The Dead and the Dying (16 page)

Joanna Mason

"Can I trust you?" I ask as I sidle over to Dawson in the corridor.

"Gee," he replies, filling a cup of water from the dispenser, "I'm not sure. We've only known each other for a decade or so. Maybe you should hold back a little. Don't wanna start trusting people too soon." He pauses for a moment. "Anyway, we both know you don't trust anyone. Apart from yourself."

"Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?" I continue, keeping my voice low as a couple of people wander past us. I'm already feeling a little paranoid, since I'm pretty sure that everyone in the department knows about the incident at the prison the other night. None of them are going to let the facts get in the way of a long-sought-after opportunity to make me look bad. "I got a lead, and I want someone with me when I go to check it out."

"No you don't," he replies, taking a sip of water. "Bullshit, Jo. You never want anyone with you when you do anything."

I open my mouth to argue with him, but at the last moment I realize that he's right. I
do
tend to cultivate the 'lone wolf' persona most of the time, but only because most of the other 'wolves' I meet are complete idiots. It's so rare to find someone I can stand to be around for more than a few minutes. Dawson makes the grade because his slow-ass, methodological approach to detective work can sometimes, though only sometimes, serve as a useful counter to my all-round instinctive brilliance. He's also willing to take far more of my crap than most people.

"So what's this really about?" he continues. "Let me guess. You know Schumacher's on the warpath, you know he wants to haul your ass into his office and tear you a new asshole, but you don't want to meekly go and knock on his door. So you've decided to come in and skulk about until he catches you, and then you can act all pissed off and pretend that you're being raked over the coals unfairly. And you think that by giving me a heads-up on this new bit of information you've uncovered, I'll stick by your side."

"It's nothing like that," I reply, even though deep down I know that he's right. I have to get this encounter with Schumacher out of the way, so today seems like as a good a time as any. "Don't you want to know what I discovered?" I continue, glancing both ways along the corridor to check that we're alone. "I found where Sam Gazade's diary was hidden all those years ago, and I might even have found the identity of the person who retrieved it. Or at least, I've found the identity that the person was using."

"This isn't going to work," he says with a sigh. "You've fucked up, Jo. All we can do is wait and hope to God that this killer doesn't perform another copycat murder."

"You know she will," I point out.

He sighs again.

"You know I'm not an idiot," I continue. "Who cares about
why
I'm sharing this news with you? Stop focusing in the details and start seeing the big picture. You know this has got to be useful, right? I haven't just plucked the name out of thin air. I've been turning over rocks in the background, and I think I've found something that might be useful."

"Go on," he replies, seeming a little uncomfortable, as if he doesn't want to be seen with me. I wouldn't blame him. After all, mud sticks in a place like this.

"Dr. Alice Huston," I continue in hushed tones. "That's the name of the woman who checked into this hotel where the diary was hidden. I'm pretty sure she's the one who found it, and I've looked her up. She's a real person, alright. She's a professor of sociological study at the university. I'm gonna go by and talk to her, but I doubt she's involved. My theory is that someone deliberately used her name in order to hide their real identity, but I'm pretty sure they didn't pick that name randomly. There has to be a reason."

Sighing, Dawson heads through to his office.

"What?" I ask, hurrying after him. "You don't think this is a good lead?"

"I think it might be useful," he replies, clearly annoyed about something. "I also think you're trying to use it to get me on your side. You've realized that maybe you went a little too far, and you're worried that you don't have anyone watching your back. Even the great Jo Mason needs to know that there's at least one person who'll stand by her." He stares at me for a moment. "Are you ever gonna tell me what's wrong, Jo? I know you're holding something back -"

"I'm fine," I say firmly, determined to avoid another of those conversations where he tries to get me to admit that I'm sick. "Jesus, I just thought I'd bring you into the loop. Call me crazy, but I kinda felt as if you'd be grateful when I came waltzing in and saved your ass. After all, you're the one who's supposed to be investigating the whole thing, but it doesn't exactly look as if you're getting very far. I'm sorry if you're pissed off that I scooped you and did a better job -"

"Jesus," he mutters.

"It's true!" I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be too busy checking his phone. "Face it," I continue, "this is the best lead you've got so far. You thought I was rambling when I was talking about Gazade, and now I've shown you that I was right. Meanwhile, you've got nothing. You're methodically moving through the case, going from A to B to C and so on with plodding regularity, and I just leaped past you and came up with something useful." I watch him for a moment, and I can see that he's struggling to keep calm. This is good. I need him to blow up at me. "As usual," I add eventually.

