The Dead Detective

by J. R. Rain

  “Hey! Put me down!” says Lorna. Her voice is a lot brassier out here, not the ghostly whisper it is normally. As I release my death-grip on her hand and gently lower her to the rooftop, it finally hits me: this is what it feels like to actually be dead. To be a shade. This is the fate that’s waiting in store for everybody.

  Well, everybody but me, anyway; at least for as long as I stay undead. And suddenly being dead doesn’t seem like such a terrible fate. Because it definitely seems like it would take some getting used to.

  For example: “Christ, that thing! It’s growing out of me!” The ghostly tether cord peeks out from between my legs like a long tail, trailing down to the other, fleshly me in the bed below.

  “It’s what’s connecting you to your earthly body, honey,” Lorna says. “That’s why you can fly, and we can’t—’cuz us shades don’t have one. It’s called a ‘lifeline.’”

  I glance up at the sky again. One of the luminous tapioca or roach egg thingies is drifting slowly downward from the moving mass in the night sky, and I notice it has a tether just like mine. It grows larger and larger and lands with a slight jolt in the yard between my house and the one next door. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Idris. She stands there very still, looking dazed and confused.

  “She’s sleepwalking,” says Lorna at my elbow. She points upward. “Or sleep-flying, I guess you could call it. Those people in the sky are all dreamers.”

  “You mean…when people fall asleep, they come here?”

  She shrugs. “Some do. Some don’t. Some don’t go anyplace at all. Some go lots of places. There’s neighborhoods in Shadytown that’s mostly studios and theaters―most dreamers hang around in places like that so they can act out stuff from their lives. You know, with sets and props. I’ve done some acting there myself, but the pay’s lousy, and sometimes they expect you to take your clothes off and do stag-film stuff. You know, blue movies. Besides,” she says with a scowl, “I hate dreamers. Flesh makes people crazy-cruel like big greedy babies.”

  A young man dressed in a grey-green uniform walks across the lawn toward Mrs. Idris and speaks to her gently. After a moment, she follows him toward the front of her house.

  “What was that?”

  “Lots of soldiers got killed in the wars. Some of ‘em come back and try to…help out dreamers and walkers. And, you know, the newly dead.” She makes this sound like being a newlywed. “They call themselves ‘Dream Soldiers.’ Bunch of overgrown Boy Scouts, if you ask me.” Lorna shivers and pulls back from the edge of the roof as we are joined by McGuinness, who’s scavenged an old wooden ladder from somewhere, maybe a nearby barn. “Soldiers scare me. They’ve hurt me lots.”

  “It’s okay, doll,” says McGuinness, lighting cigarettes for both of them in his mouth at the same time. “Nobody’s never gonna hurt you again. You got the Bull lookin’ out for you now.”

  “I think I’ll try one of those,” I say, feeling daredevil. But hey, when in Rome―right? “What brand are they?”

  “Luckies. What else?”

  “Aw, don’t give her one of your smokes, Bull―it’ll rub her throat raw. Try a Kool, Richie. That’s my brand when I’m at home. They’re mentholated.”

  I’d tried smoking cigarettes a few times in high school, of course, but it had never gone well. This time, instead of choking on what smells like burning rags, I’m filled with a comforting cooling flow of vapor―and a faint sound of chimes. Most things here make their own distinctive noise, I’ve discovered. In the case of Lorna’s cigarette, that’s crackling and fairy-bells, almost like musical popcorn.

  We climb down from the roof, using the old hayloft ladder. I float the last ten feet before I hit the ground. “Is it okay for me to be doing this?” I ask them anxiously. “Will my cord snap?”

  McGuinness just looks amused; Lorna shakes her head. “It’s whaddya call it, solid matter. It stretches forever and goes through everything on this side. Like your neighbor lady’s. Which is why you can fly, and we shades can’t. A person only busts their lifeline when they die for real.”

