by Seth Patrick
He met some of those eyes, and hated the look they gave him now, awe and fear combined. That look had changed little through the years. Public perception of forensic revivers had always been confused – intrigue and aversion battling it out with pragmatism – but up close the deep unease returned. He often thought it had been almost miraculous, how widely revival had been accepted, given the way people felt when it was right in front of them. He supposed it was just the same in other parts of life. People were fine with some things as long as they didn’t encounter them.
He looked down to avoid the stares, but in his head he heard the words spoken by the corpse of Alice Decker, sudden and close: ‘We see you.’
His left hand gripped the side of his seat and squeezed. He tried to slow his breathing, feeling the rising panic in his chest that always preceded his work. It had hit early, brought on by the memory of those hissed words, and it was stronger than usual. He could hear the murmuring of the onlookers grow louder.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to shut out the noise, but it grew relentlessly, an overwhelming drone pounding at his head. Again he heard the words, buried in the din: ‘We see you.’ He knew that if he opened his eyes and looked, Alice Decker would be there outside the window, an inch from his face, grinning at him with bloody teeth – torn from his nightmares and thrust into the real world.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Startled, he looked up to see Never’s concerned face. He realized that the car had stopped.
‘You OK?’ asked Never.
‘I don’t like crowds,’ he said. ‘Let’s get inside.’
5
As they approached the house, Detective Bob Crenner came out of the side flap of the forensic tent; paper-suited, hand up in greeting, the sun glinting off his reddening bald patch. He was in his mid-forties and overweight, with a smile in his eyes that Jonah thought looked genuine – not every cop was keen to see the FRS arrive, even when they needed them. Like any snapshot of the population, there were even those with Afterlifer sympathies, especially since that organization had softened their message and their methods. Many cops saw revival as a necessary evil, and it wasn’t unusual for their unease and dislike to be out in the open.
‘Mr Geary,’ Crenner said brightly. ‘And Jonah. We’re nearly ready for you. Like the office?’ He gestured at the tent.
‘Office?’ said Never. ‘We were wondering if the body had ended up outside the house.’
‘No. The CSI unit put it up for some shade. They’ve been having trouble with their equipment sitting in hot vans. It’s one of the only cool places in the vicinity, so make the most of it.’
Jonah peeked through the entrance flap. Equipment boxes were stacked by the back wall. There were a dozen people inside, and like Bob Crenner, almost everyone was in a paper suit. He nodded at Crenner. ‘You must be cooking in that.’
‘Stripped bare underneath.’
‘You went commando?’ Never grinned.
‘Top half only,’ said Crenner with a smirk. He led them in, and the cool shade was welcome. ‘My partner as of six months ago, Ray Johnson,’ he said, pointing to a young black man in the far corner. ‘He’s supervising the set-up. Ray!’ he called.
Detective Ray Johnson was speaking to a young woman who was one of the few not wearing protective clothing – also not uniformed, Jonah assumed she was either another detective or with forensics. When Crenner called, Johnson wrapped up the conversation and headed over. The young woman glanced at Jonah and he looked away quickly, then back. She was smiling at him and nodded in greeting. Jonah felt his cheeks redden as she turned and walked out the far side of the tent.
Johnson reached out his hand to Never. ‘Detective Ray Johnson. It’s Never Geary, right? You’re the revival technician?’
‘Reputation precedes me, huh?’ said Never, shaking Johnson’s hand.
‘I’ve seen you on another case, but I was in uniform then. This is only the second revival I’ve been involved in since I moved up in the world.’ As he turned to Jonah, his hand was still outstretched ready to shake, but as he spoke he jerked his hand back. ‘And you’re the reviver?’
Neither Johnson nor Jonah was wearing gloves, a fact that presumably Johnson had only just noticed. Jonah wondered if the detective had made the mistake of shaking a reviver’s bare hand in his last case. Not a mistake people tended to make twice. ‘Jonah Miller,’ he replied, with a smile.
‘Fill them in on the case, Ray,’ said Crenner. ‘I think Fennell’s forensics people will be done in the living room in ten minutes or so, and then it’s all yours.’
