Saturation Point

The relentless buzz of the needle pushing ink deep into her skin was maddening. Kasey wanted to jump off the table, but forced herself to relax. Phil was too delicious, and if he kept sliding her glances with those shock blue eyes, she could sit there all night. Maybe even after he locked up. She flashed him a sly smile, spurred on by his quick blush.

Her mom would probably kill her for getting this tattoo, which was a big part of why she was doing it, of course. She hadn't planned on getting one, but stopped in to spy on her roommate's secret crush, hoping to scam some details out of him for Rose. Rose needed an edge, as shy as she was. Kasey sighed to herself. Rose really was too trusting, too sweet. He peered up over her hip, pausing in his work to swipe the small of her back with a cool cloth.

"You doing okay, there?" He leaned back for perspective on his design. "I'm thinking about fifteen more minutes."

"Hey," she winked. "I can hang on as long as you can." She sighed in gratitude for her decision to wear her blue thong today. Blue would complement her new butterfly tattoo perfectly.

Phil grinned and returned to shading the wings, hoping he'd get this butterfly under his hands later. Hot. Definitely, hot.

# # #

Across town, down a rain-soaked alley, a lanky figure hunched next to a garbage can. He checked over his shoulder, then stilled the wriggling rat in his fist with a fierce twist of its head. Almost came off, that one did. He chuckled, then bit into the creature's abdomen as its tiny legs twitched, chewing through its filthy fur, into the body cavity. He gagged as the rank bodily fluids filled his mouth, and stained his face. Revulsion showed in his eyes. The cooling corpse drained, he flung it aside, then began prowling further down the alley for more prey. Gagging, he was still hungry.

Please, God, let this be the last one. His darting eyes caught a furtive movement under some newspaper, and he dove for it, bloody saliva slick on his chin.

# # #

Officer Joe Daltry perused the dark recesses between buildings as his partner, Sean "Mac" Macpherson directed the patrol cruiser through their late Friday night routine in the rowdy college town.

"Always on the lookout for the big save, eh, Rookie?"

Mac was tired of this crap shift, with crap rookies he wouldn't trust to bring his coffee, much less cover his back if something went down.

He knew why he'd been held back, why they wouldn't let him test out for his detective shield, and he wasn't gonna take this crap anymore. The Captain was gonna hear from him in the morning, set things straight. Everyone makes mistakes, and really, was this crap town suffering for one less hooker spreading the clap to the frat kids? He didn't think so.

Yeah, so it wasn't a clean shooting. Turned out she was pulling pepper spray outta her bag. But how'd he know? Working the late nights, you see things. You never know when the shit's gonna hit. And damned if he was gonna be saddled with some ignorant, jumpy kid fresh outta grade school when it hit again. And it always did, eventually.

"Hey, slow down. What's that?" Joe leaned out to keep his sightline with the alley they'd almost passed. "Looks like some guy shootin' up or somethin'."

Mac sighed. "Go get 'em, kid. Yo."

Joe paused, halfway out of the car, looking back with an impatient glance.

"Don't forget your stick." Goddamned rookies. Mac settled in, lifting the daily paper out of the back seat and opening to the sports page.

Joe strode to the alley entrance, left hand resting on the handle of his nightstick, just in case. He shone his Maglight to the back of the guy's head. Greasy, shoulder-length hair. Ratty overcoat, covered with unidentifiable stains. And the smell. Jeez, he was still ten feet away, and he wanted to cover his mouth. What was that? Raw meat? Spoiled raw meat?

"What're you up to, there?" He flicked the light to get the junkie's attention. "Let's get you cleaned up, eh?"

The junkie startled, shoulders hunched, and shifted to turn around. He leaned back on his haunches, revealing the dead rats scattered on the ground on front of him like empty juice boxes. He giggled, curling his upper lip back. The rat in his hand squeaked, drawing Joe's attention.

"What the hell?"

The junkie squeezed, his teeth showing, and the animal writhed, frantically biting at the hand that tortured it, then fell limp as his furred abdomen burst open from the pressure with a muffled pop.

