The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 13

Joe nodded to the fresh-faced young man behind the counter at the Vanderbilt Tennis and Fitness Club. The fitness center was on the second floor of Grand Central Terminal, so it had become Joe’s gym. He’d liked the guy who had the job before, but after he was stabbed to death by a killer who mistook him for Joe, Joe had been careful not to strike up a friendship with anyone at the club.

He grabbed a towel and headed for the courts. Edison was off for his daily walk, probably soaking up the last remnants of fall sunshine. Joe glanced at the arched windows that looked out onto the street. If he were outside, he knew he would look above those windows to admire Grand Central’s famous clock with the statue of a winged Hermes. He’d seen it when he’d arrived in New York, back when he was still an outside person. Since then, he’d only glimpsed the statue in photographs or surveillance footage from the building across the street.

Steeling himself, he stepped closer to the windows. These windows, like all windows, made him nervous, but they had thick panes separated by metal bars. Their solidity reassured him.

Alan Wright came over. He wore all black, a tennis-playing Johnny Cash. His shirt had a Nike swoosh on it. Just Do It. Alan was the founder and CEO of Wright Industries, an environmental company that made its money off green technologies. Alan was saving the world, and Joe knew he should like him for it, but he didn’t. He suspected Alan’s real goal was an Earth without humans. Alan hated most people.

“Ready to lose?” Alan called.

“I won last time,” Joe said. “I’m ready to start a streak.”

Alan lunged to the side, stretching. He looked pale and drawn. He hadn’t shaved for a couple days. Joe had never seen him like that.

“That last ball was out,” Alan said.

“Independently verified.” Joe bounced the end of his racket against his toe.

“You probably paid him off.”

“Seems like you could have topped whatever offer I might have made.” Alan was one of the few people Joe knew who was wealthier than he.

“Beneath my dignity.” Alan jogged across the court, taking the first serve. “Ready?”

Joe positioned himself near the back of the court. “Always.”

Alan slammed the ball across full force, and Joe backhanded it back at him, aiming the ball short so Alan would have to run a bit. Joe had more endurance than Alan. Alan might be quicker, but in a long match, Joe always won.

“How’s the brain lab?” Alan knocked the ball back.

Joe sprinted across the baseline to return it. “You should come, get scanned.”

“And let you inside my head?” Alan didn’t get a good piece of the ball, and it went into the net. “My head’s private.”

“We anonymize the data, so it would stay private.” Joe loosened his grip on his racket. “You’d be a great test subject. Not a lot of people with IQs in your range out there to scan.”

Alan laughed and served again. “Flattery won’t get you there.”

Joe returned the ball deep and low to Alan’s right. It was his weakest shot. Alan swung and missed.

Joe smiled.

Alan flipped him off. He hated to lose even a single point. Was that coded in his brain? What parts would light up when he played? Would they be different from an average player’s? Would they be different from Sandra’s? Had sadness left a mark on her brain? Long-term depression shrank the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. Would he have seen that if he’d been able to scan her?

They rallied in silence, until Alan missed again. His game was off.

Joe’s thoughts wandered to Sandra. If he could see her brain, or scans of it, he might know if she was chronically depressed or not, but she’d been cremated long ago. Plus, what difference did it make? She’d been depressed when it mattered.

“Good God!” Alan yelled when he missed an easy one.

Joe kept playing. By the end, he’d won again, easily. Something was wrong with Alan.

“Barely worth kicking your ass today.” Joe swiped at his face with a towel. “You OK?”

Alan shrugged. “I despise this time of year. In the fall, everything’s cold and dying.”

“Going into hibernation, not dying. It’ll all come back in the spring.” Joe had liked the fall, back when he could experience seasons outside.

“Not all of it comes back. Winter kills the weak. But I don’t mind winter. At least it’s honest.” Alan glanced toward the window. “How about you? You don’t seem like your usual self, either.”

Joe hesitated, then told him about the woman who’d died in the tunnels.

“Maybe she’s better off dead. Put out of her misery.” Alan never minced words.

“Like a horse with a broken leg?” Joe asked.

“Like a person with a broken life, lucky to be rid of it.” Alan pulled his wet shirt away from his chest. “She was depressed, probably would have killed herself someplace else soon enough.”

“Suicide’s just as often an impulsive act as it is a long-planned event, despite what movies of the week say,” Joe said. “If she’d live past that moment, she might never have tried again.”

“Sounds like liberal horseshit to me.” Alan bounced the tennis ball against the floor and caught it. “Not even as useful as real horseshit.”

“Almost half of those who try suicide and live to talk about it say they made the attempt after fewer than five minutes of thought. That’s why they put up suicide nets — turns out most people won’t even walk a few blocks to find a different bridge to jump off.” Joe didn’t know why he was defending this woman to Alan. “Maybe this woman had one really bad day, got hammered, and made a mistake. She doesn’t have to have been depressed for years.”

The logic was sound, but the way Edison had growled, the sight of those lipsticks gathered together behind a previously locked door, and the thought of a rat dragging that purse for miles told him otherwise. She hadn’t committed suicide. She’d been murdered.

“Maybe this act saved her and everyone around her from a lifetime of misery. Maybe it was a gift.” Alan tucked the ball into his pocket. “Like it would be for Rosa.”

Rosa was Alan’s ex-wife. The one time Joe had met her, Rosa had seemed fragile. Everyone seemed fragile next to Alan. “That’s harsh.”

“If she killed herself, I wouldn’t cry. I’d thank her for leaving the world a better place.” Alan strode off toward the locker room. The conversation was clearly over.

That kind of breathtaking cold-heartedness reminded Joe why he and Alan couldn’t really be friends, no matter how much they had in common. If Alan were in charge of the world, he’d sweep it with a big broom, sweeping away overpopulation and people with broken brains (like his own ex-wife and daughter and Joe himself). Hell, he’d probably eliminate everyone who didn’t recycle.

Joe smiled at the thought, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that rose up in him after. Someone like Alan could kill those women without a second thought. Someone like Alan could dress the part, turn on the charm, and convince others to do exactly what he wanted.