The Change Paradox

By S.W.Strackbein

How do you stop someone who could go back and kill you before you'd know who he was?

At age ten, Katheryn Sanders watched her brother die. Gunned down in a filthy alley by an unknown assailant for reasons that have yet to be determined. Nearly forty years later she's a prominent detective for the Chicago PD. But for all her success, her most significant unsolved case continues to haunt her. She has yet to find her brother's killer.

As Sanders delves into her latest case, she's drawn back by connections to her own past. A futuristic bullet matching the one that killed her brother and a wealthy industrialist claiming he travels through time.

Add that to a trio of assassins alleged to be the same person and a college professor who can appear in two places at once and Detective Sanders has her work cut out for her. Only when she's willing to consider the impossible will she uncover the truth behind her brother's murder and stop a time-traveling sociopath bent on revenge before he destroys all time and space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.W.Strackbein
• Release date: Oct 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223616580

Book preview

The Change Paradox

S.W. Strackbein

Sisyphus Triumphant Publishing

Copyright © 2023 S.W.Strackbein

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Time travel isn't real, regardless of how much people want it to be.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: S.W. Strackbein

Visit my website at www.swstrackbein.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

I would be amiss without conveying the wellspring of gratitude I have to those who have encouraged, guided, and taught me to be a better writer as well as all those who helped bring this book into existence.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Lisa, Nichole, and Mom.

For my number one fan and the

only person I truly write for

Tanya

Time is the wisest counselor of all.

Pericles

Portions of this story deal with acts of suicide. If you or someone you know are in crisis, there are options available to help. Text or call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at any time to connect with a trained crisis counselor.

Confidential support is available 24/7

for everyone in the U.S., call or text 988

or chat at988lifeline.org

or visit www.nimh.nih.gov

#shareNIMH

Part I

The Free Will of Determinists

One

Tuesday, March 11

Anger meandered inside Sanders like a homeless drifter, unable to cling to any meaningful purpose to exist. She pushed down the growing irritation as the sizable lump in her bed turned over sending a fresh wave of unease through her. She crushed out her cigarette, not two puffs away from starting the filter ablaze, and breathed out a long stream of white smoke. It was well past time to cut Raven loose, so why hasn’t she?

Sanders gazed out her third-story window, mesmerized by the city lights. They flickered like golden Christmas bulbs sparking memories, long since past. Too soon her harsh realities betray her. Bringing her back to despondency, disillusionment, and Raven taking up half her bed.

Can I bum one? Raven stretched her way from beneath the bedclothes. A black tank top accentuated her pale skin, the moist glow of her face, her neck, her chest. Platinum blond hair brushed the curve of her shoulders. Raven made Sanders feel less like being alone. But only less.

Like most nights, Sanders had wanted to be alone. It wasn’t healthy, her longing to be alone; it’s what her therapist said, anyway. She had no reason to debate it. Sanders made a habit of pushing people away—even those paid to be around her. Her therapist, with attempts to draw out memories better left suppressed. Her captain’s daily reminders that he’d fire her for insubordination if she wasn’t so damned insightful. The random people she’d bring home.

Thought you quit, Sanders said lighting another smoke before tossing the pack onto the bed. Only her second tonight, the tray betrayed the habit with a dozen butts sticking pole-straight from the center.

Thought you did too. Raven took a long morning drag. She replaced the Bic into the pack, a heavy cloud of smoke rising beyond her concerned look. You only smoke when something’s happened.

Sanders returned her gaze to the window. Pale stars echoed nearby street lamps, dying off one by one. Work, she said with a deep draw attempting to suffocate the memory.

It’s always work. Talk to me. What happened?

I’d rather not. It’s probably time for you to go. Sun’s coming up. Money’s on the dresser.

Raven smiled and scooched herself to the foot of the bed. Kat, you haven’t paid me in months. Besides, Miguel knows when I’m not on the street I’m with you. She kissed Sanders, a delicate flower petal brush against her cheek. But if you’d rather brood alone… I understand. I should get going anyway.

Sanders blew out another nicotine-laden breath studying her form with a sideways glance. Tell Miguel if he hurts you again I’ll rip his nuts off.

Raven brushed her fingers over the faded bruises along her ribs. Miguel’s okay. Better than most anyway.

