Surgeon – Chapter Eleven

NOT EDITED

Chapter Eleven

Tuesday: January 7, 2020

3:21 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, BEDROOM

Not for the first time since it had come out that Dallas Silver was the long-sought after Hangman, Bo flinched himself awake from the Kathy Baker dreams. He hated them. They weren’t exactly nightmares, but they did force him to relive all the times Kathy Baker spoke to him like he was worthless, all the times he allowed himself to feel like he was nothing more than chewed gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. All the times Kathy wedged her way in between him and Dallas, weaseling her way into Dallas’s life, taking over every piece of it. The Dallas that had existed pre-Kathy Baker never would have run away from Jamal Pitman, forcing Bo to try and track them down, losing his job and his whole damn mind if he didn’t succeed.

The Dallas that had arisen post-Kathy Baker had run away in the middle of the night, leaving Bo to be one of the last people in the country to find out that his best friend was the FBI’s Most Wanted.

Bo glared at his bedroom wall as though it had wronged him in some way, like it was somehow the wall’s fault that he had been oblivious to Dallas’s serial killer tendencies the entire time they had worked together and lived together.

Usually he could avoid the dreams at least to some degree. At the very least, he could scare them away a little easier once they started, but work the day before had drained him, had taken away his will to fight away the Kathy Baker dreams. He felt weak, tired.

Hell, he almost felt normal. Miserable was a feeling normal people felt, right? He was pretty sure that it was. He dragged his gaze to his alarm clock. Nearly four. He was acutely aware of Acamas curled up behind his head, purring softly. He reached back over his shoulder and scratched the place between her ears.

He let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes again. Jupiter, he did not want to go to work today. How long had it been since he had truly dreaded going to work?

The day after Jamal Pitman had called him useless for the third time, he guessed. Jamal had hated him after Kathy ran away, as though Kathy’s disappearance was his fault, as though it was his fault that Kathy was in love with a serial killer. And maybe it was. Once Bo had learned of Dallas’s interest in Kathy, he had encouraged him to pursue her if she made him happy, even though he so desperately wanted to tell him what a witch she could be to those around her.

Pursue her, he had, and he had succeeded. In marriage, in children, in living together, in running away together and becoming fugitives. Would any of it had happened if Bo had been selfish and told Dallas to leave her alone? To not chase after her? To leave his wants and desires behind simply because they bothered Bo?

Bo felt like screaming. He couldn’t wait to get out of this damn town. Even if they solved the case today, it still wouldn’t be soon enough. If he packed his bags and left that very moment, it still wouldn’t be soon enough.

He opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He couldn’t sleep, not here. He scooped up Acamas and climbed off the bed. Maybe the couch would help.

4:12 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM

The couch hadn’t helped. Bo couldn’t help but feel disgusting. Disgusting for pretending to be ‘just one of the guys’ as he encouraged Dallas to pursue Kathy even though she was married. It didn’t matter that Kathy had always treated him like a tool for her to use for her own gain, a ladder to climb for her own success—he still felt like a monster for the pain he must’ve caused her by setting Dallas loose on her. Hangman. The vigilante. A serial killer. He had played devil’s advocate to Dallas Silver, and if that wasn’t something that would send him straight to Hell, if it existed, he didn’t know what would.

No amount of atoning would ever undo that sin.

8:12 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, MAIN FLOOR

As soon as Bo stepped through the doors of the station, he felt eyes on him. Maybe it was because he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Maybe it was because they all believed he was a serial killer. Maybe it was because he was late to work for the first time in his entire career. 

Whatever the reason, he did his best to pretend he didn’t care. Let them stare. The normal façade had already fallen. They were officially through the looking glass on that one. What the hell did it matter anymore what they thought or if they started? 

He was planning on leaving soon, anyway. As soon as he got the chance, he’d be out of this hellhole and back home, closer to his serial killer best friend, his criminal wife, and their children. Home, where his friends were liars, where his boss hated him for everything that he was worth, which wasn’t much, really. That hell was a better home than this one. At least he knew where he fit in there, where he belonged.

“Hey, Austen.” 

Bo stopped walking, a frown forming on his face. He turned to face Carter. “What?” 

