Christ Clone (11 page)

'This information and science has the ability to get our investors to pump huge capital into the research lab,' Dr Androna continued.
He was playing the company executive game with Travis; more or less telling him what he thought he wanted to hear, even though he was more interested in the achievement than in the money, or what it did for the company.

'I'm giving everyone in your group a twenty-thousand dollar bonus!' Travis announced. 'And as for you, well I have a special bonus for you, Dr Androna.'

'And what might that be?' Dr Androna asked, with a small, contented smile on his face.

'I'll get to that in good time. First of all though, I have a very strange request. I'm going to need all this information presentation-ready and on disk; we're going to share this information with the rest of the world — immediately.' As Travis was talking he was looking at the screen, paying no attention to Dr Androna's startled expression.

'We're . . . You're what?' The doctor was aghast; he couldn't believe what he was hearing. They'd worked around the clock for three months in an overheated and oxygen-deprived lab. They'd used state-of-the-art techniques and some of the smartest brains in the genetic world to get this result,
and
finished ahead of the original schedule. Now Travis wanted to give it away?

'You just can't do that,' Dr Androna said, still struggling to come to terms with the request.

Travis was not used to anyone questioning his authority, and his anger began to rise. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that
Dr Androna had been working relentlessly and was tired; also, he didn't know about the bonus yet.

'Look, I can't explain the
why
at the moment. Please, just do as I say. A package will arrive here for you in a few days. Give me a call when it does. I want to be here when you open it.' Dr Androna knew it wasn't a request any more; it was a command.

Knowing there was no point in arguing, the doctor relented. He moved to the computer and started to punch in the security passwords.
He downloaded the presentation and all supporting documents and burnt it to a disk. With great reluctance, he removed the disk from the computer's CD tray, put it carefully into a case, and handed it to Travis. They walked back to Reception in complete silence; Dr
Androna was devastated, and Travis had in his hand the next piece of the puzzle.

Having said goodbye to the deflated doctor, Travis waited until the heavy door clicked shut then asked the receptionist for the phone.

'Hi, it's Travis, I am sending you a data CD by courier; can you get this onto the science link as soon as possible? It will cover a lot of the questions you will be asked, and should please all the participants.
Talk to you soon.' Ringing off, he passed the CD to the receptionist and gave her a forwarding address for the courier.

Detective Logan hated his job, his life, and although he was still not sure, probably his wife.

Washing his face in the LAPD washroom, he watched the water spiral down the drain and thought his life was probably going the same way. Forty-eight years old and nothing to show for it; he was tired. His cases were stacking up and he was rapidly becoming the unsolved case king. He wondered how his life had got to this point; he was a good cop, he cared, perhaps sometimes he even cared too much.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he found it hard to recognize the face staring back. Where did all those lines come from? Certainly not from laughter. Heavy bags under his tired-looking eyes, hair unkempt and receding. Who was this man staring back at him?

His thoughts drifted back to his training and the first few years on the force. He'd keenly enjoyed the shooting range and the driving tasks. He'd been fit and energetic and did very well at the physical parts of the training. But it was in the classroom where he really excelled. He had a very logical approach to solving problems, with an uncanny ability to think outside the square.

Finishing Police Academy at the head of his class, he'd had his choice of departments, so he chose Homicide. His passion was solving the difficult cases, the ones his peers had given up on. His tenacity and contacts in the Los Angeles area enabled him to achieve magical results. He juggled cases ten at a time and believed in following coincidences. Coincidences were leads, and leads solved cases.

The only things that blew through his life quicker than his cases were his women. Girlfriends came and went, and most of the time he didn't even notice they'd gone. His first wife lasted longer than he really expected her to. His deep depressions, often brought on by fatigue, hurt him, but his moods had hurt her more. His obsession with his cases would have made Mother Teresa swear in frustration.
He wouldn't come home for weeks at a time when he was on a trail or close to solving a crime, and when he did eventually arrive home, he was way too tired to do anything congenial — including having sex.
Logan wondered why problems in his big head affected his little head equally; he was sure things had been different when he was younger.

