I Am Mercury: The Complete Omnibus Edition

By Grant Piercy

After a prison riot, two journalists find that a high profile inmate has gone missing. During their investigation, they discover a tangled web of kidnapping, espionage, and murder. Meanwhile, a protest group struggles against a shadowy agency with designs on the missing inmate. And the inmate himself has not only broken free from prison, but from a single universe, simultaneously experiencing multiple versions of his life.

This Complete Omnibus Edition collects the nine novellas in the I AM MERCURY series, a unique and imaginative set of stories that converge in a dramatic confrontation. A detective story, a spy thriller, a science fiction adventure, or a protest drama—the series could be any of these things, but as a whole is so much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Piercy
• Release date: Jan 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370310081

Grant Piercy

Grant Piercy is the author of THE ERASED SAGA and I AM MERCURY. He lives with his family in Columbus, Ohio.

Book preview

BOOK I: RIOT AT YORKVILLE

Dramatis Personae

- Alex Graves, a prisoner

- Tyrrell Garrett, a journalist [narrator]

- Tom Stockton, a journalist

- Raymond Tierney, a prison counselor

- Dodd, an editor

- Daz Turner, a radio personality

epigraph:

Come, let's away to prison; We two alone will sing…

- William Shakespeare, King Lear (act 5, scene 3. 1608)

(segue 1)

They told her it would be awhile.

Why? Nobody else has to wait.

This inmate’s in the SHU. He has to be brought up.

She batted sharp eyes behind round, black sunglasses. Her tongue nervously licked her upper lip.

She signed into the log. The big guard behind the desk spun the log around to read the printed name next to the signature. As she handed over identification, she betrayed nothing.

Marion... How do you say that? The guard asked. She wasn’t sure if the guard was male or female. O-lander?

She didn’t flinch as the guard repeated the name.

Can you take off your glasses? Let us see that pretty face.

The guard took a long look at her, fingers dancing along a keyboard. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she removed the glasses. It didn’t matter what the guard saw.

The ID lay on the desk between them. Her hand quickly reached to cover it. She swiped it back between her fingers and slid it into her wallet.

We’ll call your name when the inmate’s ready.

She sat in a waiting area, marveling at the piss-colored paint of the thick concrete brick walls. It made her think of grade school.

After the guard called the name she’d given, they led her through metal detectors and barred gateways. She was particularly conscious of the cameras that cataloged her movements. She tried not to sweat, but the flame-colored wig bottled the heat. The back of her neck was wet.

She was brought to a dingy room with round, Formica tables and stiff orange chairs. Other inmates in khaki-colored overalls spoke with their families. Everyone ignored when she entered. She sat at an empty table, her purse draped to her side.

He came in through a doorway on the opposite end of the room. He was a wraith, a shade of the man she once knew. Wiry thin, with hazel eyes sunken in their sockets and his hair buzzed down to stubble. As he glanced around the room, she noticed the bandage on the back of his head. Those hazel eyes widened, as he comprehended the red hair.

He sat across from her, the name hanging in the air between them. Marion?

No, Alex, she responded simply. Marion’s still in the hospital.

His eyes fell to the Formica, distant. She thought of the way a shadow moves as a cloud floats in front of the sun. What are you doing here? he asked.

Before she could answer, an alarm sounded—a whirring, circular siren accompanied by spinning yellow warning lights. On the ground, inmates! an angry guard blared. The other prisoners in the room obeyed almost mindlessly, slowly kneeling and then lying flat on their bellies, waiting for the guards to do whatever it is that they do.

He didn’t move. His sunken eyes matched hers.

It’s been years since anyone’s visited me, he said, barely coherent beneath the whirring alarm. Why today?

That angry, belligerent guard drew a taser and aimed it square at the prisoner seated calmly across from her. I SAID ON THE GROUND, INMATE!

There was another sound under the alarm. Something like rabble, like cheering—a joyous refrain followed by heavy footfalls.

Alex, she heard herself say. The alarm rattled the air, drowning out the name on her tongue. Their eyes remained locked together as others rushed by. The guard with the taser leaned his face against his shoulder to speak into the radio unit attached to his uniform. He was distracted from the man sitting across from her. The guard began to chase after someone running down the hall.

Other guards seemed too busy to notice the two of them as she offered her hand across the table.

Years, he said, his eyes now gazing at the hand stretched across the table. A tear dropped to his cheek as his fingers moved against her palm.

