High Road

Chapter 5
Right First Time

Chapter Description: A revelation at the local coffee shop leads LaCrone to question his future.

“Peter... you need to see a doctor... again!”

“What? I feel fine. Maybe you should see a doctor: you’re deathly pale. You should consider calling the Ghost Busters if you plan on seeing ghosts.”

“Because I’ve just seen what state you’re in! Though, of course, someone might mistake you for a ghost of your former self. I thought it was atrophy at the hospital, but this is too serious! Peter, you need a mirror.”

Peter flipped open his wallet and examined his face. His mustache was thinning, but that was nothing to worry about. It was usually a hassle to manage anyway, and it grew back quickly, so what was to worry?

“Not a pocket mirror you idiot!” Jeremy growled in frustration before grabbing LaCrone by the arm and dragging him to the bathroom. Once there, perhaps ?a ghost’ would be less accurate to describe LaCrone as ?aghast’. He gave himself a long, hard look in the mirror. He could just barely believe he was looking at himself, save for his face, which looked largely the same (save, of course, for his thinning mustache). He had lost a few inches and a number of pounds, both in muscle and fat. The weight loss had left his form, while still commanding, decidedly less imposing.

“You’ve lost a damn lotta weight, LaCrone. Have you been eating? When was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?” White drilled into him seemingly indefatigably, but LaCrone just stared, wide-eyed. Inspector LaCrone was not surprised by many things. He could envision a gun to his head without flinching... but what WAS this? What had become of him... unless...

...wild coincidences are no pretense for a case...

What if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if there was a connection?

...The documents were falsified: complete forgeries...

...There were strangely a number of suspects who had adopted children right after the disappearance of their significant others or relatives...

It all flooded back to him in one deluge. He had been right the first time. He grabbed White’s unready arm and flung it off, turned and sprinted for the door, his overcoat bellowing and flickering wildly behind him.

“Wait, Peter, where are you...?”

---

Peter was moving down the Highway at a solid sixty five miles per hour with his laptop open on the centerpiece. This was decidedly not a safe action. He had an aircard plugged in, and he was doing four things at once. First, he was driving. Second, he was speaking with the forensics lab, asking them to freeze all access to information regarding his case to everyone. Third, he was using Google Maps to determine his directions. Forth, he was accessing his case files and database and isolating cases that matched the suspicious description: those who had adopted children right after disappearances. He finished his conversation and hung up the phone just before exiting the freeway. He began to mutter nervously...

“You’ll come up on a series of turns... Take a right the first time, then a left, then a left again...” And before long he was at the motel he planned on staying at. He rushed inside and tore at his clothes, practically leaping out of them as though they were merely obstacles in his way. He approached his full length body mirror. What he saw... he was sure of it. It was not possible. The mists of light-headedness filled his mind with a dazed fog as perspiration dotted his forehead. “Real men don’t faint, dad. Right...?” He asked a phantom. He didn’t know where he was who or he was... he knew that something wasn’t right. Something... just wasn’t right... Or maybe it was right the first time... He drifted off into peaceful state of unconsciousness, thinking of Hemingway: a man his father revered. Hemingway was an intellectual and a real man at the same time. Perhaps if he had a better mustache, he’d be more like Hemingway...

His head hit the floor with a gut-turning crack that jolted him back into full consciousness as his head made contact with the stone floor. He cringed in recoil at first, but then rose to inspect himself with a clear head. Perhaps his father knew what he was talking about when he said that a good smack on the head was all someone needed to clear their thoughts and get something right. No... it was far more likely he was just being abusive. Nice try, though.

He’d lost mass, that was certain, but he still had a certain power and energy. He examined his muscles and determined them to be in fairly top form. How does the chemical work? If it was just stunting his growth, then he wouldn’t be losing mass. If it was just atrophying his physical mass, he wouldn’t have these youthful muscles.

It hit him, and his eyes slowly widened once more. Youthful muscles. The room was designed for a younger child. They all adopted children. They weren’t stunting growth, or even trying to burn away flesh. They were reversing aging altogether! This had implications... how many people had died because their organs had given out when they could have been returned to youth? How many people had suffered in their old age because of the inability to work? How many elders had been infantilized in treatment for no reason because they had become too old to take care of themselves? This drug had to be spread to the world, if it could be reproduced... but there was a more shocking implication at hand. None of these kidnappings had yielded bodies... and the woman had been speaking of her child as if in a ?prison’... He had been fed that hormone. LaCrone was dosed with it as well... He dared not even think it. Surely the effects would wear off without a continued dosage... right? Either way... that child in the laboratory was certainly not growing any faster now than any normal child, and LaCrone cringed at his inability to notice his own downsizing. He must be more careful! He must be aware of his own stature at all times. Although...

