Ghost Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  “Yeah,” Sam said.

  He ate slowly, quietly, for a few moments. Lacey saw again Isabel’s soft brown eyes, her ready smile, the slight dimples beside it. Who could do such things to such a beautiful child?

  She pushed her plate away.

  Dragging in a steadying breath, she leveled her eyes at Sam. “Thank you,” she said. She had no doubt that forensics would confirm his claim. She felt it deep inside. It saddened her but gave her a small sense of redemption as well.

  “Working in Homicide,” she began softly, “had its satisfactions. Finding the bad guys, bringing them to justice. But I always wished—like anyone would—that I could have done something to prevent the crimes in the first place. Prevent the deaths. Stop them before they started. A case like this, a serial killer, is the worst. It’s not just an impulse kill, a crime of passion or a drug deal gone bad. It’s a deliberate series of acts, thought out, planned—desired. It’s hunting children. Hunting them, doing horrible things, and killing them. Killing them is probably the kindest thing. But until then…” Her voice faded away.

  She took a sip of water and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Sorry,” she said.

  Sam ate the last forkful of salad and slid the empty plate aside. He, too, sat back against the cushion, then leveled his gaze at her.

  “Why aren’t you on the force anymore?” he asked. It wasn’t a judgment; his voice was as casual as if asking about the weather.

  Lacey smiled grimly and fiddled with her glass of water. “Long story,” she said. “I was unlucky enough to get embroiled in a scandal, and it quickly became clear that my presence was a distraction. It was best for all concerned that I resign.”

  Sam regarded her quietly for a moment. She wondered what was going through his mind. His expressionless face gave nothing away. It was like having a conversation with a wall, she thought.

  “That’s tough,” he said finally. She heard a trace of actual sympathy there.

  “Yeah.” Changing the subject, she asked, “What about you? Did you always have mediumistic tendencies?”

  He turned his head and stared out the window. “Yeah, mostly. My grandpa’s a medicine man.”

  Lacey traced his profile with her eyes. Strong brow, prominent nose, full lips. Stubborn chin.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what tribe are you?”

  He swung his gaze to her, his eyes hardening to glass. “Navajo. I’m half.”

  He looked as if he expected some kind of negative response. She just nodded. It hadn’t been too many decades since the Irish had been a target of discrimination. She could understand the defensive posture.

  “Well,” she said, looking around for their waitress. “As soon as we get the check, I’ll take you back. I appreciate your time.” She busied herself finding her wallet in her purse.

  “Sure,” he said. Looking around, he spotted their waitress and signaled her. She bustled over with the check and Lacey grabbed it.

  They were silent in the car. Lacey tried to think of a topic of discussion, but nothing seemed appropriate. As they neared Fuller Avenue, she had a thought.

  “Do you want me to drop you here, or is there some place else?”

  “This is fine,” he said.

  She nodded and pulled to the curb a quarter block from the crime scene. There were still people there, milling around, but less than before. No doubt hungry stomachs were taking precedence over curious minds.

  Sam got out of the car and stood by the open door. He seemed to be considering something, then finally leaned down and faced her across the seat.

  “You should probably know,” he said. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  “More bodies. I think they’re all there. Check it out.”

