The sound of ocean waves breaking on cold, dark rocks lulls a gray world from sleep.  A stain of cochineal and gold bleeds through stagnant wisps of a cloudbank hovering behind black hills that slope toward the sound:  the sober eye of heaven wakes.  A sea gull responds with a plaintive and solitary call as he beats his wings to a long, slow climb skyward.  The on-shore breeze quickens, increasing the sound of carefully measured waves.  These forces of nature have set the rhythm that will sustain the dawning of a new day.  The music of summer ensues.

The early light transforms grays to browns and greens.  Aggressive hues of yellow, pink, and red surface quickly, teasing the eye with premature pleasure.  But morning doesn’t come until the world has swelled to a chorus of earthy sounds and the blues have all become electric.

The blues this morning were particularly electric.  They cut through the thin air without resistance, sweeping across the landscape at a quick, steady pace.  The monotony was suspended intermittently by the flash of metal lying perilously close to the edge of a cliff.  The California Highway Patrol had stopped to investigate a vehicle abandoned off Highway 1 in Davenport.  It was an ’87 Honda Accord.

The owner of a small grocery had noticed it parked at the edge of the cliff for a couple of days before she called to report it.  The keys were in the ignition and the doors were locked.  It was registered to Eileen Daryll of Priest River, Idaho.  It had not been reported missing.  Ten minutes after the officer called in the plate number, he was instructed to secure the area and wait for homicide investigators.

Eileen Daryll lay in a hospital room in San Jose under heavy sedation when the officer found her car.  She had woken one morning on her bathroom floor with a swollen face and a sharp pain in her right side.  After she managed to pick herself up, she made the mistake of checking on her daughter.  The sight of Lisa’s lifeless body almost killed her.  The stench of urine and blood sent her hobbling from the room gasping for air.  Instinctively she headed for the telephone.  She dialed 9-1-1 seconds before suffering a massive stroke.  Police and paramedics rushed her to the hospital almost as soon as they arrived.

Eileen and Lisa had moved to San Jose about a month before their encounter with Charlie.  They were a single-parent family who had survived for a few years farming the rugged country of the Idaho panhandle.  Eileen had become pregnant with Lisa by a man she’d just met.  It happened one night after a walk around Priest Lake.  It was a walk she would remember forever.  The man was a transplanted farmer who met her on the road the day after she had received her Bachelor’s degree from the University of California at Berkeley.  She’d had her fill of protests and college life in general.  So she decided to make a break with the past.  Land was cheap and values were still high when she first set eyes on this beautiful country.  The first night she spent with Tim convinced her to spend the rest of her life under the great Douglas firs.

She’d left California to see America.  All her life she had worked toward independence by securing her education and setting her sites on a law degree.  But her experiences at Berkeley had made her tired and a little cynical.  It was better, she had thought, to see what was happening elsewhere.  Although she was responsible and cautious, her campus education made her feel worldly and adventurous.  The second day she was on the road, she spotted Tim hitchhiking on U.S. Highway 395 through the high desert of eastern Washington.  He was a longhaired, hippie fox.  She was a woman and she was alone.  She had no business stopping to pick up a strange man, but she was impressed by the curve of his ass and the powerful beauty of his broad chest.  When he politely greeted her and leaned into the passenger window, she was really impressed.

“Ya goin’ as far as Spokane?” he asked.

“I’m passing through there on my way north.”

“Are you goin’ as far as Idaho?”

“Sure,” she said.  “Hop in.”

“Thanks.  I’m Tim Beaux,” he said, throwing his backpack over the seat and climbing in.  He put his hand out politely.

“I’m Eileen Daryll, glad to meet you.”  She was very nervous.  But something told her that it was OK.  He was a hunk.  His long dark hair and full beard were clean and he smelled good.

“Do you thumb often?” she asked.

“No.  Never.  My truck broke down about ten miles back and I figured I’d try to walk it.  There’s nobody on this road, ‘til you drove up.”

“You want me to stop at the next station so you can get a tow truck?”

“Naw.  That ole truck’s had it.  I got the plates off it and stuck ‘em in my pack.  I was just gonna leave it.  Where you from anyway?”

“California.”

“I got family in Sunnyvale and Saratoga.  I grew up in San Jose.”

“Oh yeah?  I’m from Berkeley…well, I’m originally from San Francisco, but I just graduated from UC…computer science.”