“You’re late.” 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s not like you all suffered from being separated from a killer for ten minutes, right?” Bo asked. Carter didn’t respond, only cleared his throat. “Can I go? Or do you have a serial killer joke up your sleeve?” Bo asked. “Because, if you do, I would love to hear it.” 

“No, I don’t… have a joke. I wanted to apologize.” 

“You’ve started off your apology rather terribly, Detective Lehmann.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carter said. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay. I’m not sure what you wanted. An apology in return? I’m not sorry for being late. I’m not sorry for standing up for myself and my property yesterday. And I’m not accepting your half-assed apology or telling you that it’s all okay, because it isn’t. Yesterday wasn’t okay, this isn’t okay, and I’m not okay. I see no point in pretending that it is or that I am. I just ask that you go to your desk, let me go to the morgue, and you not approach me unless it’s for work. Can we agree on all of that?”

Carter’s brow furrowed, but after a moment, he nodded and stepped out of Bo’s way. Apparently, being a little rude was the way to go to get what you wanted in Clinstone. After clocking in, Bo headed down to the morgue. His gaze landed on Jacob, seated behind the table, feet kicked up on the steel surface. Bo frowned. He’d have to clean the table again once the detective left. 

“Hey,” Jacob greeted. 

“I know. I’m late. I’ve already been through that,” Bo said. 

“Don’t care about that. I’m late all the time. It happens,” Jacob said. 

“You have kids, Detective Mason, a reason to be late,” Bo said. 

“So do you. The reason, I mean. Not the kids. Unless… you do?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t. I am very much not father material.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Jacob said. “But you still have a reason. You were emotionally and verbally attacked yesterday. Hell, I wouldn’t have even come into work today. You’re braver than I am,” Jacob said.

“Brave isn’t the terminology I would use. I’m still on my probation period. I simply had no choice.” Bo walked across the room and set his notebooks on the table. “What can I do for you, Detective Mason?”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just call me Jake?” he asked.

“Because I respect you.”

“I respect you too. Calling you Bo doesn’t lessen that.”

“I suppose not,” Bo said after a moment. “But unless ‘Detective Mason’ bothers you, it is the way I prefer to address you.”

“Your preference is totally okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “Did you identify the male vic?” he asked.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Bo confirmed.

“And that… doesn’t bother you?” Jacob asked. “That you went home without finishing your work?”

“No.” Bo crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the counters in the lab. That was very much a lie. He had hated himself for going home without identifying the victim. It made him feel even worse about himself than he had after Gwen and Carter worked their asses off to call him a killer, and until he had gone home yesterday, he hadn’t thought that to be a possibility.

“See, my Alice, she always hated leaving the station until her work was done,” Jacob said, pulling Bo back to now instead of the day before. “And she’s a lot like you, Austen. So I can only imagine you feel about the same as she always did.”

“I… think you may be forgetting that I met your fiancee just yesterday, Detective. She is far too likable of a woman to be a lot like me.”

“You aren’t unlikable because you’re you. You’re ‘unlikable’ because of the people around you. Gwen’s jaded, paranoid, and suspicious. Carter is apparently very susceptible to the power of suggestion from that paranoia. It isn’t about you. They would’ve targeted anybody new who came in. It just happened to be you.”

Bo couldn’t help but chuckle as he shook his head. “Detective Mason, if it were because of the people around me, Clinstone would be the first time I had experienced this issue. It’s not. I’m the problem. At the very least, in this universe, on this earth, my very existence is the problem. I accepted that a long time ago. It’s simply the way the world turns.”

“If your existence was the problem, nobody would ever like you at all. Everyone would hate you. You know, like… mosquitos. Or ticks. Everyone hates ticks. You’re like, I dunno, a spider.”

Bo raised a brow. “A spider?”

“Yeah. A lot of people are scared of you. You know, because you’ve got eight legs or whatever. But there are people who love you and think you’re a marvel of the world. They think you’re amazing and special and that everyone should truly watch and learn just how special you are. If everyone would take the time to sit down and watch the spider build his web, maybe they wouldn’t be so scared.”

Bo stared at Jacob for what felt like an obscene amount of time. Despite that, he couldn’t find anything wrong in his eyes or on his face. It didn’t seem like a joke or a prank. It didn’t seem dishonest or cruel. It just seemed… normal. Like it was totally normal to compare a man to a spider to try and convince him that he wasn’t the problem in the equation. Bo cleared his throat, finally settling on, “I do not have eight legs,” as a response.

