by Martha Woods
“Fine,” he says with a deep sigh. “Be more careful. And figure out what samples those were so we can put in a report and request for new samples.”
“I will,” I say with a nod. “I’m sorry. Seriously. Won’t happen again.”
“Go ahead and do those notes and requests,” he says. “I’ll finish up the cleaning.”
“Thanks Rick. I owe you one.”
“I think the count is a good bit higher than one,” he says.
“Yes, sir. I will keep that in mind for Boss’s Day,” I say with a salute.
He gives me a faint smile, and then turns his attention to the glass.
I return to my computer to file the reports on the contaminated DNA, then begin pulling more research on a case that looks pretty open-and-close. I can feel Rick looking at me periodically as he cleans and sanitizes the floor. It makes me uneasy but those are the breaks when you screw up, I guess.
The case that I’m looking at really does appear to be simple. Basically, this is a domestic violence case that ended with the woman dead. The male was drunk as the two argued, according to witnesses, and she fled on foot. He followed, stalked her, and stabbed her more than twenty times, leaving her bleeding out in the street not two blocks from the local police station.
This is a common story, unfortunately, so it seems like it will be easy to prove that this dirt bag did. We have a number witnesses who say they saw him commit the crime.
There are some weird inconsistencies though, that catch my attention. It seems odd that this happened so close to a police station, on a busy neighborhood street, with several witnesses around to view the whole, violent scene. I mean, I get that crimes of passion, by nature, sometimes defy logic, but there is something about this that perks up my red flag.
As I’m digging into the evidence from the scene, I hear a woman scream, followed by a man’s laughter. I stand quickly, looking around, but there is nothing. Suddenly I feel claustrophobic, like an animal in a trap. My heart beats a million miles a minute, and my body hurts. I look down and my abdomen is bleeding, as if I’ve been stabbed. But when I reach down, confused, my hands come back clean. The wound is gone. The feeling of confinement is gone. There is only my heart beating and a rush in my ears.
After a few moments, during which my heart beats itself nearly outside of my chest, I look up to see Rick peering over me quizzically.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his eyebrows in a deep V on his forehead.
“I…” I look around, confused. “You didn’t hear that? Or see…”
“Hear what?” he asks. He looks around. “See what?”
“I thought I heard a…” I look around the room, then back down to my abdomen. I see on his face that he thinks I’m having a breakdown or something. I sit back down and say, “Never mind. I just can’t get over being spooked this morning. And I think I left the stove on after breakfast.”
One of his eyebrows goes up. “Just call Damon,” he says. “And maybe go take a walk or something. Clear your head.”
“Okay, yeah,” I say. “I’ll take a little walk and get some fresh air while I have Damon check the stove.”
I wander out of the room, pretending to text but actually looking in each room as I wander the halls, looking for the source of what I just heard.
Of course, it’s totally possible that I didn’t hear a thing. Probable, actually, since the sane person in the room – Rick – was unfazed and looks at me like I have three heads. So much for being “in it to win it.” I should probably just go collect my pink slip now.
Of course, just because he didn’t see or hear anything doesn’t mean that nothing was there. With ghosts galore knocking on my door lately, it occurs to me that I might be experiencing a vision of some sort, some kind of imprint from the crime scene. If I can see ghosts, why couldn’t the ghost of the victim be showing me something?
I make a big show of going to the coffee shop a block from the office and getting a steaming cup of java. I should get tea, because I drink too much damn coffee, but it would probably freak Rick out even more for me to do something so egregiously out of character. I’m not even kidding. Coffee is serious business for me. It was my only real request while being semi-held hostage by that raving vampire bitch, Olivia. Black coffee. Lots of it. From a gas station.
When I return, I’ve convinced myself that my supernatural experiences of late are making me borderline crazy. I vow to just sit down and do my work, keeping my head down so that I can get back into the swing of things. Ghosts be gone. This girl’s got real work to do and needs to look awesome in her boss’s eyes today.
Of course, this weird day just gets weirder when a huge crash fills the halls from one of the labs on our corridor. I jump up and pop my head out of the office, seeing Rick come down the hall, hands up in silent question.
I shrug. “You heard that, too, right?”
He nods. “Didn’t come from your office, did it?”
“Nope,” I answer, following him into the lab.
Sure enough, the stench of formaldehyde burns my nostrils and the remnants of two glass jars and whatever they contained are scattered all over the room.
“What the hell happened in here?” Rick asks. He calls out, “Is anyone in here”
There is no one else in the room. This is odd, because usually the forensics labs are staffed twenty-four-seven. There is all kinds of evidence and DNA in various state of testing, recording, and storage. No way would someone just disappear and leave the lab unattended. Not if they want to keep their jobs.
“Did you see anything? Anyone?” he asks.
“No, I was just working away over there and heard the crash,” I say. “Maybe someone dropped these and needed medical attention?”
“These didn’t fall,” he says. “They were thrown. And I think you know it.”
I am not sure how to take this. Is he saying that he thinks I threw them? Or is he saying that he knows I am a strong enough investigator to see that there is no way an accident would end up with formaldehyde all up one wall of the lab and glass everywhere?