  On this side, it’s the new structures―like my house and the Idris’ next door―that look all faint and ghostly. This seems to be true of a lot of the landscape: the trees and roads, the city skyscrapers in the distance, streetlights, the roads and sidewalks, the parked cars that line them. It’s the older buildings, and the woods and farmland that surround them that appear darker and more solid and real to me now.

  The realization that I’m sort of half-trapped in the realm of the dead makes this all seem doubly spooky. I’m all too aware of my ‘tail’, which seems to grow out my etheric body at my coccyx. I feel like I should loop it over one arm or wrap it around my waist or something. And Bull McGuinness’ next words don’t help, either, as we three stroll across the lawn together.

  “I told you me and the Gimp had some news for you. Word is there’s a couple more like you been spotted out on the streets. You know, zombie shades who ain’t either dead or alive. Well, that’s the good news.”

  That doesn’t sound like good news to me. I have a feeling I’m really going to hate the next part. And I’m right.

  He lowers his voice to a whisper I can barely hear above all the other weird hums and vibrations here in the deathscape at night. “They also say the Soul Eaters are out there looking for you.”

  “The what?” Huh? “I thought you said you couldn’t die once you’re already dead.”

  “You can’t.” He sounds defensive. “Everybody knows that; I mean, it’s just plain common sense, right?”

  “So what are these ‘Soul Eaters’ then?”

  Both of them shush me, and McGuinness looks around nervously, licking where his lips would be if he had any.

  “Nobody knows for sure. Some people say they used to be ordinary stiffs that got big and fat on war―you know, like that Fuhrer guy or Uncle Joe over in Commie Russia. Other people say no, the Eaters have always been here, they was never really human like the rest of us but some kind of demons or devils that used to run things on this side of the river.”

  “And they eat human souls?”

  “Who knows, girlie? That’s just what we call ‘em, you know, like a figment of speech.”

  “A figure of speech,” says Lorna impatiently, pronouncing it “figger.” She’s literally smoking like a chimney; the subject makes her very nervous. “There are worse things than dying, baby doll,” she says in my ear. “You don’t want to know what happens to you if the Eaters catch you―I don’t, anyhow. But nobody ever comes back if they get caught by one.”

  So nobody actually knows anything for sure on the subject, I decide, thinking like a cop. But I’m smart enough not to say this aloud.

  Just then we’re interrupted. The young soldier we saw earlier from the roof helping Mrs. Idris next door has reappeared in the grass and strides toward us. And he’s easily the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in my―well, life, I was going to say, but certainly in my death. He must have been about twenty or so when he died, is six feet tall, and has black eyes, blueish cheeks from being close-shaven, and a kind of Clooney cleft in his chin. He looks, well, sweet is the word that springs to mind. Young and full of sorrow and terrible things he’s seen, but somehow grownup and decent and strong in spite of it. Protective.

  And if it seems like I’m way over-assigning qualities to him, it’s because that’s how it is on this side. When you see a person, it isn’t just physical. You don’t take them in with your eyes alone; you sort of glimpse their history, too, if that makes any sense. For instance, the dead-me can see at a glance that Lorna was some kind of call-girl who was murdered by having her throat cut. And Bull…well, he’s like a kaleidoscope of contradictions, all smart and tough and halfway honest one minute. And, frankly, shifty and mean and a little scary the next.

  Which means that if even he’s afraid of these “Soul Eaters”, then they must be the worst. Like Lord Voldemort or something.

  “Everything hunky-dory with you folks?” th
e Dream Soldier says once he’s close. His deep voice is a gentle southern drawl that turns my knees to mush. “You okay, ma’am? Not lost?”

  “No, she’s not lost―she’s with her friends!” Lorna says defiantly.

  “Oh. Sorry. Just checking.” He isn’t wearing a cap over his thick black hair, but he reaches up sort of automatically, as if to doff it. Or salute. “Lieutenant Wiley Fontenot, ma’am.”

  I open my mouth to introduce myself in return, but Lorna drags me away before I can.

