by Ben English
Every April 13th, ghostly gunshots ring out on the Long Island of the Holston River in Kingsport, Tennessee as the spirits of Kinnie Wagner and the law repeat their deadly battle on the very land where, according to the Cherokee legend, no person could ever be killed.
She counted nine haunted stationhouses in Australia, including the George Street North Police Station in Sydney's “The Rocks” area, previously a mortuary. Between eight and nine fifteen, most mornings, a middle-aged gentleman in a brown cardigan enters through the front door, walks through the station to the records room, and vanishes. Evidence files have a way of showing up fortuitously on the desks of homicide investigators.
Irene stepped back into Gupta’s office to check on Mercedes’ progress. When the investigating homicide officer arrived he’d want her to use the digital camera. The hovering Feds still worried her—Gupta’s office handled a number of sensitive government contracts, and any one of the government’s bureaucracies might show up and decide it knew better than the L.A. police, and a night’s work would be wasted.
Officers in the Kent County constabulary in West Maling, England work out of a station built over a 900 yr-old priory. The sprawling 30-room structure includes a stable, a laundry service and a games hall; the billiards room, directly over the cell block, is used regularly and enthusiastically in the middle of the night when none of the living officers are nearby. Inmates awaiting trial in Kent County are the quietest and best behaved in England.
After all the years living in Orange County, Irene couldn’t see herself heading back into the wilderness anytime this side of her retirement, but when that day came she fully intended to spend more time back home in the Clearwater Valley upriver of Forge, Idaho, where the railroad tracks stayed icy, icy cold, even in midsummer. Three million dollars worth of 1886 gold lay hidden in the crags above the valley, probably next to the bones of the Wells Fargo crew who’d stolen it. Railroad engineers ever since learn to keep their speed up when they near a certain spot, no matter what they see on the tracks ahead. Two groups of lawmen—a posse from either end of the long valley—had converged on the robbers in 1886, and something from that gunfight remained, enduring past flesh and fire and living memory. The posse still hunts the gold and those who took it.
Irene smiled as she jotted a few notes on the evidence disposition. A lawman reaching past everything to put things aright, to bring a touch of justice to those in need of it, no matter what, now that was something she could almost believe in. She was still courting that frame of mind, halfway between fantasy and the rough reality of her job, when the plainclothes detective appeared in the door and asked for the supervising officer.
“I’m Archer,” she said, setting down the computer.
His acknowledgment was as warm as she’d expected. “Pete Dalton. Heard you had a double one-eighty-seven tonight.” His badge was older than the wallet it lived in, and Irene didn’t bother looking at it too closely. If it had been enough to get him past the National Guardsmen and police downstairs, it was enough.
Dalton stepped back from the door, making room for the electrostatic duster team, his eyes roaming the salient points of the room. At last they’d sent her someone who knew his way around a crime scene. Dalton was a tall man, lean except through the shoulders, with a certain familiar air, something about his face—of course. Cheekbones, jaw, and hair like beaten gold—well, he looked like Jack Flynn. At least he handled himself with that actor’s grace, stepping back and forth through the brusque ballet of the other crime scene technicians.
He shook her hand through the glove. Cold, strong grip. “The black-and-white downstairs already gave me everything he knows. Something like this happens at ArmSine, and the Feds don’t steal your crime scene?”
“Suspicious, don’t you think?”
“I don’t even know why they let us come to these things anymore, they’re so high-tech and efficient. They’ve probably already staked out the butler’s house.”
She decided she liked Dalton.
“Got here as quick as I could—traffic’s still backed up to John Wayne.”
She nodded in sympathy. “Have they got you on the Interagency Training Program too? Pulling duty at the airport?”
He shook his head in disgust. “Somebody in Homeland Security noticed I used to teach at the Academy, now they’ve got me training baggage handlers. Sounds like you know the drill.”