I decide not to push him on the question. “How can I help?” I ask instead.
“Just head back to work,” he says tersely. “I’ll call a team down to sweep the room and clean up. And to figure out where the hell O’Brien is. He was on duty down here and I think Alberts was supposed to be working in here, as well. Those two better have a good reason to be away from their post.”
I nod and wander off, puzzled, and return to my computer, where an image from the crime scene I’m reviewing is up on the screen, zoomed in to a grainy image of something flat and square on the ground near the victim’s head.
This is not what I was looking at when I left the room.
I enhance the image and it seems to be a business card, one for a local strip club. A quick search shows that the victim worked there as a cocktail waitress.
This doesn’t necessarily mean anything to the case, of course, but I’m starting to think that someone – or something – is trying to get my attention on this case.
My abilities as a witch allow me to see ghosts, and I’ve only just begun to learn what that means and what I can do with it. And while I’d rather not mix my supernatural abilities with my day job, I’m wondering if the two things can be intertwined to help me be a better investigator.
I look around the room to see if there are any ghosts hanging around but so far, none. At least none I can see.
As I read through the files, there is a note about the business card but it is dismissed since it is for the victim’s place of employment. Still, I can’t shake that this image was enlarged for a reason. I think I might go talk to the suspect and maybe also go to the establishment, just to see if I can identify something that others have missed.
I just have to sneak past Rick to get out of here.
Chapter 4
“Hey Rick,” I say as he wanders into the office a little later, still looking perplexed after the in
cident in the adjacent lab. “I’m seeing a few things I’d like to follow up on with this case with the guy and his girlfriend. And we lost the saliva samples when I knocked those vials over this afternoon. Do you mind if I run over to get new ones from the suspect?
“That’s fine,” he says. “But go in, get the samples, and leave. Don’t question the suspect. This isn’t your case, remember; you’re just assisting.”
I would give anything to roll my eyes at this comment, but I respect Rick too much to behave that childishly with him. I just nod and grab my purse, heading out and toward the local precinct where he’s being held until he can be transferred to another facility to await his charges.
His name is Jimmy. He’s not a bad looking guy, with short, dark hair and a stocky build. He looks sick to his stomach as they bring him into the interrogation room for me.
“Hi Jimmy,” I say. “I’m Amy. I’m a forensics specialist here to collect saliva samples for our investigation.”
“They already took my saliva the other night,” he says, eyeing me warily.
I give him a thin-lipped smile as I pull out my kit and wash my hands. “I know. I apologize, but there was an accident at the lab and the sample was contaminated.”
He huffs and reluctantly opens his mouth. “I didn’t do this,” he protests.
“That’s what they all say,” I answer. Looking at his face, though, I don’t detect that he is lying. I have seen so many criminals during my career and I have a sixth sense about people. Jimmy, to me, does not seem like the kind of man who would kill his girlfriend in a fit of rage. I add, “That’s why we collect evidence. If you’re innocent, the truth will come out.”
As I finish putting the saliva sample back into test kit, he is quiet. I say causally, “Jimmy, tell me what you remember about that night, the night Erin died.”
He winces at her name, tears springing to his brown eyes. “She works nights at the club,” he said. “Her shifts end at midnight. Usually I stay up waiting for her, to make sure she gets home okay. Her car’s kind of a piece of shit so I don’t want her getting stranded.”
I’m listening as I go through the process of packing up noting that he is talking about his girlfriend in the present tense, like she’s still alive.
“She came home the other night,” he continues, “and she was all agitated about two of her friends dying. She was in tears, said she’d seen some guy roughing up one of her coworkers that night.”
“That’s strange,” I comment.
“I remember we had this whole conversation about how lucky she was to have me. We talked about wedding plans,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’d saved up for months to get her the engagement ring she wanted. I was supposed to pick it up next week.”
“Neighbors said they heard you arguing,” I say. “How did you go from having a wedding conversation to arguing?”
Jimmy shakes his head furiously. “That’s the thing. We didn’t argue. We had a couple of beers and sat on the couch watching late-night television. I kept dozing off, but then I came to and I was in this joint. I have literally no memory of this whole thing.”
“You were drinking?” I ask.
“Yeah, but only like two beers,” he says. “Nothing crazy.”
I start packing up my kit. “Well, there are witnesses saying they saw you chasing her with a knife.”
He shakes his head again, openly crying now. “I would not hurt her. I couldn’t have. I love her. She’s my world. I would never, ever lay a hand on her. Or any woman for that matter. Look, I watched my mom get knocked around by my stepdad when I was a kid. It made me sick. No argument, big or small would ever drive me to do that.”
“Did Erin have any enemies?” I ask, heading for the door.
“No,” he says, sniffling. “No. She was an angel.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” I say. “Good luck.”
I leave, feeling a heaviness in my chest as I walk. As I round the corner I run right into Taquan Silver, the lead forensic investigator on the case. He is about ten years older than me, dark-skinned and broad-shouldered. We’ve worked quite a few cases together and he has always been professional.
