The Burnt Remains

by Alex P. Berg

  Given Dean’s demeanor, I hadn’t expected to be yelled at, berated, or ordered to scrub his car with a toothbrush for failing to execute his suggestion to the letter, but I’d nonetheless expected some pushback. To have him consider my point of view and consider my decision reasonable was, while rational, a complete departure from the rage-fueled culture of compliance of my former TO.

  I shook my head. “Moss and I were tossing some theories back and forth, but nothing concrete. Can’t say we’ve gotten any new leads other than the crematorium.”

  “Well, let’s find some, then,” said Dean. “First things first, we need to get a positive ID on the remains. Phair, call the Vernon residence. Get the name of that jeweler and Mrs. Vernon’s dentist, then follow up with both of them. You can also file a missing persons report. I already called in a BOLO for Stella Vernon’s car. If we find that, we might uncover more evidence about her whereabouts last evening. Justice, I’m still wrapping things for another homicide. Maybe you can get started on the case file? Pull arrest records, if any, for Stella Vernon, JT Vernon, and any of the folks at the circus who work in the aviary, for starters. Call the DMV for Mrs. Vernon’s photo. That sort of thing.”

  Justice nodded. “Can do.”

  Dean turned to his desk and picked up his pen, but a voice inside me, the voice Dean had encouraged not to be silent, poked its inquisitive head out and waved furiously.

  I cleared my throat again. “Dean?”

  He turned back around. “Yes?”

  “I was curious about that meeting you had this morning. Moss said it was with a scientist regarding the tarot card murders.”

  Dean tapped the butt of his pen against his armrest. “That’s right. A physicist. I wasn’t sure how much to involve you given your proximity to the case.”

  Justice had already pulled his chair into his desk, but he spoke over his shoulder. “She might be the closest thing to a witness we have, but in terms of proximity, you’re as close to the case as they get, Dean. She’s part of the team now. Anything you’d share with us, you can share with her, I’d think.”

  Dean nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll need to bring you up to speed, but I’ll focus on that when we don’t have another murder sucking up the oxygen. What about the meeting did you want to know?”

  I shrugged. “Moss said you were talking about the strange purple glow I saw in the park. I’m as curious to know what it was as you are.”

  Dean hesitated for a moment, keeping my gaze as he did so. “Well, the short of it is my expert couldn’t provide a logical physical explanation for what you saw.”

  I blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  Dean leaned back in his chair. “He walked me through a number of atmospheric optical phenomena that could produce a purple halo or glow similar to what you witnessed, from auroral light to airglow to something called the Alexander’s band, which is essentially the darkened region between two rainbows. There are a few issues that rule out all of them, however. For one, the phenomena you observed occurred at ground level, not in the atmosphere. For another, it occurred at night and under a forest’s protective canopy. That suggests moonlight probably wasn’t responsible. Also out are any phenomena reliant upon dew, including sylvanshine and some other one with a complicated name I can’t remember. The evening you walked through the park was dry, and the temperature hadn’t dropped enough for dew to form until the wee hours of the morning. That leaves us with a few other possibilities. One is that you witnessed some sort of chemi or bioluminescence. Are you familiar with will-o-wisps?”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “You’re talking about ghosts?”

  “I’m talking about the flickering light that for centuries people attributed to ghosts. Thanks to science, we now know those strange flickering lights are the result of chemiluminescence from the oxidation of marsh gasses like phosphine and methane. That’s why people always witnessed them over marshes and bogs.”

  My brow remained furrowed. “But there’s no bog in Miller’s Creek Park.”

  Dean tipped his head. “Indeed. And while the professor I spoke with perhaps isn’t the world’s foremost expert on luminescence, he was quick to point out there aren’t any living organisms or natural chemical processes that occur in the parks of our urban environment that could produce the purple glow you saw. The limited research I’ve done suggests he’s right. At the very least, no one else has reported a similar phenomenon that I’ve been able to find.”

  “So where does that leave us in regards to the glow?” I asked.

  Dean shrugged. “There are two possibilities, neither of which are particularly satisfying. The first one the professor offered is that you’re misremembering the experience.”

  I stiffened, even though I knew it wasn’t a personal attack. “I know what I saw.”

  Dean held up a hand. “And I believe you. While traumatic events can create mental blocks that prevent individuals from accessing memories, more often the opposite occurs. The events imprint themselves on your mind, and you can recall them clearly long after the incident. The fact that you recall such a precise detail from the encounter leads me to believe your experience conforms to the latter. Rarely do traumatic events cause anyone to imagine something that specific, after all. Which leads me to the professor’s second option: that what you saw has no physical explanation.”

  I frowned. “I’m still confused. You’re talking about a biological or chemical explanation? So the will-o-wisps?”

  Dean shook his head. “No. What I mean is that there may not be a natural explanation for what you saw. To make sense of it, we might need to consider the supernatural.”

  I was silent for a second before scoffing. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Dean didn’t laugh or smile. “I’m not. I told you yesterday. Not everything in this world makes sense. Not everything that can be known is known, and sometimes the unknowable works its way into our cases. If you want to solve the impossible, then you have to reconsider everything you consider to be such first. Isn’t that right, Justice?”

