by Terence West
Upon turning the corner, Montoya's senses were assaulted by the smell of smoke mingled with that of rotting flesh. She wondered if the body had been removed yet because this certainly wasn't the way a luxury hotel was supposed to smell. Montoya quickly stopped and turned to the officer she had just passed. "Has the body been removed?"
The officer frowned. He smelled it too. "No. The captain wanted us to leave it until the coroner's office could arrive. Unfortunately, the hurricane had a little fun with them last night."
"What happened?" Montoya asked.
"You know that big oak tree they have out front?"
"Yeah, I know the one."
The officer allowed himself a small chuckle, but then quickly regained his composure. "It's now inside the office."
"Holy Christ," Bishop muttered from behind Montoya.
"Is everyone okay?" Montoya asked unemotionally.
The officer nodded. "There was no one there at the time. The only bad part is the trunk is blocking the parking garage. They can't haul out the meat wagon."
Montoya shook her head, then turned to the three behind her. "Take a deep breath now. We're not going to get any fresh air for a while." She paused, "I need you to stay out of my way, too. I'm here on official business."
Cane smiled as he turned Montoya around. "We won't even make a sound. Most of us are very accustomed to a crime scene. You won't have to worry about us at all."
Montoya couldn't tell if he was telling the truth, or bluffing her. Either way, she didn't care. She was here to get her business done. Nothing else. Fishing a small notepad out of her jacket pocket, she flipped it open and started down the hall. An officer just outside the crime scene was questioning a small group of people. She paid no attention to them for the moment. Her first priority was to examine the body. Slipping past the group, she made her way into the room.
****
Chloe looked up from the interview and smiled for the first time that morning. Perhaps her prayers had been answered. There, standing before her in all their scientific glory, were three members of the Office of Paranormal Investigation. She reached behind Trent and tapped Carrie on the shoulder.
Carrie glanced over at Chloe with a look of annoyance on her face. She said one last word into the phone then snapped it shut. "What?"
Chloe pointed down the hall. "OPR," she said cryptically.
Carrie's eyes suddenly widened. She raised her face toward the ceiling. "Thank you, God!" She looked back at Chloe, "When did they get here?"
"Just a moment ago. They walked in with a detective."
Carrie's face hardened for a moment, "Are you sure they're with the OPR?"
Chloe nodded. "That man in the back is Zachary Cane. We had him on the show during the first season."
"I don't remember having any members of the OPR on the show," Carrie admitted.
"It was before you started," Chloe clarified. "I think it was maybe our second or third episode."
Carrie began to size him up. "He seems very…"
"British?"
"No," Carrie said, "I was going to say stuffy."
Chloe let out a giggle. "Aren't they the same thing?"
"You're terrible," Carrie joked. "Do you think we should go introduce ourselves?"
"Why not? I wonder if he remembers me?"
The two women slipped past the officer, who was busy with Trent at the moment, and slunk down the hall toward Cane. Carrie slipped her small black cell phone into her pocket, while at the same time, retrieving a business card.
Chloe stopped right in front of the threesome. "Mr. Cane?" she asked gingerly.
Cane looked up at the woman almost startled. "Yes?"
"I don't know if you remember me," Chloe said as she extended her hand. "My name is Chloe Andrews. I'm with Ghost Chasers, Inc."
Cane nodded. "Oh, yes. I remember you. What can I do for you, Ms. Andrews?"
"We were wondering if you were still with the Office of Paranormal Investigation," Carrie cut in. She slipped Cane her card. "I'm a producer of the show. My name's Carrie Lang."
Cane accepted the card and scanned it quickly. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Lang." Cane stuffed the card into his jacket pocket. "Allow me to introduce my team. This is Dr. Dawn Lassiter and Nick Bishop."
Dawn and Bishop nodded accordingly.
"Do you have a moment to discuss business, Mr. Cane?" Carrie asked.
"Of course."
Carrie smiled softly, but quickly returned to her game face. "As you know, today is Halloween, and we are planning a very special broadcast from right here in Stone Brook."
