Arrival By Wrath Part 2

"Preston, come have dinner with the family tonight," Jack said, unceremoniously breaking the silence without looking up. The newspaper stayed in front of Jack's face and obscured it.

"No thanks," Preston said, still focusing on the Twist as the last of the goo hit the bottom. "I have a feeling I'll be here for a while when that test comes back positive."

"You sound like one of the hookers they brought in yesterday." Although his face was still hidden, Preston could tell his partner was smiling. He shrugged off the urge to laugh. "Come on," Jack continued, "you shouldn't be alone this time of year; it's been almost a year and a half since Elisabeth," Jack said, finally lowering the paper and looking at him.

"No," Preston said, picking up immediately on the trailing of his partner's voice. "I'm not going to think about that anymore." He stared Jack down until he went back to his paper.

"Alright, alright. No need to get angry," Jack replied, ruffling the pages loudly. "I just thought you'd like a free meal. My wife wouldn't mind setting another place. The kids haven't seen you in a while, either."

"Yeah, I'll get over there eventually. I just-not right now, okay?" Preston said, easing back down. His chair groaned as he put his full weight back into the aging wood and metal.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and both men jumped to their feet, half from antic.i.p.ation, half from surprise. The office secretary entered with a plain manila folder, pausing as she gauged their reaction. Preston practically s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of her hand and opened it quickly. He skimmed the lines of the page and looked to Jack with a smile.

"I'll get my coat," Jack said. "Are you keeping the lieutenant up to date on all this?" he asked.

"I'll tell him later," Preston responded. "We need something to tell him for sure first, right?"

Half an hour later, Detectives Paige and Burroughs were both standing over the cold body of the supermodel corpse that had only recently reignited the case. Upon entering the room, they had seen her on the steel table, removed from the freezer by the coroner and awaiting them the moment they arrived.

Her skin had faded, introduced with a mild shade of muted gray. Although most of her features had lasted through the week since she pa.s.sed with little change, the s.p.a.ces around her eyes had begun to sink in slightly. Her features were beginning to take on a semi-noticeable skeletal quality that showcased a glimpse of her future. Even in death, she managed to stave off age for a little while. However, she still looked mostly like the pictures they had seen. Aside from corroded tissue around the large X carved into her chest from the autopsy, she barely appeared to have been touched by decomposition in the week since her death.

Since her body was basically evidence, the morgue had been keeping her preserved the best they could.

Standing beside them was the coroner, an older man exiled to the darkest depths of the Chicago medical world. His hair was totally white and ragged, but he didn't appear to be much older than the detectives. His skin, especially on his fingers, was weathered, and they trembled slightly as the man shook hands with the two detectives. Preston saw a little of himself in the coroner. He made a mental note to make sure he didn't end up chained to a desk in his lifetime, banished from society like the man before him.

The room was dank, just like they had seen a thousand times before. Although it was evident that the man had cleaned up in antic.i.p.ation of their visit, the smell of embalming fluid still permeated the air and almost brought tears to Preston's eyes.

To the right of the bed was a sterilized sheet of surgical tools, ready and waiting should they be required. Preston hoped that wouldn't be necessary. The smell was bad enough already. The aroma of old honey wouldn't have helped manners much, he reasoned.

The coroner pa.s.sed around the box of latex gloves. It had been a while since Preston wore the thin latex coverings. He was reminded of bad memories from the last gruesome crime scene with which he had been a part. It hadn't had anything to do with the Bloodstrife case, but it stuck with him nonetheless.

About six months earlier, the two detectives had busted a small heroin operation. The bust went easily enough, but the remaining dealers thought that one of their own had offered them up to the police in exchange for a lighter sentence. Bodies began turning up in abandoned houses all over the south side of Chicago. The number of dead rose to ten victims before they caught the killers.

He couldn't admit it aloud, but it really was a boon to the city. The only people who were dying were the members of the cartel, and it almost never happened in full view of the public.

Something told him that Bloodstrife wouldn't offer such a kind resolution.

Preston inadvertently snapped the thin latex glove on his wrist before putting the second one on with modest difficulty. When all three of them were ready, the coroner began.

"I know we told you we found out her real name, but it looks like that one was a fake also. I just figured that part out today; otherwise I would have called you sooner. We just kept getting hits on her aliases, you know?" the coroner said, shaking his head slightly. Whenever he spoke, it was as if he were short of air, his voice soft and fragile. "We still haven't been able to track down the real one," he admitted flatly. "All I can tell you is that this woman used at least five aliases in the last twenty years, all of which were false. By that, I mean she never stole anyone's ident.i.ty-not that I've been able to determine anyway. So, that means they were all made, up-plucked out of thin air, as they say."