  He shoved the car door shut and walked away.

  ~~~

  TWO

  Lacey spent the rest of the weekend bouncing off the walls of her mind. More bodies? All the bodies? She alternately thought of calling Victor directly, then going back to the site herself, then kicked herself for not getting Sam’s number. Surely if he suspected that, he would tell the police—wouldn’t he? But apparently he had not tipped them off before; the woman had, once she’d started digging and found a bone.

  Lacey tried to temper her scattered need to do something by forcing herself to think calmly—as an officer would. If she were still on the force, what would she do? Research, of course.

  She camped in front of her laptop and looked up property records for the address on Fuller. The lady that lived there—Mrs. Levinson—had bought the property in 1999. She bought it from a couple named Kantor, who bought it in 1991 from a man named Lester Morehouse. Morehouse had owned it since 1979.

  Bells went off as soon as she saw the year 1991, the year of the last known disappearance—Isabel’s disappearance. If this was her man, and he had died then, that would explain the end of the trail. But if he had moved… Where else might he have continued his atrocities? She shuddered to think.

  The Sunday LA Times said more bones had been recovered, but the investigation was ongoing and no more information was being released. It would take time to date the bones and do DNA analysis.

  She fumed. If she were still on the force, she’d have a team to dig into this, people checking real estate records, names and dates across the country, every slimmest lead they had. She did a search for Lester Morehouse and came up with 523 all around the country. It would take her weeks to check each one. And until the forensics came in, she wasn’t really sure he would even be a suspect.

  She did a search on Samuel Firecloud and got nothing. Firecloud was not a common name, but most searches turned up something. She wondered if he stayed off the net. Maybe, with his unusual talent, he kept a low profile.

  She could imagine the abuse he might get from time to time. Anyone who claimed extraordinary powers opened themselves up to all kinds of doubt and negative feelings from non-believers. It occurred to her that, normally, she would be one such non-believer. She’d read about desperate families hiring psychics in last-ditch efforts to solve cold cases, and she’d always snorted with derision.

  But not this time. Why not? The man certainly didn’t make any effort to convince her. Couldn’t have cared less, for that matter. Maybe it was just because she’d love so desperately to solve this case. To be able to stare at those photos and know that she had brought some justice to those innocent eyes.

  Monday morning’s paper reported little progress; a few more bones, no confirmed identification or cause of death.

  Lacey made up her mind.

  She called Shirley So, Victor’s assistant, on her direct line.

  “Captain Shaw’s office,” the familiar voice said.

  “Shirley, hi; it’s Lacey. How are you?”

  “Lacey! Good lord, honey, it’s nice to hear from you. I’m fine; how are you?”

  Lacey knew the enthusiasm was real. Shirley was a few years older than she was, and they had occasionally gone to lunch together when workloads and schedules had permitted. After Lacey resigned, six months ago, her embarrassment had kept her from reconnecting.

  “I’m doing okay,” Lacey hedged. “But, listen, I need to talk to the captain. Can you get me in to see him today? I only need five minutes.”

  Shirley sighed. “No can do, honey. His whole day is full. Lots going on with this recovery effort, you know.” Shirley paused. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Just five minutes, Shirley. Really. Please?”

  She heard papers shuffling. “Not today,” Shirley said firmly. “How about tomorrow? I can slide you in just before lunch. How does 11:45 sound?”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you, Shirley. I appreciate it. I’ll see you then.”

  All right, she thought as she got ready for work. Baby steps but still progress.

  She tried to drag herself to work with a bit more enthusiasm than normal. Parking her car at the self storage, she could only sigh. Being little more
than a guard dog, roaming the chain link enclosure from three to midnight, just wasn’t enough to keep her brain engaged.

  “Hi, Fernie,” she said, walking into the office.

  “Hey, there’s my best security guard,” Fernando Lopez said with a big smile. Fernie was sweet. A big man, prone to bear hugs, he’d practically adopted Lacey, even though he was only about ten years older. As she picked up her ring of keys and her radio, he laid a large, warm hand on her back and patted her shoulder.

  “Pretty quiet?” she asked as she hung the paraphernalia on her belt beside her nightstick and cell phone.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “No problems. Boring for you, I know, but good for me.”

  Lacey smiled. “Good all around,” she said. “You’re not paying me to be entertained.”

  “Saw that about the bones they found,” he said, his large round face serious for once. He had, of course, vetted her well before hiring her and knew her past.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hope they nail the son of a bitch.”

  She nodded. “Me, too.”

  She stepped out the back door and began her preliminary walkthrough. It was still warm, and the sun wouldn’t set for hours. Didn’t take long before she was sweating in her brown military shirt and dark green pants. The embroidered patch over her breast pocket scratched her pale skin.

  She walked the perimeter and checked all the gates. She tried to change up her routine, but there were only so many ways to do that. She varied her path as much as possible, walking up and down the aisles of storage units one way, then another. She had a feeling her plans to stay unpredictable so as to keep any intruder guessing were largely unnecessary. But it went against her grain to do a half-assed job.

  Her father had drilled that perfection into her. A firefighter for over thirty years, he had told her hundreds—thousands—of times that slipshod work could mean death. In his profession, surely, and eventually in hers, until her boyfriend Derrick had gotten greedy and pissed away everything they had as a couple. His job, their relationship, her job, his freedom. She still had trouble believing she could have been so blind.

  So she walked and changed up her routine and checked gates that were always locked. And rather than berate herself again over her foolish trust in Derrick, she thought of white bones encased in dark earth, and a Navajo man who tried to ease the suffering of ghosts.

  ~~~

  On Tuesday, she was anxious to see the captain, although as she drove over to the office, she realized she wasn’t sure what tack to take. No longer a member of the force, talking off the cuff about a medium—it certainly wasn’t the usual topic for either of them.

  As soon as she walked into the office, Shirley jumped up and came to give her a hug.

  “How are you, honey?” she asked with genuine concern.

  Lacey smiled broadly, hoping it didn’t look fake. “I’m fine, Shirley. Working, staying busy, you know. How are you?”

  “Oh, everything’s the same here.” Shirley motioned Lacey to the chair beside her desk as she took her own seat. “Captain’s on the phone. He’ll be right with you.”

  Lacey nodded. Shirley looked good. Her straight black hair framed her face, the brown oval eyes sparkling. The small woman handled the captain and the office with little need for physical strength. Sweet looking on the outside, small and petite, she could cut a man down with just a look. No one messed with Shirley.

  “Oh, he’s off now,” she said abruptly. “Go on in. And, hey, we should do lunch sometime.”

  “We should,” Lacey said, rising and heading for the captain’s office. “I’ll call you.”

  She entered the office and closed the door carefully behind her. Not quite sure of her welcome, she walked hesitantly to the chair opposite his desk.

