Peripheral Visions: Doppelgänger

"Peripheral Visions: You sense them from the corner of your eye or in the soft blur of darkest shadows. But you won't see them coming... until it's too late."

Doppelgänger

They were getting nowhere. Det. Richard Brice leaned against the table, hands clenched, his weight coming down on his fists. He rocked forward, feeling more weight on his knuckles. He'd have loved to feel the suspect's face under his knuckles instead, but that wasn't how things were done any more.

Seven hours of questioning - or was it eight? - had left Brice and his partner, Det. Carlton Usher, exhausted. Carlton was watching from the other side of the one-way mirror. In a few minutes he'd make a grand entrance, carrying a couple cups of coffee and acting spry – a psychological tactic meant to impress on the suspect just how isolated he was, just how much harder the interrogation process was going to be on him than on the detectives carrying it out. The idea was to have the suspect think they could tag team, with one cop int eh room while the other took a break; of course, that wasn't true at all. Both detectives were working the whole time, engaged in an intricate and well-timed choreography.

At least the perp... suspect, Brice corrected himself... was looking tired, too. He was a scrappy one. Brice might almost have believed his claims of innocence if not for the security camera footage placing him at three locations, each of them in the company of the latest - the fourth - murder victim.

Brice decided to hammer at that particular point once again.

"So, Mr. Fisher, are you sick of this yet? Don't you want to go home, shower off, get some shut-eye?"

Fisher had been slumping in his chair, his shackled wrists in his lap. Now he sat bolt upright, his eyes glowing with indignation. "You really think I'm gonna swallow that serving of horse shit?"

Brice sighed to himself. The suspect, it seemed, had an inexhaustible amount of outrage on tap, and he seemed to fancy himself an expert on criminal investigation techniques, badgering Brice – Usher, too – on every point the detective raised.

" 'Don't you hate this filthy room, aren't you sick of telling us lies, don't your crimes eat at your conscience, wouldn't you like to go home, all you have to do is sign his false confession!' " Fisher mocked. "Really, officer? Really?"

"Detective," Brice corrected him, for the sixth time.

"I could give a green shit!" Fisher shot back, his anger fully reignited. "Has it occurred to you that while you play these stupid fucking games, hoping I'll be the guy you can pin this on and then move to the next case, the real criminal is out there – at this very minute – stalking his next victim?"

Brice stared wearily at Fisher, who glared back.

"And when – what will it be? Number Five? When Victim Number Five ends up sprawled in a puddle of blood while you're yapping at me, what then? 'Oh, we had no way of knowing, we're just looking into all avenues.' Right? Except that I'm telling you right goddamn now, I'm not an avenue. And I won't let myself be turned into a fall guy for your convenience. You got quotas to fill, right? You ever think that maybe stopping actual bad guys was more important that feeding random taxpayers to that buzz saw you call a criminal justice system?"

"Fisher, we have you dead to rights," Brice said.

"Yeah? With – what – security video? Yeah? I'd like to see this security video. I'd like to see if you have anything more than maybe a blurry shape wearing a blue shirt. Like my shirt. The one I happen to be wearing today, that if I wore a red shirt instead you woulda picked up some other guy and right now you'd be doing your damndest trying to make him fit the nice little story you've invented."

"Actually, the guy in the video is wearing a different shirt, but so what?" Brice said. "We have video from four cameras – two in the Crux Building, one at the cafe where you first met the victim, and one from the street that shows you following her. Following her to the Crux Building. Any of this sounding familiar to you? Or are you still gonna give me that "Don't know what you're talking about' crap?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, officer," Fisher said.

"And by the way, the video from three of the four cameras shows his face very clearly, and it's your face, my friend," Brice added.

Fisher laughed at that – a hot, barking laugh of disdain.

Brice pointed to a city map he'd spread out on the table earlier. "Want me to go over it again? We have you in three locations: Right here, at the Shelly's Hot Plate on Amsterdam and 110th, at 6:03 this morning, when the victim was buying coffee; then right here, on West End Avenue, at 6:24, following the victim to the Crux Building; and then again inside the Crux Building, 6:33, fourth floor, just outside the women's restroom. Which you entered after she went in there, and you strangled her to death."

"With what? My bare hands?" Fisher wore an expression that was halfway between skepticism and a sneer. "I'd have no idea how to strangle anyone. Especially someone bigger than I am."

"You wiry little guys tend to be pretty strong in my experience," Brice told him. "And no, we know that you used an electrical cord, probably from a lamp, just like you did the other three times. And tell me this," Brice added, leaning over the table and getting into Fisher's face. "What was that crack about her being bigger than you?"