1. riot at yorkville

(From the notes of Tyrrell Garrett, Chronicle staff writer)

What kind of story are you looking to tell? asked the prison counselor.

He was a stout man, somewhere north of fifty, in the bland grays of a state correctional officer. He led us through the gates and corridors, down stairs and through passageways, and turned the corner to the one cell we’d been waiting to see. The hard fluorescent light hummed overhead—a constant, deliberate ohm.

I mean really. You could tell any story you want to, I spose. You’re a couple of detectives, is that it? Investigative journalists. He wasn’t a bad inmate, that I can tell you, the stubby, white-haired counselor said. We’d noticed he was gone during counts after the riot. He hadn’t been well lately.

The kid, Stockton, had a small flipbook notepad, on which he was sketching something. He looked up from behind his horn-rimmed glasses and asked, What was wrong with him?

You never answered my question, the counselor responded.

Stepping into the cell, I said, We’re just looking to get to the truth.

Truth’s a matter of perspective, son. I mean, you could tell it as a romantic Bonnie and Clyde thing, right? He had a lady visitor. Name given on the log was Marion Olander, but the Marshals said the only Marion Olander they could find was some comatose girl in a hospital in the city. So probably a fake.

Stockton beat me to the next question. Did you get her on camera?

Yeah. Old technology though. Not the greatest at making out her face. Guards said she was pretty, with bright red hair. Had an ID to match.

The cell was a simple 8-by-8 with a mattress and a toilet, with horrible off-yellow walls—the color of puss. On the floor next to the mattress appeared to be three or four stacks of notebooks. I picked one up and flipped to a random page. In smeared black ink, a random passage read, "Ergot derivative. Experimented on with the CIA. MK-ULTRA. People going insane. Controlled spies who didn’t know they were spies. That kind of thing. I flipped to yet another page and saw, The Illuminati want to steal my soul. They want to enter through my eyes, find all my good thoughts and replace them with theirs, with their own cleanser. They use Scrubbing Bubbles to wash out the soap scum, so everything is spotless when they leave."

You see some of the stuff in that notebook? Maybe it’s a spy story, the counselor quipped.

Science Fiction, I answered. I closed the notebook and tossed it back on the stack, which caused it to topple over. I’m not exactly sure what we’re looking for here, Tom.

The counselor looked at the younger man in horn-rimmed glasses, then back to me. Tom Stockton was a scrawny little ambitious balding bastard who, in all likelihood, would throw me under the bus to put his name on the byline. We had been assigned to cover the aftermath of the prison riot at Yorkville State penitentiary together.

More than likely a true crime story, Stockton said. He was in prison for doing something not many people believe he did.

The counselor rolled his eyes at the upstart remark. And some people think they faked the moon landing.

Do you mind if I smoke in here? I asked, politely.

No, no, go right ahead. Hell, we can’t keep the inmates from doing it. Whether or not the counselor was being sarcastic, I had no idea. Either way, I lit the cigarette. Stockton continued sketching something on his flipbook.

What sparked the riot? Stockton asked.

Still not quite sure. Some deranged inmates started scuffling, a guard tried to break it up and got a broken jaw for the trouble. These things escalate quickly.

Stockton stopped sketching on his notepad and tapped the butt of his pen on his lower lip. He abandoned his antagonistic line of questioning. He had a habit of poking the bear, then backing off, then jamming it in the ribs. Did he interact with other inmates?

This is solitary, kid.

And he just happened to have a visitor at the time of the riot? How did they get out? There must be cameras and lockdowns between the visitor’s room and the nearest exit, Stockton continued.

Cameras went dark when the power did, answered the counselor. We were lucky he was the only one missing.

Tom and I exchanged a glance that might have carried an entire conversation.

I decided to probe further. Why was he in solitary?

I told you, he hadn’t been well. He hurt himself.

Wait. He hurt himself, so you put him in solitary? Isn’t he then more likely to hurt himself again?

The counselor shrugged and buried his hands in the pockets of his uniform. He had a white mustache and a small mole on his cheek below a pair of glasses. He bore more than a passing resemblance to a fast food mascot.

How did he hurt himself?

You could see the exhaustion on the counselor’s face. A prison riot, a missing convict, and all the collateral damage. He nodded slowly. How do I put this? He fiddled with his beard, which came to a point at his chin. He did something to himself, something sick. We had to hospitalize him. The guards said he was going on and on about some kind of head surgery. He had a name for it.