With his lack of libido came his lack of communication skills, but in his own defence Logan believed that no one else should be subjected to the monstrosities that surrounded his cases, so keeping the horrors of his job to himself was easy to justify.

As he'd got older his enthusiasm had wavered, so the cases had accumulated. He had a current wife who was much younger than he was. They'd met in the station, she'd come in on a charge of soliciting, and they'd sneaked a few glances at each other while she was being processed. They became involved almost immediately. After a brief courtship they were married; her youth and lust for life was a major respite for him. Lately, he felt sure she was cheating on him; it was more than just a hunch. He hadn't been home for a few days now, not because of the cases he was working on, but because he didn't want to catch her. Ignorance, to Logan, was — at this moment in time
— bliss.

Recently he'd been sent to see the police psychologist. Some of the cases he was handling were too disgusting even for him; he didn't know how one human being could do such things to another. He just couldn't solve them, and he wasn't sure if he could go the distance with the force.

During one of the evaluation sessions, he was asked a question that, if answered correctly, indicated your mind worked the same way as a psychopath's. It was a story about a girl. Attending the funeral of her own mother, she'd met this guy. He didn't seem to be with anyone, and none of her family seemed to recognize him. She thought he looked amazing; so much like her dream guy, she fell in love with him then and there. At the end of the funeral, the guy disappeared before she'd even had a chance to speak with him. A few days later, the girl killed her own sister.

The question was: What was the girl's motive for killing her sister?

The correct answer, if you could call it that, was: She killed her sister because she was hoping the guy would appear at the funeral again.

This test was apparently formulated by a famous American psychologist and was used to determine if someone had the same mentality as a killer. Many arrested serial killers took part in this test and had answered it correctly.

Logan answered it bang-on, and even went on to profile the girl.
He gave her an age range and a history; he even chose where and how she would do it. The examiner noted Logan as a disturbed man.

The rape cases were bad, the murder and mutilation cases were worse, and then there was the Malone case. He had witnessed, firsthand, the complete collapse of a good man. He had literally watched
Michael Malone destroy himself, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He'd tried to help by taking him to AA, but it only reinforced what Logan had learned at an early age — you can't force a man to do something he doesn't want to do. Not for long anyway.

He spent months following bullshit leads that every bone in his detective body screamed not to follow, just to give Malone some news
— something to hold on to. Nothing eventuated. Logan couldn't explain why, but Malone's case had taken precedence, and not solving it had eaten deep into the pit of Logan's stomach. The years of eating on the run had been hard on his ageing intestines, but he felt that
Malone's case had done more damage than the food. The ulcer that made itself known with hourly regularity reminded him of Malone. For the past few years it had been quiet but, with Malone's reappearance, was back with a vengeance.

Logan finished his refresher by rubbing his wet hands through his hair, and then pulled a prescription bottle of antacids from his jacket pocket. The tablets were bitter on his tongue, but they had the desired effect of calming the burning sensation in his throat. He wished he could wash them down with a shot of Pepto-Bismol, but water would have to do for now. Wiping the overspill of water from his chin, he threw the paper towel into the rubbish bin and snatched open the bathroom door.

Returning to his desk, he pulled the top five files from the stack and flicked through them. The names — Barrett, Oldham, Bailey, Varacuse and Pulini — were merging into each other. He spread them out like a deck of cards and picked the middle one. Pick a card, any card, shuffle them and put it back, he thought.

The name on the file he picked was Bailey. Although the case was only just over a year old, the file was large and Logan knew what was in store for him inside. He went and poured himself a coffee then returned to his desk to read it through again. What have I missed? he wondered.

Bailey, Anita. It was a home invasion/murder case. The killer had entered through the back door and apparently surprised the victim,
Anita Bailey. Logan flicked through the crime scene photos and walked through the house in his mind; looking at the house layout, he blocked out the surrounding noise and entered the killer's mind.

He was crouching outside the kitchen door waiting for the right moment. Why was he there? What was their relationship?

He slowly turned the door handle and slipped open the door. The victim's back was to the killer as she put dishes away in the cupboard.
As he grabbed her, covering her mouth, her grip on the plates released and they fell crashing to the floor. He knew there was no one at home to hear this noise and he dragged her into the living room.

