Shining among Darkness
By
WingzemonX
Chapter 18
The Detective of the Dead
On the right wall of the hall was the door of a room, wide open. On the floor were some yellow police flags, and a large puddle of red and dense blood, already then dry and darkened. On the left wall was a large brown splatter, accompanied by other debris not pleasant to the eye. Luckily, there was no trace of the body. Surely it was resting on the hospital morgue table, waiting for authorization to take him if they did not practice the official autopsy right there. The scene in question would have to be cleaned during the day, considering the kind of place where such a horrific act had taken place. Still, it was clearly not the immediate priority of the police at that time.
"Oh, God," Cody exclaimed for mere reflection and looked away nervously.
"Are you impressed by blood, professor?" Cole asked with a rather serious tone coming from him.
"Not especially. It's more because... it's the scene of a murder..."
That was where the police officer had died with a single shot. Even without the body, it was quite impressive to see those spots and also part of its silhouette drawn on the pool of blood.
Cody took a deep breath. Matilda approached him and ran his hand over his arm, comfortingly.
"Why don't you watch and let us know if the officer is coming?" Matilda whispered softly.
Cody inhaled deeply again and then nodded. Without saying anything, he returned in his own steps and moved far enough from the yellow line. He stood behind the nearest corner, watching the hall cautiously.
"He's okay?" Asked Cole worriedly. "If I had known that this kind of thing affected him like this..."
"It's not like that," Matilda replied bluntly and glanced at him. "They don't affect him as much as you think. He simply tries to avoid strong emotions like this as much as possible. So those images don't stay in his head and become... nightmares..."
Again Cole was curious, but he sensed that it was better to leave it that way.
The detective made the police line up to go to the other side, and then move cautiously towards the heart of the crime scene.
"Are you sure you can pass?" Matilda asked, trying to hide her curiosity as much as possible.
"I'm a cop, do you forget it?" Cole replied and then focused on his own.
Matilda still didn't understand what he intended to do precisely. He began to walk cautiously, in the style and rhythm that maybe was taught at the Police Academy to move into a crime scene. Cole circled the pool of blood and squatted down to see it up close. Then, he turned his head toward the splatter on the wall, stopped a few seconds there, and continued moving. His eyes traveled to the ceiling, move to the other side, and then down the open door. He looked at the door for a moment, maybe half a minute, and then stood up abruptly and advanced on it. He took a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his hand and took the knob on the door to close it gently. Matilda was tempted to ask if he could do that, but a part of her shouted in her head to keep quiet.
Cole stepped away from the door, almost stepping on the pool of blood. Then he turned slowly until he turned his back completely. He dropped his arms to his sides, closed his eyes, and then breathed slowly. An almost sepulchral silence plunged into the entire hall abruptly. The sensation in the air became somewhat heavy for Matilda, and even uncomfortable. That silence didn't seem natural; she seemed to even perceive the beating of her own heart, accelerating for no reason.
And suddenly it came: a cold, a sudden cold that forced Matilda to hug herself instinctively. How had that happened if a second ago, the temperature was average? She did not explain it, although she did not think so much about it either. The psychiatrist was more interested in knowing what the man before she was doing... without understanding that both things were indeed related.
After more than a minute of total silence and stillness, Cole opened his eyes again and slowly turned back to the door. Matilda would not see what he saw on that site. Likewise, his almost stoic reaction would not have given her any clue of the kind of scene he was actually contemplating. Standing, with a firm practically military stance, but with his eyes wide and lost at all, there was a big man, dark skin, short hair, and blue police uniform. His most striking feature, and the first thing that would be visible to anyone who could see him as well, was… that circular and perfect hole, located a few centimeters above his left eyebrow, and from which a thick thread of blood drained from. The blood got a little confused in his skin, but Cole still managed to notice that it was going down between his eyes, drawing a curve along the side of his nose and running down his lips and chin. His uniform, however, was impeccable, at least for the front; in the back, at shoulder height, he would surely be soaked with blood. And further up at the back of his skull, he would surely see the exit hole of the bullet that had ended his life, more prominent and grotesque than the one that morbidly adorned his forehead.
