Baelen frowned, but didn’t push me further. My plan had worked better than expected.
The good doctor stood and made a show of turning to stare at the wall clock. Then she addressed the group.
“Today is a short session. As always, with regard to these studies the AFS thanks you for your cooperation, your compliance, and your silence. You are free to go.”
Along with the other lab rats I stood and gathered my things. Meanwhile, the nurses who’d done bloodwork consulted with Baelen. The slender Gillmyn raised her voice one more time.
“If you’ll stay behind, Officer Andrews. Since you arrived late, we’ll need a little longer to finish your process.”
The rest of the room froze. Andrews looked at her with baggy, bloodshot eyes. “Doc?”
“You arrived late. We need a little longer to complete your examination.” Back ramrod-straight, Baelen forced a chipper tone. “No reason to hold the whole group.”
Andrews slumped back into his chair. The rest of the lab rats exchanged looks, but there was nothing to be done. One by one, we filed out of the room.
In the hallway I lingered rather than head for the elevator. “I’m going to hit the vending machines,” I said. “You want anything?”
“I’m good.” Jax paused. “There’re vending machines on the third floor, you know.”
“Yeah, well.” I stared at the door to Baelen’s makeshift lab. “I’m curious to see the options up here.”
Suddenly Jax was standing next to me. “Me, too.”
I retreated down the hall to the vending machines and fed them my offering of coins, receiving a plastic-wrapped square of stale brownie in return. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before Andrews emerged, flanked by two of the pseudo-nurses.
“What’s going on?” I asked. The soldiers didn’t break stride.
Andrews looked at us. “I’m . . .” He started coughing.
“Where are you taking him?” I managed to not quite shout the question as I blocked their path. “He’s got the flu or something. Let him go home and rest.”
“He’s been enrolled in the advanced research program.” It was Baelen, standing in the exam room doorway, clipboard clutched to her chest and her head angled like a lizard studying a fly.
“For what?” I asked. We’d seen other cops end up with that designation, for bad dreams or weight loss or anxiety. None of them had come back, and their few visitors reported seeing them as overly medicated husks of themselves. Potential witnesses drugged into silence.
“For observation,” she said. “Until he’s well.”
Jax shook his head. “You can’t do that unilaterally. We’ll contact the TPD liaison.”
“Be my guest, gentlemen. Though she’s already been apprised.”
Baelen indicated the far end of the hall, where DO Guyer was approaching rapidly.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.
In response, Baelen extended the clipboard. Guyer snatched it away and scanned the top sheet. Her face darkened.
“This is—”
“Properly documented? Yes, it is.” Baelen held out a webbed hand.
Guyer stared at her with narrowed eyes. But eventually she thrust the clipboard into the researcher’s grasp.
“Carry on, then,” Baelen said, and retreated back into the examination room.
I turned to Guyer, but she waved me off. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, then headed for the elevators. Only Jax and I stood in front of Andrews and his escort.
The soldiers didn’t force Andrews. In truth, I’m not sure what would have happened if they had. He went along willingly, too tired to fight, and too wise to think it would have mattered. Jax and I could only stand by as they passed, leaving us alone in the hallway.
“You still advocating that I tell the world about my trick with the threads?” I asked.
Jax watched Andrews and his captors disappear into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind them like a pair of vertical jaws.
“No.”
We started the walk back to Homicide in silence.
The Bunker’s corridors seemed endless, all of them lined with vinyl tiles and humming fluorescent lights. Sometimes it felt like we worked in the intestines of a great beast, swallowing both criminals and those who chased them, digesting and depositing us all on the other side.
As we walked, conversations buzzed in the air around us, a cocktail of jokes, insults, and of course, stories. Stories were the social lubricant of the Bunker. The kind of stories that cops tell each other to get a laugh or sympathetic slap on the back, stories that highlight the absurdity and tragedy of daily life. We tell stories to learn what not to do and to purge bad memories from our minds. Stories are to cops what a hot shower is to a construction worker: a cleansing pain that washes away the filth, leaving you ready for another day of suffering.
The latest batch of stories were both puzzling and disturbingly familiar. Family gatherings erupting into violence; strangers jostling for space on a bus ending up at each other’s throat; a carabella team’s practice turning into a homicide scene. In every instance the perpetrator was easily identified, usually confessed, and expressed bewilderment about why any of it had even occurred. It was a kind of seasonal burst of craziness that made old-timers talk of moon phases, and made newer cops suspect designer drugs. They were both wrong, of course. To learn the truth, all they had to do was listen to the song of anger ringing in their ears.
The patrol had their hands full, and the assaults that had become murders were beginning to make an impact on the caseload in the Bullpen. If things continued as they were, the holding cells in the Bunker would run out of space before long. When I’d seen others hear the buzzing at the festival scene, I’d been relieved. It was proof that it wasn’t in my head. Now I’d come to fear what that change meant, and just how widespread this madness would become.
Standing near the blackboard, a particularly well-dressed Mollenkampi and his gangly, muscled human partner held the department’s rapt attention. I walked past, but Jax slowed to
