Page 68 of X Marks the Stalker
I cross the distance in three heartbeats. The syringe finds the exposed skin of his neck, my thumb depressing the plunger in one smooth motion.
“You know why I’m here, don’t you, Doctor?” I whisper, as recognition floods his widening eyes.
The methohexital works fast. His body goes slack against mine, eyes rolling back as consciousness slips away. I catch his weight before he hits the floor.
I drag him to the chair, securing each limb with medical-grade restraints, cinched loose enough to prevent circulation issues but firm enough to eliminate any possibility of movement. I check his pulse—strong and steady. His head lolls forward, chin resting against his chest.
I step back to assess my work. The mirrors reflect his unconscious form from every angle, multiplying him into an audience for his own reckoning. It’s like the world’s most disturbing Zoom call.
I adjust the surgical lights, ensuring no shadow will offer him refuge when he wakes. Dr. Wendell’s eyelids flutter, consciousness returning in sluggish waves. The anesthetic is wearing off right on schedule.
“Welcome back, Dr. Wendell.”
His eyes snap open, pupils dilating as he processes his situation. He tests the restraints binding his wrists, ankles, and torso. The chair doesn’t budge. I reinforced it myself, calculating for a panic-factor multiplier of two point seven times standard human strength. Engineering would have been my fallback career if the surveillance-and-occasional-murder gig fell through.
“What—who are you? What is this?” His voice cracks, throat still dry from the sedative.
I pull a chair opposite him, sitting with perfect posture.
“I’m someone who’s been watching you for quite some time, Doctor. We’re here to discuss your extracurricular activities. Specifically, your research on neural pathway modifications in living subjects.”
Wendell’s face hardens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I place the first photograph in front of him. Anna Petrovich,age sixty-seven, admitted for routine treatment of early-onset dementia. I tape it to the mirror directly in his line of sight.
“You bypassed hospital protocols to perform unauthorized procedures on Mrs. Petrovich. You accessed her frontal lobe using an experimental technique you were denied permission to test.”
I place a second photo. Then a third. Fourth. Fifth. Taping each face to the mirrors until his reflection fractures between their accusing eyes, multiplying alongside his victims in a kaleidoscope of consequence.
“Michael Chen. Sarah Williams. Jorge Vega. Rafael Nunez.”
With each name, I recite dates, procedures, and modifications to their charts. The tiny inconsistencies I’d found. The pattern is only visible when you know where to look.
“You said it was a stroke,” I continue. “But we both know Mr. Chen never had vascular issues. You created a lesion in his anterior cingulate cortex to test your theories on pain response.”
Wendell’s eyes pinball around the room, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his temples. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps. The leather creaks as he strains against the restraints. “You can’t do this,” he rasps, his voice raw with desperation. “You— This is insane! You’re insane!”
“I’d appreciate a more specific diagnosis, Doctor. ‘Insane’ is hardly DSM-compliant terminology,” I reply, adjusting my gloves. “Though given your history of falsifying medical records, perhaps accuracy isn’t your strong suit.”
Sweat drenches Wendell’s collar. “This is absurd. I’m a respected neurosurgeon?—”
“Who lost research funding three years ago for ethical violations.” I pull out hospital records, board reviews, rejection letters. “Your ‘breakthrough technique’ was deemed too risky. And yet, you conducted your research, anyway.”
His professional mask slips, just slightly. “You can’t understand the importance of my work. These were terminal cases?—”
“Mrs. Williams had five more years, according to her oncologist.” I tap her photo. “Mr. Vega was recovering from his stroke. And Mrs. Petrovich’s family was never informed about the ‘complications’ you introduced. Let’s not rewrite history, Doctor. You’re not Galileo being persecuted for scientific vision; you’re Josef Mengele with better credentials.”
“I have money. A lot of money. Whatever you want?—”
“I already have everything I want from you, Doctor. Your complete attention.”
His face contorts. “Please. I have a wife. Children.”
“So did Jorge Vega. You read his chart before surgery. His wife had planned a surprise party for their anniversary. Did you think about them while you were ‘exploring neural pathways’ in his temporal lobe?”
“It was for science! These techniques could someday save millions!”
“You falsified consent forms.” I continue placing photos around us. “You erased the video from the surgical suite on sixteen separate occasions. You deliberately selected vulnerable patients—new immigrants, elderly patients without family, those least likely to questionyour authority.”
