I need to play this off, thought Lyle, I need to calm him down and keep this quiet. No one’s mentioned NewYew yet; if he says anything about NewYew this entire thing could explode. “Mr. Trujillo,” said Lyle, walking toward him, “I promise this is just a misunderstanding, and I’d be more than happy to offer some kind of compensation—” Lyle reached his hand toward him, a gesture of peace, and then stopped, frozen, staring at Pedro in shock. Now that he was closer, he could see that his eyes were green, with a small patch of amber in his right iris. Pedro had heterochromia.
Exactly like Lyle.
“That man gave me poison,” Pedro shouted. “He tricked me into using some kind of chemical, and it’s destroying my body. I demand that you call the police and have him arrested!”
“Your eye…,” said Lyle, but Pedro shouted him down.
“Call the police! This man is trying to kill me! He is!”
“Excuse me,” said another man, stepping purposefully into the circle. He wore a very expensive suit. “I’m Dr. Whitaker, I’m the hospital administrator. Would you gentlemen like to continue this discussion in my office?”
“It’s…” Lyle paused, too shocked to speak. Pedro has my eyes—not just the same color, but the same irregularity. How is that possible? And what does it mean? “We have to talk,” he said at last, pleading to Pedro. “We need to go somewhere and talk, we need to figure out what’s going on—”
“That was fast,” said Pedro, looking over Lyle’s shoulder, “the police are here.”
The hospital administrator glanced at another orderly. “Hold them both.” The orderly put a hand on Lyle’s arm, his grip light but solid, and the administrator stepped toward the police. “I’m Dr. Whitaker, the hospital administrator. Can I help you?”
“I’m Officer Woolf,” said the first policeman, “and this is Officer Luckesen. We’re looking for a man named Lyle Fontanelle.” He held up a photo. “His secretary told us we might be able to find him here. Have you seen a man matching this … description…” His voice trailed off as he looked at Lyle, then at Pedro, then back at Lyle again. “What’s going on?”
“He is Fontanelle,” said Pedro, pointing at Lyle. “I don’t know who called you, but thank you for coming!”
“Nobody called us,” said Officer Woolf, confused. “We’ve been looking for him all day.”
“I’m Lyle,” said Lyle, waving politely. “What’s this all about?”
“You’ve been connected to a robbery in Brooklyn,” said the second policeman, Officer Luckesen, stepping forward to grab Lyle’s free arm. “We’re going to have to take you in for some questions.”
“I haven’t been to Brooklyn in … forever,” said Lyle, confused. “I definitely didn’t rob anyone there. Or anywhere.”
“He’s crazy,” said Pedro. “He’s some kind of mad scientist—look what he did to me!”
Officer Woolf looked at the administrator. “What’s he talking about?”
“He attacked…” The administrator paused, looking at Pedro and Lyle to get his bearings. Finally he pointed at Pedro. “This one attacked the other one. I haven’t determined exactly why yet, but he’s raving about … well, you heard him.”
“They were doing some kind of test,” said an orderly. “They were both talking about it.”
“He is using me as a lab rat for chemical weapons!” Pedro shouted.
There was a small crowd gathered now, keeping a respectful distance but listening actively. Lyle could tell the administrator was upset by the upheaval in his lobby. He just wants to get this over with, thought Lyle. If I give him an easy out, I might be able to keep this quiet.
Lyle beckoned the administrator closer, and leaned toward him and the policemen confidentially, whispering so that Pedro couldn’t hear. “I don’t want to press any charges for the assault. Pedro is a relative of mine—you can see the resemblance—but he’s completely delusional. The family suspects paranoid schizophrenia. I mean, you heard what he said: I used chemical weapons to make him taller?” He looked at the administrator innocently. “I’ll just go with the police to sort out whatever misunderstanding we have about fingerprints, and meanwhile maybe you can get this man in to see a counselor.”
Officer Woolf chuckled, and Lyle held his breath in hope. It’s working.
“If you can make people taller, sign me up,” said the officer. “I’ll join the NBA and get away from these lunatics.” He looked at the administrator. “You need help with the, uh, crazy guy?”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” said the administrator softly, glancing quickly around at the periphery of onlookers. He was in familiar territory now—treating an overexcited patient instead of breaking up a fight. “The less commotion the better.”
“Let us know if you need anything else,” said Officer Luckesen. The policemen directed Lyle gently toward the main doors, and Pedro shouted triumphantly behind them.
“Make him pay for it! I can testify against him—we all can! He’s a Frankenstein!”
Lyle followed the policemen to their car, trying to force himself to stay calm. “So what’s this all about? Who got robbed?”
“It’s a house in Brooklyn,” said the officer, climbing into the driver’s seat. “A very expensive one, with very little evidence, and the detectives eventually resorted to a DNA test. I’m afraid your name came up as an exact match.”
“I swear,” said Lyle, “I haven’t been to Brooklyn in ages. I don’t know how my DNA could possibly be there—” Lyle stopped abruptly, frowning. “I don’t even know how my DNA got into your database. I’ve never been arrested or processed or anything.”
“That’s no real surprise,” said Woolf. “It’s an FBI database, and they pull in a lot of noncriminal records. Have you ever had a background check, like for a job? One that included a blood test?”
“Yes, New”—Lyle shook his head—“my current employer runs checks on everyone they hire.”
“There you go—a lot of these big companies sell those files to the FBI; helps offset the cost of the background check.”
“I see,” said Lyle, nodding. “That’s kind of creepy, knowing that’s out there.”
“It’s a lot creepier having your house broken into.”
“You’ve got to trust me on this one,” said Lyle, leaning forward. “Your test must be wrong. Look, when did the robbery happen?”
“April fourteenth; it was a Saturday night.”
“Perfect!” said Lyle. “Saturday nights I’m usually at work.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am,” said Lyle. “Almost every week.” He wracked his brain, trying to remember if this was one of those weeks. “We’ve got an electronic security system that logs our ID cards—it should know exactly when I got there and when I left.”
