Burning Questions

by Kevin Tipple

“So, what do you think, Marcus?”

Detective Marcus Freeman shot his cuffs for the fourth time in five minutes and fellow Detective Steve Washburn knew it was just a matter of time before he could make another mark on his pad. So far, in the last hour Freeman had shot his cuffs 19 times. Some might see such activities as a reflection that the clothes did not fit the man. Steve knew that it was just another sign of Freeman's nauseating vanity. Unlike the Vampire legend, Freeman was able to check his image in every reflective surface.

“It's a slam dunk,” Freeman said confidently.

Steve didn't think much of the comment or his complex analysis of the case. Actually, Steve didn't think much of Marcus Freeman at all and just barely tolerated the sycophant. But, with the new Division Commander sitting there grading everything as his beady little eyes watched them both above his hawkish nose, Steve had to ask. Playing politics wasn't his thing and Steve hated every second of it. Freeman should have been in sales because all he cared about was his personal image and what he could do by hook or crook to get ahead.

Detectives were supposed to speak for the dead and Detective Marcus Freeman couldn't be bothered. The dead and their families weren't people to him but just numbers and stats he used to justify his naked ambition. He wasn't a real detective in the true sense of the concept but more like a celluloid Hollywood image of a snappy cop leading some task force. He didn't look the real life part with his expensive clothes, his silver Porsche, and gold Rolex watch. Steve found himself doodling dollar signs in a cross-hair target and stopped himself as he shifted in his uncomfortable institutional chair trying to pay attention. He wanted to, he needed to, be out working cases and instead he was wasting his time in meetings.

“It's a slam dunk. Open and shut case without a doubt and we can take it off the books today in favor of the good guys.” Freeman touched his lapel pin and went on, his confident voice grating on Steve's already raw nerves. “We know he did it and he is going to the injection chamber. Six, seven months if they don't fill the backorder fast enough and he is done.”

“Maybe.”

Steve hadn't realized he had spoken aloud until he looked up in the silence to see both men staring at him.

“Maybe, Detective?”

"Maybe, Commander. I've seen enough cases go wrong that I don't believe in the media myth of slam dunks.”

Freeman rolled his eyes and Steve looked away in irritation. Steve knew he should have not said a word but lately his irritation with all the nonsense and stupidity seemed to be getting worse.

He glanced down and realized he had drawn a small ferret with the Division Commander's face on top it. The face was very visible and remarkably life like despite being much bigger than the animal's body. This sudden urge to doodle had to stop. He quickly turned the pad away and doodled over the top of the drawing trying to hide it. It only seemed to get worse and draw more attention to it as both men flicked their eyes down at the pad and then at each other. Freeman glanced back at Steve, snorted, and then his normal condescending tone got worse as he performed for the Division Commander.

“Sir, we have his DNA from the scene, we have the weapon, we have the ballistics match, we have the body and of course, we have the MindTell™ recording.”

Steve shook his head and Freeman raised his eyebrows in question.

“Assuming the court lets us use the MindTell™. If they don't, all we have is the body, a weapon, and a suspect. The residue test came back inconclusive and of course, after working there for years, his friggin DNA was at the scene.”

Steve looked back and forth between the two men and clearly neither one grasped the scope of the problem. Steve's voice rose slightly as he tried to make the apparently elusive point one more time.

“If you swabbed and scanned the whole building you would find it everywhere. Besides that, we don't know why he did it!”

Steve suddenly realized he was out of his seat and leaning in Freeman's face, his hands pressed flat against the tabletop. He could feel the blood pounding in his head and the room suddenly seemed overly bright and very hot. Both men were staring strangely at him and he resumed his seat. This case was getting to him like no other ever had in his career.

Freeman raised one finger and took on a lecturing tone.

“Paragraph 18, subsection 54, of the Revised Texas Penal Code of 2012 states that when a suspect of a felony crime violation or higher willfully remains mute or is in a catatonic state due to drug use or mental disorder, Law Enforcement may use the MindTell™ to investigate the case. Any evidence collected will be retained for visual playback and may be used in a court of law and has the same weight as a voluntary confession from the suspect.”

Steve glanced up from his pad to see Freeman shoot his cuffs yet again. Another mark went down. They needed to set up an office pool.

“Therefore, we play the recording in front of the jury of five, Commander, and he is done. Another case closed, solved, and off the books, and we all look good.”