Joe stared, faced with a horror the academy had never addressed. His eyes were riveted on the limp rodent, his mouth open. He grabbed his nightstick from his belt just as the junkie leapt for him, and they went down together; Joe panicked and fumbling, the junkie desperate and beyond mercy.

Joe cursed as the junkie grabbed at the nightstick, then screamed as the junkie bit almost completely through his index finger, and he lost his grip.

"Shit! Mac!" Joe fumbled, his finger dangling, its tendons exposed. "Get this guy off me!"

Mac startled out of the paper at Joe's yelp, craned his neck to catch shadowed men struggling. He heard an animal snarl, and his heart jumped. He climbed from the car and lumbered toward the alley.

The two rolled, legs intertwined as they fought for dominance, Joe's uninjured hand gripping the junkie's shirtfront. As the junkie rolled on top, he grinned wildly as he smashed his forehead into Joe's face, destroying his nose, and breaking his front teeth. Joe began to cough, after sucking in the cloying reek of his own blood.

A wide gash split open over the junkie's eyebrow, and fresh gore, black in the artificial streetlight, streamed down his face, his eyes a white shock against the crimson. He growled as his prey weakened.

Mac rounded the corner and skidded into a dented garbage can. "Fuck. C'mon, use your stick, kid."

The junkie won. Joe's windpipe was crushed under both the force of his own Maglight and the junkie's weight. As he gasped, broken and suffocating, the junkie lapped at the blood pooling in the center of Joe's face, nipping at his victim's lacerated mouth.

Torn flesh in his jaws, the junkie screamed as taser leads sank into his shoulder. He stiffened with the voltage surge, shrieking between the kicks Mac administered to his ribcage. He tried to crawl behind a nearby garbage can, but Mac dragged him into the light and handcuffed both his wrists and ankles.

"Goddamn it. Jesus, Joe." Mac heard the backup and ambulance getting closer, over the junkie's incoherent, gutteral moans. He removed the bloody Maglight from Joe's throat and gripped it in his fist. He glared at the whimpering junkie, his lip curling at the continued attempts to crawl to safe hiding.

With a controlled pace he followed, raised his arm, and beat that junkie bastard until he stopped moving, panting as he stepped back and swiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He knew how to make justice stick. Blood dripped from his hand, shimmering droplets on the night cement.

# # #

The morning broke, bright and harsh, early summer in the southwestern desert. The squat white building sat indifferent to the weather, perforated with small windows, surrounded by stunted shrubberies. Those who worked inside focused on the dark activities of which humans are capable. Dr. Samantha Hill, assistant forensic examiner, worked in the basement.

Sam sighed as she inadvertently smeared her protective goggles with meningeal fluid. Been doing this six months, and I still can't remember. Shit. She carefully set the brain tissue in the scale pan, and grabbed a nearby hand towel.

"Not again," Brian chuckled, as he breezed through to drop that morning's test results into Sam's box on the wall, just inside the door. "Keep that up, and you'll get a nickname."

Sam rolled her eyes, and turned off the recorder. "You wanna not say that stuff while the recorder's on? You'll give them ideas." She peeled off her gloves and goggles, lifting her glasses out of her lab coat pocket to read the chart. The cadaver on her table eyed the ceiling with flaccid noncommittance.

When the John Doe had come in early that morning, Brian had prepped it for examination, photographing the numerous wounds and identifying marks. Samantha had been there, as well, but paused to study the information again. The guy liked tattoos, that's for sure. She noted a Maori band around his calf, a flaming pair of dice on his left pectoral muscle, but tilted her head to get a better look at the panther wrapped around his right shoulder and upper arm. Looks a bit inflamed, like it's new. New enough he didn't get much time to enjoy it.

"So, negative on narcotics and prescriptions, both. Hm." She glanced at the corpse on her table. Dementia? No, no cortical degeneration, and no HIV-related symptoms, either. Schizophrenia? According to this, dopamine/serotonin levels are fine. No gross lobar abnormalities. Wait.

