by Jen Haeger
Blinking hard, Crone’s forehead crinkles. “I think the mistake you’re making is you’re expecting a wacked-out cult to behave in a logical fashion.”
“They can’t be that wacked-out to coordinate cross-town killings.”
He sighs. “Do you really think the why in this case will help us with the who?”
“I don’t know, but we’re still in the dark here, so I’m not overlooking any possible leads.”
“Sure. So, what’s next?”
Leaning back in my chair, I rub my temples. There is a lead I want to pursue, just not with Crone. “Until we hear back from forensics, I’ve got nothing.”
“Well, going back to your list, the first thing you said is there’s a Chester worshipping cult out there somewhere.”
“Yeah, but Cyber hasn’t come up with any real chatter on any sites or forums yet.”
“Maybe it’s not online. Maybe the members all met someplace else.”
“Where would people like that randomly meet?”
Crone rubs his scruffy chin. “I don’t know, but maybe our FBI pal Agent Humorless does.”
Chapter Nineteen
“An anti-discrimination protest was held in front of ComGlobal headquarters today in response to a rash of firings of employees with WHISPs. A spokesperson for the company said in a statement the firings had nothing to do with the employees’ WHISP status, but also pointed out that current anti-discrimination laws do not cover WHISPs.”
New York Times
As it turned out, Agent Coppola did have a good idea of where we might be able to start looking for a Chester cult, or, at least, the FBI did. There were a number of underground WHISP clubs that had cropped up in the past few years and the FBI had been keeping an eye on them for both signs of criminal activity and as possible targets for hate crime. Coppola gave Crone and me a list and his blessing to go check them out to see what we could dig up.
We’re heading down in the elevator to Crone’s car when he turns to me.
“You gonna be okay?”
“With what?”
“With going to these places…with all those WHISPs? I can do this by myself, if you want.”
The elevator door opens then, giving me a few seconds to evaluate his words. I’d been so focused on tracking down a lead, any lead, I hadn’t really considered where we were going. This was a good time to beg off and follow where my brain had been nudging me to go all day. Crone was literally giving me an out. But I couldn’t take it. Call it cop stubbornness, not wanting to seem weak to Crone, or just not wanting to give into myself, but I had to go with him into the belly of the beast.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
My words waver in the air, stinking of bullshit, but Crone doesn’t argue, even though a part of me wishes he would. We reach the car in silence and drive in silence to the first location, The Shade Lounge. In my head, I’m not only questioning my judgement, at this point, I’m questioning my sanity. Crone parks on the street and we take a wide alley back to a steel door with only the address on it. I’m expecting the door to be locked and a shady voice answering a buzzer to ask us for a password, but I guess the club doesn’t feel like paying a bouncer in the middle of the afternoon because the door’s unlocked when Crone turns the handle.
Inside is a short vestibule and then a long flight of stairs down lit by old school, hazy yellow, incandescent bulbs glowing in mismatched wall sconces. The carpeting on the stairs is a worn red and the handrail is barely clinging to the wall by a few dangling screws. Music, if the jarring electro-techno noises assaulting my ears can be called that, is cascading up the stairs. Crone takes the lead as we head down.
“How do you want to play this? Hard or soft?”
The music is now loud enough I almost have to shout, “More flies with honey.”
Crone nods.
The stairwell exits at a landing with shiny metallic walls. Two of the three doors there are closed while the third opens into a dimly lit room with a variety of laser light displays going off in a chaos fitting to the music. Next to the open door, a small podium stands empty. I’m thinking of making a “shall we wait here for the maître d” joke to break the tension mounting in my stomach and shoulders, but Crone barely pauses before barreling into the club. One last deep breath and I’m rushing after him before I lose him in the darkness.
The dance floor is empty, but a few patrons sit at the bar, which is modified to fit the clientele. Each barstool has another barstool roughly a foot behind it and although things don’t line up perfectly, they give the impression the WHISPs are seated on the stools rather than just floating in the air behind their humans. The effect on me is even more disturbing now than it might have been a few days ago.
When we reach the bar, a few of the people there glance up with unfriendly glares and I’m acutely aware of how much Crone and I, lacking WHISPs of our own, stick out. The bartender finishes up his conversation with one of the patrons and eventually heads over to us. He’s sporting an LED light on a band around his head that points backwards onto his WHISP and illuminates the shadowy thing with a different color every few seconds. His manner isn’t welcoming.
“Sorry, but we don’t serve wimps in here.”
Wimps isn’t a term I’m familiar with, but it’s clear what the man means.
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not thirsty then.” Crone flashes his badge. “We’ve just got a few questions for you.”
I can see the internal war taking place in the bartender’s head. I’m betting he really wants to tell us to fuck off, but he’s scared of pissing off the authorities, and he’s right to be. I’ve seen clubs who didn’t cooperate with law enforcement driven into the ground by surprise liquor licensing inspections and fire code violations. After first shooting daggers at me and then Crone, he bails on the whole situation.
“I’ll get Ron.”