The Division Commander nodded and swiveled towards Steve, his eyebrows raised. Steve couldn't remember the Commander's name and he knew he really needed to. But names were yet another thing, along with self-control, that seemed to be slipping from his grasp lately. He had contacted a doctor, paid cash and arranged for the test to be done in the middle of the night with no record. The doctor had showed him his image, or at least claimed it was an image of Steve's brain, and had said everything was fine. Steve wasn't convinced. For a moment, he saw his scan of last week and it seemed to change before him with the normal grooves and shallow places collapsing into giant fissures deep into the brain crust. He felt panic fill him as he watched his brain dissolving away to dust.

Steve shook his head in irritation trying to get some semblance of control back. He knew Freeman knew the Commander's name and had purposely not said it just to tick him off. Just like the fact that he had quoted the code, one that Steve had lectured on before at the Academy, and Steve couldn't remember the specific citation Freeman had just given as being in the code.

Maybe it was, as like most things that were supposed to simplify, it ended up being much longer than the tax code. As part of the revised Texas Penal Code of 2012, the police, courts and for that matter, justice in general was now run as a business with changes at all levels.

Administrators from other areas of government rotated in and out to serve as supervisors and management. The new Division Commander had come over from some branch of the Texas Health Services and was now in his third week of a one-year assignment. Now juries seated five people instead of the traditional twelve and three votes were all that was needed to convict. Trials were completed by both sides within one week with no exceptions. Since DNA evidence was foolproof, it was used as often as possible. DNA stood as conclusive proof and no longer merited long, tiresome explanations in front of juries about its accuracy and other issues. That fact, as well as the MindTell™, had rendered the appeals courts meaningless as the convicted guilty always were truly guilty. Just another reason the Supreme Court had been disbanded. Despite all these changes and many others as the Government tried to protect society from itself, crime still happened at the same rates as before the changes.

“All that is true, Marcus, but we don't know what any of this means,” Steve said while he waved his right hand at the various bags of evidence strewn across the table. “And we don't know the ‘why' and that is important.”

“Maybe to you, Steve,” Freeman said as he collected his paperwork. “We don't need to know your ‘why.' The MindTell™ is enough.”

The Division Commander coughed and cleared his throat. Freeman looked at him, his face a carefully controlled neutral mask. He was better at not showing his emotions like any politician. When you looked at Steve, you knew exactly how he felt about you or the situation.

“I want to see for myself what the MindTell™ pulled out of him.”

Freeman glanced over at Steve who didn't move. It wasn't unprecedented, but it was rather unusual. The device wasn't supposed to be used for voyeuristic pleasure but since the Division Commander was in charge, he did have the right to see it. Did he really have a need? No, not really but Freeman wasn't going to make the political blunder of refusing him.

Bowing to the inevitable Freeman said, “Of course, Sir.”

“Don't worry. I know the risks, Detectives. I did my own required reading before I was assigned here. I accept the responsibility. I know it's still in its raw form and haven't been sanitized for general viewing. But one thing I firmly believe in is being a hands on manager to the last detail. So, let's get on with it and see what you've got.”

Steve sat back and tried not to laugh at the irony. The viewing wasn't going to change anything and since that was primarily the case, Freeman had advocated for the MindTell™ so much, the new guy couldn't resist. They never could.

Detective Freeman reached down the table to the small black nearly featureless console. It resembled one of the more popular game consoles of just a decade ago until all video games were banned under the new Prohibition Acts of 2010. Freeman helped the Commander pull on the playback hood and then reminded him that it was so raw, it would be almost as if he were actually the suspect, Mike Williamson. He would feel and experience everything as if he was in the body of Mike Williamson. The hood tilted forward in what might have been a nod and Freeman pressed the small, green button. There was snapping sound from the unit and the Division Commander's head whipped back against the headrest.

Steve noticed that the Commander's hands quickly balled into fists and he knew the playback was working as advertised. The Commander was about to get much more than he bargained for.

***

“Look, Mike, I really like you but, I'm not ready to promote you,” Phil stated in his reedy New England accent. “There is no doubt that you have the technical expertise Mike, but you have lousy people skills.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Phil has a hand up in his royal command to stop. My silence assured, he adjusted his gold cuff links. Then he had to touch his tie, his gold pocket watch, and his suit coat and on down to his Mount Blanc pen. He sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin as he stared at me like I was an object well beneath him.

“Mike, you know your sense of humor is usually offensive to someone. Maybe it's a Texas thing or something, but half the time you sound like you ought to be out back cutting the grass. I know you don't mean anything by it, but it's a problem.”

