The Six Story Fault Read online

“The Six Story Fault”

  By Kenny Jackson

  Copyright 2015 Kenny Jackson, all rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Story

  More Stories and Contact Information

  April 14th, 10:51am

  Detective Bill McCoy sped down the empty freeway, wondering why his murder wasn’t good enough.

  Recheck yesterday’s big crime scene, the radio operator said. Because the chief thinks we missed something, the radio operator said.

  An obvious lie, McCoy thought. The killer had confessed. And every single tiny morsel of evidence corroborated the killer’s confession, no leftovers. The evidence, that was the part McCoy cared about.

  McCoy clicked his car's taillight on-off and saw Brookfield school. The place was a preserved historic with real blackboards and everything. McCoy had been inside four times. Three for career days, and then there had been yesterday. McCoy yanked his e brake, piled out, kicked the car door shut, and aimed for yellow, crime-scene tape.

  Police, reporters, and more bunched too thick against the puny plastic rope. Reporters crammed outside, cops barricaded inside. McCoy stretched his badge above the muddle and a patrolman lifted the thin yellow line.

  Two bodies lay face down and covered. They were new. McCoy didn’t care to guess why he’d been called in, back to this place. But he knew why the lie.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 13th, 5:55 pm

  Wendell watched Beth Wilson climb up and up the stairs, to the roof. In two thousand-some living rooms, a thousand offices and hundreds of bedrooms all across the state, Wendell watched.

  As Wendell watched, Hecata mapped. In pockets and hands, under tables and TVs, behind dashboards, cabinet doors and more, Hecata mapped.

  Six minutes passed, and Wendell followed Beth Wilson up, in a landslide. But Wendell didn’t see Beth Wilson on the roof. Wendell didn’t see anyone at all.

  Six minutes passed, and Wendell lay on cold concrete, six stories down. Wendell wasn’t moving.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 14th, 10:59am

  Bill McCoy stood looking at the two new bodies.

  “Look what the Commish dragged in,” said Kurt Smit.

  Smit was a police detective. If mountains wore trench coats, they'd look like Kurt Smit.

  “Time you showed,” said Frank Ravell.

  Ravell was Smit’s partner. McCoy fancied Ravell number one contender for best detective on the force. McCoy saw himself as champion.

  “Called this in hours ago,” said Frank.

  “What do we have here,” said McCoy, “If it isn’t Detective Ravell. How was the vacation? I’m surprised Kurt let you stick your neck outside the house. Mafia hit men do strike the same place twice, you know. Repeatedly, until you’re dead in fact. That is what the mafia pays them for. Or at least, so my sources tell me.”

  “And this,” Kurt said, his giant hand in the shape of a gun and pointing at McCoy, “is what I get paid for.”

  “First vacation in years,” Frank said.

  Kurt snorted. “Ever,” he said.

  “Never hear the end,” said Frank.

  “Forget yesterday,” McCoy said, “Yesterday was awful, and yesterday will always be not today. And it just so happens that today, I was busy with my very own run-of-the-mill murder. I do that sort of thing, you know. Homicide detective and all. And well, being a detective, I have a certain tendency toward detecting. What I want to detect is this: why is this murder better than my murder?”

  Kurt chuckled. McCoy thought the chuckle sounded like a hammer grinding glass into powder.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 19th, 1:58am – A Living Room

  The television spoke to everyone: “Where does responsibility for last week’s tragedy at Brookfield stop? Your World Today presents an exclusive, one time only interview with Andrew Baker. Join us tonight, at six.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 14th, 11:01am

  Frank gave him a look, and Kurt stopped chuckling.

  “Look,” Frank said. He gestured.

  McCoy glanced.

  “I suppose you have me there, fellow detective. Two murders are indubitably more murders than one murder. On the other hand, Detective Ravell has been known to handle three, even four victims on a good day. Or, so I hear.”

  Frank bent. He balled a corner of the sheet in his fist.

  “Not a good day, I take it?” said McCoy.

  “Now we know how you got all those shiny medals,” said Kurt.