Trepanation? asked Stockton.

Yes, yes, I think that’s it.

Stockton turned to me and explained, Primitive form of surgery. People used to think it could cure epilepsy or relieve pressure related to head wounds. Some thought it was a way of freeing evil spirits from the body. I remember reading hippies and beatniks that thought it was like having a third eye.

We found him in the library, the counselor sighed. It was a power drill. Still in hand when we got there.

I shook my head. Isn’t that stuff kept under lock and key?

He sighed and shrugged in response.

You’re trying to tell us that this man drilled a hole into his head? And we’re supposed to think he’s not crazy? Why hasn’t he been psychologically evaluated?

Stockton said, I suppose that’s why Solitary Housing…

The counselor rubbed his brow, trying to decide how to explain. All of that was decided at trial. He was declared mentally and emotionally competent, so why would it be any different now? Tried, convicted, and he’s supposed to be a lifer. If it were up to me, he’d be executed, but we don’t have a death penalty in this state anymore.

Stockton returned to scribbling on his notepad. The counselor turned to me and asked, What about you? What do you think? Let’s not beat around the bush. There was plenty of controversy around his trial and the murder of that girl. It wasn’t a clean-cut case.

I squatted down beside the mattress and inspected the notebooks a little more closely. Each one appeared to be filled from cover to cover. I could just picture this guy—the ohm buzzing overhead, his hands covered in smeared ink, pouring every crazy thought down on page. I’m from New York, I said. I don’t honestly know much about him. All this happened before I moved to the Midwest. I don’t have much of an opinion. From what I do know, he sounds more than a bit unstable.

In a throaty hush, the counselor whispered, Exactly right, son. More than just a bit.

But I mean, who was he? I continued. What do we really know about him? That he went off the deep end one day and slashed up the woman he just asked to marry him? I don’t know, it seems...

Canned, Stockton interjected.

Something like that.

The counselor huffed a bit and patted down the front of his uniform. Gentlemen, I stand on a line that separates the just from the unjust. On one side of the line, out in the free world, are the just. On the other side, the unjust are locked away. Without that line, anarchy rules. In that kind of world, the brutal are the ones who survive and dominate. Alexander Graves is one of those people, the brutal. I cannot allow men like that to lead good people away from the righteous path. No matter what I think of him as an inmate, he was only an inmate. Out there, the man’s a convicted murderer, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Mark my words, if he’s out there in the world, if he’s free... And then he chuckled ridiculous, mock laughter.

Well let me ask you this, sir, I said, standing face-to-face with the white-haired, mustachioed counselor. You found no evidence that he actually escaped. The cameras went out, the place was locked down. Nothing in the room but these notebooks. What happened the other night? Was it really just a riot? Did this guy just walk through walls?

We’re still looking into the causes, son. What was it... Tyrrell? he asked. He pronounced it like "TY-rrell."

I nodded to confirm he at least correctly recalled my name. Well, I mean... You can’t act like it’s not a little suspicious. Think about it. This visitor turns up and a riot happens at the exact same time. And there’s no way to see how he even made it out of the prison. You’re looking at blowback from the state, no matter what story we print.

He huffed just a bit more. We were not at fault! There was tampering, there was... and he trailed off, as though he said more than he should. I spose you gentlemen think that the people who staff this place are either empathetic caretakers or monsters. Mr. TY-rell, this place is loaded with some of the most brutal people imaginable.

Stockton pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose with the butt of his pen. Tampering? What kind of tampering?

Off the record?

Stockton and I again exchanged an awkward glance, and then both nodded simultaneously.

He looked about, back at the guards, and kept his voice low. We found... something.

We both stepped closer to the prison counselor, half-expecting some story about explosives or death threats or the like. Stockton flipped his handy little notepad back to the cover and eyed the counselor with suspicion.

He began, You can’t just walk in here and stir the shit. It’s not just about that visitor. He looked down at the tiled—yes, tiled—olive-green floor and shook his head. "I tell you boys this with the utmost confidence. We’re not exactly sure what it means, but we found these... things... in our water tanks. They looked like IV lines. Or big syringes. One of the guards said he’d seen his cousin with bad kidneys use one. For dialysis."

Wait, Stockton said, looking as though a bullet had just ricocheted through his skull. You’re trying to tell me that the water in this prison was contaminated? By whom?

