Apex Book Company

This boy was every boy.

The standard-model boy. T-shirt, jeans. Straight bangs falling over a rounded face. Big brown eyes. The fixed playful grin of a pirate. Plato’s Eternal-Form boy. Ten years old, legs too long, deep summer tan. Fidgeting in his chair. An iPod slung around his neck for later.

He’d raped his first victim with a metal bar wrenched from the bed frame, then carefully positioned the body and the inserted bar for her family to find. Another dead woman, he’d bitten off both nipples before strangling her with a pair of stockings that’d been pulled so tightly around her neck, they’d cut down to the bone.

He’d done all these things. This boy.

Theodore.

Done more, actually, according to his summary file.

Or his DNA had.

Becker had not yet made any distinction between the two. And, he wasn’t so sure the two men standing behind him had either.

“Phase One, where Applications still does most of its research, is only restricted therapeutic cloning,” Dr. Erdman, the division head, continued. “What you’d call ‘stem-cell research.’” His voice remained distant and flat, and Becker wondered if the man might still be in shock. Based on what he’d seen earlier in the Activity Center, it would have been understandable. “These subjects were part of Phase Two.”

From behind the two-way mirror, Becker looked over the rest of the boys sitting in the room.

Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Sitting beside the first was another they’d tagged as Jerry. Fifteen years old, the file read. His former self enjoyed intercourse with dead girls and fastening the bodies with copper wires for electrical shock experiments, which he meticulously documented and photographed. He’d kept breasts as souvenir paperweights. His former self had been executed ten years ago.

Another teen named Dean watched TV from the couch. Twenty-seven bodies were uncovered on “his” property back in ‘73. After authorities found the torture room.

The last, Andrei, had committed fifty-three murders in the Ukraine, according to the sheet. Even Becker found the number unsettling. The Rostov Ripper. Preferred method was to cut away the eyes and then casually eat the uterus after his victim couldn’t “see him” anymore. This boy was a recent addition, no more than eight.

“Where do you get all the DNA?” Becker asked.

The second doctor, a stout man built like a Tolkien dwarf and introduced as Mohlenbrock, actually chuckled. “Where don’t you?” he said. “Archived evidence. Autopsy samples. We had Gacy’s brain here on loan for months. Hair on old brushes and clothes bought from family members. Hell, some of these guys are still alive, and they just sign over the stuff.”

“We bought some of Gacy’s on e-Bay,” Dr. Erdman added.

“Is this legal?” Becker asked, his eyes still on the boys.

“Is what legal, Captain?”

There was just a touch of forewarning in the geneticist’s voice, and Becker turned.

“Cloning humans,” he said.

“It is, actually,” Erdman replied. “For now. Though some states have recently prohibited the practice, the federal government, as yet, has not.”

“I just assumed.”

“Most do.”

“I also thought we were at least ten, maybe twenty years from…from this .”

“So does Congress.” The doctor pulled off his glasses to wipe them with his tie. “For those in Washington who know better, the biotech lobby has become rather substantial in the last fifteen years.”

Becker studied the first boy again.

Theodore/12 , the file and photo read.

A clone.

The genetic carbon copy of another human being.

And not just any human being, Becker reminded himself. Developed in some lab for the scientific goal of isolating, understanding and curing violent human behavior, this boy was the genetic offspring of a known killer. A name even Becker recognized, although he could never remember if it was the good-looking guy out west or the one who dressed like a clown.

Ted Bundy.

This kid’s DNA had history. This DNA had celebrity status.

This DNA had killed.

Considering the boy’s face, Becker decided, Bundy was the good-looking guy. Considering the file, he was a monster.

Becker looked for something in the kid’s eyes, anything that revealed the kind of person who’d slowly and rhythmically beat a young woman to death with a piece of plywood while masturbating with his free hand. He saw nothing but a ten-year-old boy and the partial ghost of his own reflection in the glass.

“How do you keep them here?”

“DSTI has a private school on premises. Their adoptive parents, employees of DSTI, naturally, have enrolled their sons here.”

Becker rescanned the file.

BD: June 10, 1996

SCNT: January 1, 1996

IMP: January 10, 1996

FH: N300

“What’s SCNT, Doctor?”

“Somatic cell nuclear transfer. IMP is embryo implant. FH is the female host. Look, Captain.” The doctor shuffled his feet behind him. “Perhaps this was a mistake. We thought it might be easier for you to understand the rest if—”

“No,” Becker stopped him. “This was helpful, thank you.” He turned from the two-way mirror and resorted the folder. “And the six who escaped…” He reread the “parent gene” names, having only half-recognized two of them.

Albert Fish. Jeffrey Dahmer. Henry Lee Lucas.

Dennis Rader. Ted Bundy. David Berkowitz.

“I thought the kid in there was Bundy.”

The doctor looked uneasy. “Theodore 12 , Captain.”

Becker allowed himself an extra moment to process the implication before speaking. “How many are there exactly, Doctor?”

“Most die during gestation. With respect, we’d prefer to focus on the six who are missing.” Erdman reset his glasses. “Major General Durbin assures us you were the best man for this.”

In other words, Becker thought, none of your fucking business, soldier. Not a unique circumstance considering he’d been Combat Applications, i.e. Special Forces, for nine years now. If there was one thing he’d learned in the 1st SFOD-Delta, it was when to shut up. For now, he’d allow his question to remain unanswered. He held up the briefing they’d pulled together. “I’ll need complete files for each of the escapees. Everything you have.”

“Certainly,” Erdman said. “They’re being gathered for you as we speak. Psychiatric and medical reports, the—”

“And the three hostages,” Becker interrupted. “Everything you have on Dr. Jacobson and the two nurses. Santos and…” he checked his notes. “Kelso.”

