Machines of Kali

By Torsten Tomas

The Military has built a frightening new weapon. Unstoppable and relentless, it can deliver death to anyone, anywhere, anytime. Now, it is operational.

But not by us. Somewhere, someone has seized control of the weapon, and they are using it for their own lethal purposes. They must be hunted down and captured before their wave of homicidal brutality spirals into a disaster of global proportions.

During this hunt, four different individuals are pulled into the crucible.

Detective Carlos Rios is the king of the streets. From his glory days as a city sports champion to his current perch at the pinnacle of law enforcement, he bestrides his world like a Colossus. Yet, deep within his heart, he is haunted by faceless phantoms of his own making. In his quest to solve two heinous murders, he must first confront these phantoms who threaten to destroy him and everything he holds dear.

The beautiful scientist Robin Anderson was once a rock star. Now, she designs the most advanced weapons on the planet. From her squalid childhood in the backwoods swamps to her prominent position in the nation's capital, she has served only one master: her own art. In her quest to stop the weapon that she designed, it will require all of her strength to overcome the forces arrayed against her. If only she can recognize what they are.

The high schooler Pablo Garcia survives in one of the city's roughest neighborhoods. An invisible weakling bullied by other students and targeted by the local thugs, his only advantages are his precocious mind and his hidden passions. Then, one day, chance delivers to him a package of unimaginable power. Will he rise to the challenge, or will he fail with catastrophic consequences?

As these three struggle with their own inner demons, they will be drawn into the twisted and violent world of Zahir Marata. Already a legend in the world of international espionage and cutting-edge technology, Zahir harbors a dark secret of his own. He is a modern-day worshipper of the ancient death-goddess, Kali. In his plot to seize control of the world's most dangerous weapon, he will sweep into their lives like a cyclone. Manifesting the evil within their hearts, his alien mysticism of murder and mayhem will drive them all to the edge of madness and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torsten Tomas
• Release date: Oct 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985253417

Torsten Tomas

Torsten Tomas is an award-winning artist whose work has been featured in several national publications. Machines of Kali is his first novel. He lives in Chicago, where he is currently at work on his next book, Currencies of Loki.

Book preview

Monday – The Zero Queen

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1. Robin – Monday Morning

Ten minutes.

In the mind of Abdullah al-Qawi, he was safe. Surrounded by the weapons of his mujahadeen, protected by the thick walls of his spacious bayt, and comforted by the anticipation of his traditional meal, he thought, all is good.

Outside, the brutal sun was a blowtorch. It scorched the sandy avenue and bleached his pale landscape. Beyond his window, baked clay buildings were stacked six deep, their oppressive monotony smothering the eyes. On the sidewalk, the people of his Islamabad suburb floated past, white-robed spectres trailing the scents of salted meat, livestock, and gasoline through the shimmering dream heat of Pakistan’s dust bowl.

His visitor said, The local warlord is cowing the population in the south.

How so? asked Abdullah.

His forces have swept through the villages, hunting for anyone who voted in the infidels’ elections. They were shot, their families exiled to the mountains. They will not survive the winter.

Abdullah was pleased. He trusted Jabbar, a second cousin of his third wife, to bring him reliable intelligence. Jabbar was one of a dozen such messengers, part of a loose network of agents and couriers who directed events on his behalf. Such was the command structure of the terrorist overlord Abdullah al-Qawi.

That is good, said Abdullah. We will need their compliance next week, when we bomb the infidels’ embassy. How can we be sure that our ‘local warlord’ has identified all the traitors?

Those who refused to inform on their neighbors had their tongues cut out.

Abdullah smiled. Neighbors informing on neighbors? I’m sure they lie. They use our righteous cause to settle their own grudges.

Maybe so, replied Jabbar, but grudges have a place in war, too. Grudge settling is just collateral damage by another name.

Abdullah grinned again. "Yes, Jabbar, you are correct. In war, there will always be collateral damage."

He waved his hand. The meeting was over. All in all, it has been a satisfying one. The democratic apostasy in the south was fading as its adherents were cowed by the warlord’s campaign. Abdullah would have to meet with this man personally. His appreciation must be conveyed.

Peace be unto you, he murmured to Jabbar.

And peace be unto you, answered Jabbar, rising to his feet.

Abdullah al-Qawi, a man in full, looked about the room. Already his wives were bringing in the meal of spiced goat, and his sons were drifting in to partake. Using a clean, damp cloth, he gently dabbed his lips. The lord of the house was content.

At the bayt’s exit, Jabbar passed by the guards. Salaam, he addressed them. They shifted their rusty AK-47s from arm to arm, while their dark eyes tracked him over their rangy beards. He crossed the doorway’s threshold into the blinding glare of the sun, feeling the heat of their gazes upon his back.

Once outside, Jabbar pulled a cellphone from his robes. Turning the corner, he looked around nervously before putting the device to his ears.

Hello? he whispered. Yes. Yes, he is here.

