LAPD Homicide-Robbery Detective Bill Lassiter looked down at the body lying on the bathroom floor. "One shot through the left ear. No exit wound."
"At least we know where the bullet is," his partner, Detective Sheila Morrison, said.
"Guess so." Lassiter looked out the small window. "Where the hell was the shooter?" Across the alley from the window was the solid wall of the adjacent building, not more than twenty feet away.
Morrison had to get up on her tiptoes to look out. "Good question. What is this, the fifteenth floor?"
"Yeah." Lassiter ran his hand through his black hair. "The only way I can figure was he came down from the other roof, hung there until he made the shot, then pulled himself back up."
"Why couldn't the shooter have come through the front door?" asked the young forensic investigator.
Lassiter shrugged. "I suppose he could have, but he didn't leave that way, 'cause the door's locked from the inside. Besides, how do you explain the bullet hole in the glass?"
"He could have shot it from here after he did the vic, then left out one of the other windows."
"Have you looked at the other windows?"
"Uh, not yet. I just got here."
"They haven't been opened in months. Besides, the glass on the floor proves the shot came from the outside."
The forensics investigator looked down. "Oh, right. Didn't think of that."
Morrison chuckled. "Don't worry, Chang, you'll learn." Then she turned to her partner. "Let's go have a look next door."
"Right."
As they were leaving the apartment, the corner's team arrived.
"There's a bullet in the vic's brain," Lassiter said. "Tell Garcia to send it to ballistics."
The coroner's assistant glared at Lassiter. "I think he knows how to do his job."
Lassiter grinned back. "I know he does."
"Let's go, Bill," Morrison sighed.
They left the coroner's assistant shaking his head and frowning.
* * *
Their flashlight beams played across the trash scattered on the steps as the two detectives trudged up the stairs in the abandoned building across the alley.
"Euuwe, this place smells like a damn latrine," Morrison said.
"That's because the people who live here use the stair wells as their toilet. Try not to step in any . . ."
Morrison immediately surveyed the steps ahead of her. "Oh, shit."
"Exactly."
They stopped about half way up to rest.
"Whew. You ID the vic?" Morrison asked.
"Yeah. I peeked at his wallet. Driver's license has him as Victor DeLuca. I called in the number."
Just then his cell phone rang. "Lassiter. . . Right. . . Okay, thanks." He punched off and turned to Morrison. "Nothing from DMV. Except that's not his address of record."
"So he moved."
"Right."
Suddenly the stairwell door opened and a head poked out.
Lassiter shined his light in the wide-eyed, dirty face. "We're the police. Go back inside."
The head disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Morrison grinned. "You shouldn't abuse the homeless, Bill."
"Right. Let's go."
Wrinkling their noses against the stench, they trudged the rest of the way up to the roof.
Morrison took a deep breath of the cool night air. "Okay, now where's the edge we want?"
"Over there," Lassiter replied and shined his light in its direction.
They walked over, dodging the various pipes and vents sticking out of the roof.
"Okay, there's the window down there," Lassiter said. "See?"
Morrison leaned over the wall. "Yeah. So if there's anything here, this is where we should find it."
"Right."
They stepped back and shined their lights against the top of the wall. Then Lassiter moved back to the wall, while Morrison went to check the closest pipes.
After a few moments, she joined Lassiter at the wall. "I couldn't find anything on the pipes."
"Nothing here either. No marks of any kind. See how the dirt up here is undisturbed?"
Morrison pushed the blond hair off her face. "Yeah. So how. . . ?"
Lassiter's sigh seemed to merge with the wind. "I don't know. I just don't know."
"Maybe it was a magic bullet."
He looked sideways at his partner but didn't say anything.
* * *
Two days later, Corner Garcia summoned Detectives Lassiter and Morrison to the room where he was performing the autopsy on the "magic bullet victim."
As they were driving over, Morrison asked, "So he wouldn't tell you anything over the phone?"
"Nope. Said we had to see it for ourselves."
"It?"
"Actually, he said, `You have to come see this.' But that's all he said. Sounded kinda excited."
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
After Morrison parked, they went in, donned their protective suits, and joined Garcia in the autopsy room.
"Look at this." Garcia was squatting so he was looking directly at the top of the body's head. He was holding a small flashlight.
The detectives bent over and saw he was shining his light into an empty skull cavity. The bone seemed only slightly pink.
The coroner and the detectives stood up.
"I sawed off the top of the skull, and this is what I found," Garcia said, peering at them through his thick glasses.
