Necropolis PD

by Nathan Sumsion

  My determination starts out strong, but after a couple of hours staring at my notes, it’s beginning to waver. And the coffee doesn’t help; it’s so potent I can feel my blood thundering through my veins. I have to sip it slowly, so my heart doesn’t explode in my chest.

  I’m not seeing anything. Evans. Thunnel. McRae. Eldredge. I can’t find anything that connects them. Evans was an artist and painter. A bookbinder. He spent his afterlife in his studio, rarely venturing out. I see photos of some of his work, and while I can appreciate the skill and talent behind them, the subjects don’t appear especially relevant to the case.

  Thunnel worked on investments and finances. There is some suspicion he ran a protection racket of sorts. Does that have anything to do with it? Could he have crossed someone? But he doesn’t have anything to do with Evans.

  McRae was a chemist. Some notes say he was an alchemist? I’m not sure what that means. But right now, I’m not in the mood to ask questions that will further prove my ignorance.

  Eldredge though, I don’t quite understand what he did. After leaving his career in journalism, he switched gears entirely. It looks like he became an architect. But he didn’t actually build anything. It’s odd, but is it suspicious? Can you build anything here? Or do you just have to pull a forgotten building or structure from the real world here? I’ll have to ask Marsh. Even with that, I can’t find any evidence that they knew each other existed. I don’t see anything in common.

  “Hello,” a soft voice whispers from the edge of my table. “May I join you?”

  I look up, and my breath catches a little in my throat. At first, I swear I’m seeing a living woman, but I quickly realize that no, she’s not breathing, but she’s definitely beautiful. Gorgeous enough that I think she’s alive. She’s short; she’d probably only reach my shoulders if I were standing. Blonde hair, pale skin that’s not green or desiccated. Red lipstick, thick eye-lashes, and clear eyes that haven’t gone yellow or cloudy. I’m stunned.

  It takes me a second to recover. Then I feel like a complete dunce. I wonder if my jaw was hanging open. I stand up hastily and point to the bench across from me.

  “Of course. Please. Have a seat.”

  She sits down, leaning forward to slide into the booth, and her breasts strain against her low-cut blouse. I can barely keep from staring. Breasts! Breasts that would look great on a living girl. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed breasts. I don’t leer at women, and I’m usually very polite. I’ve never been accused of being a gentleman, but I’m not an absolute pig.

  I think back to Amber. I remember her body in the dim light of the moon coming in through my bedroom window. The smile on her lips as she takes off her shirt.

  I feel a sharp stab of loss and quickly move my eyes to the woman’s face. I’ve never been one to stray at the first sign of attention from a woman, and I don’t want to start now.

  Let’s just say that death doesn’t do any favors to a curvy form. On everyone else, that is. I haven’t seen any other woman with a low-cut anything since I’ve been here, and even if they had worn something like this, there wouldn’t be anything much to display.

  I lock my eyes on her green eyes and force myself not to glance down. Greystone is right; I’m a bloody idiot.

  We stare at each other, long enough for it to be a little awkward. But even if I knew what to say, I don’t have any confidence it will make me look any less like a raging fool.

  “I’m Jessica,” she says finally, smiling. She extends her hand. I’m pretty sure she’s taking great pleasure in my discomfort.

  “Hi. Jacob. Jacob Green.” I shake her hand. It feels normal, only slightly dry.

  “I know. I’ve been hoping to meet you here. I heard you like to come here, but I’ve never actually been able to meet you before.”

  “Why did you want to meet me?” I ask, genuinely confused. I’m still holding her hand, I realize, finally letting go.

  She tucks the corner of her smile behind a white tooth, chewing seductively on her lower lip. She inhales and cocks her head to the side. “Well, it’s not often we see someone like you here. Someone living, I mean.”

  I pause. Wait a minute. What am I seeing here? My blood thunders a little less, and I start to pick out some details. Her skin is smooth, but no one’s skin here is smooth. Yes, there, below the earlobe, a patch of skin missing cover up. She also inhaled. I notice now that she is “breathing,” her chest going in and out. Then I notice I’m staring at her chest again and snap my eyes back to her gaze. She is breathing, but it is forced, not natural. Perfume hangs in the air, but it can’t quite eliminate the hint of rot underneath it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m being rude. I’m staring. I have no excuse. My mother would be horrified.”

  She laughs, in genuine delight. “Mother? I haven’t heard that word in a long time.”

  That is like a splash of cold water. It makes me realize how alien my surroundings are. But Jessica continues on, unaware.

  “I do hope we can get to know each other better. I have so many questions I would like to ask you.”

  “Oh,” I answer cautiously. “Like what?”

  She rests her chin on one hand, placing her elbow on the table. “Well, how about . . . What are you doing?” She glances down at the photos on the table.

  I didn’t even realize I had all my notes and case photos still out on the table. I make to put them away but then stop. Why bother? She’s already seen them.

  Annabelle walks up to the table with another cup and some fresh coffee. She pours some for Jessica, who ignores her. Jessica is locking her eyes on me. I’m so distracted by Jessica that I almost miss it when Annabelle says, “Huh.”

