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Chapter One: Simplicity
"Simplicity," said the gentle voice at John's side. "Simplicity. Do you know Longfellow? He said that 'many a poem is marred by a superfluous word.' Chopin called simplicity 'the crowning achievement of art.'" The man sighed. "I'm not sure either was the best follower of his own advice, to be honest."
John couldn't see the tall, thin man standing beside him; the injection had effectively reduced his muscles to the consistency of wet cement. But he wouldn't have turned to look even if he could. His eyes were riveted on a large TV screen situated high on the wall, tilted toward his face at a 45-degree angle. The room was dim, the leather of the chair warm beneath his prone neck.
Like a sports bar, John thought muzzily. Only with zip ties.
On the screen played taped footage of Finch strapped firmly into a hospital bed in a large bare room somewhere — a warehouse or basement, John suspected. The headrest of the bed was gently elevated, therapeutic foam pillows propped supportively around Finch's still form. None of this hid the painful twist of his mouth, the sweat standing out in beads on his pale face. The image of the man who now stood beside John entered the frame, his slim figure dressed in green scrubs. Slim swapped out the IV bag draining into Finch's left forearm and gave the new bag a good squeeze. Finch shivered violently against his restraints.
"This was filmed just over three hours into forced rapid detox. Your friend is—was—on an interesting cocktail of medications. Not surprising." Slim flicked a remote at the screen. Unmuted, the recording flooded the room with shallow, whimpering pants. "I'd prefer to let withdrawal occur naturally, but we're on a pretty tight timetable." A hint of disapproval colored Slim's professional tone. "There's still a lot left on the checklist." He reached up absently to swipe a checkmark over the image of Finch's face. The image pixelated slightly where his finger had touched the plasma screen, blurring Finch's agony for a few seconds.
"At least I assume he's your friend," Slim added as an afterthought.
Eventually the drugs began to wear off; after a deep effort John managed to roll his head sloppily forward and open his mouth.
"Wha… d'you... want?"
"What do I want?" Slim moved smoothly to crouch in front of John, his pale eyebrows furrowed over deep-set, earnest eyes. "I want to do my job, Detective Riley. That's what I've been trying to tell you. You shouldn't take this personally. It's my client who wants to hurt you. And they seem to think this," he gestured toward the screen, "is the best way to do it."
He stood, reaching to ready another syringe. John briefly felt deft fingers in the crook of his arm. Then there was a click and the TV screen went dark. A warm voice carried John softly into sleep.
"I guess my client appreciates simplicity, too."
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