"What do you mean?" Lassiter asked. "Where's the brain?"
"That's just it. There is no brain. It's gone. Completely. And no signs of trauma, except for the entry wound through the ear. And that doesn't even look like a gun shot."
"Why not?" Morrison asked.
"There's hardly any tissue damage. I've never seen anything like it."
"So whatever entered his ear disintegrated his brain," Lassiter said.
Garcia took off his face shield and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "That's as good an explanation as any."
"Magic bullet," Morrison mumbled.
* * *
Back at the precinct, Lassiter and Morrison were filling in Lieutenant Dickson about the magic bullet case.
"So what you're telling me is whatever entered Mr. DeLuca's brain just, ah, disintegrated it?" Dickson asked, leaning across his desk, hands open to reinforce the question.
"That's right, Lieutenant," Morrison replied.
"And there's no place across the alley where the shooter could've fired from?"
Lassiter fielded this one. "Nope. The windows on that side of the building are all bricked over on the top six floors, and there's no evidence that he lowered himself down from either building."
"You checked both?"
Morrison leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. "Yeah, we did the other building that night and went back the next morning for DeLuca's."
"What'd you know about him?"
Lassiter sighed. "Not much. He was a student at USC. Worked part-time in the campus bookstore. B-plus average in computer science. No record. Parents live in San Jose. Nothing in his e-mails or on his answering machine. Found a baggie with less than an ounce of weed in his sock drawer. Just your average college kid."
"Roommate?"
"Yeah. Kid named Harold Kaminsky. He went home for the weekend. Down south to Oceanside. We checked it."
"Girlfriend?"
"Yes. She'd left the place about an hour before he died. Her story checks out."
"So what the hell? And don't give me any of this magic bullet shit."
After a few moments of silence, Lassiter cleared his throat and said, "We're thinking of letting this one go."
Lieutenant Dickson swivelled and looked out the window. "Morrison?"
"Me too, sir."
"Okay, then. Now get back to work."
* * *
With the "magic bullet" case officially suspended for lack of a suspect, Lassiter and Morrison moved on to a new case. This one was more conventional—the murder of a liquor store clerk caught on videotape. In twenty-four hours, they'd made an arrest.
After taking the suspect to booking, they went back to their desks in the squad room.
"No magic bullet involved in that one," Lassiter said.
"Nope, just your garden variety nine millimeter."
After a few moments of silence, Lassiter looked at his partner and said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Yeah, let's go."
* * *
As they were walking down the hall toward DeLuca's apartment, Morrison asked, "I wonder if the roommate moved out like he said he was going to?"
"Let's find out."
Lassiter knocked on the door. The response was a crashing sound.
The two detectives exchanged glances as they pulled their guns.
"Police!" Morrison yelled.
The next instant Lassiter kicked the door open.
They rushed in, guns leading the way. What they saw stopped them in their tracks. The large book shelf was lying flat on the floor, and under it was a figure struggling to get out from under it. As the figure struggled, a blue-white light pulsated around it.
As the detectives stood gaping at the sight, the figure suddenly stopped struggling and turned its head toward them.
"Don't just stand there. Get this thing off of me." The voice was high-pitched and trilled, like a bird. The pulsating light had stopped.
"Who-who are you?" Lassiter asked.
"I am Nakomi McFee, special agent of the TGF."
"What's the TGF?" Morrison asked.
"What do you think— Oh, of course you wouldn't know. It means the Third Galactic Federation. Now are you going to help me up or do I have to destroy this thing?"
"Keep her covered while I move the shelf," Lassiter said.
"Be careful, Bill."
Holding on to his weapon, Lassiter slowly picked up the shelf. A pile of books covered Agent McFee. Lassiter extended his free hand toward her. "Here, let me help you."
"No thanks."
A bright light flashed and books flew everywhere. Lassiter fell backwards and Morrison ducked.
"Get up, you're not hurt," McFee trilled.
Groaning, the two detectives slowly stood.
"What happened to my gun?" Morrison asked, looking around on the floor.
"Mine too."
"You won't be needing them. Don't worry, I'll give `em back to you later."
"What the hell's going on here?" Lassiter asked as he stared at McFee, who, for the most part, looked human, except she was bald, her skin was bluish-white, and her eyes were lime-green, with vertical pupils. Contact lenses, Lassiter thought. Her hard-ass attitude was certainly human.
"That's right, lady. Spill it."
"Lady? Oh, I understand. You think I'm a . . ." A sound like a thousand tiny bells ringing filled the room. "`Cuse me for laughing. I forgot you're still sexually bimorphic."
