“Good.”
“That mercenary zombie unit was amazing to watch. Our crew won’t get caught with our pants down again – you have my word on that.”
Silence on the line.
“We’ve learned our lesson, Chief. We won’t be keeping all of our product in one place anymore.”
The mysterious voice speaks. “Finally something is going our way.”
Chapter Five – Doubt
Dana and I meet Phil at the hospital rather than heading in to the office first. We both heard about the early attack on the narcotics unit – and a gag order – through email.
Cops are everywhere. A few of them notice Dana’s tattoo and sneer. I recognize several of the guys here and say hello. Dana knows a couple as well.
“Anyone know where Phil is?” I ask the group.
“He’s down the hall, in room 206.”
We weave through the cops and family. Some of the narcotics cops are leaving, after being given a clean bill of health.
“Hey Phil – why didn’t you call me when you were moving the drugs?”
Phil is up and awake. He has an IV in his arm and equipment monitoring his health. Seeing Phil like this brings back memories of Steve. I still miss him, the big lug.
“Morning Rob, Dana. We limited communicating our plans to those with a need to know Rob – you know the drill.”
I pull up beside him and put a hand on his arm. “How are you doing anyway?”
“Oh, I’m pretty much ready to leave. They keep testing my blood to see if the tranquilizers are out of my system. I got a double shot, and the doctors were a little worried before, but they say I’m on the road to recovery now.”
“Tranquilizers?” I’m surprised. This isn’t like any criminal drug operation I’ve heard of.
“Yeah, the bad guys were using gas grenades, tranquilizer guns, and riot control shotguns. It was unreal how co-ordinated they were. They incapacitated all of us within five minutes or less, and no cop casualties. I got drugged pretty badly, and some of the guys took a beating in the face and ribs, but the rest went down without much damage. What kind of a criminal cares about cops?”
A criminal that is a cop, I think to myself, recalling the incriminating evidence plus the fact that only a few cops would have known the drug transfer details.
Phil continues, “they got everything Rob, the entire van. We had put away some of the drugs earlier – but the van had most of what we found.”
“Tell us more about these bad guys,” I inquire.
“Four military vehicles, incredibly organized. Three of the vehicles they use to separate the van from our backup. Another vehicle comes from the side carrying guys with grenade launchers and knock-out gas.
“Oh, before I forget – I grabbed a couple of snaps with my phone. Let me mail them to you.” He pulled out his phone and used it for a while.
Dana and I spend a moment looking at the images. Phil is in the van’s passenger seat, from which we can see a vehicle in front and a vehicle on the side. He also has a photo of two guys running, carrying grenade launchers.
Dana speaks up next, “are you sure this is a military vehicle, Phil?” The image is a little fuzzy, and only shows the front side of the vehicle. It could be just a Hummer.
“Yeah, pretty sure. It was all tricked out with armor plating. Didn’t look like any family car I’ve ever seen.”
“No plates though,” I comment.
“Sorry about that. It all happened so fast. They even knew how to take care of our bulletproof glass protecting the cab. They froze it with nitrogen.”
“Wow – that’s extreme, but effective,” I’m quietly impressed. “Do you know anything about the perps?”
“I’m thinking they were military trained Rob. Our radios went out just before we were hit. They gassed and tranquilized all of our support. They gassed us in the van.
“Oh, and I shot one of them, in the side I think. Didn’t phase him. I think he was a zombie, Rob. I think they might have all been zombies.”
“Are you sure?” Dana asks.
“No, not one hundred percent. Call it a hunch. But I’m pretty sure at least one of them was a zombie. Shot him and he didn’t go down, or even flinch. I’ve never heard of a military zombie unit though. I thought the military didn’t trust zombies yet.”
After some more discussion, the nurse comes in and asks us to let Phil rest.
As we say our goodbyes and are on the way out, Phil asks one more question.
“Are you on this Rob?”
“We’re on it Phil. Dana and I will do everything we can to find these characters and bring them in.”
* * *
A familiar looking man in a nice suit walked down the hall of the main social services building in downtown Seattle. He walked to a small office titled “Shelter and Housing”.
Ted mustered up his best fatherly smile and entered, walking up to the young woman working the front desk.
“Hi. I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for my son.” He smiled, with a touch of sadness.
“What is your son’s name?” she replied.
“He’s Sean O’Malley,” Ted replied. “But I suspect you don’t have his name.” He paused and emotionally choked a little. “He’s one of those zombies that was staying with the church. I really need to go see him.”
“We can help you Mr. O’Malley. I’ll just need you to complete this release of information form for me, and provide some ID.”
He completed the form, while she took a photocopy of his fake ID, with a photo that looked a little bit like him, but wasn’t him.
She printed out some information and handed it to him.
“Ok, here you go Mr. O’Malley. This has got the name and address of the group home your son is staying with.”
“Thank you very much dear,” Ted spoke softly. “It will be good to see him again.”
* * *
On the way out of the hospital, I ask Dana to walk with me to a nearby park. “I have something to show you, but not with so many police around.”
