Perfection for the Rich
Tuesday, August 4, 9:30 A.M.
Brenda pounded once on the office door, then let herself in. She stomped over to her usual chair, plopped down and planted her feet on the coffee table, and then looked up at the shrink.
After a pause, she cleared her throat. "You're not Dr. Boris."
The man behind the desk looked up from the papers in his hand and raised one eyebrow. "Astute observation. Anything else you'd like to take note of, or can we begin?"
"What happened to Dr. Boris?"
"He has taken an early retirement to a cooler climate. I am Dr. Sullivan, I will be your new psychiatric consultation evaluator." The second eyebrow lifted, and a slight smile curved Dr. Sullivan's lips. It made him look like a used car salesmen, Brenda decided.
She scowled, and folded her arms. "I don't like you," she stated.
"Well, nice to see you are honest. Settle in, get comfortable. This could take a while."
Brenda narrowed her eyes. "Why'll it take a while?" she asked, just about growling. "I've got things to do.
"Don't we all, though?" Dr. Sullivan motioned to the papers. "I have been looking over your files. You seem to have quite the fascinating behavioral history. Now, one could say that you just didn't get enough hugs as a child, but I think it goes a little deeper than that."
"I got enough." Not even five minutes, she had to be here for half an hour. And what did he mean, not enough hugs? "What're you even talking about?"
"Well, it's really pretty straightforward. All the symptoms are there, or at least enough that I am rather surprised Dr. Boris didn't notice it sooner. Especially with your school records taken into account..."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Borderline Personality Disorder. As I said, it is quite straightforward. Unstable mood swings, difficulties maintaining interpersonal relationships, extreme opinions on right and wrong if, again, I go into your school records.
"Honestly, a textbook case... if you're interested in textbooks." The doctor paused, looking over the tops of his little glasses at Brenda.
She took a deep breath. Calm, calm, she could do calm. "What the fuck do you mean by that?" The growling probably wasn't calm, but she didn't really care.
"Well, if these records are any indication then school was never your top priority. It seems like talking like a lady didn't rank highly, either."
It took a second to figure out just what he meant by that. "What?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a very definitive drawl? Granted, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I find accents are just one more spice to life, really."
Brenda pushed up out of the chair, and cleared her throat. Carefully enunciating, she spoke. "I do not have an accent." Everyone else had the accent. She, however, didn't. "You are an idiot given a doctorate. You haven't any idea- I am not suffering from a personality disorder. If I do have a problem, then it might be minor post traumatic stress syndrome, which I've dealt with."
"You have proven my point for me. Like PTS, Borderline Personality Disorder can be caused by childhood trauma. Given what you have been through, it is not surprising that you have picked up something along the way."
"You have NO idea what I've been through." Brenda sliced one hand through the air. "I- you- I refuse to speak with you. Have your superiors assign someone else to me- someone more intelligent!"
Dr. Sullivan sighed. He eyed Brenda, rather like her grade school principal had after yet another fight.
There was only so long anyone could be expected to deal with that look. She hadn't been able to leave when she'd been in school, but she was an adult now. If she didn't want to stay, she didn't have to. She spun on one heel and stormed towards the door. She yanked it open, and was about to step outside when the doctor spoke up.
"I am not trying to be your enemy, Detective Johnson. I call matters as I see them. Other psychologists will tell you the same thing I have, especially after seeing an outburst like this."
She stopped in the doorway, glared over her shoulder. "Would you like me to demonstrate defenestration? Because I have no qualms. We're on the second floor, you'll survive the fall."
He gave a small laugh. "Borderline Personality Disorder is a rather small thing compared to what you would be diagnosed with for throwing me out of that window."
Only one response to that. Brenda gave a small yell of frustration and slammed the door behind her.
Tuesday, August 4, 9:42 A.M.
Brenda pulled out her cell phone and punched in a familiar number. She'd have to put it on speed dial, one of these days. If she could figure out how. She'd get Mewtwo to do it. Her eyebrow twitched when the ringing stopped, and she launched into her complaint.
"I am going to eviscerate that parasite Sullivan."
"What--Brenda? Who's Sullivan?" Sheryl looked blearily at her phone. "Isn't it a little early in the day to be thinking about evisceration?"