"Twenty years?" asked Jack, staring down at her face. "She doesn't look a day over twenty-five. I doubt she was using aliases to cut cla.s.s in kindergarten."

"Technically, it's been a little longer. I a.s.sure you, the oldest alias was used about twenty years ago," the coroner said calmly, shuffling over to the other side of the room and grabbing a clipboard from a nearby desk. On it, the two men saw a copy of a receipt for plastic surgery performed almost twenty-one years earlier. At the top was the fake name she had used, along with a listing of her age at twenty-four.

Accompanying this receipt was a yellowed photograph, curling at the edges. The woman's face was virtually the same with a few minor variations, probably brought on through surgery rather than age. Her hair was colored and cut differently, both puffy and over-styled. Her makeup was thick as if it had been applied with a spray can. It was clearly a reflection of the decade in which it was taken, but Preston could see Pricilla Andrews, or whatever her name was, under there somewhere. Overall, it looked like a grainy color photograph that someone's mother was too embarra.s.sed to display in their home.

"Are you telling me that this woman was in her forties when she died?" Preston asked, staring down at the corpse of a woman who was certainly in her early twenties when she pa.s.sed.

"Older still," the coroner replied with a smirk and a shrug. "Based on bone a.n.a.lysis from the forensic anthropologist, I'd put her somewhere in her fifties."

"That's not possible. She's only a child, for G.o.d's sake," Preston replied, bewildered. He knew that even all the plastic surgery in the world couldn't preserve her that well.

The coroner shrugged again. "She must have eaten her vegetables, or whatever the h.e.l.l actresses eat these days. I wish I knew her secret," the coroner said with a smile. The man appeared to pick up on the fact that neither detective felt like small talk and continued. "Also, she's had a lifetime worth of plastic surgery. Despite the fact that her body didn't appear to be aging, she's also had her face reconstructed so many times that we'll probably never know what she really looked like. Face lifts, liposuction; you name it, she's had it done. But, based on this picture, I'm guessing most of the reconstructive surgeries to her face were done before she had this one taken. I couldn't find any pictures of anything prior to that photo. Also, I couldn't locate any records from earlier than that either. Like I said, she came out of thin air."

"Why did this take so long to get across our desk?" Preston asked.

"No one put the pieces together and realized that this was a drug case until yesterday," the coroner responded. "She doesn't have any black veins in her skin. Once we found out, I notified you immediately."

"Aren't doctors supposed to refuse surgery to people who are clearly addicted?" Jack asked curtly.

"Of course," the coroner replied. "The surgeons in this case shouldn't have taken her money, but because she died in a way that wasn't their fault, they'll live to cut again. I see it all the time," the old man said with a shrug. "Besides, the fact that she was hiding who she was and withheld vital information only helps their situation."

"Great," Preston said almost angrily. "Well, let's at least get a look at that tattoo."

"You mean the one that supposedly moved?" the corner asked. "I saw no evidence of scarring or anything else that would lead me to believe it was ever located on her breast. Have a look for yourself." The coroner pulled back the sheet covering her body. Indeed, all three men saw nothing out of the ordinary. The skin was smooth and untouched, considering. "Additionally, the one in her mouth showed up as a little faded, which means it had been there for a long time, probably years."

"Let me guess, there aren't any photos from the past that show her tattoos, are there?"

"Nope," the coroner replied, as if expecting the question. "The only one we have is the pre-op photo I sent to you. The word 'Pride' on her breast had to have been a temporary tattoo or drawn with a marker. Maybe that surgeon had a little fun with her beforehand."

Preston used two of his gloved fingers to spread apart her lips. All three men took a step back as a thick black liquid oozed out of her mouth and ran down her cheek, slowly pooling on the steel beneath her head.

"Jesus," said the coroner, "that wasn't there before." He picked up the clipboard that contained the woman's receipt and flipped over to the next page. "See? I took this picture when I performed the autopsy."

The photograph showed a slightly faded tattoo, clearly displaying the word "Pride" in wavy letters. Moreover, additional photographs of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s showed no tattoos or evidence of one, just as the coroner had said and just as her chest appeared now.

