Ghost of the Past Read online

  “No,” says Elliot.

  “Then they are not your friends,” says Joyce. “I cannot believe that you are going to disobey a direct order.”

  “I have to find the killer,” says Elliot.

  “You have to find something,” says Joyce. “The killer is a side project. You are looking for something, but that is not it. Perhaps one day you will tell me about it.”

  “There is nothing to tell,” says Elliot.

  “Have it your own way,” says Joyce. Elliot realizes that he is outside of the precinct. How long have I been having a conversation with her? Was I shouting inside the precinct? If I was, then people are really going to think that I'm crazy. Where does she get off telling me what I should and should not be doing? If she were in this position, there is no doubt that she would follow the lead, chase the suspect, and bring them to justice. Or is she one of those ‘by the book’ cops? Would she rather play by the rules than do any actual police work? I should have quit from this life a long time ago. It’s not for me. The rules of life have changed too much. I can’t do anything with one hand tied behind my back constantly.

  “What are you thinking about?” asks Joyce.

  “None of your business,” says Elliot.

  “Look, it seems as if we are stuck with each other, so we may as well try and get along. You cannot say that I have not helped you already. You do not want to play by their rules? Then fine, what do I care? I am dead, really, what do I care? I will work this case with you. If you want to get fired, then get fired. What is the worst that can happen to me? I am dead already. Go get yourself cleaned up and we can follow up on this, but—and this is a big but—you have to do the regular cop stuff too. Play by the rules, play the game, give them what they want. Make the Chief happy and your time spent elsewhere will be a lot easier. The eyes will come off you. If they are looking for an excuse to fire you, then they will find it. Do not give them an excuse. Go wash yourself down, change your clothes, and let us go do some police work.”

  She has a point. Do I suck it up and admit that, or do I keep giving her the cold shoulder until it all blows over? Who cares? How did we get home so quick? Did we walk all this way? I guess a change of clothes and a wash is not an entirely unpleasant idea. I should play nice with her. She has been useful so far. I can use a fresh pair of eyes on this case. My first partner in over four years and she is dead. Go figure.

  Elliot turns round to thank Joyce, but she is gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Who Is That Woman?

  Elliot looks around for Joyce, but is met by an empty street. The sun is illuminating the buildings. Elliot wonders how much has changed from Joyce’s day. What is going through her mind? How is she supposed to process this? She is dead. What would I do if I were dead? There have been times when I wished that I was, but not really. I would not really have gone through with it. Looking back, I did not really want it, but at the time I would have embraced it. Would I have come back? Probably not—why would I? What would I have to come back for? What does she have to come back for? It’s not like she came back in her own time—or maybe she did? Who knows? Maybe I should ask her some more questions.

  It has been so long, doing this on my own, that I have no social skills anymore. What must she think of me? I would hate me if I had to work with me. Is that why she left? I’m here, working on my case, while she is here, doing what? What is she doing here? Is there unfinished business? Are we supposed to work together and solve this case? Why would she come here for that? If anything, she would need help solving a case back in her day. But what use am I? Here in this time. I don’t understand this, not that there is anything to understand. Maybe I have gone crazy. No one else can see her. No one else can hear her. I am the only one who can see or hear this dead woman. How would I respond if someone told me the very same thing? People have, in the past, but only criminals, crazy people. Told me they were hearing voices, seeing visions, being told what to do by some higher power. None of them mentioned ghosts, but what if there was some truth to their claims? If I can talk with a ghost, then what else is possible? If I am not crazy, then how many more people have not been crazy when it seemed they were?

  Elliot looks around. He is back in his apartment, the door is open behind him, and the key is in his hand. He is standing there in a daze. He turns around and kicks the door closed. He throws the keys onto the shelf by the door and sighs. The apartment is cool and empty. He walks around, checking each room, checking in case Joyce is in one of them. She is not. He has known her for less than twenty-four hours, but already he is missing her. The apartment feels more empty than usual, more empty than it was before she arrived, even though it was empty then too. Her appearance and then disappearance has created a void in his life. He does not like it.

  Elliot makes himself some coffee, extra strong, but with four spoonfuls of sugar to counteract the bitterness. Over the years, his coffee has become stronger and stronger, constantly more bitter, and constantly more sweet. Soon he will be mixing sugar granules and coffee powder, running out of room for the water. He sits down in his chair with his cup of coffee and stares out of the window. When he is done, he retreats to the bathroom for a long overdue wash and shave. When he is clean and smooth, he feels like a new man.

  He stands naked in his bathroom. He turns slightly so that he can see the start of the scar—or the end. He does not want to remember anymore. He stands and looks at it. The memories and feelings do not come. He blocked them out a long time ago. For a while, every time that he saw or touched the scar, he would feel the pain, the mental pain. The force psychologist did nothing for him—not that Elliot let him. Instead, he blocked out the associations. Now, when he looks at the scar, he sees something else. Something which is not part of him, but is there anyway.