“Of course. Human Resources will assist you in any way possible. Do you really think such information can help?”

“Do you really think I’d be asking if it didn’t?” Becker noticed the shocked look cross Mohlenbrock’s face and checked his next words. “It might help,” he amended instead. “That’s sometimes reason enough. Perhaps find something to point us to where they might have gone.”

Erdman nodded in agreement. “Any chance our people are still alive?”

“Based on what I saw in the other room—” Becker handed Mohlenbrock back the file “—I’m not sure which answer you really want to hear right now.”

Erdman stared back at him, appraising him again, Becker realized, like another one of his specimens.

“I’d like to head back to the Activity Center now,” Becker said, freeing the doctor from the pressure of having to speak first again.

“Of course.” Erdman lifted an arm to shepherd him from the room.

“Their meeting was scheduled?”

“First Monday of every month for this group. Our psychiatric head, Angela Corwin, and Dr. Jacobson always run the session together. Though, I didn’t even think he’d make this one today.”

“Why is that, Doctor?”

“Been out all last week,” Erdman said. “The flu. Was working from home. Came in just today.”

“How’s that for luck?” Mohlenbrock asked.

Becker didn’t respond.

Within the double doors, the room’s walls were painted a striking light blue color that immediately reminded Becker of the Aral Sea, so the fresh dark sprays and splatters of blood were even more conspicuous than usual. Becker pretended it was coral.

Two men in light hazard suits and masks moved about the room still, gathering more evidence, snapping more pictures.

Becker followed the two doctors directly through the center and slowed to study the body splayed across the foosball table. The sheet they’d covered it with was already soaked through and Becker could perfectly make out the person beneath. A modern Shroud of Turin, still dripping over the plastic players to the field below.

“Which one is this?” he asked.

“Dylan.”

Becker waited.

“Kleybold. Columbine .”

“Right,” Becker forced himself simply to accept this information as nothing more than standard intel. “And you’ve confirmed that’s the other kid?”

The other body had been bound with network cables to the railing, which led to the second floor. Becker eyed the dark shape half hidden beneath the sheet, embossed in blood like the charcoal rubbing of an old tombstone. Standing with its arms still held outstretched like some Halloween prankster.

“Dr. Bauer,” Erdman waved over one of the men in hazard suites and claimed his clipboard. Mohlenbrock excused himself and scurried through the opposite set of double doors as Erdman flipped through a few pages. “Eric Harris, yes. Eric 6. Blood and PCR tests match up.”

“Have they found the skin yet?” he asked.

“No, Captain.”

Becker looked down again at Kleybold and furled back the sheet. The body beneath had been flayed. Completely and immaculately. The skin cut away at every turn so that the boy, except for a few gouges out of his arm and between his toes, now looked like something out of a Michelangelo sketch book. The report suggested the other one looked exactly the same. “Why did they hate these two so much?” Becker asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“This boy was alive when they skinned him.” He looked into its lidless dark eyes. “I… I’ve seen this before.”

“Where was that, Captain?”

Becker ignored the question and replaced the sheet. “It’s in the hands.” He moved towards the Harris body. “The arms. Instantaneous rigor. Just like a drowning victim’s last cadaveric spasm. These two drowned choking on their own blood.”

“The others never…” The doctor followed Becker deeper into the room. “It was a mistake to have those two here. Naturally, spree killers were never the same as the others.”

“Naturally,” Becker hid his damning grin. “So, how do you know it’s not Eric 3 or 4?”

He made sure to make it sound like a genuine question and not a challenge. The pissing contest seemed worse than usual with this lot. A bunch of Betas in ties and lab coats with delusions of Alpha-ness. God, how I hate the twentieth century.

Twenty-first. Jesus.

“Doctor?” he prompted.

“There are ways. If there’s one thing we know around here… Besides, the other Erics all terminated during gestation.”

Becker looked at the doctor. Terminated, he mused. These pricks speak just like we do. “The transmitters,” he said.

Bloody metallic pellets the size of a small pill. They’d been left on the pool table in the shape of a smiley face. The body of the psychotherapist remained sprawled just beside them, she, too, covered with a sheet.

“All subjects implanted at birth for their own safety.”

Becker squatted down for a better look. “Of course.”

“It appears they each cut them out right here. Over the table. We’d thought they’d carved up Eric and Dylan looking for them, but—”

“No,” Becker said, “I think that bit was mostly for, what, fun? They seem to have found and cut these transmitters easily enough without that. Question for you, how’d they even know to look for them?”

Erdman just shrugged.

Becker looked about the rest of the room and took in the other signs of recent history sprinkled throughout.

The security guard brained against the steps. The torn and bloody nurses’ uniforms. Crimson scrawling on the walls. Several small bodies swaddled in sheets on the floor, those students not invited, for whatever reason, to come along on the field trip. The glossy arterial spray painted in streaks across the television and X-box.

More coral.

What had happened here, the who and the how and the when, would take time. The tapes from the security cameras were missing. Becker turned to Erdman. “Where’s Jacobson’s room?”

“Right through here.”

Jacobson’s office proved spacious and expensive. It had also been completely destroyed. The chairs and coffee tables splintered into pieces. Cabinets emptied. Built-in shelves split and bare, the books in uneven piles on the floor. Someone had clearly tried starting a fire with some of the paperwork. Mirrors and framed pictures had been shattered into snarling shards of glass, and several computers and monitors were smashed into a hundred pieces so that the whole room now glittered beneath the harsh unnatural lighting recessed above. The large desk was covered in blood that pooled along the edges of the missing doctor’s laptop.

“This the teacher’s blood? The one from the stairwell.”