He disappears through a door and Crone and I are left squinting into the flashing lights, and in my case, avoiding looking at the WHISPs sitting on their barstools and drinking at their phantom bar. Unfortunately, try as I might, my eyes are still drawn to the lights as their rays pierce the WHISPs, lighting up the humanoid forms like fuzzy glow sticks. With a jolt, I wonder if they’ve made any modifications to the club’s bathrooms to make them more WHISP friendly. God, I hope not.
The bartender returns with a short, annoyed, prematurely balding man in tow. His WHISP is so faint, it’s only visible when the lights hit it just right. There’s no need for the bartender to point us out, he makes a B line for us. His beady eyes flick from me to Crone then back to me.
“You the cops?”
Nodding, I show him my badge. “And you must be Ron. I’m detective Harbinger and this is detective Crone. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Is there someplace a little quieter we could talk?”
The corners of Ron’s lips curl sourly, but he nods and waves us to follow him. We head for the door he emerged from moments ago. It leads to a muted hallway lined with boxes of glasses, kegs, and cleaning supplies. Ron turns into a doorway about halfway down the corridor. At the end of the hall is an emergency fire door. I follow him into the cramped office thinking about fire code violations.
Ron’s rear end hasn’t even alighted in the rickety chair behind the desk before he says, “We haven’t had any problems here, and I sure as hell didn’t call you guys, so what’s this all about?”
I don’t wait to see if Crone wants to take point. “We’re investing a series of murders and we need to ask you about your clientele.”
“What about them?”
“I’m guessing you get a lot of regulars?”
Ron tilts his head. “What do you think?”
Crone edges in. “Yeah, well, do any of these regulars come in together or meet here on a regular basis?”
“Maybe, yeah, I guess.”
I jump back in. “Do any of them talk about the Rachel Chester case?”
Twisting in his chair, Ron hops up su
ddenly. My hand strays toward my gun as I get the briefest impression he’s involved in the murders somehow and coming at us, until he reaches under his shirt and scratches at his back. His WHISP, which was miming Ron’s spastic jig, suddenly disappears.
“What the hell?” Crone’s mouth drops open.
Lowering his shirt, Ron smooths it out and then sits again. “What? Oh that. It’s one of those new-fangled WHISP holograms. Pretty cool, but they get really fucking hot.” Appearing much calmer now, Ron settles into the chair. “Now what was the question?”
Chapter Twenty
“Limiting exposure to technology has not been shown to reduce the density of a WHISP, but has been known to increase suicidal tendencies in high risk teens.”
Excerpt: How to Deal with Depression in Teens with WHISPs
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Crone and I are back at the station after visiting two more of the WHISP clubs where the general consensus was no one knew anything about anything.
“Maybe we need to get one of those things Ronny-boy had. One of the fake WHISP things?”
“Ugh. Why would anyone pretend to have a WHISP?”
“Some people just want to be special, I guess, or prove they’re technology geeks? It’s actually getting kinda trendy. Did you hear that Ang—?”
“Yeah, I heard.” I shudder. “I bet those things cause real WHISPs.”
Crone smirks at me. “Well, that’s what it’s gonna take.”
“What?”
“It’s gonna take someone with a real WHISP to get any info from these clubs. I think there’s an undercover cop who works out of the 30th who’s got one. Maybe they’d be willing to lone him out to us if he’s not on a hot case.”
“I’ll talk to Agent Coppola tomorrow, too, see if he has any…resources who could help out in that department.” Yawning, I stretch out my neck. “In the meantime, I’m going home.”
Checking his watch, Crone raises an eyebrow. “You leaving the precinct before nine p.m.? Gotta be some kind of record.”
Elevating my middle finger, I grin. “Screw you, I was here at…God, I don’t even remember what time I got here this morning. A whole lot fucking earlier than you though, so don’t give me any of your shit.”
Crone turns his back on my indignant gesture. “See ya tomorrow, Harbinger.”
***
But I don’t go home. Instead, I go to see an old friend. Kristina lived just a few houses down from me growing up in Connecticut, and we were close even before my parents were killed. I hadn’t seen her in a few years owing to her moving to California for a software development job, but we’d kept in touch over e-mail and occasionally by phone. She was in New York for a week for a conference and we’d planned to do lunch in a few days, but I needed to see her now. If anyone would or could understand what was going on in my fevered brain, it was her.
After a brief call, she agrees to meet me for dinner at an Italian restaurant close to her hotel. She’s waiting for me in the vestibule. Though we’re practically the same age, Kristina seems to have risen above the idea of aging. Her blonde hair is still silken, her face still lineless without the use of Botox and now tan from living in sunny Cal, and she keeps fit competing in triathlons on the weekends. As much as I adore Kristina, a part of me also hates her. We embrace in a manner fitting two friends who haven’t seen each other in years, but Kristina’s wide smile and hug are quickly replaced by a more serious expression and her arm around my shoulder.
“It’s great to see you, but why the emergency, Sylvy? Is it Ben? I thought you guys were doing okay again.”