As Stockton asked his question, I thought back to the quote in the notebook I’d set down moments before, what Graves had written about the ergot derivative and spies not knowing they were spies. Sir, what do you plan to do with these notebooks?

The counselor shrugged. I’d expected the Marshals to take them but they just left ‘em here. They had about five people go through them but didn’t say much of anything. We’re not exactly in the business of waiting around for Graves to get picked back up. They’d likely go into storage. Most of that kind of thing gets destroyed, but with a high-profile guy like that...

Stockton was the one to point out the obvious answer: They might be worth something. Or they might just be the ramblings of a sick mind. Either way, they’d probably go for a lot on the auction block, is that what you’re trying to say?

"We could take them off your hands, I said, not nearly realizing what it meant. The counselor smirked at my proposal. If you’ll excuse me a moment."

I left Stockton and the counselor in the cell and walked down the hallway, in clear view of several guards. I was on the phone in seconds, trying to get reception in that monstrous, concrete gulag. Eventually my call went through. Dodd, this is Garrett. Huge, huge, favor. How much are the private journals of Alex Graves worth to you?

Dodd and I haggled over a price tag vigorously. I wondered if the two men back in the cell could hear the conversation that was taking place. I was arguing about how, if you really wanted the scoop on the prison riot, if you really wanted the inside line on this Graves character, it was in those journals. He wanted to know why they were so important. Such questions seemed pedantic to me. After all, if this guy was as big a deal as everyone around there seemed to think, this was a journalistic goldmine.

More like a legal landmine, Dodd responded.

I further argued that it really wouldn’t matter how the journals came into our possession, but that they weren’t in our possession in that moment. They were the ramblings of a convicted killer. There were publishing rights to consider here that we could get at a steal if we played our cards right.

I want to talk it over with one of our lawyers first, was Dodd’s answer.

You do that and you let this story slip through your fingers. Let the Trib or the Sun-Times get this. Let this go national when you could be raking in sales. Not only does this make you a wealthy man, it’ll put us all in the spotlight, Dodd. Come on.

You’ve got my answer, Garrett.

Fine, you talk it over, see what happens, I said, hanging up on him quickly. I meandered back towards the cell where Stockton and the counselor were still conversing.

I took just a moment to put on my most polite face and a smile, to make it look like the call went better than it did. I turned the corner to go back into the cell. The counselor said something to Stockton, but I couldn’t quite catch it.

The words escaped my lips with ease. How much are you asking?

A wry grin spread across the counselor’s face. How much are you willing to offer?

Well, let’s say we’re willing to play ball. How legal would it be to buy this man’s journals without them being considered evidence?

The grin faded from his face. Oh, I see. This is a shakedown.

No sir, that’s not it at all, Stockton backed me up. He spoke with his hands waving in front of him and then crossed his arms on his chest. That’s not it at all, he repeated. We’re here for the story on Graves. You’re not the bad guy here. Just like you said, you stand on a line, protecting us from them. Isn’t there any way we can make this right?

The counselor looked from him to me, his eyes wide and glaring. Fifty thousand.

Come on. Sure the guy’s notorious, but these may not end up being anything of value, I tried to negotiate. I don’t even make that in a year.

And how much do you think you’ll make after you do a story on this? After you get your publishing rights you seemed so sure of just a few moments ago? he argued. He had me, the smug son of a bitch.

Stockton went on the offensive. Now hold on, let’s just think about this. The notebooks you have in your possession... he’s right. We don’t know if they’re actually worth anything. And the Marshals certainly didn’t think there was anything there to help them.

Maybe they just forgot them, the counselor said in a dour tone.

Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t. They were going to take them anyway. What Mr. Garrett and I plan to do is to reward you for them. But no one else is getting the notebooks. If you don’t sell them to us, we’ll be sure to notify the Federal Marshals in charge of this case that they left this evidence behind and your cash cow is gone, either way. You can play ball with us, but you won’t be playing with anyone else.

I was actually quite amazed at Stockton’s argument and his uncanny ability to negotiate. Maybe he wasn’t just some ambitious, no-talent hack who wanted my job. He read the situation quite well.

It really is a shakedown, the counselor snarled, hot breath flaring through his nostrils.

No, it’s a negotiation, I answered.

Maybe you don’t want us to look in those journals because he said something about you, Stockton replied. "Maybe there’s something in there about the harsh treatment he might have received here. After all, you sent him to solitary... ‘for hurting himself.’ Those last three words were thick with sarcasm. And then he went nuclear. I couldn’t even believe the words from his lips. Who’s to say you or one of your men didn’t kill him?"