Nine-year-old Cole Sear would have been terrified by that image, so much that he had run to hide under his sheets and search some ephemeral sense of security. The twenty-eight-year-old Cole Sear, however, had already seen so many things in his short career; that, pitifully, was not the most unpleasant or horrifying. But all of them, small or large, also made a little impression on his head that ended up staying with him irremediably. If professor Hobson wished to avoid images that could produce nightmares, then he should be grateful for not have this special gift the Shining had so kindly provided to Cole.
Cole smiled calmly, keeping his gaze fixed on the person only he saw.
"Hey, how are you, man?" He asked in a playful tone. The man in uniform lowered his gaze and look to the right and then to left as if he was unable to perceive clearly where the voice came from.
Cole approached carefully and stood beside him, while Matilda looked at him from his position, confused and wondered who exactly he was talking to.
"How's it going?" Cole continued in a uniquely animated tone. "All good?"
That man finally managed to pose his eyes totally open and reddened in him, although they did not last long. Almost immediately, they turned straight ahead. His expression was similar to someone trying to remember how to pronounce a difficult word that escaped from his memory.
"I ..." he hesitated. "I have to take care of the door. They asked me nobody to come in or out..."
Cole nodded understandingly.
"That's what you were doing, right? They asked you to take care of this room. But you got distracted for a second, right?"
"I ... I don't... I don't remember," he stammered, dragging the words a little.
"What's your name, officer?"
The man hesitated a few seconds before answering.
"Butch..."
"Butch, I know you think you didn't do your duty, and this is all your fault, but it isn't like that." Butch turned to see him, stunned. "Try to remember what happened. What is the last thing you remember?"
Butch averted his gaze to the ground, losing himself among the pattern engraved on the linoleum.
"Everything is so confusing…"
"Yes, it usually is," said Cole. "But you can do it. It is before you, can you see it? Just open your eyes."
Open his eyes? Butch couldn't understand it. He looked up. He didn't look, not at that moment, at least, the bloodstain on the floor and the wall; from his perspective, everything was still white and impeccable. The squeak of the wheels and the sound of the crash shook him suddenly. He turned to look at his right side. He did not see the yellow line nor Matilda; only the corridor as long as if it had no end, wrapped in complete solitude.
"Two stretchers collided," he murmured suddenly, slowly. "The patients fell to the ground."
"And you went to help them, as any good cop would do," Cole said confidently. "What happened when you walked away from the door?"
Butch thought, and little by little, the scenes cleared in his head.
"I heard a shot... I went back into the room... and there was a girl... she..."
He stopped as if his own consciousness was telling him that he would not progress beyond that point, that everything that followed after it would cause him harm, and that was not what he wanted. But he forced himself to overcome that barrier, to cross it as the fog passes through the dawn to go to the other side, to a brighter place, clearer, and yet colder.
The red spots became completely clear before him, as did the surrounding police line. He looked closely at the splatter on the wall, as if admiring an abstract work to which he tried to find some form. But he knew within himself what it was exactly; there was no need to find more shape than he already had at first glance.
"She shot me," he muttered in a grave tone. "I died?"
Butch quickly turned to Cole for an answer. The detective's face became serious and expressionless.
"I'm afraid so, friend."
The officer looked forward again, not at the bloodstains but beyond, at what was hovering on the other side of the window, which at that time seemed only pure and absolute whiteness.
"No... I can't... I must... do my duty."
"And you did it very well, Butch," Cole pointed out firmly and put a hand toward his shoulder, managing to place it on it. The touch was real, tangible, and that one act seemed to make Butch's mind land a bit of the journey between clouds that he was in. "You were an excellent cop, and no one will hint otherwise. But I need you to help me one last time, one last help to a fellow policeman. Who was the girl who shot you?"
"No... I don't know, I don't know her."
"Yes, you do, Butch." Cole's tone was encouraging, enthusiastic; He seemed to be able to convince you to be able to fly if he said so. "From where you are, you have a much broader perspective on things. You can see the past, the present, and the future at the same time, around the people who occupied your mind in the last moments. I know you can see her, Butch. You can see your killer. Tell me: what you see?