"What?" Morrison asked.
"I ain't a man or a woman." Lassiter was sure McFee's grin was rakish. "Or I'm both, if you prefer."
"How do you . . . ah . . . ?" Lassiter asked.
"Oh, fucking has been replaced by immortality. The human population is fixed at ten million for eternity. Or it was until the virus struck."
Lassiter wanted to know what that meant but instead asked, "Do you know anything about Mr. DeLuca's murder?"
"Yeah, I did it. I, how do you say . . . oh yeah, I shot him."
"Why?" Lassiter asked.
McFee grinned. "To save humanity."
"You're gonna have to explain that," Lassiter said.
Morrison added, "Yeah, why don't you start by telling us where you're from."
"I'm from the future."
"Let me get this straight," Lassiter said. "DeLuca created a computer virus that ended up infecting the future two thousand years from now?"
"You got it. We wanted to eliminate him before he could finish it, but I was too late."
"How do you know that?" Morrison asked.
"I've been in contact with my time." He looked down. "The virus is still spreading."
Morrison drummed her fingers on the table. "How did a computer virus turn into a biological one?"
McFee sighed. "Ain't got time to explain it to you."
"Did you check his computer?" Lassiter asked.
"You mean that, ah, device over there?" McFee replied, eyebrow arched, looking over at the desk.
Lassiter nodded.
"Yeah, I destroyed that copy. But there's another one. It's, ah, stored on a . . . what'd you call it?"
"A floppy disk," Morrison said. "Or maybe he e-mailed it to someone."
"I don't understand."
Lassiter grinned. "We don't have time to explain it to you."
"No matter. I will take it off your brain. Thank you. But there's no point. It's on a floppy disk. Besides, I destroyed the machine on the inside."
"Why are you so sure it's on a floppy?" Morrison asked.
McFee smirked. "I just am."
Shaking his head, Lassiter asked, "So what do we do next?"
"We won't do anything, Detective. It's my responsibility. You two will just get in my way."
Lassiter exchanged fleeting glances with his partner. "So what's your next step?"
"I gotta find the copy and destroy it."
"And if someone else has it, you'll kill them just like you did DeLuca," Morrison said.
Much to Lassiter's surprise, McFee winked. "You got it."
Wanting to play for time, Lassiter asked, "By the way, how did you kill DeLuca?"
"With a small burst of energy I projected."
"From where?"
"From above. Fifty of your miles to be exact."
"And this burst of energy just found its way through the bathroom window, entered Mr. DeLuca's ear, and erased his brain?"
"Yep. `Cept it didn't find its way, as you put it, Detective Lassiter. I guided it. And before you ask what weapon I used, I'll tell you the weapon was my mind. Now, I gotta go."
McFee stood up and started toward the door. Lassiter and Morrison tried to follow but found themselves unable to move. But McFee stopped after a few steps and became rigid. "The-the virus . . . Ple-please, you must find the program and destroy it before it's too late."
The two detectives watched in horror as McFee screamed and writhed in agony. They shut their eyes against the bright light that filled the room, and when they opened them, McFee had vanished. All that was left was the one-piece silver suit McFee had worn and the detectives' two guns.
Lassiter and Morrison looked at each other. Their mouths were open but no words came out.
* * *
"You sure about leaving Dickson out on this?" Morrison asked as she drove.
"You wanna explain this thing to him?"
She glanced at her partner and sighed. "Nope."
"So let's find the roommate."
"Right. Did you get a feel of that suit?"
"Yeah. Strange, like soft, pliable metal."
They spent the next two hours driving to the address of Kaminsky's parents' house in the town the Marine Corps built.
"That's it over there," Morrison said, pointing to a non-descript blue stucco affair.
Lassiter parked in front and they got out. "Judging from the condition of the front yard, I'd say Harold's parents don't live here anymore," he said.
"If they ever did. Who'd you talk to when you called last week?"
"Harold."
They reached the front door, and Lassiter knocked.
"Did you hear that?" Morrison asked.
"Yeah, sounds like someone's headed for the back door."
"I'll go check it out. Keep knocking."
"Right. Be careful."
Gun drawn, Morrison headed around the corner of the house.
Lassiter continued to knock. He jumped when yelling broke out on the other side of the house and jumped again when he heard the gunshots. Without thinking about it, he kicked in the front door and ran through the house. What he saw on the back patio sent a chill through his body.