Johnson took them to a corner, where they sat in green plastic chairs that looked suspiciously like garden furniture, presumably sourced from one of the neighbours. He leaned forward, speaking with a low voice.
‘Victim is a nine-year-old girl, name of Nikki Wood. Nine-one-one call was taken at 3.50 a.m. She had no life signs when the paramedics arrived. They spent forty-five minutes trying to resuscitate her where she lay, but she was pronounced dead at the scene at five. Medical examiner’s prelim suggests the attack would have been tens of minutes before she died, maybe up to an hour. Head wound is the apparent cause, but we haven’t identified a weapon yet. No other injuries. The father says he found her after hearing a noise from downstairs. He claims there was an intruder.’
Jonah raised an eyebrow towards Never but said nothing. Johnson continued: ‘Nikki had a known problem with sleepwalking; her father suggests she surprised a burglar, who struck out.’
‘And you suspect the father,’ said Jonah.
‘Bob says not, but … Stu Fennell, the forensics lead, reckons things don’t add up. He described it as “staged”, and I can see what he means. There are signs of a scuffle – a coffee table was overturned, magazines scattered, but they’re a little precise, a little arranged. Plus the guy seems too calm for someone whose daughter was murdered this morning. His statement was … well, rehearsed, maybe. Too clear. For me. Like I said, Bob disagrees.’
‘Was anything stolen?’ asked Never.
‘Mrs Wood had several items of jewellery taken, family heirlooms. Overall about twenty grand.’
Hearing the figure, Never whistled. ‘Strong motive for theft.’
‘The items were kept in a box under a sideboard shelf. Anyone who knew about it could have just taken it and left, but if someone wanted to make it look like a burglar got lucky, they needed to mess the place up. Now if they did that, admittedly there’d be a risk of the mess looking the way it did. Sure, maybe someone knew about it. That’s what the father’s been saying. There was a broken pane of glass in the front door. But there’s a problem…’ He leaned closer. Jonah and Never found themselves leaning closer too. ‘The glass was broken from the inside. So maybe it was no burglary. Something gets out of hand, father to daughter. He panics. Theft is the only story he can think of. If so, we’ll find the jewellery dumped a street or two away. Or even hidden in the house.’
‘But Bob Crenner doesn’t agree?’ said Never.
‘No. He thinks the father’s telling the truth.’
‘Why do you think he might have killed her?’ asked Jonah, but he had a feeling he knew where Johnson was headed.
‘Maybe it was a pure accident and he’s covering it up, but we haven’t just pulled this out of thin air. There’s a history. Two years ago Nikki ended up in the ER with a broken arm, blamed on falling down while sleepwalking. Last year she was back in the ER with two broken fingers, again blamed on sleepwalking. Social Services got involved; nothing came of it, but they were wondering about physical abuse, possibly sexual. And if I had to put money on it, that’s what I’d go with.’ Johnson looked across the tent. A cop had ducked through the door flap carrying a cardboard tray loaded with paper cups and cans. ‘Good, the drink runner’s back. Can I get you one?’
Jonah, despite the heat, wanted coffee, while Never opted for Coke. Ray Johnson went to fetch them.
‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said J
onah, when Johnson was out of earshot. ‘If they want to throw some abuse questions at the girl, we lose either way.’ A successful revival could be scuppered by a reluctant subject; getting the subject back, and past the disorientation – getting them to talk at all – was one thing. Getting a child to speak about something as painful as abuse was extremely difficult, and risked stubborn silence.
And if there was nothing in the allegation, even bringing the topic up would alienate the subject.
Jonah continued: ‘If we found out Johnson is right, she’d be unlikely to talk about it explicitly. It’d be ambiguous.’ Ambiguous, and contentious; with the subject avoiding explicit confirmation, the opinion of the reviver would be all that supported the claim in court. He didn’t relish the prospect.
‘Bob Crenner’s a smart man,’ said Never, shrugging. ‘He’ll not get you to ask anything clumsy. And if he’s not keen on the theory, you might not even have to touch it.’