He closed his phone, put it away, and continued walking. As he moved further away from the bayt, he quickened his pace.

By the time he turned the next corner, he was running.

Two hundred nautical miles off the Pakistani coast, the destroyer U.S.S. Courage floated. Its eighteen hundred tons of steel remained steady as the dark rolling currents of the Indian Ocean hurled themselves against its hull. Deep inside the warship’s bowels, a dozen sailors huddled over their consoles. The control room was darkened; its only illumination was the greenish glow emanating from a dozen radar screens. The naval men, between their serious stoicism and their ubiquitous headsets, looked like ancient druids at a modern technological séance.

A seated officer in grey fatigues turned to a standing man dressed in whites. Captain, we have a signal from City.

City was the code word for Washington D.C.. Everyone in the room knew who was on the line. Today, they would be operating under the watch of the Under Secretary of Defense, Edgar Lemon.

Captain Mulroney nodded to the young communications officer. He flipped a switch on his console, and a static cackle echoed through the cramped chamber. With the authority of a chainsaw, the voice of an old yet strong man broadcast into the room.

Captain Mulroney, this is Edgar Lemon. I’m in my office at the Pentagon. I’m streaming your video feed right now. I’ve invited several people to join me. They’re from the Military Advanced Weapons Lab in Virginia. Their Director, Morris Snyder, is here. So is the Chief Engineer, Dr. Robin Anderson. They’re observing. Please extend them every courtesy.

Yes sir, responded Captain Mulroney. He winced at the Under Secretary’s disregard for code protocol. Practically every other word out of Lemon’s mouth was someone’s name or location. If Mulroney were to speak like that over an open transmission – encrypted or no – he would be court martialled by tomorrow, and rightfully so.

Oh well, he thought, rank has its privileges.

The speaker cackled again, and a woman’s voice cut in. Captain Mulroney, this is Dr. Robin Anderson. I’m the Chief Engineer of MAWL. Thank you for letting us join you today. Can I address the weapons officer?

Mulroney said, Yes, ma’am. I’m going to put you on with Lieutenant Ellison.

Ellison stepped out of the radar’s glow and turned to the microphone. Dr. Anderson, it’s a pleasure to have you with us this morning. I’ve been following the developments at MAWL for several years.

Thank you, Lieutenant, said the woman’s voice. Can you brief us on what’s about to happen?

Of course, he said. We have a target three hundred miles inland, about five hundred miles from our position. Our tactical protocol is to deliver a conventional thousand-pound warhead via a ship-to-surface, ramjet-propelled avionic system guided by a non-ballistic hybrid of G.P.S. and TERCOM targeting.

A Cruise missile?

Yes, ma’am.

Dr. Anderson went silent for a moment. Lieutenant Ellison and Captain Mulroney exchanged glances, each wondering what she was thinking. Having been briefed on her attendance that morning, they were aware that Dr. Robin Anderson was a weapons designer – maybe the top designer – for the Pentagon’s most secretive division, the Military Advanced Weapons Laboratory. For all they knew, she was about to override them with a death ray.

Slowly, she came back. I see, she said, barely disguising her disdain. Goodbye to a million dollars.

Lieutenant Ellison rolled his eyes. Was she really quibbling over such a paltry amount? Dr. Anderson, as you’re aware, our target is an extremely high priority. We are authorized to use whatever means necessary.

Is it necessary to rocket a thousand pounds of ordnance into a populated neighborhood?

Ellison gritted his teeth. Ma’am. The target is at an indeterminate position inside a broad area. To ensure mission success, we need to take out a large physical footprint.

Do you have any projections on collateral damage?

No, ma’am. Our intelligence on the ground extends only to the target himself.

Very well, she answered in a clipped tone. Continue.

Now it was Captain Mulroney’s turn to roll his eyes. The frank and open nature of this conversation between the military scientist and his weapons officer was far beyond the usual discreteness of naval discourse.

Please God, he prayed, let the R.F. encryption be secure.

He listened to Ellison advise the microphone, Okay, Dr. Anderson, I’m going to put you on stand-by now. We’re awaiting confirmation from our spotter.

The old man’s voice crackled over the speaker. Lemon here. I’m curious about your ‘spotter’. Who is he?

Captain Mulroney had had enough. He leaned over Ellison’s shoulder and spoke into the microphone, I’m sorry, sir. We really can’t say that over a radio frequency transmission.

Lemon’s voice took on an annoyed tone. At least tell me, is it C.I.A.?

It will be in our debrief, sir.

Lemon was silent, but everyone in the control room knew what he was thinking. The Under Secretary of Defense had an ongoing public feud with the Central Intelligence Agency. He and the C.I.A. Director, Orval Speer, disagreed over many matters, not the least of which was Lemon’s opinion that C.I.A. agents were bag men unfit for the real military. However, that did not allow him – even him – to override security protocols.

All right, said Lemon. Proceed.