The officer didn't fully understand, but anyway, his mind went straight to the image of that girl. He focused all his concentration and energy on thinking about her: in his eyes full of anger, on his face that instead of reflecting innocence, only showed absolute darkness. In the weapon she held, and how she did it. In the deafening sound of the shot, and the first sensation of the bullet touching his skin. That consciously occurred so fast that it would have been almost impossible to process it while alive.
And then, his mind went further, traveling like a car without a break, breaking through an infinite space of sounds, figures, flavors, and smells. He moved to a place he had never seen, listened to people he had never met, speaking in languages he had never studied. But among all those almost incomprehensible sounds and figures, something stood out sharply, highlighting like a light bulb among a sea of darkness. He stretched his mind to that light until he could almost touch it with his fingers. And when he did it, what he was looking for became tangible and clear.
Butch shivered a little. He kept looking at the whiteness of the window, motionless like an ancient guard of a castle. And after a few more seconds of assimilation, he was finally able to speak.
"Yes... I could see her... And I know who she was..."
Cole nodded, satisfied.
"Give me her name, and I'll make sure your comrades find her. I promise you."
Butch turned to him slowly and looked at him carefully, trying to fully appreciate his features. He was shorter than him and not reached his shoulder. But even so, radiated a presence that was strongly imposed on him. Butch's lips moved, emitting a sound that only he, in all that place, would be able to perceive.
Cody's quick steps toward them interrupted the deep silence that had loomed. Matilda was startled a little as if she had just jumped on her back to scare her. He had been, for some reason, wholly absorbed when he saw that man just standing there talking alone. However, she was not able to hear clearly what he said from her position.
"The police are coming here," Cody told them alarmingly. "I tried to distract him a little more, but for sure, it only gave us an additional couple of seconds.
"It's time to go, then," Cole said as he made his way to the police line and passed under it. "I already finished what I came to do."
"And what did you come to do exactly?" Matilda whispered slowly, fearing that the policeman was already close enough to hear them. "You just stood there for a few minutes."
"Get information," Cole replied simply. "I have a name."
Cody and Matilda looked at him intrigued, but there was no time to explain them. They rushed to the same elevator they climbed up, like a trio of children escaping the scene of a joke. Already safely and as they descended to the ground floor, Cole began telling them exactly what had happened, and they both had quite different reactions to these words.
Vazquez's outbursts required a visit to nurse Lucy, so she could check his wounds, mainly his shoulder. The hard-spoken woman had him sitting on a stretcher in the emergency room without his shirt. At the same time, she was cleaning his wound, changing his bandage, and checking that no stitch had been released. She did not look in a good mood, but Vazquez was not far behind. The bile was still boiling after the news that his partner had given him. Of course, we would have to add his mental state before that.
Matilda's interpretation was indeed entirely accurate. Everything that had happened had wreaked havoc on him, which only manifested itself in the form of uncontrollable anger. He almost always tried his best to not get carried away by it, as his father did without the slightest remorse. He could still remember him, insane, always thinking that his wife or his children were against him. Always looking for enemies around the corner and wanting to solve everything at blows, even if it was against his own family. Robert had struggled all his life to not be like him. To get as far away from that man as possible. But at that moment, all his defenses had collapsed, and there was only a man about to explode with the slightest provocation. He felt like he would go crazy for the constant sense of danger, breathing in the back of his neck even though there was nothing behind.
The only thing left for him was to beg that the provocation that made him explode once and for all, not happen right there in the hospital, and especially not with Lucy. And if it had to happen outside with someone else, at least it wasn't while he was incapacitated and at a noticeable disadvantage.
"Do you want to use that arm again or not?" Lucy questioned him harshly as she placed new bandages. "I just healed you an hour ago, and you were about to hurt yourself again."
Vazquez clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. Did that count as a provocation? He thought about it for a few seconds and concluded that it was only a good friend's concern for his safety. He could, and should, let it pass.
"I need to work," the officer muttered. "Someone opened fire in your hospital, don't you want me to find out who and why?"