“Damn good school.  Strange major.  You must be purdy smart.”

“Not too smart.  I’m picking up hitchhikers,” she said with a weak smile.

“Well, ya got a point.  But I’m not a hitcher.  I was just walkin’ to Idaho when you stopped.  If you’re nervous, just lemme out and I’ll understand.  But be careful about pickin’ people up off the road, it’s dangerous.”

In spite of his size, Tim seemed gentle.  He had a quality about him that intrigued her.  There was nothing threatening about him.  After a few minutes on the road, Eileen was feeling safe and relatively secure.  She was still rather amazed at herself for pulling over.  Maybe she was lucky.  She was definitely lonely.

By the time they reached Spokane they had struck up a friendship.  They had a great deal in common.  Both were native Californians, both had voluntarily expatriated themselves, and both were leery about relationships.  Tim had a couple of joints with him.  The familiarity of the smoky fragrance, along with the quality of the high, enhanced the situation.  They both loved music.  Listening to Aerosmith and Carly Simon solidified the newly forming bond between them.  Tim offered to let Eileen stay the night in his guestroom before she continued her trek across America.  She wasn’t sure why she did it, but she accepted.  Just to be sure, she called her mother in San Francisco to let her know where she was and who she was staying with.  Her mother was understandably concerned, but she trusted her daughter’s judgment.

Tim was a self-made farmer.  He owned an 80-acre spread where he raised milk cows, chickens, turkeys, and geese.  He performed his chores alone, and lived exclusively off the land.  His world fascinated Eileen.  Everything he did to survive was completely foreign to her.  Her fascination was for his utterly self-reliant nature and his determination to leave his native home behind.  He was a young rebel with a “Manifest Destiny” of his own.  The material world of Silicon Valley might have been his destiny, had he chosen to remain in California.  But he’d seen his cousins and brothers get swallowed up slowly by the obscene lust for money and prestige that was quickly becoming a way of life in the Bay Area.  He wanted no part of it.  One day he threw his meager belongings in the back of his old truck and deserted his homeland.

As a child, he grew up among orchards and fields.  He remembered the Santa Clara Valley when it had provided enough food for most of America and much of the world.  This Valley was cradled between the golden hills of the Diablo range and the rich green of the Santa Cruz mountains.  He remembered the clear days of sunlight and the kite-flying winds.  The smells of blossoms and nectar pervaded the flat fertile land.  This Valley had been blessed with increase; a boy’s paradise with dreams of vast open promises.  It yielded almonds, sweet corn, walnuts and tomatoes; apricots, prunes, peaches and apples; artichokes, garlic, potatoes and onions, beans, cauliflower, cabbage, and peppers; figs, grapes, pimentos and olives.

When he left, the Valley was turning to silicon, yielding a different increase; a different kind of promise.  Orchards were sacrificed to the new technology.  Thriving fields were ploughed under and divided neatly into tiny cells, providing virtual storage for over-priced data plots.  He had witnessed the onslaught of the clean-industry machines driven by the endless looping of mindless batch programs, crunching and processing and spewing their incomprehensible filth across the Valley.  Their bit-streams penetrated the fertile soil, unsexing the earth and destroying her fruits.  Their human visionaries violated the landscape with chip huts and entrepreneurial shacks: block configurations repeating in real-time, rocking prophetically to the volatile memory of  “Pleasant Valley Sunday.”

A prune yard became a shopping center.  It no longer boasted the sweet sunny taste of its world-renowned prunes.  Instead, it offered wholesale jewelry stores, oriental restaurants, and quaint little bookstore/coffee dens.  It provided French cuisine prepared by Persians, Mexican food prepared by Vietnamese, an outdoor elevator, a Japanese bank, and a discotheque.  Men’s and women’s fashions, novelty gifts, poolside furnishings, and ice cream; anything you wanted.  But not one prune survived. 

Tim knew it was so.  He willingly became part of the California attrition.  He remained faithful to that conviction.  Eileen was different.  She changed her mind and returned after nine years to take a job as a technical writer in San Jose.  Each had made a fatal error.  She, by embracing technology; and he, by not returning to reclaim the land.

II

Jon Franks was sipping coffee with Detective Bennett in Homicide.  Franks and Bennett were bullshitting and catching up on the office gossip when the fingerprint report came in on the ’87 Honda registered to Eileen Daryll.  The flurry of activity over the report made it clear that it was time for Jon to get back to his desk and out of Bennett’s crowded office.  It was typical for a Monday morning.