“Mrs. Gallagher,” Erdman confirmed. “Right. Damned woman would have been sixty-five next month.”

“Dangerous job.” Becker looked around, pointed to the swaddled cloth in the sink. “And that’s the…”

“Yes.”

Becker nodded, made to look about the room casually, while his mind absorbed the information. Mrs. Gallagher’s entrails and uterus not ten feet away. This is worse than Towraghondi, he thought suddenly. Jesus Christ, I didn’t think that was even possible.

To clear his mind, he tried focusing on the only two things in the room not completely destroyed. The fish tank, which, though tinged slightly pink with blood, was still intact with a dozen saltwater beauties floating about.

And the framed needlepoint behind the desk. Old English lettering:

And our LORD set a mark upon Cain,

And he dwelt in the land of Nod,

on the east of Eden .

“He nicknamed it the ‘Cain gene’ early,” Erdman said behind him.

Becker looked back. “Cain gene?”

“Cain and Abel.”

“Got that part. You might wanna help me with the genetics.”

“In essence, it’s an anomaly on the XP11 strand of DNA that scientifically indicates, and potentially influences, a genetic predisposition to various degrees of aggression, rage, and violence, whose chromosomal allele travels only on the X gene.” Erdman sighed. “Meaning men, who have only one X, are hereditarily predisposed to the affliction.”

“The kind of men who would do something like this.”

“Precisely, Captain. This. And precisely why we’re trying to help such men in the future.”

“Sure. What was in the fish tank?”

Dr. Erdman paused too long, deciding how to play it, and Becker let his annoyance show. Did they really think he was that stupid?

“A key,” Erdman said. “But we have no idea what it goes to.”

Becker nodded, made a note of it, and moved slowly across the room to look at the files strewn behind Jacobson’s desk. “You guys keep daily log files,” he asked, “or any way to know for sure if something’s missing? This room seems even more trashed than the others. Could be hiding something.”

“If I may…”

“Speak freely.”

“Is this really necessary? Every minute we wait—”

“Measure twice, cut once, Doctor.”

“What’s that?”

“Measure twice, cut once. Something my dad always said.” He picked up and sorted a stack of papers.

“Was your father an Army assassin as well, Captain?”

Becker looked up and smiled. Christ, these guys are cocky. With the accountability in this massive fuckup, you’d think they’d just want to keep their heads down awhile. “No,” he said. “He just sells shit. Regardless, the point is, I can run outta here right now with my proverbial dick in my hand to track down six people in a world that’s got some fifty-seven million square miles to play in. Or, I can do my homework, as it were, to start narrowing the boundaries down a bit.” Becker’s thoughts had turned again to Uzbekistan and the hills of northern Pakistan. “You’re a smart guy, Doctor. Which course do you think affords the highest probability for success?”

“Fair enough,” Erdman nodded. “I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken. I also need all of Jacobson’s phone and email records, as soon as possible. Any cell phones, too.”

“Dr. Jacobson? May I ask why?”

“Sure.” Becker set the papers on the edge of an upturned table. “Take a look at your preliminary crime scene report. Something’s not there. Something that should be, based on everything else we’ve found.”

“And what’s that?” He held out the clipboard.

“Blood,” Becker said. “You’d think we’ve got enough here, right? But we’re still a little short.”

“Jacobson.”

“Right.” Becker smiled. “Where’s Jacobson’s blood? Kidnapped by a pack of raving lunatics and you don’t have one drop. While everyone else is slaughtered. How’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Erdman said. “Tell me.”

“How are you guys with the idea that Jacobson’s the one who let them out? That this was intentional. Explains the trouble-free escape, the transmitters, the missing security tapes.”

He could tell from Erdman’s expression they’d considered this already. Maybe from the very beginning.

“But why?” Erdman asked. “Why would a man do something like that?”

“Who knows, Doctor. Maybe the same reason you guys do a lot of the shit you do.”

“And why is that?”

“Maybe just to see what would happen.”

The geneticist looked directly at him, folded his report back together. Cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “what will you do now?”

Becker eyed the fish tank again.

I’ll do what I’ve done fifty times before, he thought, watching the cerulean and gold angelfish float through the milky strands of dissolving blood. I’ll hunt them, find them and then…

“I’ll do my job,” he said.

***  ***  ***  ***

 

Albert could not sleep again.

His head bubbled over with just too many thoughts, each idea and image leading to another as he stared up at the shadow-lined ceiling.

Quiz in Spanish. Gym first bell. Why bother getting dressed? Never understand a word the asshole teacher says anyway ‘cause the guy’s from Honduras or something. Don’t ever go anywhere. Never even been on a plane. Albert McCarty. Who cares? Stupid class anyway. Wetbacks should all just go home. Marian Wren and her quarter-sized nipples. Two rows back where he could watch her. Her mouth. Loved to watch her mouth. “ ¿De dónde venéis? ” it said. “ ¿De dónde venéis? ” Sometimes, she ran the pen along her lips and he knew what she was really thinking about. Probably had stinky breath anyway. Ashtray-breath like his lame mother. Cock tease. Heard Mike Gaffney was looking for him after school. Wanted to kick his ass or some shit. Asshole. I need a car. Go somewhere. Jacobson. Anywhere. Take Mrs. Nolan somewhere and suck on her nipples.

He’d already jacked off three times.

Trying to relax. To get tired.

Just want to sleep.

No more thoughts.

Had to keep busy or they just came back again. Every night. Sick of the shitty pictures in his Gallery magazines. The one girl had dark hair on her arms. Like an animal. Ripped those pages out and flushed ‘em down the john with his stuff all over them. Sick. Freak.

Mrs. Nolan.

Right next door. No more than a hundred feet away.

