Chapter Text
“Here’s what we know so far.”
A pointing stick smacked against a printed image of The Surgeon. The photograph was magnetically adhered to the white board of the NYPD conference room and circled with red ink from an Expo marker.
“Doctor Martin Whitly was last seen at Saint Williams Memorial Hospital at six forty-seven A.M. on the third.”
The pointing stick moved to four other photographs of different men, all crossed out with red ink from an Expo marker. “He was meant to be escorted straight back to Claremont Psychiatric by Mark Freeman, Jerry Stevens, Lance Ritter, and Matt Rochester. But that didn’t happen.”
The pointing stick slid over to a map of Manhattan, on which another small red X was marked. “The transport van was found off Strand and Burmell, under Wendell Pass. The vehicle was abandoned, save for two bodies.”
Lieutenant McLeod directed the stick back to the photographs of the Claremont guards, addressing the room of police officers with a booming voice fit for a U.S. Marine Corps briefing. “Mister Freeman and Mister Stevens. Cause of death; carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Malcolm Bright hovered in the back of the conference room, listening with his arms folded and his eyes downward. At some point early in the briefing, Detective Powell and Detective Tarmel had snuck over to stand beside him, because it was clear that nobody else would.
“Nine hours later, Mister Ritter and Mister Rochester’s bodies were found in a dumpster at Claremont. Forensics determined they were also murdered by carbon monoxide poisoning, but their uniforms and badges were missing and their time of death antedated that which Doctor Whitly was last seen.”
The two detectives still bore some scrapes and scratches. JT had a few stitches on his elbow and Dani had a sizable bruise on her head, though she tried to hide it by wearing her hair down. Despite her effort, it was still visible in her hairline above her forehead.
“Which gives us reason to believe that two unknown suspects posed as Mister Ritter and Mister Rochester to pick up Doctor Whitly from Saint Williams, and therefore are responsible not only for a quadruple homicide, but also a kidnapping.”
Malcolm’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
It wasn't his smartphone. It was his other phone.
The profiler ignored the lingering sensation of the vibration. Now was not the time to check the text.
“Problem is, we have no idea who these two mystery men are,” Lieutenant McLeod continued. “And we have no idea where Doctor Whitly is.”
Buzz.
Malcolm shifted his stance and slyly checked around himself to see if anyone else had heard the vibrations from his pocket. If they did, they ignored it --except JT, who gave him a brief look. It turned into a double take as the phone buzzed yet again.
Buzz.
Malcolm sighed to himself. He couldn't take the device out to silence it. People would see that it was an obvious burner phone and that would attract questions. Questions he couldn’t afford to attract --even if they wouldn’t be asked directly to his face. The profiler was just glad that it was only a few pesky texts, and not a pestering call.
Buzz.
Now, Dani hovered a glance his way. Malcolm kept his gaze ahead, trying to appear as if he was paying attention to the briefing, especially now that it was starting to sound like more of a public humiliation.
“We thought, for a brief, unverified, reckless moment that Bruce and Trevor Jenks fit the profile, which Mister Bright was quick to provide after interrogating one of Doctor Whitly’s old colleagues, John Watkins.” Lieutenant McLeod caught his gaze for a moment, and Malcolm attempted to give him some sort of an apologetic, sheepish smile. It was half-hearted, since he was distracted by another harsh buzz in his pocket.
Buzz.
Luckily, Lieutenant McLeod was too far away to hear the vibrations. After tossing the profiler a glare that was unrelated to the disruption in his pocket, the Lieutenant continued with his group lecture. “Despite the highly unprofessional manner in which the investigation was carried out, the case led us to a junkyard in Orange County, where--” he stopped for a moment, took a solemn breath, then continued. “Where six of our officers met their death with a car bomb.”
Buzz.
The flip phone was vibrating so frequently in Malcolm’s pocket, it was actually worse than getting a call, because the buzzes kept coming. One after another, at varying intervals. Malcolm was somewhat used to it, to an extent, because his mother texted in the same way. Sentence by sentence, each sent in their own message. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that his father texted in the same excruciatingly irritating manner, but this was ridiculous.
Buzz.
JT murmured, “Dude.”
“Sorry,” Malcolm whispered, unfolding his arms to hold his wrist in front of himself. He tried to clandestinely press his forearm down over the phone in his pocket. It didn’t help muffle the sound. In fact, it only gave it something to make more noise against.
