Prologue

Tuesday, April 7

10:47 AM EST

" ... and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea."

-Plato, Critais

Ellis Rhodes slammed the old phone down with a crash. His fleshy palm got caught in the newly-formed crack in the handle of the receiver, which pinched him viciously. He hollered an oath and jerked his hand away, cradling it in his other hand. Nancy looked up from her computer through his office window, but quickly looked away when she saw the distinct shade of purple his face had become.

Ellis wasn't a screamer any more, and everyone in the precinct was grateful for it. He still had an incredibly hot temper, but now it only reduced him to vitriolic muttering rather than any vocal or physical violence. Still, it was best to stay out of his sights when he had a mad on. The poor phone's receiver had been replaced numerous times, and Nancy had the website for replacement ones all bookmarked and ready to go.

Ellis glared through the windows of his office, almost daring someone to meet his eye, but every neck was bent, and the room had fallen completely silent as everyone waited for the boss to head out. It was a well-established pattern, and everyone there knew it. Several years earlier, Ellis had lost it when interviewing a suspect. Lawsuits had followed, and mandated anger management training had come down along with a pretty lengthy probationary period.

The end result had been what was happening now. Ellis was wild-eyed but quiet, breathing heavily as his face ran through a gamut of ugly red and purple colors. He would remain that way for a minute or so, then grab his coat and leave, slamming his office door behind him. Not a word would be spoken to anyone, and it was up in the air as to whether or not he would return that day. Once he had gone, everyone would chuckle nervously and then hold an impromptu meeting where speculation would fly about what had set him off, whether he'd return, and if there was anything that they collectively needed to handle in his absence. It wasn't the most efficient system, but it worked for the small precinct.

"Murray! Fowler!", Ellis bellowed.

Across the room, gazes met and befuddled looks abounded. The two designated individuals jumped up and hurried towards the chief's office. This was all wrong. He was supposed to just leave. Both officers remembered quite well the day that the interview room had been closed for repairs to the table, one-way mirror, and the paint job, and were in no mood to deal with old-school Ellis. The chief began to speak in tight, clipped tones before the men were even inside the office.

"That was the goddamn FBI. The shooting this morning in Helston just got snatched from us, and they want someone with more seniority than Michaels and that fuckin' newbie out there onsite to document the transfer. You two just fucking volunteered. Get your asses moving."

Murray and Fowler exchanged a look, and Murray opened his mouth to speak. One sharp glance from the chief, however, and he meekly closed his mouth again and nodded. Without a word spoken between the two of them, they turned and left.

Helston wasn't that long a drive, and the partners made it in silence. Murray, being the senior officer, drove while Fowler worked the GPS and the radio, zeroing in on the crime scene. They both knew the particulars from the morning rundown at the station. White male, late 70s, dead on his front porch from a gunshot wound. No signs of a struggle, investigation pending, was seen by his neighbor that morning as she left for work.

As they turned the corner to the crime scene, Murray inadvertently braked hard.

"What the fuck?" Fowler whispered.

"Hell if I know, man. Look at this shit."

The entire road was roped off. Fowler was able quickly to count at least four 'unmarked' government sedans, one ambulance, Michaels's patrol car, and about twelve vehicles belonging to the press. There were vans with satellite dishes, cables were running everywhere and men milling about with huge cameras like old-school boomboxes held against their ears.

Fowler tweeted the siren a couple of times and the people directly in front of them began to move, though slowly. They were able to inch through, but still were forced to stop and get out well short of the crime scene tape. As they exited, both men received shouts from several individuals, asking for a statement, or a minute of their time, but both officers kept their heads down as a man with dark hair and sunglasses beckoned, holding the crime scene tape up for them to enter.

Fowler glanced around at a half-dozen suits that were so similar that it seemed their hairstyles had been bought wholesale and issued when they handed out the sunglasses. Nobody ran forward to shake his hand, so he led his partner towards the front door of the house, where there was the largest knot of people.

A white sheet covered what was presumably the body, and there was a lot of chatter, but nothing that stuck out to Fowler as important. He looked around for Michaels or the new kid, but didn't see either of them. One of the suits standing at the foot of the stairs turned, met Fowler's eye and jerked his head toward the open front door. Fowler felt his fist clench, and ground his teeth a little bit, but he knew better than to cause trouble with the feebs.

