The Rewind Series Boxset

by Jill Cooper

  Future Cassidy

  There’s not much need for me to have a desk because most of my job is on the street. But I head to the precinct into the officer’s pool. Except for a few warm bodies, it’s empty. It gives me time to sit and collect my thoughts while I shuffle papers and fire up my holo display.

  I synch my link up wirelessly and comb through the data. Most of what I’m doing I can do anywhere over my link, but sitting allows me more time to process. To think. Collect my thoughts.

  On my monitor everything I’ve gone through over the last day has finished downloading. I zip past everything with Jeff and land right back to the subway platform where I arrested Reynold Jackson.

  Pausing the video, I zoom in and study his face. The flowers in his hand. There’s nothing out of sorts, because how could there be.

  But there is something sticking out of his pocket and I realize it looks like a bunch of folded papers, almost like a docket. Something a lawyer would give you if you had just left his office.

  Divorce maybe? A decree?

  Curious, I minimize the window and fire-up his arrest record to see what he had on him when he was processed.

  Everything is listed there. Glasses. Jacket. Even the boutique of flowers he had with him, but if there was something in his pocket, it’s not in evidence.

  And everything a suspect has on him is supposed to be cataloged and stored until sentencing. So why isn’t it there? In the video it clearly is. If something was lost or stolen, I need to find out why.

  I was the arresting officer. It would fall on me if something came up in discovery that I missed. My job, my responsibility.

  “Follow up with evidence locker.” I say out loud and my link takes a note, flashing it against my retina lenses before it’s saved on my link.

  I bring up a biography on Reynold next and comb through his personal files. He was married young, right after high school. They never had children and instead lived simple, happy lives. I reviewed scenes of their life:

  Dancing in the kitchen.

  Walks at the park.

  Romantic gestures over coffee.

  It was all so simple. Everything was pure, just. Innocent.

  And tomorrow he was going to murder his wife? It spooked me not because I don’t believe it, but because I do. Not every husband that kills his wife is a bastard who beats her nightly. Sometimes, just like Reynold, it’s the good ones. Maybe that’s all this is. A man who won’t face the truth about his actions as he stares down the injection needle of death.

  But if he knew Xavier…if somehow they were connected….

  If that’s true, there’s no evidence of it. I can’t access Xavier’s file because that’s restricted for my level of clearance. If I’m going to know, I’m going to have to go to the source. As I stand from my chair, I call over to holding.

  “This is Officer Winters; can I get in to talk to Reynold Jackson? I have a few unanswered questions.”

  The officer on the other end huffs. What I’m asking is uncommon and breaks protocol, but I’m hoping he’ll look the other way because I’m the arresting officer. “He’s not here.”

  Scowling, I step into the elevator and push the descend button. “Where is he?”

  “Termination D. The judge pushed through a rapid execution. Look, Winters, I don’t know what your questions are, but it’s not going to matter in a few minutes.”

  “Unacceptable.” When the elevator door opens, I sprint sideways through it and hurry across the street toward the subway. “Can you stall them? I need three minutes alone with him. Three minutes!”

  My comm turns to static as I run down the stairs toward an arriving train. It squeals and comes to a stop and impatiently I pace, my hands on my hips.

  There was no way Reynold should’ve been executed before morning. I was the arresting officer, I should’ve been notified. I should’ve been there as a witness to the events, that everything went according to procedure.

  I was always notified; that’s how it was done.

  But I wasn’t. The judge was trying to do away with this, whatever it was.

  What the hell was going on?

  ****

  I never should have left the courthouse.

  Running, I take the stairs down to the lower level because I don’t have time to wait for the elevator. I might already be too late.

  When the officer at the door sees me, he opens the door. My cheeks are flushed with exertion as I step inside the observation room. All the viewing chairs are empty and the black curtain behind the window is closed.

  It was like no one was ever here.

  With haste, I swipe my badge against the access panel off to the side. The black door rises up, no longer flush with the rest of the wall and I yank it open hard and step through, afraid to see if I’m too late.

  Reynold is still in the execution seat and there’s a black bag over his head. His arm is slack and falls to the side of the chair. The officials around him gather his arm back up and gingerly put it on his lap.

  They are taking vitals, going through the process, but we all know the score. There are fresh injection marks on his arm and unless he’s a junkie, he’s already been injected with the compound that snuffed out his life.

  He’s gone. Dead. Before I can ask him anything.

  Enraged I kick the wall and punch it. My knuckles crunch under the pressure and the searing heat robs me of my vision. I shake my hand out as one of the medical officers calls out time of death.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I bring up my comm and lay claim to his belongings. I want to go over them before returning them to his widow. Turning toward the door, the sadness engulfs me that I never got to speak to him. Never got to say my piece or his.

  I always gave that to the suspects. Always.

  But this time I was robbed. Why?

  There’s no answer I can find, not one that brings me comfort. I head away from the execution chambers and up the flight of stairs toward the main floor. In no hurry, my legs move slowly. The urgency I felt before, gone. The well of depression is a downward spiral that I cannot shake and when sunlight hits my face from the grand floor to ceiling windows of 100 Federal Street it doesn’t stir me. Doesn’t warm my soul.