Cane quickly pressed his hand to his forehead as if in revelation. "I had all but forgotten it was Halloween." He looked back up at Carrie. "I'm sorry, please continue."
"As I was saying, we are planning a very special episode of Ghost Chasers, Inc. tonight and we were wondering if you would like to be involved?"
Cane smiled. "I appreciate the offer, but we're here on a case."
"From what I understand," Chloe interjected, "we're here for the same thing. Why can't we combine our efforts?"
"I'm sorry," Cane said gently, "but the OPR doesn't seek sensationalistic coverage of our work. We rely on scientific journals and quality news programs to relay our findings."
"I don't understand," Chloe admitted, dumbfounded. "You were on the show once."
Both Dawn and Bishop looked back at Cane with smiles on their faces. They now had blackmail material.
"That was a long time ago," Cane stuttered. "The OPR's policies have changed since then, mostly because of that appearance."
"Can you be a little more specific?" Carrie asked.
"The way you portrayed our organization was uncalled for. You referred to the OPR as a–and I quote–'bunch of hard-headed scientists who don't have the sense to look at the evidence in front of their pointed noses'. Did I hear that incorrectly?"
Chloe stepped in. "That was a long time ago, Mr. Cane. We have different executive producers now." She was lying through her teeth. "That won't happen again."
Cane smiled. "Do I detect a sense of urgency in your request?"
Chloe kicked at the floor like a child who was being punished. "We had two experts lined up," she admitted after a moment. "One of them is lying dead in that room over there, and the other is on her way to jail for his murder."
"Experts?" Bishop echoed. "I've seen your show. You don't use experts in the field, you hire half-assed psychics to go in and try and ‘communicate’ with the ghosts."
Carrie didn't like the direction this conversation was heading. "Then you can bring some credibility to our broadcast."
"Look at it this way," Cane countered, "your show is a like a tabloid. One day, you are reporting on the ‘Bat-Boy’ and the wolfman of Long Island. The next, your paper does a serious piece on an earthquake, or a terrorist attack but no one takes you seriously because you've already thrown your credibility as reporters out the window. There's no getting that back, no matter who you book on your show."
"I don't think you understand what we're offering you, Mr. Cane," Chloe said after an uncomfortable pause. "We will pay you for services rendered, and give you the chance to investigate this case on live national television. You don't get anymore credible than that."
"I'm sorry, but the answer is still no," Cane replied. He turned and walked past the two women.
Bishop smiled at the two. "I like your show," he said with an almost fan boy zeal. He quickly caught up with Cane.
Dawn stood facing Carrie and Chloe. "Next time you want us on the show, you need to go through official channels."
"There won’t be a next time," Carrie snorted and walked off.
Chloe smiled. "Thanks anyway. You realize we had to try."
Dawn nodded. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"What is it exactly you're here to investigate?"
"A triple homicide that happened at 1658 Ontario Lane
." Chloe lean
ed toward Dawn, "The officer that covered the crime reported seeing a pair of glowing red eyes."
Dawn's eyes widened. "You mean the Grant House? Dear God." She rushed past Chloe to catch up with Cane.
Chloe watched as Dawn grabbed Cane by the shoulder and whipped him around to face her. The two started talking frantically, almost arguing. After a moment, the entire team returned.
"Ms. Andrews, is there any way we can persuade you not to go into that house?" Cane asked.
Chloe smiled. She had just found her bargaining chip. "I'm afraid not. We go live in a little over twelve hours. It's much too late to scrap the show."
"You don't understand," argued Dawn. "There's something in that house."
"That's exactly what we were hoping for. If we actually find a ghost on national television, the ratings will skyrocket!"
"This is not some benevolent entity," Cane attempted to persuade her. "This…" he struggled for the word, "thing," he wasn't satisfied with that, but it was the best he could do, "is a killer. It's already taken the lives of four people here in Stone Brook and almost took one more last night."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cane. There are hundreds of thousands of dollars riding on this broadcast in advertiser money. We can't pull out at the last moment." She leaned close, "Bad for business." Chloe began to walk away with a large smile on her face. Carrie would be proud. This level of deviousness almost rivaled her own.