  Elliot looks at the scar and suddenly becomes self-confident. He wonders if she is here, perhaps watching him. She is a ghost after all. He is unsure how the whole thing works. He quickly grabs a towel and covers himself. He goes to his room and finds fresh clothes. Even dressed, he feels self-conscious, like there is always someone watching him now. He knows that he should be bothered by this, but he enjoys it, almost embraces it. He hopes that she is here with him. Not watching him naked, but just being here. He feels lifted by her presence.

  Elliot grabs his laptop and places it on the kitchen table. He makes himself another cup of coffee. This one is stronger and less sweet. There is work to be done. He takes a sip, almost burning his tongue, and recoils at the bitterness. He smiles and nods his head, placing the cup on the kitchen table. He sits down, cracks his knuckles, and goes to work. It does not take him long, in this day and age of infinite information, to find what he is looking for.

  Joyce Green, lived at—well, lived here. Same address. She died in her home. In this home, in my home. Can I call this home? They use the word home in the article. She had a family here. Can an apartment be a home if it is filled with a family? It certainly doesn't feel like home to me—but then, what would? Would I be at home with a family? Probably not. Does it really matter what makes a place a home?

  She was involved in a high-profile investigation at the time, unrelated, or so they say. She walked home from work. Her husband and daughter were at a class, or an event, or something. They talk about it being lucky. Was it lucky? I mean, she was shot in the back of the head, execution style. Whoever did this was a professional. They would not have turned up at her apartment—this apartment—with the intention of killing her if they knew her family was here. There was no reason to kill them too. Whoever did this planned for it. They knew that the family would be out. They came here to kill her, and her alone.

  So, it could be connected to the other case. If only… I could question her. Is that wrong? The person who is killed knows the last movements of the killer. I have more evidence right here than they ever had—if she is still here. She has to come back. It can’t be a dream. I had never heard of this case. If I had researc
hed this case before and then she turned up, then maybe I could be crazy—it'd be my subconscious bringing up the details of the case, manifesting itself in this way. But no way could this happen with me knowing nothing of the case. It has to be real. I have to question her about this.

  Neighbor found her after hearing gunshots. Next-door neighbor. He hears the shots, moves to the door quick—noise like that would have someone moving quickly. He would have looked through the peephole. He saw nothing, or says that he saw nothing. He would have opened the door a crack. Saw nothing again. He would have seen the open door and checked it out. He finds the body and calls the police.

  The killer has just followed Joyce up to the door. The hallway is long, so he must have been quiet. Or she could have been a woman. The killer walks behind her. They are silent. Joyce opens the door, walks in, and then she is shot twice in the back of the head. The killer does not wait around. They would have been seen. There is no remorse, and it is not the first time that they have killed. They shoot and then they leave. They must have run, but it would have been hard to hear from inside an apartment. Gunshots are confusing. Doesn't matter if someone was heard running, we can deduce that. Doesn't give us any more information.

  What else is there? There were a few persons of interest. Three or four men. They all led nowhere. There was no evidence, no clues, and no information. The case went cold. I’ve been there. Know how that feels. Another detective in the precinct worked the case, not her partner. He would have been too close. He would not have had the objectiveness needed.

  The husband was questioned, but of course, he had an alibi. His daughter was with him, with a half-dozen other people. He had no idea who it could have been. She had no enemies, and she had not pissed anyone off, other than the people she had put away, but we all have that. Some speculated that it was a revenge killing, a relative of someone that she had locked up, but everything was a dead end. The case was soon shut down. Nothing suspicious, it was simply deemed cold at about the right time. Sometimes the evidence is not there.

  Wow, I should listen to myself sometimes. Maybe I would not get in as much trouble. She died and no one knows why. I should question her. Maybe she knows something. Or does she? She didn’t even know that she was dead. Would she remember the last night of her life? It’s worth checking out.

  Elliot sits back in his chair. He has not been reading for long, but the amount of information to process is weighing on him. He sips at his coffee. It has gone cold. He puts it in the microwave and heats it until it is able to burn his tongue once more. He sits back down, fuelled by the tongue-burning sweet bitterness of his coffee. He is looking for the politician. A Google search of ‘David Clarkson’ brings back millions of results, but him being a politician makes it easier. He adjusts the Google search and soon has a link to his web page.

  He has been part of the New York assembly for a couple of years. He loves what he does, or he comes across that way. He is a politician after all. The media love him for a soundbite. It seems like he must have a book full of them, one for every occasion, written by a team of speechwriters. He comes across very well in the public eye. He is handsome and homely. He works hard for the people, and believes that the people should dictate his work, they pay his wages after all. What a politician. Do they have a mold that they use? Pour in some shit and out comes a blank human. Paint him up and ship him off to whichever district needs him. His family really is wealthy. His father has been accused of some dodgy dealings, but nothing has ever been proven. That can happen when you have a lot of money.

  His father seems very vocal on the issue of Attorney General, though David has never talked about it. Even when questioned, he assures everyone that he is happy in his current position. Aren't we all? Nothing here about him hiring the bodyguard, but why would there be? There is nothing about his staff or entourage, though why he would need a bodyguard is beyond me. Perhaps he is up to no good?