"Bri, bring me that tray." Sam pointed across the room as her attention refocused on the brain on the scale. She hurried through pulling on new gloves, set the soft tissues on the tray, and outlined the area for Brian to examine. "Doesn't this look a little too developed?" She sliced through the medial temporal lobe, exposing the Piriform cortex. "People just don't have that huge of an olfactory cortex. Odd," Sam nudged her glasses farther up with her knuckle, almost shaving off part of an eyebrow with her scalpel. "And his occipital lobe is unusual, too."

With raised eyebrows, Brian peered over her shoulder. "And this means?"

"I don't know, but this guy's brain is wired for sight and smell perception more than it should be. May be side effects of some new street drug, if it's not just some genetic aberration," Sam pushed her glasses up. "I wanna find out more on this guy."

# # #

Mac glanced up from the game at the insistent knocking, his eyes bleary and unfocused. His hair matted against his head, damp from sweaty napping.

"Fuck."

The vinyl sofa creaked as he shifted to the edge and rose to his unsteady feet. He opened the front door and winced against the afternoon sun, scratching at the groove between his thigh and crotch.

"What the hell do you want?"

Samantha shifted her weight, and cleared her throat. "Sorry to interrupt your day off, Officer. Samantha Hill, from the Coroner's Office. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the incident with Officer Daltry." She looked him in the eye as she said his late partner's name. Bloodshot. Great.

"He's dead, yeah?" Mac stooped to pick up an empty beer can and tossed it into the kitchen sink from the doorway. "This can't wait until tomorrow? I'm busy." He gestured to the cluttered, dim living room, leaning back far enough to lose center, stepping back to compensate. "I still got a life, you know."

Sam felt her face flush, her cool slipping. "Just a moment of your time, Officer. You'll be back to your life," She gestured toward the television and moist sofa with her pen. "Before you know it."

He blinked, and then opened the door the rest of the way. "Wanna beer, lady?"

Sam stepped inside and shook her head, flipping her notepad open. "Tell me about the transient."

Mac leaned against the kitchen counter. "Crackhead, I figure. Nothing left, you know?" He tapped his temple, his eyes dark. "Empty shell."

"He had enough juice to brutally murder your partner." Sam noted MacPherson's eyes narrowing. "What set him off, do you think?"

Mack sighed. He reached into the fridge, and cracked open another beer. "Lady, I don't know. Had a taste for blood, though. I pulled him off Daltry while he was biting into his face." He shuddered, and took a long pull. "Never wanna see that again. The look in his eye."

Sam stopped writing on her notepad. "What look?"

"Animal. Pure animal." Mack reached for the doorknob. "He killed my partner with his bare hands, and looked about as upset as if somebody'd dropped a burger in his lap." He swung open the door, squinting at the brash daylight. "Good enough?"

She looked down at what she'd written. Thirst for blood, raw meat . . . twist on ketoacidosis?

Sam walked briskly toward her car, relieved to hear the door close behind her. Good thing he was soused. If he'd been thinking, he might've wondered what the hell a pathologist was doing--

# # #

"--investigating a homicide?" Captain Jorgensen pointed at her, emphasizing his next directive. "You, Dr. Hill, are not only unqualified to run an investigation, you're screwing up the detectives already working one." Point. "Stay in the lab." Menacing point.

Jorgensen stalked off, apparently satisfied with Sam's silence as confirmation of her compliance. She took a deep breath and released it, considering.

"Bri?" Sam flipped through the rolodex.

Brian leaned in, swinging from the doorframe. "You rang?"

"What's the name of that specialist from the University of New Mexico? Humbert?"

He lifted the rolodex from her hands, and patiently left it open to a specific card. "You mean Humboldt? Animal behavior? You can try using him to communicate with Jorgensen, but I can't guarantee it'll help." He winked. "That guy's an asshole."

# # #

Rose stood in the kitchen, the bright morning sun warming her through the window, and held her empty coffee mug close to her chest. Her small hands clamped onto the ceramic mug decorated with big-lipped fish, her fingers picking at her ragged cuticles.

"Kasey?"