"You're not the only policeman in Portland, Robert."
"Sometimes, I feel like that," he huffed with controlled rage.
"I'll try not to be offended by that," he heard Malone's playful voice say when he was a few steps away from the stretcher he was on. Vazquez glanced at him as he approached; he evidently did not smile even in the least for his comment. "How is he doing, Lucy?"
"He should rest for a few days," the nurse replied, removing her latex gloves. "He already knows that very well, but he is too stubborn."
Vazquez glanced at her a few moments reluctantly.
"Did you let them go?" He questioned the other detective without many detours.
Malone sighed heavily.
"You know I didn't do it for fun, bro. I asked them to wait a little longer to take their statement, so that could have them here for a while. But even if the Commissioner had not called, we had no concise proof to hold them for a long time. Some of them just need to call a lawyer, and..."
"Okay, well, leave it that way," Vazquez said aggressively, waving his free arm in the air. He then took his shirt, and Lucy helped him put it on his injured arm. "Any news of the fugitive?"
Malone nodded, although it was challenging to interpret by his face if he had something good or bad to say; maybe it was both.
"They found the ambulance abandoned in an alley downtown, but there was no sign of either of the two girls."
Vazquez turned to him with absolute disbelief in his gaze.
"She is a kid, carrying another unconscious one in a wheelchair. Someone had to see them. Let everyone search all over that area."
"They are already there." Malone raised his hand unconscious, scratching his head a little on the right side. "The good news is that the hospital security guards are ready to show us the videos. Apparently, they managed to capture the suspect."
"I saw her from the front," Robert pointed out as Lucy buttoned his shirt and then put on the sling, "I can give you a spoken portrait if you want. But I don't know if it'll have any use."
"There will be time for that. I'm going to see the guards right now."
Malone was about to retire in the direction of the security office, but Vazquez stopped him.
"Hold on, I'll go with you," said the detective, then tried to stand on to the stretcher with everything and his crutch.
"Of course not," Lucy pointed out, taking him from his healthy shoulder to keep him from getting up. Vázquez released a small inaudible curse.
"Lucy, even if I have to go in a wheelchair, I'll go, okay?" He declared firmly, with no place to assume he was kidding.
A few minutes later, Malone was heading to the security office, pushing the wheelchair in which his disgruntled companion was sitting. Vazquez had his almost murderous gaze on the corridor and his crutch lying on his legs.
"And so we are all happy, right?" Malone pointed out jokingly, but Vazquez didn't answer anything.
The monitoring room of the hospital was a square room with low light. There was a console with several small monitors that showed live images of the different security cameras and changed periodically from one to another. Sitting in front of it was a guard in a white shirt and blue pants, who quickly stood up as soon as he heard they both entered.
"Detectives, welcome," he murmured somewhat nervously; He looked young, and maybe was new because neither of them knew him, or at least nobody didn't come to mind when they saw him. It was likely that most veterans were dealing with all the chaos, rearranging patients, and keeping the press out. So they sure asking the rookie to attend them. It didn't take much knowledge to play a video, right
Malone parked Vazquez's chair in front of the console.
"What do you have for us, boy?" Malone mentioned animatedly; Vazquez was silent, looking at the young guard with an almost sinister expression.
"Yes, one minute..."
The boy turned to the computer next to the console and began to navigate the surveillance system. It apparently caused him problems because, on more than one occasion, he seemed doubtful of where snack or where to proceed. Even in the low light of the room, Vazquez managed to see a drop of sweat running down the side of his face, shining a little from the white light emanating from the monitors.
"Is it the first time you're so close to a shooting, boy?" The detective in the wheelchair questioned him. The boy shuddered a little and turned alertly toward him.
"What? I... yes, something like that."
Vazquez supposed that was the cause of his state. Almost a few meters away from him, someone had just killed a policeman and wounded one of his companions. Of course, without mention himself, prostrated there with bandages, a sling, a crutch, and a wheelchair. Where was he while that was happening? Close enough to hear the shots? Or far enough to not have been able to do anything even if he wanted to?