  The waitress has turned to leave when I stop her. “Annabelle! Wait!”

  She turns back around, and, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jessica flash a look of irritation that my attention has been diverted from her.

  “Annabelle, what is it?” I ask her.

  “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, starting to back away again.

  “No, please. What?”

  Scowling, she points at the photos on the table. “I just haven’t seen any of them for a while.”

  “Wait a minute. All four of them used to come here?”

  Annabelle looks at me like I can’t grasp a simple concept. “Yes. Just not lately.”

  Chapter 17

  I’m stunned. All the work and effort put into trying to figure out a connection, and my waitress stumbles onto it with a glance.

  “Maybe you should be the detective,” I say in exasperation. “What did they do here? Anyone in particular that they talk to?”

  The waitress shrugs. “Sure. You’ll want to talk to Frank, the guy in the back room. He spoke with them regularly.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Annabelle starts to say something, casts a glance over towards the indicated room, then simply turns and walks away.

  “You never did answer my question,” Jessica says. I glance up at her, guilty that I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “Question?”

  “What are you doing?” she asks again, pointing at the photos and notes strewn across the table.

  “Sorry, Jessica, you’re going to have to excuse me. I need to go talk to someone.” I scoop up all the photos and get up from the table. I make my way through the crowd over to the entrance to Frank’s room. I hear Jessica try and get my attention, but I ignore her and keep moving.

  In all the times I’ve been here, I’ve never really had a reason to speak to Frank before. I’ve tried saying hi in the past, but he just ignored me and kept his nose in his books until I went away. He has piles of books stacked on the tables of four separate booths and many of the benches, as well. Maps and photos are tacked on the walls all around the room. They don’t seem to fit any particular them
e. Random postcards faded with age are pinned next to decades-old textbook pictures of animals or tourist maps. The space is cluttered, messy, chaotic. I’m not sure how he managed to convince Warner to give him a room to himself, but there is barely enough room for me to make my way to stand next to him.

  Frank is skinny, but not incredibly so. Finnegan is thinner. I notice his fingers are abnormally long, thin, with claw-like nails. He energetically scans the pages of the book in front of him, so engrossed in his reading he doesn’t seem to notice me approach. His suit is a little worse for wear, but that hardly stands out here. The pinstripes have nearly faded into the primary color of his suit coat. His scalp shows through the thin hair combed over the top of his head. His skin is a little paler than most, but still, it has a greenish tinge. There’s nothing very remarkable about him; he’s just the guy that hangs out in the back room at Warner’s.

  I don’t sit down yet; I stand, waiting for him to acknowledge me. On the surface, it looks like he’s so lost in his study that he doesn’t know I’m there, but now that I’m closer, I’m pretty sure he knows I’m here. He’s just pretending to not notice me.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Yes?” he asks, pulling his gaze from his book. I glance at the page, but I don’t recognize the language. His eyes keep darting back to his reading, his attention obviously still there rather than on me. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi. My name is Detective Green. Can you answer a few questions for me?”

  “You want me to answer questions?” he asks, genuinely surprised. “What sort of questions do you think I can answer?”

  I nod back over towards the bar. “Annabelle mentioned you might be able to help me out. And I’ve heard you’re kind of an expert on things in town.”

  He glances through the doorway at her for a second, then back to me. “She did? OK, then.”

  I hold out the photos of the victims in my folder. “Do you recognize any of these people?”

  He makes no move to grab the photos, so I hold them up in front of him.

  He looks at each in turn. “I see. Yes. They do look familiar.”

  I wait. He waits. “Yes?” I finally prod. “Familiar how?”

  “Well, they all came in here frequently.”

  Strange. I know he’s being evasive. It’s not like he’s lying to me, but he’s not making any effort to tell me the truth either. All I can tell is that he’s intentionally making me work for this. I can’t figure out if it’s because he’s hiding something or if it’s just because he’s being a dick.

  “According to Annabelle, they came in here frequently and spoke with you.”

  He glares at Annabelle again, then back to me. “Yes, that too.”

  “Why did they speak to you?”

  He mulls over his response for a moment. Finally, he sighs theatrically. “I am afraid it is not terribly interesting, Detective. I am simply somewhat of an unofficial expert on our fair city.”

  “OK,” I reply, waiting.

  “I have been here a long time. I spend much of my spare time exploring the city, learning about it. I know a lot of its history. The origins of neighborhoods and buildings. Past tenants. Gossip. History. That sort of thing.”

  “I see,” I say, mulling my next question. He’s acting friendly enough, but something is definitely off. “Was there any particular piece of gossip or history that they were all interested in?”

  He chuckles, waving the question away. “Please, Mr. Green. You are trying to read something into this that is not there.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, yes. There is no common thread to their questions. They were just questions. I do not recall any of them being related.”

  “Well, they definitely have something in common now,” I say, drily.

  “I would like to help you,” he says, with that apologetic sound that really isn’t apologetic at all.

  “Which one of them did you speak to last?” I ask before he can brush me off.