Thank you, sir, said Mulroney. We’re going to mute you now. You have the video feed of the target. You may continue to listen in to our operation. When the target is confirmed, we will engage.

High above the Islamabad suburb, a Predator Unmanned Aerial Vehicle circled at an altitude of ten thousand feet. At that height, it was invisible to the eye. Mounted on the bottom of its fuselage, a high speed digital video camera recorded everything below it. Above it, a geosynchronous satellite transmitted its signal, in turn, back to the U.S.S. Courage.

Every eye in the weapons room was focused on this video feed. Across a dozen different screens, its blurry image came into focus. A sprawling, one-story adobe house revealed itself. From the camera’s height, the building looked like a child’s sandbox mold.

The young comm officer wouldn’t turn away from his screen. Sir, he said, we have confirmation. The target is on site.

The Captain ordered, Lieutenant Ellison, you may engage.

Ellison uttered one word, Fire.

The sailor nearest him flipped a switch. A deep basso rumble shook the room. On the deck of the giant warship, a fuse blew off a silo cover. The Tomahawk Cruise missile burst forth, its burning exhaust filling the sky as it sped off over the horizon.

Rocketing at two thousand miles per hour at an altitude of one hundred feet, it cut a swath of backwash over the choppy waters. Deep inside its steel hull, a microchip communicated with a Global Positioning Satellite. They triangulated its path over the Indian Ocean, and the Tomahawk hurtled forward, carrying its uncanny warhead toward an unknowing target.

Alpha-bravo away, said the sailor. Time to target, six minutes.

Six minutes.

Far off in his safehouse in Islamabad’s suburb, Abdullah shoved a clump of goat meat into his mouth. While the cloth-bound burqas of his wives floated in the background, he listened to his sons. They talked with the languor of the entitled, recounting their previous night’s adventures at the dance clubs.

Abdullah was a pious man. He did not approve of his sons’ dancing. Or drinking. Or womanizing. But Abdullah was also an urbane man. He realized that today’s younger generation partook of many pleasures denied to the older. So it had ever been. So it would ever be.

Faiz, Ude, he said to his sons, have you heard anything from your friend Rawal? I do miss him.

Oh, Father, said the short one Faiz, you know he’s busy in Tora Bora fighting the Americans. He hasn’t been in Islamabad in months.

Yes, but I thought perhaps he had tired of that and came back. You know I would give him a place in my army.

Of course, Father, said the tall one Ude, but who knows? Perhaps he is dead. The two boys laughed – no sentimentality here.

Their father sighed. Though he had ordered thousands of deaths, it still bothered him that his children were so jaded. What Abdullah did, he did for the ages. Children today, though, they were a different breed. They drank, they danced, they had no respect for the laws of god or man. What kind of a world was he fighting for, that it would be inherited by such as these?

Though he did not realize it, he and his feckless progeny had less than six minutes to live. His courier Jabbar was already half a kilometer away, running as fast as his cotton robes would let him. Outside the window, Abdullah’s neighbors continued their eternal drift. Overhead, the sun burned hot.

When the Tomahawk Cruise missile passed from water onto land, it switched from G.P.S. guidance to TERCOM. The Terrain Contour Matching program compared the signal from its altimeter to a digital map stored in its computer. By continuously correcting its flight path, tick by tick, the missile guided itself over the uneven surfaces of mountains, hills, and river beds. Thus, three thousand pounds of steel hurtled over the Pakistani territories well under radar cover. There would be no warning.

As the Tomahawk vectored into the Indus River Valley, its servomotors finalized the aileron deployment. Navigating the passageway north by northeast at supersonic speed, it bore down upon the sandy suburb of Islamabad. If a human eye had been aboard the missile, it would have beheld a magnificent vista of low-slung buildings hovering under a cover of gently swirling zephyrs.

Ten thousand feet above this landscape, the Predator flashed a laser downward to spot the house underneath. The Tomahawk, switching from TERCOM to direct targeting, fixed upon this laser light as a homing beacon. Now, the Cruise missile guided itself to its final destination. Inexorably, it sliced toward the bayt of Abdullah al-Qawi.

Time to impact: thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Abdullah had thirty seconds to live. In thirty seconds, he would be vaporized into nothingness. All of his armed guards were powerless. All of his followers were meaningless. All of his wealth was worthless.

Twenty seconds.

Outside in the street, passers-by heard the droning roar coming from the south. Those versed in the sounds of war knew what it meant. Fate was bearing down. Everyone ran for cover, sheltering themselves with walls and diving into the earth.

Ten seconds.

Inside the house, of course, they heard nothing. With a solemn attitude, Abdullah turned to his sons. In the last ten seconds of his life, he admonished them, You should really pay more respect to your friend Rawal. Paradise awaits him.

The Tomahawk slammed into the bayt at eighteen hundred miles an hour. In a millisecond, compressed particles exploded outward, propelling fragments of its steel sheath through the furniture, walls and inhabitants of the building. Hyperpressurized air molecules blew apart the flimsy adhesion of the clay material, followed by shock waves that flattened the remaining tissues and organs of al-Qawi and his family.