"Hopefully, you'll never get used to it," Vazquez said with some harshness, which the boy felt like he was scolding.
While they waited for the guard to find the video he wanted to show them, someone knocked on the door. Before anyone answered, the person on the other side just opened it and allowed himself to enter.
"With your permission," said Adrian Wayne after closing the door behind him.
Vazquez went on when he saw him standing there. It was not yet the provocation he expected but was significantly close to it. With his free hand, he turned his chair as he could in his direction.
"What are you doing here, Wayne?" He asked aggressively of those kinds of questions that seemed to have no correct answer.
Wayne stayed calm; in fact, too calm. He placed his hands on his waist and stared at Vazquez securely.
"I want to see the kidnapper," he informed in a neutral voice. "The officers say the cameras caught her. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be resting?"
"I'm doing my job. What you do is interrupt an investigation, in case you haven't noticed."
"Officially, the girl was in our care," Wayne said bluntly. "If I have to give a report of what happened to my superiors, I want to know all the details."
Especially if that video has something that proves that girl is what they say, he thought to himself, keeping it from him because he didn't think it was something worth sharing.
Vazquez let out a wry laugh. He then took his crutch and pointed it at him as if it were his own finger.
"Yes, don't forget to include in that report how you helped his two accomplices."
"Please, Vazquez," Malone exclaimed behind him, incredulous to hear him say such a thing.
Wayne maintained his serenity in such a complete and firm manner... that was impossible to think it was real. If someone stared into his eyes, they would most likely end up seeing the same type of repressed anger that was housed in those moments in Vazquez's. Both were like two little time bombs.
"Do you really think those two had something to do with this? Or are you just taking it out on someone?" Wayne replied sarcastically.
"They know more than they told us, I'm sure of that."
"And you say it based on what? To be someone who doesn't believe in psychic powers, it seems you trust your instinct a lot this morning.
Vazquez's face turned red with courage, and he abruptly brought his chair closer to him before Malone stopped him.
"Don't play with me, I'm not in the mood," the detective warned, raising his voice. "Butch and Mike are dead, just in case you forgot."
"How could I forget that?" Wayne added, in the same way. It had made a wide crack in his serenity. "And don't forget Emily, another victim of all this that you've ignored."
"Oh, sorry if I care more for my two dead companions than for your crazy friend who burned her house and threw herself into the river!"
"Damn bastard…"
Wayne's attitude became so aggressive that for a second, it seemed that he would hit Vazquez, even in a wheelchair. Malone, noticing this, immediately intervened, placing himself between them.
"Hey, gentlemen, calm down," Malone said, trying to sound confident. "We are all very upset, okay? Vazquez didn't mean that, Wayne. Let's not lose our temper, please."
Wayne and Vazquez stared at each other in silence. None softened his expression or seemed intent on stepping back. In the end, luckily, they had no choice.
"Stay, but don't get in the way," Robert finally replied, turning his chair toward the console. Wayne just raised his arms in the signaling of surrender and having to swallow everything else he had to say.
The three men stood side by side behind the young guard chair. He had been distracted a few moments by the discussion. Still, once the attention returned to him, he continued in his search for how to reproduce the video. A few minutes later, he succeeded.
He showed them several recordings in a row: in the first one, the suspect was seen pushing the wheelchair in which she carried Lily Sullivan until they enter the elevator. The camera caught her from behind, so they couldn't see her face. Shortly afterward, Vazquez was seen running towards the elevator, but ending up crashing into the doors when they close before him. Wayne looked sideways at Vazquez; he stared at the video, despite having witnessed it all himself. Did he expect to see something that had escaped him?
The second recording was of the same person and the same wheelchair, leaving the elevator on the ground floor. When moving, there the camera was able to capture her face. The guard paused the video in that picture, and with a software tool, he enlarged it as much as possible. Among blurred pixels, it was only possible to distinguish the shape of her face, her eyes, her nose, her lips, and her ears. It was not possible to appreciate, however, the freckles of her cheekbones.
"Holy God," Wayne said, leaning a little toward the monitor so he could see her better. "It's true, it's just a kid."
