Ghost of the Past Read online

  “It is frustrating for us too,” says Valdez.

  “You have no idea,” says Atkinson.

  “Every day, in here, looking at death and destruction,” says Valdez.

  “If we ever came face to face with these monsters. I don’t like to think what we would do,” says Atkinson.

  “When you find a monster, tear it apart,” says Valdez.

  “Promise us that,” says Atkinson.

  “But for now, there is no point wasting your time,” says Valdez.

  “The Chief is right,” says Atkinson.

  “Catch the monsters you can,” says Valdez.

  “And have nightmares about the ones you cannot,” says Atkinson.

  “So the Chief is right?” asks Elliot.

  “The Chief is right,” say Atkinson and Valdez together. The three of them stand in silence once more, sucking on death. Of course the Chief is right. I mean, I know that, but can someone just take my side for once? Obviously I am wasting my time on these cases, but all it needs is one fresh lead, one spark, one moment, and I can catch the monster. Any monster.

  “You need to stop choosing these cases. We know how backlogged the work is here. There are people out there, not monsters, but criminals all the same, who need to be caught. That’s your job isn't it?” asks Valdez.

  “No. His job is to be all sulky and sullen and chase ghosts with no real shot of catching them,” says Atkinson.

  “Is that how you see me?” asks Elliot.

  “Yes,” they both say.

  Elliot grunts. I have to agree with them, I mean it is pretty obvious. The only thing that I cannot understand is why more people are not like this. Everyone has seen the shit in the world. How can they go about their business so happy and carefree? We all know that there are monsters out there. Do I have a harder time ignoring that? Well good. Others may be happy that monsters are in the world, but I am not. I will find them and I will rip them apart.

  “You need to settle down,” says Valdez.

  “She’s right,” says Atkinson.

  “Not this again,” says Elliot.

  “I know an officer in the nine-nine precinct,” says Atkinson.

  “If you don’t, then I will—I mean, I’m not, but I could for her,” says Valdez.

  “You know that I can’t,” says Elliot. “Not until…”

  “Scar acting up again? Feeling a tingle, Mr. Potter?” asks Valdez.

  “Still looking for her-who-must-not-be-named?” asks Atkinson.

  “How can you two be so nonchalant and jokey about everything? You know that people hate that right? Drives them crazy! What’s the deal with you two?”

  “Keeps us sane, I suppose,” says Atkinson.

  “This job will drive you crazy. You see so much death, that you do what you can to stay alive,” says Valdez.

  “You know that I was fucking tortured, right?” asks Elliot. “I was locked in a room for who knows how many days. I had a fucking knife stabbed into my back and the skin torn apart. Should I show you the scar again? Would you like to see that? Have you any idea how much pain I went through? That is one sick bitch. But to you two, it is fucking funny, right?”

  “Should we cry?” asks Atkinson. “Should we hug you and weep together?”

  “You know that we feel for you,” says Valdez, “but it doesn’t matter how we react, we can’t change what happened. We want to catch her as much as you do, we really do, but it’s been over a year. Do you really think that you can still catch her?”

  “I can’t rest until I do,” says Elliot.

  “Can’t rest or won’t rest?” asks Valdez.

  “Does it matter?” asks Elliot.

  “I suppose not,” says Atkinson.

  “You need someone,” says Valdez. “Don't interrupt me. I know that you are not going to find anyone, but you still need someone. That is all I am going to say on the matter. Atkinson, you should give him the results.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s what you came down here for. Some mud on the boot, other stuff, doesn't really matter. What does matter is that it came from down by the docks. What this means is that your suspect was lying. Doesn't put them at the docks at the time of the murder, but they were down there at some point. Hope it helps.”

  “It does, thanks,” says Elliot.

  “Almost seems like this case will be too easy. Some real evidence to work with. You should hand it off to someone else and take one with absolutely no evidence,” says Valdez.

  “You know,” says Elliot. “You two really are pricks, but funny pricks. Why do I like you two so much?”