Ray Johnson came back with the drinks, handed them out, and tilted his head back to the small crowd that had descended on the drink runner.
‘See the looker with the bracelets?’ he said. It was the woman he had been speaking to when they’d first arrived. ‘That’s Nala George. She’s the family liaison, victim support.’ Jonah hadn’t noticed the bracelets before, but her right wrist was overrun with them. He looked at her more carefully now that she wasn’t aware of him; not uniformed, the norm for victim support these days, but wearing off-white jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt against black skin. He was uncertain if her features were more Caribbean or Polynesian, but he supposed it didn’t matter either way. She was gorgeous, she’d smiled at him, and she would almost certainly find his touch repellent.
‘She’s pissed that we’re thinking bad thoughts,’ said Johnson.
‘She got wind of it?’ said Never.
‘Yeah … I asked her how she thought the father was coping. She’s sharp. She saw right through me.’
Jonah found himself watching Nala George with longing and sorrow. When she turned and saw him watching, she smiled and nodded at him, walking back outside. Jonah snapped his head round. ‘We give the family the benefit of the doubt,’ he said. ‘If we play it carefully, we can find out without any risks.’
‘Ten dollars says I’m right.’
Jonah glared at the policeman. ‘This isn’t a fucking game.’
Ray Johnson’s eyes widened. ‘OK, sorry…’ He turned to Never. ‘I’ll go and see if they’ve cleared out of the room yet. Then like your friend says, we can find out.’
‘Please try not to piss off people we work with,’ Never said with a smile as Johnson hurried outside.
Jonah shook his head. ‘The hell with him. All they have to do is keep an open mind for a while; instead, they’re risking the father getting wind of their little theory.’
‘I’m on your side,’ said Never. He tried to change the subject. ‘Nala George is cute, huh?’
‘Who?’
‘The victim support officer. You’re fairly transparent. You know that, right?’
Jonah ignored the jibe. ‘Yeah, she’s cute. And what are my chances?’ The chances of anything coming of it. The chances of her not getting chill.
‘Fuck all,’ said Never. ‘But then that’s about the same as my chances, so we’re even.’ He raised his can. ‘Cheers.’
Jonah thudded his cup into it. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
* * *
Detective Johnson returned two minutes later to give them the go-ahead to begin setting up. Jonah and Never broke out their protective clothing and donned their paper suits and latex gloves in practised silence, putting shoe covers in their pockets, ready to put on before they entered the house. During the revival Jonah would only wear one glove, on his left hand. The right hand would be bare, ready to make contact with the victim, but he would wait until going into the house before he took it off.
Jonah sat where he was, nursing his coffee as Never led Johnson to the car. They took two cases of equipment each and went into the house.
It would take Never twenty minutes to complete the set-up and testing of all the equipment. Jonah reached inside his paper suit to his own trouser pocket and pulled out a small blue plastic box. Inside, there were four blister packs of pills, a necessary evil for a reviver’s work. One was a nausea suppressant. One was an antiemetic. One was BPV, a drug developed specifically for revivers to suppress the remnant effect. The fourth was plain old aspirin. He popped out one of each into his hand, and glared at them.
Vomiting during the initial revival was a common annoyance, and could even scupper the attempt; the nausea-suppressant and anti-emetic made that less likely, but the cocktail left him with a dry mouth and restlessness that lasted for several hours. The BPV gave him a suite of side effects including a headache, sometimes a bad one. That was why he always took the aspirin in advance.
He threw the lot into his mouth, washed it down with the coffee, and waited for them to take effect. He carefully avoided eye contact while he sat, wanting to escape any kind of interaction. Preparation time, he told himself – he needed to focus, not be distracted – but mainly it was his nature. Shy. Loner.
He found it difficult, sitting in the open, surrounded by people who were mostly strangers yet who knew what he did and what he was. It wasn’t as bad as his days at court, but even the people who were used to being on the periphery of an onsite revival could be wary of the reviver.
His drugs were kicking in, and he could already feel the slight dizziness BPV sometimes brought with it.