"Just a kid does not describe what she is," Vazquez muttered in a somber voice. He could still clearly remember her face, smiling with such inhumanity as she pointed that gun straight at his face. It had not been the first time a criminal pointed at him or even shot him, but he had never been one like that girl... or whatever she was.
"You don't have a better quality shot?" Malone questioned, also bending down to see the image up close.
"It's the best we can," said the distressed guard.
The following recordings showed the stranger going through the halls, shooting to scare people away, and make their way. Vazquez was seen again going behind her. But the critical part, the one Vazquez was interested to see, apparently happened outside the range of the cameras. He could only be seen going down the hall. Then the following was about her going to emergencies after their encounter.
Vazquez released a curse on his head.
The door behind him opened at that moment. Vazquez was the first to notice and turn in that direction.
"We need copies of the videos," Malone said, "for our technicians to examine and pass through the facial scanner. Hopefully, we will find her in some missing child reports."
"I would broaden that search a little more, officers." They heard the voice of the newcomer commented, causing the four present to look away from the monitor and look at him. Cole Sear, accompanied by Matilda and Cody, entered the room with absolute normality.
"What the hell are they doing here?" Vazquez questioned heatedly. "Get out! Now!"
Cole ignored such a kind request, and just said directly what he was going to report:
"Leena Klammer," he snapped as if nothing, leaving everyone present confused.
"What?"
"That is the name of you suspect. And it's not a kid." Then he picked up his phone, turned on the screen and took a quick look at the page he had already opened before. "In fact, according to this, she is around 41 years old."
Vazquez looked over Malone and Wayne on his shoulder, who viewed the same or more perplexed than him.
"What are you talking about?" Wayne asked, confused but also curious.
"She's quite a character," Cole pointed out mockingly. He checked his phone but then chose to extend it to Vazquez, who snatched it away, a little more with everything and his fingers. "If you put her name on google, a lot of interesting information appears. She was born in Estonia in 1976. Her father was a KGB defector, and his mother died in childbirth. Before she turned ten, he was diagnosed with a rare condition called hypo... tuiti…" He babbled for a while, trying to vocalize correctly, but it was useless. "Dr. Honey, please."
Cole turned to Matilda for support. She was a little surprised to be suddenly the center of attention but quickly overcame.
"Hypopituitarism," she said in a hurry and without the slightest problem. "It is a deficiency in hormonal production, usually due to damage in the hypothalamus. Depending on the affected area, the deficient hormone, and its intensity, it has different effects on the human body..."
"And, in this case," said Cole at that moment, taking the word abruptly again, "it seems to be a growth hormone deficiency. In simple terms, she has the body and appearance of a child, but she is an adult woman."
Wayne and Malone looked at them intently with a bemused face; even the young guard, still without all the context, seemed amazed by what he heard.
"Is serious?" Malone murmured and then tried to see over his partner's shoulder in the wheelchair.
Vazquez had half of his attention on what Cole said and the other half on the phone. With his finger, he moved by that long article, accompanied by a large amount of data and photos. It described more extensively everything that individual was telling them and more.
"And it gets better," Cole continued with perhaps too much joviality, considering the subject he was talking about. "She is wanted in Estonia, Romania, and Russia for multiple murders, including those of her own father and his girlfriend. She entered the country, pretending to be a girl and the daughter of a family, whom she also murdered. Then, eight years ago, she managed to be adopted by another family. She killed the father, and since then, she was considered dead. Until four years ago, when the mother, survivor of such a horrible incident, was found by her children, tied to a chair and with multiple stabbed in the chest."
Curiously, Vazquez had reached a point in the article that spoke just in fact, accompanied by a dreadful photograph of the scene that could only have been taken from police records. There was nobody, but the chair, ties, and bloodstains were visible everywhere.
"Her family always stated that they were sure it had been Leena," Cole continued. "But there was never any evidence that proves she was still alive. Well, until now." Cole pointed towards the monitor, where the leisurely image of the suspect and the wheelchair was shown.