He turned onto his side and looked out the window towards her. Her bedroom. She probably jerks off sometimes too, he knows. She’s, like, thirty but even old people jerk off. Lies in bed and puts two deep inside. Probably tired of that dopey husband. Chris. Faggot. Bet she’d love…

Noise from the living room. Something breaking. His drunk mother stumbling over the end table again. No doubt pouring herself a last round of Jack and Diet Coke before bed. If he were lucky, she’d go straight to bed. Sometimes she’d come in and just start laying into him. Stupid shit about his grades or friends or playing Warcraft too much or other stupid shit. Like she was just starting shit to start shit. Drunk bitch. Just talk to Jacobson. He’s got something to make it go away.

Mrs. Nolan walks around in her black thong underwear. Seen it. Just last week. When she bent over to pick up the newspaper. Just pull those panties aside and suck her nipples. Stupid virgin. I should have done that fat chick with Kevin when she was passed out. I could kill Mike Gaffney. Just shoot him in the head with the gun in mom’s closet. Or Mr. Nolan. Whatever. Or me. She thinks I’m a loser anyway. Freak. Who’d fuckin’ care? She would.

He’d reached into his shorts. Fourth time would ache a little but it was worth it. Pictured her beneath him with her arms over her head, tied to something. A bedpost, he guessed. Those rail things. Keeps saying ‘no’ but that’s just because she doesn’t want to take the blame when they get caught. Squirming beneath him while he’s sticking her good. Sticking it in. Can’t make out the face. Marion. Mrs. Nolan. Shit!

 Someone standing just outside his room.

Heard the creak.

If his mom caught him again… He remembered that ordeal well enough, she’d vanished for awhile and then come back to tease him about it for hours. He quickly pulled his hands away.

“What?” he snapped into the dark. Tried to sound tough with his heart thumping halfway out his chest.

The door opened a crack and someone’s silhouette stepped into the den television’s ghostly light.

Kenny? No. Too tall. Some other guy who’d come by to screw his mom. Another asshole who’d probably end up laying into him some afternoon for looking at ‘im wrong.

“Who is it?” he asked, sitting up. “Who’s—”

The man now stepped into his room.

Didn’t make sense. Not at all. Why is he here?

“Dr. Jacobson?”

“Hello, Albert. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Almost as if he’d willed him here with his very thoughts like some kinda genie. The boy climbed from his bed. “I don’t–-”

“Nothing to fear, son,” the man said, his face half lost in shadows. “Not any more. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

Several darker shapes moved in the living room behind him, but Albert couldn’t make them out. “Where’s…where’s my mom?”

“First, we need to talk,” the doctor said.

“Why? Why are you here?” Albert found he’d pulled the blanket close to his chest as some childish protection. “We’re not supposed to meet again for weeks. What’s that?”

“This, Albert, is a folder with all the information we have about who you are.” He’d taken a seat at the end of Albert’s bed. Casually crossed one leg. “Who you really are.”

“What do…you mean, like, those tests and stuff?”

“Some of that. Bit more of where you truly come from.”

“My birth parents.”

“In a way.” He’d lain the thick folder on the bed. “Go ahead. Have a look.”

The boy reached out carefully and took the folder.

ALBERT/5.

Just inside: Albert Henry DeSalvo. (11/3/1931 – 11/25/1973), and a picture.

“Is this my dad?”

The black and white photo so very familiar.

As if he’d seen it before when he knew that he had not.

“Not exactly,” the doctor smiled.

Photocopied newspaper headlines.

‘Boston Strangler Escapes From State Mental Ward,’ ‘Boston Strangler Murdered at Walpole Prison.’

Pictures of old ladies.

Anna Slesers (55), Mary Mullen (85), Nina Nichols (68), Helen Blake (65), Ida Irga (75).

Faded shots of their dead bodies. Then, the younger ones.

Sophie Clark (20), Patricia Bissette (23), Beverly Samans, (23), Joann Graff (23), Mary Sullivan (19).

The Sullivan woman had gay hair but was still kind of cute. Blonde. Pretty eyes. Looked a little like Mrs. Nolan.

Albert kept reading.

How much time passed he did not know. He ignored all the noises from the other room. And Jacobson, who sat quietly watching him throughout. Eventually, he looked back up.

“Albert Desalvo.” He tried the name aloud on his lips. Not McCarty, his adoptive name.

But Desalvo.

His real name.

“The ‘Boston Strangler,’” he whispered into the darkness.

His real name.

The words like magic. He’d never felt…

Better?

The boy looked at the doctor and noticed for the first time there was blood on the man’s pants. It did not change his overwhelming emotion.

Peace.

“Thank you,” Albert said.

The doctor patted the boy’s knee and stood. “Every person should know who they truly are,” he said.

Jacobson moved towards the bedroom door and Albert trailed slowly after him. No clue where his mother was, but there were several other figures shuffling into the hall and out the front door. He wondered if they were the other students he’d sometimes met in group counseling sessions. The doctor retreated just behind them.

“What do I do now?” Albert called after them.

Jacobson did not pause or answer. He didn’t need to.

As their cars backed away, Albert understood that the front door had been left wide open.

Into the night.

Where Mrs. Nolan was probably still wide awake, too.

And waiting for him.

***  ***  ***  ***

 

Jacobson’s house sat alone atop a high hill in a pricier section of Haddonfield, New Jersey. Wooded, private. Old vines, new construction. The country club no more than a mile away. Aesthetic security lights glowed at every turn, the inside of the small estate remained dark. Those inside moved about only in shadows.

Becker had confirmed there were at least two men upstairs. Listened to and followed their distinct steps. Heard their muffled and clipped conversation. Could be more. He could now see their flashlights sweeping the darkness upstairs. The voices clearer. Anxious. Rushed.

