Whispers of the Dead

by Kope, Spencer

  “Has Archie visited Krystal since she moved here?” Jimmy asks in a soft tone.

  “No,” Kevin replies. “He’s adamant about it.”

  Jimmy and I exchange a troubled glance. If Archie has already locked himself into a statement by saying that he’s never been to the house, it’s going to be nearly impossible to explain away his fingerprints.

  “He’s innocent,” Kevin insists. “I’ll take my badge off right now and retire if I’m wrong. You told me last year how amazing your partner is at murder scenes.” He looks at me—studies me up and down. “All I’m asking is if you’ll take a look around and see if we missed something.”

  Kevin looks down, flicking his finger against the handle of the paper bag. “Archie can’t go to prison. It’s just not right.” He hands me the bag. “Jimmy said you needed this.”

  * * *

  There’s always a shoe.

  It’s become part of our search ritual, not because we need to check the pattern on the sole or the size of the foot. Those are some of the excuses we use, but the real reason is more complicated.

  Since the age of eight, the year I died and was revived, I’ve had the ability to see what I call shine. Others might call it the human aura, or even life energy, but I prefer shine; it sounds less bizarre, and it’s an actual tracking term, though the shine that trackers see is far different from what I see.

  To me it looks like neon color and comes in every imaginable hue. Often, multiple colors will populate the shine, though there is always one that dominates. I call this color or combination of colors the shine’s essence. Every shine also has a texture. It could be sandy, rough, glassy, rusty, bubbly, muddy, woven, fuzz, or a million other textures.

  Each shine stands unique.

  It’s like fingerprints or DNA: I’ve never come across a shine that duplicates another. It allows me to walk onto a crime scene and see where everyone walked, what they touched, and where they left behind blood or semen or saliva. Sometimes I know who the shine belongs to because I have a shoe, or because they’re present; other times the owner of the shine isn’t revealed until the case develops further.

  Weird, I know.

  What makes it stranger is no one can know about it, and for good reason. Imagine sitting in the jury box during a murder trial and hearing a so-called expert tracker talking about some magical glow that only he can see. Not only would the case be tossed out, but the judge would probably order an involuntary mental health evaluation.

  So I pretend.

  I’ve learned the art of “real” man-tracking to gloss over my secret. When we’re in the field I study the ground intently, looking for the real clues along the path of the shine. If the suspect brushed up against a plant at some point and broke a stem or branch, the shine points the way and I can highlight the damage as a sign of passage.

  There are only three people who know my secret: Jimmy, my dad, and my boss, FBI Director Robert Carlson. Dad and Carlson were best friends and coworkers in the U.S. Army in West Germany in the late seventies. I grew up calling him Uncle Robert … and still do to this day. Jimmy has a coronary every time; it’s hysterical.

  I suppose it’s no surprise that Dad told Uncle Robert about my special ability. My mother doesn’t even know, but the director of the FBI knows; go figure. So here I am, standing on wet pavement under an overcast sky, staring at a blue and white size 11½ Nike taken from Archie Everard’s closet.

  “Jimmy said you needed to examine it before you could start a track,” Detective Mueller says, gesturing toward the shoe.

  “Jimmy … is … correct,” I say, releasing the words one at a time as I turn the shoe slowly in my hands. “It looks like Archie has high arches,” I say, running my finger along the outside edge of the sole. “See the wear pattern? That’s supination; he’s not rolling his feet inward enough when he walks. You should warn him about that. He could end up with knee problems or plantar fasciitis. That’s actually kind of ironic; a guy named Archie who has high arches.” I pause for effect. “Archie … arches, get it?”

  “I think Archie has bigger problems at the moment, Steps,” Jimmy says.

  No one gets my jokes.

  “Let’s get to it, then,” I say.

  Getting the Nike was just a ruse to identify Archie’s shine. People are generally a little squeamish about wearing someone else’s sweaty shoes, so it’s a great way to identify shine when the subject isn’t standing in front of you. I saw it as soon as I took off my glasses. In addition to high arches, Archie has shine that radiates deep turquoise. The texture looks like waves of heat. It’s an interesting combination.

