Ghost of the Past Read online

  Rebecca Stout

  Ghost

  Of The Past

  Elliot Lankford Mystery Series

  Copyright 2017 by Rebecca Stout - All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication or the information in it may be quoted from or reproduced in any form by means such as printing, scanning, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Disclaimer and Terms of Use: Effort has been made to ensure that the information in this book is accurate and complete, however, the author and the publisher do not warrant the accuracy of the information, text and graphics contained within the book due to the rapidly changing nature of science, research, known and unknown facts and internet. The author and the publisher do not hold any responsibility for errors, omissions or contrary interpretation of the subject matter herein. This book is presented solely for motivational and informational purposes only.

  Chapter One

  Detective Lankford

  The room is dark and cold. There are no windows, their absence made more noticeable by the sharp sliver of light darting in from under the door. The tiny amount of light adds outlines to the shapes in the room. A table stands by the far wall. In the center of the room is a figure. It could be a man, it could be a woman. The pain is all the same in the dark. The figure has been hung from the ceiling by two chains, one attached to each wrist. The body hangs, slumped in the blackness.

  Suddenly, the door is thrown open wide, and the light floods in like water through a sewer. The hanging figure is lit up. It is a man. He has pants on, but no shirt. His head lifts and looks at the doorway, and does not show pain or terror, just resignation. He stares at the figure in the doorway and drops his head once more.

  There is blood on the floor. Fresh blood has pooled over old blood. The man has no wounds on his chest. The figure in the doorway walks over to the table and takes a large knife, the blade serrated and clean. She touches her finger to the point and turns the knife back and forth, not hard enough to puncture the skin. She puts it back down on the table and selects another—smaller, but with a glint of sharpness. She walks around the hanging figure, with the knife down by her hip. The man does not react. He has endured enough to not be surprised at what is coming.

  Neither of them utters a word as they dance their macabre dance. The woman stops and runs her finger along one of his arms, cupping his cheek in her hand. She brings back her hand and slaps him hard. His face is thrown to the side and then falls down to look at the floor. The woman smiles. She walks around him again, slowly, bringing the knife up to his face as she stands in front of him. She lifts her finger and wags it from side to side, before walking around him once more.

  She is behind him when she stops again. She places her hand on his back and holds it there for a second before she brings the knife up and stabs it into his back. She has done this before—the knife goes in only a few centimeters, enough to break the skin, but not enough to do any real damage. She grabs the knife in both hands and draws it downwards, ripping through the skin. Blood begins to drip to the floor. The gentle spitter-spatter is the only sound in the room. The man screams out in pain. Even his cry for help feels resigned. Blood flows faster and pools beneath them.

  The woman pulls out the knife and the screaming stops. She takes a minute to look at the fruits of her labor, the cut down his back, the blood on the floor.

  “The wound is growing,” she says. There is no reply. She stands with the man as the dripping blood slows and then stops. The silence hangs in the room once more. The woman walks back to the table and cleans the knife with a cloth. There is nothing but silence as she does this. Everything she does is clouded in silence, as if she sucks it from the room. She puts the knife in its place and walks over to the door, turning back to face the man once more before she leaves. He does not look up at her. The woman stands for a few seconds before taking hold of the door and slamming it shut.

  Bang!

  Elliot jerks awake in his bed. The sweat is running down his face, and he can feel the quickness of his heartbeat. It takes him a minute to regain his composure and fully awaken from his slumber. The world is still enshrouded in darkness, a cool breeze coming in from the window. Sleep comes once more, a deep dreamless sleep.

  Elliot has lived in New York all of his life, in Brooklyn for the past seven years. He can hear the birds chirping outside his bedroom window as he lies with his eyes closed, thinking of the message that he received last night. Who the hell do they think I am? What right do they have? Who the hell am I? That is the real question. What right do I have to question anything? What rights do I have at all in this world? So many people are out there expecting to get their fair share. What do any of us deserve? Life is not like that. There is no such thing as a fair share, not in this life anyway. Fuck them all! I don’t care—yet I do or I would not be so angry.

  The anger brews inside him like the beginnings of a storm—no, like the fury of a woman whose husband will come home drunk at 6 am, one time too many. He drifts into dreams and tries to shake the feeling inside. He has found sleep once more when his alarm clock sings its morning tune. He turns and hits the button with his fist, looking at the red blinking lights, working together to alert him that the time is 6 am. Some poor soul is being beaten with a weapon of some sort, he thinks. At least the drunkenness should dull the pain.

  Of course, he has tried drunkenness, from time to time, but the pain does not dull and he has come to realize that he does not want it to. He rises and goes about his morning routine with the precision of a military man, though marine life has never been for him. He stands in the shower, allowing the water to tumble over his head, and feels a sharp pang in his back. He reaches back his hand and touches his scar. It winds its way from his left shoulder blade to the small of his lower back. From time to time, he will feel something. The doctor assures him that it is psychosomatic and each time the doctor tells him this, he does not feel comforted by it. Physical pain he can handle, but this leaves him feeling messed up, like the pain is his fault.