"Not a crack, officer," Fisher told him. "The plain truth. I can see in two of these photos that she's taller than I am. I'm 5'7". She's gotta be... maybe 6'3"? And it's not all because of her heels. And she's not skinny."

"Is that why you kill women like her? They threaten your male ego? Or are you gonna tell me the same excuse the last sick fuck we brought in here for killing trans women tried to give us: She deserved it for – how'd he put it – false advertising? Trying to 'lie' to red-blooded men about she really was?"

"I never said anything like that," Fisher said, genuinely seeming aghast. "I don't think that way, officer! My best friend's daughter is trans. If anyone hurt her, I'd rip his goddamn head off."

"Yeah? Interesting coincidence, my daughter's youngest is trans, too, we think," Brice said. "So, yeah, I totally get the urge to fuckin' destroy anyone who threatens trans people." He gave Fisher a cold, threatening glare.

"Then why don't you go get the real killer?" Fisher shouted, yanking at the chain that ran between the tabletop and the bar that was welded to the table. The chain ended in shackles around his wrists. Fisher had enough freedom of movement to gesture or pick up a cup of coffee, but not to pose a threat to Brice or Usher.

Brice stared at him with his best I Know You Did It face.

"Just think about the timeline," Fisher said. "According to you, the guy killed her at about 6:00 or so this morning. Right? And you guys show up at my office at 9:30 to arrest me. So where was I in between times?"

"Eating breakfast. Getting off with a hooker in a cheap hotel. How do I know? I do know you went and changed your clothes," Brice said. "Or at least your shirt."

"So I kill, kill kill!" Fisher scoffed. "And then I... go home again? Get freshened up?"

"Are you telling me how it went?" Brice asked. "Is this a 'I didn't do it but if I did this is how I woulda done it' kinda thing?"

"How about if you look at security video from the subway – as I ride to the Wall Street stop and get off at, I dunno, 6:45 or so? Dressed in my nice blue shirt?" Fisher challenged. "Do I have time in 15 minutes to get home from.. wherever the hell the Crux Building is, and then get back again to have some breakfast and then get in to work by 7:30?"

"At a hotel, right?" Brice asked. "In the Seaport District?"

"Yeah. Looking nice and crisp. Nothing puts you in a frame of mind to deal with the public all day than an hour of mediation in the morning, or maybe a quick murder."

Brice shrugged with his eyebrows. He'd never thought of that. He wondered if it actually might be true.

"I've described my morning to you minute by minute four or six times already, from when I woke up to when you guys came barging in at my place of employment, which happens to be a four star hotel, and made a big freakin' show of arresting me in front of everyone. And have you even looked at the security video that will show you I'm telling the truth?"

"We already have the video that shows you chatting with the vic, following the vic, and then..."

"Will you stop already? You sound like an episode of 'Criminal Cases.' Vic? Perp? How about you understand we're talking about people here?"

Brice stared at Fisher. His knuckles ached harder than ever to get a taste of that sneering face.

The door opened and Usher came sweeping in, smiling cheerfully and carrying three Styrofoam cups of coffee and a couple sandwiches on a tray. "How we doing in here?" Usher asked.

"What, you haven't had a front row seat?" Fisher tilted his head toward the mirror.

Usher's smile didn't even flicker. "So, Mr. Fisher, would you like a cup?"

"Don't drink coffee," Fisher said. "Like I told you last time and the time before that."

"So what was that you were drinking at the café this morning? We got you on security footage, remember," Brice said.

Fisher ignored him. "And you can take that sandwich away, too, I'm not eating that," he told Usher.

"What, you a vegetarian or something?" Usher asked. "Well, don't worry. I'm pretty sure these cold cuts aren't real meat. And anyway, it's past dinner time. You need to keep your strength up. How are you gonna keep on being such an a... I mean, non-cooperative suspect, if you don't eat something?"

"Suspect? Hah! This isn't even a real investigation," Fisher snapped. "You guys ever think of putting this much time and focus into tracking down actual murderers?"

"You deal with him," Brice told Usher, not having to try very hard to put a note of disgust and frustration into his voice.

Brice shut the door to the interrogation room behind him and took a deep breath. The air in the corridor seemed cooler. He stepped walked to the door leading into the observation room – or the gallery, as the guys he worked with called it.

Brice cradled his hot coffee in his hands and watched as Usher mounted a charm offensive, trying to draw Fisher out and pretending to sympathize with him about men "pretending to be women." Fisher scowled at him until he stopped.

"What?" Usher asked.

"You really must think I'm a goddamn bigot or something," Fisher said. "I have nothing against trans people. As far as I'm concerned, if a woman says she's a woman – then she is a woman. You know what they say - gender is more about what's between your ears than – "

"Than between your legs, yeah, I've seen the PSA," Usher said. "But come on, man. You really believe that? If I'm out at a club or somewhere and I see a fine looking woman and she gives me that look... you know that look, right? Well, she better be a real woman, that's all I'm saying. I don't respond well to being catfished or teased or punked."

