Necropolis PD

by Nathan Sumsion

  Oh, we’re going to have some words.

  “As I was saying,” she arches an eyebrow at me, asking permission to continue. I nod eagerly.

  “Don’t tell him you heard this from me, but I happen to know Clark does work for at least two charities in town.”

  “Charities?” I can’t wrap my head around that. I don’t even try. He dresses the best of us. His suit is always cleaned, pressed. The color seems more vibrant than anything we’re wearing. Not louder. We all wear clothes that are dark and subdued, but his just radiate more color. Rich. Charity worker. Anywhere else, I’d say he’s a nice guy. Here though, it seems like too much compensation. Something’s definitely up. Since he’s the only one that treats me with any degree of civility, I hope it’s not him. He’s way more perceptive than he lets on too. I can see in his eyes that he reaches conclusions ahead of most of us but holds it back. He definitely hides things from us. I just don’t know how malicious his deceit is. Is it dangerous or just cautious? If it’s Clark, I don’t think we’ll ever see it coming.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know too much about Detective Kim. He keeps to himself, doesn’t betray a lot of emotion. He has only been working for the precinct for twenty years. Until you, he was considered the rookie.”

  Of the group, he’s the one who seems to most expect me to fail. It’s hard to read his expression, but I imagine he has scorn written all over his face whenever he decides to look my way. When he deigns to speak to or about me, his words are always derisive, pointing out my flaws. He’s just waiting for me to fall on my face as if it is inevitable like day follows night. Given how guarded he is though and that even Greystone hasn’t discovered much about him, if Kim is the suspect, I won’t find out until it is too late.

  “Then there is Detective Armstrong. He is quiet but calculating, not shy. He’s perceptive. He keeps to himself a lot but rarely lets anything escape his attention. You will have noticed him sketching or doodling in his notepad, but don’t let that fool you. He’s soaking everything in around him.”

  He’s solid as a rock too, judging by the couple times he’s body checked me when I’ve run into him going around a corner. I’m pretty sure he spent a lot of time as hired muscle. I’ve been bounced by enough bouncers at rough bars to recognize the demeanor. To him, I’m a distraction he’s trying to get rid of. I wouldn’t expect him to go out of his way to help me.

  “While Detective Meints might know math and science, Detective Armstrong has his ear to the ground. He has contacts throughout the city: informants, friends, sources of information about any facet of the city or people in it. Any fact, detail, historical anecdote, or piece of gossip that’s passed by us, Detective Armstrong can recall at a moment’s notice. If he is behind this, Detective Green, he’ll disappear somewhere no one will ever find him long before we get close to catching him. In a city made up of all the forgotten detritus of the world, he can find places forgotten by everyone else here.”

  I don’t even want to ask about the final member of our squad.

  “What can you tell me about Marsh?” I ask in a whisper.

  She hesitates. “It can’t be Detective Marsh. He’s the senior detective in the precinct. He’s been working this job for over a century. He might not exhibit the learning or education of the other detectives, but he has good instincts, he can read people well. And when he can’t, well, he’s virtually unstoppable.”

  Detective Marsh. Dear God, please don’t let it be Marsh. If it’s Marsh, we won’t be able to stop him. He’ll set it up to look like me. No way he’ll take a fall when he’s positioning the perfect patsy to take one for him. I know it’s not rational, but I just can’t picture this being Marsh.

  How do I feel about Marsh, really? I don’t know that I can answer that question, even to myself. For weeks I lived in terror of him. But I also know that he kept me from getting killed by some of the hungrier denizens here. Do I like him? I don’t. I want to get as far away from him as possible, but while I’m stuck here, I don’t dare. He may be the best insurance I have for staying alive.

  It’s dangerous to eliminate him as a suspect; I get that. I’ll be risking my life. But I just can’t bring myself to believe it’s him. I’ll look at him last—after I’ve exhausted all other avenues.

  “Where would you like to start, Detective?” Greystone asks softly.

  I close my eyes and rest the beer bottle against my forehead. I wish it were colder; it’s not helping hold off a killer headache that’s building.

  I just don’t know. “No one sticks out. I’m hoping it can’t possibly be any of them. I barely know these guys, but I can’t picture any of them doing this. If this person finds out I’m looking into him, he’ll kill me before I get close. Of course, if anyone on the team finds out I’m seriously investigating them, half of them would kill me on principle. Or if it’s Finnegan, he’ll just kill me for fun.

  “If we pick wrong,” I start, but my voice gives out. I clear my throat and try again. “Ms. Greystone, if we mess this up, if I get killed making the wrong decision, you’ll let the captain know what happened?”

  “Do not tread down that line of thought, Detective Green,” she says sternly. “We need to approach this problem with the intention of solving it, not being defeated by it.”

  I nod and think for another minute, then make up my mind. “Let’s just start with one at random. Saving Marsh for last.”

  Greystone nods. “OK.”

  “Let’s start with Armstrong.”

  She hesitates. “I’m not certain what more you think I can tell you, Detective.”

  I gesticulate with my arms, as if that will explain more clearly. “I don’t know. You’ve known him longer than I have. You’ve had more experience with him.”