“Catch ya later, Al.”  Jon’s good-bye fell on deaf ears.  He picked up his coffee cup and walked to his desk.  The fresh pile of papers that awaited him made him groan out loud, “Christ!  It never ends.”

Jon was seriously thinking about taking some time off.  He was still torn up about the night that he walked in on Kimberly and Gordon.  No one at the station was aware that Jon was upset.  He was good at hiding his emotions, especially ones that involved his private affairs.  He sat at his desk and put his cup of coffee off to the side.  All six lines on his phone were tied up.  As soon as one was free, he picked up the receiver and dialed Kimberly’s number.  There was no answer now; she had left her answering machine off.  He hung up and riffled the papers on his desk.  He was not in the mood to work, but he had to put a dent in that pile.  It would take his mind off Kimberly.

The Honda was found covered with prints, inside and out.  There were traces of blood on the brake pedal and on the driver’s side floor.  Empty beer cans were tossed carelessly in the back seat.  A pair of semen-stained boxer shorts and a porno magazine were on the passenger side.  There was a glossy residue on the steering wheel and on the stick shift.  A few feet from the car was a shattered liquor bottle.

Forensics had determined that the blood was Lisa Daryll’s.  Test results on the residue wouldn’t be available for several more hours.  The fingerprints belonged to three individuals: Eileen, Lisa, and Wiley Holmes.  There were no prints to implicate Charlie.

Wiley Holmes was an 18-year old kid with a rap sheet that included numerous arrests for drunk driving and public indecency.  His most serious offense was one count of burglary.  What he stole and the way he did it made him more of an imbecile than a criminal.  He had downed a fifth of vodka one night and felt like listening to some cumbia.  The closest source was his downstairs neighbor, who had a stereo and a collection of Latino music.  When his neighbor didn’t answer, Wiley broke the window with his elbow and dragged the whole set up to his place, piece by piece.  Instead of using the door to get out, he crawled back and forth through the broken window.  The trail of blood he left to his apartment made it easy for the cops to find him.  His current address was a run-down tenement on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland.  The landlord said that Wiley had never paid rent, so he kicked him out.  That was about five months ago.  When the police told the landlord that Wiley was wanted for questioning in a homicide, he wasn’t a bit surprised: “I knew the guy was scum.  He prob’ly kill his own mama, fuh Gossakes.”

Wiley had been panhandling and hitchhiking around the Bay Area for a few months.  He was making his way to Los Angeles when he stumbled across Eileen’s car parked alongside Highway 9.  He saw the keys in the ignition and decided to take a little drive.  Eileen had kept a twenty-dollar bill and some loose change in the ashtray, so Wiley made the most of it.  He bought himself a 12-pack of beer, a fifth of bourbon, and a dirty magazine.  Then he headed for the beach to watch the sunset and fantasize about naked women.  He left the radio on all night.  The next morning the battery was dead.  He crawled out of the car, took a final swig of bourbon, tossed the bottle against a rock, and locked the car door behind him.  Then he walked all the way to downtown Santa Cruz to seek his next spur-of-the-moment thrill.

When Jon had gotten about half way through the pile of papers on his desk he remembered something.  Gordon had told him where he worked.  He was a white-collar worker…a manager of some sort.  What was it?  He thought about it some more.  It was a kind of wimpy-ass job.  He bragged about his $75,000 annual salary and numerous fringe benefits.  What was it?  He said something about a bunch of Filipinos working for him.  Women eating out of his hand.  He had them all working their asses off for him and jumping through hoops for their meager salaries.  He bragged about it a lot.  It was computers, maybe?  What’s that he said about a little faggot?  Oh yeah.  He called him a prima donna.  That’s right.  That was funny.  He imitated the way he walked.  That was funnier.  He managed a bunch of computer geeks at that place on Trimble and …Xenomax!  That’s it.  Gordon worked at Xenomax Technographics.

“Gordon.  Bud.  It’s Jon…Kimberly’s friend.  How ya doin’?”

“Jon.  Yeah!  What’s up?”

Gordon was overly friendly.  He was shocked to hear Jon’s voice on the phone.  How did he get his number?  Why was this cop calling him at work?