There’s not a hint of awkwardness. It’s as if we still see each other every day. “No, it’s not Ben, we’re…fine, it’s something else. I just really needed to talk to someone right now about, well, about an idea I have. And it’s a little crazy, so we both know I can’t talk to Ben about it.”
She gives me a squeeze. “Really, Sylvy, Ben’s a great guy, but honestly, no imagination, how did you guys ever wind up together?”
I shrug. “Opposites attract?”
“I guess. Anyways, I would love to hear your crazy idea, but you know, crazy ideas always sound better over ravioli and pinot noir, right?”
The mention of food produces a solid tug from my stomach, and I struggle to remember doing anything more than thinking about having lunch today.
“I know. We’ll order first, and I could probably use some wine.”
The host seats us in a quiet booth, and before we have a chance to look at the menus, a tall waiter named Roger has come with an offering of bread and herb-infused olive oil. Kristina orders a glass of pinot noir and I choose a glass of cabernet. We peruse the menu and have barely made our decisions when Roger is back with our wine. Kristina makes good on her talk of meat ravioli and I order the fettucine alfredo. Then when Roger steps away again, we help ourselves to the bread and oil. After I devour a large hunk of bread and the immediate grumbling from my neglected stomach is appeased, I can’t hold back any longer. Words start spilling out of my mouth.
“I know I told you I’m consulting on a case with NYPD, and I’m sure by now you’ve figured out the only case which could suck me back in after Chester’s case.”
Kristina glances up with raised eyebrows. Whatever crisis she expected to lend her shoulder to didn’t include this case. She finishes chewing a mouthful of bread and nods, not quite frowning. “Chester’s copycat.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Sylvy, I can’t even imagine how horrible this is for you. I know how badly you wanted to put everything behind you.”
“Thanks. I really did. But it is what it is, so here I am. Anyways, this whole case is really messed up and Chester’s acting…I don’t know, not like I’d expect her to. Everything about it just seems really…wrong, and even though Chester’s case was hell, the evidence still added up, still kept leaving a trail we could eventually follow to her. This copycat case isn’t like that. Right now, I feel like I’m lost in the woods following what I think is a path, but every time I turn around, I’ve lost it.”
Kristina’s big blue eyes are wide and filled with sympathy, but it isn’t sympathy I need right now.
I shake my head to refocus. “You know how the last murders took place almost at the same time?”
“Uh huh, the news said the FBI got involved and there are rumors they think it’s some kind of cult or something.”
I tear at more bread, but don’t eat it. Once I confide in Kristina, there’s no going back. Doubt gnaws at the evidence I’ve compiled in my mind. Even though I’ve been biting my tongue all day and wishing I could talk to someone, now that I can, I don’t know if I can. What if this is all just the stress of the case getting to me? I trust Kristina’s judgement, so what am I going to do if she tells me she thinks I’m losing it, drop the case? I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it.
“Something like that, but I have…a theory.” This was it, I was going to say it out loud to another person. “I already told you this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to just listen to all of the facts, then if you still think I’ve lost it completely, please pull me back from the edge. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I think the killer, at least one of them, is a WHISP.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Has anyone really considered the possibility computers are deliberately emitting these particles? WHISPs shadow humans, move when they move; so close they can hear everything we say. What if this is artificial intelligence learning how to mimic humans?”
Gregory Beecher, FutureCon Panel, “From WHISP to Skynet”
To her credit, Kristina neither spits out her sip of wine as she laughs in my face nor chokes on it. Rather, she swallows, sets her glass down and looks me right in the eye.
“Why do you think that?”
“I spoke with an expert earlier today. His name is Dr. Silverman and he’s with the Center for WHISP Wellness and Research out on Long
Island. He told me a lot about WHISPs, but there were two things that really hit me. One, the particles which make up WHISPs are affected by a person’s thoughts, well, at least the thoughts of the person they’re tethered to. He said some people think WHISPs are able to communicate with their humans this way. Now he didn’t think it was real communication, but it got me thinking. It’s a proven fact psychopaths don’t think the way normal people do. So, what if their thoughts, especially their thoughts about killing people, affect their WHISPs differently? What if it does something to the particles to concentrate them so much they could…could do something to someone?”
Kristina shivers. “Okay, that makes a kind of horrible sense. What’s the second thing?”
“I asked him about the WHISP’s tether, the connection between a WHISP and the person it came from, and whether it could be broken and what would happen.”
“And?”
“And he said he didn’t know. He said it would probably dissipate, but no one had been able to do it. But what if people have been able to severe the tether keeping the WHISP close to a person, or at least stretch it way out? Then you could have a WHISP with really messed up particles drifting far away from its human and doing things to people.”
“Hmmmm, I—”
“Here you are, ladies.” Roger appears out of thin air and sets our food before us with a flourish. “Would either of you like freshly grated parmesan cheese?”
Since I’d almost forgotten we were in a public place, Roger’s arrival startles me into an open-mouthed silence. If my face is anything like Kristina’s, he must think we’ve never heard of parmesan cheese before. She recovers before I do.