  “Why were you being so nasty to him, Lorna? He seems really nice.” She refuses to let go of my hand. Instead, she tugs me back toward the house like I’m a wayward blimp. “You can’t trust soldiers―or cops―not here!” she hisses at me. “They’re all spies. Except for Bull, but he’s not a cop anymore; he’s a―”

  ―and suddenly I wake up in my own bed. Tamara is standing over me pulling the last of the salt sachets from my pockets, and I see from my luminous bedside clock that it’s five-oh-one in the morning, and then its tinny beeping alarm goes off.

  ou’ve got a new what?” Malena Ayon is outraged. You’d have thought I’d just announced I was thinking of voting Republican or whatever.

  “Housemate, sort of. It’s just on a trial basis.”

  “After just one night? Jesus Christ, Richie, what’s got into you lately? This a girl love kind of thing? What are you―backsliding on me?”

  “No way. I am so not. In fact…I met someone just last night. A really cute younger guy.”

  If I’m honest, the Dream Soldier has been in the back of my mind all morning, even while I was running Rabbi Tamara over to the dealership for her car and then then wading through all my emails and memos at work. Although I must have looked like hell to the poor guy last night; bad hair, wandering around in my dorky jacket and PJs with a Kevlar vest stuffed inside it like a fat suit. Not to mention my giant tail. Wiley Fontenot, he’d said his name was―but it’s totally whacked, my even thinking about him today, I mean, even if he was cuter than Devon or the Gypsy King. For one thing, there’s no denying he’s like ten or twelve years younger than me, maybe more. But do age gaps really matter when you’re dead?

  I’ll have to ask Lorna about that.

  “How cute?” Ayon grins like a shark. “How young? What about your Gypsy lover? Gonna double up?”

  The thought of seeing two guys at the same time, something I’ve never done before in my life, actually makes me hot―and I can feel my face turning red. Get a grip, I have to tell myself. I mean, I just spent my first night in the friggin’ land of the dead, and all I can think about is dating! My life is turning into a CW TV show.

  “Honestly, I’m kind of hurt about this roommate chick,” Ayon says, turning serious. “I mean, if you’re that hard up for money, you can always come stay with me. Or I could have moved out to your place. You really should have asked me first, Richie.” I realize she’s jealous. Which is totally weird.

  “Wow, you’re really giving me a hard time about this. It’s been like one night, and it’s just to see if things work out. Hey, you’d probably even like her―she’s like a little orange muppet. Why don’t you come over and meet her?”

  “Okay―after shift?”

  “Can’t do it then. Val and I are going out to―”

  “I hate to interrupt you ladies’ gossip, but what the hell have you got for me on that ATM killing?” The Cap has appeared like a magic genie from out his office and is scowling at the two of us over the waist-high room divider.

  Ayon recovers quickly. “Nada,” she says with a shrug. “The creepo was wearing a hoodie as usual and dragged the vic off-camera. We canvassed the street for any other footage already―no dice. SID did what they could on the scene and we’ve turned the case number over to Robbery for CLA.” CLA means Criminal Linkage Analysis. Which is just bullshit for Round Up the Usual Suspects. We were neither first on scene or primary, but for some reason Cappy is treating us like we are.

  “Well, go canvass some more,” he snarls. “Take a patrol and go door to door for wits. Maybe some old lady looked out her window. Yo, Dadd. In my office, now.” Once we shut the door, he reminds me about my appointment with the chief department shrink. “And you better not blow it off, Detective; I’m warning you. Because I’m in full CMA mode on this.” CMA means Cover My Ass. Which is pretty much all we ever do on The Job. “I don’t suppose you can suddenly remember anything about your missing hour or the identity of who did this to you?”

  “Nope. Sorry, Cap.”

  “Fuck. Maybe you should try hypnotism. I’ll suggest that to him. You sure you still aren’t showing any signs of a pulse?” he asks hopefully, then just waves me out again when I shake my head no.