"Ms. Andrews, we wouldn't have a problem having the local law enforcement bar you from the Grant House," Cane threatened.
Time for the trump card , Chloe gloated. "The mayor has already given our broadcast his blessing. Your efforts to stop us would be blocked."
"Damn," Cane muttered under his breath.
****
Montoya could instantly see where the smell was coming from. A curtain in the room had been pulled wide open allowing the sun directly onto the corpse. She hoped the occupants of the room had left it that way, or someone was about to get fired.
Montoya walked cautiously toward the corpse. She could see a mountain of blood soaked sheets piled up next to the body. As she took a few steps closer, she could tell the extent of the damage. His body had been split open from the base of his neck to the center of his groin and his vital organs had been rearranged inside the gaping cavity. If eviscerating him hadn't killed him, stuffing his heart into the area his stomach used to reside certainly did. She looked up at his face. There was an odd sense of calm on it. It wasn't frightened, or even in pain. It seemed very… serene. Odd.
That fact alone told her one thing: this man was dead before he was split open. Why had she decided to mutilate him after he was dead? She pondered this. Did she hate him so much she felt killing him wasn't enough? Nonetheless, it was a horrible, and senseless murder.
Leaning close to the body, she used her pen to push several of the organs out of the way. She examined the edge of the wound. It wasn't a clean cut as if a knife or razor had been used. It was jagged and messy. Sinew, tendons and muscle had been ripped away from bone. It looked as if, but it couldn't be, the wounds had been torn open with bare hands. Almost as if the flesh had been shredded. Montoya knew it would take much more than a one hundred and seventy pound woman to cause this kind of damage with her bare hands.
Montoya felt a tickle in her nose. She sucked it back once, but couldn't stop it. She let out a mighty sneeze. She clamped her hand over her nose to stifle a second sneeze. Looking up through blurry eyes, she saw her blast had awakened a fine spray of powder in the air. Wiping the dust from her eyes, she leaned over next to the body. It was covered with a fine black powder barely visible to the naked eye. Glancing past the body, she noticed the residue covered the sheets as well. Turning around, she pulled open the second curtain allowing the sunlight to spill completely into the room. She could see the black powder covering the entire floor and her footprints, as well as several others, preserved in the dust. Pulling a piece of paper out of her notebook, she scraped a small sample of the dust onto it with her pen. She stood and looked at the fine powder. Folding the paper in quarters, she tucked it neatly into her pocket.
She turned back toward the door. There were several pairs of odd footprints crossing the floor from the window to the bed, and then to the bathroom. She cursed herself for not noticing this earlier. She had inadvertently contaminated a crime scene. She needed to get a photographer on the scene as soon as possible before the prints were degraded even further. Being careful to step only in her own footprints, she made her way back across the floor. Once she was outside, she immediately dropped down to the floor and began to examine the carpet. There were no signs on the black powder. They seemed to stop dead at the edge of the room.
After a moment, Montoya stood and adjusted her clothing. She quickly wiped some of the dust off of her jacket. She wasn't sure what it was, but she knew she didn't want it on her.
Turning away from the door, she spotted her guests talking with two of the witnesses. She made her way down the hallway toward Cane and stopped just short of him. Tapping him on the shoulder, she waited for a response.
Cane slowly turned to face Montoya. "Detective."
"I need to run a sample I found down to the lab." She tapped the folded piece of paper in her pocket with satisfaction. "Are you coming?"
Cane shook his head. "I'd like you to meet Chloe Andrews." He looked back at Chloe, "Ms. Andrews, this is Detective Montoya." Cane turned back to Montoya. "She's the director for the television show, Ghost Chasers, Inc.”
Montoya extended her hand toward the younger woman and forced a smile. "Nice to meet you."