“I was thinkin’ about how much fun we had the other night and I remembered you tellin’ me you worked at Xenomax.”

“Oh.  Yeah!”  Gordon was relieved.  He recalled the conversation vaguely.  So this had to be a social call.  “So what’s on your mind, Jon?  That was a great night, wasn’t it?”

“I was just thinkin’ that.  And I had the weekend free.  And I was lookin’ to see if you might wanna join me in a little partyin’.  I was hopin’ you could help me out.”

It was strange.  But Gordon was used to strange requests.  This guy was a cop, and he was after some party materials.  That was stranger.  He’d be a good man to get to know.

“Well, yeah.  I’m not busy Friday night.  What did you have in mind?” Gordon asked, sounding little hesitant.

“I was thinkin’ that you could come by my place for a game of eight-ball.”

Jon’s message was clear.  He wanted an eighth ounce of cocaine.  That wouldn’t be any trouble.  Hopefully he didn’t expect free delivery.

“Oh.  Oh, yeah.  Sure.”  Gordon responded, sounding a little hopeful.

“I thought it would be fun to get together again and make an evening of it.  Ya know.  Just you and me, bud.”

That was better.  Jon was looking to make a purchase and share it.  Gordon was always interested in that kind of transaction.

“Right.  Sure.  Sounds good,” Gordon said confidently.  After all, this was how he supplemented his income.  It crossed his mind that Jon was trying to set him up for a bust.  But an eight ball, come on.  It would hardly be worth it.  And after the way Jon cut loose the other night, it was obvious this guy was just another party animal after a little fun.

“Great!  What do ya like to drink?”  Jon asked.

“Scotch and soda, bourbon and seven.”

“I got beer and Tequila.  I’ll get a couple of movies and we can kick back.  Seven all right Friday?”

“Perfect.”

“OK.  I’m at 597 Valley Forge Way.  If you need to call, I’m in the book under J.D. Franks.  If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know it’s a done deal, ya hear?”

“Consider it done.  I’ll see you Friday.”

Gordon hung up the phone and walked briskly among his programmers, feigning interest in their productivity.  He had a tendency to bob when he was excited.  He checked with the faggot and the Filipinos to see if they were interested in putting in their orders for the weekend as well.  They were takers.  This weekend was going to be profitable and entertaining.  He returned to his office and made a call.  Everything was set.  Then he called Kimberly.  There was no answer.  She was probably sore at him.  Dumb bitch.  She’d get over it.

Friday night, Gordon was a little nervous when he arrived at Jon’s.  He shuffled around the room for a while, bobbing up and down with his hands sunk deep in his pockets.  He knew the chance he was taking selling to a cop.  But he prided himself in his ability to bullshit his way in and out of any situation.  That’s how he’d gotten to where he was today.  He knew the right things to say and the right times to say them.  His presentation was flawless; his material was pilfered.  He’d mastered the craft of taking other people’s original ideas and presenting them as his own.  He was good at it.  He had nothing to worry about.  He bobbed a little less, and then he sat down.

He slammed the over-sized bindle on the coffee table and sat back with his arms folded, shaking his foot and grinning.  He waited for Jon to check it out.  Jon was satisfied.  After they completed their transaction, Gordon relaxed.  Jon started them off with two large rails.

Gordon was determined to dive right in and impress this cop.  Someone with his influence could be useful.  He was going to make sure he ended each witty remark with a cocky shake of the head.  The way a stand-up comedian does when he expects applause.  He only expected credit and approval.  He always accepted them with a nightclub performer’s grin.

“How ‘bout those Giants?” Gordon started.  He’d picked up some stats about their performance from one of the guys at the office.  There was a chance he could impress this cop right off the bat.  He needed to break the ice and appeal to the jock inside of Jon.  It was a conscious attempt at bonding.  It was contrived and vulgar.  Gordon prided himself in doing it well.

“Yeah.  Looks like they might make it to the play-offs this year,” Jon remarked.

“Could be a Bay Bridge Series,” Gordon grinned and shook his head.  He acted like it was his very own idea.

Jon forced himself to smile back.  He couldn’t stand this little creep.  The guy was completely hooked on himself.  Jon laid out a few more lines.  He poured a couple of shots of tequila and passed one over to Gordon, hoping the alcohol would make him tolerable.  Jon still needed some information from this guy, he could do without the poor Steve Martin rendition.  “Here’s to good times.”