Becker calmly waited for them just outside the room.

One of the voices had grown more familiar.

When the two figures stepped into the hallway, each carrying a box, he switched on his own flashlight.

One of the men actually screamed.

“Mohlenbrock?” He cast the light directly in the doctor’s face.

“God damnit, Becker,” he squinted into the light. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Shut up. You guys don’t waste any time, do ya? Hey,” he pointed his 9mm. at the other form. “You move another step and you will die. Understood? Good. Who else is in the house?”

“No one,” Mohlenbrock replied, the box trembling with the shaking of his arms. Becker refocused his gun. “No one, just us. Shit,” the doctor groaned. “This fucking box is heavy, Becker.”

Becker put on the hall light.

The other guy was a kid. Thirty-something with a bad complexion and a worse goatee. Didn’t look like any of the pictures he’d studied back at DSTI.

“Back into the other room,” Becker said. “Keep a nice hold on those boxes until I say otherwise. Got it?”

The younger guy looked at Mohlenbrock, who nodded, and the two moved slowly back into the other room. An office of dark leather and more books than Becker had ever seen outside of a library. “Put the boxes down on that table. Sit down over there.” He turned on the office light and switched off his flashlight. “Move.” He directed with the gun.

“Just take it easy, Becker,” Mohlenbrock said, sitting down with grunt. “Cut the Delta Force act for a minute, will you?”

“You guys on some kinda scavenger hunt, Mohlenbrock?” Becker flipped a hand through one of the boxes. File folders. Books. CDs. A laptop. “Myself, I’m supposed to find six genetically-mutated serial killers.”

Mohlenbrock started to speak, then saw the look on Becker’s face and merely waited.

“Call him,” Becker said. When Mohlenbrock just sat there, Becker pulled the cell from the man’s front pocket and pushed it against his chubby face. “Call him.”

The doctor took the cell, selected a number. “It’s me.”

“Give it here.” Becker took the phone. “Hey.”

“What is it?” Erdman barked on the other end.

“If you guys are gonna play detective, Erdman, I’d prefer if you let me know upfront. Otherwise, it’s a good way of getting one of your guys shot.”

“Captain Becker.” Erdman paused. “Where’s Mohlenbrock?”

“Sitting here beside some other nerd and two boxes filled with evidence.”

“I see.”

Becker eyed the rest of the room. Didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed. “I gotta admit, Doctor, our working relationship hasn’t gotten off to the greatest start. I’m beginning to suspect a trust issue.”

“I understand how it looks.”

“So, I’m now asking myself, am I really supposed to find these guys or not? If so, continuing to hide information from me probably won’t help. And, if I’m not, just tell me so I can spend three weeks looking for them at Hilton Head.”

“Find them. We absolutely must find them. But…we just, Richard Jacobson heads DSTI’s entire genetics program, from Development to Applications. Applications, as you already know, is into some pretty advanced ventures and Development is light years ahead of that. Military programs are involved, and Jacobson is privy to matters and information of—”

“’National security.’ Got it. Look, Erdman, these boxes stay with me until I’m done with them or I walk now.”

“Then walk, Captain.”

Becker laughed and tossed the cell to Mohlenbrock.

 

He was halfway to the Philly airport before the call came in.

“Good evening, sir,” he picked up. “Always nice to hear from you.”

“Like Hell,” Major General Durbin laughed on the other end. “How you doing, kiddo?”

“Fine, sir. Just fine.”

“Just got off the phone with our new friends.”

“I can imagine. Total screw job, sir. These guys don’t—”

“Pick up everything you need back at the house. I explained some things to them and the matter cleared up rather quickly. Just let ‘em know when you’re done with it.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. I’ve been assured of that, and they know better than to fuck with me.”

“Request more men on this one, sir. Need a full team.”

“No can do. This one needs to be fast and quiet, kiddo. That’s you. FOX News goes apeshit when some drunk teenager gets lost in Aruba. What do you think they’d do with this?”

And if something goes wrong…tough shit, kiddo. You’re gone and this never happened. Becker considered that inherent threat, even more so now with this mission, with his next words.

But, was it really fair to doubt Durbin ?

It was Durbin, and Durbin alone, who’d come back for him in Iran. Got him out of that ‘jam’ when most others would have scrubbed the whole thing with a tidy M.I.A. and just left him to suffer.

Becker knew he owed the Major General a hell of a lot more trust than that. Only problem was, Becker figured, the Major General knew it too.

“There’s a key,” Becker said. “I think Jacobson left it in the fish tank as some kinda clue. Guy wants to get caught. The key probably fits to his house somewhere.”

“I’ll make sure its there too. But Captain…”

Not ‘kiddo’ or ‘Sting’ he noticed, but something much more official. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m boosting your clearance for this. Whole new ballpark now.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I sure hope so. ‘Cause it gets ugly in a hurry.”

“How ugly?”

“Hell’s still uglier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there ain’t no going back. Not ever.”

That I know.

“Keep me informed, kiddo. Keep smart.”

“Yes, sir,” Becker said, and pulled into a gas station to turn his rental around.

The boxes were waiting for him in the empty house as the Major General had promised. And the key to Jacobson’s private safe, which had already been emptied into the boxes.

 Becker spent the next four hours skimming through the files and Jacobson’s private diaries, watching the video CDs. By morning he had more questions than answers.

But he knew this.

If hell was uglier, it probably wasn’t by much.

***  ***  ***  ***

 

When she saw the clown, she knew for sure.

Before that, it had only been a suspicion. That inimitable nervous tickle in the stomach that hints you might now be in a dangerous situation, that something ‘Bad’ could happen. Could. Not nearly enough to make you grab your two children and run screaming for the car. That’d be too embarrassing. No, not Fear. Not yet. But an emotion more akin to Nervous or Anxious.