Outside the bayt, vehicles and people were shredded by the debris blowing through them. Secondary fragmentation followed, and a cyclone of metal flayed the remaining bystanders in every direction. Under the heat of the blast, some of the cars caught fire and burned, creating a chorus line of destruction up and down the avenue.

Inside the bayt, the explosion had created a vacuum at its epicenter. As the air rushed in to fill the void, it created a high-velocity wind that pulled everything left – glass, furniture and body parts – into the core. They collapsed into a pressurized, heated mass, whose swirling waves of smoke spewed upward into a mushroom cloud of monstrous proportions. Black and vile, it billowed over the neighborhood, casting the world into darkness.

Against this hideous gloom, only the flickering flames of the burning cars provided any respite. In their dim glow, dying people and animals could be seen crawling over the ground, choking in the mist. After a minute, the strong desert wind returned. It blew away enough smog overhead for a shaft of sunlight to reveal the devastation underneath.

Ten thousand feet above the explosion, the Predator’s digital camera continued to transmit. In the control room of the U.S.S. Courage, a cheer erupted. A burst of white had blinded the video screens, but when the image came back, it was clear. One moment the bayt was there; the next it was not.

Captain Mulroney, with a satisfied look on his face, stepped forward. He spoke into the microphone, Target is destroyed. Repeat. Target is destroyed.

At the Pentagon, Under Secretary Lemon sat back from the video monitor. For a few seconds, he stared at the Predator’s silent transmission. Through the haze of pixelated dust, he could barely see the burning cars. But he clearly saw the hole where Abdullah al-Qawi’s house had been.

In his office, there were two other people. One was a ferret-faced man with a bowler hat, wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit. The other was a striking woman with dark hair, attired in a jet-black pantsuit. Both wore I.D. tags emblazoned with ‘Delta-4’.

Lemon turned to the woman, and said, You get that, Dr. Anderson? Target is destroyed.

That was weak, she replied. Weak. You know we’re going to get hammered for this. You know that. We took out a dozen bystanders. At least.

The Under Secretary was seventy years old; when he smiled, the wrinkles on his face contorted in unison. He turned to the man, and said, Director Snyder, I appreciate that your subordinate here, Dr. Anderson, has opinions. Perhaps, in the future, she can keep them to herself. Especially when she’s addressing officers in the field.

Snyder’s face turned red. Yes, sir. She was only offering what she thought was a professional assessment.

Robin Anderson leaned forward, her face hardening. "Mr. Under Secretary, Archer will change all of this. Once Archer goes online, those ‘officers’ will be looking for new work. This kind of warfare is a relic of the stone age. It’ll be considered barbaric. And it should be. Collateral damage like this can’t go on."

Lemon smiled indulgently as he addressed his naïve charge. Dr. Anderson, you know better than that. Archer won’t change anything. After all, this is war, he said. "In war, there will always be collateral damage."

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2. Carlos – Monday Morning

These kids were a sullen lot. No surprise.

Neither was it a surprise that they had congregated so quickly at the corner of Twenty-Sixth and Cermak. Here in Chicago’s inner city, crime scenes attracted attention like the circus. The police acted as Andy Frains, their Mars lights provided the Klieg lamps, and all those howling sirens screamed: Showtime!

But, really. Did these guys need to bring the clown act? Everything they wore was so oversized, so festooned with cartoons, that the only thing missing was the tiny car. Carlos had always thought these young men dressed like the world’s largest six-year-olds. Acted like them, too. They slouched, they fidgeted, and they twisted their baseball caps in every conceivable direction – right, left, rear. Anywhere but forward.

And those pants. Their baggy jeans hung so far below their buttocks that the entire street had a clear view of their designer underwear. A few of them, by jamming their hands into their pockets, had dragged their belt lines almost to their ankles, as though they were pulling off their pants for a prostate exam by John Wayne Gacy’s clown doctor.

From the other side of the yellow tape, Carlos Rios appraised these man-children. To a cap, they glared back. In a strange way, he understood. Their dull insolence masked a mindless yearning for respect. To each other, they were the princes of the city. To Carlos, though, they were fugitives from the juvenile ward at Chernobyl.

Jesus H. Christ, he thought, here’s Chicago’s best and brightest – the future of the Western World.

What happened? he asked.

They stirred, but stayed silent. Carlos rubbed his goatee. These guys were mopes.

Glancing up and down Cermak Avenue, he saw rush hour rubber-neckers backing up five blocks out in both directions. He turned to the cop beside him, Who’re these kids?

The cop looked over his shoulder at the motley crew. Just bystanders, Detective Rios. They were here when the first responders arrived.

Responding to …?

Got a nine-one-one call. A motorist said there was a stiff by the road. He didn’t give his name. Said he was late for work.

Carlos grunted, Uh-huh.