Chloe nodded. "Same here."
The group stood in an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Montoya found herself unconsciously sizing up Chloe and then Carrie.
Cane cleared his throat to grab everyone's attention. "Due to circumstances beyond our control," he announced gravely to Montoya, "we will be working with the Ghost Chasers Crew for the rest of our stay here in Stone Brook."
Chapter 16
Enbaugh snapped upright in bed. Tubes and wires were torn forcefully away from the tape that held them in place. His brow was sopping with sweat and the front of his hospital gown was soaked. A total sense of confusion set in. His last memory was of being in the car. His mind worked frantically to make sense of his surroundings, but he could tell he had been under heavy sedation. His motor skills had been affected as well as his mind. A thick haze had settled over his brain.
Glancing to his left, he slowly began to realize he was in a hospital room. The curtain divider between the two beds had been pulled completely shut, isolating Enbaugh from the rest of the room. He could hear and see the faint flicker of a television on the other side of the curtain, but he couldn't make out what program it was. Lifting his hand, he started to reach for his hair. He could feel the sweat sitting uncomfortably on his scalp. As his palm hit his forehead, he recoiled in pain. He became painfully aware of the large gash. Using his fingertips, he traced the edge of the bandage which ran around his head. It was being held in place by one small silver clasp that rested just above his left eyebrow. Lying slowly back down, he lifted his hands. There were several cuts and bruises along the back of one hand and a tube taped to the other. He hoped the rest of him didn't look as bad as his hands did.
Bringing his hands down next to his body, he looked over toward the large picture window that occupied the wall next to him. He could tell just by where the sun was sitting that it was morning. He didn't know exactly when, but he was sure. The dark clouds of the night before had given way to an eerily clear sky. On the horizon, he could see the dark clouds looming. They were coming back.
He must be in Stone Brook General Hospital, he reasoned. His eyes widened for a moment. Or maybe he had been life flighted to St. Petersburg… He couldn't be sure. Looking out the window, he couldn't spot any familiar landmarks, but that was no indication of where he was, he reminded himself. His was still under the influence of a heavy anesthetic. His mind wasn'
t operating at peak efficiency.
He suddenly snapped to Montoya. The last time he had seen her, he had left her at the hospital with the OPR. He wondered if she was all right. His last memories before waking up here were of the violent storm raging outside his windshield. If the town had suffered that kind of damage, he wondered what condition the hospital was in. He tried not to think about it. He was just working himself into a fit and he didn't even know the truth. Isn't that the way it always is, though? Not having all the pieces of the puzzle present, but jumping to a conclusion. His ex-wife was like that. She would fly off on these wild tangents just because something set her off. He would always try and persuade her to look at the larger picture, to try and gather the rest of the information before making an assumption of guilt. She never did, though.
That's why he loved his work. Reason was his ally. He didn't have to spend his days second-guessing himself. It was his job to find the cold, hard facts. He would happily spend his morning examining a rug through a magnifying glass to collect stray fibers, or dusting for fingerprints. It was these clues that proved the truth; that pointed the way. No, he didn't have to deduce who the killer was while he played his violin, or smoked his pipe, he had facts on his side.
Despite what people thought, Enbaugh lived in a very orderly world. In his life, there was one truth: fact. Nothing else. If there were no hard evidence to support a thing, then it didn't exist. He didn't appear that way upon first inspection, always looking dishelved and messy. Even his apartment was a disaster. He had heard once that a messy desk was the mark of an orderly mind. It was only those with excruciatingly clean workspaces and homes that had cluttered minds. They were overcompensating for their self-proclaimed weakness. Outwardly, they would be a model of cleanliness and perfection, while on the inside, they were a tattered mess.
That was one of the things Enbaugh was most proud of: his ability to read people. It was a gift. He had always told Montoya that he could look a suspect in the eye and instantly know if they were guilty or not. He prided himself on being an excellent judge of character. He wasn't sure how he had read Cane so incorrectly…