Jacob snorted. “True. We’ll assume your intelligence is your legs. That’s what scares people. And in this, uh, comparison or metaphor thing, ‘scare’ doesn’t always mean genuine fear, either. It could mean, y’know, intimidated or jealous.”

“I’ve never met anyone jealous of a spider.”

“Okay, first, I definitely have. And second, I’m not saying jealous of a spider-spider. I’m saying jealous of the you-spider.” Jacob pointed at him. “You’re being intentionally difficult now.”

“And you’re in my lab with your shoes on my clean table. It seems only fair.”

“I thought it’d give my presence a more casual vibe.”

“I… am too high-strung these days for anyone’s presence to have a casual ‘vibe’.”

“And no one should blame you for that.” Jacob leaned back in his chair, dropping his feet to the floor. “Yesterday, you said you were leaving after this case was done. That still the plan?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t ID’d our vic yet?”

“No.”

“And… yet you’re still standing here talking to me.”

“You’re in my lab, Detective. I need the morgue for some of my work, and I need the lab for the rest of it. I’ll be working on ID’ing the victim as soon as you’re out of the room.”

“Why? You can’t work around other people?” Jacob asked.

“It’s a personal choice.”

“It’s a ‘personal choice’ because you don’t want people to see how smart you are,” Jacob said. Bo scratched the side of his head before offering a shrug. He couldn’t quite pinpoint Jacob’s end-goal, aside from trying to annoy him, but he didn’t enjoy the journey to said goal. “Right?” Jacob asked.

“I simply don’t work in front of other people.”

“You identified Tess Brown in front of two people.”

“Yes. That was different.”

“How?”

“Identifying this victim will be… different than identifying Miss Brown,” Bo said quietly.

“Yeah, it’ll require more intelligence,” Jacob said.

“Stop saying that like I’m the smartest person you know.” Bo sat his satchel on the table with a thud. “I’m not. I-I’m just a lab geek.”

“Bo, you are the smartest person I know. Your progression or title or whatever—none of that changes anything. You are the smartest person I know,” Jacob said. Bo shook his head, his teeth sinking into the scar on the inside of his bottom lip. “Why not?”

“My best friend was a serial killer, Detective Mason. I’m not as intelligent as they claim that I am. An intelligent person wouldn’t have missed that,” Bo said.

“I told you about our police chief, about our killer defense attorney. He conned the ever-loving shit outta Alice, and she’s the second smartest person I know. So if you think you’re dumb for accidentally befriending a serial killer, then Alice and I are fucking Idiots of the Year, because we helped free one from prison.”

Bo raked a hand through his hair, pausing to tug at the blonde locks. “Why do you even care? Why does it matter how I feel about my supposed intellect?”

“Because you don’t deserve to feel like shit just because you’ve been through shit,” Jacob said. Bo watched him for a moment before pulling his laptop out of his messenger bag. He rounded the table and sat down beside Jacob. “Are you really giving me the silent treatment so I’ll leave? Because my daughter does it to me now, so it has basically no effect on me. I’m immune, Austen. Totally immune.”

Bo shook his head. “No. I have something to show you.” Jacob raised an eyebrow as Bo typed in his password. After his desktop loaded, Bo used the mousepad to double-click on an application Jacob had never heard the name of before. The app opened, and Bo double-clicked ‘open’. He scrolled through the files on his computer, opened the one labeled ‘CLINSTONE’.

Jacob couldn’t help but scan the file names Bo scrolled through. The man was the poster boy for organization. They were laid out by month and year, by police department, and apparently by the detective he dealt with the most during each case. In the Clinstone folder, he opened up a file labeled ‘First Case’ and then another labeled with three question marks. “I don’t know his name yet. That will change soon,” Bo said as he looked over at Jacob. “The same goes for the First Case folder. That’ll be replaced with the killer’s headline once we know what it is.”

“What do you think it is?” Jacob asked.

“There are too many factors to make a reasonable guess, and any guess I make simply hampers our ability to see past the guess to figure out the truth. He’s up to something much bigger than just slitting their throats. That’s not his M.O. There’s something… larger than life in this case, and we haven’t found it yet. That’s all I do know.” Bo said. He scrolled through the images in the question mark file and double-clicked one. Jacob leaned back as a picture of the John Doe’s face opened on Bo’s screen. “Never seen a body that decayed?” Bo asked.

