Chapter Eight: Too Taxing

A beautiful twenty something woman wearing a white coat stroked her flowing blonde hair in a vigorous manner, accompanied with a flummoxed expression on her tear-soaked face. Her stress seem to billow out from her azure eyes like fiery smoke rings, beaming at random and unfortunate objects or persons that got caught up in her stewing mass of frustration. She then tugged her hair outward, bewildering the bystanders around her, forcing them to ask themselves why a pretty little girl like her is turning into such a hot mess before their very eyes. However, in the proper context it became less bewildering and much more appropriate as the situation hit critical mass; this poor woman’s world had been turned upside down.

A few hours before, this young girl stood stammering against the horrific scene of another twentysomething woman and a five year old son, both riddled with gunshot wounds. They weren’t family members, no just complete strangers, but it was her job to save them and she was going to do so damn it! At least that’s what ran through her head as she screamed for them to come back to life even though she knew damn well that it was too late, as her fellow coworkers restrained her back into a hallway. Her mind raced so fast with so many thoughts that it crashed and all that followed was absolute gibberish. Her mind just couldn’t grasp what happened before her very eyes.

When she thought back to the first time that she wanted to be a doctor, it became very hazy as it stretched way beyond what any average or sane person would ever decide to pick as a profession or even a dream. Maybe when she was three? No, it had to have been earlier than that. Her ideal of being a lifesaver and a healer intensified all the way through high school to the point that by senior year she had alienated all of her friends, except for one guy whose life philosophy was the complete antithesis of her own approach. This man—whom she had fell in love with for so many reasons from his crass and bold attitude that she admired to his blue and green eyes, his watermark that attested to his uniqueness—remained very attached with her for years and they spent hours just chatting about their future plans which of course she would remain steadfast on, but he would always switch up on it with variously preposterous ideas such as opening a bar/restaurant/salon that he dubbed the “Sports Barbtendershop” to being a crime detective “like Sherlock Holmes”. Unfortunately he hooked up with Samantha Stewart of all people, which she always gave him grief about as she along with many others felt describing the relationship as an “odd couple” was an understatement.

Yet when medical school finally did come, she found that attachment with that guy slowly dissipated to the point that when he invited her to his wedding she vehemently denied it; causing a rift that she assuredly thought would never be fixed. As the taxing rigor of medical school came to a close and she finally became a doctor after the insane trials of residency and employment search, she realized it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. Still she had no reason that the career she had envisioned and put in place of her friends, her romances and her family would drive her past sanity. She was no squeamish girl, often relishing in the most gory movies and being the placator in the most gruesome and dire of situations. No, what did her in was the fact that most of her patients were not of the typical sort that she intended. No, instead of saving the lives of innocent victims of unlucky incidents, the vast majority of the populace that resides in her care tend to be gang members in a shootout or drunk drivers that deplorably risk not just their own but others' lives as well. But she readily accepted that with nary a whim as she acknowledged that North Memorial resided in the "bad side of town". However, she was nearing a breaking point until one incident forced her to reconsider and challenge her preconceived notions that stood as her ideals for two decades.

A man was picking up his kids from their mother's house when they got into an argument.  His response to the disagreement was to go back inside, get his gun, and shoot her and their five year old son multiple times.  The son died almost immediately while she was hit in the left arm, the abdomen, and the head.  The young woman took her immediately to the operating theatre for a laparotomy that found multiple perforations in her small intestine and colon, all of which the doctor repaired successfully. She then performed a craniectomy - she removed a large piece of her skull, stopped the bleeding in her brain, and put the bone on ice to (hopefully) re-implant later.  This procedure allowed the brain to expand outside the normal confines of the cranium, because there is very little room inside the cranial vault for the brain to go. Unfortunately removing a chunk of a person’s skull didn’t go well and she soon fell into a coma.

What transpired that day shattered any resolve or justice that the poor soul had in this world, at least until a sudden meeting with a man dressed in a trench coat and a fedora. She swore that he seemed vaguely familiar, until it became glaringly obvious who he was when she examined his eyes; one being bright green and the other electric blue.

          "Sterling? I should have known that I would find you at a crime scene." emanated a voice that caused the blonde to turn her head on a swivel.
         "Jac, what are you doing here?"
"Well, I don't know if you heard, but a guy tried to kill his wife. I don't know how common it is here but it's kinda noteworthy."
"You'd be surprised how common it actually is."
"So anyways, I am here because I am a homicide detective and they rang me up 'cause they can't find the fucker, excuse my language."
"Trust me, that guy can't even be close to be described by fucker."
"Since the victim can't talk right now, I figured that I could inquire you about these recent happenings."
"Well sure, I guess. But what could I inform you about this crime? I have no idea what happened."

“Seriously Sterling? It’s been almost a decade since I have seen you and you want to talk about work? I figured that you cracked.”