  “Bad judgment,” says Valdez.

  “Come on, let’s get inside before we all start crying and hugging,” says Atkinson. They make their way back into the lab, where Atkinson hands over the report. Elliot looks it over and nods his head. The evidence will help, may not be enough for an arrest. But the case is moving forward. Elliot spends the rest of his day performing the essential duties of a detective: paperwork and phone calls. No high-speed chases, not even a low-speed chase. No throwing cuffs on suspects, or sliding over the bonnet of a car—he had tried that once when he was a lot younger and had stuck as he slid, stopping on the bonnet and not looking at all cool. There are no fistfights, no black eyes, not even a barking dog to try and get past. The day is spent engulfed in good old police work.

  It is on his way home that the meeting with Chief Monaghan really begins to bother him. Another case turned cold. There have been so many, that he should be used to it by now, but each one bothers him as much as the last. He thumps his fist down on the dashboard as he drives.

  Chapter Three

  That Half-Empty Bottle

  Elliot checks his mail as he enters his building. Nothing again. Not that he is expecting anything. He makes his way up the stairs, hoping not to bump into any of his neighbors. He does not. He had half-hoped that he would, so that he could ignore them and act all gruff, and he is slightly disappointed that he does not make his grand statement and find some happiness in his own misery. He rattles the key in the lock. It began to jam a few weeks ago, but not enough to warrant calling someone out to fix it.

  He opens the door to his apartment and surveys his mess of a life. He has lived in Brooklyn for seven years, but for only a month in this apartment. The economic downturn affected everyone, heroes and all. He looks down the thin hallway to the living room. Boxes are stacked by the wall. Not enough boxes to contain a life, but enough to be a nuisance. He has told himself over and over that he will unpack them tomorrow. This month has contained a lot of tomorrows.

  The drop in the economy has left a lot of people without work, but everyone needs cops. There is a subtle irony in his situation. With a loss of jobs had come a rise in poverty. Any rise in poverty goes hand in hand with a rise in crime. A rise in crime has secured his job for the immediate future, but the declining economy has resulted in a lower wage. More work and less pay. Of course, he would have continued this job with no pay. What else is there for him? Elliot walks past the boxed contents of his life.

  This is what I have become. A possessor of possessions, so devoid of meaning and use that they are hidden away in boxes until I need to move them somewhere else, yet sprinkled with enough nostalgia to force me into keeping them. Do I even know what is in half of these boxes? I should just throw them out and be done with them? Throw them out like the cases I try to solve. Another case gone cold. Fuck Monaghan. What does he know anyway? Probably a lot more than I do. What would make me so special that I could understand this world any better than anyone else? Who knows what they know? So much bullshit in this world. Is it even possible to wade through it and find a morsel of truth? I am not for this age, I should have been born seventy years ago and then I would at least be dead by now. God, I need a drink.

  Elliot is standing in the living room, looking at more sealed boxes. He knows that somewhere in there is a bottle of whiskey—the good stuff, a bottle of
ten-year-old Laphroaig. The Scots are the masters of distillation, but the Irish are not so bad themselves. He bought a bottle of Laphroaig when he first became a detective, saving it to toast his successes. It was humorous at first, until he began to drown his sorrows with it. Toasting the cases which have gone nowhere and then gone cold. Now it is a mere necessity to rub salve on the mental wounds from another dead-end case.

  He begins to open boxes, searching through them to find the bottle, which he knows is somewhere among this mess. Am I a hero? I chase the bad guys, but when was the last time I actually caught one? Should I be rewarded for my presence on the streets? Do I deserve this shitty little apartment? I don't really care about the apartment—it's moving my stuff that I do not like. They can hole me up in a one-room dive for all I care. Just don't make me transfer my boxes of garbage from one place to another. I should leave the whiskey for another night, but old habits die hard, just like me. At least I am closer to the precinct. What does that even matter? I’m stuck in traffic every morning. Who cares how long they are stuck for? Who cares about anything anymore? If people cared, then I would be out of a job. Maybe I should quit and get a job at Walmart, immerse myself in the dregs of humanity. The shift from this would be easy.