  He finishes his shower and looks at himself in the mirror. Two days of growth can turn into three, he thinks, as he rubs his hand across his chin. Dark brown eyes stare back at him, the bags beneath adding a character to the face that only time can. He brushes his teeth and dresses himself in a fresh shirt and pair of pants. The shirt is perfectly ironed, a habit he inherited from his father and has kept up as he has moved from job to job. Tucking the shirt into his pants, he can already feel that the day is too hot for a tie and jacket. He walks over to the window and looks out at the people passing by. You can find every sort of person on any given sidewalk if you look for long enough. The dregs of humanity walking past you every day.

  His phone has begun to beep and vibrate, reminding him that his day has already started. He puts his phone and wallet into one pocket and folds his police badge, putting it in the other. As he is locking his door, his neighbor from across the hall throws him a hello. Elliot nods his head and walks away. I have never understood the need for connection between neighbors? Why should I bond with you? Because we live in close proximity? What other fabricated reason can we find to bond over? Hey, you like the color blue? I like the color blue. Let’s become friends because of this inconsequential reason. No thank you.

  The outside air hits him in the face as he exits the building, and he can begin to feel himself sweating. Another day in this heat-streaked mess of a city. What a way to live.

  A driver cuts him off as he drives towards the Brooklyn Bridge and he is surprised that it has only been one so far. The tall buildings clamor around him. People rush to inconsequential jobs. The city is a hive of uselessness and crime. Tha
nkfully for Elliot, this makes his job worthwhile. He presses on his horn as another driver cuts him off and he thinks about sticking the light on the roof and turning on his siren, but he does not have either, and they would make no difference anyway. He can hear the honks of anger traveling through the cityscape as everyone feels their destination is the most important.

  Elliot does not care about his destination, but reaches it nonetheless. He throws open the door and welcomes the air-conditioned chill, as beads of sweat cool and bring some respite from the everyday problems of life. He walks straight towards Officer Carlson.

  “Is he in?” asks Elliot.

  “The Chief?” asks Carlson.

  “Of course, the Chief,” says Elliot.

  “In his office,” says Carlson and walks away. Elliot strides through the precinct and stops when he reaches a glass door, inscribed with ‘Police Chief Monaghan.’ The ’n’ is beginning to curl up at the edge. He looks through the glass and can see the Chief on the phone. Monaghan looks up at him and motions for him to come in.

  “I have to go,” says Monaghan and places the phone back on the receiver. “What can I do for you, Detective Lankford?”

  “That’s all you have to say?” asks Elliot. The Chief stares at him. “What the fuck is this!” shouts Elliot as he throws a folder down on the desk.

  “Language!” says Monaghan. “The Bridlewood case. What do you want from me?”

  “You closed the case? We just let that little shit go free?”

  “Language! I will not tell you again Lankford. How long have you been on the case?”

  “Three months,” says Elliot.

  “And how much further are we?”

  “There are more leads to follow, sir,” says Elliot.

  “Look. I know you don’t like it, but that’s the way it is sometimes.”

  “So we just let him go?”

  “We don’t even know who he is,” says Monaghan.

  “Let me work it in my spare time,” says Elliot.

  “Why do you need to take on the most dangerous cases?” asks Monaghan.

  “For the thrill of it, I guess,” says Elliot sarcastically.

  “Seriously Elliot, you take on these dead-end cases, which will either get you killed or drive you crazy. You’re no idiot, that much is obvious, but you are acting like a damn fool!”

  “What do you want from me Chief? Can’t you let me just do my job?” asks Elliot.

  “I am just doing my job, Detective Lankford. You know that.”

  “You are stifling me. I need time to work the case. We can’t let these people go free. There are murderers and worse out there and I can’t bring them in because my cases are turned cold before I can properly work them. I am trying to hold myself together here, Chief, I really am, but have you any idea how frustrating this is? I just want to bring criminals to justice. What is so hard to understand about that?” asks Elliot.

  “Look,” says Monaghan. “The case is going nowhere. Sometimes that is just the way it is. I need you here, okay? You solve the cases that are solvable and you lay to rest the ones that are not. You can’t win them all, believe me. Now go back out there, find a new case, and watch your fucking language! Okay?”

  Elliot walks out the room and slams the door behind him, hoping to at least crack the glass—but in that, there is no justice to be found.

  Chapter Two

  The Road Back Home

  Elliot goes back to his desk and sits in silence. What is the point of all this? The Chief sits in a cauldron of bureaucracy and red tape, doing whatever he can, with one hand tied behind his back. He is a puppet, but so are we all. All of us, running around doing what we can to please people, all the while being held back by someone else. The world is a vampire, someone once said.

  Officer Carlson walks over to his desk and throws a folder onto it.

  “So? Good meeting with the Chief?” asks Carlson.

  “What do you think?” says Elliot—a statement, not a question. Elliot sits there ignoring Officer Carlson, hoping that she will go away.

  “Do you want to do small talk or something? You could ask me how I am doing,” says Carlson.