Malcolm was trapped. He couldn't exactly excuse himself from the conference room. Lieutenant McLeod already clearly disliked him.
“The Jenks brothers have been dead for a decade. Shot and killed in an act of gang violence in 2010.”
Buzz.
Malcolm started to sweat. He couldn’t help but wonder if the reason for all those texts was because there was some sort of emergency that demanded his attention. The question of what exactly qualified as an emergency was all the more stress-inducing. His mind started to run wild with potential reasons for the relentless texts.
“The bomb in the junkyard was likely prepared with the intent of harming our officers, but we are unable to reconnect with Mister Watkins, nor verify that he purposefully sent our men into a deadly trap because we have no record of the conversation between him and Mister Bright.”
Buzz.
Malcolm felt quite a few pairs of eyes on him, though most of them were sideways glances.
Another officer raised their voice to ask, “Lieutenant McLeod, why are we unable to reconnect with Mister--?”
“Mister Watkins is tightly guarded behind the impenetrable wall of his lawyer,” Lieutenant McLeod answered with a great sigh. “That wall will continue to be firmly in place well into his probation, which begins in one week.”
There was a palpable unhappiness in the room. The Junkyard Killer’s quick and efficient release was impressive in all the worst ways, but at least the buzzing in Malcolm’s pocket had stopped. The profiler tried to relax.
“So, we are back to square zero. No leads. No suspects. Nothing.” Lieutenant McLeod paced at the front of the room, drilling his sharp blue-eyed gaze into every officer in the room. “But as long as I am in charge of this precinct, nobody will rest until these two mystery men --and Doctor Whitly-- are found. Is that understood?”
“Give me a ‘Yes sir!’” he demanded in military fashion, repeating, “Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” the room echoed.
“Again!” he threw up one arm.
“Yes sir!” the room chanted louder.
“That’s more like it,” he barked. His icy glare darted to the young man in the back of the room. “Mr. Bright.”
Malcolm looked up.
“I wanna hear it from you, too, pal.”
Malcolm forced a false, bitter smile on his face and answered with a strong yet obedient, “Yes sir.”
Lieutenant McLeod nodded. His head continued to bob as he took in the sight of the group once again. In conclusion, he grumbled, “If God is on our side, Martin Whitly is dead, and we’ll never see or hear from him again.”
Malcolm returned his eyes to the floor and massaged his wrist.
Buzz.
It took everything Malcolm had in himself not to either sigh in frustration or smirk with a twisted sense of humor, both of which were equally difficult to resist.
The room livened with murmurs as the meeting adjourned. Malcolm was eager to escape the crowded space so he could check his texts, but he also didn’t want it to look like what the new lieutenant said had burrowed under his skin. It hadn’t.
Luckily, JT and Dani also seemed eager to exit the room, and upon their invitation and lead, he followed them out.
In the hall, JT turned to the two of them and made a face. “Well, I hope Lieutenant Arroyo recovers quickly. Or this is gonna be a loooong couple a weeks.”
“Last I heard, he should be out by next Friday,” Dani updated them, also making a face, though hers was more optimistic. “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.” She glanced at Malcolm, who was only partially listening. Perhaps with a hint of disappointment that went unnoticed by both men, she glanced back at JT and added, “But he won’t be back at work until the Monday after, at the soonest.”
JT didn’t seem consoled. He scoffed and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can take a week and a half of working under that guy. I’m gonna go deaf.”
Malcolm clapped one hand over his pocket as his phone buzzed yet again, then excused himself with a stressed smile. “I better check on, uh…”
“Yeah.” Dani winced a concerned look at him, then his pocket. “That sounds urgent.”
The profiler hurried off, only bringing out the flip phone when he was seated safely in the privacy of an unassigned cubicle on the other side of the room.
His heart knocked against his ribs like it was demanding to be let out of a cage. Nearly two dozen unread messages. Jesus Christ. Tapping the button pads on the small Nokia, he opened the conversation to learn--
His father had discovered emojis.
The breath that Malcolm had been holding in was released in a small sigh of agitation mixed with relief. He rolled his eyes and rested his head in one hand, tapping the ‘up’ arrow to look through the messages.
Martin had sent each emoji individually -- either because he did not know he could send them all strung together in one message, or because he was deliberately being as inconvenient and annoying as humanly possible, which was far more likely.
Malcolm furrowed his brow as he tapped the ‘down’ arrow to scroll back through the list of emojis, wondering what on Earth his father was trying to convey with them. They seemed to be picked at random, all drastically obscure and unordinary. A bed. A sun. A hat. A rat. A car. A smiley face with sunglasses. A musical note. A construction worker, and many more.
