can't take my eyes off the coffee cup; it's as if it hurts to think, and I need to take a moment to stare blankly into space. At least I no longer feel as if I'm going to burst into tears. I guess it helps that I have a plan: I'm going to get those tapes and transcripts, and I'm going to go over them until I find the clues that Gazade left regarding the location of his diary. I don't care if I lose my goddamn mind in the process. The old Jo Mason would have been successful, and I have to prove to myself that I can get back to that level.

As people continue to chatter away all around me, I feel a curious sense of calm fill my body. Suddenly I feel as if nothing else matters. I'm going to find this copycat killer, and I'm going to do it before Dawson has even blinked. And then, most likely, within the next year or two, I'm going to die.