His partner lay on the floor just outside the patio door. Lassiter's eyes fell on the pool of blood slowly coating like syrup the pieces of glass strewn on the concrete. Then he heard someone moaning, "Oh God, this can't be, no, no, no . . ." As he turned toward the voice a terrible pain slammed into his shoulder from behind. He tried to swing around but the room started spinning. The floor seemed to rise up and slam into him as darkness and silence descended.
Lassiter gradually became aware that people were taking.
Someone was saying, "Now we're in big trouble. You killed one cop and wounded another. This wasn't supposed to happen."
"Shut up and give us disk." Lassiter couldn't place the heavy accent. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the time being.
"I don't know. Why-why don't you just take your money and leave? The deal's off. Hey, why are you pointing that gun at me?"
"Give us disk or you will be third shooting victim."
"It-it's not here."
Lassiter winched at the gun shot and the sound of someone falling down. "Oh shit," the voice cried out. "My kneeee. You fuck. You—"
"The disk, meester Kaminsky."
Lassiter opened his eyes just enough to see the back of the man who'd just spoken.
"Okay, okay. It's taped underneath the kitchen sink."
When Lassiter heard fingers snap and footsteps heading away, he knew the time had arrived for him to make his move. Not wanting to risk opening his eyes again, he hoped the heavy-accented guy hadn't turned around. He reached out with his good arm, grabbed the man's ankle, and pulled back with all his strength. The man yelled and went down, dropping his gun in the process. Lassiter got to his feet, nearly passing out again. He had to get to the gun before the guy in the kitchen returned.
Just as he was picking it up, a voice barked out behind him, "Hold it!"
Lassiter's fingers froze an inch away from the gun. By then, the first man had recovered. He kicked Lassiter in the head, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. The man picked up his gun and pointed it at Lassiter.
"Go find disk. I'll take care of him."
Through the blood on his face, Lassiter saw the second man leave.
"Goodbye, detective," the first man said, a salacious smile staining his face.
Lassiter closed his eyes and waited for the end.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Lassiter opened his eyes. He couldn't believe it, but standing in the room was Agent Nakomi McFee.
"Drop you weapon, please." He now sounded more like a bee than a bird, but Lassiter was sure it was him.
The man pointed his gun at McFee, then froze. Suddenly, Lassiter saw out of the corner of his eye the other man standing in the kitchen door.
"McFee, behind you."
McFee looked at Lassiter with a quizzical look on his face. The man pulled the trigger three times. The bullets exploded in small puffs inches away from McFee's body. He calmly turned around and the shooter froze, the surprise on his face now a mask.
"What the fuck, man," Harold whined from the floor in front of the sofa. Lassiter had forgotten he was there. McFee froze him.
"Where is Detective Morrison?"
Lassiter couldn't get the words out of his mouth. He tasted blood and knew the tears had washed it into his mouth.
McFee nodded and walked toward the patio. Lassiter managed to sit up in time to see him kneeling over the body. Suddenly a blue pulsating light enveloped them. Lassiter blinked his eyes, and the next thing he knew McFee was helping Morrison to stand.
"Sheila!" Lassiter called out. He tried to stand but fell back down. Then McFee's smiling face appeared above him.
"Please try to relax, Detective. I am going to help you."
Lassiter shut his eyes against the bright blue light and felt a comfortable warmth course through his body. Then his shoulder and face tingled with a sensation that Lassiter couldn't describe. All he knew was that it felt good. Really good. He was sorry when it stopped. But he was happy when he realized his shoulder and face no longer hurt. He felt his shoulder—no bullet hole. He felt his face—nothing broken and no pain. He wanted to ask McFee how he had cured him. But there were other matters more pressing.
"Sheila, are you all right."
She knelt and took his hand. "Yes, Bill. What about you?"
He stood, helping her up at the same time. He almost fell back down when she hugged and kissed him.
"Uh, McFee, the floppy's under the kitchen sink."
The Agent looked puzzled for an instant, then smiled and nodded. "Please show me the kitchen sink."
They led him to it.
"Allow me," Lassiter said.
The bad guy had already moved all the cleaning things out of the cabinet, so all Lassiter had to do was scoot underneath on his back. He couldn't see but felt around until he found it.
"Got it."
He scooted back out and stood.
McFee put his hand out.
"First you explain what happened here."
"You know I could take it from you."
"Yes, I do. But I don't think you will."
"All right. We have, ah, powers that you do not. It is not easy to explain." McFee looked down for a moment, then looked back up. "You only use your brains to approximately 10% of their capacities. We use ours to approximately 90%."