"Ten in the morning? Never mind- look, Sullivan's my new IAB shrink bucket of slime. He said I had a personality disorder. I do not have a personality disorder. Just because some people have issues with strong minded women does not automatically mean I have some sort of disorder."
"Causing grievous bodily harm to said shrink would give his hypothesis some credit, Brenda." Sheryl put her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone as she yawned. Two hours of sleep would have to do. "He put a word before personality disorder, I'd guess?"
"First he insulted my- do I have an accent?"
"Everyone has an accent. Yours is just more noticeable for someone from this area."
"I grew up in this area!"
"And you still have an accent when you get upset."
"He said I had an accent just talking," she grumbled. "He's a moron."
"What else did he say?" Sheryl asked patiently. If the only concern was Brenda's accent, she was going to go back to sleep and let Leon handle matters for once.
"Borderline personality disorder. I do not have a borderline personality disorder."
"This was your first visit with the man?"
"Yes."
"I'd recommend a second opinion, if you don't trust that shrink. Personality disorders aren't well named. It's more of a way of seeing the world than a psychiatric problem."
"Sheryl, you're lecturing. Anyways, what's slime-bucket know?" Complaining to a receptive ear soothed her temper. She smirked, and started walking down the street. "He was looking at Dr. Boris's notes, and I had that guy so scared he couldn't look at me without pissing his pants."
Sheryl paused. "Do you want me to look into the slime-bucket? The Tower is usually very careful about new hires." She didn't need to mention that Dr. Boris had been terrified of police officers, even before meeting Brenda.
"I don't care. He says I have a disorder. I have altophobia. If he's mixing phobias with disorders, then he cheated on his exams."
"What exactly did he say about borderline personality disorder?"
"Uh. Mood swings, unable to hold relationships, extreme opinions, right and wrong- I was imagining him being dipped into a bucket of acid, I wasn't really paying attention."
"Bren, are you going to try telling me that you don't have mood swings?" Sheryl asked, settling in for a very long conversation. Maybe Leon would make coffee, if he heard that she was awake.
"My mood doesn't swing," she pointed out.
"And you also don't have inflexible opinions about right and wrong, opinions set in stone, and trouble with interpersonal relationships." If a book had been in reach, Sheryl might have hit it against her forehead just to make a point. She settled for looking irritated with herself. "You've been unhappy for the last couple years, Bren, but I didn't think it was anything like this."
"I've been fine. I'll be better if I can catch the bastard killing little girls."
Sheryl didn't belabor the point. "What did your slime-ball say about treatment?"
"I left before he could say anything," she admitted. "It was either that or- defenestration. You know."
"I do know. Do you still have the paperwork on file that I can review your records with the shrinks? I can talk with Dr. Slime-ball and see what he recommends." Sheryl would forcibly have her daughter's case transferred, if needed. Brenda was finally coming back into herself, and no doctor would mess that up.
"Do whatever you want, Sheryl. I'd guess so. His name's Sullivan, he talks like some sort of inbred upper-crust pansy, and he looks like a dough ball."
"Are you okay, Bren? You might fit some symptoms in the man's diagnostics manual, but that doesn't mean that you have the disorder. It's badly classified."
"I'm fine. Just pissed off because some moron... Yeah. I'm going to go work now. You... go back to whatever it was that you were doing."
"I'm not going to go back to sleep when you're upset, Brenda. Do you want to talk about something? Dough ball, your case..."
She shook her head. "Its fine, I'm at the station anyways. Hey, can I have a new car for my birthday?"
"A car, or a police car? I can't get you a police car without doing something illegal."
"Damn. Fine, I'll go through legal channels then. Talk to you later."
"Dinner later this week, maybe? Some of this could use a face-to-face, and I need someone to badger Leon for me. Our big strong tough man doesn't like testing his blood sugar."
"Aw, does he have a problem with needles?" Brenda snickered, getting a few odd looks from passing cops. "Friday good? I won't be able to bring Smith, though. He's doing his best to be a pain in the ass."
"You laugh, I'm turning into a nag," Sheryl grumbled. "Friday is fine, but please do attempt to drag Mewtwo along. Leon might try looking tougher if there's another guy around."
