Soledad's mouth. "Won't do it. I'm not going to sell out other cops."
"If they're murderers, if they are killing people-"
"Freaks aren't people. They don't have rights."
"Neither do dogs, but you can't shoot one in the street. The transgression is the same. So is the threat to you and me and everything that we believe in."
"That's kinda much, don't you think?"
"Maybe. But is that the chance you want to take? Hate me. O'Roark. From where you stand. I deserve your hatred. But don't hate me so much you would condemn us all to returning to a time when freaks ruled and humans clung to relevancy. Understand, that is where we are now: a point of advancement or reversion.
"I don't know what destiny has assigned us. Whether it's to change the course of history as we know it, or just bust a few dirty cops. Honestly, even thinking like that… well, I stand on very ordinary legs. What I do know, for whatever reason, whatever the outcome, we have been delivered to this moment to do something or to do nothing. My question to you, Officer O'Roark: Which will it be?"
It started as a John Doe. A body, no ID, clothes partially burned away, found at the bottom of the LA River. Not that the LA River was particularly deep. More like the LA stream. The stiff was stiff, probably dead forty-eight hours by the rigor, the lividity, but lack of decomposition. A bum, probably. Dead from too much booze, too little shelter. The body got transported to the LA County Forensic Science Center. Fancy name for city morgue. Given the same deference as the inanimate slab which it had ended up, the body would get processed, paperworked, stored, then prepped for an eventual dump in a potter's field.
Routine.
In LA, in a city that manufactured 158.9 bodies a day, this John Doe was just more of the same.
Would've been.
Except for the mandatory autopsy that the assistant medical examiner finally got around to performing six days after the body arrived. Except that when the AME put a scalpel to the John Doe to open his flesh, the flesh would not open. Not with the scalpel. Not with a bone cutter. Not with a hacksaw. Not with a Black & Decker power drill the AME pulled out of the trunk of his Dodge Stratus.
Who the John Doe was, was still unknown. What he was, was becoming real clear. What he was, was a freak. An invulnerable. Dead, probably, a lot longer than forty-eight hours prior to its discovery. Impossible to know. A hundred years from now his body might, slightly, begin to decay. Somewhat. Nobody knew for sure. As there had only been a very few exanimate invulnerables as case studies, the rate of their decomposition was still being surveyed.
So who the freak was, how long it had been dead were questions. But neither was the question. The question, the one that got the examiners at LACFSC nervous as they called DMI. reported what they had: What is it that killed an invulnerable freak?
“He's a freak."
Soledad and Donate!! stood just inside the doorway of the house. Nice house. Really nice. Palos Verdes nice. Big. Ocean view. The house was nice to the point the guy who owned the house probably referred to his "inside the doorway" as a foyer or anteroom or something else classy-sounding.
The guy who owned it: Fong. An Asian guy with an English accent. Either born in Hong Kong or educated at Oxford. However it was, the end result, he'd ended up in the south bay area of LA with enough dough to live well. Real well. The only stress in Fong's life, apparently, was Ms neighbor.
"He's a freak," Fong said again.
Soledad and Donatell gave very little outward reaction. Donatell-Mike Donatell-might've reacted the hell out things. His face, hard to tell. Donatell, when he was MTac, had ended up on a bad call against a fire freak. Donatell had been severely burned. Donatell's skull looked like it had molten flesh poured over it. Ears and nose made out of melted, discolored wax. He was a sight. Not a pleasant one.
Donatelclass="underline" "When you say he's a freak…"
"When I say he is a freak, I mean that he is a freak. I'm not sure what, else there is to say."
"What kind of a freak?"
Hesitation from Fong.
"What are his abilities?"
"Well, they are subtle. But they involve his vision. I believe he has, has the ability to see through solid objects."
"X-ray vision," Soledad prompted.
"I believe. And he is superstrong."
"Thing is, freaks only have one metanormal ability. So which is it?"
Hesitation from Fong.
Soledad, again: "Which is it?" Soledad had been "graciously invited" along on the interview by Donatell. Strictly, she wasn't sure she should be asking questions. But, response by response, she was getting a sense of things. Her sense, her time was being wasted.
"X-ray vision. I believe."
"And you know this because…?"
"Because I've seen him use it."
"You've seen him use X-ray vision? How were you able to see someone use X-ray vision?"
"Why would I lie? What reason do I have to lie about that… that freak being a freak?"
"Did I say you were lying?"
"Mr. Fong," Donatell stepping back into things, "before we deal with the situation, we need to be absolutely sure of what we're dealing with."
"And I have told you." Fong did not, could not look at Donatell. Donatell's aspect too severe to handle.
"Yes, you have." Donatell's mouth was nearly fused shut. His 'words were permanently slurred, and every sentence uttered ended with a slurping sound. Donatell sucking in air and sucking back saliva. A couple of scenes from The Elephant Man jumped into Soledad's head. "'But we have to be sure of what we're dealing with. Every detail has to be considered. Can you give us a description of the individual?"
"He's Mexican."
And Soledad got it. No matter the guy was doing well enough to afford a place in Palos Verdes-which meant he was doing better than ninety-five percent of the working stiffs in
America-Fong figured Ms property value was going to take a hit having a Mexican living next door. So what do you do? You call him a freak, call DMI, have them send him off to a new place to live. Like the SPA.
Standing right where she was, Soledad settled back within herself. Let Donatell do the work, conduct the interview. She was done with getting her time wasted.
The queer thing about it all, one guy was accusing another of having the ability to see through solid objects. Soledad thought he was lying, but in the world she lived in he didn't sound insane.
The waiter took the order of the Chicken Saag, the Lamb Tikka Masai a. Onion Kulcha. The waiter, taking the order, stared at Donatell. Barely looked away enough to write on the pad he carried. He stared at Donatell like he was clocking one of those Night of the Living Dead zombies trying to figure what was the best way to kill the beast. And on top of all that the waiter was obvious with the speed he took down the order, got away from the table as if he had to rush off to puke. Donatell didn't seem put out. Then again, as before, it was hard to tell what was going on behind that permanent mask Donatell wore.
Soledad, eating some katchumber: "What do we do?"
"About the call? Write it up, turn it in. Surveil the guy."
"Even though the complainant was lying?"
"You know he was lying?"
Soledad gave a laugh. "C'mon."
Donatell, again: "Do you know he was lying?"
"Back in the day the complaint would've been: He's a dealer. A banger. Whatever. Whatever to try to get the cops to do some redlining on the city's dime."
"Do you-"
"I know it's a waste of time when DMI ought to be looking for real freaks."
"Good of you to educate me," big slurp, "on how DMI works."