"I see the old Jo's back in town," he says, sounding deflated.

I can't help but smile. It's been a few days now since I stopped taking those damn pills, and my mind has definitely begun to clear. I wouldn't say that I'm back to normal, but I'm close, and I'm confident I'll get my full faculties back pretty soon. Of course, the downside is that I'm no longer taking the drugs that are supposed to retard the spread of my cancer before I can get in for surgery, and as I check my watch I realize that I've missed another chemotherapy session this morning. Still, if I'd let all those drugs into my body, my mind would have been way too woozy to come up with any answers in the case. This is a better way to do things, even if I'm getting occasional stabbing pains in the side of my chest.

"I'll look into it," he says eventually. "I'll go see this Dr. Huston woman -"

"We'll go together," I say, interrupting him.

"It's not your case!"

"It's my lead!"

"Is this a pissing contest now?" he asks.

"I hope not," I reply, "for your sake. You
know
I always win those, right?"

He sighs. "You're not on this case, Jo. You've done a good job here, maybe, but after everything that happened the other night at Sam Gazade's execution, you're kinda on the coals. Have you even seen the news this morning? Every other prison in the tri-state area is demanding a king's ransom in order to sell the drugs that are needed to reschedule Gazade's execution. It's a fucking mess, and rightly or wrongly, people are starting to blame you."

"Rightly or wrongly?" I reply, shocked that he could even consider the possibility that any of this is my fault. Of all people, I thought Dawson would be on my side. After all, he was actually there at the prison that night, so he knows the whole mess was the fault of the governor; besides, he's
always
on my side.

"If you hadn't gone throwing your weight around," he continues, "Gazade would be dead by now."

"He'll still die," I point out. "I didn't knock that vial over, and it's not my fault that there were no spares."

"You still made things more difficult," he adds, clearly finding it harder and harder to keep his frustration in check. "People wanted Gazade dead -"

"You think I don't?"

"I think you like playing games," he continues. "I think that sometimes, Jo, you act like a petulant schoolkid who demands that everyone else lets you take the lead." He stares at me for a moment. "I think it's been twelve years since Gazade hurt you, and despite everything you say, there's a real possibility that you're emotionally attracted to anything that keeps the guy alive. I know you, Jo. You're..." He pauses. "You're a little weird. It's just the truth. Tell me honestly. When you first heard about this copycat killer, what was your reaction?"

I stare at him, and after a moment I realize that I can't answer.

"You were pleased," he says. "I could see it in your eyes. You couldn't wait to rip the scab off and start digging into the whole thing again."

"The copycat is going to strike again," I reply, suddenly feeling a little tired of this game. "You know it, and I know it. There's going to be a new body, and it's going to show up soon. Nothing else matters, as long as we find this person and find her fast. The rest is all bullshit. It doesn't matter why any of us are here. It doesn't matter if we're sick little puppies on our own time. All that matters is that the killer is caught, and that's the only thing we should be focusing on." I wait for him to reply, but I can see from the look in his eyes that he knows I'm right. "Unless you've come up with any better leads," I add finally, feeling as if I'm getting my point across, "I'd suggest that we go, together, and see if this Dr. Huston woman can help us."

We stand in silence for a moment.

"Heads up," Dawson says eventually, glancing over at the door. "I think D-Day just hit the deck."

Turning, I see what he means: Schumacher is coming right this way, and from the way he's got his gaze fixed on me, I'd say he's pretty unhappy. Steeling myself, I try to focus on the fact that I just need to get this over with and then go to see Dr. Huston. It's no secret in the department that Schumacher hates me, and he'll undoubtedly take this opportunity to come down on me like a ton of bricks. Still, I've faced his wrath before and I can face it again. The guy doesn't scare me. In fact, in a way, he kind of amuses me.

"I'll come to your funeral," Dawson says, sounding faintly amused by the whole thing.

"Thanks," I mutter, feeling a shiver pass through my body. The truth is, my funeral might come a lot sooner than anyone around here is expecting.

"Mason," Schumacher says firmly as he pushes the door open, "get in my office. Now."

"I was just -"

"My office! Now!" He turns to Dawson. "I thought you understood that I was to be informed as soon as she came into the building?"

"I was just about to get onto it," he replies.