  “I think you overestimate my status. Being incorporeal, I am not seen as a peer among many of the others in the precinct.”

  I grunt in understanding. That stupid corpse versus ghost thing again. I don’t think a ghost floating next to me, chill radiating off her causing goosebumps to break out on my flesh, is any weirder than speaking to the walking corpses that surround me. Then something occurs to me.

  “What about the detective you were linked to before me? Did he have any experiences with Armstrong?”

  “Detective Olsen? Yes, I suppose that he did.”

  She thinks for several moments. Finally, “Perhaps there is something from my observations of the two of them together that I can share, though I’m not sure what you are hoping to learn from it.”

  “Again, I don’t know. Can you just tell me something, anything, about how this Olsen guy got along with Armstrong?”

  “Very well,” she says.

  Detectives Olsen and Armstrong

  “A year ago, Captain Radu instructed Detective Olsen to meet up with Detective Armstrong to investigate suspicions that someone had either created or found a tear in one of the veils hiding our city from the rest of the world. The two of them had worked together before, but Detective Armstrong typically worked with Detective Kim on most cases, and Detective Olsen would work with Detective Marsh. But in this instance, Detective Marsh was busy on some other project.

  “Something you must know about Detective Olsen is that he was very methodical. Very logical. He was meticulous in his gathering of evidence, and when he reached a conclusion on one of his cases, he was rarely mistaken. He worked well with Detective Marsh, as Detective Marsh would follow Detective Olsen’s findings and would generally remove any obstacles that presented themselves.

  “Detective Armstrong was the polar opposite of Detective Olsen. Detective Armstrong followed hunches, intuition, flashes of insight, and visions. Detective Olsen admired the man’s results, but they did not typically enjoy working together, as their approaches were so fundamentally different.

  “Normally, a case such as this would be handled by the Retrievals Office, as te
ars in the veils of the city generally meant that residents were escaping into the real world. But that wasn’t what was happening in this case, at least not entirely.

  “When there is fighting and there is warfare in the mortal world, especially on a large scale, it can damage the barriers that separate us. And some conflict in Afghanistan, I believe it was, created tears that allowed a group of residents here to reach out and pull mortals through, to bring them here and, well, to consume them.

  “It had been going on for several weeks before word reached Captain Radu. We knew it was happening, but we didn’t know where the tears were located. They were too ephemeral, too elusive for us to track.

  “The detectives spent the next few days asking questions around town, tracking down leads. Detective Armstrong knew who to ask, and once they found someone, Detective Olsen would question them. This is where Olsen excelled; he was good at ferreting out information from people, even information they didn’t realize they knew. Eventually, they followed leads that guided them to someone who was involved.

  “This is where Detective Armstrong began to use one of his unique talents. He began to draw.

  “You must understand, his talent for drawing is supernatural, something beyond the abilities of mortals. When he draws, he channels some force that pulls detail into his work. If you ever get the chance to see his sketches, you will see that they move; they are living on the page.

  “Once they located someone who knew about the tears, Detective Armstrong started to draw images of them, and the background of the illustrations pointed to where we could find them, even though the detective had never been there before.

  “The two detectives found the location of the tear, a garage in an empty building, where piles of the remains of corpses were stashed. The tear itself was a shimmering energy that flickered in the air, like a window that looked onto some other place.

  “They entered the building, and a firefight ensued. The detectives wounded and detained five individuals, who had taken advantage of the tear to feed on mortals.

  “Detective Olsen was certain that at least one person eluded them. But with the five apprehended and shipped to the Pit for incarceration, there was nothing further they could do. Forensics arrived to re-seal the tear, and no further information was uncovered.

  “Now that I think about it, Detective Olsen was bothered about the case. Besides the fact that he felt someone had escaped them, it was something to do with the corpses, I believe. He didn’t share his concerns, but he spent a good deal of time examining the remains of the victims.

  “I will need to reflect on that some, perhaps.”

  Greystone is silent for several minutes, thinking back.

  Finally, I break the silence. “That’s interesting, Ms. Greystone. But what does it have to do with Armstrong?”

  She frowns at me, redirecting her attention and her ire to me.

  “Returning to the subject of Detective Armstrong, you will need to exercise great caution. I do not know the extent of his precognitive abilities or if his sketches will warn him of your plans. Presumably, he has already drawn you and who knows what he may have already deduced. When you believe that he is not paying attention, he is undoubtedly receiving visions and flashes of intuition. He is not to be taken lightly.”

  Chapter 22

  How do you act inconspicuous when you stand out like the blazing light of the sun in a darkened room? I’m different than everyone in this entire city—and different in an incredibly obvious and glaring way. I’m the only one that needs to breathe. Others eat. They drink. But I’m the only one that has a beating heart that pumps my own blood to keep me alive. My body is warm. I’m a curiosity—a freak, in that I’m normal adrift in a sea of odd.

  How on earth am I going to be able to trail Armstrong without him knowing? Even the most clueless idiot would realize that conversations pause whenever I’m around; people stop what they’re doing to observe me. And I work with some of the sharpest and most observant people here. If I’m going to seriously try and spy on my coworkers without them knowing, I’ve got to come up with a better plan than simply bumbling around and hoping I don’t get seen.