Even Brice, watching from the gallery, had to roll his eyes at that.

"Yeah, and that's not catfishing, officer," Fisher told Usher..

Usher's smile never wavered. "A rose ain't a rose just 'cause you call it a rose," he said. He leaned forward, clutching his coffee in both hands. "But is it worth killing over?" he asked. Eyes locked on Fisher, he took a sip.

Fisher just glared at him.

Usher sat back, still smiling in a relaxed, friendly manner. "You were asking if I watch from the other room? Through the mirror? Well, yeah, of course I do. But I also do a lot of other stuff."

"Like fetch coffee?" Fisher asked.

Usher's smile flickered every so briefly. "So, I have some of our guys... and gals... running checks, looking into leads, following up on one thing and another. If you have so much as a parking ticket in any of the 54 states, we'll know about it. If you ever pulled the wings off flies, we'll know about it. If you ever farted in the Whitney museum – we'll know about it."

"Man," Fisher sighed. "Really? I missed a day of work, sat here chained up like a dog, for this?"

"Well, might not be such a bad thing," Usher told him. "Even if you were innocent, which I know for a fact you're not. Your co-workers had a few things to tell us. Like, how strangely you were acting this morning. Stressed out. Forgetful. Distant. Called one co-worker the wrong name. Had something else on your mind? The name of a victim, maybe? An intended victim? Wanna tell me what, exactly, was going on there?"

Fisher's glare was as fixed as a laser. "No," he said.

Usher chuckled and shrugged. "All right," he said. "But I have a feeling that pretty soon, whether you want to talk or not, the puzzle pieces are gonna start to fall together."

The door to the interrogation room opened. Brice watched as Fergusen stepped in, a piece of paper in his hand. Fergusen was a good kid – very green, too easily flustered, and prone to rookie mistakes. Still, Brice liked him. He remembered all too well his own early days on the force.

"Though you'd want to see this," he told Usher. "I got a couple of different reports on the case – some intel from the guys uptown, and also heard back from Senge and Weston."

Usher took the paper. Fergusen loitered near the door, looking at Fisher nervously.

"Thanks, Fergusen," Usher said.

Fergusen looked at Usher, still seeming uncertain.

"Bye, Fergusen," Usher said.

Fergusen stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. A moment later the door into the gallery opened and Fergusen crept in. Brice glanced at him. Fergusen seemed about to say something – ask permission, probably – so Brice put a finger to his lips, shushing him.

Fergusen stood next to Brice and watched as Usher theatrically looked the page of information up and down before saying, "Despite all my coffee fetching, it seems that my team has managed to put some interesting stuff together about you and about this case."

Fisher shrugged. "Anything that says this whole exercise is bullshit?"

"Mmmm..." Usher kept up the act as he scanned the page once again. "No. But it does say that when our guys checked with another department across town, they found that your car had been ticketed. Seems it was illegally parked about half a mile from the Crux Building. Which isn't news, by the way. I saw that before I took on coffee duty. But what is new is that when I had a couple of our guys search your car, they found some old clothes. Clothes that match what you were wearing this morning."

Fisher was laughing. "My car, huh? Listen, flatfoot, I don't have a car."

Usher's smile suddenly disappeared. "Look, punk," he said, his warm voice now stone cold and gruff, "not everyone is Donald Trump. Not everyone can just wave a magic denial and make people believe that hard, concrete facts don't matter. Not only do you have a car, but we've impounded it. It's got your prints, inside and out. The registration papers in the glove box are in your name. The car's black box GPS records show you drove it into midtown this morning at five o'clock."

"And my goddamn government-issued ID card isn't a driving license," Fisher snapped back. "Which even an ignorant Trump wannabe like me knows you only get two kinds of VeriCred ID from the feds, you get the VeriCred driving license or you get the non-driver's ID, and I'm very much the second case. I never even owned a car."

Usher seemed at a loss. He stood frowning at Fisher.

"Shit," Brice said. To Fergusen, he added, "Come with me."

***

The records tech looked up at Brice, who stood next to her desk. Fisher's personal effects had been confiscated after his arrest but had not yet been processed into evidence. His ID had been in his wallet, along with three credit cards, a Metro pass, and $157 in cash; Brice clutched both the ID and the Metro pass.

"He lying to you," the tech said. "Dennis Edward Fisher, lives in Queens, in the Fresh Meadow neighborhood.. One vehicle registered to his name – the address for the registration matches his city records. That – " She nodded at the VeriCred ID in Brice's hand. " – says that Dennis Edward Fisher lives in Flushing. Which, according to his city records, he did at one time, until about three years ago. Looks like he bought the car right around the time he moved."