He gave one last solid shiver. No, he would not be reduced to the stroller. He was a real man: like Hemingway. He was convinced that he’d find his mark if it was the last thing he did, but then he gulped and retracted the statement. That was not exactly a safe thing to say in this situation.

He collapsed back on his posterior on the floor and stared at himself. He gauged his body to be around twenty two, the year he graduated from Penn State. Why was this so scary to him? He ran past bullets that would instantly kill him at every chance! How could he be any more of a man? He was fearless, reckless... everything a man’s man needed. And yet... the unknown chilled him to the bone. A seemingly unsolvable mystery was killing him. He who had spent his life unraveling mysteries now felt his own life being unraveled, in turn, by the most sinister mystery of all. This fear... it needed to be conquered. This trial needed to be bested, and, for God’s sake, this whole conspiracy needed to be blown wide open. But first, he’d need to get some clothes that fit him properly. And so he began to write his schedule for the coming day tomorrow, chalking this day up to rest, and sat down. He began to write the first time on his notepad.

---

The night had not treated Peter well. He tossed and turned in his sleep, and his situation continued to haunt him, but as with all people, he eventually succumbed and gave in to precious slumber. That night he slept a dreamless sleep, mind too plagued and tired from the day before, happy just to fade into unconsciousness. When he rose to inspect himself on the morrow, he grudgingly decided that if there was any change in his stature, it was negligible, so he shouldn’t worry about it. First things first, he would have to acquire some proper attire. He left around ten o’clock for the store and stocked himself with clothes he felt at least could mirror his maturity from ages ten to twenty two, praying silently that he wouldn’t need any of it. While it initially elicited a strange glance from the cashier, she soon decided she was not paid enough to care and helped him bag his new wardrobe. He rallied himself at the desk in his motel room at one, having just finished off the remnants of last night’s dinner, Corn Pops, which were admittedly more suited to breakfast anyway. As he tore into his artificial lunch with an undistinguishing tongue his thoughts were elsewhere. He needed a plan, he considered, as he shoveled another spoon into his gullet.

He had isolated five case files that fell under his description that he hadn’t either already eliminated or noticed a lack of possible connections. Sara Ropes, James Kimbor, Carrie Fowl, Thomas Johnston, and Danielle Corson were his new suspects. Using his natural logic, Peter decided to track down those who appeared most dangerous first: if he DID continue to shrink, then he’d best be done with the hard part. Sara Ropes was imprisoned twenty years with a chance at parole after ten for good behavior, but was barred forever from adopting a child or visiting her adopted child. She was committed to the New Jersey State Penitentiary two years ago for the molestation of her adoptive son shortly after the disappearance of one of her boyfriends, a charge which was never brought against her on negligible evidence. Now twenty eight, if she DID get out early, she’d still be able to have a decent life (assuming she could learn to live with registering herself), so she was very cooperative and always willing to talk to investigators, even about unrelated crimes, to help get inside the head of that type of offender. LaCrone had no intention of cutting Ms. Ropes a deal: to the contrary, he hoped to prove that her ?adopted son’ was born long before his alleged birth date.

Upon arriving at the State Pen, LaCrone eyed himself in the mirror. “Still enough of me here to look professional, at least,” he muttered with a sigh. He donned his coat and fedora and drew himself out of the vehicle and grabbed his laptop back on his way out. Upon reaching the cell of Ms. Ropes, he greeted the fat, polite woman ambivalently before sitting down in a chair in the holding cell. Despite Ms. Rope’s repeated abuse of her child, her cooperation with police had led her to serve her sentence in a cushy minimum security prison that didn’t mind giving them a little privacy. LaCrone had a gun, of course, but he didn’t plan on using it.

“You are Miss Ropes, I presume?”

“Sure thing kid, what can I do for you?”

LaCrone hesitated. “Please don’t call me ?Kid’. It’s Inspector LaCrone if you please. That is to say... LaCrone, or Peter if you prefer. I need to ask you a few questions about your son. Hunter, was it?”

The woman glanced about uneasily. “What do you want to know about Hunter? I can’t even see the kid any more, Petey. I don’t know anything about him, and I’m not going to talk about my case without a lawyer.”