“And to good friends,” Gordon added and slammed it back.

Jon swallowed his in two gulps.  He set the shot glass on the coffee table and poured a couple more.  “So, speakin’ of friends, how’s our old friend Kimberly?”

“You mean our hot, Black, mama friend Kimberly?  I’d say she’s probably a little miffed at both of us for the other night.  But you know how those Black bitches are.  Snappin’!  That foxy nigger has one hell of a snappin’ pussy, man.  You remember,” he nudged and winked lecherously.

Jon was really perturbed by Gordon’s racist and sexist remarks.  He tried not to show it.  “So’d ya talk to her since we last saw her?”

“No.  I called that cunt a couple of times, but the bitch be out whorin’.  I sure would like to sink it in her big black ass tonight.  This shit’s got me horny,” he said taking another line.

Jon had heard enough.  He stood up calmly and took his loaded revolver from inside the stereo cabinet.  “Stand up, fucker,” Jon said sternly, pointing the gun at Gordon.

“What are you gonna do,” he asked weak-kneed, raising his arms above his head.  He was too terrified to notice he had let the tooter drop out of his hand.

“Drop your drawers, or I’ll blow you away.”

“What fo…”

“Drop ‘em to your ankles or I’ll kill you,” Jon promised.  “The shorts too.”

Gordon could barely stand.  His legs felt like gelatin.  He did as Jon said.  “Wha…”

“Shut up and bend over the arm of that couch.  Now!  Fucker!”  Jon got into his stance, holding the revolver with both arms fully extended.

Gordon slumped over the arm of the couch whimpering.  He couldn’t talk.  He was speechless for the first time in his life.  He had no idea what this was all about.  But he knew he had no chance against a trained, angry cop.  Besides, he was a coward.  If Jon were a woman, Gordon would have had her by the throat.  He’d never been in a fight with a man in his whole life.  He’d been cold-cocked and beaten up a few times, but he never had the balls to fight back.

Jon was right-handed.  He held the gun to the back of Gordon’s head with his left hand.  Gordon felt the hard cold steel grind against his skull.  It hurt.  Jon picked up the open bottle of tequila with his right hand.  “You just try to move, fucker, and your fuckin’ brains are all over that fuckin’ couch.”  Jon took a long swig and smacked his lips.  “You wanna sink it, it’s sunk.”  He started working the neck of the bottle into Gordon'’ ass slowly.  Gordon tensed up immediately with a surprised grunt.  Jon paid no attention.  He just forced it in a little harder, until it sank up to the shoulder.

Gordon groaned loudly with pain, biting his lip almost clean through.  He ground his knees and elbows hard into the sides of the arm.  He didn’t want to struggle, he might die.  “Shiiiit!”  He had to deal with the pain, it was better than dying.  He felt the flood of cold liquid in his intestines followed by a deep burning numbness.  Jon kept the bottle inserted until all the contents had emptied, worm and all.  Then he dislodged it carefully and stepped back.  In a couple of seconds the tequila came gushing out of Gordon’s ass like a backed up drain.  Jon broke out laughing, “blow it out your ass, fucker,” Jon ridiculed.  Gordon was groaning and shooting tequila and air out of his ass.  He was in too much pain to get off the couch.  Then he felt a slow hot rush.  The alcohol had entered his blood stream rather quickly.  He felt himself getting drunker by the minute.

Jon sat on the couch next to Gordon’s head.  He held the gun against the side of his face.  He still held the empty bottle in his right hand.  “Hair of the dog that bit ya?” he taunted.  “Where’s Kimberly?”

“I don’t know,” Gordon groaned, confused and feeling very cold.

“Who’s that girlfriend of hers and where can I find her?”  Jon asked, setting the bottle on the coffee table.

“Bonnie, man.  I don’t know where she lives.  I’m freezing.  Someplace in San Jose.  I’m sick, man.  My stomach hurts real bad.  I think you tore something.”

“You’ll get over it.  Does she have a last name?” Jon asked politely.   “Muhgregger!”  Gordon coughed out a string of mucous.  He was shaking so much, he made the couch vibrate.

“You wouldn’t happen to know her phone number?”

“Nooo,” he moaned.  “Check th’ phone book, you ass’ole.  I need a doctor.”  He started crying.