"But the ID isn't expired," Brice said. "How'd he get it?"

The tech shrugged. "I don't know what he did to get the ID. I can tell you it's genuine – the verification features can't be forged. So however he obtained the fraudulent ID, he got it from the government."

Brice looked at the ID again and then looked at the technician's screen, where Fisher's records were displayed. "This address here – this Flushing address – this is the only address we have for him other than his current Fresh Meadow address?"

"Yes," she said.

"Except," Brice said, showing her the VeriCred ID. "Look at this. Hazzard street." He nodded at the tech's screen. "Says there Meloni Street."

"So?"

"Remember that terror attack at Corona Plaza four years ago?"

"Jesus, who could forget it?"

"You remember the names of the cop and the two first responders who died when the second bomb exploded?"

"No," the tech said. Then: "Wait. Meloni Street. That was named for the cop, right?"

"Yeah. Renamed, that is, three years ago. And it used to be called Hazzard Street, like on our boy's ID here. An ID that was issued eight months ago." Brice tapped the ID thoughtfully on his knuckles.

"So... someone got sloppy. Or maybe he gave the wrong address when he was obtaining the card..."

"And the feds didn't verify the correct address?"

"Or else their database wasn't updated properly?" the tech said. "Maybe when he gave them his old address, their system changed it by mistake to the old street name."

"What do we know about that address? You said it's the only other address we have for him?"

The tech typed, paused, moved the mouse and clicked a few times. "Looks like the house at that address used to belong to his."

"Where are they now?"

"Dead," the tech said. "Father fifteen years ago, mother... well, just over three years ago. Not long before he moved. I can do some more detailed records searches, but I suspect he sold the house after his mother died. I guess he grew up at that address."

Brice held up the Metro card. "And this is valid?"

"Yes, that's genuine," the tech said after giving the card a glance. Brice wondered how she knew, but he didn't question her. He'd worked with her before and she knew her stuff.

"Fisher said something to me earlier about taking the subway," Brice said. "Can you pull up security camera records from this morning and run them through FR looking for Fisher?"

"Why? We know he drove in," the tech said.

"But what does this Metro card say?"

"I'll look into the Metro card tracking system and see what I find, and I'll run the FR, but I've gotta tell you, it seems like a waste of time," the tech told him.

Fergusen was looking confused. "What does all this mean?" he asked.

"I'm gonna need your help to find out," Brice told him. "Once she's got the information we need, come back to the gallery."

***

Brice and Usher stood in the gallery, watching Fisher sit alone in the interrogation room.

"You're gonna buy into his story about taking the Metro this morning?" Usher asked. He spoke in low tones. The room was soundproofed, but the soundproofing was far from perfect.

"I'm gonna be sure I resolve any and all loose ends," Brice said. "This case doesn't feel right. Hasn't from the start. Fisher's right, the timeline doesn't make sense. And now we have this ID..."

"Bogus ID," Usher said.

"Genuine ID," Brice said. "VeriCreds can't be faked. Which means that somehow he scammed the feds into giving it to him. But why? And what's with the Metro card?"

"Lots of bridge and tunnel people have both cars and Metro cards," Usher pointed out.

"Yeah, sure," Brice said absently. "But no one gets both a VeriCred driving license and a VeriCred non-driver's ID card."

"You said they got the address wrong? Well, what if they slipped up and did issue him both?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Fergusen entered the gallery. He had a few sheets of paper in his hand. "Here's the information you asked for," he whispered to Brice, handing him the pages. "Looks like he really did bring the subway in. But the tech said she can't verify where he got on the train – only that he exited the subway at Wall Street Station at 6:32 am."

"Well, that really messes things up," muttered Usher. "No way he could appear on security camera at Wall Street Station after leaving the Crux Building at 6:18."

"Why not?" Fergusen asked.

"The Crux Building is right next to the Columbia University campus," Brice said. "In fact, it's part of Columbia's administration. The victim was an associate professor."

"He was?" Fergusen asked.

"Kid, please," Brice said.

"What?"

"Show some respect."

"I... what?" Fergusen asked.

"I know this might be new to you, but we have to be sensitive about this stuff. She identified as a woman. Don't misgender her."

"He – I mean, she did?" Fergusen frowned. "I'm sorry, I think I got this case confused with something else. I'd never misgender someone. My sister is trans."

"Okay," Brice said.

"I'm sorry to be mixed up," Fergusen added. "The guys from across town gave me some bad info, I think, and plus I've been running around for Spiers all afternoon, and he – "

"Can you save it?" Brice asked. "We've got to focus here."