  “I don’t do small talk,” says Elliot.

  “Why are you not married?” asks Carlson. “Never mind. The forensics are back on the Rosenberg case. They have the results down in the lab for you, and told me to let you know that you can go down any time, no rush.”

  “Thanks,” says Elliot.

  “No problem,” says Carlson as she walks away from his desk. Elliot watches her and then looks down at the folder. Another case. I should throw it on the cold case pile now, save myself some trouble? What is the point of small talk? We say inane things to each other, back and forth, with no real motive other than to fill the silence. Do I really care what the weather is like today or what you had for dinner last night? The answer is a resounding no.

  Elliot flicks through the folder. Nothing is grabbing his attention. It looks like a case filled with a lot of late nights, instead of the cases they portray in the movies. It sounds perfect to him. He closes the file and moves it onto a pile of papers on his desk. The case can wait—it is already cold and will probably be taken off his hands in three months' time anyway. He gets up and walks over to the coffee machine, punching the sugar button enough times to make anyone wince at the sweetness of his coffee. The machine pours out a black liquid which vaguely resembles coffee, the milk adding nothing to the overall look of this gourmet cup of lukewarm liquid. Elliot sips from it and sighs with a resigned satisfaction.

  He makes his way down to the forensic lab, situated in the basement of the police building. They always keep the weird ones tucked away where no one can see them. He rides the elevator down, sipping at his coffee, the sweetness perking him up in a way that human interaction cannot. The elevator dings and he enters a whole new world of criminal investigation.

  The forensic lab is cold and windowless, sending a shiver down his spine, even though he has been down here hundreds of times before. Atkinson is the first to spot him and raises his hand in welcome, before striding towards him. Atkinson is tall and thin. Lanky would be an apt description, but Elliot discovered on their first meeting that he hates the word. Atkinson has short black hair, which he combs to the side in neat perfection. He wears glasses, which give him an air of intelligence and a slight nerdy-ness. Whenever he walks, he walks with a purpose. In fact, he does everything, no matter how mundane, with a purpose.

  “Hey there detective,” says Atkinson as he gets closer.

  “Hi,” says Elliot. Atkinson holds out his fist for a fist bump, but is ignored by Elliot. “Where is your partner in crime?”

  “Hi,” says Valdez, from behind Elliot, causing him to jump and whirl around.

  “How did you… what are you doing… you know what, forget it,” says Elliot.

  “I am very, very sneaky,” says Valdez. Valdez is shorter than Atkinson, though they are built the same. Valdez has long black hair and piercing brown eyes. When she is thinking about something, her nose wrinkles and her brow furrows. She talks slowly and with an intelligence that is obvious to anyone around her. When Elliot first met them, he thought that they were twins, because of their personalities. The fact that Atkinson is from Jersey and Valdez is from Madrid has dispelled that train of thought.

  “What do you have for us Elliot?” asks Atkinson.

  “Got something juicy?” asks Valdez.

  “I came for the results of the Rosenberg case,” says Elliot.

  “Look at him, all calm after his meeting with the Chief,” says Valdez.

  “I can’t imagine that that went well,” says Atkinson.

  “How do you two know about that already?” asks Elliot.

  “News travels fast,” says Atkinson.

  “Very fast,” says Valdez.

  “You know, I don’t know why I bother coming down here,” says Elliot.

  “He
’s in one of those moods,” says Valdez.

  “He’s always in one of those moods,” says Atkinson.

  “I need a smoke,” says Elliot.

  “Let’s go outside,” says Atkinson.

  “Yeah, can’t smoke in here,” says Valdez. The three of them take the fire exit out into the underground parking. The alarm has not worked for years, or was disabled years ago. Elliot lights up, with Atkinson and Valdez following suit. The three stand for a while, three orange glows, rising and falling in luminosity as they suck the smoke into their lungs. These things will kill me someday. Little sticks of death, that we all suck on so happily, in the knowledge that our lives are being shortened. I would quit if I cared.

  “So what did the Chief have to say?” asks Atkinson.

  “Another case gone cold?” asks Valdez.

  “I don’t know why I bother,” says Elliot. “Am I wrong? I mean I work damn hard on these cases and for what? For them to be taken away and forgotten. You work on the bodies, and then should I just leave people out there to do this again and again? I am serious. Is this what I should do?”

  “Obviously not,” says Atkinson.

  “Obviously,” says Valdez.

  “So what should I do?” asks Elliot.

  “There is not much you can do,” says Atkinson.

  “We see the bodies. We want the monsters locked up as much as you do,” says Valdez.

  “But you know what?” asks Atkinson.

  “Listen to what he is about to say,” says Valdez.

  “As much as we want the monsters locked up,” says Atkinson.

  “And as much as we see what these monsters do, first hand, to people,” says Valdez.

  “Even we know that some cases cannot be solved,” says Atkinson.

  “Believe us, we have scoured bodies and not found evidence,” says Valdez.

  “And we have spent a lot of time looking at bodies,” says Atkinson.