Anyway, here’s where we’re at. The cop flipped through his notebook. The victim here is a sixteen-year-old Hispanic male. Name Hector Vaccaro. We I.D.’ed him from his wallet. Called his house, asked his mother about his whereabouts. She said he went out today – she don’t know.

His mother don’t know what? Where he went earlier, or where he ended up?

The cop hesitated, Uh, both, sir.

No one told her?

Figured you may want to do that, Detective Rios.

Friggin’ great. Rios muttered. He stopped, started over. Ok, sure, I got it. Listen, you get together with Detective Jackson and see if you can find any witnesses. The fresh faced cop – a rookie, no doubt – turned and melted into the crowd. Rios followed him with a coy smile. These Academy grads. They get smaller every year.

Rios turned once to check his back, then followed the yellow ribbon. Down the sidewalk, Hector Vaccaro waited patiently. He lay face up in the gutter, his sightless eyes focused on the video store across the street. Underneath him, a rivulet of blood swirled from his corpse into a nearby sewer hole.

While the bystanders beyond the tape watched, Rios bent down, snapped on plastic gloves, and inspected the body. Hector didn’t mind; he was almost drained, his expression pale. Rios probed the boy’s torso for a bullet hole – nothing. Then, his head – bingo.

Pulling the hair back, right at the top, a small entrance hole. The wound was unusual. There was minimal bruising trauma, not much blood either. It looked like an ice-pick penetration.

Trying to get a better look, Rios walked around the other side and put his gloved hand under the dead boy. He gently lifted up. With a sticky, slushing sound, the pants disengaged, and Hector’s intestines splattered onto the sidewalk.

Madre de Dios! swore Carlos. One of the teenagers swiveled his head and vomited his breakfast, Linda Blair-style. That, also, splattered onto the sidewalk.

Yo, Carlos, what we got? said Jackson, walking up behind him.

Jackson, a large African-American man, was Rios’s partner. As always, he was dressed in a long trenchcoat and black leather shoes. The trenchcoat, like all trenchcoats worn by all city detectives all over the world, was of a dark yet indeterminate color. The shoes, of course, were spotless.

Not sure, replied Rios. I found a hole in his head. Then I found his guts underneath. I’d say cause of death was somehow related.

Sweet, replied Jackson. He loved these murder scenes. Bodies, particularly fresh ones, gave him a warm fuzzy feeling. He poked around the corpse, taking extra precautions to avoid the steaming entrails.

A sunbeam crossed the asphalt. A glint of light flashed in Rios’s eyes. Kneeling down to get a closer look, he saw a shiny steel fragment embedded in the pavement. When he focused on it, he saw that it was covered in blood.

Hey, he said, check it out.

Jackson followed his gesture to the object in the ground. That? he asked. You think it has something to do with this? It could have been there for weeks.

No – take a closer look, said Carlos. That’s blood. We gotta bag it.

Blood? Ahhh, I don’t know, Jackson scoffed. Looks like garbage to me.

It’s the murder weapon. Carlos snapped on his plastic gloves and gently placed the object in a plastic evidence bag.

He handed it to Jackson, who frowned, This thing? No way.

Jackson returned the evidence bag, and Carlos held it up to the light. They peered at the strange thing within.

It was long and cylindrical with three fins at the back. At first glance, it resembled a dart, like those they threw at the Twilite Club. Those, though, had cheap wings made of plastic, and needle tips that broke like condoms. This was different.

This was a dart on steroids. It was eight inches long, and its metallic fins, as steely as the body itself, seemed to be molded directly into its barrel. Its tip was not so much a needle at the head as a sharpening of the body. Rendered all the more lethal by its inch-thick diameter, the stubby, contoured spike looked just plain mean.

You know, said Jackson, you may be right. It looks suspicious.

Looks? Check this out. This ain’t garbage. No way.

They both stood there for a moment and pondered the artifact. The way it was drenched in steaming gore, it must have gone right through Hector Vaccaro from the top of his head all the way down, dragging his brains, bones, internal organs, and a whole lot more right out his ass.

Wow, said Rios. I’ll bet that hurt.

Jackson looked closely. What do you think it is?

Don’t know. We always find crazy stuff when we do those gun buy-backs. Assault rifles, flare guns, you know. Rios thought about it. This is a new one. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. We’ll let Smitty run it at the lab. Shouldn’t be too hard to trace, that’s for sure.

We’ll see, said Jackson.

Rios turned to Jackson, and challenged him, Bet you a tamale.

Like I said, we’ll see. Smitty ought to know something by tonight. Jackson bent over Rios to stare at the corpse. Hey, he said with a glimmer of recognition, this kid looks familiar.

Get out.

No, seriously, man, said Jackson. I know this kid. I arrested him a few months ago. He’s a Roca.

Las Rocas Rojas? A gangbanger?

Yeah, this kid – he’s Hector Vaccaro, right? His buddies were yapping ‘bout him. He’s a Roca. Check out his tats.