Phil rocked forward and leaned on the desk in his best “I'm your buddy” imitation. That was as phony as everything else about the man. He pulled off his glasses and laid them precisely to one side of the immaculate desk. He made a small notation on a pad and looked at me again. Had to be watching those leadership training tapes again. It was all too choreographed and so very fake.

“Besides all that, you are totally unable to motivate people. If you want to lead, you have to dress for success. You seem to have this Neanderthal belief that all you have to do is work hard and achieve results.”

Oh, great. Results don't matter; image was everything. Here we go again. I tried to speak again and Phil shook his head like I was a bad dog. He had been doing that way too much lately and it was becoming very annoying.

“You have to be seen in charge and looking good. Dress conservative like I do, drop the boots, drop the weight and for God's sake, get a real haircut. That down home country image just doesn't play in the real world or this office.”

Phil rocked back in his fancy leather swivel chair and crossed his fingers, his sardonic smile stretching across his perfect leading man type face. I wanted to rip that smile off and start smashing teeth. As I felt my own face growing hot, his perfect smile just got bigger. He had scored and we both knew it.

I had to give the little jerk some credit. Fresh out of college with his MBA, he had been with the company a little more than two years during which he had been promoted four times. Phil was now head of the Dallas Regional Office and all we were to him was a stepping-stone for the continued greater glory of Phil. All he ever did was generate memos that signified nothing. Productivity was the same, morale was down, but he didn't care as long as he looked good. Image, not results.

“Mike, you need to think about your future here. Where do you want to be five years from now, when you're forty or so?”

I was forty now but that little factual detail along with everything else I did escaped his grasp. I tried to think of an answer that would explain that I was forty as well as goals that wouldn't threaten him and then it began.

He slowly swiveled his chair from side to side so that the sun, always strategically placed behind his head, would flash into my eyes every few seconds. Phil moved his desk every week or so to keep the sun where he wanted it. You couldn't do much about it. If you tried to sit in another chair, you were ordered to move. Cloudy days were a blessing.

With the sunlight in my face that felt like it was probing deep into my skull, I was soon blinded and the verbal assault continued on. It wasn't anything new and I wasn't supposed to actually answer. I was supposed to sit there and take it as the disrespectful punk dished it out.

“Don't you have a five year plan?”

“What are you doing to further your education?”

The assault continued and I was powerless in my growing rage. All I could think of was how Phil reminded me of a small dog. Phil seemed to have a lot in common with a toy poodle, both in size and mental abilities. All annoying, yipping bark with no meaning. His grating voice continued on.

“What about your personal growth plan?”

“How about your community action plan?”

The moronic questions continued with the blinding searing light from the setting sun stabbing through my now closed eyes and into my brain. I was more than fed up with his stupid planning questions. I just couldn't take anymore. I felt the tremors start and I knew I had lost all vestiges of control. Months of frustration exploded as I rocketed around the desk, spinning the little S. O. B. around to face me.

“I've earned it! I've spent years busting my butt with sixty hour weeks and it's mine!” I screamed.

Phil wasn't smiling; he was looking a bit pissed himself. The fury came from somewhere deep inside and the dam had cracked. I was into it now and the rage felt good.

“I lost my wife, my kids, my house and God knows how many damn weekends up here and you have the absolute nerve to tell me no! Who the hell do you think you are?”

There was silence for a few seconds as we stared at each other and then it was broken by a rage nearly as great as my own.

“Your damn boss!”

Phil roared, as he stood up shoving me backward. He was so upset; he was standing on his tiptoes to get in my face. The effect was comical and I started laughing and crying, at the same time. It had all been too much for too long.

“Who do you think you are? You work for ME!”

The icy New England calm was gone and what stood in front of me was the real ruthless little man we all suspected. Phil bounced on the tips of his toes, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth as he pointed at the door.

“Get out of my office! So you've been here forever, so what? If you were going somewhere, it would have happened. I'll help you out, Mike. You're fired!”

Suddenly it wasn't funny any more. I felt like I would throw up as I staggered backwards towards my seat. Phil leaned forward on his desk his fingers turning white as he gripped it while I conceded the tactical high ground and collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Pack up your stuff and get it out of here.” He spoke quietly but each word felt like the building was falling in on me. “I want you back here in fifteen minutes to sign your resignation letter.”

