man, but he was an assh—sorry, bro,” Parker said, shifting into an apologetic tone.
“Don’t be,” said Sage.
Parker asked, “So what are you thinking?”
Sage paused for a moment and interlaced his fingers on his head. “What if things that we took for granted or normal weren’t normal?”
“Are you trying to tell me that red-eye isn’t normal?” asked Parker.
“I am saying that we have always accepted the validity of something until someone proved otherwise. You of all people should understand this,” retorted Sage.
“Okay, Sage, I am trying to track you. Continue,” Parker said.
“We take red-eye as normal, but what about red-eye before cameras?” Sage said.
“Bro, you are all over the place. Where are you going with this?” asked Parker.
Sage continued, “Okay, no one accurately measured days—until we had sundials and eventually hours only after we had clocks. Then we had stopwatches, and we could more accurately measure events. Then digital devices that measured the smallest increments of time—”
Parker interrupted, “And they say that I am the crazy one.” Parker snickered.
Sage picked up where he left off, “My point is this: we could not measure milliseconds before the digital age—”
Parker interrupted again, “So now you want to measure red-eye?”
“Well…more like find out what it is and how many people get it…Maybe it is tied to something,” posited Sage.
Laughing just a bit, Parker said, “Like your killer sperm?”
“Like certain characteristics. Remember my stepdad with the constant red-eye? Parker, you are a researcher. Let’s see what the data says,” said Sage.
“Okay, so far, you have told me that there might be killer sperm impregnating people, that folks with red eyes might be what…killers…and you gave me a lesson on clocks. Man, you need some sleep.”
Sage was not sure if Parker was teasing or being sincere. He paused before his next comment. “This killer sperm thing seems impossible and complicated. But so was everything before we could accurately measure. What if they are not measuring?”
Parker was lost with the current turn in the conversation but tried to follow Sage’s path. “Measuring what?” asked Parker.
Sage took a breath. “The documentary said that killer sperm is generated when there is a couple that spends time apart. When they are reunited, the man releases killer sperm to hunt and kill any possible foreign sperm.”
“You got us talking about sperm again, bro…” teased Parker.
“My thought is that perhaps there is no real way to measure or determine if one of the killer sperm impregnated a woman. After all, who could count or determine which type of sperm put the stem on the apple—so to speak? The show mentioned the traveling or separation variable. That might be the key,” said Sage.
Parker slowly dragged the word, “So…”
“I am saying that hypothetically—and the percentages are probably pretty small—if one of these sperm, whose job it is to hunt and kill, actually fertilized an egg…what do we get?” said Sage.
Parker laughed just a bit. “Red-eye.”
“Just a hypothesis,” said Sage.
There was a long pause. “Can you dig up some stats on serial killers?” asked Sage.
Parker accepted the challenge. “Sure, BTK, Dahmer, Jack the Ripper—which ones?”
“All of them, or as many as you can. I want to know if any of the killer’s parents were travelers or spent long periods away from each other,” said Sage in a tone that suggested that he might have been asking.
“I’m on it, bro. When are you coming through? I got this lady that would love to meet you. She dances—”
Sage’s response cut Parker short. “I gotta get some rest. Talk to you soon, bro.”
Chapter 9
The morning sun was beginning to cut slits in the curtains of Sage’s office. Each beam was a laser dancing its way across the floor and ultimately onto Sage’s desk. Had they been real lasers, Sage’s face would have been sliced into multiple pieces.
Sage had spent another night in his office. Light crept across his face, he woke and lifted his head from the items that had acted as the most uncomfortable pillow on his desk. His face indentions outlined the imprints of the things upon which his face had rested. He gently traced the marks with his fingers and thought waffle butt.
He turned off the monitor and slid his chair away from his desk. He palmed the small digital camera and headed to the shower. The water hit the shower walls, and he took a minute to pause and enjoy the sound of the droplets. Kneeling slowly, he took a deep breath and began a set of push-ups. The exercise was quick, and he prepared for his shower. He found the sound of the water relaxing and the pressure of the shower soothing. After showering, he opened the well-organized closet, dressed, and made his way to the kitchen.
His kitchen was neat and had the accouterments of a professional kitchen. A six-burner gas stove surrounded by plenty of granite countertop spacing was the star of his kitchen. A built-in fridge that matched the cabinets was only given away by its ice machine; it was at the end of the kitchen, and it functioned as the supporting cast. The kitchen was his favorite room in the house.
Sage grabbed and carefully rinsed an apple. He selected a napkin and poured a small amount of coffee from a French press into a portable cup. A fair amount of cream and sugar increased the level of the height of the coffee in the vessel. He headed toward the garage and paused briefly to look at the bicycle. Sage was a creature of habit and organization. Sage got into his vehicle, started the engine, headed down the street, turned, and disappeared.
Chapter 10
It was early morning, and Sage moved quickly to avoid staying in the rapidly warming day any longer than necessary. Sage exited his vehicle, locked it, and turned to walk toward the entrance of a small police substation. Sage entered and announced his presence with a hearty, “Morning, gents.”
An older officer in his early fifties looked up from his desk and said, “Well, look who it is—Mr. Investigator.”
“Sir, can I please speak with Detective Johnson?” asked Sage.
The officer snapped at Sage, “What did you find this time? You got a lead on the killer?” A few officers gave smirks, and some laughed. Sage tried to keep a cool head and remained expressionless.
“Sir, I have the clearest impression of Detective Johnson being my point of contact. I have no recollection of you being appointed as my personal constabulary,” Sage responded.
The officer raised his voice and leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“Can I just speak with Detective Johnson?” Sage stated in a dismissive tone.
A male officer in his midthirties with sandy blond hair and an athletic build appeared from behind a door as someone cracked, “It’s Mr. Holier Than Thou…” It was unclear if the remark was directed at Sage or Detective Johnson.
“All right, knock it off, fellas,” Johnson said as he motioned to Sage to enter his office. “Have a seat, Professor.”
“Thanks for seeing me.”
Johnson relaxed in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”
“Same as always. Any updates?” queried Sage.
“You have been coming in here for quite some time.