  Elliot walks through to his bedroom and searches through the boxes in there too. He looks around at the papered walls. They are beginning to peel at the top, and he knows that he will never get round to fixing it, and nor will his landlord. The whole apartment can use some work, but who has the money for that? Elliot knows how much he pays in rent, so he is not expecting the Ritz. This place is never going to be attractive to anyone who is anything. Only the dregs of society live here. The dregs and the detectives.

  Elliot reaches his hand down into the box he is currently searching, and pulls out a half-full bottle of whiskey. He holds it up to the light and allows the artificial light to shine through it. The amber liquid sloshes in the pale green bottle. He swirls the bottle around, and the liquid clings slightly to the inside of the glass, showing a slight syrupy consistency. He pulls out the stopper and takes a whiff of the whiskey. The aroma moves though his system and warms him from inside. He can feel the saliva in his mouth in anticipation of the burning liquid.

  Oh, amber nectar, drink of the gods. Not really, I suppose, but the angels have had their share. Now it is time for it to meet my demons.

  During the whiskey-making process, the liquid is stored in oak barrels to mature and gain the subtle flavors which make it so famous. This takes years—sometimes longer than the lifetime of an employee. During this time, some of the whiskey seeps through the wood and evaporates—around three percent. This is called the ‘angel’s share.’

  Elliot walks back to the living room, stopping in the kitchen to find a glass, one clean enough to fill with whiskey. Before he gets to his chair, he steps on something sharp and jerks his foot back. He puts the glass and bottle down on the table and takes a look under his foot. On the carpet is a bracelet. He picks it up and checks his foot for blood at the same time.

  The bracelet is old, old and simple. He studies it curiously. There is a single gem surrounded by silver. It looks like a ruby. There is a silver chain, which would obviously be worn around a wrist. Elliot checks the back of the bracelet for an inscription, but there is not one. There are no scratches or signs of wear. Nothing to suggest an owner. Elliot throws it onto the table.

  Must be the previous tenant. There has not been a visitor to this apartment since I moved in. Why would there be? Who would want to come here? And spend time with me? Not that I blame them, I don't want any visitors here. Maybe Atkinson and Valdez were right, maybe I do need a woman. Or maybe I just need a good drink.

  Elliot takes one more look at the bracelet and sits down in his chair. He pours a few fingers of whiskey into the glass and takes a large sip. The whiskey runs down the back of his throat and burns. He welcomes the fiery taste. He swallows and enjoys the smokiness of the Scotch whiskey. The chair sucks him back into a more relaxed position and he begins to think about the women of his past.

  He came close to finding a woman once. There was one lady, back when he was in his early twenties, who he was really fond of. He was still in the academy and had not been tainted by the world or real police work. They had gone on a few dates, but it had not panned out. He was unsure at the time what had gone wrong. She had given every sign that she liked him, and he certainly liked her, but the relationship had fizzled out. He had contacted her a few times after to find out what happened, but each time she told him that it was just not meant to be, that these things happen, that it was not him but her, and other cliches. Looking back, he gets a sense that she knew what was to come, that even then, she could sense a darkness in him, an impending darkness, which would engulf him and all around him.

  Most of the women he has dated have been like that. They never quite worked out, like something was holding them back. He has fallen into relationships like a coin down a well, but it was never reciprocated. Some hint in his character, some darkness shadowing him. The job has not helped—once he fully committed to the police force, he had little time for anything else. The incident cemented that. He would not let anyone get close again. It was too hard for them. He has never been the same since, and can you blame him? He could not share the pain—there was too much, and it was too extreme, so it was his and his alone. No one else deserved to share in it.