Within a few seconds, the ooze had stopped flowing. There appeared to have been only a small amount in her mouth when Preston parted her lips.

"Alright, let's get a sample of this stuff also. I don't think we need to wait on this one, though," Jack said. He took a nearby vial and collected a sample of the liquid as it ran down her cheek. "You have a plastic bag for this?" he asked the coroner. The man picked one up off a nearby table and handed it to him.

"How much longer can we hold on to the body?" Preston asked.

"As long as you need it. She doesn't have any family or anyone to claim her, but I'd say she's past her expiration date. If there's anything else you need to study, I'd do it now," the man said nonchalantly. However, he never took his weathered gaze off the body.

"Well, I don't have any other leads to go on," Preston said to him. "Jack, after you drop off that sample, can you start looking through her updated list of aliases and medical history? I think we can find something in there." Preston turned to the coroner. "You can help him with that, can't you?"

"Sure, no problem," the coroner replied. "I've got all the files over in the office."

"Roger that," Jack said with a smile, then turned back to his partner. "It's good to have another break after so long, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Preston replied seriously. "I'll take the sample and drop it off at the lab after I take another look at our surgery addict here."

"You think she's got anymore secrets?" Jack asked.

"Maybe not, but it's better than poring through information in the office," Preston said. "I was getting a little bored with that."

After his partner left with the coroner, Preston proceeded to inspect the body as the bright lights from the ceiling illuminated the shadows of the morgue. He could almost hear the screams of the city as they suffered from the plague in the darkness. He took comfort in the knowledge that he was finally on the right path to silencing them.

Detective Paige soon realized it was better that he had been the one to join the coroner in the office researching the woman's files. He knew Preston wouldn't have been able to withstand the man's company for more than a few minutes.

Jack had started by having the coroner gather all the files he'd been able to acc.u.mulate in the two weeks since the body arrived, and as the pile of doc.u.ments slowly grew, he'd be forced to get regular updates about the goings on of the city morgue before moving on to more social matters. At first the topic of the mostly one-sided discussion had revolved around the man's daily life at his job.

Jack caught every other word, his attention drifting, but still couldn't remember if he'd ever been privy to the man's name. Instead of addressing him as coroner, Jack would just begin a sentence, supplying only the necessary information from start to finish.

Already the man had managed to coax out trivial information about the detective's life in the predictably annoying way that a lonely person would. Jack had tried to be more polite at first, but drew the line when the coroner asked him to show him pictures of his kids.

Jack considered himself a patient man, but even he knew there were limits.

"Okay," he said, still choosing to forgo addressing the man by any particular name, "so how far back were you able to confirm for this woman?"

"Like I said before," the man replied, "bone a.n.a.lysis-"

"No," Jack said, cutting him off. "I mean, just as far as the records go. How far back?" He caught himself from becoming too impatient.

"The oldest was that picture, just under twenty-one years ago," the coroner offered with a thin smile of accomplishment.

Jack paused, thinking of the best path to follow.

"How were you able to find out so much about her based on the fake names she used?" Jack asked inquisitively.

"Well, that's a pretty good story," the man said eagerly. Jack could see he was in for another epic. "I was just talking to my buddy at the time and he said-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, friend," Jack said curtly. "I've got to get to the bottom of this, okay? Please, how did you find out her records? Do you have access to the police database?"

"Yeah, that's where I searched the electronic archives for all of 'em, then I had copies delivered. The records depot is just down the street. It took half a day; pretty good time for them. I had crossed by fingers and figured I'd get them around Christmas." The coroner sat down with a small sigh. "Also, I searched by her birthday," he added quietly, almost under his breath.

Jack had been a detective for long enough to determine when someone was trying to appear hurt. His kids did it all the time when they didn't get a toy they wanted. "Before she died, she listed her birthday as August fifth," the coroner continued. "So I did a search for females with a birthday of that date, and I put the date range back for about thirty years," the coroner said with a smile that proved he was vying for attention. "That's where I got all the hits from. Sometimes they're just sentimental enough to use the same birthday. Maybe it was real, huh? Problem is, she must've been using another one before that if you really think there's more."

"That's still good work," Jack said with a smile, deciding to throw the man a bone. "You're right; I still think there's more out there, though. Anything else stand out for you?"

"Nah," the coroner said, easing up. "I even cross-referenced it with her allergy to anesthesia, but that only brought back a few records I had already found."

"Well, let's search by something else then," Jack said calmly. "What else is there? List them off for me, would you?"

