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Authors: J. A. Kerley
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from the lot. She was turning toward the building when her eyes fell across a familiar face in an automobile near the front of the lot. The face suddenly looked embarrassed and sank two inches, as if trying to hide below the dashboard.
Szekely waved and walked close. “Goodness, Ema, what are you doing here?”
“I, uh, was out driving and—”
“Needed to see me about something?”
The woman’s fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the wheel. She started to speak, swallowed.
Szekely frowned. “Is anything wrong, Ema?”
“No … I mean, I uh … guess I just need some reassurance.” A sigh and a self-deprecating smile. “Like always, Doctor.”
Szekely grinned and nodded toward the offices. “I’ve got a group session at one, Ema. I’m yours until then. How about we grab some coffee and have a nice girl-to-girl chat? That should make things better.”
13
Night had fallen. Gregory sat in his living room surrounded by pages he’d gathered from Google, copies of everything available on Chief Baggs, mostly mentions in newspaper articles. The data focused on Baggs the cop, which was fine, but Gregory wanted more: what centered the entity known as Carleton T. Baggs? Where did he live? How did he live? What patterns could be discerned in his life?
If it’s seven fifteen on a Tuesday evening in summer
, Gregory thought, making notes as he went,
where, statistically, would I expect to find Carleton T. Baggs?
When he’d pulled all the newspaper data on Baggs, Gregory frowned at the paucity of his file and considered where other information might be found. On a whim he tried YouTube, entering
Baggs, Chief, Mobile, Alabama, Police
.
Nothing.
But there was a hit on
Mobile Alabama Police
, one titled
Det. Carson Ryder Lauded for Bravery
. It had been logged into the system a couple days before by someone named Janet Wing. Gregory expanded the screen and hit Play.
He leaned back in his chair as the camera panned ranks of cops in a large room, some in uniform, others in street clothes, slack-jawed droolers getting taxpayer money to sit on their asses. The camera zoomed in on a slender, suited man standing from a front seat as someone called his name,
Detective Carson Ryder.
Ryder seemed about six feet tall, dark hair falling over his ears.
Gregory whispered “troglodyte” as Ryder approached the podium, his suit looking like it had cost fifty bucks with tie and shoes thrown in. The haircut was a ten-minute, ten-dollar job by a barber named Mort or Ralph. The knot of the Ryder-ape’s tie would have been more at home on a bowline.
But when the man forswore the step-stairs to the stage and took the half-meter jump as a natural extension of his stride,
troglodyte
suddenly didn’t fit. The man moved with a fluidity Gregory had noted in athletes, though nothing about him seemed particularly athletic save for shoulders a bit wider than the norm.
The man stepped into white light beside a podium. The camera panned left and Gregory’s breath froze in his throat. Baggs was the voice who had summoned Ryder to the podium. They touched palms in an imitation handshake and Baggs handed Ryder a framed certificate.
Gregory froze the video and studied his adversary, Baggs, a large man with veiled eyes and mottled skin, attempting to hide encroaching baldness with a comb-over, which merely served to highlight the condition. He looked stupid, which Gregory had expected, needing only a line of drool down his chin to complete the picture.
This is my quarry
, Gregory thought as his heart increased its rhythm, burning the image in his brain.
This man is dead.
Gregory re-started the video, hoping for additional footage of Baggs.
But he found something more interesting. When the Ryder-cop took the certificate, the camera image widened to show an audience leaping to their feet with hands pounding. Ryder studied the crowd, then commenced what seemed to be a ritualized step-pattern, holding the award aloft.
Was Ryder dancing?
His
Szekely waved and walked close. “Goodness, Ema, what are you doing here?”
“I, uh, was out driving and—”
“Needed to see me about something?”
The woman’s fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the wheel. She started to speak, swallowed.
Szekely frowned. “Is anything wrong, Ema?”
“No … I mean, I uh … guess I just need some reassurance.” A sigh and a self-deprecating smile. “Like always, Doctor.”
Szekely grinned and nodded toward the offices. “I’ve got a group session at one, Ema. I’m yours until then. How about we grab some coffee and have a nice girl-to-girl chat? That should make things better.”
13
Night had fallen. Gregory sat in his living room surrounded by pages he’d gathered from Google, copies of everything available on Chief Baggs, mostly mentions in newspaper articles. The data focused on Baggs the cop, which was fine, but Gregory wanted more: what centered the entity known as Carleton T. Baggs? Where did he live? How did he live? What patterns could be discerned in his life?
If it’s seven fifteen on a Tuesday evening in summer
, Gregory thought, making notes as he went,
where, statistically, would I expect to find Carleton T. Baggs?
When he’d pulled all the newspaper data on Baggs, Gregory frowned at the paucity of his file and considered where other information might be found. On a whim he tried YouTube, entering
Baggs, Chief, Mobile, Alabama, Police
.
Nothing.
But there was a hit on
Mobile Alabama Police
, one titled
Det. Carson Ryder Lauded for Bravery
. It had been logged into the system a couple days before by someone named Janet Wing. Gregory expanded the screen and hit Play.
He leaned back in his chair as the camera panned ranks of cops in a large room, some in uniform, others in street clothes, slack-jawed droolers getting taxpayer money to sit on their asses. The camera zoomed in on a slender, suited man standing from a front seat as someone called his name,
Detective Carson Ryder.
Ryder seemed about six feet tall, dark hair falling over his ears.
Gregory whispered “troglodyte” as Ryder approached the podium, his suit looking like it had cost fifty bucks with tie and shoes thrown in. The haircut was a ten-minute, ten-dollar job by a barber named Mort or Ralph. The knot of the Ryder-ape’s tie would have been more at home on a bowline.
But when the man forswore the step-stairs to the stage and took the half-meter jump as a natural extension of his stride,
troglodyte
suddenly didn’t fit. The man moved with a fluidity Gregory had noted in athletes, though nothing about him seemed particularly athletic save for shoulders a bit wider than the norm.
The man stepped into white light beside a podium. The camera panned left and Gregory’s breath froze in his throat. Baggs was the voice who had summoned Ryder to the podium. They touched palms in an imitation handshake and Baggs handed Ryder a framed certificate.
Gregory froze the video and studied his adversary, Baggs, a large man with veiled eyes and mottled skin, attempting to hide encroaching baldness with a comb-over, which merely served to highlight the condition. He looked stupid, which Gregory had expected, needing only a line of drool down his chin to complete the picture.
This is my quarry
, Gregory thought as his heart increased its rhythm, burning the image in his brain.
This man is dead.
Gregory re-started the video, hoping for additional footage of Baggs.
But he found something more interesting. When the Ryder-cop took the certificate, the camera image widened to show an audience leaping to their feet with hands pounding. Ryder studied the crowd, then commenced what seemed to be a ritualized step-pattern, holding the award aloft.
Was Ryder dancing?
His
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