by Jordan Dane
An attractive woman sitting at the bar raised her cocktail glass and smiled. I didn’t want to confirm that smile had been meant for me. I had more pressing issues with a friend who needed me and I had a girlfriend who carried a weapon.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” Malloy shrugged. “Do you think a judge would let him out on bail? I hate thinking he’ll be behind bars until his case goes to court.”
I pursed my lips and considered my words carefully. I didn’t want to give him false hope, but Bram had an outside chance.
“If this is his first offense and you vouch for him, a good lawyer might get him out on bail. It’s a long shot on a murder case, however, and the bail may be set high by a judge.”
“If I can cover it, I will,” Jax said. “Can you recommend a reputable lawyer here in D.C.?”
I could’ve made light of his use of the word ‘reputable’ in the nation’s capital, but now wasn’t the time for jokes. Malloy needed answers.
“I have some ideas and I can check around. I’ll text you a couple of names by tomorrow morning. Will that work?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He drained his glass of beer and shook his head. “I’m in way over my head. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“You won’t. He needs to know someone is in his corner. That’s you. I’ll help with the murder charge and feed whatever I can to the lawyer you pick. I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the Medical Examiner. I’ll be witnessing the autopsy of Jerome Whitcomb, the dead guy. He’s got a long rap sheet. That could help Bram’s case.”
Jax nodded as he slouched in his chair with his fingers tearing at a wet cocktail napkin. Shadows and worry etched his face. His mind wasn’t with me. In solidarity with Bram, his thoughts were with a scared kid locked in a jail cell.
“The cop who arrested him said Bram claimed you were his legal guardian.”
“He what? That’s…not true.” Jax protested, without convincing me. He appeared more surprised than anything else.
“Yes, but that’s how he sees you. He trusts you and I’ll need that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You may not want to hear this, but Bram has bigger issues than a murder charge hanging over his head.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The kid told me he smelled something on the old man that catapulted his psyche to the terrors of that night, five years ago. That’s why I’m attending the autopsy tomorrow. I need to isolate the smell that triggered his strong reaction.”
I had no idea how I would figure out the olfactory aspects of Bram’s past, but I had to try. Smells were powerful triggers for memory.
“Why? How can this help him?” Jax asked.
“What Bram described was a dissociative fugue state. I don’t think he lied about that and it’s something the kid couldn’t fake. A cop found him unconscious the next morning, lying next to the dead body. He couldn’t wake him, not until Bram opened his eyes.”
I explained what I knew about dissociative disorders. They were mental illnesses that involved disruptions or breakdowns of memory, conscious awareness, identity, and perceptions. Bram’s mind simply chose to take flight and yanked him from the danger he faced, but the scent he detected had propelled him to the worst day of his life. In effect, his mind had time traveled back five years, and he didn’t remember much of it.
“I’m explaining this to you because I want you to consider something. Bram is fighting to recall what happened that night. He firmly believes his mother is innocent now. If we can restore the kid’s faith in his mother’s love, he has a shot at coming out with something to hold on to.”
“How do we do that? I mean, the police ruled his case murder-suicide. We would need new evidence to reopen the investigation.”
“If I can determine what scent Bram smelled on Jerome Whitcomb, I’d like to recreate the night his family died and make him relive it. It’s a big risk. His mind is fragile. It could break, for good, but you tell me. What shot does he have at a real life if he can’t get beyond what happened to him?”
Jax stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had, but he didn’t say anything. He had a lot to consider.
“I’m not his guardian. How can I ask him to do this?”
“He has to want it. Neither of us should strong arm him if he wants no part in it. If this truly happens, it’ll be because he’s ready to fight back and reclaim his life.” I shook my head. “They’ll try him as an adult, but if we’re lucky enough to get the charges dropped or successfully argue self-defense, we still might have Child Protective Services intervene. He’s a minor.”
As I said the words about Bram wanting to fight back and reclaim his life, I thought about my own situation after I lost my parents, and my sister turned her back on me. I’d lost my family on one tragic day and I would deal with the aftermath for the rest of my life. It had been a struggle every day, but the consuming guilt had evolved into acceptance. I had to choose that my life would never be the same and I’d have to reinvent who I had become without them. Whatever Bram chose, he would have a long journey.
Jax nodded his head and he stared into his beer—lost. I knew exactly how he felt.
***
Office of the Chief Medical Examiner
Washington, D.C.
Next morning
Ryker Townsend
I never ate before attending an autopsy, for obvious reasons. Nor did I eat directly after them, using the same logic, but nothing prepared me for the stomach churning sight that I’d witnessed at the autopsy for Jerome Whitcomb, the deceased homeless man.
Mr. Whitcomb attended his own autopsy—in spirit.
He didn’t know I saw him menacing the room and I had no intention of giving that fact away. The dead have never spoken to me. I don’t know why. I would make a good listener.
His malevolent spirit menaced the autopsy bay. The stark white and stainless room maintained a cold temperature, but whenever Mr. Whitcomb lumbered by me, my skin needled with goose bumps. No lie. I couldn’t stop my physical reaction, caused by his eerie presence. I found that utterly fascinating.