Huh. Rios turned over the dead Hector’s left hand and examined the tattoo. It was a shlock job, but he could make out the heart-shaped skull and the framed initials: LRR – Las Rocas Rojas.

The rhythms of the crime scene moved around them. Gawkers continued to show up, but the uniforms held them behind the tape. Suddenly, Jackson and Rios got the same idea. Stepping away from the body, they turned their attention to the crowd.

Sure enough, one of the kids shot them a look. He was wearing a baggy shirt emblazoned with a neck-to-crotch portrait of Tony Montana and his little friend. As Carlos gave him the once-over, he imagined that the kid practiced Tony’s sneer every morning in front of his mirror.

You, Rios pointed at him. What do you know about this?

The boy at the crime scene tape curled his lips, Hey, man – why don’t you go bust some donuts?

The snickering punk fist-bumped his buddy. In the exchange, Carlos saw what he suspected – a tattoo identical to the victim’s. Before the boy could react, Rios reached forward, grabbed the hand in a vise grip, and examined it while its owner jerked about ineffectually.

Got my donuts in my car, smiled Rios. Where’d you get that tattoo?

Fuck you, muthafucka.

Rios rolled his eyes. He’d heard it before. A million times. What’s your name?

Fukkin’ Donald Duck, yo

Jackson came from behind and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The kid jumped like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. Yo, man! he shouted. What you doin’?

Rios gave the kid a long stare. Let’s start over, Bucky, he said with a hard tone. You know him, nodding at the corpse, you know what happened to him?

No, man, you ain’t got shit… I was going to school. The kid smirked. Yeah, that’s right. School be startin’ soon. I gotta go to school. You ain’t got shit, man. Stupid muthafuckas.

Jackson regarded him – an insect under a microscope – and said, You sure? I were you, I’d forget about the stupid cops. I’d want to know how my friend got so dead.

Who says he’s my friend?

Rios said, You both have the same tattoo. That makes you a part of the crime scene. That makes you a person of interest.

Hey! Fuk you, man! I din’t have nuthin’ to do wit’ dis!

Okay, sure, said Carlos. Let’s see some identification.

Still cursing the detectives, the kid reached into his pockets and pulled out empty cloth. No I.D., no money, nothing. Rios assumed he had ditched them when the squad cars rolled up. Lucky for the kid, Rios was in a hurry, so he didn’t have time for a neighborhood search.

Luckier for Rios, though, he had help.

Detective, said a uniformed cop, Look at this. We just found it in the street lamp over there. There was a hidden space behind a loose panel. The cop sidled up and held out a plastic bag. It contained a few brown rocks and a cell phone.

Well, well. Look at that, Rios gave the snotty kid another hard look. I bet if we fingerprinted that, you’d be all over it. And I bet that’s your phone, too. Carlos examined the brown rocks in the bag. Crack cocaine. He nodded, Okay – you’re under arrest.

Hey man!

Now it was the detectives’ turn to smirk, as their perp was led away to the squad car, yelling in protest. When he got to the curb, he pointed defiantly to another kid in the crowd. Hey, Holmes, go hassle that little turd over there! He said he was gonna kill Hector! – I heard him!

Rios followed the pointing finger to its target. Standing there was a small, thin boy with round, bottle-bottom glasses. Unlike the other kids, who wore their trousers down to their knees, this one had a belt around his waist. Over his shoulder, a clear vinyl backpack stamped with Chavez H.S. carried a stack of text books, a couple of calculators, and a roll of pencils. This kid, at least, was going to school this morning.

Rios approached him. The boy was about five feet six, light skinned, and a little thin. Rios, by contrast, was a good six feet two, carved from granite, and packed with muscle. Even overmatched, though, the kid held his ground. He locked into Rios’s eyes, awaiting his move.

Okay, said Rios. Is that true, what he says? You say you wanted to kill him?

The boy stared at him silently. For a moment Rios wasn’t certain the teenager understood the question. Then, the kid murmured, No.

Huh? What’s that? Speak up – I can’t hear you.

I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t know that guy.

So why’s he saying you wanted to kill the victim over there?

The boy said, I don’t know. I really don’t.

Carlos stood back and squinted his eyes. What’s your name?

Pablo.

Pablo what?

The boy hesitated, Pablo Garcia.

Rios asked, You see what happened here, Pablo Garcia?

No.

Rios thought that maybe the kid was lying. It didn’t feel like it, though. There was something about the way he spoke, something about the way his eyes held contact. When Rios pondered the boy, he noticed a black mark on his cheekbone.

Where’d you get that bruise? he asked.

Fell down the stairs chasing my dog.

Rios mulled that over. He knew he’d heard it somewhere else, but he couldn’t recall exactly where. So why you so nervous, Pablo?

I’m not nervous, said the boy. I just got nothin’ to do with this. I was going to school, and I saw these guys standing around and came over to look.

You know this victim?

Yeah – I know him.

You wanted him dead?

