by Terence West
Bishop ran his hand over his chin. "I wouldn't really call it a medical condition, sir, but yes, I am a chronic insomniac. I assure you it won't interfere with my job performance."
"Very good," Weiss said with a smile. "Let's make sure it doesn't." Closing the folder, he lifted it up and slid it into a drawer on his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he looked over his new recruit. "You don't have a background in science, do you?"
Bishop shook his head. "I don't. I've taken science classes in college, but nothing serious. Why?"
"The OPR is mainly a scientific agency, Mr. Bishop. Most of our members have degrees in various science related fields."
Bishop smiled, "I thought you were just ghost hunters."
"We are," Weiss admitted, "but we chase the supernatural with science and hard evidence. Your lack of a solid scientific background could be a hindrance"
"But my FBI training should more than make up for that," Bishop argued. "I've been trained to correctly interrogate suspects and witnesses, and I have an eye for detail. I may not be an egghead, but my experience as an investigator will be invaluable."
Weiss laughed out loud. "Good answer." Opening the top drawer of his desk, Weiss pulled out a small, stapled packet of papers. Standing up, he tossed them across to Bishop. "In that packet, you'll find all your tax information, as well as medical and insurance forms. Fill them out and have them back to my secretary by tomorrow morning."
"I'm hired?"
Weiss nodded. "Head over to photography after you leave. We need to get IDs made for you."
Bishop stood up and extended a hand toward Weiss. "Thank you, Chairman Weiss. You won't regret this decision."
Weiss shook Bishop's hand firmly. "I hope not." Sitting back down, Weiss removed a small stack of papers from his inbox on his desk. Tapping them on the desk to straighten them, he handed them to Bishop. "Here's the information on your first assignment. I want you to study them thoroughly tonight, then report to office three-thirteen in the morning to meet your partners."
Chapter 2
The red and blue flashing lights were casting an eerie glow over the front of the brick home. Various police officers and investigators were moving about their duties. Yellow strands of police tape were littered around the area, blocking access to the media and the public.
Amidst the bustle of the busy crime scene, a lone detective stood next to his battered green sedan drinking a cup of coffee. A large man, he was wearing a long tan trench coat, an off-white dress shirt with a red tie and a pair of gray slacks. The white shirt had various stains scattered over it, while his shoes were generally untied. He wore a dark gray fedora over his thinning black hair that partially hid his rough face in shadow. A three day beard was growing on his chin he had no intention of shaving, while dark bags hung under his eyes from a lack of sleep.
"Detective Enbaugh!" An officer shouted from across the yard.
Jack Enbaugh looked up and tilted his fedora back on his head. Setting his paper coffee cup down on the hood of his car, he began to weave his way through the crime scene toward the front of the house. For an overweight man, he was relatively light on his feet. Stopping at the front door, Enbaugh looked at the young officer. "What is it, officer?"
The young officer in his black uniform pulled off his hat and held it uncomfortably in his hands. "Coroner wants to know if he can start removing the bodies."
Enbaugh took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "Move them."
The young officer nodded, then walked back into the house. Turning, Enbaugh looked over the front yard. It was still wet from last night's rain. Turning his face skyward, he looked at the dark clouds looming overhead. It was officially the hurricane season here in Stone Brook, Florida. The weatherman on the radio this morning confirmed that a possible hurricane was forming off the southern coast. It was still too early to tell, but it looked like it was preparing to head on shore.
Enbaugh had lived and worked in Stone Brook for most of his life. He had been born in California, but his parents relocated to Florida when he was just a child. Stone Brook was a small town of about fifty thousand people located on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, just slightly north of the cities of Tampa and St. Petersburg. He had been protecting the population here for close to fifteen years now. He liked it here. The town was big enough to have its share of trouble, but it was still free of the large city problems.
"Detective?" a voice asked from behind him.
Spinning around, Enbaugh saw three men pushing gurneys toward him through the house. Each one had a body resting atop it with a plain white sheet thrown over it.