"Stay here, man. I'll be right back" he said, working his way around the techies and stepping into the house.

Michaels and the rookie were standing in the kitchen, hangdog looks plastered all across their faces. Facing them, with his back to Fowler and the door, was an enormous black man wearing an FBI-issue suit, albeit one that looked like it had lived a previous life as some sort of boat cover. He was cue-ball bald, and didn't appear to be wearing the standard dark glasses or earpiece. He was talking to Michaels, but his voice was low, so that Fowler couldn't catch any words. Fowler cleared his throat.

"Excuse me? Are you the guy in charge?"

"That would appear to be the case. And you are?"

The large man didn't turn all the way around, just looked over one shoulder as he spoke. Fowler felt his temper rising once more, but bit it down hard. A twinge ran through his stomach and he wished he had remembered to bring his antacids with him.

"Fowler. Lieutenant sent me down here, something about paperwork?"

"Ah yes, we've been waiting for you. Tell me, Fowler, does your precinct make a habit of sending, shall we say, less seasoned officers to a high-profile crime scene?"

"High-profile? What the hell are you talking about? Some old guy got shot! Besides, it was their turn in the rotation."

"Some old guy? So you really have no idea what's going on here, do you?"

"You mean the fucking zoo out front? No, I don't know, so why don't you explain it to me, feeb?"

The large man finally turned and faced Fowler, an ugly smirk on his face.

"Unbelievable. No wonder this place is the back-ass end of the state. And no wonder the victim chose to move here."

"Hey!"

"Just shut up and listen. The dead man's name was Mario Crawford. He got out of jail three weeks ago. Does the name ring any bells?"

"No. Should it?"

"Mario Crawford registered as a sex offender when he moved in. The child protection website was updated two days ago, to include his presence. Two days later, here we are."

Fowler fidgeted a bit, trying not to make it obvious. They SHOULD have known about this scuzzball moving into the area, but hadn't.

"So what's the FBI doing getting involved with it? No matter what the cause was, it's one old dead guy. We'll track down the perp and bust them for it. No reason for you guys to come in here and take over."

"Oh, but there is. You see, Mister Crawford is, indeed, just "one old dead guy", as you so eloquently put it. However, he is now the thirty-fourth "old dead guy" killed in this state, all with their names on that list."

Michaels and the rookie both gasped at that, and Fowler felt his jaw unhinge as it headed for his shoes.

"Did you say thirty four? Jesus Jumping Christ! Thirty four killings?"

The agent grinned now, showing his even, pearl-white teeth.

"It gets better, Fowler. Near as we can tell so far, it looks like they happened damn near simultaneously."

Fowler's jaw worked once, twice, but no words came out.

"So do you guys really want to bitch about jurisdiction? Or would you be willing to come over here and sign this little form so I can get back to my job?"

Tuesday, April 7

6:19 PM EST

"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandius

Paul Nelson kept a swimsuit calendar on his desk. It was one of the ones where you tear off each day and throw it away, revealing the next scantily clad model. In theory it was supposed to make each day a little brighter, but in reality it just seemed silly against the grim grey tones of Martinsdale Prison. Everything was grey, and to compound the sin, everything was lit with overhead fluorescent lights, which made Paul's skin seem as grey as his surroundings.

Paul felt grey these days. He was alone for most of his waking hours, associating only marginally with the only other humans in his realm of influence. He lived alone, ate alone, and even shopped alone at an all-night market after his shift finished. He drove a red station wagon that had seen many better days, but still kept plodding along. Paul saw more than a little bit of those characteristics in himself. He spent a good portion of each day parked in front of a bank of black-and-white (and grey) surveillance monitors. Twice a day he would put on an orange vest, take one of the shotguns from the case, buzz through, and go walking down Death Row.

Paul considered the mandated 'check-ins' to be both ironic and ludicrous. He had to perform Wellness Checks on the Death Row inmates. It was part of keeping them healthy before the state killed them, after all. Paul didn't have any interaction with the monsters behind the bars. They'd long since disregarded his presence as something worth noticing, and he'd returned the sentiment. He'd walk idly down to the end, past all twenty-one cells, never looking right or left. Then he'd turn back, trudge his way back down the hall, swipe his ID badge to open the door, return the shotgun to the wall, and flop down into his chair once more.

