Джордан Шор - The Search

“Yes, please,” he mumbled.

George noticed the newspaper in the front passenger’s seat, and once again, he read the headline.

George noticed the cup holder and the coffee cup with a flame design, and then, he thought of the phone call that Magdalene received. Does this taste, right? he kept chanting to himself, and then imagined a scene in which Captain Daniels handed a cup of coffee to his co-pilot and asked him to have a taste. Had Captain Daniels poisoned his co-pilot before crashing the plane? It would certainly have been easier to poison his colleague, rather than strangling him to death.

George assumed the phone call was from the National Transportation Safety Board or some other branch of the ‘government’ as Magdalene had put it. And the reason for the phone call must have been to identify the voices on the recording from the cockpit. But the question was why? Was it just standard procedure to establish who said what? Or was there something more to it? Was the terror angle still intact?

George suddenly thought of Trisha Boyle and her disabled boy.

Then it occurred to him, if in fact, Captain Daniels had poisoned his co-pilot, then the poison would probably appear on an autopsy. Or would it? The body had been in the water for more than a week. But why would they perform a toxicology? And did poison eventually disappear from a dead body? Perhaps that depended on the type of poison. If so, what kind of poison had Captain Daniels used?

George rolled his eyes, as he realized his line of questioning was nothing but absurdly ridiculous. He told himself to stop speculating and focus on his job instead of playing detective. But then his thoughts wandered back to Trisha Boyle, and he imagined her standing in the unemployment line and holding the hand of her disabled boy.

What was it with a single mother raising a child that always got to him? Was there something special about it? Something special he could relate to? Had it something to do with his own mother, and how she’d raised him? Or was it perhaps a biological urge? Did other men feel the same way?

He took out his cell phone and made a few searches online, mostly to satisfy his curiosity. To his astonishment, he discovered how easy making lethal poison out of the most common household products was. All one really needed was a simple coffee filter, and of course the necessary organic product.

His jaw dropped as he read the headline on the blog topic.

His mind brought him back to the house in Paradise where Captain Daniels grew up. George thought of all the apple trees surrounding the house, and how Mrs. Daniels had described her son as creative.

George tried his best to find a definitive answer as to whether cyanide would appear while doing an autopsy, but the answer was inconclusive. He did, however, stumble over a news article regarding a group of scientists who had newly discovered a different type of the poison tetrodotoxin. According to the news article, the same scientists were now in possession of enough tetrodotoxin to theoretically kill eight billion people.

“Eight billion,” he blurted out.

“What was that?” the taxi driver asked.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”

Once again, he noticed the driver’s coffee cup, and the distinctive flames on it.

“So, how’s the season going?”

“The season hasn’t started yet,” the driver said and smiled over his right shoulder. “I take it you don’t follow hockey much.”

George didn’t follow hockey at all, but he was still able to recognize the distinctive Calgary Flames logo, on the driver’s coffee cup.

“I’ve lived in San Francisco my whole life,” he said.

George was expecting a follow-up question, but the driver didn’t seem too eager to prolong the conversation. George turned his attention to his phone and reminded himself to concentrate on the task at hand, rather than keep playing detective. He decided to look through the latest news articles regarding the crash.

Then it hit him.

He felt as he’d been sucker punched in the stomach, and his spleen was now blocking the air to his lungs. He kept staring at the news headline.

Tuesday morning

Jack sat at a table in what seemed to be a conference room, and two men sat across the table from him. The two men appeared to be the complete opposites of each other. The man to the right of Jack had a pale complexion and was almost as tall as Jack. This man wore a gray blazer, and he looked to be in his fifties. The man to the left of Jack had a dark complexion and was a lot shorter than Jack. This man wore a black blazer, and he seemed to be in his twenties. Jack wore sweatpants and a sweater with a police logo on it. Both articles of clothing were at least two sizes too small.

In addition, two other men were seated at the other end of the conference table, and they both wore black suits and matching black ties. The female police officer by the name of Sophia was also present in the room. She stood by the door and casually leaned up against the wall, her eyes focused on the windows.

Jack kept glancing at Sophia, but she appeared to be ignoring him.

“I think she’s disappointed with you,” the pale, tall man said, and looked at Jack. “She assumed you were just an average passenger.”

Jack looked to his right and arched his eyebrows.

The pale man then turned his focus on Sophia. “I’m sure Detective Houllier didn’t appreciate being lied to.”

Detective Sophia Houllier took her eyes off the windows and peered at the pale man. Her eyeballs seemed about to poop out of her eye sockets; she looked absolutely furious.

“I didn’t lie,” Jack said.

“Withholding information is the same as lying,” the short, dark man responded in a fast, sharp, and provocative tone. “You misrepresented yourself.”

Jack looked at Detective Sophia Houllier once more, this time with an expression of shame. But she had her eyes focused on the windows and seemed to ignore his every gesture.

Jack looked at the man to the left of him. “Are we about done here, or what?”

“Done?” the dark, short man responded sarcastically. “What do you mean, we’re done?”

“I told you everything I know,” Jack said. “What more is there to say?”

“You mean that bullshit statement you just gave.” The dark man sighed. “How about telling the truth?”

“I told you everything I know.”

“No, you haven’t,” the same man quickly responded.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t told us where to find the body, have you?”

“What body?” Jack said. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Kevin Anderson.”

“Kevin’s last name is Anderson?” Jack asked with a crooked smile.

“His last name was Anderson. Until you killed him.”

“What?” Jack looked startled.

“His daughter and son are now orphans because of you. The very least you can do is to provide them with a decent funeral. So tell us where you hid the body.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t hurt Kevin.”

The tall, pale man appeared to be studying Jack’s facial expression.

“Why did you kill him? What possible reason could you have for killing him? What’s your excuse? Did he provoke you? Was it something he said? Was it something about his appearance that set you off?” The dark man kept staring Jack in the eyes. “You have a problem with black people? Is that it?”