The change in tone wasn’t lost on Sanders. Neither was the cruelty, minimized or otherwise. It fueled her anger, focused it. Miguel’s a man-child whose infancy was filled with episodic exploits of his mommy’s whoring and his uncle molesting him. Sanders had a gift for interpreting people and profiling asinine behaviors. Limited his life choices. It made her an outstanding detective but insufferable to others. Most others, anyway.

Miguel’s mom sells meth over in South Shore, Raven said, reapplying her near-black red lipstick.

He’s definitely got a small dick.

Raven smiled. She set her lipstick aside and wrapped her arms around Sanders’ neck. I’m here if you want to talk about it, she said, kissing her again. I can be a good listener if you let me. She sat back on the bed, trading her tank top for the black sequined outfit she’d come in. Sanders watched her dress as she stepped into a pair of stiletto heels. You don’t have to be alone. Not always.

All of us are alone, Ray. Always. Sanders wondered what her therapist would say, twisting all her positives, denying them life. Any competent therapist would realize it was just magnifying the negative. Sanders tore her eyes away from Raven’s failing smile, adding another exhausted cigarette to the bunch.

A soft hand caressed the back of Sanders’ neck, her shoulder. She felt the heat of Raven’s face next to hers soaking in hints of Dior, rose and bergamot mixed with morning perspiration, longing for it never to end. Sanders closed her eyes. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears, racing unchecked.

You’re beautiful, but you’re not always right, Raven whispered. We can be alone, together. She kissed her temple then moved away, pausing at her ear. Miguel’s dick is tiny, though.

Sanders let out a decompressing huff, Raven a giggle. Talk later? Raven asked.

Maybe. Take care of yourself, Ray.

Raven glanced back from the bedroom doorway and shot Sanders a wink. She smiled back, reminded of why she still held on to Raven. As the front door clicked shut she looked at her half-empty pack of cigarettes and contemplated brooding for the remainder of the day. It wouldn’t help her sour mood. Just the opposite in fact and asking Raven to stay would have taken courage she couldn’t conjure, not today. Of all days, not today.

As Sanders got up and moved toward the bathroom, her phone buzzed. Detective Katheryn Sanders. She held the phone to her cheek, the cigarettes forgotten, and turned on a hot shower.

Moving to the dresser, she picked up the five twenty-dollar bills. Raven’s scent lingered, bringing back Sanders’ unease. Do I have time for a shower? She grabbed her purse from beneath the bed. It’s not like the body’s going anywhere. Her gun pushed to one side, she slipped the money back into her wallet and returned the bag to its place.

You sure? I got woman stank all over me. Might upset the young’uns. You know how impressionable they can be. Beside her bed, Sanders slid open the nightstand drawer. Her hesitation seemed mocked by the lump in her throat.

And Cap, I’ll need a little motivation. Send one of your rookies. Sanders hung up, threw the phone to the other side of the bed, and dragged out the tarnished badge from the back of the drawer. Urbs in Horto, the motto read. City in a garden. Gardens made of nothing but concrete and blood. She ran her fingers over the depressed letters. Felt each tip of the center star, the weight of its very existence. Blinking back threatening tears she tossed the badge back into the drawer.

Sanders wiped her face with the back of her hand, pushed herself up, and returned to the bathroom. She stared into the vanity mirror as steam coiled throughout the tiny room, leaving her reflection clouded and unrecognizable. I miss you, she said, as escaped tears mixed with warm vapor.

Two

Lawson watched the flickering bar sign from a block down the street. Its interior lighting competed with the fading overhead LED streetlamps, the blues and pinks of the rising sun. The vintage iron timepiece seemed stolen from a bygone era, On the Clock encircling the stuck, yellowed clockface in red lettering.

Why don’t these things happen during regular banker’s hours? the sergeant asked, filling his hands with warm breath, battling against a late winter’s morning breeze.

Captain Richard Lawson kept his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Not only to limit his exposure but to hide his growing irritation of his sergeant’s griping. If you wanted banker’s hours you should have been a banker. He turned his gaze across the street to the cream-colored brick apartments. That patrolman better get it right. None of us want to be on her bad side.

On who’s bad side? Sanders butted her way between the two men. The slate-colored blazer and white blouse were a distinct contrast to the distressed leather bomber jacket she wore. Short, dirty blond hair, feathered at the sides and back, looked purposeful in its disorder as did her jeans and high heels, yet her face never betrayed the gravity of her position.