Phil turned around and faced the Dallas skyline. The sun had settled behind the towers and the sky was molten with reds and purples. I could see a last ray of the sun glint off of a familiar red and tan plane as it made the landing path turn for the airport. The sky seemed to glow with a fire that pulsed in time to the blood thundering in my ears.

“You've got your promotion all right, straight to unemployment. You can supervise your own personal stupidity.” Phil snickered as he faced the glass before saying, “It's a hands on position utilizing your own unique talents.”

I hadn't moved a muscle. The rage was long gone; cold horrible reality was firmly in place. Everything I had worked for was gone. My god, I was going to have to look for a job. It was time for a strategic retreat. Maybe, I could salvage the situation with a heavy dose of groveling.

“Phil, listen, I just lost my head there for a minute.” I swallowed hard, trying to project sincerity without the pleading desperation that seemed to be coming through in each word. “I am happy here and I do want to stay. I'm sorry; the promotion just meant an awful lot to me. It's been hard with the kids, child support, alimony, losing the house and everything and now the IRS is on my case. I really need this job.”

Phil turned from the fiery sky with a big smile on his gloating face. He sat back down in his chair and began to shake with laughter. It was clear he was laughing at me. Furious with Phil and myself, I sat there like a complete idiot waiting for the fool to shut up. Phil finally stopped laughing and leaned forward as if he were my friend and not my evil boss.

“Go on, clear your stuff out of here. Be finished and back up here in fifteen minutes.” He started laughing again as he returned to his paperwork.

I got up and made my way across the plush carpet to the door. As I opened the door, Phil threw one last bomb my way.

“Thanks for the entertainment, Mike. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I always knew you would kiss up one day. That was priceless, just priceless.”

His laughter spilled out into the hall behind me as I stepped out of his office. I felt my face growing hot once again as I headed for the waiting elevator at the end of the empty corridor. I went downstairs to my cubicle hearing his mocking laughter echo in my head with every step down the quiet hallways.

I sat down in my company-issued standard chair, seat padding provided by one old pillow from home, and thought about my life or what was pathetically left of it. In a matter of minutes, I had managed to destroy the last vestiges of everything. As I sat there, most of the overhead lights clicked off. Apparently, I hadn't moved enough in three minutes, so I was considered unproductive and therefore didn't exist.

As I sat there in the near darkness, with the red glow of the neon fire exit sign as company, only one solution came to mind. The simplicity, the sheer simple elegance of it, was overwhelming. As I got up, the lights fired back on.

They glowed in the empty area behind me as I went upstairs to Phil's office. He was sitting there obviously very pleased with himself as he awaited my return. His eyes flashed with mirth as he beckoned me forward. He turned a piece of paper around towards me and set a cheap ballpoint pen on it. It was time in more ways than one.

“Come on in, Mike, and sign this thing. It's the standard resignation. Just fill in your name, title, and sign it. I wrote it to say that you were leaving to pursue other creative opportunities. It's more than you deserve, but I'm feeling magnanimous at the moment. We both know its bull, but no one is going to listen to you anyway. So, I'm giving you a break for the hell of it. Lucky you.”

He sat there, waiting for me to sign my fate as he dictated. I checked the corridor and seeing no one, I eased the doors closed. He impatiently gestured at me and I felt the coldness of certainty settle over me. I stepped forward to his desk and leaned against it. I strained to read his words, but they were blurry and ran together.

“So, have you given any thought as to what you will do to support yourself? Well, there's always the food allocation program, I guess.” Then he started to snicker. “You must admit, that's kind of embarrassing. You shouldn't have any problem with embarrassment though considering what you did here.”

I pocketed the pen as I stood up, staring at the gloating idiot. Always take the pen, no matter how cheap it is. There really wasn't a choice, as he wouldn't let it alone. He just kept pushing and pushing. Before he knew what hit him, I was around the desk with my .357 Magnum in his face. I'd always worried about muggers and other problems when I worked late at night in Downtown but this was the first time I had found a real use for it. I moved it down and placed the barrel against his chest. I knew he had no heart, but symbolically it was important.

“Actually, Phil, I think I have made an excellent decision. I call it my sixty second plan for personal growth, community service, and job enhancement. It's a little messy, but it works for me.”

Judging from the front of his pants, I had finally gotten through to him. He squirmed in his chair as he tried to ease backwards. His smugness was gone as sweat formed on his forehead. Time seemed to stop as I stood there savoring the moment. I was judge, jury and executioner all in one and he was about to feel my wrath.