‘You OK?’
The voice startled him. He looked up. It was Nala George, the victim liaison officer. She nodded towards the chair beside Jonah.
‘Go ahead,’ he said automatically, avoiding her eyes. She sat.
‘I was looking for you. I didn’t recognize you with the protective clothing on. Did anyone pass on the attendance request?’
Jonah looked at her warily. Relatives of a subject could request attendance at the revival, but in 80 per cent of cases they didn’t. Even when they did, it was at the discretion of the duty reviver, but Jonah understood the importance of saying good-bye. He always tried to accommodate it. Nonetheless, it was an additional complication.
‘They want to attend?’
Nala George nodded. ‘Uh huh. Try not to sound so enthusiastic.’
‘Sorry.’ He winced inside at being so easily read. ‘I’ll do my best. Are they sure?’
‘They’ve been at a private revival before, when Nikki’s grandmother died last year. Nikki was present. She’d even mentioned that she’d want to have the same opportunity to say good-bye if anything happened.’
He thought about the complications for a moment, then opted to be honest. He lowered his voice. ‘You understand there’s a question over the father?’
Nala shook her head, with a grimace. ‘I know. It’s bullshit. Someone raises the question, and then everyone starts treating the man differently. They just like to think the worst of people.’
Jonah nodded. Thinking the worst of people wasn’t hard when you were exposed to the results – and the perpetrators – every day. ‘All the same, there’s a good chance the questioning will have to address it, so I’d rather they didn’t attend the interview.’ He saw Nala’s face drop. Her mouth opened to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. ‘The girl’s young, her injuries are minor. Chances are good she’ll still be coherent after questioning. As long as the father’s in the clear—’
Nala broke in, impatient. ‘He is.’
Jonah nodded an apology. ‘As long as he is, if Nikki’s still coherent I’ll give the word and they can come in. Would they be OK with that?’
‘I’ll ask them.’
‘They have to understand, it’s not a given. And Forensics wants us to keep the scene pristine, so you’ll need to scrounge some protective clothing and keep them out here for the time being. If I give the go-ahead, they need to get inside quickly. They may not have long.
’
‘Understood.’
‘If they agree, I’ll want to talk to them before I start.’
Nala George smiled at Jonah. ‘Thank you,’ she said, placing her hand on Jonah’s shoulder.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, looking down at the ground. With his paper suit and clothing between her hand and his skin, she didn’t feel it. Jonah was acutely aware, though, and the hint of chill was unmistakable. He felt himself deflate a little, the tension of being around her gone. She was, as expected, off limits. Shame, he thought. I liked her eyes.
Nala George walked away to find the parents, to ask them if they were ready to speak to their dead daughter.
* * *
The third camera was causing Never some trouble. Mounted in the corner of the room farthest from the door, it had a wide-angle lens and was the least critical of the three, but testing had shown some signal degradation. The revival would be observed from the dining room next door, and so the cables he had used were among the shortest he had with him. Degradation over that distance could only mean a fault, so he had opted to swap the cable for the next length up, and live with the spare five metres coiled beside his monitor console. As he plugged the gold connector into the camera, he was aware of Detective Johnson hanging around by the door, fidgeting.
‘Nearly done,’ Never said, quietly amused by the man’s impatience. Perhaps it was a desire to get on with the revival and with the investigation; or it may have been his unease at being in the same room as a corpse. If it was the latter, Johnson would have to get used to it, if he wanted to continue working with Crenner on homicides.
The thought of the corpse reminded him it was there. Even though the cameras were trained on it, and he had spent the last ten minutes studying the live feed and checking recordings, it stopped being a body while he worked. It was just an image.
On first entering the room, he had spent a moment looking at the child, getting it out of his system. Children struck home with more power. Partly, it was their innocence and youth, but it would be naive to think that was all that made it harder. It was the rarity. He was in no doubt that, given enough dead children, he could become immune to the sight, just as he was to the sight of dead adults. He was grateful to find his eyes watering when he saw Nikki Wood’s body for the first time. Not immune to it yet, he had thought.