Who didn’t? blurted Pablo. Immediately, he backpedaled, but I never said anything like that. Lots of guys hated him. He’s a Roca. I don’t have nothing to do wit’ him. I don’t have nothing to do wit’ those jerks. I never said anything about killing ‘im.

Were you with him when this happened?

No.

Were you anywhere near here when this happened? Rios was asking an indirect question – not ‘were you anywhere near?’ but ‘when did this happen?’ Any answer but total ignorance would have put the lie to Pablo’s story.

To his credit, though, the boy did not bite. I don’t know when it happened, he said. I don’t know nothin’. I told you – I was going to school when I saw these guys.

Rios considered himself to be an expert in ferreting out guilt, but in Pablo he sensed none. You’re a witness, Carlos said, but I’ll tell you what. You give me your name, address, and phone, and you can go to school now. We’ll call you if we need to ask any more questions.

Grudgingly, Pablo relayed the information. Carefully, Rios wrote it down in his notebook. When he was done, he dismissed the diminutive boy. Pablo walked away quickly, weighed down by the heavy books upon his thin shoulders.

Rios sighed. This was such a waste of time. If not for the appalling spectacle of Hector Vaccaro’s evisceration, this crime wouldn’t rate a second look. Not with Dontrelle Wright in the air.

Dontrelle Wright was so much more important.

Carlos Rios stared at the spot where Hector Vaccaro had died. The openness of the space loomed over him like a monster, growing larger and more menacing with each moment. It wasn’t only the spreading sky that bothered him – it was the constant stream of moving traffic, the endless parade of potential witnesses.

This was not a place where kids got disemboweled.

A man dressed in a waist coat and a fedora, and carrying a notepad and a pen came rushing over. Jackson saw him coming and nudged Rios, Hey Carlos, check it out. Here comes MacDougal.

The man called MacDougal burst out, I can’t believe you let that kid go – he was fingered at the crime scene! What was that all about?

Apparently he had been eavesdropping. Not surprising, considering his job. Gordon MacDougal was a reporter for the Chicago Star-Times. He was present at these crimes scenes so often that the detectives suspected he had a police radio.

Carlos found him amusing. Over the last few months, he had struck up a friendship with the writer, sharing information, supplying him with tips, and even inviting him for ride-alongs to get a closer view of police work.

Jackson, on the other hand, frowned at MacDougal. It was beyond him why Carlos needed this newsman in their lives. On principle, Jackson tried to avoid the media. They were meddlers.

However, he knew that his partner Carlos had a different attitude. He knew that Carlos had a deep-seated need to showboat, and that MacDougal was his outlet.

About this, Jackson was not thrilled. At all. Chilling with a reporter? That was just a little too Gary Hart.

Rios grinned again, "Listen, Gordo, that kid Pablo didn’t have anything to do with this. Did you get a look at him? He was the Hispanic Urkel. If he had any more books in his backpack, he would’ve fallen over sideways. He couldn’t handle a pen-knife, let alone a gun. Or whatever did this. Get real."

But

But nothing. He’s not gonna be blowing up gangbangers. Just look at him.

But he knew the vic, insisted MacDougal. He hated him.

He wasn’t alone, I’m sure. Rios rolled his eyes. Listen, that’s the way it works in these neighborhoods. There’re plenty of good kids who just want to be left alone. To them, these gangbangers are nothing more than street-corner terrorists. Kids like Pablo don’t want them, don’t like them, and don’t much care if they all shoot each other. Just so long as they aren’t in the cross-fire.

Jackson nodded. Yeah, forget that kid. Our first suspect, he just fingered him to blow smoke.

MacDougal was still incredulous. You really think that first guy is a suspect for this?

If he’s not guilty of this murder, he’s guilty of something else, Jackson intoned. Possession of drugs, suspicion of murder, disrespecting a law officer. Whatever. He’s a bad actor, man.

Rios nodded. "Uh-huh. We got lucky there, finding those rocks. That was a good break. If he’s dealing out here, maybe he knows something – maybe he saw something. We’ll let him sit in County for a while, think it over."

MacDougal asked, You busted him on speculation?

Several months ago, when Carlos suggested that they let MacDougal shadow them, Jackson thought his partner was nuts. Now, however, it was proving useful. It was shedding some light on a question that had been dogging Jackson for years: how does the news manage to get it so wrong, so often?

Before the reporter could whine again, Jackson huffed, Hey, think you could stand back for a few minutes? You know, let the professionals work? Thanks.

Rios said to Jackson, I’m gonna report, then to MacDougal, Come on, I’ll show you some more stuff.

Leaving Jackson behind, Rios and the reporter walked to a line of cars parked on the sidewalk. They approached a black Ford Interceptor with M-coded license plates and a top-mounted Mars light. Rios took the Mars and threw it in the back seat. Then he pulled out a gun case, unholstered his Glock .357 from his belt, and packed it.

Why are you putting your gun away? asked MacDougal.

Ruins my profile. And it’s a bitch to carry around. Besides – we’re surrounded by cops.