“I'd shoot you in the heart if I thought you had one. Instead, in view of your situation and the time you have been with this company . . "

I quickly moved the gun upwards before slamming the barrel into his right eye and pulling the trigger. Blood and brains exploded out of the back of his head and across the chair. The freedom bullet, having done its damage, smashed through the chair, and out the window. It punched a hole in the glass as the rest of the window crazed and cracked. Long arcs of blood and brains splashed against the panoramic windows in various beautiful shades of red. The pungent smell of cordite mixed in the air with the sweet coppery smell of blood. It slowly dissipated through the fist-sized hole in the window as the air conditioner kicked on.

I set the gun down on his immaculate desk. His obligatory handkerchief was still clean, so I pulled it out. I began to wipe down the gun, hopefully removing my fingerprints. I wasn't worried about the desk or the doors; there were simply too many people in his office day after day, year after year. A feeling of elation was taking over as I realized I was free at last. I could even get a promotion and I had Phil to thank for it.

The remaining eye seemed to stare at me in shock as I went about my business. Phil seemed to need an explanation. I eased the handkerchief back in his pocket as I explained.

“Sorry, Phil, but you made it happen. You pushed and you pushed and see what happens? I wonder if you factored this little problem in your five-year plans? Did you ever stop to consider the fact that you could be killed by someone you totally screwed over once too many times. I doubt it.”

I picked up the gun and wrapped his right hand around it. I raised his arm up until the barrel touched the open socket. Letting go, the arm swung down to the side of the chair. The slack muscles of his hand allowed the gun to fall to the floor. It could work. It would work and no one would know.

I stepped back around to the front of his desk. Fat lot of good his fancy desk or those gold cuff links were doing him now. I slid the alleged resignation letter on top of one of his stupid mandatory meeting memos.

I began to trace his signature on the resignation letter. He loved to use fill in the blank paperwork for everything. In the past, it had driven me mad, but now it was an asset. His failure to personalize anything would help me. It would appear as if he resigned and killed himself. Now he could pursue other creative opportunities in hell. The ultimate fast track.

Finished, I took one last look around the room. Everything looked, as it should at the close of another successful business day. I savored the view, what I could see of it, as the surrounding office towers began to light up to welcome the night.

Phil didn't answer. Maybe he had a problem accepting constructive criticism. I eased the doors open and happily discovered the corridor was still empty. It helped that by firing the security service, coupled with the low morale, the building was almost always, clear by the end of the day. Using a cheap cleaning service also worked out well, because they wouldn't show up until around midnight, if they did at all. I stepped out into the hall and turned.

“God's speed to Hell, Phil.”

I walked down the hall and into the waiting elevator. I punched the lobby button as the doors hissed shut.

“Talk about enhancing job security and personal growth.”

I began to laugh as the doors opened to the empty lobby. The lobby softly echoed with my footsteps as I headed toward the street. It was going to be a very good evening. The very best in a long time, in fact.

The machine popped loudly and the hum that had been coming from it died away. The playback had lasted no more than a few minutes even though the violent events it revealed had lasted much longer. The Detectives watched as the Division Commander's hands slowly relaxed, opening with just the smallest tremor visible. That stopped as well after another minute and Freeman stood up and removed the hood.

The Division Commander was sweating heavily, his eyes open and wild as he blinked at his surroundings. He swallowed several times and then shook his head as if to clear it. He was clearly shaken by what he had seen.

“God,” he stammered, “it was like I was right there. I felt his rage. I could smell the blood, the brains, everything. It was overwhelming.”

“The effect at this stage is very intense, as I warned you, Commander.”

Steve could hear the condescension in Freeman's tone but the shaken Division Commander seemed oblivious to it. Instead, his head moved as his eyes roamed the room. Then his gaze swept across the table and locked on to the evidence bags. Steve felt a jolt as he realized the Commander had seen it too. Marcus hadn't; but as the Commander pointed at the evidence bag under another bag that contained a jeweled dagger, Steve knew he had seen it.

“There it is!”

The Commander rocketed out of his chair and reached for the bags before they could react. He grabbed the bag containing the key and then dropped it, a flash of pain clearly visible on his face. He sat down heavily while Steve smirked to himself. Maybe they had more in common than he had thought. Steve had felt the flash of pain as well, something that the clueless Freeman apparently had not.

“That key!”