“Wait a second, what about that maniac that’s on the loose?” asked Sterling in utter disbelief.

“Actually my job is more along the lines of finding out whodunit more than catching some runaway. And apparently there were plenty of eyewitnesses and evidence to suggest that he’s the guy so my hands are tied. So anyways, is there a good place for coffee?” Sterling complied and took him to some ma and pa shop that she had frequently hid at in order to avoid the gradually more nerve-wracking situation that she so desperately wanted to disappear from. Then something remarkable happened, at least in her mind; they were talking about their future plans again but this time with their roles reversed. Afterwards they probed into the last decade and what they did with themselves since then.

“Man, this has been bugging me since I’ve first saw you.”

“What is it?” asked Stone in his first honest to god smile in years.

“How the hell did you end up being a detective?”

“What are you talking about? It’s been my lifelong dream ever since I was twenty!”

“No, seriously. What happened to psychology?”

“Well to be honest I did get a degree in psychology: Criminal psychology. After that one of my classmates, David Humenik, asked me how interested in criminal psychology was I? Of course I said ‘very’ and he got a few connections and soon enough I got hired as a police detective. Seven years later and I’m still going strong baby! So how about you? Why are you so bummed out?”

“You ever have your heart set on something for years and years and you do all of this shitty work and asskissing and when you finally, after dealing with all of the bullshit, get to the top, you realize that it wasn’t worth it?” Stone stares at Sterling for but a moment and then nods in complete agreement.

“Well, yeah. You know that Sports Barbtendershop idea?” Sterling merely glares at him coldly after pouring out of the vitriol from her heart. “I’m kidding. But yeah, I know exactly what the hell you’re talking about (Sterling mouths ‘Really?’). Yeah, ‘cause you see my marriage, well at least former marriage went the same way. And to be honest it happened so recently I still don’t want to talk about it.” retorted Stone in a snarky manner that he had no intention in releasing, as if he kept it pent up and this beautiful young lady who he had an eye for since middle school was able to peel away all the onion-like layers created from age and mistrust.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea,” proclaimed Sterling in utmost sincerity. Stone scans Sterling’s face and gives her a casual glance.

“Man, you always bring out the most melodramatic out of me Sterling, I was halfway to tears. Anyways, I probably took up most of your time and then some, so I think I’ll be out of your hair now,” muttered Stone reluctantly.

“No, please stay here. I really don’t want to go back to that hospital. Hell, I might even quit.” Sterling grabs the cuff of Stone’s sleeve, who then embraces her hands with his own.

“You know there is an opening for a medical examiner at the station. Now you would have to deal with dead bodies all the time but a doctor of your caliber is probably used to that.”

“Ha, very funny. But can you actually get me that job?”

“I’ll throw in my good word for you but I warn you that only has like a ninety nine point nine nine percent chance of success, so if you don’t get it I’d suggest buying lotto tickets.”

“I’m sure I will. Hey, why don’t we stop by at my place and reminisce, maybe you’ll even have a little fun.” Stone smirked, picking up Sterling’s signals.

“I’m sure I will.”

“Ms. Sterling! Are you OK?!”

“Yeah, why?” The same young blonde woman was a tad older, but seemed to have a purpose and carried herself as such. To her side was a young short Asian woman with a bowl haircut and goofy glasses who was her assistant. Neither seemed distraught about the corpse of the man found in the gas station mere hours ago.

“Because I asked you how in the hell you got Stone to get you this job and you froze.”

“Oh, I was just daydreaming.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you didn’t want to tell me?”

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

“I’m all ears!” Sterling merely flashed a smile. That was until she looked at the clock and realized that they needed to do an autopsy. Then she gave her assistant her infamous glare and barked for some forceps. 

Chapter Seven: Wild Goose Chase

“OK, so Marceau should have the warrant and we’ll be good to go,” proclaimed an exuberant Stone, who briefly motioned his hands towards the sky in relief until Sterling slapped him to put them back on the steering wheel.

“Well, we’re actually pretty late. Marceau told us to meet him an hour ago,” reminded Sterling anxiously.

“If he followed the values he preached, then he should know that patience is a virtue. Plus I’m pretty sure that picking up doughnuts—which could be our last meal—is always a good idea to settle our nerves.” As they drew nearer and nearer towards the address, it became clearer and clearer that this was not the area that you would expect a Latino serial killer. Surrounded by suburbia, Stone was noticeably irked by all of the yuppie, cautious and affluent white people staring at his beaten down Prius with dismay, with antagonism. Ignoring that though, they finally pull into the driveway of the house which was as bland as possible with no distinguishing features from the other factors and as white as the snowy background. Marceau was leaning on his black Mercedes, just tapping his leather shoes and his eyes fixed on his watch, intent on nothing else. As the trio regrouped, Stone offered Marceau a pastry which he vehemently denied, then produced a pistol and as they neared the door alerted the group of the possibility that the killer lurking within and to stay by his side calmly and observantly.

