Revenant in Death
Chapter 13
by Technomad
Eve Dallas
Eve was standing, with the help of leg braces, at a podium under stage lights, addressing the student body of the NYPSD Academy. The podium incorporated a screen, and she glanced down at it to see the notes she had made for this lecture.
"I should also say, ladies and gentlemen, that the criminal ego is a powerful ally. Many criminals come to our attention through their inability to resist bragging. The people to whom they're bragging are often envious, or else admiring, and they spread stories around. Stories that come, eventually, to our ears." She paused for a moment.
"One example is the youngest serial killer I ever caught, Rayleen Straffo. She was ten years old. She had poisoned one of the teachers at her school, and before I could be sure enough to take her down, she got another teacher. She was one of the youngest pure sociopaths I have ever met."
Eve paused again, and Rayleen Straffo's picture, with excerpts from her diary, were projected over her head for the cadets to read. "She wrote these passages right after she had administered poison to her own mother, to try to make me believe that her mother, and not she, had been guilty of the teachers' murders. She also bragged to me, thinking that we were in private and that I couldn't touch her, about having killed her trusting two-year-old brother when she was just seven."
Eve pressed a button, and Rayleen Straffo's recorded voice, sounding like an evil angel, echoed through the auditorium. Men and women alike gasped in horror at the casual, proud way in which Rayleen bragged about how clever she was, and told Eve all about exactly how she had killed her brother. At "Tumble, tumble, tumble. And snap!" there were gasps here and there, and Eve could hear people crying.
When the recording was over, Eve cut the projection and the lights came back on her. "I'm not showing you these things, or telling you these stories, just to harrow you. I want to make it clear that anybody, anybody at all, can be a murderer. And that very often, the murderer's ego and pride in his or her deeds provide the clues needed to make a good arrest that'll hold up in court."
Eve took a drink of water from the carafe of ice water she had had placed at one side of the podium. "If Rayleen Straffo had had the sense to be well out of sight when her teacher's body was discovered, I might very well have never connected her with the murder. But she was one of the two girls who 'discovered' the body. The other girl was someone that Rayleen wanted to upset, because she was Rayleen's rival for the best grades in their class. And this teacher had earned his death, in Rayleen's eyes, because he gave her an A- when she thought she deserved an A." This brought a frisson of horror to her audience.
These men and women wanted to join the police force. They thought they were tough. Some of them legitimately were tough. But a murderer so young and so unrepentant, with the face of an angel, was something they had not expected to find. Particularly when the motive was so petty.
"So, after this, I think you'll understand me when I say that nobody at all is above suspicion when murder is done. I've arrested sweet-looking old grannies and grandpas, and while Rayleen's the youngest I've run across, she's not the only child I've run up against. Willow Mackie was in her early teens, and the daughter of an ex-cop, no less. You'd think she'd turn out all right. But she wanted to be the highest-scoring long-range killer in history, and came closer than I like to think to realizing her goal."
A short movie came onscreen, detailing the life and crimes of Willow Mackie. Her mother and half-brother told of how she had changed and gone to the bad, and Willow herself bragged to the camera about her marksmanship, sneering that she'd get out one day, no matter what.
As the cadets made notes, Eve wondered suddenly just where sweet Willow was. She put the thought aside, dismissing the idea that anybody sane would have allowed her back on Earth. She's safely ensconced in an orbital facility, and she can stay there till she rots!
Rayleen Straffo
Rayleen had been busy over the last few days. She had paid several more visits to the "IH8LTDallas" forum in the Dark Web, and had been given a list of people to contact. When Mame was out of town for a funeral, Rayleen decided it was time to put that knowledge to the test.
She had a fair sum of money saved up, between what she had managed to get out of prison with, and what Mame paid her. Living at Mame's place cost her nothing, and the only expense she had was keeping up half the rent on the mini-apt that Willow was occupying. Willow herself paid the other half from money she was being paid for ostensibly being unemployable.
Now she was in an unfamiliar part of town. She had never been here before, and had been warned to "dress down." As she made her way to the address she had been given, she blessed her advisor for his wisdom. The sort of clothing that made her inconspicuous in the wealthy districts would have stood out like a neon sign at midnight in this neighborhood, She called on her self-taught acting training, and suppressed her apprehension behind a façade of a person who lived in this sort of area, to whom the sight of sidewalk sleepers was an everyday thing, not to be particularly noticed.