“Not for a long time, is all” Jacob said quietly. He scratched the side of his head. “I cannot believe that you were nearly face-to-face with him in that dumpster.”

“I needed information,” Bo said simply. Jacob chuckled, and Bo knew that he wasn’t mocking him. His laugh was missing the nasty inflection of a mocker.

Jacob Mason thought he was funny.

Dallas had thought he was funny too.

Bo cleared his throat. “Anyway, I use this to… repair and reconstruct the faces of vics that aren’t in the system. When I fingerprinted him, he didn’t show up, and his face is too… well, you know… to be ID’d through the system.”

“Is this another one of yours?” Jacob asked. “Like the fingerprint thing?”

“Yeah.” Bo nodded, swallowing down the nagging fear that told him to shut up, to close the damn laptop and walk out of here while he still had some of his self-respect, which wasn’t much, but it was still technically something.

Jacob leaned forward again. “How’s it work?” he asked.

“Well, it’s like an… improved version of Photoshop for facial recognition,” Bo said. “It, uh, it’s like a virtual, umm, reconstruction.”

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” Jacob said softly. “There’s only one person in this room who’s judging you, Bo, and it’s not me.”

“Yeah,” Bo whispered. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, if I come in with this, I can remove the puffiness in his face, as well as the discoloration. I know he was white, so I can go through and edit his skin tone to white so the system can recognize him a bit easier than before. And once we remove the swelling and whatnot, we’re left with… this,” he said.

Jacob blinked several times, one eyebrow raised. “That’s… impressive.” The victim looked nearly alive again, minus the few faults Bo had yet to fix.

“And, umm, I can take this and get rid of the protruding tongue and eyes. And then I reshape the lips like… this.” Bo fell silent as he deepened the philtrum on the victim. He cleared his throat. “John Doe appeared to have green eyes, so if I open the lids and edit the color back in, we’ve got this,” he said.

“Holy shit, Bo,” Jacob breathed. Bo nodded as he clicked a button at the bottom of the screen, comparing the picture with the database. “Bo, that’s—”

“—Victor Law,” they said in unison. Bo tapped a finger against the name in the lower right-hand corner of his screen. “System just matched it,” he said, turning to look up at Jacob.

“Christ, Bo, you’re a… Well, you’re a fucking genius,” Jacob said. Bo chose not to acknowledge that one. He just didn’t have it in him to fight Jacob’s less than sound reasoning of how he wasn’t stupid. Jacob stood up, clapping a hand down on Bo’s shoulder. “Thank you for this. I’m going to inform Victor’s family. You wanna come with?” he asked.

“I… have some cleaning to do,” Bo said. 

Jacob glanced around the lab. “Didn’t you just clean this place yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes.” Jacob frowned. “I’m not normal, Detective Mason, and I think I’m going to have to give up on trying to hide that fact from the people at this station. My cover’s been blown on that, cat’s out of the bag. You can finally begin to process the fact that there’s something wrong with me, and cleaning is one of my outlets.”

“Is there something wrong with you? Because being intelligent isn’t a disease or a flaw or a bad attribute. It’s just a thing that you are. A kickass thing that you are,” Jacob said.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m successfully diagnosed.” Jacob didn’t respond, but the frown returned. “I’ll see you around, Detective.”

“Sure, Bo.” Jacob slapped a hand against his thigh before turning and heading toward the door.

Bo almost felt… guilty for turning him away. Bo had had scattered friends here and there in his life, but he’d really put Jacob’s desire to be kind and friendly to the test, pushing it to limits he’d never pushed anyone else’s. He’d be a fool if he continued to try and shoulder his way through this case without at least one person on his side. “Umm… Detective?” Bo asked. 

Jacob turned back to him. “Hmm?”

“I–is Detective Lehmann going with you?”

“Not if you don’t want him to. Truth be told, I’m still kind of pissed at him,” Jacob said.

Bo nodded. “Umm… let me wipe down the counters and the table here, and then I’ll go with you.”

Jacob smiled. “Awesome. I’ll be upstairs.”

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