The two cars pulled in slowly beside each other on the gravel parking lot. Both filled with kids, teenagers.

Mostly boys.

Ashley checked her watch. It was only one in the afternoon. Too soon for school to be out. Maybe the schools were off for some kind of in-service day, or the kids were college-aged. A couple looked older. Maybe they were just skipping school. God knew she’d done so a couple times in her day. It was a nice enough day for it.

But why come to a playground?

She turned back to find Cassie, her daughter, still winding through the top of the park’s small wooden castle.

More kids slowly climbed from the cars.

Two girls among them. Dirty hair hung over their eyes. Both moving strangely.

Ashley absently handed Michael another pretzel stick and looked back towards where two other mothers had been having a picnic lunch with their young sons. Was overly relieved when they were still there, chatting away.

“Poc,” Michael burbled beside her. “Poc.”

Poc, Tik, Mop. The ever-evolving official language of young Michael Steins, fifteen months. Words she kept in a small diary to share with him someday.

“Poc,” she smiled. “Pretzel.”

Michael giggled.

She started packing their things.

“Honey,” she called out to Cassie. “Honey?” Wanting to get her attention without using her name. Why, she wondered, was that suddenly so important? Her daughter moving away from her deeper into the castle. Ashley stood and moved after her.

Two of the boys had taken seats at the swings and were using their feet to twist themselves up in the chains. Another pair was wrestling atop the see-saw.

Fine, Ashley thought. Just trying to recapture some half-remembered joy of childhood. Very Holden Caulfield. They’ll all be bored in five minutes. Girls are probably just stoned. She fumbled for her cell phone, half remembered she’d left it in the car. Clapped her hands. “Cassie, come on now. Time to go.”

Her daughter turned. “Whyyyyy?” she whined from the top parapet, her dark pigtails hanging over her yellow dress.

“Come down now, honey. Hurry up.”

Her four-year-old scrunched her face in displeasure.

Several of them looked older than teenagers. Young men.

“Come on.” Ashley waved her down. Can’t get up there quick enough. “I’ll buy you both ice creams on the way home.”

“Mikey, too!”

Don’t say his name, baby. Don’t say his damned name.

“Yes, yes. Let’s go now, honey.”

A horrible sound.

Van doors shutting.

She spun around.

The other table suddenly empty. The other children already somehow collected, small bags of books, toys, McCalls and Pringles already packed.

The only other SUV now backing slowly out of the parking lot. Leaving her alone.

With them.

She turned back to Cassie and almost collapsed to the ground as the whole park seemed to tilt.

She was gone.

Cassie. Her daughter.

Where once there’d been a little girl, there was now nothing.

What do I…dear God, this is really happening.

Ashley moved toward the castle like a half-formed ghost.

She’s gone. She’s really gone. What have these monsters done to my —

“God!”

Her daughter appeared with a squeal at the bottom of the green tube, sliding to the end ‘til her feet dangled just above the mulched ground.

“Cassie, fucking…”

“What, mommy?” She climbed off the slide.

“Nothing.” Ashley fought the urge to collapse again. “I’m sorry, baby. Come on, let’s go.”

Yanking her back towards the picnic table.

She saw the clown then.

Standing perfectly still by the cars. A scarecrow.

Watching her. And her children.

A red suit with white frills and buttons and a matching red hat. Huge blue triangular eyes like a jack-o-lantern. Its mouth blood red and covering the entire bottom half of the face. In the shape of an enormous smile.

Now, she knew.

Scooping up the rest of their things and slinging the bag over her shoulder. Dragging Michael in one arm, pulling Cassie with the other.

“Poc,” Michael said. “Poc!”

“In the car, baby. Hush now.”

She looked up at the swing set, clearly saw the girl there for the first time. A woman. Her “boyfriend” slowly and mechanically pushing her swing from behind. The woman’s face masked behind grimy hair, head drooped to the side. What Ashley had thought was a shirt was not. The woman was nude from the waist up. What she’d figured was a shirt’s pattern was only dried blood.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

Ashley staggered forward toward her car.

Michael started crying.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Shut up,” she hissed, yanking her closer. “Please, baby, just…”

One of the boys laughed.

She’d reached the car.

“Pox,” Michael yelped again. “Pox!”

“Pox,” Ashley replied in a half-laugh that shuddered through her whole body. “Pretzels. That’s right, baby.”

Door half open when they finally stopped her.

One of the boys had squatted down to playfully wave a finger at Cassie. The girl’s eyes were wide, her grip on Ashley’s hand like a vice.

The other boy reached out and touched Ashley’s mouth.

“Please…” she stammered over his fingers.

Around the back of the car, another shape moving toward them. A horrible thing made of white and red.

One she’d somehow been waiting for.

“Pox.” The clown smiled at them in a grin that now filled the whole world. “Pox?”

Michael giggled.

***  ***  ***  ***

 

2 Sep – …psychopathic subjects rated ‘J’ or greater remain lowest asymmetry scores among all offenders. During interview, subject continues to illustrate classic psychopath criteria: superficially charming, unmotivated, manipulative, inadequate sense of shame, paucity of emotions. Today, I asked the subject how he would feel if I put a gun to his face and robbed him. He said he’d find a way to escape, give me the money or perhaps fight to take the gun. When I pressed him on the issue of how he would ‘feel,’ not what he would think or do, subject had no response. MMPI scheduled for next session. C\Subject’s custodian contacted to increase subject’s maternal neglect by 2.0 degrees, mf abuse by 1.0.