  Frank dragged back the curtain. Victim number one lie ruined on the sidewalk.

  “The lady’s name,” Kurt said, “was Beth Wilson. She’s a teacher here. I talked to her. I talked to her yesterday.”

  Frank spoke.

  “We got the punk. Remember. Got the punk and he’ll pay. All he has.”

  “Well,” said McCoy, “I suppose that makes victim number two a person of consequence.”

  “I’m looking forward to this shuttin’ you up,” Kurt said.

  Ravell bared the second face. McCoy looked everywhere but.

  It was the face of a dead man, up and jangling around, now dead again. One inch above the eyebrows, and right in between, sat a black Third Eye. No longer was the face really a face, only the idea of a face. It had frozen and melted to match those behind the eye so many times. The face had become everyone's face and no one's face.

  “… So, someone offed a Jurist,” said McCoy. “That is a new one by me.”

  “Best ten seconds of the day,” said Kurt.

  “Actually, this is a new one by everyone, isn’t it?”

  “Called in,” Frank said. “It’s a first. Now you know. Brass wanted both of us.”

  “Frank could’ve handled it fine,” said Kurt.

  “Detective Ravell, can you put the sheet down Detective Ravell?”

  Frank put the sheet down, gently.

  “Did you happen to ask how, in the wide world of police investigation, today’s Brookfield emergency is supposed to work? Do we have thousands of witnesses, Detective? Or thousands of witnesses we can’t question?”

  “Second one. Part of the whole deal. Has to be anonymous. Have to wait for a tip anyhow.”

  “The guy who did it grabbed some… stuff,” Kurt said, pointing at his own head. “No names.”

  “Took some stuff, you say?”

  A big hazy cloud drifted behind Brookfield. McCoy watched.

  He said, “I’d say it’s about time for some copping, cops.”

  “I’ve seen this once already,” Kurt said.

  “I’m certain you were very thorough, detective.”

  “So dead men don’t talk to me. Big deal. Anybody with a pulse --

  I make 'em talk fine.”

  Kurt chuckled again. McCoy winced.

  “I’ll start the boys asking around. Maybe somebody saw something.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Excerpt from summons and accompanying paperwork for the Mass Intelligence Jurist System:

  SUMMONS FOR THE MASS INTELLIGENCE JURIST SYSTEM

  YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONNED FOR PARTICIPATION IN THE MASS INTELLIGENCE JURIST SYSTEM ON:

  > Monday, April 13, 2XXX at 8:30AM

  You must call 1-800-XXX-XXXX on

  > Friday, April 10 2XXX

  to determine if you are required to participate.

  IMPORTANT INSTRUCTIONS

  1. Read and familiarize yourself with the contents of SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET A, SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET B, SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET C, SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET D, and SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET E.

  2. You MUST be mentally and physically prepared to participate in the Mass Intelligence Jurist System. Get sufficient
sleep the night before. Eat a healthy, complete breakfast the morning of. Prepare food for the remainder of the day in advance. Eat and use the restroom only during designated break periods.

  3. You MUST be logged in to mij.gov and ready to participate by the time indicated above. It is recommended that you log in a minimum of fifteen minutes before your scheduled time.

  4. DO NOT allow any other person to participate in your name. Those who do so will face criminal prosecution.

  5. DO NOT reveal the date of your participation in the Mass Intelligence Jurist System to any other person.

  6. DO NOT reveal the content or subject of any judgment put forth by the Mass Intelligence Jurist System to any other person.

  7. Please take your part in the Mass Intelligence Jurist System seriously. The judgments, rulings, actions and other behaviors of the Mass Intelligence Jurist System are supported by federal and state law. All such actions are legally binding and unlimited in scope except as defined in SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION SHEET C.

  …

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 14th, 11:07 am

  Detective McCoy knelt. He folded over the white sheet and let himself see victim number one.

  “How long do the boys figure they’ve been out here?”

  “Last night,” Frank said.

  “Some day, yesterday. Kids out the front, teachers and Jurists on the side. An entire cop army right exactly here, too late for the massacre and early for the double murder.”