She noticed hard-eyed locals giving her the once-over, and ignored them too, at least on the surface. Beneath the surface, her prison-honed awareness was at full alert. She had not survived decades of confinement without developing what amounted to a "sixth sense" for danger. More than once, she had stayed out of trouble, with the other prisoners or with guards, merely by acting on her hunches.
While the locals scoped her out, they did not make any hostile moves. Her camouflage was perfect, and the fact that she acted as though she were perfectly used to such surroundings was the icing on the cake. She was very glad that they left her alone. She wasn't armed, and did not relish anything that might bring her to the attention of the law. Even being the victim of a mugging or attempted rape would badly derail her plans, and might land her back in prison if, by some wild chance, she was correctly identified. There were things she hadn't been able to change about herself, such as her DNA.
The place she had been told to go to was just where her informant had said it was. It was a mean-looking café, with a dingy window overlooking the street. As she walked in, she noticed that it was called the "Café Susan." She wondered idly who Susan was as she took a seat at an empty table, ignoring the way the customers were all giving her the once-over.
A bored-looking waitress wandered over. "What'll it be, toots?"
Rayleen gave the countersign she had been told to use. "A black coffee and the seagull special, please." The waitress' eyes went wide, but she made no other sign, taking the menu and heading back of the counter to get Rayleen her drink. Once Rayleen had her coffee, she sipped it, looking around idly as though she was in places like this all the time. The waitress' reaction seemed to be all that was needed for the other customers to accept her as one of their own; they turned their attention from her, going back to low-voiced conversation.
After a few minutes, an older man with a rolling gait to his walk came in from the back of the café. As he sat down, Rayleen noticed that his arms were sleeved-out with tattoos, and she recognized some of them as specifically used by sailors. "You wanted the seagull special, Miss?" His voice was low, and his accent spoke of more education than she would have expected to find in such surroundings.
"Yes, I do. Sarge sent me."
"Ah, yes, Sarge. Well, finish your coffee-it'll put fire in your blood-and then come with me. I've got what I think you're looking for, but it's not here." Rayleen had not expected for a second that anybody selling unlicensed, illegal weapons would show them to her in any public place. While she knew that this was a risky business, she was willing to accept the risk. She had already taken on serious risks, just by escaping prison and by taking on another woman's identity. And she had a dream. A goal. For a second, she savored the vision of Eve Dallas' head exploding like a melon dropped from a skyscraper.
When she was done, she put her cup down, leaving a tip for the waitress (who noticed and gave her the first smile she'd got since she entered the Café Susan) got up, and followed Sarge's friend out. He led her around the side of the building, and up an outside flight of stairs to the second floor above the street. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a decrepit-looking door, and he led her into a tatty-looking apartment.
"We can speak freely here," he said. "I should introduce myself. I'm John Siegel, formerly of the U.S. Navy. The Navy and I parted company over a matter of some supplies that had gone astray. Since then, I've made my living selling this and that. Sarge was one of my business associates for a while, and he told me you were coming. You're the woman he calls Rhoda, right?"
"That's me." Rayleen nodded. "Did he tell you what I wanted?" She was willing to describe what she needed if she had to; while she was by no means an expert in Willow Mackie's field, she had listened to enough of Willow's monologues to have a pretty good idea of what was required for this. And Rayleen also knew that communications between those in prison and the free world were constantly monitored.
"He sure did." Siegel smiled, and pulled out a plastic case of the sort that might hold a fairly-large band instrument, like a trombone. "How does this look?" He opened it, and Rayleen leaned forward for a better look.
Nestled inside the case, in especially-made holes in styrofoam covered in velvet, lay the pieces of a high-precision sniper laser rifle. Rayleen was no expert, but the device looked to be complete as far as she could tell. "May I try the scope?" she asked.
Siegel nodded, pulling the scope out of the case and handing it to her. She held it up, peering through it out the window. She was slightly shocked at how clearly she could see the buildings on the other side, to the point of being able to count the bricks in their walls easily and see an occasional movement behind a curtained window. She whistled soundlessly in admiration.
"How easy is it to assemble?" she asked. Wordlessly, Siegel began to pull parts out of the case, one after another, snapping them together with the precision that showed infinite hours of practice. In a shorter time than she would have thought, he was holding out a complete-looking sniper laser to her. She gingerly took it from him, putting the butt of the stock to her shoulder and peering down the barrel. Even though she was a total novice with weapons, she knew to keep her finger off the trigger. Willow had been quite emphatic about that.
"This looks like what I am after," she finally said. "However, you do understand that I am not the person who is going to use this weapon. That person is not here right now. Can we meet again in a few days' time?" She pulled out her camera phone, taking a few pictures of the assembled laser, so she could show Willow what it looked like when put together.