  “Take this,” I say, handing the shoe to Jimmy.

  When I was young I learned to dim the pulsing mass of superfluous shine that constantly clutters my vision, filtering it down so that just one shine remains. It’s pretty effective, but gives me wicked headaches. With my glasses still in my hand, I block out all but Archie’s unique turquoise shine and I let my eyes walk slowly over the front of the house.

  “Who found the body?” Jimmy asks.

  I don’t know if he’s trying to buy me time or is just curious. Either way, I’m grateful for the distraction.

  “The neighbor,” Detective Mueller says, thumbing toward the town house next door. “She was hyperventilating and pretty freaked out when we got here. Said the back door had been standing ajar for about an hour so she came over to close it, thinking the wind pushed it open. When she looked down the hall she saw a foot sticking out from the living room.”

  “How’d she know Krystal was dead? Did she go in?”

  “Didn’t have to, there was blood everywhere.”

  Finding no evidence of Archie’s unique turquoise shine on the street, in the yard, or up the steps to the front door, I turn to Kevin. “Can we go around back?”

  “Lead the way,” he replies.

  Following the sidewalk to the end of the block, and then to the right, we soon find ourselves at the alley that runs behind the row of houses. It’s cordoned off with yellow police tape and guarded by a Skagit County deputy.

  We stop at the perimeter and Kevin vouches for us. We show our FBI credentials and our names are dutifully added to the log sheet of personnel entering the crime scene, then Kevin lifts the tape and we duck under.

  The house is on our right, just ahead.

  Passing the gate into the backyard, I make my way to the open rear door—and there it is: a splash of turquoise. The doorknob glows with it. It’s Archie’s shine, there’s no doubt about it, but what I’m seeing just doesn’t make sense. I pull Jimmy aside, out of earshot.

  “I’ve got a match.”

  Jimmy’s shoulders slump. “That’s it, then. Archie’s our guy.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Jimmy’s head jerks around. “How do you mean?”

  “The shine is on the doorknob,” I say.

  “That makes sense. That’s where they got the print.”

  “Only the doorknob,” I stress.

  It takes a moment for this to register. “How’s that possible?”

  “It isn’t,” I say. “Not unless he’s got a magic carpet hidden away somewhere. I’ve got no tracks leading to the door, no elbow brushes against vegetation, no handprints on the gate, no footsteps leading inside the house. It doesn’t make any sen—”

  Jimmy’s phone suddenly bursts into song.

  It’s Diane—I can tell by the ringtone. She’s the third and final member of the FBI’s Special Tracking Unit, or STU, and a call from her means one of two things: either she has information for us, or a new mission.

  The conversation lasts less than a minute before Jimmy ends the call and slides the phone back into his pocket. “Les and Marty are fueling up Betsy,” he says, referring to the Gulfstream G100 corporate jet parked at our office—Hangar 7—at Bellingham International Airport. “We’re heading to El Paso.”

  “El Paso? They find a body?”

  “Not exactly.”

  �
�What’s that mean?”

  “It means not exactly. I’ll explain on the way. We need to wrap this up in a hurry.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say resignedly. “I need to see the victim.”

  We make our way into the house. Though built just three years ago, it’s now tainted by murder, and that’s a stain that lingers. Kevin runs interference for us as officers from three different jurisdictions cast curious, sometimes annoyed eyes our way. A crime scene investigator is busy taking photos when we step into the living room.

  I shudder, wrapping my arms across my chest.

  When it comes to corpses, I’ll take fresh bodies any day over those that have been percolating for days or weeks. This one is only hours gone, so it’s not the smell—that hint of iron in the air—that makes me shudder.

  The body is a bloody mess.

  No, bloody mess doesn’t go far enough describing what we find. Krystal Ballard is prone on the carpet and red from head to toe, like someone painted over her with a heavy brush as some sort of twisted art project. Her clothing is red, her hair is red, her shadow is red.