  McCoy stared up at the brick school building.

  “Victim one fell facedown, most likely pushed from behind.”

  “No argument,” said Frank.

  “No sign of a struggle, meaning surprise. Or, victim one didn’t mind turning her back to the shover.

  “Hm. Victim has trace amounts of a white residue, dust of some kind, on her right hand. Substance is concentrated above the digital palmar, on the thumb side of the long finger middle phalanx, on distal phalanxes of index finger and thumb, and on index finger proximal phalanx, again on the thumb side. I sure talk nice, huh Ravell?”

  McCoy’s eyes searched neck, arms, and legs.

  “She doesn’t seem to have a scratch. A literal scratch, I mean. Massively massive contusions, just nothing outside what you’d expect to see from the fall.”

  McCoy slid his hands in and out of victim one’s pockets. He found the usual stuff and one aluminum bottle.

  “Dented, from the fall I assume, but not broken. I’d still use it. Three fourths full,” McCoy said, unscrewing and smelling, “of water. And so far as I can tell, there is nothing else of note.”

  “I’m with you,” said Frank.

  “So, we move on to the main attraction.”

  Detective McCoy reblanketed Mrs. Wilson. He shuffled over and inched the thin covering from victim number two. McCoy kept the face covered. The twice dead body’s pale skin shone, blurring black-blue veins underneath. From just below the right ear to the base of the neck stretched seven letters of tattoo.

  "Wendell."

  Likely, the first life had ended more tragically than usual. Relatives, friends of such a person had proven more willing, better at remembering last wishes. Some read wishes between wishes. That the dearly might live after life and make up for the living they lost. Or so McCoy had been told.

  The second life, touched by revolving thousands, shouted back against the tragedy. And after the life had done all the shouting it could, it was retired with no small ceremony. Or so McCoy had been told.

  But not this time.

  “I don’t suppose,” said McCoy, “you have any, any idea at all what victim two is supposed to look like? Because I have no clues.”

  “Never this close to one.”

  “No personal belongings, but I guess that makes sense. Anyway, they’d be mass belongings huh? Face down, pre-cisely like the first victim. No signs of struggle here either. Hm. His pant legs are wet, damp more like it. Socks and shoes too. Wet. With wet, wet water.”

  “On the roof,” Frank said, “Leak. Want my theory now or later?”

  “Leak, you say? Just a minute more, and you can give it to me up top.”

  McCoy bent low. He pressed the sheet against victim number two’s brow and peeled back the thin canvas just enough. McCoy inspected Wendell’s Third Eye. The lens remained unshattered, but brains had been pulled out -- memory and transmitter. Carefully, McCoy shrouded the Jurist.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Excerpt from an informational pamphlet:

  Jurist Body Donation Program

  The decision to donate your body to the Jurist Program upon your passage from this life represents a priceless contribution to society. Truly the gift that keeps on giving, your donation will help friends and neighbors long after you are gone.

  What happens when I pass away?

  Once you register to become a donor to the Jurist Body Donation Program, we will keep your name and contact information on file. When you pass away, a family member or other caregiver must contact us immediately, within twelve hours. We are prepared to receive call twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. Upon receiving your call, we will arrange transport of your body to the nearest Transformation Center.

  Once your body’s time as a Jurist is over, the Jurist Body Donation Program will arrange for a funeral to your specifications. No expense spared. Often, people who contributed to your second life, as part of the Mass Intelligence, will wish to pay their respects. It is not uncommon for ten thousand guests or more to attend such a service.

  What happens at the transformation center?

  At the transformation center, your body is prepared for its new life as a Jurist.

  The Third Eye, a small camera system that records and sends video to the day’s Mass Intelligence, is installed on the forehead of every Jurist.

  The Eye works using the most advanced and sensitive digital video camera available today, in concert with two small, disk-shaped modules for video transmission and recording. The first module transmits the Third Eye’s video feed via a special wireless channel. The second records and stores the video. It also holds the only record of participants’ identities.

