ColdScheme Read Online Free Page B

East Fayette and five
minutes later, were in our parking lot.
    Our Unit Supervisor, Ernst Miel, had retired in January. The
Homicide administration had decided not to fill this position. On an interim
basis, we reported to Newton Bourke, one of the three Shift Commanders. He was
fifty-three and had learned most of life’s hard lessons from experience, not
books or hearsay. His thoughts took the shortest path to become words. Had he
not liked to speak his mind, he would have made captain by now. His gruffness
was textured with humor and all those who had worked for him over the years,
liked him.
    “I heard you struck pay dirt last night. It’s going to be a
long time before you get to wash your car,” Bourke greeted Ken. He continued.
“A curious situation. A scorching-hot homicide but it’s yours. I can’t remember
when a cold case came back to life, only to leave it in a hurry…or whatever it
was Joe had said…victim drowned in his own liquefied tissues. And that’s after
his pacemaker slam-dunked him on to the hood of your car.” Bourke nodded at
Ken.
    “Did Joe come up with something new?” I murmured.
    Bourke grimaced. “Yes. But I don’t need a medical examiner
to get me fired. I can do that by myself well enough. All I have to do is march
into Halpern’s office and lay him out with an uppercut. I might even enjoy
that. What the hell is a battery-powered micro-shock hammer trigger?”
    I looked at Ken and sighed. “Joe went to catch up on the
latest developments in medical journals, probably right after we left. He must
have flown over to Hopkins, delivering those tissue and blood samples by hand,”
I said.
    “I’m not even going to print out that preliminary report he
emailed me,” Bourke threatened. “A gadget, similar to a pacemaker, had been
implanted in the victim’s chest. This alien marvel contained a triggering
device—this battery-powered micro-shock hammer—which, when a signal was given,
sparked and blew up the victim’s chest. What kind of immediate cause of death
is that?” he demanded.
    “Explosive,” Ken deadpanned.
    “You print out that piece of shit and then fill it with a
story that the victim ran around for four years with a bomb planted in his
chest and I’ll sign it. But I’m not reading that micro-shock shit again. He was
an economist, for God’s sake, a research assistant with the International
Monetary Fund, not a guinea pig for alien mad scientists.”
    “It’s probably the four years, running around, that made Joe
plunge into those futuristic medical journals—and visit Hopkins,” I commented.
“When he disappeared, Brick was an economist with the IMF, working at their
Langtry Office, developing mathematical models in their statistics division.
But when we found his body last night, in addition to his own, he carried on
him eight different identities—none of them even remotely connected to
economics.”
    “Like I said.” Bourke smiled. “You’re going to have a busy
year, checking out alternate identities. It’s your case. Go solve it,” he said
and dismissed us.
    “Micro-shock,” Ken murmured, when we were already outside.
    “Joe’s appetite sure could use a macro-shock,” I said and
got in the car.
    “Meg,” Ken grabbed the wheel. “Before we start checking out
all those IDs, why don’t we drop by Mongrove?”
    “Brick’s fiancé is still languishing in the psychiatric
facility?” I was shocked.
    “Brenda checked it for me. Patricia’s never made it out, not
even on a day pass.”
    Brenda was a pediatric nurse at Johns Hopkins. We dropped
by, now and then, to have a quick lunch with her. She would have connections to
check on the residents of a psychiatric facility.
    Mongrove was in Brooklyn Park. The building was a colonial
brownstone with white columns. It sat in a tranquil setting, surrounded by
asphalt, industrial storage units and abandoned rail tracks. I heard wounded
screams from gulls and seabirds, scavenging for food across