"Uh... okay, yeah," Fergusen said, still sounding perplexed. "It's just I don't quite – "

"Kid," Brice said. "Focus. The timeline on our case is messed up. Help us figure this out."

"Timeline. Uh, right," Fergusen said, and looked at Usher.

"Less than twenty minutes from Columbia to Wall Street on the subway," Usher reiterated. "You couldn't manage that in a cab or a car or a bike, and certainly not on the subway. But somehow he did it. FR scans on the security camera videos positively identified Fisher at the Crux Building – not just at one time point, but six. And that's after the cameras picked him up at the coffee shop at about 5, then show him talking with the victim at 5:24, still in the coffee shop. He follows her out of the coffee shop at 5:47, then catches up with her on the street – we see him following her at 5:53, but then the Crux Building's cameras catch them entering the building together at 5:58. They get in an elevator together, head up to the fourth floor, presumably to the victim's office. She heads to the women's room at 6:08... and the camera in the corridor outside the women's room shows him at 6:12, presumably right before he enters the women's room and strangles her. The same camera shows him walking down the corridor in the other direction at 6:18, and then the camera in the lobby and the front entrance track him leaving the building. He's on the street again by 6:22."

"Then he must have taken the red line," Brice said. "Straight to Wall Street from – Cathedral Parkway, maybe?"

"But how the hell did he manage that in nineteen minutes?" Usher said. "Walk to the station, catch the train, ride it all the way down to Wall Street? That's more like a half hour, probably."

"Do they ever run express trains on the red line?" Fergusen asked.

"It's something to look into," Usher said.

"But that still doesn't track," Brice said. "He changed his clothes somewhere in there. The clothes he was wearing in the video from the coffee shop and the Crux Building were in his car, which was parked on..." Brice looked at Usher.

"135th, right up from Adam Clayton," Usher said.

"It's not possible," Brice said. "Plus we have this ID that can't be forged and that he couldn't have gotten if he had a car. Which we know he does."

"Maybe he has a twin brother or something?" Fergusen said. "And the brother uses his identity?"

"What for? Usher asked.

"Maybe the twin is the killer. He's off the grid... you know, using his brother's identity to mask his own movements."

"I know you're young and stupid, but that's really dumb," Usher said.

"Unless he's right," Brice said.

Usher gave him an angry glare. "You're gonna by into this?"

"Not exactly," Brice said. "But not far off."

Usher digested Brice's words. "You mean those HomeSec guys? That briefing last year? What they were saying?"

Brice nodded,

"Holy shit," Usher said.

***

"You think I'm who?" Fisher asked them a few minutes later.

Brice sat at the table. Usher and Fergusen stood behind him.

"Not who. What," Brice said. "A doppelgänger."

"What the fuck is that?"

"It means a double of somebody," Fergusen piped up.

Usher elbowed him in the ribs.

"I'm a double?" Fisher asked.

"The usual sense of the word means someone who looks very similar to someone else," Brice told him. "And in ghost stories, sometimes, doppelgängers are supernatural duplicates of people who are about to die."

"Oh, that's nice," Fisher said.

"But about a year ago we got a briefing from the feds – from HomeSec," Brice continued. "It seems that over the last few years, there have been a cluster of... well, of incidents involving doppelgängers."

"A cluster?"

"Here in New York."

"And these doppelgängers are... what? Supernatural visitations?"

"There have been various sorts of incidents and reports," Brice said. "Two identical people showing up at work or at a private residence. One guy said he shot a housebreaker who turned out to be himself. A prison guard spotted a convict from his cell block at a supermarket, tackled the guy, and held him until the cops got there... except the convict didn't have his prison tats anymore. And when they checked the prison, the jailbird in question was safe and snug in his cell."

"So, they're people who look alike. So? Do these people die or something? Like in the ghost stories?"

"These are people who look alike but who also have IDs that say they are these other people," Brice told him. "And their biometrics all check out. They have the same prints, the same retinals, the same... everything. Identical twins don't even have the same retinals or prints, but these people do. They're exact copies of each other. Except for personal histories, that is – at least going back... what, maybe five years or so?"

"They think some kind of breach happened three years ago," Usher said. "Or a series of breaches started then, anyway. Intermittent. They don't really know what's happening. There doesn't seem to be a specific place or pattern to the transitions."

"Transitions?" Fisher asked.

"People straying into our universe from some sort of parallel reality," Brice said.

"What!" Fisher stared at Brice in shock.

Usher started whistling the theme from The X Files. Fergusen giggled.

"Shut it," Brice snapped.

"Sor-ree," Usher said.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Fisher asked.