6 Sep – Dreams should remain banished only to night. In the sun, they are vile trespassers. They are worse. The Triazolam shots abridge REM sleep, but now they have somehow found me in the day. I could not see her face again. The warmth spilling from her insides was like a mother’s blanket enfolding me. I awoke at my desk, drenched in sweat, my stomach warm and wet with my own semen. I heard from Rochester today and everything is now arranged. Mankind remains ceaselessly motivated by characteristics inherited genetically from ancestors long-buried which individual experiences of childhood can modify, inhibit, or augment, but can never truly erase. But I shall be there when he is lifted again from the earth.

9 Sep – Lunch with Dr. Carla Brown (Tulane), who is heading a symposium next spring and asked if I would be interested in presenting. Perhaps. Reviewed impact of common functional polymorphism in MAOA on brain structure and function. Low expression variants found on all subject’s MRIs. Erdman maintains reservations on limited test group. Recorded pronounced limbic volume reductions and hyper-responsive amygdale during emotional arousal. Marked diminished reactivity of regulatory prefrontal regions compared with the high expression allele. The clearest link between genetic variation and aggression is located on the chromosome Xp11.23. This is the true mark of Cain. Xp11 is the new number of the beast.

22 Sep – …subject’s MAOA levels remain identical to DNA patron. Latest blood tests confirm sustained low serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine levels. Dogs bark as they are bred. Note to visit John and Albert at secondary environments. Voxel-based morphometry prescribed to canvass subject’s brain for regional volume changes related to genotype. He requested his room be painted tan. A genuine emotional preference or mimicry of conventional exchange? He also called me ‘father’ today. Perhaps, I should never have brought him here.

04 Oct – It is a match, and I am filled with abundant joy. It is, as I’d always hoped it would be, comforting to find our basest traits in our forebears. It absolves us.

 ***  ***  ***  ***

 

Becker tossed Jacobson’s journal back inside the box with the rest. Papers on something called Klinefelter’s syndrome. More reports, PCR printouts from a machine Jacobson kept in his office which mapped double helix pairings he couldn’t understand in the slightest. Color photos of mutilated victims. Sliced and broken. These he understood perfectly. Maps of East London from the 19 ^th century. Old photos of Francis Tumblety, and a hoary pamphlet by the same entitled The Kidnapping of Dr. Tumblety . Graphs comparing oxytocin and vasopressin levels for several subjects. From the diaries, Becker had figured that subject ‘Nobody’ was Jacobson himself.

And then there were the CDs. He’d watched only two but it had been enough. Both showed surveillance video of various children being beaten and molested. Records suggested the abuse had been methodically ordered in the name of science. In one was some kid grown from the cosmic cream of Richard Ramirez, the ‘Night Stalker,’ no more than nine in the static-wizened black-and-white video while some guy came in and gave the boy a hand job. In another CD, some other kid. Some other abuser. Test Group #2.

On the inside of Jacobson’s journal:

And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him. And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.

Why different than the other in the office? Was there something there he wasn’t seeing? Or just the lifelong motivations of a broken mind.

Becker leaned into his hands and rested against the desk. It had been a long night. He’d grown too numb to think.

The Major General had been right.

There was no going back.

He flipped open his cell.

“You finished, Captain?” Dr. Erdman asked at the other end.

“ ‘Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft ,’” he replied.

“Go on.”

“Nietzsche. ‘Who fights with monsters should—”

“’Beware that he, himself, does not become a monster.’ Very well. May we now move back to the matter at hand?”

Becker laughed. “What the hell do you see when you look in the mirror, Erdman?”

“What most men see, Becker. Do you have the information you need now or not?”

“Maybe. Here’s where I’m at. For the sake of marketable pharmaceuticals, bioengineering prospects, and potential military applications—otherwise why the hell would I be involved?-–DSTI, a highly financed but little known genetics lab purposely breeds monsters. Sponsors the abuse of children… No wait, sorry, sponsors the abuse of only half of them for the sake of environmental testing—”

“Those tests were discontinued four years ago and, officially, never happened, Captain.”

“Whatever. How familiar are you with Phase Three, Doctor?”

Erdman paused on the other end. “Jacobson had plans, but we never… DSTI rejected the proposal. Jacobson did those subject insertions on his own.”

“’Subject insertions.’ By adopting out genetic psychopaths to unknowing parents. Putting these kids out into the real world?”

“DSTI rejected the proposal.”

“How many? Mohlenbrock failed to leave the list.”

“We don’t know for sure. Less than a dozen. All other embryos have been accounted for. We have our own men moving out to known locations now. I’ll get you the list.”

“There could be as many as sixteen now. Jacobson will visit these homes. This is big time, Erdman.”

“We have taken all necessary steps to assure—”

“Just get me the damn list.”

He hung up and tapped his chin with the phone, thinking.

All necessary steps.

“Damn it,” he cursed. Then he dialed.

“Kristin Romano.”

“It’s Becker.”

Silence.

“Been awhile, I know,” he said into it. “How have you been?”

“What can I do for you, Captain?” The voice of a total stranger.

Fine. That’s what I need to hear.

“I need your help.” He stood.

Her voice changed. “Have you had—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I’m fine. You cured me, remember?”

She laughed softly. The sound so familiar, although he’d thought he’d forgotten it forever. “I’m not that good,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. “What can I do for you?” The stranger’s voice returning.

“Your doctoral work at…”

“Maryland.”

“Right. Was in criminal psychology, yes? I remember you said…you were always interested in, well, serial killers and things like that. Right?”

“Why?”

“Who’s Francis Tumblety?”

“I don’t know. Somewhat familiar but nothing. Who is he?”

“Shit, Tumblety. White Chapel. London. St. Louis. Maybe a serial killer in the early 19 ^th century.” Becker had moved into the hallway, slowly walking past each room.