Jon was unimpressed.  He got up and looked in the telephone book.  There was a Bonnie MacGregor listed in San Jose.  He dialed the number, hoping it would be the right one.  He recognized Bonnie’s voice.  She had left a recorded message for someone named Colleen.  Jon listened attentively, while Gordon passed out across the arm of the couch.

III

Eileen was waking up from a long sleep.  Sunlight streamed slowly into the room.  She was at peace.  As her vision cleared, she noticed that the flood of light came instead from a glaring fixture on the wall.  She was in her bathroom, lying on the floor.  She moved.  A sharp pain shot through her right side.  She grimaced and her face ached terribly.  She took a shallow breath and turned slowly onto her left side.  Her yellow pants were down around her ankles and she was lying in her own filth.  She couldn’t remember what happened.

She moved very slowly, trying to get to her feet.  Her jaw was fractured and two of her ribs were broken.  When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself.  She was too numb to react.  The left side of her face was purple and swollen.  She must have passed out and fallen against the bathtub.  She filled the sink with warm water and used a sponge to clean herself up a little.  There was a robe hanging on the bathroom door.  She thought about Lisa.  A pang of fear cramped her liver.  She took the robe and wrapped it around herself, unconsciously tying the belt into a bow.  With no thoughts in her head, she crept down the hallway to the back bedroom, supporting herself against the wall as she went.  This was no dream.  This was somehow happening.

At the end of the hallway, the light poured in from Lisa’s room.  It cast a bright, rosy glow on the hardwood floor.  The room was quiet, except for the sound of the bubbles coming from the aquarium.  Lisa must still be sleeping.  As she stepped in to the doorway, Eileen looked at the floor.  Something deeply disturbing made her avert her eyes and stare ahead at the wide-open window.  She had to squint.  The unusually pallid hue of the sky mesmerized her.  She didn’t want to look away.  Morning approached.  It was her favorite time of day.  She was afraid to let go.

Tears started to roll down her cheeks.  She could hear herself sobbing, she was so afraid to look away.  She stood in the doorway crying and staring at the sky.  It was tearing up her guts.  Something had happened.  Something more horrible than she could ever imagine.  She didn’t think she had the strength to face it.

She finally let her gaze drop to the floor.  Her daughter’s canary lay dead.  A pencil was shoved through its gullet and protruded at the other end.  Lisa’s ant farm was at the bottom of her tropical fish aquarium.  The fish had become oblivious to it.  Her desk was overturned.  There were books and records scattered all over.  A severed hamster’s head replaced the head of a ballerina on the jewelry box.  Eileen could see the bed across the room.  The covers were pulled off and Lisa was gone.  Eileen walked toward the bed sobbing louder, fearing that Lisa had been kidnapped, or worse, lay dead on the other side.

“Please.  Please,” she prayed as she approached.

“LISA!”  She let out a desperate wail that rose from the bottom of her gut.  Her daughter’s body was there.  The room fell silent.  Eileen stood and stared without uttering another word.  The sight was so shocking, so indescribably shocking, she lost her ability to comprehend.  She stood with her hands raised, gasping, quick and shallow.  She stared insanely at every sordid detail of the scene as if trying to find an anchor to reality.  Nothing worked.  She was trapped in a tiny world with no doors.

Al Bennett was on the phone yelling at one of the guys in the lab.  “How the hell am I supposed to understand this crap!  It’s written by a bunch of boat people who can’t even speak English!”  The pressures from the Lisa Daryll case were starting to show.

“Hold on a minute there, Al.  Don’t go getting racist on me again.  If you have a question, I’ll try to answer it,” the technician said nervously.

“Yeah.  I got a question,” Al started.  His frustration was affecting his judgment.  “What’s this stuff about chemical composition being inconclusive?  You fuckin’ guys are supposed to know everything.”

“Hold on.  Let me get a copy of the report.”  The technician was shaken up.  He went straight to the lab director to complain about Al.  The director picked up the call and greeted Al kindly.  He had known Al for a long time; they’d served in Viet Nam together. 