  The ogre nodded over his shoulder. “I won’t go into specifics, but I’ve seen some weird stuff sitting behind this desk. So has Dean. You have to keep an open mind, otherwise reality opens it for you.”

  As I sat there in my seat, with a slack jaw and a stupefied look on my face, Moss popped around the corner.

  “Hey, guys. Dropped off the sample with Emmett. He said not to expect anything for a day or two.” She stripped off her coat and draped it across the back of her chair, but she paused as she saw the look on my face. “Did I miss something? Phair looks like someone told her a secret she’d only shared with a friend who died back in sixth grade.”

  Now Dean smiled. “Nothing that dramatic. I’m simply expanding Phair’s horizons.”

  “Well, stop it,” said Moss. “She doesn’t need her mind blown right before she talks to the captain.”

  I blinked. “The captain?”

  “He caught me on his way up from the basement,” said Moss. “That’s why it took me so long to get back. He asked how it was going, and as we were shooting the breeze, he asked to meet you. You should probably head down to his office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. If my previous experiences with police captains were any indication, meetings such as this one were never about getting to know each other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The office was on the first floor, encased in glass and positioned so the entirety of the main floor could be seen from the desk inside. The blinds had all been pulled up, and the door stood open. I nonetheless stopped short of the office’s heart, pausing at the door as I knocked. “Excuse me? Sir?”

  The man behind the desk was in that nebulous range known as middle age, but regardless of the true number of years under his belt, he carried them well. His hair, though graying, was thick and had a waviness to it that gave him a rakish flair. Though there were a number of creases in his brow, the skin at h
is neck and his chin was tight. He wore a black tie over a crisp white shirt, one with curved dress pocket flaps and epaulets that held fours stars over each shoulder. A portrait of him hung on the wall with his full name, Henry Herbert Ellison, engraved on a bronze plaque underneath it. In it he looked about ten years younger than he did in real life.

  He looked up at the sound of my voice, smiling as much with his warm brown eyes as with his teeth. “Officer Phair. Come in.”

  I nodded as I stepped across the threshold into his office, though I paused after the first step. “Should I close the door?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He stood and extended a hand. “I’m Captain Ellison.”

  I took the man’s hand, giving it a single firm shake. “Penelope Phair, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “You can take a seat and tell me about yourself,” said Ellison as he returned to his chair. “I like to get to know everyone in my precinct, and given the unusual conditions of your hire, we never had the pleasure of being introduced. I had to take Detective Dean’s word on your abilities.”

  A pair of plush chairs upholstered with a pale blue fabric were positioned at matching angles to his desk. Either of them would’ve won a boxing match against the half-dead one Moss found for me upstairs in half a round, but I figured asking if I could drag one upstairs would be a major faux pas.

  I sat. “What would you like to know, sir?”

  “Anything you’d care to share,” said Ellison with a smile. “What got you into police work? What drives you? And most importantly, how did you come to draw my star detective’s eye?”

  I snorted. “Are you sure you have that much time?”

  Ellison kept his smile in place, but there was a stiffness to it that suggested it wasn’t as genial as advertised. “The condensed version, then.”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ve read my file, but I’m new to the force. Just graduated from the academy a few weeks ago. I can’t say I always dreamed of being an officer, but I grew up in a household that respected the law. My great-grandfather was a detective, and my great-grandmother was one too. At least, she was until she became captain. Right here at the Fifth, no less. Shay Daggers.”

  I pointed to the hall where her portrait hung before realized how foolish that was. “I’m, ah… sure you’re familiar with her. Anyway, she put the bug into my head about serving others, and I decided I’d give it a shot. Which isn’t to say I’m not serious about it. By give it a shot I simply meant I’d see if I could cut it.”

  Ellison didn’t say anything, but he gave me a nod of encouragement.

  I appreciated it. Despite his outwardly kind demeanor, my stomach was flipping like a flapjack. “Anyway, my partner and I answered a murder call my very first shift. Detectives Dean, Moss, and Justice showed up to investigate, and I did my best to help. Detective Moss gave me a ride back to the precinct after my TO was, ah… called away.” Actually, he ditched me because it was the end of his shift, but I didn’t need to throw him under the bus. Ellison probably didn’t even know who he was. “From there, Moss called me to provide backup a couple times, and if I’m being honest, I may have gotten more invested in the investigation than I should’ve. Long story short, I kept thinking about the case after Detective Dean made an arrest, and I came to the conclusion the wrong man had been pinned for murder. I submitted a statement regarding my conclusions, and I suppose you know the rest.”

  Captain Ellison nodded. “Captain McGuire at the Williams Street precinct sent it over. Dean wasn’t happy reading it, but not because of your efforts. He holds himself to a high standard, and to have missed the conclusions you drew bothered him deeply.”

  “I could imagine so, sir, but that was never my intent. I only wanted to make sure justice was served.”

  Ellison waved idly as he leaned back in his chair. “No one thinks otherwise. Anyone familiar with Dean wouldn’t voluntarily pit themselves against the man. You weren’t familiar with the detective’s work before you met him at the scene of the crime, were you?”