Malone looked over Vazquez's shoulder at the phone screen. There weren't many photos of the person the extensive article was talking about, as they likely didn't exist. The only one present on that page, in particular, served as the main image of the article and reappeared further ahead more completely. At first glance, it was the picture of an adorable girl, of a beautiful face with flirty freckles, short black hair and loose until a little below the shoulders, adorned with a black headband. She wore a pink dress and held in his hands a large rectangular box, which could not be seen clearly that it contained. That girl smiled broadly and looked towards the camera with a look that was illuminated with innocence and happiness.
A few hours ago, if he had seen that picture before, he would have thought it was perhaps the most adorable girl he had ever seen. At that time, however, Vazquez was unable to stop noticing the profound falsehood of that smile, and the monstrous evil hidden behind those illuminated eyes, which not long ago stared at him without blinking as she shot him.
Vazquez stared at the photo for a long time. Malone noticed this and could not help paying attention to the picture.
"Robert, it is she?" Asked Malone doubtfully.
It took Vazquez a while to respond. When he finally reacted, he turned off the screen and handed the phone back to its owner, without even looking at it.
"Yes... it is," he whispered slowly, doubting a little after he had actually said it.
Malone and Wayne still couldn't believe everything they were told, but Vazquez... he didn't really see him that hard to believe. In fact, that would explain everything. There was no way for a kid to have those eyes or sadism that could only come from someone who had already killed several times before, to the point where another person's life was totally indifferent.
"You said you had no idea who she was," Vazquez pointed out, looking at the three newcomers with disapproval. "And now you come with a name and all her history?"
Matilda and Cody hesitated, but Cole came forward to intercede.
"They didn't know her, but I had heard about the case before. And as soon as they described it to me, I remembered immediately."
"You said you looked it up on google," Malone said skeptically.
"I didn't say I did that today, did I?" He replied simply, shrugging.
The cynicism coming from that guy was already fed up with Vazquez, and that it took perhaps less than an hour to have met him. He pulled his chair closer to him and looked at him, intently with fury radiating from his eyes.
"You're going to tell me what the fuck is going on here, or..."
"Hey, calm down, sir," Cole pointed out quickly, raising his hands in front of him. "One would wait for more gratitude. You went from having no idea who you were looking for to having a name and an excellent story to keep the press entertained. Although I would be careful about how to handle it. So well, if you excuse us, we are hungry, and we want to go and eat." He turned to his two companions and walked carelessly between them to the door. "Let's go, friends?"
Matilda and Cody looked at each other, undecided, but then chose to follow him. Vazquez, who was already very close to reaching that limit where he would surely explode, was not willing to let them go just like that. He went quickly thrown at them, as a hand allowed him to spin his wheelchair.
"I'm not going to..." When he was close enough, he extended his healthy hand to Matilda, taking her tightly by her arm and pulling it back. This act took the psychiatrist by surprise, who staggered over the sudden pull and almost fell.
Cole, as soon as he saw this, made his way back to the room, and without thinking, he took Vazquez's wrist harder than he needed and pulled it away from Matilda's arm.
"You don't touch her!" He exclaimed furiously, leaving aside any trace of his perpetual joviality aside. He looks him intensely in the eyes, and then he literally threw his hand to the side to push it away from him. "If you try to put one finger on the lady again, I don't care if you are a policeman like me, with a greater degree or in a wheelchair; I'll break your face anyway. Did you hear me?"
Vazquez looked at him with rage gushing out of his eyes. There were many things he wanted to respond to that disrespectful, but his jaw was paralyzed, and his teeth clenched so hard that they almost hurt. The only thing that made him react a little was the voice of his partner, and his hand on his shoulder.
"Vazquez, come on," he murmured sympathetically. "It is not worth getting into trouble for this."
Hear his words, detective," Cole added, adjusting his bag. "Anyway, I think we could go, right?"
Cole looked directly at Malone for an answer.
"Yes... I mean..." Malone cleared his throat and adjusted his tie a little with his fingers. "We still have to take your statement."
"Well," Cole glanced at his wristwatch, an old-fashioned but elegant accessory "we'll wait in the lobby for ten more minutes. If no officer is going to take the statement at that time, we will understand that it is not necessary. With your permission, gentlemen."