“Heya Amy,” he says in his deep, baritone voice, “What are you doing down in this neck of the woods?”
I give me a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I was a clumsy idiot today. I knocked a try of samples onto the office floor before they could go to the lab. I came to get new ones.”
“On Jimmy?” he asks, his eyes going wide.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know if that was necessary, Amy,” he says. “There are witnesses who saw the whole thing. Their stories are a match. Even without DNA, I think we’ve got an open-shut case here.”
“Better to be thorough,” I shrug. “But you know, he doesn’t strike me as the type who goes ballistic and hacks his girl up on the street.”
“You know better than to judge a book by its cover,” he says, clucking his tongue. “Murderers come in all shapes and sizes.”
“I guess,” I say, pushing my mouth to one side, my tone dubious. “I know it’s not my case, T, but I really think there might be more to this than meets the eye.”
He laughs. “Well, apart from having a doppelganger that we’re not aware of, I’m not sure what we’d be missing. You go ahead and take those samples back to the lab. I’ve got this one.”
Dismissed, I head out, my mind is racing. My gut instincts tell me that he is innocent. But there are multiple witness testimonies? I cannot imagine this man Jimmy killing his loved one like the case describes. There has to be more to this case, something we are not seeing. Even without the strange occurrences of the day, I would still think that this is not as open-shut as my colleague thinks it is.
As I drive, I find myself incessantly thinking over Jimmy’s comment, that someone at the club roughing up one of her coworkers had upset Erin. It reminds me of the dropped business card in the photo. Suddenly I have an urge to check out the strip club. I can’t help it. No Amy. You have to be on your best behavior. Before I know it, I take a sharp right and am now heading over to the strip club. I tell myself I’ll just have a quick look around, nothing more and the I’ll be on my way back to the office. Rick will never know. Jesus Amy, you just can’t help yourself, can you?
The strip club is called Centerfold, and it is absolutely nothing special. A cement box off just off the highway. The neon lights that have been turned off and there is a “now hiring security” sign on the front. Maybe I should Damon a job here, I laugh.
This is the place? I could have easily been mistaken assuming this place was abandoned. Maybe it’s one of those fancy strip clubs that looks like nothing on the outside, but is nicer on the inside. As I get out my car, I walk closer and see that the door is unlocked. Well this is way easier than it is supposed to be and as I make my way into the dark space, my eyes have to adjust.
Immediately, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of powerful magic. It calls to me, making it hard for me to get my bearings. I can only describe it as similar to what I felt when I was in Vincent’s head, feeling his bloodlust.
I grit my teeth and mutter, “Get it together, Amy,” as I push through the heavy haze of magic and wander into the establishment.
There is a young man behind the bar. I show my badge as I walk toward him and he puts up his hands with a grin.
“Not here for you, I don’t think,” I say. “But thanks for your compliance anyway.”
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“Well, an employee here was murdered the other night,” I say. “I just wanted to check the place out, close off some leads.”
“Which one?” he asks, wiping down the bar. He’s cute, skinny with curly blonde hair and a boyish face.
“Which what?” I ask.
“Which employee?” he asks. “There have been three that we know of. Which case are you working on?”
My shock must be evident on my face. The bartender narrows his
eyes. “You didn’t know?”
“I did not,” I say. “I’m working on Erin’s case. Tell me about the others, though?”
He nods. “Erin, Chessy, and Miriam,” he says. “Police have been in and out of this place all week.”
“How did Chessy and Miriam die?” I ask.
“Same as Erin,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Stabbed multiple times by people they cared about.”
“Recently?”
He nods. “Probably all within the last month, yeah.”
I absolutely refuse to believe that no one has connected these three murders. I take down information about the other two victims and as I finish up, the bartender’s spine straightens and he goes back to looking busy. When I turn, I see that a woman is approaching. She is tall and buxom with light brown hair that falls in perfect waves down her back. Her lips are full and painted glossy red.
“Brian,” she says, “Why didn’t you tell me we had a guest?”
He shrugs, “She’s a cop. Here about Erin.”
“Alexis,” the woman says, holding out a hand for me to shake. “I’m the manager here, and Brian is my brother.”
“Amy,” I say, taking her hand. As soon as I shake her hand, I sense that she is a witch. Was all of that heavy, dark power tied to her? “I’m with LAPD’s forensics unit.”
I give her a business card. “Brian here just alerted me that Erin is not the only employee you’ve lost in the past month or so”
She frowns. “He’s right. We’ve lost three dancers recently. It’s been quite disturbing to the staff, obviously. They were all lovely women.”
“Don’t drink the water around here,” Brian says from the bar. “You won’t get pregnant but you might end up dead.”
Alexis turns a sharp gaze on him. “That is not appropriate.”
“I was just kidding,” he says. “Take it easy.”
Alexis rolls her eyes. “I apologize for him,” she says. “His social skills are limited.”
“Police take humor wherever they can get it,” I say with a shrug. “I’m used to inappropriate jokes.”