I kept my head down, careful not to make eye contact. He appeared more curious at first—until the M.E. made a Y-incision, used a rib cutter to lift off the breastbone, and opened his body cavity. Nurturing an open mind, I could understand how that might be disconcerting. The man raged against the offense. Cocooned in deathly stillness, he thrashed his arms and swiped his unearthly hands through the bodies of the M.E. and his assistant.
After he flailed a vaporous arm through me in a surprise jab that would’ve made Mohammed Ali wink, I flinched. That stopped him cold, no pun intended. He lowered his head to fix his milky white eyes on me—inches from my face. Highly disconcerting.
It would’ve been impolite not to return the gesture, but I paid for my insolence. He became fascinated with me and I didn’t relish his attention.
When the M.E. turned on his Stryker saw, the buzz broke Mr. Whitcomb’s concentration. The examiner used the oscillating blade to cut through bone—the top of his skull to be precise. At witnessing his brain weighed on a scale, Mr. Whitcomb seethed in anger and scowled.
What could I do? I shrugged.
He stormed from the room after my indifference—departing through the ceiling actually—and I never saw him again.
The autopsy concluded without incident after that, with ballistics evidence taken.
From the bullet retrieved, the weapon had been a .38, most likely a revolver since police didn’t find brass at the crime scene. I didn’t believe Josh Atwood would’ve had the presence of mind to ‘police his brass’ by picking up spent shells. Sinead would send me a background and gun permit check to determine if Josh’s father owned a .38. I’d know more soon.
I still didn’t have a definitive way to determine what had triggered Bram’s dissociative fugue. Short of bringing a pregnant woman into the autopsy bay—given an expectant mother’s unique smell sensitivity t
hat often led to food cravings—I anticipated an uphill battle to isolate the wide array of odors on Mr. Whitcomb’s body. The closest I would come to identifying foreign substances would be through GCMS, the gas chromatograph mass spectrometer analysis, from trace evidence extracted off the corpse and clothing.
Using my own sense of smell to give the M.E. direction, I had random samples taken of the garments and samples of his hair. After I’d done what I could, I left the forensics lab to do its work. I went home for a long hot shower—and a direct hit off a mentholated topical ointment.
Mr. Whitcomb had left quite an impression on my nose.
***
FBI headquarters
Quantico, Virginia
Two hours later
“An old friend contacted me today, said he’d been impressed by a sharp SSA that he’d met at his police station, someone who worked for me.”
My Unit Chief, Anne Reynolds, wore a tailored charcoal gray suit that accentuated her toned, fit body. Her stylish silver hair had been cropped short and her keen blue eyes complimented her razor-sharp intellect. Every hard earned wrinkle on her face added to her character. She’d become a surrogate mother to me, although I would never insult her professionalism by admitting that to her.
Out from behind her desk, she served me coffee at a small sofa and chair grouping in her corner office. I answered my Unit Chief with a sip of coffee and silence, a mind game she’d started with me years ago—an intimidation tactic of hers that I had adopted as my own.
Most people filled the gap in conversation, when it would’ve been in their best interest to keep their mouth shut. I had never fallen for her ploy, but the woman had a way of reading me.
“You’re making me work for this, aren’t you?” She smiled.
I set my coffee cup on a table and fixed my eyes on hers. The woman never blinked.
“I’ve known Lieutenant Desmond Waters for years,” she said. “Care to fill me in on your visit to his office?”
Anne Reynolds served as my Unit Chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I answered to the woman who’d recruited me into the FBI fresh out of the University of Maryland, but it wasn’t until three years later that I ended up under her seasoned supervision in ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, hunting serial offenders.
Under her watch, I led my own team as a Supervisory Special Agent—but I wouldn’t have my job for long if she knew about my secret gift. Not only would I turn into a joke around the water cooler, but every case I had ever investigated would be subject to closer scrutiny from defense attorneys wanting to overturn decisions against their clients, if they believed I had used my psychic abilities to manufacture evidence to back up something I’d dreamed in my sleep.
“I got a call from a friend in Dallas, a fire fighter named Jax Malloy,” I said. “He asked me to look into a D.C. murder case. A seventeen-year-old kid is accused of killing a homeless man. I went to talk to the kid, Bram Cross.”
“This isn’t your jurisdiction.”
“No. It’s personal.”
The woman smiled, this time in earnest.
“Are you asking for personal time to help a friend?”
“Yes. I didn’t know if it would turn into anything. That’s why I hadn’t brought it up to you yet. You spoiled my surprise.”
Reynolds narrowed her lie detector eyes at me.
“You’ve earned the right to pursue this, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your caseload. I have faith you’ll keep me in the loop if that happens.”
“Oh yes, ma’am. Thanks for your confidence. Is that all?”
“Yes. Have a stellar day.”
I smiled and left her office, not looking back. I didn’t want to give her an opening for second thoughts.
My Unit Chief had given me leniency to pursue an outside case for personal reasons, but her patience would not be boundless and she could put limits to my expending FBI resources, including the use of my own team.
She had her suspicions about the way I solved cases and the leaps in logic my mind would take that led to evidence. I knew firsthand what it felt like to see through the eyes of the dead. There were things in this world and beyond that no one could explain through pure science. The human mind used only a fraction of its capability.