"Come on," Schumacher says, standing aside to let me out into the corridor. "I've had enough of your bullshit, Mason. You've gone too far this time and we're gonna put a stop to it. Permanently. I've already got the forms printed up, you just need to sign them."

I glance over at Dawson and see the worried look on his face. Schumacher's raked me over the coals before, but there have never been forms to sign. Taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto my lips, I step past Schumacher and start walking toward his office. Something tells me that this isn't going to be the most pleasant meeting of my life. Frankly, this is the one time I actually wish my mind
was
a little fuzzy.

Dr. Alice Huston

"I don't have it," Paula says as she leads me into her bedroom. It's a squalid little building, typical of the kind of rundown hellhole that students live in all over the city. "I swear to God, I don't have Sam Gazade's diary."

"I think you do," I reply calmly, watching as Paula walks over to her desk and starts looking in the drawers. She's so preoccupied, she doesn't notice as I take the diary from my coat pocket and toss it onto her bed. It's only a matter of time before she notices it, and when she does, the deception will be complete. In a way, I feel sorry for her, but there's no room here for sympathy. She's basically just a cog in my machine.

"Where would I get Sam Gazade's diary from," she says, sounding a little uncertain as she turns to me. "I read about that thing. Most people don't even think that it exists."

"Then what's it doing on your bed?" I ask.

Looking down at the sheets, she spots the diary and, for a moment, she seems to be completely frozen. I'm not surprised, since she's having to rapidly come to terms with the fact that she's been doing all these things without remembering any of them.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" I ask, reaching down and picking the diary up. It's been a couple of months since I first tracked the thing down, and it's lost none of its power to amaze. It was in these pages, twelve years ago, that Gazade wrote down detailed explanations of every murder he'd committed, as well as every murder he was planning. The man was extremely well organized, and the diary would have answered many of the questions asked by the police, if only they'd ever managed to find the damn thing. Instead, they assumed it wasn't real and gave up looking.

"I've never seen that before," Paula says, her voice trembling with fear.

"You don't remember going to the Lark Bermuda Hotel a month or two ago and searching through each of the rooms until you found it?" I ask. The truth is,
I'm
the one who went to that rundown little place and found the diary, but I need Paula to believe that she was responsible for all these things.

She shakes her head.

"What about the first murder? Do you remember killing Edward Hunter? Do you remember using Sam Gazade's diary to copy his actions?"

"I didn't kill anyone," she says quietly, even though I can tell she's doubting herself.

"And Patrick Donnelly? You don't remember killing him? Or Sam Pressman?" I wait for her to say something, but it's as if she's on the verge of a complete breakdown. I need to judge this carefully, so that she walks the tightrope but doesn't fall into the chasm of her own fear and insanity. "You don't remember consulting the diary as if it's your bible?"

"I've never even touched it before," she says, with tears running down her cheeks.

"Of course you have," I reply, holding the diary. "How else did it get into your room? It's quite an achievement, Paula. You should be proud of yourself. Even Joanna Mason, purportedly one of the smartest cops in town, apparently gave up on the search for this thing. You must be an extremely intelligent young woman to have tracked it down. A lot of very, very intelligent people tried to do the same thing, and they failed. It must have taken an absolute genius to come up with the answer. Tell me, what was the code?"

"I don't know," she replies, taking the diary and turning it over in her hands as if it's some kind of strange, alien object. "I swear -"

"Where was the diary?"

"I don't know."

"How did the code work?"

"I don't know," she says again, with tears in her eyes. "I swear, this wasn't in my room before today. I've never even seen it before -"

"Do you think the police would believe you?" I ask. "Do you think they'd accept your claim that it just turned up without your knowledge? Or do you think they'd start looking into your movements? They'd work out what you've been doing, Paula. I don't mean to offend you, but it's very obvious that you've got problems. It's in your eyes, and the way you talk. You haven't had an easy life, have you? I can tell that you're in pain, Paula. Perhaps you were never given the support you needed."

I wait a moment, watching as she flicks through the pages of the diary. It's the first time she's ever held the damn thing, of course, but I need her to believe that she's been using it to plan her murders. I've got a shock lined up for her later today, and it's vital that I've got her completely on my side by then. Fortunately, she seems to be warming to my claims more quickly than I ever could have imagined. She must be even more fragile than I'd anticipated.