  I can still see the suspect’s shine, though.

  And it’s not turquoise.

  * * *

  A moment later I feel Jimmy’s hand on my shoulder. “We save the ones we can,” he says quietly. It’s our mantra, our clarion call; words meant to remind us that we have a job to do and spur us into action, despite the horror that lies before us.

  “We may be too late for her,” I say to Jimmy, “but we can still save Archie.” Turning my gaze to Detective Mueller, I say, “You’re right; he didn’t do this.”

  It’s all clear to me now—like neon in the night, but without hard evidence it’s going to be difficult to prove what I know. Meanwhile, Pastori is going to be hard-charging against Archie. Who could blame him? The physical evidence is compelling.

  “I need a piece of paper and a pen,” I say, snapping my fingers anxiously. Jimmy hands me a pen and Kevin hands me his notebook. Walking into the kitchen, I pull up a barstool and scratch out some notes and instructions. Two minutes later I tear the sheet from the notebook, fold it in half, and hand it to Kevin.

  “Everything you need is in there: the suspect, how he did it, and how you can prove it. I’d get out of here right now and get started before Pastori has you standing perimeter or booking evidence for the next two days.”

  Kevin unfolds the note and I watch as his eyes walk across the words. At first he frowns, but then his whole demeanor changes and he actually smiles. Taking my hand, he shakes it briskly. “I don’t know what to say.” He shakes Jimmy’s hand next, clapping him on the shoulder, and then he’s out the door, off to solve a mystery.

  Jimmy’s dumbfounded. “What did you write?”

  I shrug and hand his pen back.

  “No, seriously, what did you write?”

  “You’ll see when he’s done.”

  Jimmy just stares at me. “Really? You’re not going to tell me?”

  I shake my head and give him a grin. “That’s what you get for not telling me about Pastori.” Jimmy’s still standing in the kitchen, hands on his hips, as I make my way out the front door and back to the Expedition.

  I’m halfway across the lawn when I sense an ill wind stirring nearby. My eyes drift to the command vehicle just as Hector Pastori comes stumbling out, cursing the metal steps for making his feet oversized and clumsy. I quickly look away and tuck my head down between my shoulders as far as it will go.

  A second later, I’m at the Expedition. I’m home free, my hand is on the door handle, just another second or two … and then Jimmy comes bumbling out the front door. He doesn’t even look up as he starts down the walkway, which is unfortunate because Pastori isn’t looking up either. They nearly collide fifteen feet from the door.

  “Youuu,” Pastori says. It’s his fire-breathing dragon imitation; he says a word all long and drawn out and puts every ounce of his breath into it.

  “Youuu,” Jimmy mimics, not missing a beat.

  “What are you doing here, Donovan?” Pastori demands. “Did I call you? I don’t remember calling you. Yet here you are in the middle of my crime scene.”

  “Relax, I’m leaving. Sounds like you already have a suspect in custody anyway.” As he starts to pass Hector, Jimmy pauses and leans in. “Are you sure he’s the guy?”

  “He’s under arrest, isn’t he? I don’t need the FBI teaching me how to do my job like I’m some kind of incompetent. Speaking of which, where’s that wannabe tracker you call partner?”

  His eyes are already searching; he knows if Jimmy’s here, I’m somewhere close by. Rather than give him the pleasure of spotting me slouching next to the Expedition, I start across the lawn toward him.

  “Hey, look, it’s Pastrami,” I say loudly as I draw near and put my arm around Hector.

  “It’s Pastori, you degenerate.” He throws my arm off.

  “That’s a very unusual name, Pastori Yudegenerate. Are you still looking for missing people on the wrong side of the mountain?”

  “SERGEANT!” Pastori bellows, jabbing a finger at an officer near the front door. “Get these sons-of-bitches off my crime scene, and do it now. If they come back, arrest them for obstruction.”

  As he storms off, I say, “Geez, Hector, lighten up, buddy.”

  His steps falter and his shoulders rise up and he whips around on us with startling speed. “You’re not the only ones with powerful connections, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I shoot back. “Ours is the director of the FBI; yours is Wi-Fi. Congratulations.”