LaCrone just frowned. “Please don’t call me ?Petey’ either. That being said, you’ve already been charged on that case, so I can’t possibly make things worse for you, ma’am. I’d just like to ask you a few questions that will help your case, if anything.”

Drawn back in by the possibility of sooner freedom, Sara reengaged. “Then what d’you wanna know?”

“Were you ever involved with your boyfriend Harry’s disappearance, directly or indirectly?”

“No, never. He just disappeared out of the blue, and there’s nothing to connect us.”

“You’d been dating for some time, breaking up and finding someone new over and over... why did you stop and decide to adopt instead?”

“I was tired of rejection, okay? It just happened that the guy I gave up on disappeared without a trace.”

“So you adopted the kid with the intention of raping him?”

“I didn’t say that! I just said I didn’t want to be rejected. I wanted to be in control of my relationships, okay?”

“You’d been dating for some time, and you filed adoption papers the day after he disappeared. Why didn’t you wait? Did you already know he was gone?”

“Hey, he ditched me, and I knew it already, okay? There’s nothin’ more to it, so come off it already.”

Peter sighed. “Look, Miss Ropes, I don’t think either of us think too highly of the other, but let me explain to you something about control.” To punctuate this, he flipped open his wallet and set it down on the table, badge revealed. “Just like you got moved to a lower security prison on police whim, I can get you sent to maximum without so much as a judge to hear your case. On the other hand, I’m an Inspector. I know every district attorney and judge from Tampa Bay to Manhattan. You get me what I want, and I can cut you a deal ten times better than what you’ve ever been offered. I can get you another appeal, and I can make sure you win it. Think about it: even if you get out in another eight, you’ll be imprisoned for life with your title of child molester. I’m offering you an escape from that.” LaCrone stared straight at Sara Ropes. He had no intention of getting a child molester out of prison, no matter what information she had, but he would sure as Hell say whatever he could to get her to sing.

Her voice was a whisper, “You can... really do that?”

“Ever wonder why celebrities never get taken to court? Someone like me is getting their wallet lined.”

Somehow, her voice dropped even lower, and she glanced around nervously. “Okay, but you gotta turn off that camera, or the guards will think I’m nuts.”

LaCrone casually strode to the back of the room and pulled the camera’s cord out of the plug. The camera ran on batteries for backup power anyway, but he supposed the prison officials thought, “If inmates plan on disabling the camera anyway, let’s let them do it without destroying our property.” He closed his eyes a moment before turning around. He probably wouldn’t get audio anyway, but it would be good to time the conversation: if he finished quickly he could at least try to replay the video. He glanced at his watch for the time, then rolled his eyes, sighed, and returned to his seat. “What do you have for me? Make it good, and I mean case-breaking, and I’ll see to it you have a second chance in life, Ropes.”

She gave me on last furtive glance. “Okay, I’ll spill. They said if I let this information out then there’d be Hell to pay, but what are they going to do to me, right?”

“Who?”

“I’m guessing you already checked out the documents on my kid, right?”

“Yes, they were fakes from York Hill General Hospital.”

“There’s a sister station. It’s a place called York Hill Research or something. I used to go there to make a couple bucks on the side testing stuff like beauty products, since I used to live up in the Big Apple with Harry before he went... Anyway, I heard he was cheating on me from my friend Donna... I couldn’t take it. After a lifetime of searching, I was sure Harry was the one, right? I’d never connected with someone like him, but he didn’t want me... so I um... There was an offer down at the research place, I didn’t think it would work, but I gave it a shot...” Sara was steadily finding it harder to talk. She reached up to her neck and gripped her collar, giving her frontal neck some extra room in her uniform.

“What did you do?”

“Well, I...I...Oh God....” Sara Ropes collapsed, tearing at her heart. She flailed and shrieked a moment more as LaCrone leaped over the table to her, but by the time he had extracted her shirt, she was silent and had stopped moving. He shouted for a guard and quickly plugged the camera back in, but when he returned to the body he noticed wires about the woman’s body. She was wearing a pace maker. He reached into her pocket and was rewarded with a readout for a temporary pacemaker. The device itself looked to be functioning perfectly, albeit no longer pumping. It dawned on him suddenly, “What if the pace maker was a bug... a bug that could short out and kill the speaker...”

By the time LaCrone stood again, he was surrounded by guards, all staring at the corpse. “There was a pacemaker malfunction, check the tapes. When you’re done, send it to my division, I need it for my case.”

LaCrone made for the door and flipped open his phone, contacting forensics again. “Jack, I need a favor.”