  Greystone leaves around two in the afternoon. I have five hours before I need to start getting ready for work again. My body needs sleep.

  An hour passes. I’m still just as awake as when I started. My window is open, but rather than cooling the room down, it lazily pushes the warm air around, smothering me more than refreshing me. Noises sound from outside on the street: the shuffling of feet, the clomping of horse hooves as they trot past pulling carriages and carts, the occasional coarse laugh or curse of passersby. A few flies buzz around. My mind won’t turn off.

  If I don’t find out who is killing corpses, I’m not adding any value to the team. And Radu has made it clear that’s the only reason I’m still alive. He thinks I may bring something they haven’t seen before. Why he believes this, I have no idea, and I can feel panic clawing at the edge of my mind when I think about it for too long.

  If I don’t uncover which member of my squad is trying to conceal evidence, this person may realize I know about him. The longer I investigate, the more likely I’ll give something away or be discovered. I can’t make a single slipup. Whoever is doing this, he has apparently kept it quiet for this long without the others in the squad catching on. He’ll be alert to any snooping.

  If my coworker finds me out before I find him, I’m dead. If I don’t figure out who is responsible for these killings, I’m dead. And others are going to die.

  So, what do I do? Dammit. I sit up.

  Well, the first thing I do is give up on sleep and put some clean clothes on. I shuffle over to my icebox, open it, grimace, and close it again. I could sit on my couch and drink some beer, but I’m feeling restless, and my mind is just running in circles. I decide to make my way over to Warner’s. They have food there I can eat, and if I don’t actually ask about where it comes from, I probably won’t throw it up.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m pushing open Warner’s door. I’ve never been here at this hour before. I’m kind of expecting it to be slow this time of the day, but then I remind myself that even though some of these folks sleep, not all of them do. The place is as packed as always. I find my way over to a booth that’s open, ignoring the talk around me.

  I see Frank glaring at me from the back room. He tracks my movement the second I come into his line of sight. I look at him quizzically, and he just turns away and concentrates on the book he’s reading. Strange. I’ve been meaning to speak to him about my experiences in the Nursery, but I can’t summon the energy right now.

  I’m expecting some quiet time to myself, but no sooner do I plant my butt on the bench than someone scoots in right next to me. Surprisingly, she is familiar. I recall the green eyes and her nearly living appearance.

  “Um, hi,” I begin, trying to remember her name. Jen, Jamie, Jane, Jessica . . . Jessica! She doesn’t even bother with sitting across from me this time. I slide over, but she has me trapped in the booth, pinned between her and the wall. She’s facing me, smiling. She’s breathtaking, there’s no denying that, but I don’t like being trapped. Unfortunately, unless I’m willing to crawl under or over the table, she’s got my undivided attention for a while.

  “We were interrupted last time, Detective Green,” Jessica says, smiling eagerly. She places a hand on my forearm, and I’m aware just how close she is to me. She’s undoubtedly the most beautiful dead girl I’ve run into here. Normally, I would love to chat with a beautiful girl who seems kind of into me. But the fact that she is dead is too big a hurdle for me to clear. I would prefer to figure some things out about this case. Unfortunately, she doesn’t look like she’s going to give me the opportunity.

  On the other hand, she’s the only person who actually wants to talk to me. She isn’t obligated to associate with me in order to keep her job.<
br />
  Fine. I can try to forget my troubles for a little while. Let’s chat with the closest thing to a living girl I’ll meet here.

  “You’re right, Jessica. I’m sorry. You have my complete attention tonight.” I signal to the waitress to bring over a couple of coffees. I don’t recognize her. I guess Annabelle isn’t working this shift.

  “Good,” Jessica replies brightly. “I want to know all about you.”

  “Why?” I ask suspiciously. What’s her angle here? Does she really want to get to know me, or is this something else?

  She smiles playfully and, as best I can tell, sincerely. “Do I need a reason to want to know about my first living neighbor in town?”

  Fair enough, but I’m still wary. “I’ve been answering a lot of questions since I got here,” I say. “To be fair, this is a friendlier interrogation than I’ve experienced so far.”

  Her face registers shock. “No, Jacob! I’m not interrogating you, truly.” She starts to say more but hesitates as our waitress arrives and sets down two mugs of what passes for coffee here.

  Jessica waits until the waitress has left before she continues. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m not trying to dig secrets out of you. I just want to get to know you better. Tell me about you.”

  She doesn’t seem to be lying about this. I guess this is what it appears to be, for whatever reason she might have. I hate that I’m suspicious of every person I meet here, but so far, my experience has proven this to be a healthy decision.

  What do you tell a dead person that they would find interesting? Blood type? My BMI? This whole situation seems completely ridiculous, but at the same time, I can’t help myself. For the first time in months, someone wants to hear about my life without beating the information out of me.

  Before I know it, I’m spilling every little thing about my life that pops into my head. I tell her about going to school in Nebraska. I describe living in a place where you can see sky from horizon to horizon, where life revolves around college football, Runzas, and a live music scene.