Of all the most preposterous... incredulous... His face went red, his chins wagging and his eyes popping behind those glasses. The white of his mustache and hair stood in stark contrast. We don’t need to take the law into our own hands here.

It could’ve been understandable, counselor, Stockton continued. The middle of a riot, all sorts of things could happen. Maybe he was threatening a guard and it became a situation where it’s, y’know, us or them. Perfect opportunity to just be done with a troublesome prisoner, a burden on the state.

He looked like he was going to go from red to purple. He couldn’t even choke the words out. It honestly looked like the counselor was about to take a swing at Tom. I stepped between the two of them and tried to calm the situation down.

Look, he’s just talking through a scenario—he doesn’t mean anything by it. We certainly won’t publish anything like that, will we, Tom?

No, sir, the brash young man responded. We needed the counselor cooperating, but this was just going further south. Already, we had accused him and his men of killing the subject and covering it up, and we’d threatened him with extortion to get at the notebooks. It’s an understatement to say this wasn’t going well.

You have our word, sir. It’s all a part of what we do, the process, I said, trying to defuse this as best I could.

You can shove your process straight up your indignant liberal asses. You think you can just come in here, toss around allegations, take evidence. All I’m asking for is a little respect. He started to calm down. I’m not quite sure if he was catching the good cop/bad cop tactics.

I understand why you’re upset, I said. Why don’t you tell us about Graves and the drill—why he was in solitary. What exactly happened?

It’s like I said. We found him in the library, couldn’t tell how long he’d been there. Nobody knows how he got the drill from the workshop. He’s a lifer, not exactly in with genpop, but he does have some privileges.

After a brief silence and a little bit of pacing, Stockton asked, So wait. He’s a convicted murderer, sentenced to life. But he wasn’t in view of the prison guards at the time of the incident? He should have some kind of schedule, shouldn’t he?

The counselor slicks his white hair back and says, That’s the thing. Graves must’ve been out of sight for just a few minutes. Nobody heard the drill. One minute he’s there, reading a book, and the next he’s just on the ground.

Do you remember the book?

"Not for certain, but I think it was The Jungle by Sinclair."

Stockton nodded and went back to his notepad, jotting something down. How long ago?

Couldn’t have been more than six weeks. Maybe less.

I asked, Where do you think he went? If he escaped, I mean. You must have some opinion.

Well, the counselor started, in such a way that sounded like a long-winded answer was forthcoming. "I’d assume he’d be trying to leave the country somehow. His girlfriend, Rose—wait, I’m sorry—his pregnant girlfriend, Rose, died in his bed. Stab wounds. I don’t see him having unfinished business he should stick around for."

Would you mind if we had a few minutes to look over these notebooks, talk some things over?

I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem. And don’t try stealing those, he said, pointing at the notebooks. We will have you patted down on the way out.

As soon as the counselor left us in the cell, Stockton exclaimed, Kentucky-fried bastard! He was lying through his teeth.

The book thing, right?

Yes. He can’t remember how long ago the incident took place, yet he can pluck the book title out of thin air? My ass.

Sometimes those things make an impression. Good work there with the notebooks.

Ah, it was nothing. Why do you think they’re so important?

Because we seemed to be turning this into a buddy cop comedy, I told him what I read. It was just something in passing. When I opened up the notebook and read just a little bit of it, there was a line about an ergot derivative, CIA-type stuff. I think Graves’ words were ‘spies who didn’t know they were spies.’ Then we find out the counselor and his men think somebody contaminated the prison’s water supply?

Stockton’s arms were crossed, his head tilted downward. His eyes felt intense, peering over his glasses. Something’s rotten in the state pen. The whole thing stinks to high heaven.

Who the hell is this guy? Who the hell is Alex Graves?

Tom fired back, It’s a fair point that the answer is probably somewhere in those notebooks.

Let’s really consider this for a minute, I said, really becoming animated. The water thing, somebody contaminating the water supply. In order to incite a riot? Would it’ve been someone on the inside, or at least someone who could get inside? For what purpose would the water have been contaminated? And what about the girl, the visitor? Was it all just to get to Graves?

Whoa, right there, Stockton interjected. To get to Graves. This all means somebody was trying to get in and retrieve him. Maybe he didn’t necessarily escape.

What about the head wound? What purpose does that serve?