"I'll do my best," she promised, and snapped the phone closed before any more of the conversation could be overheard. She glared at a few would-be eavesdroppers, pleased when they scattered.
She didn't have a disorder!
Tuesday, August 4, 9:30 A.M.
Viridian City Morgue
Mewtwo hung his visitor's pass around his necks, and frowned. It was easier to work an illusion based off real things. He would never manage to get realistic wings sprouting from his back, for instance, unless he actually had wings, and he didn't. As for such complicated details as identification cards, it was better just to have the real thing and skip illusionary fakes.
He needed some way to carry all the necessary bits and pieces of his human life, though. Perhaps a bag, though how he'd hold on to it, he didn't know.
And all his thinking on that subject was only so he wouldn't think about the reason he was walking into a morgue. Only, of course, distractions only worked so long as there were no reminders of what one was trying to avoid. Mewtwo shoved all thoughts of bags and driver's licenses (which he hadn't thought he'd need, but apparently he required some sort of identification) and credit cards and rent for his apartment- he shoved it all away. He had to focus.
"Dr. McClure?" he asked, shoving open the morgue door. "Are you available?"
The coroner looked away from the autopsy table, startled. "Detec--Officer Smith." He carefully pulled a sheet over the body, as he was at a part of the examination that could be interrupted. "Pausing autopsy to consult with Officer Smith about the ongoing case," Ben said into his recorder. "Time is nine-thirty-two, August fourth." He turned the device off and set it on the autopsy table.
Mewtwo arched an eyebrow. "Thorough," he said. He had to wonder if his voice would show up on the recorder. Probably not. Digital technology and telepathy didn't mix very well. "I have a few questions about your report on the first victim, and was wondering if you could tell me anything about the second."
The coroner smiled a little at the compliment, but shook his head. "Standard protocol, officer. One of the secretaries takes transcripts of the recordings, which end up on file. Following that same protocol, I'm not ready to give you my official findings just yet. If you have time to stay in the lab, however, I can release a few preliminary hypotheses."
"That would be appreciated." Mewtwo twitched his tail behind him, and gestured with one hand at the shrouded body. "How did she die?" he asked.
"The wound is very similar, with severe trauma to the C3, C4, and C5 vertebrae, but the damage suggests that the murderer's methods changed slightly."
Ben debated for a moment before carefully pulling back the sheet to show the victim's face. The pale features were identical to the first girl's. "I have already had the faster genetic testing done, showing that this victim's DNA is very similar to the first Jane Doe's. I believe that they both are clones of some other girl, not each other, but cannot be sure until the full DNA sequence is ready."
Mewtwo froze. "Clones?" His voice wavered slightly, and he knew his illusion had flickered. He strengthened it, and continued. "Why do you suggest clones?"
Ben, eyes on the second Jane Doe, didn't notice the shift in illusion. "Because the two girls are different, in ways that are very suggestive of genetic manipulation. It is very hard to explain just what is different, but a coroner sees many, many bodies. Both Jane Does have been... more compact, perhaps? Their GI tract seems disproportionately long, in the small intestine."
Mewtwo blinked, and looked from the body, to the doctor. "What is a GI tract, and why would a longer one make for a more compact... ah, person?"
It was not an easy feeling, realizing he sounded rather like Brenda when confronted with science.
Ben frowned. "It's a contradiction, actually--I'm sorry, the GI tract is the gastrointestinal tract, better known as the gut. The small intestine seems a little longer than I would expect for a girl this size, but it's too narrow. A long, thin small intestine would help with the digestion of food, and make the process of digestion more efficient."
He was still frowning as he eased the sheet back into place. "The pattern of the epiphyseal plates--the growth plates at the end of bones, which fuse when a bone is fully grown--is very similar. The first victim had a more pronounced muscle mass to the thigh and leg."
"So they're not identical," he paraphrased, relieved. "How can you suggest cloning then? Perhaps they're twins."
Ben shook his head. "The first victim's DNA could not have occurred naturally. At best, both identical twins were subject to extreme genetic experimentation, with each girl being modified in a slightly different pattern. I don't like this, though. The..." He cut himself off, and stared at the floor for a moment before continuing.