  Elliot sits back in his chair and sips at the whiskey. He finishes off one glass and fills another. He knows that he should not, but cannot help himself. He can feel himself slipping away into gloominess, which is a distinct upgrade from anger and despair. The whiskey dulls his anger somewhat and he begins to make peace with the situation, as he has done countless times before. The fire of the whiskey becomes less potent, leaving only hints of charcoal and smoke.

  Fuck them all. Who cares anyway? So what if I catch a criminal? It’s almost always too late. They are never a criminal until they have committed a crime. Catch one and another appears in their place. No point to anything anymore.

  Elliot picks up a case folder, the one which has just been shut down. He flicks through it, expecting some last-minute clue to grab his attention and blow the case wide open. All he finds are the same pages he has looked at a thousand times. Nothing new, nothing different, nothing at all. He stares at the pages, willing them to prove Monaghan wrong. They seem to be in cahoots with him. He throws the folder onto the table beside him and downs the last of the whiskey in his glass. He can’t be bothered to get up and go through to his bedroom. Instead, he lets his head droop and within minutes, he is fast asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Intruder

  The dream comes once more. The room is dark, darker this time than before. There is someone in the room with him, but he cannot see who it is. It must be her, he is sure of it. He can hear footsteps around him, but no matter where he looks, he cannot see her. He searches for the door. He has forgotten where it is—there is nothing, no light at all, no sliver of light coming in from under any door. He wonders how she can move so freely without being able to see.

  He pulls at his arms. The chains are still attached. He feels their coldness emanating from the rock above. They make a metallic scraping noise as he tugs at them. He knows that there is no hope of pulling them free. He does not remember what her face looks like. He wonders if he ever knew. He tries to remember how he got here, but cannot. His mind is as dark as the room. He fishes for something—a thought, some idea of where he is, who he is. He comes up with nothing.

  He breathes in the air and cannot smell anything. He cannot feel anything. There is nothing here except the sense of someone being in the room with him. That is the only thought in his mind. There is someone here. He knows who it is, but does not, at the same time. No, he does not know who it is. The only thing he knows is what’s to come. He readies himself.

  He feels a hand cover his mouth—not forcefully. They are not trying to
stop him from breathing. It is playful, sensual almost. The touch is soft and unthreatening. His mind races with fear even more. There is a breeze coming from nowhere. The breeze pulls at him. He tries to grab onto it. It is pulling him from this nightmare. Helping him to escape. There is not much time, he knows that. He focuses his mind on escaping from this torture. The wind rises, pulls at his thoughts. He is almost gone, but almost, is not quick enough. He feels the cold sharpness of a blade as it plunges its way into his skin. He can feel as the woman pushes it from side to side, sending pangs of agony racing through his body. He feels her holding onto the knife with both hands and dragging it through his skin, elongating the already long cut, reaching halfway down his back. She pushes it into his back and he screams.

  Elliot opens his eyes. He is covered in sweat. He wonders if he screamed out loud. The feeling of dread is rooted inside of him. He tries to shake it, but it remains, more than before. He sits up in his chair. It is not the dream which is bothering him, but there is something else at play. His body is alert and ready, but for what? Something is wrong and he knows it. He listens intently and after a few seconds, he hears footsteps in the hallway. Without even thinking about it, he has drawn his gun, silently and effortlessly. He listens again, just to be sure, and hears the footsteps once more.

  Soft and quiet, they have taken off their shoes. The footsteps do not sound heavy—perhaps a woman or a child. They have entered the building quietly, or he would have woken. This is not the first time they have done this. The door is still locked from the inside, so they could not have come in and locked it. They must have come through a window. The footsteps came from the hallway, so they would have seen me asleep in the chair. If they were armed, they could have woken me and tied me up. If they were violent, they would have hit me over the head, knocked me out. No, they are not the violent type. They’ve done this before, sure, but not with any violence. Too quiet and sensible to be some sort of crackhead, but not stupid. They obviously can’t be expecting to find anything of value in here, and they would know that. So who is here and why are they here?