The profiler pressed away at the keypad with both thumbs. Alt, slash, slash, slash. Send.
‘???’
He waited for his father’s reply, briefly glancing up and around himself to ensure no one was heading his way. As expected, no one was. He was not the office favorite lately.
The phone buzzed once to notify him of a reply.
‘I'm telling you about my day using the icons.’
With an unenthusiastic expression, Malcolm typed back, ‘They’re called emojis.’ Send.
Buzz.
‘They’re very useful.’
Malcolm shook his head, believing this whole ordeal to be completely ludicrous. He thought that receiving calls from Claremont had been bad. Now, he was stuck with this.
Wait a minute.
Malcolm glared at the little phone and read over the emojis again, now knowing what story they told. He leaned forward in his chair, placing both elbows on the desk and furiously typing, ‘What's the blood, syringe, skull, and chains mean?’ Send.
He took a breath to try and calm his thumping heart, but then typed some more, ‘Did you kill someone?’ Send.
Buzz.
‘No, I just like those ones.’
Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed before closing the phone, placing it on the desk, and then rubbing his hands over his face. During his internal lamenting, his phone buzzed twice.
The profiler growled to himself and snatched the phone again. The two messages read;
‘They make me feel’
(Emoji of a smiley face with heart eyes.)
A new buzz brought a third message.
‘Or maybe this one.’
A fourth buzz.
(Emoji of a smiley face with three hearts.)
“Oh my God,” Malcolm groaned quietly. This was going to drive him insane.
Buzz.
‘But also this one.’
Buzz.
(Emoji of a smiling devil.)
‘Stop,’ Malcolm sent. His father did not stop, and Malcolm desperately forced his phone into silent mode so the vibrations would cease.
‘This is like what they used to do in therapy,’ his father rambled in text. ‘They had little cards with faces on them and we were supposed to say which ones we felt during certain circumstances.’
‘Please stop,’ Malcolm repeated.
Four texts followed, one after another.
‘It made me feel very,’
(Emoji of an unamused smiley face.)
(Emoji of a smiley face with rolling eyes.)
(Emoji of an unamused smiley face.)
‘STOP,’ Malcolm abused the buttons of the Nokia.
There was a substantial pause with no response, but Malcolm knew better than to allow himself to feel relieved. He knew the pause wouldn’t last long, and it didn’t.
His father sent an (emoji of a sad face.)
‘We have GOT to set some ground rules,’ Malcolm texted quickly. ‘Just listen.’
His first rule; ‘No spamming’
‘No what?’
‘Spamming. Don’t spam me,’ the profiler clarified. Apparently, he didn’t clarify well enough.
‘What do you mean spamming? Like email spam? I’m not sending you spam mail. They’re just icons.’
Malcolm winced and typed, ‘You are so old.’
He received an (emoji of an envelope) and then a text that read, ‘I’ve been locked up for twenty years, son,’ and then another text that read, ‘There’s no jail icon??? This is an outrage.’
Malcolm tried to cut in with, ‘Dad, listen.’
‘They have (a water polo emoji) but no jail icon? Who designed these?’
Malcolm laid down the law. ‘You are only allowed to send 3 texts in a row. No more.’
‘Only 3?’
‘You can send long texts,’ Malcolm permitted. ‘That’s completely fine. But please, for the love of God, not a million short texts.’
Martin sent an (emoji of a thinking face.)
‘Please,’ Malcolm begged.
Martin sent an (emoji of a thumbs up.)
The profiler took a breath before continuing, ‘I have more rules. Listen.’
Dr. Whitly sent an (emoji of an ear.)
Malcolm’s second rule; ‘No contacting mom or Ainsley.’
‘Got it,’ Dr. Whitly replied. Then, ‘Consider them dead to me.’ He used his third text to send a (skull emoji.)
Malcolm glared at the little screen. ‘Not funny.’
‘It’s a little funny.’
Malcolm’s third rule; ‘Don’t let anyone find you.’
‘Obviously.’
‘No one can know I am in contact with you.’
‘Of course.’
‘When I call or text you, you must immediately answer.’
‘That won’t be a problem at all,’ Dr. Whitly replied, followed by an (emoji of a grinning face.)
Malcolm’s most important rule; ‘You cannot murder.’
‘Already established that.’