What if you need to use it?

Rios laughed. Man, you’ve been watching waaay too much T.V.. I’m a detective, not a first responder. If I need it, I’ll know in advance. If I don’t know in advance, then it’s probably too late. If it’s too late, I made a mistake. He grinned. And that’s not gonna happen.

Rios motioned for MacDougal to go around to the passenger side, then climbed into the driver’s seat. The reporter chattered incessantly, I’m telling ya, someone’s sending a message here, the way Vaccaro was killed. I really think there’s a gang war going on. Ya know, the Rocas and the Whackos are always going at it.

Rios chuckled. The Spanish Whackos? A gang war? Gimme a friggin’ break. You would just love that, wouldn’t you? Sell a few more papers, get your name on a few more bylines. Who are we kidding? Vaccaro’s killing wouldn’t even rate two lines if not for the Halloween M.O.. Stop trying to sensationalize this.

That kid you just busted was a Roca.

So what? They all are.

Maybe he knows something about Dontrelle Wright, too.

Instantly, Rios downshifted from jolly to bellicose. Hey, MacDougal, when I invited you to come out and look at my job, I didn’t invite you to do it, too.

MacDougal raised his hands palm-out. I know, I know. I’m just sayin’. Maybe one of Wright’s friends decides to get a little pay-back. Hell, he was killed over at Western and Farrell – that’s right by Whacko territory. Now we got a dead Roca here in Pilsen. Maybe there’s a connection between Vaccaro and Wright. Maybe. How do you know there isn’t?

Rios narrowed his eyes. I don’t. It’s just not likely. If there was a gang war going on, we’d all know about it. For sure. That sort of thing, people steer clear of open windows. But don’t worry. We’ll get Wright’s killer.

You sound confident.

By now Rios had half-turned in his seat; he jabbed his finger in MacDougal’s chest. "Of course I’m friggin’ confident, you dummy. We’re gonna find the guy that killed Wright, and we’re gonna put him away. And you know how I know that? Because Jackson and I are the numero uno murder dicks of Chi-Town. And you know how I know that? I’ll tell you how."

Carlos drew in a deep breath and laid into MacDougal, Dontrelle Wright was a star in the making. His murder is a big, giant red-ball of a case. My Lieutenant is getting heat from the Commissioner, and he’s getting it straight from City Hall. You get the picture? When the shit starts flowing downhill, they don’t hand it to the newbies and the numb-nuts. They get the best. That’s me and Jackson. But get this straight, he poked MacDougal in the shoulder, "Dontrelle Wright is not a victim you’re going to gin up as a gangbanger. Not him. Dontrelle Wright was a good kid. He had a future. He didn’t deserve to die."

Rios pulled a laptop computer out of its dashboard sleeve. He said, Anyway, enough about Wright. Enough about me. Let me show you your tax dollars at work. You’ve seen these before, right? MacDougal, shaken by the detective’s outburst and anxious to move on, nodded. Rios said, We use these computers all the time, to go online and run down licenses, check out records, whatever. You know the drill. But we also use these computers to enter police reports.

Really?

Really. It’s all online now. Rios opened up a window on his computer screen. Anyway, here’s the report form. Look at the details I can enter here about Vaccaro – his estimated time-of-death, location, what have you. But what’s really important is the murder weapon.

You mean that dart thing you and Jackson were bagging?

Yeah. Usually, if I find a weapon, it’s a knife or a gun. Those have identifying details. The more specific, the better. For instance, if it has a serial number, I could put that in my report, and it would be cross-referenced with police databases across the country. If there’s a match, then boom, we’ve got another piece of the puzzle.

Really.

In this case, though, it’s even better, because that dart weapon is so strange. If it’s been used in other crimes, it’s bound to turn up a match. That’s why I’m making my report so detailed here. To demonstrate his point, Rios typed furiously on his laptop. Notice I’m including the size, weight, material, and words like ‘dart’. This is basic police work, but we’re able to make it sooo much better with technology. Rios looked over at the reporter, who was taking notes. Anyway, my report goes directly to the database at Area 7 headquarters. A computer there transmits it via multicast to everyone else.

Whoa, stopped MacDougal. What are you talking about? Multicast?

Just a fancy word for Internet broadcast, said Rios. You know how you change the channels on your T.V. so you get different broadcasts? It’s the same thing with a multicast. Our computer spews out data, and anyone who subscribes to our particular I.P. channel gets the broadcast.

I.P.?

Internet Protocol. Nevermind. Anyway, it’s a nice little system we got here. It’s fantastic how wide a net we can cast. Before the Internet, we were all stuck in our own little silos. Now my report will go out, and we’ll be polling police databases all over the country – automatically. A killing M.O. like that will jump right out. If anyone’s seen it before, we’ll probably know by the end of the day.

MacDougal finished taking notes, and looked up. Isn’t this sorta ‘1984’?

Rios had a twinkle in his eye. "Listen to me,