  Lunch hour means I just have time to get down to Central Plaza and Dr. Phil’s office after grabbing something in the cafeteria to take with me up to his office. Dr. Philemon Tam, originally from Singapore or someplace, is a very dark-skinned Chinese-looking man of about fifty with greying hair and thick designer glasses frames that look too youthful on him, like something a teenage girl might wear. He’s a real psychiatrist, as well as the chief department psych, but you’d never know it from listening to him, because he basically talks like a TV talk-show host. Which is the other reason for his nickname.

  By the time I get to his office, I’m feeling a little nervous. The department already has the faked paperwork on my physical condition from Harper, but I’m worried Dr. Phil will insist on a fresh check-up by one of the doctors on our HMO list. Or maybe he’ll even try to check my blood pressure or something himself. However, if he tries that I guess I could threaten to file for harassment.

  The upshot is we don’t shake hands, nor do I offer him any of my fries.

  First of all, he brings up the missing hour again, probably because he’s staring at Captain Quirk’s email right now on his iPad screen. He’d like to try hypnotism, he says in his faintly British accent. I wouldn’t―not only do I consider it total bullshit, but my years on the force have taught me the hard way that any testimony obtained that way is almost always false. So I just shrug the suggestion off, saying that the hospital had told me my amnesia was likely due to stress trauma from being assaulted. Or maybe from the drug interaction. Either the memories would come back or they won’t, I tell Dr. Phil. Luckily, he takes no for an answer.

  Next, we go over what details I do recall about the night of the so-called “prank”, what my feelings are about it, and so forth. My humiliation, anger, and lingering depression are all very normal human responses to being “shamed”, he tells me.

  “Who says I’m depressed?” Actually, I woke this morning feeling better than I have at any time since it happened, despite my lack of sleep. Normally by now, autolysis should have set in and I’d be turning green or black in the face and abdomen and my belly would be bloating like a balloon. Instead, I actually looked pretty good to myself in the mirror; all that blushing seems to be putting roses in my cheeks, not rotting egg yolk.

  “According to the report I’ve read”―Cappy’s cover-my-ass report, he must mean―“you initially described yourself as ‘feeling dead inside’, Detective. Unless this was suicidal ideation.” His stylus pen is poised over his iPad; he’s itching to put something in my jacket, I can tell.

  “My doctor at the hospital was pretty sure it was just a drug reaction. Abilify and a little too much wine.”

  He grunts and absentmindedly chews the end of the Wacom pen like it’s an old-fashioned Number 2 pencil. “So you’re saying you actually were convinced you were really dead?” Luckily, he isn’t really hearing anything I have to say. “Interestingly,” he goes on in a far-away tone, “this is the third case of this sort I’ve seen in the last two weeks. Two other police officers have come in suffering from a similar ideation―that they’d become members of the walking dead, that is. The first even wanted me to institutionalize him for observation, insisted that I examine him physically on the spot.”

  He darts me a shrewd
glance. “He’d even gone so far as to take some type of antipyretic drug that lowered his body temperature and muffled his heartbeat when I checked his pulse. So hats off to him for a deep sense of commitment to his delusion.” Dr. Phil chuckles heartily. “As well as a sense of theater, of course.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second what?”

  “The second policeman? You know, who thought he was dead.”

  “Oh, right, right. Though I didn’t say it was a male officer. You know, something occurs to me as we speak, detective. Would you be willing to meet in a group dynamic? Full discretion, of course―but it would be utterly fascinating to have the three of you compare your experiences and symptoms. It’s occurred to me that there may actually be something far greater at work here; perhaps an echo of our contemporary society’s obsession with the television zombie. An entirely new sociopathic syndrome. I’d love to write it up. If you’re agreeable, I’ll try to arrange a weekly appointment for all three of you…”

  Great. This just keeps getting better and better. Thanks to the captain’s refusal to keep his mouth shut, I’m about to be stuck going to a fucking zombie support group once a week.

  It’s only when I’m waiting for the elevator on my way out that it strikes me that if these “Soul Eaters”, whatever they are, really are looking for all three of us mulos, that it would be mighty convenient to have us in one room together…