"Can we get you to move?" the first man asked.
Enbaugh nodded and stepped aside. The first gurney made its way over the doorjamb and onto the cement walkway, followed closely by the second and third. The man pushing the third gurney stopped and looked down. The front wheel had gotten jammed between the railing and the sidewalk.
"Hold on," he said to the others. "Let me see if I can get this loosened."
"Come on, Joey," the first man announced. "We're on a tight schedule here. Just pull it out of there and let's go."
Joey knelt down next to the wheel and began to tug on it. Letting out a sigh of exhaustion, he wrapped his hands firmly around the wheel and gave one final tug. The wheel shot loose and sent the gurney toppling to the ground. The body of Cynthia Grant rolled onto the sidewalk in plain sight of everyone. She had been decapitated and her body mutilated.
Enbaugh swore under his breath. Grabbing the sheet off the ground, he quickly laid it over the remains. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Enbaugh asked Joey angrily.
"I was just trying to–"
"Look over there." Enbaugh pointed to a small crowd that had gathered outside the yellow police tape. Several members of the media were standing there with cameras rolling. "We don't want this to show up on the ten o'clock news."
Joey shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"
"Look," Enbaugh said quietly, "it's our job to protect these people from the crazies out there, and sometimes that even means protecting them from the knowledge something horrible happened. Do you understand?"
Joey nodded. "Sorry, Detective."
"Go grab your two buddies and get this cleaned up, and do not remove this sheet again," instructed Enbaugh. Standing up, he watched Joey run over to the waiting ambulance. Looking down at the sheet, he could see the two separate lumps beneath. A chill ran down his spine. He had never witnessed anything this gruesome during all his years on the force. He had certainly read about this kind of thing, but never seen it firsthand. Just another reason he liked living in Stone Brook.
Stepping over the body, Enbaugh made his way into the Grant's house. The living room was very large and well furnished. Dylan Grant, the husband, was a doctor in this area, and a well respected one, while his wife, Cynthia, was employed by a small advertising firm. Everyone knew the Grants had money, and by looking at their home décor, it was obvious.
Enbaugh had already been here for three hours. He had been called out here at eight a.m. to investigate. Apparently, Cynthia's employer had expected her at work two hours earlier and had been trying to call her all morning. He had told officers that Cynthia was never late. As luck would have it, one of the officers on the force was a close friend of the family and was delivering a birthday present to the Grant's son, Charlie, so he looked in on the family. That's when he found them.
Enbaugh began his usual routine at a crime scene. Pulling a pair of latex gloves out of the pocket of his trench coat, he snapped them on. Slowly, he began to move over the living room. He needed to know if anything was missing. Robbery was his first guess when he arrived this morning, although nothing appeared to be missing. Enbaugh knelt down next to a small wooden coffee table located between two brown leather couches. A small layer of dust had settled on the table. This would make his job easier. He would be able to tell if anything had been moved or taken due to the dust. It would leave a cle
arly detectable clean spot if an item was taken. He scanned the table and found nothing.
Standing up, he quickly glanced over the rest of the living room. Everything seemed to be in its place. He noticed a small plastic cube on the fireplace mantle. Taking a step toward it, he smiled at the contents. "Wow," he said under his breath.
"Jack?"
Enbaugh spun around. "Montoya."
Detective Caroline Montoya was slowly walking down the stairs into the living room. Half Enbaugh's age, she was his partner. Her long blonde hair was tied up behind her head showing off her slender face and neck. Long dark eyelashes hung seductively over her green eyes, while her lips were painted a deep red. She was wearing all black this morning, from her long trench coat, to the blouse and skirt which hung just above her ankles. "What are you doing?" she asked Enbaugh in a soft voice.
Enbaugh smiled. "Just doing a cursory check around the house. I wanted to see if anything was missing." They had been partners for six years now. Montoya had transferred to the Stone Brook Police Department after a three year stint as part of the Miami law enforcement community. "Come take a look at this."