Trying to make a cogent argument in favor of adding a crystal ball to my team’s resources wouldn’t keep Anne Reynolds on my side. I would obliterate my reputation and hers in the process. Lucinda and my team would be dragged into the mess. I had many reasons for keeping my secret.
There were places in my head—deeply seated in my brain—that were hidden behind closed doors of my making. The barriers, the way I compartmentalized, allowed me to cope and do my job. I looked at dead bodies as if they were an intellectual exercise to analyze. I used to think that helped, but lately I’d had my doubts.
My mind housed the memory of countless dead faces, walled away to hold back the horror from creeping into my waking hours. From my own hellish repository, the dead rose up and visited me in my sleep, coiling from my head as gruesome puzzle pieces.
My dreams broke down those walls and I hunted serial killers, the great white shark of humanity. I had to become them, with only a hair’s breadth between us. I always fought to regain control when I woke up, but it had become a challenge to know where I began and pure evil took over. That unnerved me.
My mind had been invaded by the dying terrors of victims.
They assaulted my dreams when my psyche was most vulnerable, but they had become my duty. My gift brought justice to the dead who would have no voice if it weren’t for me. I didn’t expect praise or even acknowledgment. Few knew my secret, as it was meant to be, but with my ability came responsibility to the living.
If Bram agreed to trust me, I couldn’t return the favor. I’d have to rely on my gift to dig through his painful memories, without sharing how I knew what I’d learn from the dead. I prayed that I wouldn’t unleash demons he never saw coming.
Chapter 4
Riverview Apartments
Washington, D.C.
Afternoon
Ryker Townsend
Josh Atwood and his single father lived in a modest high-rise apartment off Pennsylvania Avenue, southeast of Capitol Hill in D.C., not far from the Washington Navy Yard. Josh’s father, Niles Atwood, worked for Patriot Transportation, driving big rigs across the U.S. and Canada. Long hours on the road wouldn’t leave much time for parenting, but I didn’t want to judge a father trying to put food on the table for his only son.
I had background information from Sinead, which included Mr. Atwood’s gun permit for an Air Force issue Smith & Wesson Model 15-4, a .38 special revolver. Bram’s version of the story looked promising in theory.
Detective Reginald Barry didn’t exactly appreciate my courtesy call that Jax and I would meet him at the Riverview Apartments to interview Josh Atwood. Given his heavy caseload, the detective might’ve viewed our involvement as fortunate, but he didn’t. He met us on the street outside the apartment complex and didn’t waste a breath on a greeting.
“If this turns out to be a Dumpster fire, I’m glad we have you to snuff out the blaze, Mr. Malloy.”
Jax grimaced. He wasn’t feeling it.
“Commendable use of cynicism, Reggie,” I said and slapped him on the back. “May I call you, Reggie?”
“Please don’t.”
I exercised my superpower of selective hearing.
“I have a feeling you’ll be thanking us, Reggie. Care to wager on it?”
The man sighed.
I followed the detective through a tall gate of black wrought iron. The fence surrounded the entire block and gave the grounds an institutional aesthetic. The boxy, six-story brick building reminded me of a prison.
Inside an enclosed atrium of metal and glass, a directory of names and apartment numbers claimed part of the wall, alongside a bank of mailboxes. I found the Atwood apartment and pointed it out to the detective—apartment
312—but I pressed the buzzer for 320. When a nice lady spoke to me on the intercom, I made up an excuse that I locked myself out and she buzzed me in without a second thought.
“That was the wrong number. Why did you do that?” Jax asked.
“No need to telegraph to the kid that we’re here,” I said. “I have serious doubts he’ll be happy to see us.”
Reggie grinned, but he didn’t say a word. I’d grown on him. It was the only plausible explanation.
After we located the elevator, I directed us to split up. Reggie would stay with the elevator—he appeared to need the assistance—while Jax and I would use the stairs. If Josh had seen us enter the building and spooked, he could race down the stairs to avoid us. Not the desired outcome.
We rendezvoused with Reggie at apartment 312 and I ignored the fact that the detective appeared winded. I waved Jax off, to have him stand behind me, and I pulled my gun with my back against the wall. The detective did the same on the other side of the threshold. If the Atwood kid still had the weapon he used in the death of Jerome Whitcomb, we didn’t want to make easy targets standing in front of his door.
Detective Barry reached a hand across and knocked. We waited. When I saw a stream of light from the peephole vanish and turn dark, I knew the kid stood on the other side.
“Josh. Open up. Come on, man.” I pretended to know him.
After the kid undid the latch and the deadbolts, he opened the door enough for me to see the injuries he’d sustained in his fight with Mr. Whitcomb. Josh stared at me for a split second before he shoved the door closed, but I jammed my foot in the opening.
“Police. We just want to talk.” I pushed through the breach and he winced. “Are you Josh Atwood?”
He didn’t answer and backed into a small living room. Reggie and Jax walked in behind me.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to show ID?”
I eyed Reggie and the detective indulged him with a show of his badge.
“But I didn’t invite you in.”