“Okay, fine. White Chapel is where Jack the Ripper committed his crimes. Maybe he was one of the suspects. There were dozens.”

“Jack the Ripper.”

“Sure, hold on. What the hell’s this about?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Articulate as always.” She sighed.

Becker found the stairs leading upward. Turned on the lights.

“Yeah, okay,” she said. “I’ve got Sugden’s book right here. Francis Tumblety. He was one of the primary Jack the Ripper suspects.”

“Who’s Dennis Rader?” he asked.

“That’s the B.T.K. killer.”

“Theodore Desalvo.”

“Boston Strangler. What is this? Hell week on Jeopardy ?”

“Yes. Seems you knew these guys pretty well.”

“A lasting failing of mine. Interest in the wrong men.”

“I need your help, Kristin.”

“Kristin? Wow…what’s the—”

“I’m in something now that’s… Maybe I just need someone I can trust, someone not Delta. Maybe someone who knows serial killers.” And maybe someone who can hold me together through this.

“You were never a ‘maybe’ guy, Becker. What the hell do they got you working on now?”

Moving slowly up the steps towards the door and a darkened room. An attic of some kind.

“I can’t tell you. You know that.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“Will you help me?”

Pause.

“Kris?”

“Yes,” she said.

Door opens. Flipping the light on. The bedroom upstairs. Bland and undecorated. A lone bed and some dressers. A guest room.

“I need you to gather everything you can get on these men…”

“I’m ready. Go.”

“Gacy, Fish, Lucas, that Rader guy, Dahmer and Bundy. And Tumblety. I’ll send you an email soon.”

“Okay.” Confusion in her voice.

“Thanks, Kristin.”

This room painted tan. A fresh coat for sure.

“Anything else, Captain?”

Becker thought. Maybe he’d try something like… I’m sorry I left the way I did. What the hell have you been up to the last ten months? How’s that damned husband of yours doing? No…

“No,” he said. “I gotta go anyway. Be safe.” He shut the phone and put it away.

Drew his 9mm in its place.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said into the empty room.

Movement in the closet.

Just enough, and he turned with the sound.

“Come out,” he urged. “You can come out now.”

The slotted door folded open. The boy seated inside beside a wicker hamper was more than twelve years old. Blond hair. Glasses. Lanky. Familiar without the glasses, from the photos, but Becker couldn’t remember which one. There hadn’t been enough time. He lowered the gun.

One down, as many as fifteen to go.

“It’s okay,” Becker said. “I won’t hurt you. You’re alone?”

The boy nodded. No weapons that Becker could see.

“Come on out of there.” He waved him forward, and eyed the rest of the room. “What you doing in there, pal?”

“Hiding.”

“Not too good at it, are you?”

“Fooled those other two good enough.”

Becker nodded, smiled. “I guess so. Me too for awhile, huh? Guess you’re right.”

“Are you gonna arrest me now? Take me back?”

“To DSTI? Is that where you live?”

He shook his head no.

“You live here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else live here besides you and the doctor?”

“No.”

“When have you been to DSTI?”

“Sometimes. At night. Tests. Tests with the other boys.”

“Does anyone else at DSTI know you live here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I see. Has Dr. Jacobson been back home?”

He shook his head again and finished crawling out of the closet. “No.” He stood slowly. “He hasn’t been back in, um, not since yesterday, I guess. You gonna arrest my—are you gonna arrest Dr. Jacobson?”

Becker shrugged. “I don’t know. I need to find him, though. Him and some of the others. The other boys. When’s the last time you saw Dr. Jacobson?”

“Two nights ago. He…”

“What?”

“He called me into his study and gave me that.” The boy pointed to a swollen folder on the desk beside his bed. “Told me I should learn about myself. Then he left.”

“I see.”

“Have they been bad? The other boys?”

“Yeah,” Becker said. “Actually, they have.”

He waited while the boy looked away, mouth moving slightly in silent thought. “I could maybe help you.” The boy said finally. “Maybe help you look for them.”

“Now why would you do that?”

The boy stared at him. “So they don’t do the bad things again.”

Becker nodded. “Maybe so, pal, maybe so. Bet you know what they all look like, don’t you? The kinds of places they talk about going? Even places Dr. Jacobson likes to go.”

“Sure, I guess. You want to help them?”

“I do,” Becker said. And felt good when he said it.

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah. I guess it is. You really sure you wanna help?” Am I really sure I want your help?

The boy looked around his own room. “I’m sure.”.

“Well, we should probably get started then. I’m done here. Why don’t you throw some clothes in a bag or something, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Then we can go find them.”

“And bring them home?”

“If I can,” Becker said. “If we can.”

“Uh-huh.”

Becker waited for him at the door. Watched him stuff some shirts into a black Philadelphia Flyers book-bag and grab his Gameboy for the road. “Ready?”

“Yup,” the boy replied. “Ready.”

Becker held out his hand. “I’m Becker.”

The boy half smiled and shook back.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Jeffrey Dahmer.”

END

This is part one of a four-part novella series that ran in Apex Digest issues 9-12.

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Geoffrey Girard is an award-winning fiction author of fantasy, horror and historical tales whose works have appeared in several best-selling anthologies and magazines, including Writers of the Future (a 2003 winner) and Apex Horror & Science Fiction Digest. His first book, Tales of the Jersey Devil, thirteen original tales based on the legendary monster, was published in 2005. Tales of the Atlantic Pirates followed in the summer of 2006. He’s at work on a fourth Tales of… collection and a new horror novel.

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Geoffrey Girard’s short story “Translatio” in the Apex Publications anthology Gratia Placenti. Order your copy today!
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