She nodded to the younger of the two men. Sergeant.

Ma’am.

Turned her gaze toward Lawson. Dick.

In the field, you’ll address me as Captain Lawson, Detective Sanders, he said as if well practiced.

Sanders ignored the directive and scanned over the sergeant. Where’s that motivation I asked for? She raised a brow over ice-blue eyes, passing judgment as he chuckled into his cupped hands, clearing his throat to cover up.

Don’t, Lawson said, a warning finger pointed at the young sergeant. It just encourages her. He motioned across the street. There he is. A patrol officer joined the group, a tray of steaming cups in hand.

Two black coffees. Lawson and the sergeant took their cups. And a Triple Venti, Half Sweet, Nonfat, Caramel Macchiato, the officer said, handing Sanders hers.

Thanks, sweetie, needed this. Sanders took the cup and wrapped her hands around the warm drink. Oh, that’s nice, creamy, kind of like my date last night. You want to hear about it, Captain?

No. Lawson tipped his chin at the officers. You two watch the line. The officers crossed the street, sneaking one last look at the detective as they left.

Raven’s a real looker. I ever introduce you? Sanders followed Captain Lawson, ducking the windblown yellow line, and entered the neighboring apartment building.

I think I’d remember.

Lives up to her reputation too, very flexible.

And a fine upstanding citizen, I’ll bet. I don’t want to know.

What does citizenry have to do with anything?

Katheryn, my youngest is graduating from college. She doesn’t need her godmother exposing her to the kind of girls you hook up with.

Brandie’s graduating college? Aw, I remember when she was still running around in diapers. Least she’s smart enough not to be a cop, Sanders said as they stepped into the elevator.

Way smarter than me. Victim’s on four, witness on ground. Landlady ID’ed the body. Said she saw some stranger creeping around. Called it in. You want the dossier? Lawson pulled a manila folder from the depths of his jacket and held it out for Sanders.

I’ll just end up proving half of it wrong. Follow along if you like.

I’ll keep it for you then. He tucked the folder under his arm as the elevator doors slid open. It’s this one. Lawson pointed to an adjacent apartment and stepped into the hallway.

You mean the one with the police tape across the door? Sanders smiled, taking a sip from her cup. I’ll give you the easy ones, Cap, to keep your spirits up. Out of respect for the rank.

Respect, that’d be a change. Lawson made way for his detective. You do you, Kat.

Sanders handed her cup over to Lawson and donned a pair of black police gloves. She ran her hand along the door frame, examined the deadbolt, and tried the knob as she entered the apartment. Whoever was with the victim was a friend, someone they knew anyway. Invited in, but not expected.

What gives you that impression?

Someone posing a threat would have forced their way in. Kicking or ramming the door with a shoulder would leave stress fractures in the frame. If it was a solicitor or Mormons or something, she kneeled down, feeling the carpet. They likely would have waited in the hallway. There are multiple track marks here, most seem to be standard-issue tack boots. Your boys are getting sloppy.

Lawson nodded as he flipped through the dossier.

Victim’s company wore an expensive Oxford, maybe a Derby. It’s odd though. You said the witness only saw one creeper?

That’s what her statement says.

It’s the same shoe but…" Sanders sidestepped the footpath in the light tan carpet, following it to the kitchenette.

Lawson trailed along, taking notes as Sanders thought out loud. She ran her hand across the countertop, faucet, and dirty dishes, across the coffee machine. Older, middle-aged, likely on the heavy side, muscular maybe. He made them coffee so more likely a long-term acquaintance rather than a friend. Sanders scanned the apartment. Nice place? What’s rent like this side of town?

You’re the detective, you tell me, Lawson said, looking into the kitchenette. A near-full pot of coffee sat on the burner. Two cups on a small table beside the window.

One bedroom, one bath? Better where I am. Sanders stepped over the body bag. A noose dangled just above. Tell me, Captain, why call me in on this? There’s enough here to call it suicide.

Is it a suicide? Lawson asked.

No, but there’s enough to call it one.

Person of interest left the building twenty minutes before area patrol could do a wellness check. Lawson scanned through the file again. We’re waiting to get the building surveillance. And as I said, the landlady reported someone leaving the victim’s apartment without him. and, well, here we are.

