Class Fives: Origins Page 10

  By the time Dan had managed to get back to the precinct, Jim had already babbled the incredible tale of what he had witnessed to a dozen or more other cops, plus two investigators from the National Transportation and Safety Administration. The one thing they all seemed to have picked up from the excitedly blurted retelling, was that some guy had walked into the accident and pulled a Superman, dragging the blazing tanker truck off the crumpled cars and literally carrying a smashed SUV to safety.

  It had taken Dan a while to convince those he managed to buttonhole that maybe Jim had been a bit over-excited and misinterpreted what he thought he had witnessed. The total unbelievability of the story had helped, and the long verbal report he had finally made to the Lieutenant, complete with hints that maybe Jim was letting his imagination run away with him a little bit, had calmed down a lot of the wild speculation that was already beginning to filter through the precinct gossip mill.

  He felt bad that, when it was Jim’s turn to report what he’d observed, the Lieutenant’s attitude was clearly more tolerant and understanding than it would have been if he actually believed the crazy story of some kind of superhero swooping in to save the day.

  If only the Lieutenant hadn’t suggested, when Jim had finished his tale, that maybe the young patrolman should take a few days off to clear his head from the traumatic events of the morning. If he’d just nodded and dismissed Jim, it might have been easier for Dan now. Instead, the Lieutenant had called Dan in to verify what he had seen, and Dan had gently inferred that maybe Jim had just misinterpreted the events, which could happen to anybody.

  By the time they had been ushered out of the office Jim’s face was a cold, fuming mask.

  “All right,” Jim said sharply. “Why didn’t you back me up with the Lieutenant? You know what we saw. It was fucking incredible but you ratted me out. Why, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Look,” Dan responded, a bit sharply, “I tried to get to you before you did your report but you were already shooting your mouth off, not just to our people but those TSA guys, too.”

  “So what?” Jim snapped back, “I was just telling them what I saw!”

  “That’s right,” Dan countered, “And do you have any idea how crazy it sounds?”

  “But it’s true!”

  “I know it’s true! And you know it’s true. But where’s your evidence? Can you prove it?”

  Jim hesitated, his logical cop’s instinct starting to reassert itself above his anger.

  “I don’t have to prove it! We’re not prosecuting the guy!”

  “No, we’re not,” Dan countered, “But unless you can prove it, it just sounds crazy. Or you sound crazy. And I’ve got too many years in to have people start thinking I’m going batshit now. That’s something you need to learn. If you can’t prove it, then it remains ‘alleged’, as in the ‘alleged perpetrator’ or the ‘alleged incident’. You understand? You start insisting something that insane was real, the only thing you’re going to do is make everyone think you’re losing it. You can tell people by saying ‘it looked like’, or ‘it appeared’, but you start telling people like it’s a fact, they aren’t going to believe you. They’ll just think you’re a moron.”

  Jim visibly deflated, the anger flowing away like water vapor above a hot springs. Slowly he leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

  “Right. You’re right. I didn’t think of that. Sorry.”

  Dan gazed at him a moment, then continued gently.

  “Listen,” he went on, “You’re going to see a lot of crazy shit in this job. A lot. And some of it will be so nuts you won’t know how to even describe it. But all anyone will want to know about is what you can prove. Not what you saw, but what you can prove you saw. And if you can’t do that, then just stick with whatever facts you can prove and forget the rest.”

  “I thought you’d back me up,” Jim muttered, a bit sullenly.

  “Well, you thought wrong. Sorry.”

  They remained silent, feeling the electric crackle of the tension between them slowly begin to dissipate. At last Jim turned and stared at Dan.

  “So you didn’t lose the guy, did you?” he asked flatly.

  Dan shook his head.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, at least tell me what happened. You owe me that much.”

  Dan considered this a moment, then nodded.

  “Ok. He finally pulled over, way down by Rosemead, and we went and got a cup of coffee together.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jim said, his tone a little awed.

  “Nope. Oh,” Dan added, reaching to dig in his trouser pocket and extract the smooth lump of gleaming metal that had been his handcuffs and holding it out. Instinctively Jim extended a hand and Dan dropped the lump into it.

  “He did that to my cuffs. While I sat there.”

  Jim stared down at the small, heavy mass.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Dan smiled.

  “Nope. Took him a couple seconds. It was like he just put it in his palm, worked it around a second and that’s what was left.”

  “My God,” Jim breathed. “So he really did it. Moved that truck and all that.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Jim shot a confused, tight glance at his partner.

  “Why didn’t you bring him in?”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. Material witness.”

  Dan turned and fixed his partner with a wry expression.

  “Bring in the guy who flipped a tanker truck up a hillside, carried an SUV out of fire, ripped off the door like it was nothing and, oh yeah, squashed my handcuffs into that. Bring in that guy.”

  Jim stared at him and after a moment his expression changed to one of dawning understanding.

  “Oh, yeah. I see your point.”

