Jon Merz - Vicarious

The city always looked different after someone had been killed.

At least, that’s what Curran thought as he stood on the rain-slicked street enveloped by a cold mist and cigarette smoke. He imagined the water running off the cracked sidewalks could just as easily be the blood of all the victims of every killer he’d ever stalked.

A lot of rain, he thought.

A lot of blood.

Streetlights and multi-colored neon signs cast weird shadows that bounced off of limousines and nightclub fronts. Beat cops corralled drunken clubgoers while thick yellow police tape drew the attention of every news cameraman in town.

Curran took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the gutter. The red cinder died as it touched the water and got swept away into the storm drain.

Where does all the blood go, Curran wondered as he ducked back inside the nightclub. Where does it all stop?

He heard the low growl — a creeping bassline to the dissonance of voices and other ambient crime scene noises. The heavy gauge steel zipper ground its teeth together; the body bag closed over the corpse inside.

Curran shuddered.

The sound always made him feel so hollow inside, a cobwebbed shell of a man so unlike how he’d been years ago.

“You okay, Steve?”

Curran glanced down. Kwon. The ever-efficient medical examiner’s eyes stared at Curran, concern clearly evident.

“You don’t look so good, pal.”

“Sound of that zipper drives me nuts. Means another person’s died and I’ve got the case.”

“Just be glad you’re hearing it from this side of the bag. Probably worse on the other, amigo.” Kwon squatted next to the bag and gave last minute instructions to his assistant. He stood and looked at Curran.

“An awful thing — this happening to the nightclub circuit.”

“Could have happened anywhere.”

Kwon sighed. “Yeah, but I love these joints. I come dancing down here all the time. Before, people used to ask me what I did, I could have lied. Gig’s up now for sure. I spotted a few waitresses who looked horrified to see me hop out of that meat wagon out front.”

“Your poor rep,” said Curran. “How long before you know what killed him?”

“Are you planning on solving this case tonight?”

Curran looked around the club. The music had long since stopped but some of the lights still whirred overhead, casting reds and oranges and yellows onto barstools and the parquet dance floor. Partially emptied glasses still littered the tables, condensation clearly evident in the warm still air. He looked back at Kwon. “I might get lucky.”

Kwon rubbed his expanding bald spot and nudged the bag with his foot. “Tomorrow, I guess. I gotta get some damned sleep. Been working thirty-six hours straight.”

“Didn’t they put enough money in your budget for help?”

“Sure, but she’s out at a conference in San Francisco right now. Be back in a few days.”

“In the meantime — ”

“In the meantime,” said Kwon, “I wouldn’t know a scalpel if you put one in front of me.”

“Any chance I can get you to crack this guy open tonight?”

Kwon yawned. “I don’t suppose you know a pair of nymphomaniac twin sisters?”

Curran lit a fresh cigarette, took a long inhale, and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “If I did, I’m not so sure I’d share that information with you.”

“What’s so special this guy can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“He’s got no wounds for one thing.”

“Maybe he had a myocardial infarction — a heart attack.”

“There’s no blood pooling anywhere.”

“That’s not necessarily unusual.” Kwon zipped up his jacket.

Curran sucked the cigarette. “No powder burns, either.”

“So he wasn’t shot.”

“No broken bones.”

“None I can find on a crude surface examination anyway.”

“There’s nothing,” said Curran. “I don't like corpses with no discernible signs of death.” Curran watched Kwon's assistants roll the gurney outside. “Especially when dying looks like the last thing that should have happened to them.”

Kwon sighed. “Look pal, this is Boston. We’ve got plenty of bodies with no reason to be dying. But they do anyway. That doesn’t mean they get bumped to the top of the line.”

Curran chewed his lower lip. “How about doing me a personal favor, then?”

Kwon laughed. “What kind of bullcrap is that?”

“No bullcrap.”

“Buddy, how long have we known each other?”

“Maybe five years.”

Kwon nodded and slid his hands into his jacket. “We’ve worked a lot of hellish cases together, you and I. I’m the best friend you’ve got in this town. If you know something about this, you’d better not hold out on me.”

Curran looked beyond the maroon velvet curtains. The shadowy entrance of the club seemed to bleed right into the dark of night outside. Kwon’s crew negotiated the corridor and bounced the gurney out. Curran felt his head begin to pound. He closed his eyes. He saw the same images — different cities and different bodies.

But always the same result.

With no answers.

He opened his eyes and looked at Kwon. “Maybe I've seen this before.”

“Maybe’s are for politicians and other scumbag liars.” Kwon fixed one of his hard stares and waited.

Curran stubbed out the cigarette in a silver ashtray and dropped the butt into a glass of something blue. “Before I came to Boston.”

“Back in the Bureau?”

Curran winced again. Hearing those words still made his gut ache. Five years away from the Washington backstabbers — the Old Boy network that had raped him hard — hadn't dulled his wrath. Curran doubted if anything ever could.

“Yeah. And I'm not excited that I'm seeing it again.”

Kwon held up his hand. “Okay, okay. You bring your car?”

“Parked down the street.”

“Meet me back at the office. Bring some damned coffee.”

“Thanks.”

Curran followed Kwon outside. The November night had turned colder, aided by a fierce wind that swept over Fenway Park and stabbed down into the collar of Curran’s coat. He shivered and walked back up the street toward his car. Around him, the uniforms yanked down the yellow crime scene tape and began laughing away any of the remaining tension.

If only it was that easy, thought Curran. He felt a deep gnaw at the pit of his stomach and frowned. His gut was trying to tell him something.

Curran ignored it.

He knew a lot of cops who went out of their way to trust their instincts. Curran preferred hard facts and cold figures. The more he could rely on science and logic, the better he felt.

He lit a fresh cigarette. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt a presence. Curran wheeled around, expecting to see someone.

He saw no one.

Curran stood there, cigarette dangling out of the side of his mouth. His eyes searched the passers-by, looking. For what, he didn’t know. But something felt oddly familiar.

Deja vu?

He frowned. Please no, he thought. Not here in my town.

My new town.

He slid inside the Toyota and shut the flashing blue strobe off. He tucked it back under his seat and sat there for a second, inhaling hard on the filter. After so many medical warnings, Curran may as well have been suckling at the breast of death.

It didn’t bother him much.

What did bother him was this body.

He gunned the engine and backed the car up the street, u-turning and jumping down into Kenmore Square. He took Commonwealth Avenue until it ended near the Public Gardens, swung around and over the backside of Beacon Hill, dropping into Albany Street and parking in an ‘authorized vehicles’ only slot.