The Memory Killer. J. Kerley A.
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Brianna burns up the stage.”
“People ever buy Brian drinks?”
“Always,” the beret bobbed. “It’s a way to show appreciation.”
“What’s Brianna’s act like?” I asked.
“He does Garland to Gaga, but his comic persona is Ivana Tramp, y’know, like from Trump. He’s triple bitchy, put-downs part of the act. If someone hoots at him while he’s performing, he might say, ‘Girl, why are you here buying drinks? Save that money for dermabrasion.’ It’s all in fun. I’ve got a few videos of his act if you want to see.”
My heart quickened. “From that night?”
“A couple years ago, back when Brian was developing the act.”
No help and there wasn’t much to go on in Peyton’s account of the night. Caswell had been surrounded by well-wishers and drink-buyers and he’d tottered home around one a.m.
“Brian was feeling crappy and went home. He was afraid he was getting a cold and he had a show to do the next night. He’s a trouper.”
Morningstar said symptoms could appear within fifteen minutes following a dosing, including dizziness, dry mouth, increased heart rate, flushing and a sense of general weakness … similar to the onset of a cold or flu. The effects ramped up until the victim was incapacitated.
We left Peyton to his buzz and were wondering where to go next when my phone went off: Roy. The excitement was back in his voice.
“I’m back at HQ,” he trumpeted. ‘We just got a hit on the DNA. A name. It’s over!”
We were three steps out of the elevator when Roy was in front of us, waving a report in our faces, his grin stretching from earlobe to earlobe.
“He’s nailed to the wall,” he said, snicking the page with a fingernail. “The positive on the DNA.”
“Did it just arrive?” I asked. With no former hits, the only possible way to get a match was for the perp’s chromo-map to have just entered the system, meaning he’d been arrested somewhere.
“Nope. It’s been around for twenty-six months.”
I stared. “What? How?”
Roy put a cautionary finger to his lips and motioned us to follow him to his office. We entered and he closed his door, not a typical move for Roy.
“I had a meeting with Homeland Security yesterday, the usual trading of notes. I was telling Major Rayles about the case, that we’d had no hits from the national d-base. He said he’d have our results run through Home-Sec’s database which, it seems, is more extensive than ours.”
“More extensive how?”
“We’ll get there. The main thing is, we got a solid positive on one Gary Ocampo. Right here in Miami.”
“Particulars?”
“This Ocampo is thirty. No record. I had a couple pool dicks do some fast digging. Seems Ocampo owns a small shop, Gary’s Fantasy World, selling comic books and video games. He’s the owner of the building and resides upstairs.”
I considered the information. “No priors, Roy? A bit odd.”
“Every rapist starts somewhere, right?”
I pulled my jacket from the hanger and headed toward the door. “I’ll take a team and go fetch Mr Ocampo. Can’t argue with the genetics.”
“Hold on, Carson,” Roy said. “It’s not quite that easy. Ocampo was part of a health study at the University of Florida about three years back. The DNA was taken then, consensual, part of the study.”
I gave him a so-what? look.
He said, “Those folks at HS toss a wide net, chromosomally speaking. Sometimes the net lands in a gray area.”
“You’re saying a smart lawyer might argue though the DNA sampling was consensual, its introduction into a nationwide database wasn’t?”
Roy nodded. “I just got off the phone with the state Attorney General, wanted to know if we could bust this SOB. They promised an answer within a couple hours.”
I checked my watch. We could afford to wait if it meant the difference between a clean bust and giving some shyster ammunition to muddy a case.
“I think Gershwin and I will do some shopping until the decision comes down,” I said.
“Lemme guess,” Roy grinned. “Comic books?”
The locale was strip malls and free-standing shops, a laundromat on the corner, a pizzeria across the street. A light breeze coaxed tree-line palms into a green hula against a cerulean sky. Down the block was a fortune teller, a second-hand clothier, a storefront tacquería, a muffler shop and a uniform store. The little shops were there because the transitional nature of the street – straddling between slums and gentrification – meant low rents, but the street was a four-lane thoroughfare in and out of downtown, with ample traffic to attract customers.
Centering the block was Gary’s Fantasy World, the brightest structure on the street, freshly painted and as white as snow. A broad front window beamed with neon signage pulsing New and Vintage Comics and Video Games and Collectors Welcome. There were two upstairs windows, both with closed curtains.
Lonnie Canseco, a senior colleague, was a block behind. He’d assembled a unit of two more FCLE dicks and alerted Miami-Dade, who’d provided four patrol cars with two-man teams. Also, as a precaution, a SWAT unit was a block away. We could have gone with a major-league assault, but it was my call, and I preferred surgical strikes to carpet bombing. If that failed, I was fine with Bombs Away.
I radioed Canseco to pull down the alley behind Ocampo’s shop in case the guy bolted out the back. My phone rang, Roy. “You’re clear, bud,” he said. “The AG says it’s fine. Nail the fucker, but be careful, right?”
Gary’s Fantasy World reminded me of an old-school record store, except the wooden bins held glassine-sleeved comic books instead of vinyl albums. Hand-lettered signs hung above bins, denoting Superman, Batman, Fantastic Four and so forth. A far wall held video games. Two glass counters in the rear held more comics. I took it they were the crème de la crème, priced from two hundred and fifty to over two thousand dollars.
“Two grand for a freakin’ comic?” Gershwin whispered.
I heard a rustle and spun to see a young male enter from a door behind the counter, early twenties, skinny as a rail, with the bleached pallor that comes from junk food and avoidance of sunlight. There was a single tattoo inside his right arm: Spider-Man in lavish color. Per current trend he affected a knit woolen hat of thick yarn, black, pulled almost to his eyebrows. Unwashed brown hair poured several inches from the hat, ending in jagged spikes.
The kid’s brown eyes stared at us without saying a word. I doubt we resembled the typical comic-book purchaser, though what did I know?
“We need to see Mr Ocampo,” Gershwin said.
“He’s not in.”
I pulled the badge, evoking puzzlement from the kid. “Where is he?” I asked. “Mr Ocampo.”
The kid looked toward the ceiling. Or maybe heaven. “Upstairs.”
“Can you call him down here?”
“Gary don’t come down here a whole lot.”
A voice appeared in the air, wheezy and almost breathless. “This is Gary Ocampo. What do you want?”
My eyes went to the corners, the front door, back. No one.
“Where