“Last month half my team was replaced by DEA, just out of Quantico. Makes it hard to get anything done with the kids asking questions.” That got a short laugh. Irene was willing to bet they were close to the same age—the fair side of thirty, and still kids themselves, despite their occupation.
He allowed a quick smile. “How do the physicals look?”
Irene indicated the material on the desk, everything in its own plastic bag. “We’re still gathering anything that could be evidentiary in nature; the points of entry and exit are fairly straightforward.” She nodded at the outer office. “We have people downstairs checking the security gates, but that’s where it gets a little – odd.”
Dalton picked up a bagged sheaf of papers, then set them down again. “Building security said the cameras were erased. Blanked?”
“No, they’re digital, but they still flushed the files.”
“Ah. Boston PD just opened a similar case, a breaking and entering at MIT that turned into a homicide. It looked originally like a heart attack, but there were sensitive files missing from the server and one of the professors’ computers.” His eyes fell on the desk.
“We think the same thing might have happened here,” Irene said. “The victim was already logged in. Are you thinking of building an industrial espionage case?”
Dalton shrugged. “Depends. Other than the government contracts, what is this place working on?” He pulled a paper notepad from his pocket and clicked open a pen.
Irene checked her handheld computer. The other technicians continued to work around them, taking room temperature, checking the fibers in the carpet. “The files themselves are encrypted, but not the titles. He had a project for Raines Capital, and a dozen pure research jobs for…Bessen Industries.”
One of the techs called for her help, over on the floor where the victim lay on his side, small, collapsed in on himself.
“Something funny about his blood,” the tech explained. “We need to get fluid samples to a serologist as quickly as possible, but there seems to be ferrous oxide in his blood.” The technician continued. “I didn’t believe it, either. We took four samples, and the amount of ferric material decreased significantly between samples. I just checked the original sample, and it looks clean.”
“Melting rust? In his blood?” Dalton stopped taking notes and looked around the room.
“That’s a new one on us, detective.” Irene seemed about to say something more, but paused at the look on his face.
Dalton tapped his pen absently. “That Boston job, a cleaning lady at M.I.T.” He flipped back a few pages. “Trace iron in the blood. Coroner ruled it a heart attack, but Boston PD isn’t sure.” His brow creased. “There were files erased from the school network that had something to do with the London mess.”
At the other side of the room Mercedes looked up and paused, seeing the detective for the first time. Irene felt her curiosity wrinkle its nose. The network coverage of the disaster hadn’t let up since the Illuminatus Tower’s electrical fire.
“Are there any magnetic resonance projects going on here? Anything like that on the servers?”
Before she could check, the detective shook his head. “What about the bullet used out there?” He nodded towards the reception area. “Anybody find a casing?”
That was standard procedure; they’d already checked. Nothing.
“One weird thing,” Matthew said. “We see it in gang-relateds, but never here in O.C. The bullet was fired from a high-powered gun, from 10 feet away, but there’s no exit wound.”
Dalton nodded. “That’s a non-fran
gible round,” he said. “Made for close-quarters battle.”
Irene saw where he was going. “You think this was a military incident?”
“If the evidence leads us that way,” he said, unnecessarily, but Irene could see him thinking. “What about the victim himself?”
“Still piecing that together.” Another of the forensic pathologists gently turned the corpse. Gupta's hands were clasped together tightly, in supplication. “Like he was trying to pray or beg, but he didn’t reach for the phone, which was a few feet away.”
“And it looks like he died sitting at the desk, but his chair was moved too much after he started to go. See the indentations in the carpet?”
“From his heels?” Dalton wondered aloud.
Irene finally said what had been on her mind since entering the office. “The evidences of death are completely different. Gupta’s assistant was killed quickly, an efficiency, probably while the killers were on the way out. However they did it, Gupta was supposed to look like a heart attack, and the assistant surprised them.”
Dalton nodded again, quiet but for tapping the notebook with his pen. The technicians continued to work around them.