Know the victim’s name? Sanders asked.

I do. Lawson pointed a cockeyed grin at his detective.

You’re an ass. Sanders smiled back. His name’s Schmidt, Jerry Schmidt.

Seen it a hundred times, yet it still amazes me. Lawson shook his head, closing the dossier, and folding it under his arm. Kat, how do you do that?

Mailboxes downstairs. You said he was on the fourth floor. Six apartments on this floor, two have double occupancy, two house single women, one’s empty, and one is rented to a Mr. Jerry Schmidt. You should be better at this, Cap.

Should know better than to bet against you, too.

Sanders shot him a boastful smile, shaking her disapproval. How much?

Fifty.

Guess retirement will have to wait. Sanders peered out the window. He worked at the bar across the street?

Bartender at the On the Clock, some fancy whiskey bar, been there fifteen years, Lawson stood looking down at the body bag. Should I ask?

Box of coasters on the counter. You really are bad at this.

That’s why they put me in charge.

We sure he’s just the bartender?

Lawson shrugged. It’s what the file says. We’ll look into it.

Traffic camera won’t be much help, even with enhancement. Too far away. You said there was building surveillance. Sanders knelt at the center of the room and unzipped the body bag.

Landlady didn’t have access to the security room. We’re working on finding who does. Theories on cause of death?

You know me better than that. Sanders bent low on her knees to see along Schmidt’s neckline.

You’re right. Lawson retrieved a pen and notebook from his breast pocket. Hit me.

Sanders pressed a gloved finger to the base of Schmidt’s neck, down his shirt to his sternum, along a bulging scar. She lifted his eyelids and sat back on her haunches. Heart attack.

Heart attack? Lawson stopped taking notes to give Sanders a questioning look. Kat, we took him out of the noose not fifteen minutes before you got here.

That was nice of you. Made it easy to find the puncture marks on his neck. I get how your boys would think suicide, but he’s missing any sign of struggle.

What about the strangulation marks, the rope burns? He pointed his pen down at Schmidt before returning to take more notes, shaking his head in disbelief.

They're not a surprise, since he was practically dead when our person of interest strung him up. Sanders pressed against her knees to stand, brushing off her jeans.

Okay, I give up. Lawson sighed, turned over a fresh notebook page, and offered Sanders his full attention. Give me the whole story.

Sanders removed her gloves, stuffed them into Lawson's jacket pocket, and returned to the door. Mr. Schmidt’s acquaintance came sometime around seven, eight o’clock, put down after dinnertime.

Lawson opened his mouth for another question, thought better of it, and kept writing.

He was surprised, but invited his friend in, Sanders continued. Offered to make some coffee.

What was the friend here for?

My guess, business proposition. The friend set their briefcase on the table. Jerry takes sugar in his coffee. His guest, with no intention of drinking, left it untouched. Sanders pointed to the two cups on the small table. One full, the other, half empty. Sugar granules on the table line up with the contours of a hard leather briefcase.

Business have anything to do with the bar? Lawson suggested.

Good thought. Sanders nodded as she paced the room. Either way, business got postponed. More likely Jerry wasn’t in a business frame of mind.

So, Schmidt here turns away a fat check then promptly has a heart attack? Lawson asked tapping his pen against his notepad. Pretty weak, Kat.

There’s a surgical scar along his breastbone. He’d had a bypass after surviving an attack. The heart is weakened by the trauma, making another attack more likely. Especially when introducing a powerful stimulant.

The medical examiner did his initial exam. Said he died of strangulation.

He still might have.

Jesus, Kat. What did you see that a highly paid, exceptionally trained physician missed?

Needle prick behind the neck, sternocleidomastoid muscle to be precise. Whatever was put in went right into the jugular. Adrenalin, unless I miss my guess. It must have been a quick strike. The hole is barely stretched, if at all.

I’ll authorize an autopsy, Lawson sighed, wiping his temple. Medical isn’t going to like us undermining their determination.

I can see how they missed it. Hairline covers it pretty well and since your officers determined it was a suicide beforehand… Sanders raised her eyebrows. They’re big boys, they’ll get over it.

We’ll see. Motive?

Friend came here intending to make Mr. Schmidt some kind of proposal. Since he wasn’t ready to make a deal, his friend offs him. Strings him up to the rafters to save himself the hassle of a murder investigation and a few bucks in one fell swoop.