  My soul is frozen.

  But then the judge from this morning walks across the grand lobby. His robe swaying behind him, posture rigid with a folder file tucked under his arm. Self-important and the air he exudes says he’s off limits, Unapproachable.

  And a fire is light beneath my stone foundation and I charge toward him. My jaw sets firm with rage and my footsteps breadth the width of the room in a fraction of the time. I grab the judge’s hand and when he turns his face lines with malice

  The gall of me to touch him, I know the judges feel superior to the rest of us. “How dare you execute him and not tell me.” My voice shakes and I know my emotion is rising to the surface, about to claim the better of me.

  But that’s what always happens to the woman in my family. I’m told we’ve always been hotheaded. Getting ourselves into trouble.

  “Officer Winters, if I were you, I’d remove your hand before you regret it. And watch your tongue, young lady.” His eyes narrow as they regard me.

  And slowly but with calculated movement, my hands releases the fabric of his robe. “Your honor,” my voice seethes, “it was my right at arresting officer to be informed so I could choose to be there or not.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation, Cassidy,” the judge sighs. “I have seen you in my courtroom enough to know you do your job, but wear your emotions too close to the top. This time, we decided it was in the interest of time and your wellbeing, if you not know.”

  “Who?” I demand. “Who helped you come to that decision, your honor?” Because I would like to talk to them and boy, I would love to crush them.

  “Good day.” The judge mumbles and glares at me, shaking his robe like he is trying to rid it of my stench. He takes down the hall and I’m not going to get any
answers from him. Not that day.

  But I still have a job to do. I alert evidence storage that I’m headed that way to collect Reynold’s personal belongings and they confirm they are awaiting pickup. I don’t know what good will come of it, maybe there’s nothing there at all except the life of a man that was snuffed out, while the world was oblivious.

  Oblivious because a judge decided the world didn’t have a right to know. And on who’s authority?

  He might be trying to bury it, but I was going to unearth it.

  Or my name isn’t Cassidy Winters.

  ****

  Reynold Jackson’s belongings aren’t much. The flowers are wilted. In his jacket there’s only a half a pack of gum and a wallet.

  I go through it and I feel morbid, like I always do. There’s no cash. Only a few credit cards and the key card to the apartment shares with his wife. I pull out his Global ID and read the address off the front. Immediately it’s stored in my link because that’s where I plan on going next.

  As I slide everything back in the wallet, my fingernail hooks on the back of the Global ID and the plastic sheathing starts to peel off. Curious, it shouldn’t do that. I’m pretty sure it would only do that if someone had done it previously, on purpose.

  Glancing around the office, I make sure no one is looking at me. Turning the ID over, I peel the plastic off and in the center of the ID, is a blue piece of paper with a series of numbers written on it:

  222756

  What is that? I’m not sure, but think it could be a combination. An access code of some sort. I’m pretty sure that Reynold hid this information on the back of his ID for safe keeping, but what it was for…who he was hiding it from I have no guesses.

  I tear the tape off and slip the blue paper into my pocket before I put the ID back in his wallet. Packing everything up into a box, I plan my route to Mrs. Jackson’s home and what I plan on saying.

  And how I plan on saying it. Talking to a would-be-murder victim is always tricky. They’re high on emotion and exist in a state of denial. Shock. If I don’t want to tip everyone off that I’m investigating something I shouldn’t, I need to be careful.

  The box tucked under my arm, I head for the elevator as my link rings and Jeff’s face flashes against my wrist. Relief washes over me as I answer.

  “I wanted to see how things were. Everything go okay this morning?”

  I lean my head back in the elevator and my finger hovers against the ground floor button. “Umm-hmm. Things have taken a…turn since then, but I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You sure?” There’s concern and disbelief laced together in his voice.

  “Yeah, I’m just headed over to the widow’s now. I want to drop everything off so I can chock this whole thing up into the closed file. Move on to something else, you know?”

  “So no time to grab some lunch then, huh? Well, that’s all right. How about tonight some Chinese noodles. I’ll meet you at that little place you like so much over by the Garden.”

  It sounds like just what I need. “I’d love that. Thanks, Jeff. For always taking care of me. You’re just perfect.”

  “Well someone has to. Love you, Cass. Try to take it easy the rest of the day. And be careful.”

  “I will.” My voice is soft as the call fades and I step out of the elevator on the ground floor. Time to catch the subway and head over to the Jacksons’ home. If I’m lucky, maybe I can get enough information to piece this thing together before dinner.

  ****

  On the subway, a call comes in on my link, but when I see it’s my captain, I ignore it. I slide my finger across the busy option and dump him into voicemail. A minute later, I’m notified I have a new message waiting, but I don’t listen.

  If I don’t listen, I don’t know. And if I don’t know, I can still go about my business, but in the morning there’ll be hell to pay. I guess that will just be future Cassidy’s problem.

  Off the subway, I head down the cobblestone sidewalk that lines one side of the Backbay roads. In the distance, I can see the old Prudential Tower that was one a business center and shopping plaza. At the very top, you can see the entire city. Now it’s been claimed by Rewind and turned into a giant time travel antenna, used to funnel power and information into the heart of Rewind.