  My lips puckered. “No. I’d never heard of him, honestly.”

  Ellison steepled his fingers before him. “So it was the luck of the draw that put you at New Age Alchemical when Dean arrived, and simple curiosity that kept you emotionally invested, not some attachment to our well-respected detective?”

  My brow furrowed. I thought I’d known more or less where the conversation was going, but now I found myself at a loss. “No, sir. It was chance, nothing more. I know some people think my great-grandmother pulled strings for me to get a position, but she’s been retired for decades. I doubt most people in the department would know who she is even if they had her official portrait as a reference.”

  Ellison rubbed his fingertips together, continuing as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s happened before, you see, for people in all walks of life. People who see a long set of coat tails and think they can ride them to the promised land. Individuals have already tried with Dean, but he sees them coming a mile away. Not you, though. He sees something in you. Potential. Talent. Shades of himself, perhaps. I’m not sure.”

  I felt a little of the anger that tended to boil out of me at inopportune times churn within, but I kept it under control. “Sir, I assure you, I’m not here to ride anyone’s coattails. I didn’t ask to be added to his team. I wasn’t even consulted. To be honest, after hearing he’d requested my transfer, I thought he’d sent me to some god-forsaken corner of the city as punishment.”

  Ellison waved a couple fingers. “I believe you, Officer. I don’t think this is part of a greater scheme. I think you’re precisely who you appear to be, which might be exactly what Dean needs. More importantly, it’s exactly what I need.”

  Once again, I felt as if I’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Sir?”

  Captain Ellison turned slightly in his chair. He met my gaze, eyes narrowing. “Alton Dean is an excellent detective. The best in my precinct. Perhaps the best in the entire department. In most cases, an intellect like his is accompanied by an equally impressive ego. While he might be the exception to the rule, he doesn’t break all the stereotypes. When working cases, his focus is singular. He does his best to solve the mysteries placed in front of him, no matter the barriers. When those barriers are due to a lack of information, his drive works in his favor. When the barriers are institutional or procedural, less so.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying he’s not above breaking the rules to solve cases?”

  “What I’m saying, Officer, is that he’s willing to ruffle feathers and ignore orders if it gets him results, which is a trait you seem to share if your file is representative. It might be why he asked to hire you. I’m not sure. But that’s not why I agreed to bring you aboard.”

  The captain didn’t provide a follow-up, so after I moment I gave into his prompt. “So, why was I transferred here, sir?”

  Ellison smiled. “I need someone to keep an eye on Dean. Someone who will grow to have his ear and make him listen to reason. Someone who will report to me and follow orders I give to the letter. Someone I can trust.”

  My stomach fluttered. I understood the power dynamic at play. I knew exactly what the captain was asking of me, but there was information I was missing. “Sir, I know I haven’t been in the force long, but I can assure you, I’m not a troublemaker. I don’t make a habit of breaking rules. That said, if you think I’m cut from the same cloth as Detective Dean, then what makes you think I’m someone you can trust?”

  The Captain’s smile widened. “Oh, that’s simple. It’s all about self-preservation. Because of his talent, Detective Dean is nigh untouchable.” The smile disappeared. “You, on the other hand, are anything but.”

  I swallowed hard, and Ellison’s smile returned. “But don’t worry. Be smart. Play by the rules—my rules—and we won’t have any problems. Understood, Officer?”

  Oh, I understood him. But I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  Chapter Fourteenr />
  I sat at my desk, my phone’s receiver pressed against the side of my head. Blood rushed in my ear. It felt hot and sweaty, the byproduct of hours spent making calls in search of information.

  I’d started with the low hanging fruit. I’d placed a call to JT Vernon’s home which had been answered by Mossbottom. After a lengthy search, the gnome provided me with the name of the jeweler from which Vernon purchased his wife’s engagement ring, as well as her dentist. I’d called the dentist first, figuring it was the best avenue to achieve a positive identification on the remains, but in what would turn out to be a portent for the rest of the afternoon, I wasn’t able to speak with him. Instead, I reached the man’s receptionist. She told me Dr. Ernoost was busy performing a root canal but that she would pass along my request to pull Stella Vernon’s x-rays. Supposedly, they’d be ready by end of day. Similarly, when I called VanBuren Jewelers, I spent fifteen minutes being passed from salesperson to manager before ultimately discovering that Aivars VanBuren, who sold the ring to Mr. Vernon, wasn’t in and wouldn’t be until tomorrow. The manager informed me we could drop the diamond off and Mr. VanBuren would authenticate it first thing, but I told him we couldn’t leave evidence with them overnight, no matter how secure their safes. Instead, I instructed him to ask VanBuren to drop by the precinct the next day.

  That left me with an endless series of phone calls to the rest of the city’s precincts. Currently I was on the phone with the Marguerite Avenue precinct on the east side of the River Earl. The line buzzed, as if the connection wasn’t very good. In the background I heard the heavy clomps of frustrated officers walking by, the indignant cries of those being arrested, and the occasional wail of a siren.

  I pulled the receiver from my ear to wipe away the sweat. As I did so the speaker crackled. “Officer Phair?”

  I quickly pressed the thing back against my head. “I’m here.”