  “And by the way, he’s invulnerable.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Can’t be hurt. By anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  “And you believe him?”

  Dan merely directed his gaze, pointedly, at the glistening metal lump still seated in his partner’s palm.

  Jim slowly leaned back, turning to gaze out the windshield, his mind racing.

  “This is fucking unbelievable,” he said quietly.

  “I’d have to agree on that.”

  “So,” Jim said quietly, “What was he like?”

  Dan shrugged.

  “Just a guy. Mostly I get the feeling he just wants to be left alone.”

  “Left alone?”

  Dan nodded thoughtfully.

  “And I don’t blame him. I mean, if I could do that kind of stuff, I don’t know if I’d want anybody to know it. Think what that would be like. If people knew.”

  “I’d love to talk to the guy.”

  “Well, I gave him my card. If he calls, we’ll see. Maybe we’ll go bowling together or something. Just the three of us.”

  Jim chuckled.

  “Yeah.”

  Again they let the silence drift over them for a moment.

  “It was pretty fucking incredible,” Jim said quietly.

  “I know,” Dan responded. “When I was a kid, I lived on comic books. Now, I find out that stuff could be real.”

  Jim tossed him a sidelong glance.

  “Did you happen to get his number?”

  Dan shook his head.

  “Didn’t want to push it.”

  Jim thought a moment, then nodded.

  “Probably best,” he said, finally.

  “Got his license plate, though.”

  Jim turned to regard his partner once more and a slow smile crept over his lips.

  “Did you now?”

  The older one with the shock of gray hair straightened in his chair, his eyes picking over the data that scrolled slowly up the monitor screen.

  “I have something,” he said flatly.

  The younger one with the horn-rimmed glasses turned away from h
is own screen and slid his chair over to get a look.

  “Yes?” he said, his entire attention already focused.

  “Vehicle collision on the interstate. Six fatalities. Driver of a tanker truck, passengers in three other vehicles.”

  “What’s the anomaly?”

  The older man leaned forward to tap the screen at a point on the grainy photograph where a crumpled, upside down SUV stood, a short distance away from an indistinguishable mass of smoldering metal that filled the other end of the frame.

  “A female, age thirty four, and two minors, male aged five and female aged three. Preliminary incident report by an Officer James Belles states that an unknown subject picked up the vehicle and moved it away from the fire, then removed the vehicle door and rescued the minors.”

  “Any corroboration?”

  The older man pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and the image was replaced by long lines of text.

  “Two other reports from the same incident. Transportation and Safety Administration representative mentions an indication that the initiating vehicle, the truck, was moved after the accident concluded and the combustion had taken hold.”

  “And the other?”

  “Another police officer, who took the surviving female's statement. She confirms her vehicle containing the minors was carried away from the epicenter by a man who subsequently extracted the minors, who were trapped inside it.”

  The younger one considered this a long moment.

  “Speculation?”

  “Strong possibility.”

  The younger one rolled his chair smoothly back to his own monitor and reached to pick up the phone. He dialed the number from memory.

  It rang once before it was answered.

  “Yes?” the smooth female voice inquired.

  “Get me Crawford,” the younger one said flatly.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Jones.”

  “One moment.”

  The line clicked silent. He glanced over to see that the older one had already begun pulling the data, collecting the scattered bits and pieces for analysis.

  The phone clicked quietly.

  “Crawford.”

  “Sir,” the younger one said, “I believe we may have another indicator.”

  “Go on.”

  “Vehicle collision. Six fatalities.”

  “And the anomaly?”

  “A tanker truck moved post-incident, and a Sports Utility Vehicle transported a distance of approximately fifty feet. Also an eye witness who reports an individual as responsible for the anomaly.”

  “Very good. Keep me informed.”

  The younger one hung up the phone and turned back to the older one.

  “What?”

  The older one scanned the screen.

  “The female witness, the TSA representative and the initial reporting officer.”

  “The officer,” the younger one said. “Then the female, then the representative.”

  “Why the officer first?”

  “Objective witness. Not directly impacted by the incident. An observer. That will be the baseline.”

  The older one nodded thoughtfully.

  “And if we receive confirmation?”

  “Identify the subject. Isolate if possible. Interrogate.”

  “And if he resists interrogation?”

  But the younger one did not answer. The older one hadn’t expected him to. That was the one circumstance that they had been trained would have to be met and resolved as it occurred. There was no set of standards for such a situation. It would be something entirely new. And despite all the speculation, the long, elaborate scenario gaming the think tank had been performing over and over again for a long time now, there were no commonly accepted rules of engagement for confronting the absolutely unknown. And this might, at last, be the unknown.

  But not the unlooked-for.

  Ever since the beginnings of genetic experimentation, the uncomfortable thought of what might result should some experiment or test get out of control had resulted in not only a strict set of boundaries for how far people should be allowed to traverse down the road paved with gene splicing and irradiation of the nucleus of a cell, but also the establishment of someone to be responsible for such results that might have their origins beyond the power of that restrictive legislation.