"Name, race, s.e.x, weight," the coroner said, reading off the boxes that were filled in on the various forms.

"Weight," Jack said.

"Yeah, what?" the coroner replied.

"No, weight," Jack continued. "How much did she weigh?"

"Oh, right, it says here she listed her weight as 108 pounds."

"That's good news," Jack said, smiling from ear to ear. "Most people simply estimate their weight, listing it as 105 or 110; you know, round it up, or in most cases, down. She put something much more specific, so that should narrow down our search results when we also search for a female."

"That's all, you wanna search by weight?" the coroner said. He shrugged, saying, "Well, you're the detective."

"How about height?" Jack asked, not bothering to turn away from the screen as he filled in the search criteria. Although not as advanced as the computers at the department, Jack figured the aged workstation would probably be up to the task.

"I can verify that one. She didn't lie. She's 5'6'', just like her record says," the coroner said.

"Just out of curiosity," Jack said, turning around to face him, "did she lie about her weight, too?"

"That's a little harder to tell," the coroner snickered. "The b.o.o.b job probably made her a little heavier, plus she's dead and all. I weighed her in at 116 a week ago when she first got here."

"Hmm," Jack said. "Interesting. Anyway," he continued, turning back to the computer screen, "it's a long shot, but if she didn't lie about her height, and we a.s.sume she listed the same weight on her driver's license every time she got it renewed, then that should help us out a bit."

"Oh wait, before you search, clear the date field," the coroner said. "We really don't know what we're looking for on that end."

"Couldn't hurt," Jack agreed. "We could be going back more than fifty years, just like you said."

Jack almost held his breath as he hit search. The fact that they were looking for a woman didn't really narrow it down because her weight was within a common range. In theory, only a small number of females sixteen and older would be both in the system and match up. He just had to hope that not many had specifically listed 108 on their renewal forms.

In a few moments, it came back with a mult.i.tude of records, but it was a manageable number, a shade under three hundred and fifty names. Considering that they were looking at the entire United States going back an indefinite amount of time, the detective was rather pleased with the results.

"Well, that's not too bad, I guess," the coroner said.

"True," Jack said, rubbing his chin. "I think we can burn through this in a few hours. It's the DMV database. They all have pictures."

Chapter 4.

"Long Daddy Phillips?" Preston asked, looking up from the page. "I can't say it's the strangest name I've ever heard-not in this line of work, anyway."

"When you think about it, that's the perfect name for a pimp," Jack replied with a shallow grin. He placed the mug shot of the man they were talking about down on the desk. It had been taken nearly twenty years earlier and was yellowed with age, just like the surgical photos of Priscilla Andrews. The two detectives weren't expecting much from him, but that was just because of the way the afternoon had been going.

The remainder of the examination Preston had performed on the girl had revealed nothing of any interest. Her body was decomposing at the normal rate, and everything the two detectives turned up was identical to the original coroner's report except the tattoo that apparently melted away. After suctioning the liquid out of her mouth, he saw no evidence that a tattoo had ever been there. The tissue inside her mouth was untouched, save for the natural decomposition.

Preston was having a hard time deciding whether or not he attached any credibility to the pre-op pictures of that girl. They could have easily been doctored. Or, like the coroner had suggested, it could have been a temporary tattoo on her breast-possibly a marker. Still images weren't nearly as reliable as they used to be. Anyone with a computer could produce something impossible that appeared realistic.

Most of her body was fake; perhaps the tattoo was as well. Do you really believe that? the Detective asked.

Aside from waiting around yet again for a sample that would certainly test positive, they had essentially learned nothing.

He knew Jack had worked with the coroner and dived into the list. After arriving back at the station, they had mined the numerous results of Jack's search and came up with a few more of Pride's former aliases. From there, they managed to come up with a lead. One of her fake names, Monica Hurst, had a legal guardian named Mikhail Phillips. He would probably be easy enough to locate, but there was more legwork to be done.

So, despite the lead, the two detectives found themselves in the same position they had been earlier in the day. Preston was at his desk and Jack was on the couch, sitting comfortably on the far side of the room.

The workday was almost over and the night s.h.i.+ft for the station was slowly trickling in. An occasional Uni or detective would stroll by, offering a pa.s.sing wave as they came and went.

Preston rubbed his eyes, hoping that he didn't appear to them as some stationary object, no different than a piece of furniture in his office. For a moment, he felt like he was doomed to be in the same position as that coroner no matter what he did.