Malcolm was determined to make his father understand the unfathomable weight of this rule. ‘You’re going to obey that one,’ he warned. ‘If I find ANY blood on your hands, you are going straight back into a cell.’
‘I already told you that’s not where I’ll be going, Malcolm,’ his father replied. ‘If I get caught again, especially if I have fresh (emoji of a blood droplet) on my hands, I’m headed straight for the (emoji of a chair.)’
‘Or whatever they’ve replaced it with nowadays,’ Dr. Whitly added.
‘Better not kill anyone then!’ Malcolm sent, paired with a (smiley face.)
‘Better not get caught killing anyone,’ The Surgeon corrected with a (winking face.)
Malcolm rubbed his head again. He’d never felt so exhausted sending mere texts.
‘I’m joking.’
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘I think it’s hilarious.’
“God help me,” Malcolm whispered out loud. He jumped in his seat as a voice behind him barked, “God help us all.” The profiler slammed the Nokia shut and whirled around in his chair to see Lieutenant McLeod leaning on the frame of his cubicle. “Lieutenant.” Malcolm held the phone in his lap, both hands wrapped securely around it. “Do you need som--?”
“I need to make sure you understand something, Mister Bright,” Lieutenant McLeod declared with his militaristic tone. He cared little for keeping his voice quiet, and their conversation held zero privacy. “I'm in charge now. Not Lieutenant Arroyo. You’re not going to be able to get away with the shit he lets you get away with. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” Malcolm nodded, attempting to take the scolding with as much dignity, respect, and patience as he could. Still, he couldn’t stop a tight smile from flashing across his face as he shook his head, shrugged, and asked, “Anything else?”
“Yeah. One more thing.” The older man pointed a firm finger in his direction. “You are irresponsible, inconsiderate, selfish, and arrogant, and Lieutenant Arroyo has poor judgement to trust you.”
The only thing in that sentence that irked the profiler was the diss on Gil’s reputation, but all he could do was smile and nod, accepting the lecture.
The older man turned to leave. “As you were.”
Malcolm pursed his lips in thought, knowing he should leave the conversation there. But he didn’t. He gently raised his voice to call, “Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant McLeod turned around with a certain look on his face.
Malcolm smiled at him again. “He trusts me because I have an unparalleled record of finding murderers. And I’m going to find these ones, too. I promise.” It was a confident promise, but also a kind one. One that held as much empathy as it did strength.
Lieutenant McLeod wasn't moved. “Try not to get innocent people killed in the process, this time,” he grumbled before asking with a blatant mockery of the boy’s surname, knowing it was false, “Can you do that, ‘Bright?’”
Malcolm secretly grit his teeth behind his lips, but he nodded and replied, “Yes, sir.”
With little faith in the profiler, the new lieutenant marched away.
Dani hovered over to Malcolm’s cubicle, watching their boss retreat into Gil’s office. “Wow. He’s really got it out for you.”
Malcolm explained with a sigh, “He blames me for those six officers’ deaths. He was probably close to one of them.” He carelessly tossed one hand in the air beside his head and rotated in his desk chair. “I don't blame him. It was my fault. I should have seen something like that coming.”
“Hey.” Dani lightly glared at him. “Don't.”
“Dani, you don't have to tell me that,” he shook his head, pardoning her from the role of comforter of his feelings or defender of his tattered honor. “I accept what... what happened.” It was nothing good, but, “It's over. It’s done. I can't go back in time.”
“But I am going to catch the person who killed them,” Malcolm testified. “ And the person who killed the four Claremont guards.” He placed his hands back in his lap and looked up at her, perhaps seeing some kind of light at the end of a very dark tunnel in her warm, kind eyes. “I'm going to make this right,” the profiler gave her a small, sad, but genuine smile.
He realized his Nokia was still in his lap. Thank God he’d set it to silent. It would be too obvious if he tried to hide it from her now, but his hands still inched to conceal it, praying she didn’t catch a glimpse of it and ask him about it. Luckily, she didn’t notice the device.
“Speaking of the Claremont guards,” Dani lifted her chin and announced with reverent optimism, “We have a funeral to go to.” Her small, sad, but genuine smile told him that she was entirely aware of how unusual and unfortunate of a date that was.
Malcolm smiled, glad that she was willing to bring him along on her investigation, as they’d arranged earlier. “Right. Let’s go,” he stood up, taking advantage of the movement to slip the small phone in the palm of his hand, and then --when her back was turned-- slip the phone back into his pocket.