  Most people who live in the Backbay these days have something to do with Rewind. What was once business, coffee shops, and quirky little places to eat have been replaced by power suits. Over the last fifty years, Rewind has been growing. Expanding. Its reach unstoppable and it still hadn’t slowed.

  It was swallowing more of the city. More of the world.

  I walk past the suits on the street and all of Rewind’s offices down a long street. I keep going past what Rewind has claimed for its own to get to the ghettos of Boston. It’s not something I like to admit even exists, no one does. But for every business space, small or otherwise, that Rewind claimed was another family put out of a job.

  The old brownstones are clustered together on CommonWealth Avenue. Once they were glorious, prime real estate.

  A melding of old and new.

  Now those brownstones that were once a symbol of prosperity and riches have been gutted and turned into small apartments. I take the steps two at a time and ring the button for apartment 2A at 240 Commonwealth Avenue.

  It only takes a moment for the door to open. Katie Jackson is a small woman in a blue floral dress and a white cardigan wrapped around her simple frame. The lines on her face are sunken and her brown hair is cut short, just above her shoulders. The life and spirit that was in the video recording from her marriage, dancing in the park, is gone.

  “Mrs. Jackson, I wanted to extend my sympathies. I’m—.”

  “I know who you are.” Her voice is listless and her eyes are moist, lined red like she’s been crying a long time. She sucks on her bottom lip as her eyes scans the box in my hand. “Those were…my Reynold’s?” The question doesn’t complete as she starts to break down.

  I step forward and put my arm around her. I’m surprised at how frail she is. Rail thin, her bones feel like they could snap in my hands. “Let me come in and I can help you with his things. I’ll put some tea on for you, if you’ll let me.”

  Katie nods and she steps back, holding the door open.

  The hallway into the apartment is cold. There’s a stairwell that runs upstairs, which was once the upstairs bathroom and bedrooms. Now everyone is crammed together like sardines in a can.

  She leads and I follow to a small apartment. A cramped one-room apartment, but light and airy. There are white flowers on the kitchen table in an old glass vase. The flowers are just like the ones that Reynold had when I arrested him.

  Katie turns the water on in the sink and fills an old blue teakettle. The sunlight from the window illuminates her face and her despair is even more evident. I take the kettle from her and put it on the stove. “Sit, Mrs. Jackson. Please.”

  She nods and sits down, playing with the hem of the simple white table cloth, but barely looks at the box I set down. Behind her is a small living room area. A sofa and a television with little else in the way of entertainment, but the walls are littered with wedding photos.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so nice.” Katie says as I sit across from her. “I know what happened isn’t your fault, but it’s easier to hate you.” Her eyes return to her lap.

  I’ve heard it before. Crossing my ankles I gather my thoughts. “Have you lived here long?”

  “No.” Katie admits with a deep breath that lifts her chest. “We left Union Square about six months ago for here.”

  Union Square? Cambridge, where the middle-class lived. “Did Reynold lose his job?” If he did, that could explain why he would kill his wife.

  But Katie shook his head. “No, but he wanted to move into the city. He wanted this building, but I don’t know why. I think it had something to do with his work. He was usually tight lipped about it, so I didn’t really pry. I know it’s small, but i
t’s not that bad. I kind of grew to like it here.” Her eyes rim with tears. “At least we were together.”

  The kettle tweets and I get up to make the tea. My mind is swirling with ideas, questions, and getting the cup of tea ready allows me to process my thoughts quietly, without making small talk. Grabbing a pink and white mug from the cabinet, I see an array of orange pill bottles with white lids. One of the labels is facing forward and there’s a clear K to the first name.

  It darkens my heart to know she’s sick, but I put on a brave face and place the steaming tea in front of Katie. She grabs the string for the tea bag and bops it up and down, a faraway look on her face.

  “And what did Reynold do for work?” I slide my seat into the table and lean on my elbows. “Did he work nearby?”

  “He was a janitor.” Katie blew on her tea to cool it off. “During the day anyway. At night he wrote books. This time what he was working on, I’m not really sure. He was secretive about it, but giddy…in his own way. He said he found a piece of the puzzle. One that was going to crack the plot wide open.”

  “So fiction?”

  Katie nods. “Most of the time. Sometimes he wrote small articles here and there. To make ends meet. I haven’t been able to work in a while. And now that he’s gone…” Her voice trails off and she plays with the small gold chain hanging around her neck.

  “I don’t even know how to feel about him.” Katie says, breaking the small silence between us. “I saw the videos. It didn’t…didn’t seem like him at all.” She wraps her hands around his teacup as if to warm herself.

  She needs me to say something. Anything. The answers we were trained to give come easily as I try to disengage myself from my emotions. “I’ve been doing this for a few years, Mrs. Jackson. For me, it never gets easier. I’m sure in your situation, its worse. And I’m sorry for your suffering. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it easier on you. But you have your memories. Your good times.”

  “And that makes it worse.” Katie wraps her sweater around her body tighter. “Tonight would be the night it happens and I…this is going to sound so stupid.”