"Of course. We can make contact in the same way as before."
"Good." Rayleen got up to leave, reaching into her pocket to find her wallet. "Here is some money for your trouble today." As Siegel reached for the money, she held up a finger. "And here is some advice. Do not speak of this business today. Not to anyone. Not ever. Do we understand each other?"
John Siegel was a hard man, and clearly used to the underworld milieu. However, looking into his eyes, Rayleen could see a flash of fear. That pleased her immensely. She did not want to be seen as a victim, and in this world, the easiest way not to be a victim was to be, or to be seen as a potential, victimizer. "I get you, miss. Not a word will pass my lips!"
"Good." With that, Rayleen left, and soon she was on a subway to the other side of the great metro area, heading for her old mini-apt. She needed to talk to Willow, and the sooner, the better. While she had a good, retentive memory, she knew that the more time that elapsed between seeing the laser and talking to Willow, the more details she'd lose.
When she got to the mini-apt and knocked with their code knock, Willow was there, waiting for her. Once she was in, Willow led her to a seat. "Well? Did it work? Was Sarge lying?" she asked eagerly.
"Sarge's contact was there, just like he said. I don't know how they would have kept up communication with Sarge in the can, but they seem to have done it," Rayleen replied. She pulled out her phone and called up the camera app. "Here. Take a look and let me know what you think. You're the expert; I barely know which end of these things to point at people."
Willow took the phone, flicking through the pictures that Rayleen had taken. "Oh, my, this does look like what I want! From what I can tell, this is a state-of-the-art military-grade sniper laser! I don't think I had anything this good when I was working with Dad!"
"So you think this will do?"
"If it's got all the components, it'll more than do! Even if some of the pieces are missing, I should be able to tell you where to get them." Willow gave Rayleen an evil smile. "Eve Dallas is now a calendar girl!"
"A calendar girl?" Well-read, Rayleen knew, at least in theory, what a "calendar girl" was, she had trouble imagining the rangy, lean Eve Dallas being asked to pose in the altogether or wispy underthings for a calendar illustration. "What ever do you mean, Willow?"
"By 'calendar girl' I mean her days are numbered!" Rayleen's eyes went wide, and she began to laugh harder than she had in some time. Willow Mackie was often a bit monomaniacal, and unsettlingly fixated on killing for its own sake, but Rayleen had to admit that she had one of the best senses of humor that she had ever come across. Many times, in the years that they had celled together, Rayleen had had to muffle her giggles in her bunk blanket, as Willow had told her joke after joke, each one filthier than the one before.
When she had finally done laughing, Rayleen got up. "I hate to run, Willow, but I've got to be back at my boss' place. Even though she's out of town, she might get worried if I'm not there when she calls. Which was a lie, but one that Rayleen told without a qualm. It was just as well if Willow wasn't aware of how free Rayleen actually was to move around the city. What Willow didn't know, Willow could not spill.
"Get in touch with this seller, and set us up a meeting somewhere safe, where we can both look the goods over," Willow said. Rayleen nodded, stepping out the door and waving goodbye as she left. Once she was a way down the street, she pulled out her phone and dialed the number she had used to get in touch with John Siegel. When it was answered, she said "Tell the seagull that his customers will be there tomorrow afternoon. We'll both want to see the goods."
"Will do." With that, the phone went dead.
Eve Dallas
At the end of her lecture, Eve smiled as her audience applauded her. When it was done, she sank gratefully into her wheelchair, letting the cadets gallantly wheel her out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door of the Police Academy.
Outside, she tilted her head back, looking up at the blue, blue sky. She always enjoyed the sight of the little park in front of the Academy, and she gestured for her kind helpers to slow down as they passed the fountain at the center of the park. Reading the plaque on the fountain, she nodded to herself. She was too young to remember the Urban Wars herself, but she knew many people who had been through them. Some of them couldn't handle coming into New York, or any major urban center, because the thought of all those potential sniper nests in the tall buildings, and other lethal hazards, was too much for them.
Eve didn't share their fears; she loved the city. However, she understood what they felt like. Even now, she still had nightmares about what she had been through at the hands of her father. We all have our ghosts, she thought to herself. But now she was safe. Nothing could hurt her. She was a successful cop; one of the most successful in the history of the NYPSD, and all but a legend in the Homicide division.
Roarke's huge limousine purred up to the curb, and Eve got ready to get aboard and be wafted back to her comfortable home, to be welcomed by the man she loved above all others on earth.