As the door eerily creaked, the only light that seeped through came from the tops of the veiled curtains, as Stone fluttered a light switch to no avail.

“Didn’t pay his damn bills,” remarked Stone in frustration. As they drew the curtains open and let the sun into the room, the plain emptiness unsettled them all. No rugs, no pictures, scarcely any furniture except for a couple of chairs huddled by an old box set TV. As Stone walked around, urging the others to follow, he couldn’t shed the feeling that each creak, each soft thud of a footstep, even his own breath all allied against him; the very silence deafening by revealing the barely perceptible cacophony that surrounded him which practically embodied the soul sucking eyes of Mister Dominguez. The silence became a presence, sharpening every one of the group’s senses, their perception so finely tuned that their imaginations turned against them, shadows and hushed noises alike became the enemy. Yet, as they scoured the whole house, nothing appeared to be amiss, nothing appeared to be out of place. In fact, it was extraordinarily ordinary noted Stone, where a disturbing thought crept in that the mundane exterior compensated for some horrific paraphernalia elsewhere.

As they dared to venture down to the basement area however, a foul odor permeated the air, pungent and blood curdling, which caused the group’s hairs to stand on end. As they approached closer and closer to the room, the very stairs from underneath them groaned from their weight. Stone once again drew out his Glock, which shivered over the anticipation of grave danger. When Stone finally reached the bottom of the staircase alley and turned the corner, he immediately ducked back as he saw Dominguez merely standing in the middle of the room, a bizarre quirk he muttered in his mental conscience. After pacifying Sterling and Marceau and waiting briefly yet endlessly, Stone rallied as much audacity as he could, and ventured to peer back at the least expected image he could think of.

Feet dangling. Sterling and Marceau convened beside Stone, who already approached the hovering, rotting body suspended by a sturdy rope while a toppled chair lie beneath, and all three wore flummoxed expressions. Sterling examined closer and remarked that the body had to have been at least 72 hours old, right after the murder.

“Well, we might want to check that list of suspects again,” quivered Stone.
(Chapter Eight)

Chapter Six: Here Are the Facts

“Sweet, we’ve got the gang back together!” shouted Stone jubilantly, much to the chagrin of the ring of detectives and policemen, aggravated by his antics.

“Stone, less reminiscing and more focusing on this case. Anyways, you were right about the murders but we’re still back to square one. What do you propose we do then to resolve that?” asked Klein as sincerely as he could, which turned out to be very little.

“What are you talking about? He is clearly connected with Emilia, hence ‘For Em!’ How ignorant can you get?”

“Stone, this guy clearly is a mass murder. Why the hell would you assume that this isn’t some random killing, or do you expect him to personally be connected with every single victim he’s had.”

“Don’t get me wrong, this guy is a serial killer, he probably has killed dozens of random strangers who have nothing to do with him at all. Hell, that one guy whose name escapes me probably just crossed paths with the wrong motherfucker, but he clearly has something to do with Emilia. That’s why I got one of my lackeys to examine witness reports and to see if he indeed does have any connections with her. In fact, there he is right there!” Stone pointed at a reserved, baby faced twenty-something in a business suit clutching a manila folder. Stunned at being recognized, he clears his throat.

“Well, yes. I have police sketches made from various witness testimonies,” he reveals a pencil sketch of a clean shaven well groomed Latino man in his early thirties with unnaturally pale, bleached skin that seemed to have been removed of all life and vitality. “And this is Eddie Dominguez, Emilia’s separated husband.” He produced a photograph with a face that looked remarkably similar to the sketch but with two distinctions that were ingrained into the back of Stone’s skull: a snarl from his upper lip that twisted his facial features and showed his true aggression; and pitch black eyes that seemed to be tunnels to endless and hopeless abyss, the last thing that god knows how many saw as their last sight in this world, as if the eyes themselves snuffed their living breaths out like a candle.

“Well, I stand corrected Stone. We appear to have got our man, so how do we get him?” inquired Klein, his interests piqued.

“Now that appears to be the tricky part. You see, the reason that Dominguez has eluded the grasp from the law for so long is he is a completely different beast. He is fickle, clever, cunning and can extricate himself from virtually any situation. I’m willing to bet that he has made some friends over the years, the type of folk that can make you disappear and reappear again. No doubt that he’s probably got some new documents from the Black Market that he made so that he can charade as something else. It’ll be very difficult to sniff this guy out.”

“So basically you went through that superfluous and completely unnecessary monologue to tell us that you have no plan whatsoever?” asked Marceau in a jabbing kind of way.

“Yeah, pretty much. Although,-“ Stone scans the file, places a sheet of paper and points at a line that read ‘1402 East Temple Street Plymouth, MN 55427’ and proclaims ,”That is a pretty damn good starting point.”

(Chapter Seven)