  Their job, and the jobs of a small but highly elite group of individuals buried silently in the recesses of a very private government agency, was to make sure that if the results of the current explosion of scientific advances were unfavorable or even undesirable, someone would know of it and have some small means of responding.

  This was, they understood, the world they lived in, where mankind’s own brilliance might overwhelm its good sense and place before the world something that should have been prevented. And if not prevented, at least something that would have to be dealt with.

  The older one pushed the key and the printer began to expel the pages of data.

  First the police officer. Then the female witness. Then the TSA representative.

  Perhaps by tomorrow they would at last have to face something no one in their right mind ever considered might actually happen, yet had, of necessity, to be watched for.

  Perhaps now, at last, the watching was over.

  John didn’t move for a long time, simply staring at the meaningless image flickering on the TV, his mind almost numb. When at last he flinched, he raised the glass almost mechanically, his head tipping back, mouth opening to receive the cool, oily fluid. It stung his throat and he almost coughed as he lurched forward on the couch and slapped the empty glass down on the low table.

  What the fuck, he thought, dully. I didn’t do anything wrong, Goddamnit. I stopped a guy from killing some other guy. And now I’m totally fucked because I tried to be a nice guy. Well, fuck it. I want another drink.

  He thrust himself up, instantly feeling his balance beginning to betray him, and let himself flop back down.

  Easy there, he told himself. Get a grip.

  When he rose again he had to concentrate, but managed to ease himself upright, bending to scoop up the glass.

  He shuffled into the little kitchen area and reached for the bottle sitting amid the clutter on the counter. His eyes caught the little white triangle peeking out from behind it and lifted the bottle out of the way.

  Oh yeah, he realized, that cop’s card. That what’s-his-name.

  He extended his free hand and, after pausing to correct his aim, plucked the card off the counter and lifted it to focus his glistening, moist vision on it.

  Sergeant Daniel Sinski. That’s right, he thought. The guy who said he really wouldn’t be in all that much trouble. That maybe he’d done a good thing.

  He stood, swaying slightly, for a long while before the thought arose.

  Just ask him. Just ask him if it was a good thing or not. If he thought it was a good thing, then maybe things weren’t that bad. After all, he was a cop. They knew that stuff.

  He carefully placed the bottle back on the cluttered counter, and turned to shuffle back toward the sofa, altering his path to grasp the phone that sat on the table in the corner.

  He shuffled to the sofa and turned to flop onto it, scooting down until the back formed a pillow. He placed the phone on his lap and brought the card up to stare at it again.

  He picked up the receiver.

  Dan flinched as the blaring ringtone spit into the room.

  His mind had been fixing again on the accident, already beginning to wonder if he actually had witnessed what his slowly tarnishing memory kept telling him he had. But his eye kept falling to the little lump of gleaming metal that sat on the small table beside the chair, trying to make what it told him fit into his life up to this moment.

  It was impossible. It was terrifying. And he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  As a kid he had consumed his share of adolescent fantasy, much of it a swirling mix of magic, wonder, and a faint hope tha
t the impossible might find a way to brush over him.

  And now perhaps it had.

  Pulled sharply back from his musings, he grabbed the small cell phone off the table and flicked it open.

  “Yeah,” he said, knowing there was a message of annoyance in the tone.

  “Hey,” the voice on the other end said, “Are you that cop?”

  Dan felt himself suddenly focusing on the voice, some deep instinct kicking in automatically.

  “Hello?” he responded, forcing his voice to be deliberately calm.

  “Wait a second, is this…” the voice began, and instantly Dan realized its owner was drunk and having a bit of trouble controlling all the working parts, particularly the tongue.

  There was a short pause before the voice returned, now attempting to be slowly precise.

  “…Is this Sergeant Daniel Sinski?”

  “Yes,” Dan replied, calmly.

  “I met you the other day. Remember me?”

  “Not really, no. Where did we meet?”

  “Questioning. You questioned me.”

  “I question a lot of people. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “That guy I beat up in that liquor store.”

  It only took a flicker and the guy was fully formed in Dan’s mind. Peter Morales, clocked with his own gun the moment he came in the door. And this was the guy who did it. Who sat in the interrogation room and denied all of it.

  “Right,” Dan said slowly, “you’re…. Kleinschmidt.”

  “That’s right,” the voice shot back, half defiance, half pride. “John Kleinschmidt. The man who prevented a murder.”

  “What are you talking about, John?” Dan prompted gently. “What murder?”

  “The clerk. He got shot. Right in the face.”

  “No, John, he didn’t. He’s fine.”

  “Sure, now. But before that he was fucking dead. And I prevented that. I undeaded him. Now don’t you think that’s a good thing? Saving somebody’s life like that? Huh?”

  “I think it’s a very good thing, John.”

  “So it wasn’t wrong that I did it, right?”