Kasey sat huddled over a large mixing bowl, noisily slurping up a cloudy liquid, sputtering when her nose dipped too far down. A steady hum came from her, broken only by the breaths she took between swallows.

"What," Rose asked, stepping closer. "Happened last night?" She edged to the side counter, where the sugar canister lay open. Almost empty. An additional bag had been torn open, sugar crystals scattered over the counter and floor. Maybe she's hungover? When she reached for the bag to clean up, Kasey's attention swung to her, eyes wild. Lunging out of her chair, she shoved Rose away from the counter and scooped fistfuls of sugar into her bowl. Her hands were caked with the mixture, and she vigorously tongued it off, large eyes unblinking as she stared at her roommate.

Her hair was tangled, rubbed in different directions and held there by what Rose assumed was more of the sugar water. She wore the outfit she'd left in last night, on her mission to check out the cute tattooist, now worse for wear, streaked with crusted sugar crystals, stretched out of shape from Kasey's extended contortions. Mouth open, Kasey rocked her forehead side to side on the table, her eyes panicked. She wailed, tears trapping in the sugar dried to her face.

"Rose Rose Rose," she jammed her fists against her closed eyes. "I can't stop. Make me stop, please make me stop."

She dropped to the floor, and skittered along the kitchen floorboards toward the window. She gouged her knee on an uneven floorboard, but didn't seem to notice. As Kasey pressed her open mouth to the glass, tongue exploring the smooth surface, eyes drawn to the sky, Rose noticed what looked like two slender black cables arcing from Kasey's scalp. One on each side of her part. Leaning closer, noting the segments, the delicate clubs at the ends, she realized Kasey had antennae. One lifted slightly, quivering in her direction.

Wide-eyed, Rose sidled to the phone, back to the wall, and slipped into the hall closet. She dialed for an ambulance.

# # #

The campus was empty, early evening settling in, shadows lengthening across the buildings. Streetlights seemed near to flickering on, and the traffic lights stood out against dusk.

Sam's boots hit hard on the marble floor, echoing down the hallway, bouncing off the thick walls. She walked faster, as if to cut short the uncomfortable advertisement of her approach. The lights were dimmed for evening hours. She glanced over her shoulder. Nobody around . . . place is like a tomb.

Closed office doors stood sentinel as she passed. Her steps slowed in front of one in particular, and she paused to listen, noting the light under the door. A chair creaked and settled. Sam knocked.

"Dr Humboldt?" She cracked the door open, stuck her nose in.

"-ing load of horse manure, that's what thi-," His wheeled chair groaned as he leaned back. "Yes? Who is there, please?"

Sam opened the door farther, stepped inside the warm office. Precarious stacks of piled folders, journals, and books greeted her, leaving just enough room for a small desktop computer and phone on the large oak desk. The swivel chair cradled an additional bushel of paperwork. Books on the floor followed the walls, which were an uneven patchwork of framed wildlife sketches. The general impression of tea cozies and oversized sweaters was stamped throughout. The relaxed chaos left her tense, itching to file something, anything. Before it tipped over.

Peering at her over round spectacles were a pair of curious brown eyes, protected from the elements by wiry, expressive eyebrows. Like caterpillars. He clenched a ballpoint pen between his teeth, rather like he wished it were a pipe. "Young lady, have you misplaced yourself?"

Sam cleared her throat. "Dr Humboldt, my name is Samantha Hill," she leaned forward, extended her hand. "I called yesterday about my case?"

He lowered the student thesis he'd been perusing, the tip of the pen bobbing pensively. "Ah, yes. Yes. Of course. Forgive me," he gripped her hand lightly and waved her to an unoccupied stool, inching his chair back so she could squeeze through. "Sit, please."

"I apologize for arriving so late, but I'm concerned about the ramifications of my hypothesis, if I'm right." She adjusted her glasses. "I may not have a lot of time to prevent this strange phenomenon from spreading."

"Well, then. I think tea is in order."

Sam raised her eyebrows. "Tea?"

Dr Humboldt sidled from behind the desk, picking up two mugs. He nodded.

"Earl Grey, definitely."