"So you brought me back from the dead with your brain?" Morrison asked.
"And you healed my wounds the same way?" Lassiter added.
"Yes."
Morrison folded her hands across her chest. "And you do, ah, everything else with your brain?" Morrison asked.
McFee nodded.
"How did you bring yourself back from the dead?" Morrison continued.
He smiled. "I am not McFee. I am Lucious Brightman. To you, we look alike. In fact, we are all physically identical." He paused for a moment, then sighed. "In the year 2997 all human life in the galaxy was, or will be, destroyed by a marauding species of aliens. Some time later another species arrived that had been following the first and restoring life where it had been destroyed. We refer to them as the Restorers. They found only one viable sample of human DNA to work from. From his DNA, they created ten million new humans. The species was reborn."
"Ten million identical humans?" Morrison asked, incredulity dripping from her words.
"Only in appearance. In personality, we are all unique."
Lassiter asked, "How is that possible?"
"We all live in unique environments and therefore have unique experiences."
"Now that you mention it, you sure don't talk like McFee did."
With a buzz, Brightman cleared his throat. "His environment is, ah, rougher than mine."
Lassiter had a million more questions, but said, "Okay, here." He handed him the disk.
"Thank you," Brightman buzzed.
He held out the disk and stared at it until it disappeared. Then he closed his eyes, forehead wrinkling in concentration. After a few moments, he suddenly smiled.
"The virus is gone. Let us speak with Mr. Kaminsky."
They went back to the living room, where they found Harold still frozen on the floor. Brightman went to work on him, then unfroze him, and he was soon back to his obnoxious self.
"All I wanted to do was make some money, man. So I, like, copied the virus program off Vic's hard drive when he was in the shower. Then I, ah, ran into these two guys from Chechnya who're over here looking for a virus to wipe out all the computers in Russia. They wanted a demo, so I used my desk top to send it to their lap top. Wiped that little sucker clean in about ten seconds and then erased itself. We were closing the deal when you two showed up. The Chechnya guys went kazoo and started shooting. They shot you, and you died." He looked at Morrison with sleepy eyes. "Hey, how come you're alive?" His eyes waltzed over to Brightman. "Oh yeah, this guy. How'd you do that? And you fixed this guy. And me too. I never seen anything like this. I—"
Brightman had frozen him again.
"Thank you," Morrison said.
At this point Lassiter remembered McFee's suit they had put in the trunk of their car. At least they would have that as tangible evidence for this incredible chain of events.
"Agent McFee's suit is no longer in your vehicle, detective Lassiter. Remember, the virus no longer exists, so McFee never died."
"Wait a minute," Morrison said. "I don't know anything about time travel, but wouldn't destroying the virus alter history way before your time. Maybe even to the extent that you and your civilization wouldn't exist?" She grinned and shook her head. "But that obviously hasn't happened."
"You are correct. Had the virus been present before the Eradication, then destroying it now would significantly alter our time, perhaps to the point that it would never be reached. It is quite likely that an alternative future would have existed. But we were fortunate. The two Chechen agents were apprehended by the Russians on their way back home, and the disk was taken from them and locked in a vault. There it remained for almost one thousand years until the marauders arrived. They found it and reprogrammed it to contain the biological virus. Then they put it back as a bit of insurance against the success of homo sapiens, knowing if the species somehow returned, they would find it. That is exactly what happened. Our archaeologists found it, opened the program, and the second threat was unleashed. By that time the Restorers were long gone. So we had to deal with it ourselves."
Lassiter's head throbbed with confusion. Judging from Morrison's expression, he didn't think she wasn't doing any better.
"I must leave you now. But first I have to erase your memories of these events and replace them with new ones."
The two detectives started to protest, but it was too late.
"Why'd we drive all the way down here just to bust that punk Harold?" Morrison asked as she was driving back to LA.
"I don't know," Lassiter sighed. "Guess we thought he'd know something about the DeLuca case."
"Instead we find the little prick about to sell some ice to these two losers from Chechnya. Live and learn, huh?"
"One thing's for sure. We can't tie Harold to the murder. So that one's gone bust."
"Oh, cheer up partner. We do succeed from time to time, you know."
Bio:George teaches cultural anthropology at Cal State Long Beach and writes stories of mystery, suspense, fantasy, and science fiction. He also serves as Director of Reviews for Futures Magazine.
E-mail: LAfictionwriter@aol.com
URL: http://www.georgemscott.com
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