Montoya walked slowly down the stairs and into the living room. "What am I looking at?"
Enbaugh pointed to the plastic cube on the mantle. "It's a baseball."
"Wow," Montoya said sarcastically. "That's really neat."
"No, look at it. It's been signed by Mark McGuire, and it has the number ‘62’ written under the signature."
"Which means what?" Montoya asked.
Enbaugh laughed. "You have no culture. This was McGuire's sixty-second home run during the 2000 season. You know, the year he hit the record breaking seventy homers?"
"That's absolutely fascinating," Montoya said with a yawn.
"You're missing the point," Enbaugh scolded her. "Last year, one of these home run balls went up for auction and sold for in the neighborhood of sixty thousand dollars. This is a very expensive piece of baseball memorabilia."
"So if it's still here… "Montoya started.
"We're probably not looking at a robbery," Enbaugh finished.
"Still not very conclusive," Montoya argued. "Maybe the thief just didn't know much about baseball."
"It's just a theory in progress." Enbaugh snapped off his rubber gloves. "Did you find anything upstairs?"
Montoya shook her head, "Just a lot of bloodstains." She turned around to look at the stairs. "It's strange though, only that one second floor window was broken."
"Did the boys from forensics examine the ground beneath that window for signs a ladder had been used?"
Montoya nodded. "They couldn't find any evidence that one had been used. The usual signs of smashed patches of grass or indentations weren't present."
Enbaugh thought for a moment. "Is there any other way to get up to that window?"
"It's basically a sheer wall. There are no pipes or storm drains on that side of the house. No latticework over there either."
"So why'd the killer use the second floor window?" Enbaugh wondered. He turned back around to take another look at the autographed baseball, but it was gone. Only a small square clean spot remained on the mantle. "What the hell? Did you take the baseball, Montoya?"
Montoya looked confused. "No, I've been standing here in front of you the whole time and there's no one else in the room."
Enbaugh glanced around the living room. A worried look crossed his face. "How the hell?" He began to walk across the living room. The plastic cube was sitting on the top of one of the brown leather couches. "How did it get over here?" Enbaugh began to reach for it, when it shot off like a rocket across the room. It impacted a mirror hanging in front of the staircase, shattering it on contact. The cube and shards of glass fell to the floor in a heap. Enbaugh spun around to look at Montoya. "Did you see that?"
Montoya was already heading for the door. "I didn't see anything."
Enbaugh quickly started to chase Montoya. "Wait a minute!" He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around just outside the front door. "You can't tell me that you didn't see that."
"Why did you throw the ball into the mirror, Jack?" Montoya asked quietly.
"I didn't," Enbaugh said quietly.
****
Bishop found himself marveling at the sheer size of the building. He had a little time before his photos were taken yesterday to wander around the OPR headquarters, but he hadn't seen even half of the office in that time. Looking down at his watch, he noted he still had almost ten minutes before he had to meet his new partners this morning. Good thing, I'm going to need all that time to find the office. Adjusting his tie, he pulled his black leather jacket around himself. He had decided on a white shirt and a pair of black slacks this morning. After reading over most of the OPR's policies last night, he never came across a dress code, so he decided to wear what he felt comfortable in.
The OPR Headquarters was built in the heart of downtown Washington D.C. Bishop had been informed that when standing on the roof, you could look down into the White House's backyard, although he hadn't put that theory to the test… yet. It was a massive twelve story building constructed entirely of concrete and glass. Each floor contained offices, labs and small research sections. The main research facility, however, was located in the basement of the building. Weiss had enclosed all the case files in a room that could probably survive a direct nuclear assault. It was claimed the OPR's files were more tightly guarded than the Constitution itself.