"Whatever sick scientist played games with their lives was far too deft with the process. I do not believe these girls could have been the first to be raised by this artificial process. I hate speculation, but I must suspect that these are not the only clones we will find. Even saying 'clone' is speculation, but I feel that it is based on data that I have already obtained."
Well, there went that faint hope. Mewtwo stared at the shrouded body, finding it hard to believe. Perhaps there was something to Brenda's calling him an optimist. Despite everything, he'd hoped that all attempts at cloning had ended, that he was the only poor soul forced to eke out this sort of existence. Idly, more to do something then to give vent to his emotions- which were numb, anyways- he reached out with his mind and lifted a scalpel.
He studied the instrument for a moment, and then slammed it point down into the tray. He growled, and clenched his paws. "I do not like this," he said, managing to sound mostly calm. "And I do not like these kinds of scientists."
Ben tugged gently at the scapula embedded in the metal. "Officer Smith, do you mind budging that out for me?" He had no problems with psychics, but psychics in his examination room made him nervous. "My office is open, if you would prefer to talk somewhere else. I don't like those scientists, either." He pulled another sterilized scalpel, still sealed in plastic, from the drawer. "Everything about this case... this science goes against every part of the oath that doctors take. I'm a medical doctor who works with the dead."
Mewtwo sighed, and did as asked. One slightly bent, dulled scalpel was set down, gently, on the now battered tray. "Sorry. I don't... I really don't like this type of..." How much dared he trust Dr. McClure with? "I have had some experience with the type of mind who would do... this," he finally said, waving one hand at the body.
Ben studied the scalpel for a minute. "I wish that I didn't. This is my fourth case without Samuel looking over my shoulder." He set the scapula in the second drawer. "The edge on that is still sharp," he explained, nodding to the scapula. "It'll be fine for interns to practice with. I hate cases like this, because they're personal, but at least it'll do some good. We see a lot of scientists who want to go farther into research, and sometimes it takes bodies to straighten out priorities. I've had a few groups of new interns down for notes already, and all they needed to see was Miss Doe's face. The story will be out by the end of the week, and maybe that'll be enough to keep these researchers off of that path." They were just little girls, no matter what their bones told him. Little girls should never be science projects.
"Samuel? Oh. The old coroner." Mewtwo nodded, and sighed. "The rest of the cops won't be happy about a press leak. I know Detective Johnson won't be. I doubt anyone will be warned off this path. It will most likely interest those who research this vile practice. After all, now there's proof that it can be done."
"Press leak, officer? All researchers here are contracted. Any unapproved contact with the press is grounds for dismissal without references, and with any earned experience hours nullified." A few might still do it, but most of the interns were still in love with the idea of their contributions. "I don't share details. Ostensibly, they were here to learn about wound identification, with Miss Doe as a case study. They have heard enough about the genetic elements through office gossip, so I gave the victims a face."
Mewtwo felt tension he hadn't been aware of disappear. "I wasn't sure how it worked, here," he admitted. "I'm still rather new at this."
"Quite a few of our technicians are still enrolled in college, Officer Smith. If they are dismissed from their positions here, they will not be able to earn lab credit. We take confidentiality seriously, and some breaches in contract can be prosecuted." Ben relaxed a little when the police officer did, feeling that his lab was safer. "I would ask that you don't use information I give you in these meetings for official warrants, but I will be happy to guide investigations. If you would like to obtain a warrant, then I can give you data I have verified."
"I'll make sure Detective Johnson knows," he said, and made sure to smile. "So. Cloning." Back to the numb emotions again. "You said they had to have done this before?"
"I..." Ben reached for his clipboard almost instinctively, to have something in his hands. "I do not like speculation, officer, but I find it difficult to believe that anyone could have succeeded on their first attempt to deviate so far from normal development. I have found a few physiological markers that the victims were sickly before their murder, including signs of cardiac distress, but they were very likely to have functioned at an enhanced level. I believe the first victim would have been especially fast, even compared to the second."