He turned back to his companions and took the liberty of placing a hand on Matilda's back protectively to escort her to the door. She, however, did not react quite well to that act. Immediately she removed his hand from her and looked sideways at him with absolute disapproval. Her look shouted without a doubt: "you don't touch me either," and continued her walk alone into the hall. Cole raised his hands in surrender and followed a few steps behind.
"Are you really a cop?" Vazquez questioned him harshly, forcing him to stop for a few more seconds. "How long have you been a detective, boy? Not enough to respect your superiors, I can see. If you were a real policeman, you would worry more about resolving the death of a partner than protecting these two."
Cole looked serious, stoic. He was no longer smiling, and in fact, he had no tangible feeling in his expression. Even so, it was perhaps the most honest face he had projected in all that time there.
"I'm doing both, detective. Don't dare to imply otherwise."
And without saying more, he turned on his feet and headed down the hall along with the other two.
Vazquez again released another curse on his head; if he had no injured leg, he would have kicked the object closest to him. Vazquez noticed then from the corner of his eye that Wayne was hurrying out of the room behind them, but he didn't care. Wayne could do what he wanted like, apparently everyone there did.
"Who the hell was that guy?" Asked Malone, confused. He had seen him in the waiting room when he returned after his call, but he hadn't stopped to ask about it.
Vazquez sighed heavily.
"A policeman from Philadelphia."
"Philadelphia? And what was he doing here?"
"I don't know. But call someone over there, I want to know who he really is. His name was…" He tried the side pocket of his shirt and took out the card he had given him. "Cole Sear."
Vazquez extended the card to Malone, and he quickly analyzed it; it didn't have, after all, a lot to check in reality.
"I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile, what do we do with the information they gave us about this woman, Leena?"
That was a good question. In other circumstances, Vazquez would have told his partner that they could not release such strange news to the press. That they had to investigate and know everything about it before reporting it. However, in those moments, and with his current state, he was tempted to tell him to do whatever he wanted.
"What the hell…?" They listened abruptly to the Young Guard exclaiming behind them. "Ah, detectives... You have to see this..."
Vazquez and Malone turned at the same time, just to see what had disturbed the boy so much. On the screen, they could see the suspect, who now they knew her name was Leena, in the emergency area. He reloaded her weapon and then headed for the exit door quickly when suddenly she stopped abruptly, and her body froze and stiff. Then, she was pulled back, by herself, as if the air itself did, and then was suddenly turned in another direction. She seemed to talk to someone, but the camera could not capture it, whoever it was.
"But what's going on there?" Cried Malone, confused. Vazquez remained silent.
The scene continued, and it became increasingly strange. Three dogs entered through the open door, and headed for stalking, perhaps against the person with whom Leena was speaking. At that moment, she seemed to be free from whatever it was that imprisoned her and prepared to continue her way hurriedly to the door with everything and Lily. After a while, one more person entered the painting, going after her. The camera focused on her back, but her hair and clothes looked like it was...
"It's... the doctor, isn't it? The psychiatrist," Malone pointed out, while his companion remained silent.
The woman advanced almost to the center of the screen, then stopped suddenly and brought her hands to her neck. Her body shuddered a little, and then she was quickly thrown back as if she had just been run over and left the spotlight. The lights began to flash, the image was filled with interference, and then... it just disappeared; there was nothing else.
"What the hell was that?" Said Malone, stunned.
Vazquez stared at the screen, although there was nothing else there. That was what he was looking for.
"Give us a copy of that video, and don't show the original to anyone," he asked... no, instead he ordered the young guard, who hesitated, uncertain.
"But…"
"No one," Vazquez repeated harshly, and placed his hand on his shoulder, in a strange attempt to comfort. "This is important, okay? I will know how to pay you this favor."
The boy hesitated a few moments, but then nodded and began to do what he said. Apparently, it had been advantageous that they left the job to a rookie.
"Vazquez, what was that? Malone asked him, still unable to leave his astonishment.
"I don't know," said his partner, strangely serene. "But I'm going to find out it, one way or another..."
END OF CHAPTER 18