The two of us couldn’t actually come up with an answer to that one. But our wheels were turning and we knew we had a story. Tom, we’re not even sure of his capabilities after the wound was inflicted. He might not have been able to escape. Think about this—he listed something about that ergot derivative. You know anything about ergot?

Stockton replied, Vaguely. It’s a fungus, has something to do with the manufacture of LSD. Causes visual and auditory hallucinations.

Maybe that’s the stuff that caused the riot. Maybe that’s what contaminated the water, right? I’m not alone in thinking this, am I?

No, I follow you, he said. But the counselor wants it kept off the record. He took a moment to ponder. Did you see anything else? Was there a name that went along with the substance he was describing?

Yes. Something about Ultra? MT-Ultra?

MK-Ultra?

Yeah, I think that’s it.

Garrett, I don’t like where we’re headed with this.

Why, what’s MK-Ultra?

He paused, a little shocked. MK-Ultra isn’t the name of the drug, it’s the name of an old CIA program, where they experimented on humans using different substances.

Drugs, I said.

He nodded back. Take this line of logic to its conclusion.

Before I could even answer, I noticed the counselor standing in the passageway outside the cell. His brow tilted into an angry V-shape. Stockton quickly scribbled on his notepad and pushed it in front of my face, despite the counselor peering at us. It read, ‘we need more info.’

The counselor was flanked by a couple of prison guards dressed in dark navy. Stockton wasn’t far off in his ‘Kentucky-fried’ assessment. Mr. Garrett, I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can. After all, you aren’t the police and this place does have business that requires attending.

I’m sorry, sir, we just have a few more questions. And the notebooks...

Yes, about that. I just received a call from your boss... Dodd, is it? That’s why I came back to find the two of you. He waved the two guards into the cell as he spoke. I think we agreed upon a price, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to work. These men will show you out. If you’re going to take those, you best load ‘em up now.

2. macro-organism

(From the notes of Tyrrell Garrett, Chronicle staff writer)

Jesus, Garrett, you look like shit. My Editor-In-Chief, Dodd. He was commenting because I hadn’t showered, I hadn’t shaved. My eyelids weighed a metric ton.

You’re only saying that cuz I’m black, I quipped back, cigarette dangling from my lips.

Put that out. You can’t smoke in here. This isn’t fucking New York.

I was sitting across the desk from him. Out the window of his office, an overcast sky hung low on the lake, the buildings puncturing the clouds. The coffee tasted extra bitter—office coffee, and it wasn’t doing the trick.

What’s going on with you? Something wrong at home?

It’s none of your business, Dodd. I’d rather just... not talk about it. I took another sip of the extra bitter coffee. Don’t you people believe in cream in this city?

Well listen, Garrett. If you come in here again like this, smoking cigarettes, looking like this... He pulled the cigarette from my lips and dumped it in the coffee cup. Frankly, it was an improvement. I want to talk to you about Graves.

You want us to pursue the story, right? I placed the coffee cup on his desk.

His forehead twitched—his puffy white face didn’t really have eyebrows. His voice managed to be both playful and scornful at the same time. You have to wonder what he did to his gray hair to get that perfect short perm that seemed like it should be relegated to the 1980s. Don’t be dissuaded by his casual, comedic attitude—Dodd can be just as menacing as the police captain of some late night revenge movie.

You and Stockton did a good job out at Yorkville. You may have distilled it down to a fairly straightforward fugitive escape, but I’ll be goddamned if you don’t think there’s something more to this. Stockton certainly seems to think so.

Really, Dodd, don’t put me with that guy again. He accused the prison counselor, Tierney, of killing Graves and hiding his corpse.

Wish I could’ve seen that, he responded, leaning back in his chair. And who gives a shit? It’s not like we’re printing that. You two were a helluva team yesterday, and you got results.

I pulled out another cigarette and put it between my lips. The guy is just angling to get famous. He doesn’t give a flying ratfuck about journalism.

Oh and you do? Like it’s some pure art? Fuck that, everybody in this business is just angling to get famous. And for God’s sake, put that cigarette away. What do you think my office is?

I’m not going to light it, Dodd. It’s just helpful.

Fine. Whatever. Either way, there’s more to this and you know it. This could be huge. And if you don’t agree, I’ll get that twerp to cover it solo. Next thing you know, he’ll be your boss.