  Lots of functions coming up. None that I would be invited to, or let in to, except for this one. Tomorrow night. Charity gala. Open to the public, some sort of silent auction. Although it says open to the public, looking at these auction items, I can assume it will only be the rich who come away with an item. I am sure that Daddy will buy something lavish and expensive—make his son look good. I hope the bodyguard will be there too. I am sure that he will. Being in the public eye is good for a politician, but being followed by a bodyguard makes you look more important than you actually are. It would be good to have a word with Arquez. Catch up, for old times sake. I am sure that he would love to talk to me.

  Elliot is tired. There has not been much sleep since a ghost turned up in his apartment. He soon finds himself in bed, still wearing the clothes he so recently put on. They will become crumpled and familiar, part of his usual attire. He closes his eyes and finds comfort in the darkness. Soon he is deep asleep. Dreams do not come. Nightmares do not come. Nothing comes, except for a knock.

  He is woken by a knock at the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning

  The knocking continues as Elliot wakes. He feels like he has been sleeping for a few minutes or a few days, all at the same time. He rubs his eyes and gets out of bed. He walks down the hallway to the door. On the way, he looks down at the carpet. Looks newer than the rest of the apartment. They must not have been able to get the blood out. They must have thrown out the bloodstain and put this new carpet in. Maybe they left it under. Maybe I am standing on top of her blood. She lay here, right under my feet. She died here. She gave her last breath here, while someone stood by the door, watching as the bullets entered her head and took her life.

  The knock comes again and wakes him from the daydream. It is light and confident. Elliot looks through the peephole and sees the distorted head of a woman. She must know that he is behind the peephole, as she smiles and stands back. Elliot stands back from the peephole and thinks about not answering the door. She does knock again, so she knows he is there, waiting for him to open the door so that she can flash her winning smile.

  Elliot opens the door and she flashes her winning smile. Elliot almost smiles back. The woman is in her early thirties, and she has a great body and knows it, holding herself with confidence and poise. Her features are sharp but curved, giving her a stunning beauty, with a hint of something more—an intelligence hidden behind her beauty. She has long blond hair and soft blue eyes, like the sea before a storm. She sold her smile. Shiny white teeth, all neatly standing in a row. Elliot looks her up and down and tries to find a flaw, but he cannot. He wants to bring her inside, make her his own, but he will not.

  “I am told that you are a policeman,” says the woman. “My name is Lynne.”

  Elliot stares at her. He is unsure what to do. Not a common way for him to feel.

  “Are you okay?” asks Lynne.

  “Yeah,” says Elliot, recovering from his stupor. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” she says.

  “How can—”

  “No, not here, obviously. I just moved in two doors down,” she says.

  “Oh,” says Elliot. He can’t think of anything better.

  “I just wanted to come by and welcome myself to the neighborhood, so to speak. Your neighbor told me that you were a policeman. It is good to know that we have a cop in our building. Makes me feel safer.”

  “I am sure that you will be protected. Your husband or boyfriend…” Elliot kicks himself for his cheesiness. He is not even interested in a relationship, or anything else for that matter, but he says the line anyway.

  “No, just me,” she says and smiles again. This time Elliot smiles with her. “I baked some cookies. For everyone. I wanted to deliver them in person and get to meet everyone. The lady in 39 is a little weird.” Elliot nods. “So here I am. Here are the cookies.” She hands a container to Elliot. He can feel the warmth through the bottom of the plastic. They were obviously baked this morning.

  “Thank you,�
�� says Elliot. The woman smiles at Elliot and looks him up and down.

  She obviously likes me. Do I like her? She is stunning. She did make me some cookies. What is the worst that could happen? No, what is the point? I have seen how this goes. I know the ending. There is no twist in this story. It is the same old story, one as old as time. As old as my time anyway. This would be ten times worse. How would it be living next to her after she had grown to hate me? No, not today. I can’t do it all over again. I have too much to do, too many people to save. All of them. I need to save them all, is that it? Is that how I think of myself? If I can catch the criminals, then I can save everyone. I can save someone, anyone. Do I really think that she can save me? Why, because she is beautiful? What does that even matter? Would I even let her in? Is it even my choice? What, because she smiles at me, then she must have fallen in love with me? I can be such an idiot. I can’t let this happen either way.

  “Would you like a coffee?” she asks. “I just brewed a fresh pot. I have a lot of unpacking to do, but going by your hallway, it looks like you have a lot of unpacking to do too. How long have you been here?”

  “Three months,” says Elliot.

  “You are really bad at unpacking,” says Lynne. “If I have boxes lying in my hall after three months then shoot me, please. Not literally, I know what you cops are like. Good thing I am white, right? Sorry, that was bad. I am sure you are a great cop. Fair and just.”

  If only she knew.

  “Anyway. I just moved here. I am out meeting the neighbors and I hope you like the cookies. Oh, would you like to come down for some coffee? It is really good. I know how you cops like your coffee—or do you? Is that a stereotype? I like your hair, by the way. So, coffee?”

  “I can’t,” says Elliot. “I have work to do.”

  “Of course. Bet you are working on a big case. You get to work, cop. Maybe another time for the coffee?” says Lynne.