  He fumes at me with wordless anger, his face red and quivering, ripping my hair out strand by strand with his eyes. After a moment he turns and marches off without looking back.

  I just shrug.

  It’s a good day after all.

  Closing the door on the Expedition, I buckle up and then fish my glasses out of their case and slide them on. “You never answered me earlier,” I say to Jimmy.

  “About what?”

  “The call you got from Diane, about going to El Paso. I asked if they found a body and you said, Not exactly. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Well? Did they find a body?”

  “Not exactly.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  El Paso, Texas—September 2, 5:52 P.M.

  Evening is settling over El Paso when Les and Marty—our pilot and copilot—land the Special Tracking Unit’s Gulfstream at the El Paso International Airport. Nicknamed Betsy, the Gulfstream may look like a waste of taxpayer dollars, but it only appears so. Time is critical when responding to incidents; sometimes it’s the difference between life and death. And so we try to get from one place to the next as quickly as possible and with as little grief.

  Betsy makes that possible.

  Six hours ago we were in Bellingham, now we’re in El Paso—a two-thousand-mile journey in the course of an afternoon. Besides, flying around in the sleek Gulfstream is my favorite part of the job.

  * * *

  It’s an hour until sunset, but already the El Paso sky is splendid with color. A hundred shades of yellow embrace a thousand shades of orange against the intermittent backdrop of robin’s-egg-blue. It’s a stunning wash of color that reflects off every window and casts a glow upon the city.

  The air is blistering when Jimmy pulls to the curb in front of the El Paso Medical Examiner’s Office on Alberta Avenue. Heat rises in waves from the road, which is lined with medical facilities on both sides: Texas Tech Health Science Center, University Medical Center of El Paso, El Paso Children’s Hospital, Thomason Regional Laboratory, and more. Ironically, a large cemetery wrapped in cyclone fencing sits at the end of the street.

  I’m sure it’s just coincidence.

  As we exit the rented gray Ford Focus, a stubborn wall of heat slams into us, feeling a lot like a swift gut punch that knocks the wind from your lungs. Unless you�
�re a heat vampire, El Paso is one of those places where you walk from your air-conditioned house to your air-conditioned car to your air-conditioned office without too much lingering in between.

  It’s after hours, so Jimmy presses the buzzer next to the door and we sweat under the burnt sky for several minutes before a face appears in the door. Jimmy doesn’t say anything, he just presses his badge and ID against the window, and then we hear a loud click. Mr. Face pushes the door open and holds it long enough for us to slip through.

  “They said you were on your way,” Mr. Face says, “they just didn’t say when.” Wiping the wet tips of his fingers on his used scrubs, he extends a hand. “I’m Dr. Jimenez … Paul. Just call me Paul.” When neither Jimmy nor I hurry to take his hand, he suddenly grins and holds them up, palms out. “It’s just mustard and some pickle juice,” he says. “You caught me in the middle of a sandwich.”

  We share a laugh and take turns shaking hands. Paul has a contagious grin, a robust laugh, and a sense of humor that seems out of place in a morgue, but then I realize it’s not much different from cop humor. As we follow him down a pristine white hall he shares a coroner joke with us and laughs like someone else told it.

  You can’t help but like the guy.

  Leading us into a large autopsy suite, Paul slips on a white gown over his scrubs and pulls on some gloves. “I’ll fetch the remains from the cooler,” he says as he heads out of the room. Pausing in the doorway, he points a finger at Jimmy, then me, saying, “Since I’m heading to the cooler, anybody want a beer?”

  We stare at him.

  He suddenly bursts into laughter and waves us away. “You guys are so easy.” Then he’s gone and we hear him whistling as he makes his way down the hall.

  The autopsy suite is similar to a hundred others I’ve seen. There’s the examination table, the sinks, screening tables, hanging scales, movable lighting, rinsing hoses, and more. The two dominant colors—almost the only colors—are white and stainless steel.