"How could I kill people and not remember?" she whimpers, with tears rolling down her cheeks. "I know there's something wrong with me, but how could I forget that I'm evil? You can't do that kind of thing and then just walk away as if it didn't happen! I'd feel it! I'd know!"

"You're not evil," I say, walking over and putting an arm around her shoulder. "Never think like that, Paula. Who taught you to have such a low opinion of yourself? Your mother? Your father? Society?" I wait for her to reply, but she seems to be lost in her tears. Taking the diary from her hands, I put it in my pocket before giving her a hug. "You're a lot of things, Paula," I continue, "but you're not evil. You're not alone, either. I'm here, and I'm going to help you. You don't have to do these things by yourself anymore."

She holds me tight, and it's clear that I've got her under complete control.

"Tell me one thing," I say. "Tell me why you think you did all of this? Why would someone like you decide to copy the murders of a misogynistic serial killer like Sam Gazade?"

She continues to sob for a moment, before pulling away from me and wiping her eyes. "I don't know," she says softly. "I have no idea why I'd start killing people. I've thought about it in the past, but something seems to have changed recently. Something's different. Gazade... I've been reading about him, for an essay. Or at least, that's what I thought I was doing."

"You're losing control," I reply.

"I'm on these," she says, picking up the pill packets from the side of her bed. "My doctor prescribed them for anxiety and depression, and I think for insomnia too. I kind of lost track. They've been making me feel pretty weird. Do you think they could be the reason I can't remember stuff? The doctor said there'd be some side-effects, but I never thought they could make me lose my mind."

"It's possible," I tell her, "but I'd say the most likely explanation is still to do with your refusal or inability to recognize the truth about what you've been doing." I watch as, with trembling hands, she puts the pill packets back on the table. "Tell me," I continue, "how have you been different lately? Have you noticed anything new about your personality?"

"I'm angrier," she continues. "I try to hold back, but there's this searing hatred that I can't stop. It's like I hate the world. I hate everyone. Every time I go outside, I want to make people understand what they're doing wrong, but they all just keep going, as if they think they're doing the right thing."

"You want to make them see themselves," I suggest. "You want to make them see their stupidity and ugliness. Particularly the men. They're always the worst."

"I want to change the world," she continues. "I want to make it a better place, but to do that, I need all those idiots to just..." She pauses, as if she's so exasperated, she can't find the right words. "I want them to recognize their flaws. I want them to stop making me feel as if I'm the one who's wrong. Right now, I swear, I feel like I'm going to lose my mind."

"Maybe that's a perfectly sane response," I point out. "The world's a damaged and dangerous place, Paula. It's filled with people who deserve nothing more than a painful death. People who contribute nothing but pain and violence. I can't help but think that all these emotions you're feeling - anger and pain and sadness - are a perfectly appropriate response to our insane society." After a moment, I lean down and kiss the top of her head, just as a reassuring reminder that I'm here for her. "You're not a monster, Paula. You're just someone who sees the world for what it is. Believe me, I know how hard to can be to have total clarity while everyone around you is blind. In some ways, you and I are very similar. It's lucky that we recognized one another. People like us usually have to go through this world alone."

"I never wanted to start killing people," she says after a moment. "I still don't remember doing it. I'm still not even sure that I did anything."

"It's easy once you're over the line," I continue, glancing down at her bedside table and seeing the various prescription drugs she's been taking. She's on a real cocktail of uppers and downers, which means it should be easy to make her question her own perceptions. "The hard part is making that first, trembling step. That first slice. The first kill. You've done that now, Paula. You know you can do it, and you know how it feels. Once you've passed that moment, you can ever go back. You're on the dark side now, but the dark side isn't necessarily bad. You're over the line. You can't go back."

I wait for her to say something, but she seems to be sobbing gently. She makes for a rather pitiful sight, and it's hard to believe that I was able to break her down quite so easily. She's obviously a very scared and lonely person, and a combination of her pre-existing problems and the flow of prescription drugs means that her mind is muddled and confused. I feel as if I have complete control over the way she sees not only the world, but her own mind. It's somewhat humbling to realize that I managed to attain such power without much effort, but now I need to make sure that I bind her so tightly to the cause that she's never able to break free.

"There's something I need to show you," I say after a moment. "Something that I think might help you to embrace this new side of your personality. You've waited a long time to embrace your true destiny, but I'm going to help you, and I promise you'll never look back. You're going to come face to face with your true nature for the first time."