Mercedes, who had been quiet all through the exchange, kept stealing glances at Dalton. Irene was surprised when Mercedes took a picture of him as he stepped near the window.
“Death occurred about 2 hours before sunset,” he muttered.
There was an odd noise in the front office, then men shouting. Irene found herself with Mercedes near the door as two men in thin suits argued with the agents at the door. Both agents and the newcomers were red and blustery by the time Irene shoved in between them.
“That’s enough!” It took thirty seconds of threats and hot air, but the men calmed. “What’s the problem? Who are you?”
“L.A.P.D. Homicide,” the shorter of the two said. “We’ve been trying to get in for half an hour, but our taxes at work here,” he indicated the agents. “say they’ve got rules about how many go in.” He smoothed his jacket. “Same old Fed runaround.”
Irene assured the federal agents the detectives were part of the investigative team, and led the two men into the inner office. “We’ve been going over things with Lieutenant Dalton; he didn’t have any trouble with security.”
“Same old Fed runaround,” the first detective repeated.
“Who?” asked the taller of the two.
Dalton was nowhere to be seen. Three technicians still worked the body, and another sat behind the computer, but the detective had erased himself from the room as abruptly as he’d appeared.
“Our captain was informed about an hour ago—this is as close to a black-bag job as we’ve seen in the past year,” said the other detective, wiping his palms on the arms of his brown suit. “It’s under wraps—nobody else in the division knows about tonight.”
“There’s no Pete Dalton in any of the L.A. units,” added his partner, looking up from his handheld computer. He stood near the window, which wasn’t designed to open.
Irene looked over at Mercedes and Matthew. “Either of you see him leave?”
“One way in, one way out,” said the photographer.
Matthew shook his head. “The guy did have a kind of Batman vibe to him, you know? But he kind of reminded me a little bit of, ah, Jack Flynn.”
Before Irene could agree, Mercedes spoke up. “No, Jack Flynn is a couple inches taller than that guy. Similar jaw, and the hair is the same color, but Jack Flynn’s shoulders are broader—plus, Jack’s eyes are brown. Dalton’s were lighter, almost hazel.”
Irene looked at Matthew. “See, that’s what I mean by a photographer’s eye.”
Mercedes fiddled with something on her camera.
“He still looked like Jack Flynn,” Matthew maintained, looking askance at the photographer.
Mercedes quick-loaded a second battery. “You live long enough, everybody reminds you of someone.”
The taller detective spoke up, calling their attention to the desk. “He leave this notepad?” The LAPD insignia inscribed the lower corner.
“He came in with it,” Irene saw it was blank. “Why?”
The detective handed the pad to his partner, who took it slowly and wet his lips. “Well, see, we’re supposed to use handhelds now, just like you do. Computers.”
His partner spoke up. “This thing’s an antique. Nobody’s used these in at least thirty years.”
Ex Cognito
Los Angeles, California
“There was nobody much like her, you know? Nobody.”
“It’s so terrible.” She covered his hand with her own. It was clean and just the right kind of soft.
“Yeah, I really miss her.”
“She sounds like she really loved you, too.”
Bryce smiled tightly, blinking and letting the corners of his eyes twitch. “Hard to…believe she’s only been gone a year. Feels like forever, you know?
“She loved the Strand. She always said The Green Lantern had the best food in Hermosa Beach Only ever ate the Chicken Florentine—she was Italian, like you.”
He looked away from the woman seated across the table. She was so gorgeous, it almost hurt to look at her. The light on her auburn hair was just perfect. He’d picked this corner of the restaurant on purpose, even made sure the maitre-de knew not to seat anyone within two tables of them. He’d begun the story tonight between the salad and the main course, and the woman—her name was Robin—had allowed her steak to cool and congeal.
“We were really perfect for each other.” He laughed, humorlessly. “You ever think that way about somebody? Like you were their match, and that they were yours, and there was nothing in heaven or earth that could keep you from being with them?”