Bishop glanced along the walls as he passed. In a normal office, you would find awards and plaques, as well as a painting or photo of the crusty owner, but not at the OPR. The photos on the wall varied from the bizarre to the downright macabre. Each framed photo had its own story to tell, from spiritual photography to exorcism. One particular image caught Bishop's attention. It was a photo of a wrecked car on the highway. The front end had been completely smashed into the passenger's compartment making it look more like a tuna can than a car. Bishop's eyes were drawn to the front of the vehicle, there you could clearly see a large white semi-translucent object, which appeared to be hovering slightly over it. It had the basic human form, but no discernable features. He leaned over and began to read the small gold plaque beneath it.
"This was the car of fifty-seven year old Elaine Ram. The front of her car was crushed when it collided with a semi heading in the opposite direction. A claims adjuster for Elaine's insurance company took the photo only hours after the accident. She claims it shows definitive proof of Elaine's guardian angel."
Bishop stood up and looked at the photo again. "That's very interesting."
"What's interesting?" a female voice asked from behind him.
Bishop spun around startled. "You scared me," he said with a smile.
"Sorry." The woman was leaning against the frame of a nearby office door. She had long brown hair with startling green eyes. Over her long slender frame, she was wearing a black skirt, white t-shirt and long black leather jacket that hung just past her hips. A pair of black pumps rounded out her outfit. "Just comes with the territory, I guess." She walked slowly from the doorway toward Bishop. "Are you new here?"
Bishop nodded. All his prayers had been answered. Here, standing in front of him, was a beautiful woman who believed in the paranormal. He tilted his head back for a moment and said a silent "thank you" to God. "My name's Nick Bishop."
"Nice to meet you, Nick. My name's Dawn, Dawn Lassiter," she reached out and shook Bishop's hand gracefully.
Bishop snuck a peek at her left hand, and said another silent "thanks". She wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He knew he had to make conversation. There was no way he was going to let this brief encounter end. "I was just looking at some of the photos here in the hall. There's some truly incredible phenomenon captured here."
"Yes," Dawn said slowly, "but there's a reason they're hanging here and not down in the ‘vault'." She crossed her slender arms and looked at the photo in front of them. "Tell me why."
Bishop t
hought for a moment as he scanned over the photo. This would be simple. "These are obviously copies of the originals."
Dawn laughed. "Guess again, sport, these are the real photos."
Bishop looked at the photo again. "I don't know why."
A smirk crossed Dawn's face. "Have to teach you rookies everything," she muttered. "Look here," she pointed at the car. "You see what's left of the windshield?"
Bishop nodded, "Yeah."
"There's no reflection in it. Look at the ground around the car. Light from the quote, unquote ‘apparition’ is spilling all over it. If that's the case, why isn't there a reflection of the ghost in the windshield?"
Bishop shook his head. "It's at the wrong angle. From their vantage point, the photographer wouldn't have seen the ghost's reflection."
Dawn's smirk quickly faded. "Okay, hot shot, take a look at this." She ran her finger around the edge of the ghost. "You can tell this photo has been digitally manipulated. Upon close inspection, you can see the ghost's ‘aura’ becomes pixilated as you near the edge."
Bishop leaned close to the photo. "That's very curious. You can see it." He looked up at Dawn, "You're right."
"Of course I am," Dawn replied confidently.
A moment of silence passed between the two. Bishop felt it was his obligation to continue the conversation. "I hate to be too forward," Bishop turned and leaned on the wall, "but how would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" he asked, turning on his charm. "I know this great little Italian restaurant downtown. We could have dinner, go dancing and then… who knows?"
Dawn patted Bishop's shoulder. "You're just so cute," she pinched his cheeks, "like a little puppy dog."
"So is that a ‘yes'?" Bishop asked proudly.
Dawn laughed. "I don't think so, Mr. Bishop."
Dejected, Bishop glanced down at his watch and his eyes widened. "Shoot, I'm late. Can you tell me where office three-thirteen is?"
Dawn pointed over her shoulder. "It's right there."
Bishop began to walk away, "Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure. That's my office."