We sit down at a bench under a tree, and I start to show her the mysterious evidence I had received. It takes several minutes for her to get through it all. The evidence links the Chief of Police to a company connected with the original harbor bust I had been investigating at the warehouse. Not the big drug shipment afterwards though.
“Wow. This sure paints a picture,” Dana takes a deep breath and continues, “but I’m not sure how much of this we can use.”
“I agree. We can’t get anyone with the police to follow these leads, or do background research for us,” I share.
“Plus, most of this isn’t sufficient as evidence. These photocopies could have been photoshopped or doctored. We need to see originals,” Dana continues, “where did you get these?”
“They were dropped off at my home.”
“Also suspicious,” Dana comments. “These might give us some ideas for our investigation, but we can’t use any of it more directly than that. We can’t show this to anyone else in the department without real supporting evidence or it will get us in more trouble.”
“Yes, you’re right.” I put the documents and photos away. “Ok, what are our next steps?”
“I’d like to get back to investigating that church,” Dana’s words were direct, and without emotion.
“Sounds good, let’s go.”
Dana had put in for a covert entry search warrant, also known as a sneak and peek, after our spectacle at the church yesterday. I’d like to poke around more without Peter knowing about it.
Dana and I take our separate vehicles to watch the front and back at the same time. Dana suspects that Peter is inside after seeing some movement through an upstairs window. This is confirmed about 90 minutes later when he leaves via the front door for lunch.
“He’s locked the front entrance,” Dana explains over the radio. “You could force it, but there might be witnesses – and he’ll know someone was here.
”
“That’s alright. I can see a fire escape here in the back alley. I’ll check it out first.”
“Sounds good. I’ll keep an eye on the pastor and let you know when he returns. Keep your head down; he might not be the only one with the keys. Locking the door was a good sign that is it empty now though.”
Dana follows Peter from an extreme distance, using her enhanced eye-sight.
I exit the vehicle, walk down the alley, and jump up for the stairway. After a second try, I catch it and it rolls down under my weight. I ascend the stairs, and then hold the stairway to keep it quiet as it rises back up.
There is a fire door on the second floor. It is locked, but there is a window next to it that has been left ajar. I swing it open fully, and count my blessings that there is enough room for me to fit through.
I glance around the alley, checking for witnesses. I should have let Dana do this, I say under my breath as I kneel and squeeze through the opening. I tumble inside ungracefully, and then stand up quietly, listening.
The pastor’s office is upstairs. With my gloves on, I rummage through some papers on the desk and odds and ends. I take a few photos with my phone.
The desk has a drawer, but it contains very few items – just some documentation about the building owner and real estate purchase information. I snap a photo.
There’s a locked room or closet upstairs, that won’t open easily. I figure I’ll come back to it later, if I have time.
There’s not much more to the upstairs – several empty, unused rooms. Some are larger than others – but still empty. Although they are clean, many of them require work on the walls, floors, and electrical.
I head downstairs. I’m quite familiar with the basement already, thank you; I go to check the main level next.
I enter the ceremony hall and look around. The pews don’t have anything inside – no traditional bibles for example – and the pulpit is empty except for some hand-written sermon notes. The stage is similarly uninteresting.
But behind the stage and curtain, there is a door. The door is lockable, but unlocked. I open it slowly and make my way inside.
It is a small room, with two adjustable beds and two IV setups. There is another double-cross Z on the wall, with two candles on either side. They are unlit.
They look similar to hospital beds, but are covered in black sheets and fluffy dark red comforters. The sheets feel silky to the touch. I wonder if they are a 600 thread count.
The IVs are empty, as are the small tables next to each bed. There’s a cabinet nearby however, and it is loaded with evidence.
I snap photos of the IV drip bags and other medical equipment. This is a gold mine. One of the drawers contains, you guessed it, potassium chloride. Not in big gallon containers like we confiscated, but rather a half-dozen 40 ml glass bottles.
There are a couple of these bottles in the trash. I desperately want to take them as evidence for fingerprints. Instead, I’m snapping photos – a sneak and peek doesn’t allow you to confiscate evidence.
Dana calls me on the phone. “Ok Rob, he’s on his way back. You’ve got maybe 5 minutes.”
“Shit. There’s one more room I want to get in to,” I scramble to put things back in place the way I found them.
“We’ll have to come back another time Rob. You’ve got to go. I recommend you leave out the back alley, the way you came in.”
“Alright, I’m on my way out.”
I make my way upstairs. The metal fire door exit is locked from the outside, but it can be pushed open from the inside. I don’t see any emergency alarm warnings – I push it open.
I take the stairs down part way, then hang drop the remainder of the way instead of noisily using the rolling metal stairs.
I call Dana on my cell phone. “Dana, let’s meet at the DA’s office. I think we’ve found some compelling evidence to nail this bastard – we’ll need their advice.”
“On my way,” she replies, and we both hang up.