"Mr. Fisher, I'm totally serious," Brice said. "And I'm serious about this too: Nobody knows this shit. The feds want to keep it that way, and personally I think it's a good idea. So I'll advise you: Whatever happens next, keep this to yourself."

Fisher, still looking shocked, muttered, "Sure."
"Good," Brice said. Then he asked: "Did you have any moments this morning when you felt a sense of... I don't know... dislocation? Maybe you got lightheaded, or things suddenly seemed different?"

"What things?"

"The world. As if... I don't know. As if the world shifted somehow, maybe."

"No," Fisher said. "Just, there was some kind of service interruption on the train this morning."

"The subway?"

"Yeah, coming in from Flushing. Train lost power for a few minutes and stalled out between stops, right before we pulled into Corona Plaza."

"Was there any kind of flash or spark?" Usher said.

"Sure," Fisher said. "A big one, like, you know, when the tracks are wet and there's a spark. But this was more like... like a flash of lightning."

The detectives glanced at each other. "Figure there are more like him?" Usher asked.

"I don't know. When it happens it seems to happen to individuals. The HomeSec guys never said anything about..." Brice shook his head. "I don't know."

"So, you guys are gonna help me out, right?" For the first time, Fisher seemed nervous rather than contemptuous, impatient, and angry. He glanced from Brice to Usher and back again. "I mean, you can get me home, right? Back to my own dimension or whatever?"

Brice shook his head. "I have no idea," he said. "The feds are gonna have to tell you what's next."

"Jesus, man, they're probably just gonna kill me or something!" Fisher said.

"No, look – "

"You said they wanna keep I ta secret, right? Well, what happened to those other people? Like the guy who wasn't the convict? They just let him go?"

Brice and Usher looked at each other for a long moment.

"Oh, man," Fergusen breathed.

""You gotta help me," Fisher said. "You said this guy is a killer? This other me? He killed, like, four trans people?"

"Yeah," Brice said. "Why? You know something about that all of a sudden?"

"No," Fisher said, "but I think I might know something about your guy. I mean, he's me, right?"

"So?" Brice asked, studying Fisher closely.

"So where is he? You said you got his car? Well, what about the man himself?"

Brice nodded slowly.

"I bet he got spooked," Fisher said. "He saw me at the office. Or he saw your guys arresting me, or... I don't know. Whatever, he's got to know that I'm here and you have me, otherwise you'd have heard something about him, right?"

"Seems likely," Usher said. "For instance, why didn't our guy show up at work? You're probably right. He probably did see you. And maybe he saw us being you in."

"So he's on the run. He won't go home. You won't know where to look for him. But maybe I can help you find him."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Before I say anything more," Fisher said, "you guys agree to help me out."

"How?" Brice asked.

"We'll figure that out when the time comes. But you have to absolutely solemnly fucking swear to me – you won't let the feds get me. Because, come on, man. I seriously doubt they have a way to get me back where I came from, and I don't believe they've got some kind of witness protection program for people from another dimension."

"Okay," Brice said after a minute.

"What?" Usher exclaimed. "We can't promise this guy – "

"I said okay," Brice shouted.

Usher went quiet.

Brice looked at Fergusen. "You, me, Usher, and Fisher – we're the only ones who know about this. Got it? You never say one word. Not to anyone."

"Got it," Fergusen said. Then he grinned. "But man, this is so fucking cool."

"Yeah? You think so?" Fisher asked, sounding more like his old self.

Brice leaned forward again. "What can you tell us?"

"Well," Fisher said, "I can tell you this..."

***

"That him?" Brice asked, peering through his binoculars.

"Yeah," Fisher said, squinting through a pair of binoculars Usher had lent him.

They were across the street from Divine Word Ministry. The old church was dark and quiet – no midnight mass tonight, Brice thought. But lights still burned behind the windows of the building adjacent to the church. It had once been a rectory attached to a Catholic church, but a charismatic evangelical preacher named McMurchison had bought the buildings at fire sale prices in the aftermath of the pedophile priest scandal from almost two decades earlier. The Vatican had let local parishes sell off property to cover their own liabilities.

"You're sure that's McMurchison?" Brice asked.

"Absolutely positive," Fisher said. "Son of a bitch spent all that time preaching about evil gays and then tried to grab my junk."

McMurchison seemed spooked. Perhaps he sensed the presence of Brice and the others. He lingered in the doorway to the old rectory for long minutes, slowly scrutinizing he street.

Brice stepped back, deeper into the shadow of the foyer where he and Fisher stood watch. He hoped Usher and Fergusen were taking similar precautions from their own vantage point half a block away.

Fisher had reasoned that if the version from himself from this reality was killing transgender people, it was because he was still under the sway of McMurchison. After viewing a few CathYoude videos the preacher had posted – in which he vilified gay and trans people, declared them to be the enemies of righteousness, and screamed that God wanted them all dead – Brice felt inclined to agree.