She nodded. “And you begin where they leave off.” She had a bit of a point to her chin when she spoke, but Bryce could live with that. It only became apparent when she opened her mouth. “The two of you were…seamless.”
Bryce swallowed, fluttering his hand over hers. “You just can’t bargain… with cancer.” He covered his eyes with his free hand, though not so much that he couldn’t see her shift closer to him across the table. If he tilted his hand just right, he’d be able to see right over her neckline.
Bryce rattled a sigh and looked away from the woman again, titled his head back—reigning in the tears, she’d think. Her thoughts stood open on her face. Poor, poor Bryce. She was making sympathetic sounds in the back of her throat, frowning at him tenderly. When at last he could meet her eyes, he knew the mission would require only one more bottle of wine.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “You are an amazing person, Bryce Westen.”
He shook his head. “No. Oh, no, Robin. You’re the special one.” At the word ‘special,’ Bryce ran his thumb over her wrist. “Thanks for listening. I never should have let you talk me into telling all my sad stories. Me, I’m about as empty as they come. I mean,” here his voice faltered again. “The cancer was what ate her up inside, but since she died I’ve been,” he swallowed, “like, hollow.”
After a moment, the woman spoke. “Do you still carry her picture?” she asked, almost hopefully.
“. . . No. I don’t think I could handle that.”
This of course was a lie, but if she caught him in it, she only played further into The Mercedes Story.
Robin looked at him a moment more, then seemed to come to a decision. “Wait right here,” she said, and stood up.
She had a nice back, all the way down. Tight, with those little dimples at the top. Bryce watched her flex and clench all the way to the ladies room. Good enough; yes, she’d do. Didn’t eat much of her food, but well, at least she knew how expensive the place was. Another point in his favor. Details like that never failed to add up.
He glanced at his reflection in the window, smoothing almost-tears from his cheek and assuming a thoughtful mien. He had to admit, his looks helped him probably as much as The Story. Bryce had a long face. Good genes and better than
average breeding had twice blessed Bryce with youthful eyes and the kind of salt-and-pepper hair made famous by the likes of George Clooney—though Bryce had met Clooney a few times and was satisfied that the actor had nothing on him. He could even mimic Clooney’s good-old-boy awe-shucks grin, if that’s what the lady ordered.
And women loved a man with a boat. Bryce spent most of his time on the water, evident by a tan that stood out even in Southern California. Looking at his dark reflection, Bryce smiled. He didn’t even have to work out much. Good genes, good breeding.
He opened his billfold to take a peek at the photo. “Thanks again, babe,” he said. The woman, of course, said nothing, staring back at him thoughtfully. He didn’t really like this picture. Made her look too damn smart. Bryce kept it in his wallet, he supposed, as a last-ditch weapon for use on women like Robin. There was actually one he liked better. Bryce flipped past two pictures of his ship to another picture he’d taken. It was a snapshot of her on some beach during their honeymoon in the Catalinas. Bryce found himself swallowing again, squinting hard at the picture.
He’d lived his whole life in the most beautiful place an ugly planet had to offer. Raised in Newport Beach; learned to sail along the expanse of California coast; educated with the children of the most rich and best-known people in the whole damn world. Yet here was a funny thing: as a younger man Bryce had occasionally wondered if he could grow numb to beauty; if the endless parade of gorgeous women and men could somehow blunt his appreciation of people. Beauty was after all, the true, most obvious mark of a person’s worth. It was part of a collection of self-evident truths he found he could live by. Right up there with another fact he’d picked up early in life: money and beauty follow each other, stick together so close sometimes you could barely tell them apart.
Bryce looked again at the picture. She thought differently. Even if there was more to it, though, maybe even more to her, so what? Mercedes was the most physically stunning person he had ever met. Leaving her had taken all the determination he could muster, but he’d done it; walked out on her in the middle of one of L.A.’s gulleyrusher thunderstorms, checked himself into a hotel that same hour.