It was tempting to slam the scalpel back into the tray again, but Mewtwo refrained. Instead, he focused on his breathing, until he was certain he wouldn't do, say, or even think anything too hastily. "There were more," he repeated, and clenched his jaw. "What happened to the ones that came before? They would have been even less healthy. Did they kill them, leave them to rot?"
"I cannot speculate, Officer Smith," Ben said unhappily. "I doubt that I will find evidence, however." His expression hardened. "If I can find some link to a company, then I can have interns search through their documents until we know where the bastards ate their lunch. If you are amenable, I will start trying to find a way to locate these researchers."
Mewtwo's gaze shot to the doctor's face. "Helix and the medical arms of Silph Co." he said. "That's what's most likely. Doubtful anyone else would be able to get the funds or the space necessary, not without government funding." And if the children were government endorsed- he didn't want to think about that possibility. Better to assume they weren't and work from there.
Ben nodded slowly. "That helps, a little. It's probably a shadow company with no official link to Helix or Silph, but I think I should be able to find some detail." Especially if there are others, he thought. It seemed increasingly likely.
"Is there anything else you would like to know today, officer? Routine forensic examinations are being diverted, at the moment. One expert at the hospital is taking care of most cause-of-death autopsies, to give me enough time to work on this case. The lab considers this a priority, for both the level of scientific involvement and the apparent age of the victims."
Mewtwo shook his head. It was nice to know that the children were being given priority, but there was enough new information that any questions he'd had were silenced. "Expect the Detective," he said. "I'll tell her what you told me, but she'll have more she'll want to know."
"You are both welcome to stop in, together or individually," the coroner said. It was unusual for the coroner to be so closely involved with the police, but the chief executive of the police force had wanted the collaboration. Ben didn't mind the added interaction with the living at all. "I'll probably be here. If I'm not, I check my e-mail and cell phone regularly. All contact information for me is available at the front desk."
Mewtwo looked at the shrouded body one last time, and then acted on impulse. He held out one hand towards Ben. "Thanks for the help."
Ben shook the police officer's hand, a little shyly. "It's no problem, especially on a case like this. Everyone here wants the... the guilty in jail. I don't know a word strong enough."
Tuesday, August 4, 10:11 A.M.
He had to admit, he was beginning to understand Brenda's desire for a new car. Walking everywhere in town was not the most appealing modes of travel, and short of flying or teleporting everywhere he wanted to go, he was stuck with two feet and a great deal of concrete.
He kept his thoughts under firm control as he hurried from morgue to station. The last thing he needed was random objects flying around in reaction to his disquiet. Controlling his psychic powers had never been quite so hard before- but then, he'd never heard of other clones running around, either.
He'd created his own clones, of course, but of course he'd known about them. These were human clones, he hadn't known about them, and it was very frustrating to find out only because they were dying and being left to rot in parks.
He had to pause outside the station, gather his emotions and get his metaphorical hands around them. Of course, for a psychic, metaphorical hands were often just as real as physical hands. The mind really was a weapon.
He reached his desk without incident. The humans of the station seemed to sense his precarious hold on himself. The single growlithe he had come across in the halls had whimpered and cowered behind its handler.
"Hey, Smith? Where's Johnson?"
Mewtwo looked up from his computer keyboard. "Meeting with an IAB shrink," he said. The intern- new, young, smiling- shrugged and gestured at him.
"Then I guess you're the one Dallas wants to see. He wants an update on your current case."
Mewtwo took a deep breath, and nodded. "I'll be just a second."
Great. Just what he didn't need.
End Notes
So, I imagine you've noticed that the chapters in Chosen Fate are tending towards the long (for me) side. This one was what, nine and a half pages or so? Can't remember, oddly enough. But anyways. Everyone go read and review WiseAbsol's work, she's a great gal, one of my friends, and if you DON'T you're missing out, big time. Also check out Dark Magician Girl Aeris's work, she played the slime-bucket Dr. Sullivan. CalliopeMused gets some kudos again for her continued role as Sheryl Lance, and her newest roll, Benjamine McClure.
Coming up in the next chapter, Captain Dallas- you all remember him, he's a dirty cop- tries to verbally out manuever Mewtwo. But when your opponant can read your mind and knows what you're going to do before you do, just how much of a chance do you have?