"A girl I met in AA steered me to the Divine Word church," Fisher explained. "I wasn't that interested in the church, I just wanted to make the girl. After a few weeks I decided she was hot, but she wasn't worth it." Then he explained why: McMurchison used pretty girls to lure handsome straight men into his orbit. The rest was the same old hypocritical story. "I don't even think he's necessarily gay," Fisher had said. "I think he just gets off on the power trip – whether it's girls or guys, he likes having that much of a hold on people."

Fisher had gone into AA just after his mother's death. Brice mused about the possible ways Fisher's other self had gone so dark. Maybe he went back to the bottle. Maybe he succumbed to McMurchison's predations. Maybe...

Well, who knew. Maybe, Brice thought, Fisher – the Fisher from this universe – wouldn't even be here.

"Oh, he'll be here," Fisher had said when Usher had voiced doubt. "Believe me. Even though he's a rank stinking hypocrite and abuser, McMurchison had a real grip on me for about a minute. If things had went different... well, I'd probably still be part of his church, and I don't know how bad that guy would have warped me."

McMurchison kept standing there, looking slowly up and down the street. Maybe he was just taking in the night air, Brice thought – though he didn't really believe that. The guy seemed prickly, apprehensive. He was looking for something. Looking, Brice thought, for any sign of cops.

Brice went back over everything Fisher had said. The girl, AA, the drinking... he'd started drinking after his father's death. His father had lost all his money in the crash of 2008. The life insurance payout had saved the house, and then Fisher had never moved out or completed college. He stayed put and went to work to help support his mother. Unlike the local version of Fisher, this doppelgänger from an alternate reality had stayed in the family home after his mother had died. He'd worked, saved, and turned to atheism. "It's not as comforting," Fisher had said of rejecting his previous spiritual beliefs. "But at least you feel like you have a grasp on things as they really are."

The turns a life could take, Brice thought.

Brice felt himself tense with readiness as McMurchison turned and gestured. A shadow emerged from inside the rectory.

"This'll be him," Fisher breathed.

And it was: His face was clearly visible in the white glow of the streetlight. The other Fisher – the "local version," as Brice thought of him – paused for a quick word with McMurchison, and then seemed to lean in and kiss the preacher. Brice heard Fisher – "imported Fisher" was how he'd begin thinking of him – make a soft noise of disgust.

Then local Fisher scuttled up the walk toward the gate. As he stepped through the gate and onto the street, Fergusen's voice rang out:

"Police! Top right there!"

The kid had jumped in a little too soon, Brice thought, as he bolted into action. Local Fisher was running away from Fergusen, which meant he was running toward Brice. But he saw Brice crossing the street and tried to veer away through a parking lot. He must have been too panicked to see the fence that surrounded the lot; he bounded off the fence, and then Brice had him.

Local Fisher struggled.

"Stop resisting," Brice told him.

Local Fisher didn't listen. He kept on fighting, animal sounds of panic escaping from his throat. Imported Fisher was already in the fray, helping Brice keep hold of the man.

Well, I told you, Brice thought, pulling his personal gun out of its holster and jamming the barrel against local Fisher's torso. He didn't want to miss; didn't want to hit Imported Fisher instead; didn't want to have to explain two identical people to his colleagues.

The gunshot was muffled, but still loud enough to echo all up and down the street. Brice didn't expect anyone to come outside to investigate, or even to look out their windows.

Local Fisher dropped to the ground, limp and unmoving.

"Come on," Brice said to the others as Usher and Fergusen rushed up. "Let's go, guys." He figured they had a few minutes, but only a few minutes; just because no one was brave enough to come outside didn't mean no one was calling 911.

The four men each grabbed a limb and carried local Fisher – dead Fisher, now – to Brice's car. Brice had parked in an alley, in deep shadow. No one was going to see what happened next from a darkened bedroom window.

Brice opened the trunk and the four of them tossed dead Fisher in.

Brice shut the trunk. "Hop in," he told the others.

***

"So I'm just gonna take the guy's place?" imported Fisher said. The four of them were standing in Brice's garage. The garage door was closed, affording them privacy. Th car's trunk was open, though, and the body of local Fisher lay inside. Brice had retrieved local Fisher's wallet, keys, and pother effects. Imported Fisher held them awkwardly, as if jewelling to accept them.

"Seems like the easiest way," Brice said. "I already told them at the station house that you couldn't be our guy. My report goes into detail about your car being parked too far away. There's bound to be some speculation about a doppelgänger being involved, but as far as anyone knows you're local Fisher, not his alternate universe double. When they don't find him – you, I mean – they'll assume that he got popped back into his own reality."

