*
If there was a lexicon of geek-speak, a cumbersome tome dedicated to every term, phrase, and acronym devised by computer engineers, programmers, and users since the abacus was invented, it would include a word that is known, embraced, and practiced by only the most sophisticated of nerds; that word is overclocking.
It’s a term used by computer geeks to describe the process whereby a computer’s central processing unit, or CPU, is tweaked, allowing it to operate at a faster speed than intended by the manufacturer. Faster speed means more computing power, thus speeding up processing time and allowing the computer to do more work in less time.
The human brain also has an overclocking function. Unlike on a computer, where overclocking is achieved by adjusting the CPU’s operating parameters, the brain goes into overclock mode when it detects the surreal, the dangerous, the shocking. When that happens, the brain begins to work so rapidly and thoughts are finished so quickly that those experiencing overclocking find that everything has slowed down and crystallized. They’re more acutely aware of their surroundings and, after the fact, are amazed at the number of things they observed or thought about in the span of seconds or microseconds.
When people have a close encounter with death and talk about their life flashing before their eyes, they’re talking about overclocking. Some researchers even speculate that déjà vu is a form of overclocking—though they don’t use that term. They believe the brain operates so quickly at times that it remembers something at the same time that it’s experiencing it.
Overclocking.
It’s a good description of what happens in the front office of the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office at 11:27 A.M. on June 29. In the time span of three eternal seconds, three distinct things happen simultaneously: First, Jimmy drops the box on the counter and cracks an Indiana-Jones-style whip of profanity, which is pretty impressive, since Jimmy doesn’t swear. He’s still swearing as he tosses the lid back on the box and cringes away, his face set and grim.
At the same time, Sheldon pokes his head through the counter window, his raspy, dry voice saying, “What is it?” though in the slow-motion of overclocking it seems to me the vowels are drawn out, sounding more like, “Whaaat iiiiis iiiiitt?” His beady eyes pry at the box, trying to disgorge its secrets.
And the third thing that happens: Tami faints dead away.
She drops like a bag of cement.
I’m right next to her when her knees buckle and she starts for the floor, which is both fortunate and miserably unfortunate. I manage to grab her by the arm and somehow prevent her head from hitting the desk and then the floor. In the process she takes me down with her, our legs and arms knotted together and falling in slow motion—overclocking.
We land in a frumpy pile.
It’s not a good look for me.
Jimmy’s eyes haven’t left the box. “We have to get this to Evidence.” He taps the counter with an arched index finger. “It’s going to need to be refrig—” He turns and sees Tami doing the limp-fish sprawl on the floor and me trying to untangle myself from a nest of limbs.
Grabbing my hand, he helps me to a sitting position and then kneels next to Tami and shakes her gently by the shoulder, calling her name in progressively louder tones. She’s unresponsive. Taking her left earlobe between my thumb and index finger, I pinch down for a second.
Her head moves.
“Tami,” Jimmy says again.
This time her eyes flutter and open. A second later she’s wide awake, eyes darting from me to Jimmy and then back. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” I say gently.
Her eyebrows press together, confused. “I didn’t faint. I never faint.”
“Then you died,” I reply, patting her hand. “Welcome back.”
We help her to her feet and walk her over to a chair.
Now the box—what do we do about the box? More specifically, what do we do about the contents of the box? I’ve still got my special glasses on, so I can’t see the shine on the lid or the base or on the contents within, but I don’t need to see it to know who’s behind this. The game has changed and Sad Face is playing by new rules.
And once more we’re playing catch-up.
As the level of buzz-and-hum in the front office begins to pick up, I escort Sheldon down the hall and introduce him to Detective Courtney Smith, who’s going to interview him—and babysit him—until a sketch artist arrives in an hour. Sheldon is less than pleased … until we make a call to his boss, who tells him he’s still on the clock, still getting paid, even if it runs into overtime.
Now he won’t shut up.
Somehow he’s figuring out a way to stretch a one-minute contact in the lobby of a hotel, where less than a dozen words were spoken, into a five-hundred-page novel, and possibly a sequel. Only one word in ten is of any value: bla blah, bla blah, bla bla blah, box. Bl-blaaaa, bla bla bla blah, scar.
It’s okay. His blather doesn’t faze me in the least.
Detectives Division has thick walls …
… and I’m on the other side.
Jimmy’s still fussing over Tami when I return to the front office. We kill another ten minutes taking her pulse, checking her pupils, that sort of thing, but the inevitability of the box is thick in the air. At last, we drag ourselves back to the counter, back to the raspberry-stained paper towel and the snow-white bleeding box.
I pull Lauren Brouwer’s locket from my pocket. It’s still pulsing. She’s alive.
The lid is askew and upside down on the box where Jimmy had tossed it. You can see the edges of its gruesome contents through the gaps around the lid. It’s the stuff of nightmares: a severed finger and two eyes still firm and a little wet from the plucking. Even the thought elicits an involuntary shudder. But there’s something else, something I didn’t see in the initial three-second examination.