So, the friend was a total asshole after all? Lawson returned his notebook to his breast pocket.

There’s something else here, something I’m not seeing.

That’s a first. Is it about the shoes?

Yeah. Almost like there were two of them. Sanders swept her eyes around the room one last time, deep in thought. Let me know if the cameras get a decent shot of Mr. Schmidt’s friend. I’ll meet you back at the station.

Where are you off to?

Sun’s coming up. Pigs need doughnuts.

Three

The scotch tonight was warmer than usual. Tyler Lilyquist swirled his tumbler and sighed. Jerry would’ve known better than to serve him warm scotch. For ten years he’d been coming to the On the Clock, practically a daily ritual, and all that time their aligned standards regarding scotch had been unquestioned. Until now.

New here? Lilyquist asked the bartender. Haven’t seen you before. The kid’s silver hair and black stubble contrasted with his tuxedo. Ice-gray eyes gave a sensitive depth to a face flirting with not being old enough to enter a bar, let alone serve in one.

First day, sir, the young bartender said. He snapped a silver Zippo closed and slid it back into his pocket.

Jerry off?

He leaned against the back bar and began polishing the highball glasses. I believe so, sir.

Lilyquist grunted a generic response, emptied his glass, and shook it in the kid’s direction. The young bartender refreshed it with a Balvenie, single malt, twelve years old. His suit looked new, well pressed. Would he be a tolerable substitute for the usual bartender? Bowtie, standard freestyle, collar starched, hair teased to stand bolt upright, tidy though, took his time.

Lilyquist took a healthy sip. Not bad. He nodded his approval. The kid reminded Lilyquist of most of his students. Each generation insists they’re doing something new and only succeeds when everyone else feels old.

Built like a collegiate himself, lean and tall with broad shoulders and long limbs, not one of his students would describe him as the professor type. Though hearing him lecture, he possessed the knowledge and understanding of a man three times his age. The pursuit of knowledge, he would say, is a mountain you climb alone. Stand atop alone. Then attempt to describe its beauty to anyone within earshot, knowing full well no one will care to listen.

Anything else I can get you, Professor?

A gentle shake of his head served in answer as he savored the Balvenie. One of the few times Lilyquist ever found peace was in this bar. In reality, his students bored him. Teaching passed the time, but the lack of sense in his students frustrated him. He breathed in scents of peaches and cedar wood. The caramel liquid warmed his stomach as it worked to relax his day away.

Vodka martini, no olive. Sorry, I’m late, Ty. Alexander Cole removed his leather gloves, tossing them onto the bar top. A chilly night aura surrounded him, reminding his friend of the peace so appreciated, now lost.

You’re always late, Al. I’d grown to expect it. And who orders a martini in a whiskey bar?

You should have ordered it for me. Cole hung his wool overcoat over the bar chair, removing the icy effect as he took his seat. He’d been Lilyquist’s friend since they were undergraduates. Cole, a sixth-year senior and Lilyquist coming in as a headstrong freshman. Even as a young man, Cole was pretentious, impulsive, and an overall ass of a person. He was also brilliant and born into an industrialist family with the millstone of rich genius tied like a noose around his neck.

Who’s the new kid? Cole asked.

Didn’t catch his name, seems to know his stuff. The bartender brought Cole’s martini. Which he downed in one gulp, signaling for another.

The reasons had sometimes escaped Lilyquist why they’d been friends, given their stark differences. The ladies didn’t mind Cole’s charm and movie star looks, or his money. Compared to a stuffy underpaid academic, who could blame them? Despite his arrogant, sometimes flighty nature, Lilyquist found Cole to be one of the few people who could understand him. And vice versa.

Trying to catch up? Lilyquist asked. Cole’s energy radiated off of him. A restlessness, not out of character, but tonight it seemed excessive. So much to spoil the bar’s relaxed atmosphere. You seem revved up tonight. What’s on your mind?

Things are happening, my friend, exciting things, but first I’ll need some scholarly advice. The bartender set down Cole’s second drink before heading to take care of a dirty blond-headed woman sitting at the far end.

"Oh yeah? Tell me, what knowledge has this humble pedagogue of philosophy over the illustrious Alistair Cole, and how would I ever hope to overshadow