  To her surprise, the captain pushed himself up from his own chair, came around the desk and folded her into his arms. His hugs were the best: gentle but enveloping. She felt her body relax and sighed contentedly.

  “Sit down,” he offered as he let her slip from his grasp. “You want a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks, Captain, I’m fine.” She settled in the chair and let him regain his seat. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure how much help I can be,” he said. She knew he was warning her; he couldn’t speak out of turn again.

  “That’s where you’ve got it wrong, sir,” she said. “I’m here to help you.”

  His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline and he steepled his fingers. “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Have you talked to the medium?”

  He indicated a file about three inches thick on his desk. “It’s on my list, but we’ve been kinda busy digging up bones.”

  “Any ID yet?” she asked. She was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “No. Still analyzing.”

  “It’s Isabel Ramirez.”

  The captain’s coffee-colored eyes regarded her intently. “And you know this… how?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “I took the medium to lunch.”

  The captain’s eyes searched her face. “And…?”

  “I think he’s on the level. He described what he felt in the basement, a little girl crying and scared. I could tell her fear and panic affected him. He said she wanted her parents to know where she was, and she told him where she was buried. I asked him if he knew her name, and he said Izzy. That was Isabel’s nickname, what her parents called her. I read the transcripts of the interviews, and I remembered that.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair, the unlucky construction made with slighter bodies in mind; it groaned under Shaw’s considerable bulk.

  “He could have looked that up,” he said.

  “Why would he?” Lacey posited. “He had no idea what was bothering the lady there; he said he wouldn’t let her tell him anything until he did his walk. If he knew the bones were there, yes, he could have constructed the rest of the scenario, but how would he have known? He’s too young to be a suspect. He’s a few years older than me, mid to late thirties. Even if he’s forty, that would make him born in 1976; he’d have been about ten when the Stalker was most active. Even the most diabolical serial killers don’t start that young.”

  The captain listened, his expression studiously blank. He tapped the fingers of both hands together, a light, thoughtful gesture.

  “Well,” he said finally, “we’ll find out when we get the DNA results.”

  “In the meantime,” she said, “you need to dig up the rest of that yard.”

  The captain’s body lurched forward in the protesting chair. “Why?”

  “Because the rest of them are there. Sam told me.”

  “Sam?”

  “The medium. He said the others are there, too.”

  She dared him to argue.

  The captain turned his head and glanced at the fat file on his desk. “If this body is Isabel’s, you can bet your ass we’ll dig up the rest of that yard. But I’m not going to take a backhoe to old lady Levin’s rose garden on the say-so of a no-name psychic with no batting record.”

  “Levinson.”

  “What?”

  “Her name is Levinson. And she bought the property in 1999 from people who bought it in 1991 from a guy named Lester Morehouse. That’s the year of the last disappearance—of Isabel Ramirez.”

  The captain blew out a frustrated breath and impaled Lacey with his eyes. “You know damn good and well we’re working this from every angle. If it is the Stalker or if it’s not—”

  “You need Sam.”

  The captain shook his head. “This investigation is not going to be based on mumbo-jumbo. It’s going to be conducted scientifically with the best and most advanced technical expertise available.”

  Period, she heard in the still silence of the room.

  The captain was right and she knew it. He couldn’t base an investigation on a psychic—not generally and most especially not just six months after the LAPD had been dragged through
a scandal involving racketeering and drug dealing by one of its senior vice officers. Derrick had done a job on both of them, tainting the force and tainting her at the same time.

  “I know that, sir,” she said apologetically. “I wasn’t suggesting you abandon any of that. I just wanted to let you know that there’s more to it than you might think. And I just feel that Sam’s talents could bring considerable benefit to the investigation.”

  The captain nodded. “So noted,” he said, his own way of accepting her apology and putting forth his own.

  “How you doing?” he asked, changing the subject. “That security job working out for you?”

  She grimaced. “Boring as all get-out,” she said. “But it pays the bills.”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but seriously, if you ever think you might want to reapply…”

  “Yes, I know.” She smiled her thanks. “And I appreciate that. Maybe, someday. Maybe when I don’t feel like such a stupid, blind fool anymore.”

  “Derrick was slick, slicker than I’ve ever seen. Hell, it took us a year and a half to get what we needed to prosecute. There’s no shame for you. You trusted him. You’re honest, and most honest people expect that in the people they love. He was just very, very good.”

  “Yes, he was.” She nodded. “Too good. Well…” She pushed herself up out of her chair. “I won’t take any more of your time, sir. I know you’re busy. Thanks for seeing me.” She stuck her hand out for a handshake.

  The captain stood as well and seemed to think about coming around the desk. Instead, he took her hand across it and pressed hers with both of his.

  “Take care, Lace. Come in anytime. You know we welcome any tips.” He released her hand. “Take care of yourself.”

  Not quite trusting her voice, she nodded and gave him a quick smile. She didn’t look back as she let herself out of the office.

  ~~~

  Reapply, she thought as she drove home. Sure, just go back to being the officer she thought she was a year ago. To being the judge of character she thought she was a year ago. Sure, just erase the last year. Delete it.