Logan looked at the photo of the kitchen again. Broken crockery lay under the cabinet furthest from the door. Both the cabinet and the dishwasher drawers were open; the killer had made no attempt to hide the initial point of contact.

The CSI report said there were traces of chloroform in the victim's nasal passages. All the exterior traces were washed off; the killer was trying to hide parts of his MO. The
why
was obvious, he'd either done this before, or intended to do it again; either way, he wasn't in a hurry now. The report stated that the victim had been raped and sodomised, using a condom, which they assumed he had taken with him.

Logan stared at the photos of the victim's mutilated body. She had been secured with police-issue handcuffs, tortured, and eventually murdered. To any normal person this sight would have brought feelings of terror and revulsion, but Logan had been hardened to this sort of evidence. His mind looked far deeper than the macabre vision, detaching himself from the physical evidence and focusing on the mental statement.

Logan's mind entered the killer's again.

The victim was subdued, handcuffed, and ready for whatever he had in store. Like a cat playing with its wounded prey, let the games begin. He went back to the kitchen and picked up a large knife, closed and locked the door, and returned to the woman. Using the knife, he cut off her jeans and T-shirt and threw them onto the couch; the pink designer underwear she'd worn just for him made it clear he'd chosen the right girl. He ripped them away, pulled down his trousers and entered her. As she started to wake, he slapped her face; this made her jump to attention, squirming on him. She screamed; this increased his arousal, and his fire. He punched her square on the jaw, breaking it easily. In his mind, he turned her screams of terror into moans of pleasure. She liked to be hurt. He bit her breast hard, tearing the flesh, and her moans increased.

Forcing her onto her front he pulled her arms away from her body, dislocating her shoulders as they popped from their sockets. He entered her from behind and started to slash her back with the knife.
Stabbing deeply as he thrust inside her, and dragging the blade across her white skin, blood pumped from the wounds and seeped into the cream carpet as he again rolled her onto her back. Dragging her by the hair to the couch, he straddled her and plunged himself into her mouth. Her head violently shook from side to side; withdrawing, he beat her nose across her face, smashing the bones and blocking the passageway. Then he entered her mouth again, tearing the internal fibres of her throat. With all her airways blocked, her eyes rolled back, she lost consciousness, and died. His passion was unfulfilled and this quickly turned into a frenzied anger. Picking up the knife again, he insanely stabbed at her naked stomach; again and again he thrust the blade deep into her body. As a final symbolic act he pushed her legs apart and drove the blade into her, leaving nothing more than the black and bloodied wooden handle visible to the world.

Sweat dripped from Logan's brow as he came back to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to shake off the vision.

The autopsy officially logged the cause of death as asphyxiation, but her premature death caused the killer to start a stabbing frenzy.
Logan believed her quick death to be a blessing in disguise, and probably the best thing that had happened to her throughout the whole ordeal. Reading on, the report registered a hundred incisions, but the actual total was too many to count. The attacker's focus was mainly on the abdominal area, turning her stomach into minced meat.

There were many unanswered questions, but the one that stuck in
Logan's mind most was: why was the living room where the murder took place? The killer had time to take her upstairs to the bedroom, so why didn't he? The living room was on the ground floor, so there was a possibility of being interrupted.

Logan decided the living room was a risk, and therefore maybe that was part of the fantasy, but he believed there was more to it than that. For Logan, the living room was the place to focus his attention.
Picking up the crime scene drawings and photos, he started with the bloodied mess that was once a beautiful woman. The couch, the coffee table, the bookcase — nothing. They'd been over the scene so many times, but the secret was there in the living room; the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was.

Shuffling the photos around again, he placed the bathroom and two bedrooms above the murder scene photo on his desk. 'Spot the difference,'
he muttered. What did the living room have that the upstairs rooms didn't? There was nothing unusual about the furniture in any room; most of it had probably been picked up from Furniture-R-Us or somewhere equally uninspiring. Then his attention was drawn to the stereo system.

'The bastard took his own music to the party,' Logan snarled. He had a lead.