Paul worked the late shift, 4 PM to 1 AM, when Jimmy Porter came in to relieve him. There was no backup, no second guard on duty, nothing. The creatures in those cells were never let out, for any reason. Once a week a cleaning crew came in, meals were already finished by the time Paul came on duty. So it was Paul, his calendar, and the most evil collection of bipeds in the country. Paul couldn't wait for retirement.

This particular night, Paul had just finished his first Wellness Check, and settled back into his chair, when the (grey) phone on his desk began to ring, scaring him half to death. That phone NEVER rang. He reached a hand out and grasped the receiver.

"Hello? I mean, um, Death Row, Paul here"

"Paul, it's Jaeger. How you holding up?"

Jaeger. Paul's supervisor, in theory, even though his office was three states away just outside Leavenworth.

"Fine, sir. What can I do for you?"

"We're running a diagnostic check on the surveillance systems, and you're next up. Are you at your desk?"

Where else would I be, he thought. This was where the phone was, after all.

"Yessir, I am. What do you need me to do?"

"Simple, really. We had someone in there before you came on installing the testing hardware, but they forgot to activate it. That's where you come in. Have you ever cycled the surveillance system?"

Cycled was official-speak for turn the damn thing off and back on.

"Yessir, I have. Would you like me to do that now?"

"You got it, Paul. Kick on the backup system first, so you don't lose visual."

No kidding, Paul thought.

"No problem. It's spinning up now, but it, uh, takes a minute or so, Sir. Do you want to hold, or?"

"I'm fine with waiting. How're things going down there?"

"Same as always, Sir. Nice and quiet, just how we like it."

It was a very old joke, but Jaeger chuckled anyway.

"How many scumbags do you guys have down there these days?"

Paul rolled his eyes. Jaeger of all people should know that.

"Seventeen, Sir."

Jaeger whistled between his teeth into the phone.

"Seventeen scumbags on Death Row. Jesus, and us poor taxpayers paying to keep the bastards alive and comfortable. Ain't that a kick in the ass?"

"Well, I mean, they have rights too, you know? We wouldn't want to make a mistake and execute the wrong person, would we?"

There was a long pause, though Paul could hear Jaeger breathing. So he waited.

"That backup system come online yet?" Jaeger asked.

"Yessir, it did. Want me to cycle the main?"

"You're damn right I do, Paul. And let me just say something, while I've still got your ear."

"Yes Sir?"

"Those animals are evil, pure and simple. The worst of the worst. They're a threat to every person living in this great country. Every breath they draw is an affront to all decent Americans. Never forget that, Paul."

Paul blinked, not quite knowing how to react. He had never heard Jaeger Trueblood, his supervisor for more than twelve years, speak about an inmate in such harsh terms.

"Um, yes Sir. I mean no Sir. I won't forget that."

"Go ahead and cycle the system, Paul. I'll hold on the line just to make sure everything goes according to plan."

"Roger that, Sir. Cycling now."

Paul set the receiver down on his desk and reached for the main power toggle for the surveillance monitors. The light above it was green, indicating that the backups were already in place, meaning that visual would be maintained during the reboot. Paul turned the knob gently, knowing that his boss was listening in. He felt it click into place, and the screens flickered. That was perfectly normal. What wasn't normal was the rumble he felt through his feet, and the seat of his chair.

"What the-?" he shouted.

Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he looked up at the monitors. Time slowed down for him as his mind attempted to process what his eyes were seeing. First he noticed that six of the monitors were gone completely to snow. Before he could process what that would mean, two more did the same. There was another rumble, more pronounced this time, and Paul watched as the remaining monitors that were in occupied cells exploded into action, the prisoners clearly panicked, but there was no sound on the backup system.

His brain calmly noted that the rumbles were definitely getting louder, and seemed to be spaced about ten seconds apart. As if that was helpful or useful information. Paul watched in horror as Edwin Marcus, the most accomplished serial killer in American history, was flash-fried by an intense burst of light. Heartbeats later, Paul felt the rumble again.

Paul whirled to the phone and snatched it up.

"Jaeger! Dear God, Jaeger, they're being blown up! Jaeger? Jaeger?"

Paul couldn't take his eyes off the monitors. Four left to go, and the rumbles were now accompanied by sharp cracking noises.