All three men stared at the black key with the red hieroglyphics as it sat in its clear plastic evidence bag. As it had before, the hieroglyphs seemed to have some sort of meaning and as the images again seemed to burn and blur together, Steve shook his head. He felt it call to him; the strange chant whispering in his mind but he resisted the urge to touch the bagged key. This wasn't the time to indulge himself.

“That's the image that flashes over everything else through the recording. It just pops up and then vanishes.”

Marcus shrugged his shoulders as he looked at Steve.

“Steve said he saw it too, but I didn't. Probably a short somewhere in the system but we will make sure the recording the jury sees is clean.”

Steve looked at the Division Commander who was nodding slightly. Freeman wasn't getting it. Maybe it couldn't be cleaned up because it was a viewer issue. How could he clean up what he didn't see?

“But, that's the point! We don't know why the image is there. Marcus said I had been working too hard but you saw it too. That image of the key has to mean something!”

The Commander reluctantly nodded just slightly in agreement. Steve knew that a man who came in at nine and left at three in the afternoon didn't know much about working hard or staying focused on the problem. Still, he couldn't be all bad because the Commander had seen it. That had to count for something with him.

“It's like I have been saying all along. We don't know the ‘whys.' We don't know why the image appears at least to some people and we don't know what made, to all outside appearances, a perfectly sane man kill. Why would he give up the wife, the kids, the twin Mercedes, and the sixteen-room mansion down by that new golf course the company developed to kill a man he barely knew? It just doesn't make sense.”

“He thinks he gave everything up,” said the commander softly.

“That's my point,” Steve said. “He was happily married and there were no signs of any problems. Up until the last couple of weeks he volunteered like mad at his kid's school, bowled on the company team and coached his daughter's little league team. He was the “City Father of the Year” last year and they ran that huge spread on him and his family in the paper. His coworkers and neighbors say they were happy and they were a great fun loving family. The guy had it all! The family doesn't understand and neither do I. You watched the recording, Commander. It doesn't match the reality of his situation.”

Steve looked over at Freeman who was clearly annoyed.

“Marcus, don't you see? He thinks he gave up everything for his career and so he killed. But, he didn't give up anything and in fact was being promoted if he signed the paperwork. Until he bought the gun earlier that day, he had never fired a weapon, let alone owned one in his life. None of it makes sense.”

"Whether or not it makes sense to you, Steve, is irrelevant.” Freeman gestured as he went on, “I don't care about the key or anything else. He did it, plain and simple. Don't over think it."

Freeman stood and scooped all the evidence bags into a small gray container. The key spun away, flashing eerily in the fluorescent lights as it slid it its bag. Freeman slapped at it and then tossed it on top of everything else. It didn't seem to burn him through the bag as it had Steve and the Commander.

“That's your problem, Steve. You can't accept the facts that some cases are just that easy.” He shook his head irritated with Steve like he was a bad child instead of the fact that Steve was than ten years his senior with two commendations for above and beyond the call of duty. “Always with the why with you. It doesn't matter. He did it, the jury convicts, and he dies. That's it.”

He picked the small gray container up and then dropped it back on the table while the Commander stood up as well. Freeman didn't care and that was to be expected. But, Steve lost all hope as he watched the Commander's beady eyes. While the Commander saw the problem, it didn't overshadow the need to clear a case and put in under the solved heading in front of an always watchful media. Clearly neither cared enough and Steve felt frustrated as the container skidded across the smooth table surface almost landing in his lap before Steve caught it.

"Your turn on taking it back. I've got things to do.”

Marcus followed the Commander out, leaving the door hanging open. Steve got up and closed the door, filtering out some of the noise from the Homicide Unit. Then he circled the table and gently, almost reverently, lifted the lid off the container. The key in its bag sat on top of the other bagged evidence and seemed to slowly pulsate under the florescent lights.

He glanced towards one wall and looked in on the suspect who still sat staring straight ahead at Steve but not seeing him. Not only because of the one way glass but also because he was lost somewhere in what was left of his own mind. He had been like that since Freeman and Steve had picked him up, frozen in mid step like a living statue, right outside the building where he worked.

Steve picked up the bag and felt the key burn his hand just slightly this time in welcome through the small bag. But the pain was less this time and the whispering was just a little stronger. He could almost make out the words as he stared at the bag and the hieroglyphs began to blur and burn just a little brighter. It suddenly seemed to make a lot of sense to slip the small bag into his pocket. It burned through his pocket as it sat there but he welcomed the pain, even relished it as he felt it heat up. The images began again and he now knew there were things he simply had to do.