  In addition to the Third Eye, a series of input translators are installed at the major joints and muscle groups of every Jurist. These translators enable the Mass Intelligence Jurist to walk, talk, move, and accomplish whatever other task participants might require.

  Other supplements are added as required.

  Frequently Asked Questions

  Why doesn’t a Jurist move and talk like a regular person?

  The human body is an amazing and complex machine. We could never hope to perfectly duplicate its many functions. Instead, a Jurist’s input translators combine the decisions of the Mass Intelligence into a unified, streamlined, and functional behavioral output.

  True, a Jurist does not act like a regular person. But remember, a Jurist is not a regular person. Jurists are a very special something else altogether.

  …

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 14th, 12:43 pm

  Wanting to forget the main entrance, McCoy and Frank entered through a happy side door. They climbed the stairs skyward to Brookfield School’s roof.

  Countless puddles of water sat stagnating across the rooftop. Beth and Wendell’s last standing place was flooded especially, along with that whole edge of the roof. In one of the especially-flooded corners stood an old water tower. Like the school, it was preserved historic. From the other especially-flooded corner emerged stairs, Frank, and McCoy.

  Frank hopped left to miss the edge-lake. He didn’t succeed. Frank dodged puddles to the tower and placed his hand on a shut off wheel, set just above an unpiped and uncapped three-way joint.

  “Killer opened this valve. Waited behind the tower for someone to come up, check on the leak. They walk up. Killer comes around back and pushes them off.”

  “Hm. Not one of your brighter ideas, Detective Ravell. A few too many leftovers for my taste. Mind
leaving me up here to think for a bit? By myself, you understand.”

  “Fine. Radio me.”

  McCoy forced himself to walk, from the stair-well to the water-tower. His feet wetter with each step, McCoy studied the tower. It was big enough to hide a killer, sure.

  For a not-even-split-second, he glanced right. Bill didn’t realize until he almost ran into the water tower. He was staring at the bodies.

  McCoy shook his eyes away. He gripped the shutoff and wheeled it. The thing turned pretty easy, loose enough for about anybody to work. A woman, kid, or senior would need elbow grease. But they could do it. The wheel stopped, locked into on position. McCoy’s momentum bent him over.

  Bill noticed, my pants are wet. Then Bill noticed, I am staring again. Down at the con-crete and down at victim one and victim two who had also been known as Beth Wilson and Wendell.

  A crack in the pipe-joint danced a spurting spray down and up Bill’s leg. It trickled, then dripped as he unspun the wheel. Bill found a dry spot beside the water tower and sat, facing away. He breathed and the cold metal rivets pressed tight and loose against his back. Bill counted clouds.

  Six minutes passed, and Bill radioed Frank and Kurt.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  April 14th, 1:24 pm

  “Kurt, Frank. It’s all figured, I suppose.”

  “Skip the theatrics and get on with it already smart guy,” said Kurt.

  “What happened here, it wasn’t a double murder. It was a double suicide.”

  “Are you kidding me,” said Kurt. “A Jurist kill itself? And I. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”

  “Beth Wilson’s shoes weren’t wet. Socks either. They were dry, unlike Wendell’s. His socks and shoes are still wet now, a day later. So, the water couldn’t have been on when Beth came up to the roof. And anyone turning on the water would’ve seen her body. Trust me, I tried it.

  “We found, on certain parts of Beth’s hand, a thin layer of white dust. Chemical analysis, I’m certain, will identify that substance as chalk dust. Beth Wilson wrote a suicide note, in chalk. Someone washed it away with water from the water tower, someone who didn’t like Beth’s last words.

  “It isn’t hard to figure out why Wendell came to Brookfield yesterday. The place was a disaster zone, with more than enough blame to go around. Given the circumstances, it’s obvious Beth Wilson was someone Wendell found responsible. And whatever punishment Wendell picked for Beth, it was more than she could stand. The Jurist, all four thousand of him, followed Beth up to the roof. Wendell saw Beth’s body, and saw what Beth had to say about all of them. I don’t know what Beth wrote. Just ‘WENDELL’ seems like a good bet. If not, some other words blaming Wendell for her suicide.