  He scowls impatiently, then flicks his hand like he’s trying to shoo away an irritating bug. “I do not remember exactly. Eldredge, I think.”

  “You don’t remember for sure? Aren’t you supposed to be the history expert?” This guy is pissing me off. All of his answers are calculated, evasive. “What did he want to know?”

  “Look, Detective.”

  “Just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  He heaves a resigned sigh, flutters his hands and says, “Fine. He wanted to know about the Nursery. He wanted to know who was in charge down there. I told him who I thought was the leader of those wretched souls, and that was the last I heard from him.”

  “The Nursery?” I ask. “Like, plants and stuff?”

  Frank leans forward, fixing me with an intent stare. “No, Detective. Not plants and stuff. Do yourself a favor. Do not go there. I am sure it was nothing. I cannot think of a place I would like to visit less than there. Whatever you do, avoid that place.”

  He leans back and starts absently fidgeting with the page he was reading. I’m going to ask him something else when I feel a tickling of awareness in my brain. I turn and see Greystone float through the wall by the front door and head straight towards me. Sensing the break in my attention, Frank starts reading again. Guess I’m done asking him questions, then.

  “Detective Green,” she greets when she gets within earshot. I nod over to my table, and we move that way. Jessica is no longer there. Glancing around, I don’t see her at all. She must have given up on me and left.

  “Ms. Greystone. What’s up?”

  “We have a lead,” she says. “Detective Marsh asked me to lead you to his location.”

  “OK,” I say, stowing the photos back in the folder in my hands. “Where are we going?”

  “A place called the Nursery,” she says as she turns away to lead me out. I can’t help it. I turn back to look at Frank. I can see his face through the doorway, through the sea of the crowd between us. He is staring right at me, smiling. Like he knows.

  “What is going on?” I whisper.

  Chapter 18

  That’s a big freaking door,” I say, staring up.

  The door in question towers over us. Marsh and the others are gathered in front of this massive steel barrier, and I wonder, for the hundredth time since coming here what’s going to happen next.

  Greystone led me to a carriage, and I traveled for nearly half an hour by myself in silence before arriving here. Plenty of time to stew about Frank warning me specifically not to go to the very place I’m heading.

  This place constantly surprises me. My imagination runs crazy trying to picture what I’m going to encounter, and I have to purposely try and keep my expectations neutral. I figure Frank was just trying to mess with me. But what I’m seeing isn’t inspiring any confidence.

  The rusty steel door is about fifteen feet tall, set into a grime-covered stone wall that completely blocks off the alleyway at the end of an empty street. The wall extends at least thirty feet up and sets flush with the buildings on either side—old tenements, all the windows boarded over. The whole place looks like some surreal war zone. Barbed wire loops line the top of the wall. Four police officers in some kind of metal armor are stationed in front of the door. They’re wearing a cross between riot gear and Ren Faire costumes, metal plates and leather straps, helmets that look more like knights than modern headgear. Their guns are considerably larger than the sidearm Greystone insisted I bring along. If I had to give them a name, I’d say they were some kind of shotgun, the ammunition on a belt leading to a backpack. Each slug looks about the size of a soda can. The officers have to use both arms to haul them around, and I’m guessing they are considerably stronger than I am.

  Seeing that much firepower outside this door makes me really nervous about what is ahead of me.

  All of the detective
s are here. They have pieces of protective gear strapped to various parts of their bodies. Arm guards, chest plates. Clark is strutting around making sure everyone gets a look at the armored cod-piece he’s strapped on over his suit. Several ghosts are swarming around them. Another group of officers is strapping on metal and leather sleeves and arming themselves with shotguns of some kind—smaller than the backpack-fed ones, but no less lethal.

  Marsh waves me over. He slaps some of the metal sleeves into my hand.

  “Here, kid. Put these on. Both arms and both legs. Make sure they are tight.”

  “What the hell is going on, Marsh? Is this the Nursery? What is this place?”

  Marsh puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes painfully. He leans in close to whisper, but his quiet voice still feels like it will shake my molars loose.

  “Stick close to me. This is one of the most dangerous places in town. I didn’t want to bring you here, but the captain insisted you come and that I protect you. So, for once in your damned life, listen closely and don’t ask stupid questions. The things that live here aren’t friendly like me. Don’t let them get too close. They are going to think we’re bringing them a snack, hauling a living person like you in there.”

  I’m buckling a black leather harness with metal plates onto my arms. It takes some fumbling, but I manage to cinch them tight. Both arms and legs are protected, which leaves me thinking I really wish they had a metal cup like Clark’s I could strap on.

  Marsh gives my protection a critical glance and nods, satisfied. “Let’s go.”

  We form up into positions. The four guards throw open the door, which screeches and groans loud enough to be heard for a mile. It takes all four of them to struggle with the weight. Once it’s open far enough, we run through. A half-dozen officers lead the way, shotguns out. Burchard and Meints trail closely behind them. Clark and Finnegan go next, their side-arms ready. Marsh and I follow, with Armstrong and Kim behind us. Six more officers file in behind us covering the back. The ghosts spread out in all directions.