He was trying to motivate me, but I really didn’t feel it. Tom Stockton was young and brash, but I doubted he’d ever make editor. Even if he went hardcore at an interview subject like that, the kid turned in field reports that were pure vanilla. Or at least, that’s what I saw. Nothing in his writing really led me to believe he was some great talent waiting to be discovered. Anyway, there was no point in arguing. I found myself twirling the unlit cigarette between my lips. So what do you have in mind?

Well, what about the girl? Any leads?

They couldn’t ID her from the video. And the real Marion Olander is a coma patient at a place on the west side called…uh shit, Stockton knows. St. Augustus or something.

Well, Stockton’s out in the bullpen right now, sifting through those notebooks. We’ll stay on those and keep looking for good material. But there are other people to talk to. Old associates, lovers, friends, enemies. Shit, guy like Graves had an enemies list a mile long, just from his muckraking radio days. First you should go over and talk to his old buddy Turner. Still has a show over on WZFO.

What, a DJ?

I’d hurry too. No doubt the Marshals are going to be re-interviewing all these people. After all, we likely have a fugitive situation now.

But wait, Dodd. What if Stockton had it right? What if he’s dead?

What makes you think that?

I don’t entirely trust that prison counselor. Tierney. Felt like he was hiding something.

Well, whatever. Chase the leads anyway. Something will turn up.

On my way out of Dodd’s office, I caught a glimpse of Stockton, legs kicked up on a desk. The eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses stared downward into the belly of one of the notebooks. He brought a finger to his tongue, and then turned a page with the finger. There was something so octogenarian about that action—for him to be so young but act so old. I approached his desk in the midst of the newspaper’s frenetic bullpen.

Garrett, he said without looking up from the notebook. You should read some of this stuff. This guy’s got authentic whackjob written all over him.

I nodded but didn’t say anything. He flipped back a couple of pages and read aloud, This was me slipping between worlds for the first time. Because I’d died. Because I’d taken my life with scissor blades. Heaven and hell simultaneously—the warmth of her body and the emptiness of my bed, the taste of her kiss and the indifference of the pillow. It can only happen so many ways, I try to remember. Maybe that’s all death is, moving to the next version of you, ad infinitum.

Didn’t he kill his girlfriend with a pair of scissors? I asked.

Dude, this wasn’t even describing the murder scene. This is an alleged suicide attempt, of which I’ve found no corroborating record. Apparently from when he was a teenager.

Again I twirled the cigarette between my lips—nervous habit. You think the scissors are significant?

He nodded. Probably.

Any way of telling whether or not he wrote that before or after his little incident with the power drill?

Not really. It’s all just nonsense like this. Ramblings. He talks about slipping between worlds and different versions of himself. He’s got the delusions of your typical paranoid schizo. And if this is before that little accident? You’ve got to wonder what he’s like now.

Did you find any more about the MK-Ultra stuff?

He finally turned away from the notebook and looked at me. No. Not yet anyway. He’s too busy ranting about his friends and ex-girlfriends. That name the girl signed at the prison, it pops up a bit. He claims she was there when he attempted suicide. But it’s hard to tell if that even happened.

I pulled out my pack of cigarettes, despite the one hanging from my lip, and offered one to him. Wanna go grab a smoke?

Nah, those things’ll kill ya, he responded.

I pushed it in front of his face, so his eyes wouldn’t lock back onto the notebook pages. C’mon. Come out and have a cigarette with me. We’ll hash out some of this shit. Dodd wants us working together after how well we did yesterday.

He snatched the cigarette from my hand and kicked his feet down from the desk. In a swift motion, he was up from the chair and tossing the notebook aside. Alright, Garrett. You win. Bastard.

We started toward the elevators. The ride down was thirty stories, quiet and mildly tense, and crowded in with people from other companies. Chicago’s mostly smoke-free, so if there’s no open air patio, you have to go all the way down to street level, and stay a certain number of feet from the door.

Out on the sidewalk, I lit the cigarette that I’d been twirling in my lips for the better part of a half hour. Then I passed the lighter to him. He took a long, deep inhale as his cigarette ignited.

They always taste like high school, don’t they? I managed to quit in college, which seems damn improbable, stressful as those years tended to be, he said.

It was important for us to get out of that office, I replied, exhaling smoke. This city teems with life, no matter what corner you turn. No matter what street you’re on, you can smell the lake in the air. New York’s like that, but it’s the ocean, so it’s all salt. The cigarette between my fingers, my hand gestured in a circle as I spoke. Then I inhaled again.

He took long, slow drags