* * *
Jill Simpson is an assistant DA. We’ve worked together before on zombie investigations – her legal specialty. Dana and I arrive within five minutes of each other. I had called ahead, and we’ve both brought Jill up to speed in person.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Jill summarizes. “You believe the Church of Progressive Faith is creating zombies by using potassium chloride to stop people’s heart.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Are they doing this against people’s will?”
“What do you mean?” I understand the question, but not why she is asking it.
“An injection of potassium chloride is a medical procedure, any doctor can do it.” She continues. “There’s nothing illegal about performing this as a medical procedure, if the patient agrees to it.”
“Yeah, but it’s killing them.”
“No, it isn’t killing them. You said it yourself, it is turning them. Zombies are still defined as living persons, even if their reduced mental capacity has been used to limit certain career options. Stopping someone’s heart temporarily isn’t the same as killing them. As long as their heart beats again – there’s no crime here.”
“But they are making zombies!”
“Becoming a zombie isn’t a crime. And helping an infected person turn isn’t seen as a crime either, as long as the infected approves of the procedure in advance.”
“What about brain damage – isn’t it criminal to knowingly do this to people?” I’m desperate to find a crime here.
“Every time you drink alcohol – and I know you drink Rob – you are knowingly damaging your brain. Every medical drug we take has known side-effects, some worse than others. Any time you are treated by a doctor or hospital you sign forms indicating that you are aware of the medical risks. The whole medical profession is based on delivering patients benefits that outweigh the risks.
“The medical industry is already familiar with the benefits of becoming infected. I know a few doctors that have started to enumerate the health benefits of becoming a zombie. Some are even suggesting that the loss of emotions a zombie may go through when turning can be beneficial for the depressed and mentally unstable. I don’t think we can build a credible case this way.”
Dana interjects, “wait a minute, what about all of the original zombies we found?”
I was enthusiastic. “That’s right! The church had about a dozen original zombies they were keeping. What about them?”
“If you could show that these original zombies were knowingly created into original zombies or that a large percentage of people turned became original zombies – say 20% or more – then we might be able to make a case from that. But you said earlier that the parson claims the originals were brought to the church. You’d need to show that when they first came to the church they were fully human.”
She takes a different line of questioning. “How about Z. Did you find any Z-virus?”
“No.”
“Okay, here’s what you need to do if you want to make zombie turning a successful criminal investigation. You need to find someone storing or selling Z-virus outside of the body, find someone injecting KCI that isn’t a certified medical professional, find evidence they have turned too many originals, or determine that people are being turned against their will.”
She pauses thoughtfully and adds, “You mentioned some of the new zombies were young. Were any of them under 18? Okay, that would be hard to tell. If they are under 18, they need a parent or guardian’s approval for a medical procedure like this. I doubt any parent would approve of something like this.
“If you can find a young child that’s been turned, we can likely make a case against them.”
“Okay, thanks for your help Jill. I’m not happy we don’t have enough evidence yet, but now we know where to look next.”
Dana and I leave to discuss our recent lessons and next steps. I suggest a diner nearby. It is late, and I’m starving from skipping lunch to sneak ar
ound the church, collecting what it turns out was useless evidence. I don’t have my own collection of zombie granola bars.
* * *
Later that evening, I decide to visit my club and check in with a few friends for advice. It’s not that far from my place – I decide to walk. The evening is cool and cloudy, with none of our famous Seattle drizzle.
I walk down Cedar Street and into Chuck’s Bar. Chuck and I have an agreement in place for how we split earnings. Plus, he sells the booze on both sides of the building.
“Hi Chuck!” I wander up to the bar. “How are things?”
“Doin’ fine.”
Chuck is an ex-surfer who runs this bar after he messed up his leg. He is always super relaxed, though I’ve never seen him use any drugs, or even drink. This is partially why I trust him as a business partner.
“Rob, you hear about the big drug hit? Some of the guys have been talking about it.”
We have a few ex-cops as patrons. They would have definitely heard something, although it’s been successfully kept from the press so far.
“Yeah – I did. Phil was there. It looks like he’s going to be ok.”
“Geez – that’s rough,” Chuck empathizes.
“Give me a Pike’s on tap. I’m going to head around back.”
“Sure thing Rob, here you go.”
I sip my beer and wander back beyond the restrooms, around a corner, and close to the back door entrance. This area isn’t visible from the bar area. Still inside the building, my two guys are here as usual. One zombie and one human.
“Hey Rob – good to see you. What’s the word?”
Even though I own the place in back, we have a security protocol we follow, so I can tell them if I’m being followed or investigated.
It’s Thursday. “I’m just out to have a beer and enjoy myself.”
The door unlocks. A third security person is inside the building, monitoring our conversation on camera. I go in.
This is my private gambling hall. We have high stakes card games, poker usually, plus betting on horse racing and other sporting events. A few large TVs are distributed around the room showing different games. Several computer screens show the odds of active and upcoming events.
We cater to the elite middle class – people with money to burn. Everyone here was specifically invited to be here – by a small private group of my most trusted patrons. I’m a big gambler myself.