“Hi Al.  It’s Howard, how are you?  This one’s got us stumped, Al.  The substance is an organic compound that we can best describe as resembling snail slime.  Possibly an industrial lubricant.  The problem is that it has other characteristics as well.  For example, it’s phosphorescent and has properties that suggest it’s synthetic.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s hard to say, but it’s inert and harmless, as far as we can tell.  The problem is, we haven’t been able to figure out who manufactures it or what it’s actually used for.  We’re consulting a biochemist in Sacramento.  We’ve also got an industrial chemist working on it at Stanford.  All we’re prepared to say at this time is that our preliminary findings are inconclusive.  Oh.  It turned out to be the same stuff they found in the dead girl’s hair.  You say that in the report?”

“Yeah,” Al responded.

“Looks like the killer had it all over his hands.”

Al sighed.  “Howard.  I know you guys are doing your best.  It’s just that this one’s killin’ me.  It’s a son-of-a-bitch and I need all the help I can get.”

“I appreciate that, Al.  I promise we’re working on it.  We don’t like being stumped either,” the director explained, appealing to Al’s sense of professionalism.  “I’ll call you personally as soon as something gives.”

“Awright.  Thanks Howard.  As soon as you hear….”

“As soon as we hear.”

Bennett had gone over the details of the crime a hundred times in his head.  He’d been a cop for the past thirty years.  In that time he had seen plenty of gruesome sights.  Bu he couldn’t remember the last time he had run across something so heinous.  The suspect’s profile didn’t seem to match the severity of this crime.  But there were no other leads.  Whatever had been used to bludgeon the victim’s legs was missing.  The traces of boot black indicated kicking, but it had to be something like a dull axe to do that kind of damage.

There were complications.  Since Eileen and Lisa were new to the neighborhood, none of the neighbors could offer any help.  Most of them were young families who worked long hours to make the payments on their expensive mortgages.  When they slept, they slept soundly.  Consequently, there were no witnesses.  No one had heard Lisa’s screams over the sounds of their central air-conditioners that hot August night. 

Al remembered arriving at the crime scene.  By the time he got there, the body had been shielded from view by a bed sheet draped over two chairs.  The investigators were too squeamish to look at it any more than they had to.  They still had a lot of work to do in that hot, stinking room.

The green flies had come with the smell of death.  What made this murder different to Al was the thought that his own granddaughter was about the same age and build as the dead child.  Had she been only a dead child Al could have taken it, but the illogical connection between this battered corpse and the memory of his granddaughter’s face made him break down.  It was the first time he had lost it since he was a rookie.  The investigators pretended not to notice.

Al regained his composure slowly.  He stood over the body wiping his face with a handkerchief.  He was trying to distance himself.  He concentrated on details, forcing himself to avoid a comprehensive view of the scene.  It was a deliberate attempt on his part to resist that immediate emotional seduction that had taken him by surprise.  He was a cop with an important job to do.  It was hard, but he had to force his reason around his emotions.

He took a small notebook from his coat pocket and made a list for himself, carefully recording and numbering each item.  If he could isolate the pieces and study them separately, he could ensure his objectivity.  When he had finished, he remained standing over the body.  He pored over the list.  Each detail provided the basis for further questions.  They focused him on cause, rather than effect.  He pondered each detail as he read:

V

Even to the sterile eye of a clinician the overall scene would have presented an eerie vitality.  It wasn’t the startling aspect of each detail that evoked such an intensity of intolerable awe.  It was the way the details themselves combined into one central meaning, the apprehension of which had the force of a frame to a picture.  There was something alive in the composition, as if the whole were greater than the sum of its parts.  This is what gave the scene such an emotional unity of effect.

Of a sudden the fragmented details fused into one tortuous thought for Eileen.  It was the smell that brought it home.  The overpowering smell of spoiled blood and pungent urine.  It forced its way into her paralyzed consciousness.  The smell of her daughter’s death.  It was the smell that excoriated her.  First, it shot through her nostrils, then into the back of her head with a blinding flash of blue.  She hadn’t anticipated that hideous smell.  It struck like lightning, making her gag and choke, forcing two powerful emotions out of her; forcing them directly through her skin.  Hatred and revulsion exploded from the center of her body poisoning the air of the room with a visible blue haze.  What disgusting thing had he done to her before she died?  She had been violated.  She had been defiled.  The foul blue smell of death blasted her in the face again.  It forced her from the room.  It shattered her desire to hold Lisa in her arms for the last time.  It robbed her of a mother’s vital need to touch.  It repulsed her.  It became synonymous with the foul-smelling corpse on the floor.  She hated it.  She hated her daughter for it.  She hated herself and the electric blue of morning.