"Is that credible?" Usher asked.

"Sure it is," Fergusen said. "I did some online research. There was one man who appeared in an airport in Japan and had a passport from a country that didn't exist. They arrested him but then he vanished that night from a locked and guarded room."

"Sounds sketchy," Usher said.

"HomeSec will believe it if it's convenient," Brice said.

"Surely not," Usher said, sarcastically.

"What will they say at work?" Fisher said.

"I'll clear it with your boss, make a show of apologizing," Brice said. "I've had to do it once or twice in my time. We do arrest the wrong people sometimes, even when there are no doppelgängers involved."

"And I'm gonna have to drive his car?"

"If you don't want it, just never try to get it out of impound," Brice shrugged.

"And the guy's body? I mean, if they ever find it..."

"Don't worry about that," Brice said. "They won't."

"How – "

"I know a guy," Brice said.

"Who knows a guy," Usher put in.

"Really?" Fergusen asked, looked from Brice to Usher with round eyes.

"Oh, kid," Brice sighed.

"Hold on," Fergusen said, suddenly reaching into his pocket and fumbling with his phone. "Text." He stared at the phone, scrolling.

"Who is texting you at 4:00 am?" Usher asked.

"I know guys too," Fergusen said mysteriously. "I had one guy I know pass along word to the night shift guy that..." His voice trailed off. "Well, I don't know if the murder weapon is gonna help much, but they pulled a print off it and made a positive match," he said. "It's Fisher for sure, left ring finger."

"What murder weapon?"

"The one they found in the trash bin in Bowling Green," Fergusen said. Then: "Oh, man, never mind, that's that other thing. The thing I got mixed up about before. See, Spiers had me talking to guys in a precinct across town about the stiff they found this morning."

"What's this?" Usher asked. "Another trans victim?"

"No, an investment banker," Fergusen said. "Guy showed up dead in the men's room of a coffee place on Fulton."

Fisher suddenly bolted for the door. Usher started after him, but Brice shouted for him to stand down. Fisher struggled with the door, which Brice had locked. Brice made no hurry about walking over to him. Just before he reached Fisher, the doppelgänger sprang away from the door and tried to circle around him, running for the back of the garage.

Brice intercepted Fisher easily, and dropped him with a punch. It felt good – like an itch his knuckles had been yearning for him to scratch.

Fisher scrambled to his feet, looking like a cornered animal. He seemed about to throw himself at Brice when he drew himself up short: Brice's personal firearm was suddenly in his hand again.

"You gonna make me kill you too?" Brice asked. "Because I will – you sick fuck." To Fergusen, he said: "What about that dead banker?"

"Found murdered in a coffee house. In the men's room. Ice pick through the bottom of the skull, that soft spot at the base. You know, where the – "

"Yeah, I get the picture," Brice said. "So, was this a random thing?" he asked Fisher. "Or did you have a few notches on your belt like your local equivalent did?"

"You – you promised to help me," Fisher gasped, eyeing the gun.

"Yeah, about that – deal's off," Brice told him. "We can't trade one serial killer for another, can we? Guess I'll have to write a revised report explaining away the timeline problems my previous report set out. Explaining why you're the right guy after all."

"But I didn't kill those women!"

"But you did kill that banker. And how many others? Back in your own reality – how many?" Brice asked.

Fisher said nothing.

"What for?" Brice asked. "Because of the crash of 2008? Your dad's suicide?"

"Those motherfuckers deserve to die," Fisher declared.

"So do you," Brice told him. "But you're lucky. You get to choose. Do I pull the trigger and then we set things up to tell a nice little story about how you came to my house in the middle of the night looking to kill me, because I was on to you and you're crazy? Or do you take the rap for the victims of your other self, your doppelgänger from this reality? One way you die right now. One way you die in prison, but probably not from an injection – because, of course, they don't give lunatics the death penalty anymore."

"I'm not crazy," Fisher muttered.

"Yeah? Sane guys kill random stranger just because they have a grudge against one class of people or another? Hey, have it your way. Maybe you're not bug-nuts insane, even though you definitely are, but either way that's what they'll think. They'll never believe your crazy stories about coming here from a parallel plane of existence. Though, you know... Homeland Security might actually be very interested in hearing about it. So I might just shut my yap and take the rap, if I was you."

Fisher had been fairly vibrating with anxiety. Now he stopped, the nervous, desperate energy draining all at once from his body. He stood stock still, and hung his head.

"Good boy," Brice said, fishing handcuffs out of a pocket.

Next week we close out Season Five with a far-out tale of spacemen exploring a dead world - a dead world that just might be haunted with the specters of a failed race, a species long since extinct... and yet still very much a force to be reckoned with.