Ash and smoke fade away

Author: Hog
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-09-01
Features: "Save me!" A hoarse voice burst from her throat. "Save me!" She couldn't breathe, tears blurring her vision. Her legs were finally bent under the heavy body, while her heavy fear and heavy heart felt like a huge stone blocking her chest. The police arrived immediately, putting his weapon in the gun holster, and knelt down to help her. She must be a rookie, she dimly thought. She knew some kids, and they were only 14, yet they already had more experienced street-smarts. She could easily take his weapon if she had a knife. If she had a knife, she could stand up and stab him. He helped her sit up, placing his hands on both sides of her shoulders. The siren wailed far away. "What happened? Are you okay?" he asked. He had an angelic face. "I saw him," she said, trembling all over, bile rising in her throat. "I was there. Oh, God. Oh, damn it. I saw him!" "Who did you see?" "The." Those distant events, that brief marriage, felt more like a nightmare only she remembered rather than a memory. Bringing up the past was like stepping on a pile of ashes, stirring up fragments of past emotions inside him—the cold sense of failure, defeat, and regret that had long since cooled. Those emotions would always intensify whenever he thought of Kate. "No one gets away with it," Kovak said, "That's our job." He offered a cigarette, but Quinn refused. "God, I need to get that smell out of my mouth," Kovak took a deep breath, filling his lungs with tar and nicotine, absorbing as much as possible before exhaling. The smoke curled on his tongue until it blended with the light fog outside. "So, do you think the one inside is Julian Bondurant?" "Possible, but I also think it might not be her. That 'unknown object' put a lot of effort into preventing us from getting fingerprints." "But he left Bondurant's driver's license at the scene. Maybe he caught Bondurant, found out who she was, and decided to leave her to extort a ransom." Kovak guessed. "Meanwhile, he caught another woman, killed her, and left Bondurant's driver's license with the body, implying that if Dad didn't cooperate, it would lead to a certain outcome." Kovak narrowed his eyes, as if playing with this reasoning again. "We haven't heard anyone demanding a ransom yet, and she disappeared on Friday. But maybe you don't think so." "I've never seen anyone do it like that," Quinn said. "As a rule, when facing such killers, the only thing in their minds is to fulfill their fantasy. It's usually not about money." Quinn leaned slightly toward Kovak, clearly understanding that this was the person he needed to collaborate with to win. Kovak was the investigator. His knowledge of such cases, this city, and the type of criminals who lived in its upper echelons was invaluable. The problem was, Quinn felt he no longer had the energy to maintain his usual "I'm just as much a cop as you" arrogance. Instead, he began to accept a certain reality. "The focus is on this being an active tool, using passive knowledge from past experiences. It's not a perfect science. Every case might bring something we've never seen before." "But I hear you're very good at it," the detective admitted. "You caught the Colorado child killer effortlessly." Quinn shrugged. "Sometimes things just happen like that. How long before you can get Bondurant's medical records and start comparing them to the body?" Kovak blinked. "I should change my name to Murphy. Murphy's Law: Nothing is ever easy. You know, most of her medical records are in France." His tone made France sound like a vague star in a distant galaxy. Her mother divorced Peter Bondurant eleven years ago and married a guy who ran an international construction company. They lived in France. The mother passed away, and the stepfather is still there. Julian returned two years ago. She went to that, um, University of Minnesota." "The bureau can help get those records through our judicial affairs office at the embassy in Paris." "I know. Walsh is already working on it. We'll also try to reach out to anyone close to Julian. See if she has moles, scars, birthmarks, or tattoos. We'll get some photos. But we haven't found any close friends yet. No one's heard she has a boyfriend. I guess she's not the type of woman who enjoys socializing." "What about her father?" "He's about to lose it, can't talk to us." Kovak smirked. "'About to lose it'—that's what his lawyer said. If I knew someone hurt my kid, I'd lose it too, okay. I'd push every cop to work hard. I'd stick around, do everything I can to catch that bastard!" He raised an eyebrow at Quinn. "Wouldn't you?" "I'd turn the world upside down, make a scene." Day turned into evening, then night. Quinn's only indicator was his watch, and he rarely glanced at it. The office they assigned him had no windows, just walls. He spent the whole day buried in notes, occasionally picking up the phone, holding the receiver between his ear and shoulder, learning about the case in Blacksburg. The suspect seemed to be on the verge of confessing. He should have been there. His desire to control the situation reinforced a deceptive illusion, making him think he could prevent any mistakes, even though he knew that wasn't true. In the office the task force privately called the "Death's Kiss," Kovak had reserved a spot for him. But he refused. He wanted to be separated from others, needed isolation. The thought of having to deal with a dozen cops like tossing salad, endlessly throwing out theories and suspect names, drove him crazy. He already felt influenced by their thoughts. Now, the news that John Quinn had been transferred to investigate the "" case had spread. Kovak reported this bad news to him after the briefing. Within hours, he would have to face the media's questions. Damn it, he wanted more time. Now he only had a few hours left. He should have been focused on the case, completely immersed, but he couldn't. He felt exhausted. His stomach ached. He was hungry. He knew he needed to replenish his energy to keep his mind working, but he really didn't want to waste time going out to eat. There was so much information to process, and he had drunk too much coffee. The caffeine was buzzing in his head, making him restless. And deep inside, another familiar restlessness surfaced—the urgent, emotion he always felt when handling a case at the scene, this time compounded by the chaotic environment and fragmented memories that disrupted his thoughts. There was also the increasingly persistent feeling that had been haunting him lately—fear. The fear that he couldn't quickly break the case. The fear that his mind might break. The fear that the overwhelming exhaustion might suddenly engulf him. The fear of realizing that what he truly wanted was to escape it all. He felt he had to move to shake off these emotions, so he started pacing in front of the wall covered in sticky notes with information about the victims of the "." All the notes were written in different colored pens, in block letters, slanted to the right. A handwriting that surprised pen manufacturers and made them want to keep their distance. Above the notes were the photos of the three victims. On the desk was an open three-ring binder filled with neatly printed reports, maps, crime scene layouts, crime scene photos, and autopsies—his portable encyclopedia for studying the case. Still, he felt some basic information should be arranged in a more visual way, so he had the notes and the three smiling women's photos on the wall—women who had disappeared from the world, their lives extinguished like candles, their dignity brutally stripped away.