S. Tooley - When the dead speak

It took a great deal of effort on Abby’s part to pull Frank from the full-sized gym with whirlpool and Jake from the study with its bar, entertainment center, and Sam’s computer terminal which was hooked up to Headquarters.

The tour ended upstairs in the master bedroom. In all, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and two fireplaces comprised the second floor.

Jake noticed the tape recorder on the coffee table. The red message light was blinking.

Abby checked her watch. “I really should put lunch out or you two will never get back to the office.”

“You two go ahead,” Jake said. “I’m just going to use the washroom here.” He waited until they had left, then walked back to the recorder and pushed the PLAY button.

Abby stopped at the top of the stairs to catch her breath. She had a better look at Jake in the daylight. He was definitely the one she had seen in her vision. His eyes were the color of doeskin, the softest brown she had ever seen. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. She felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. Smiling, she started down the stairs, her skirt brushing softly against the carpeting.

Catching up with Frank she said, “Maybe some night I can have you and Jake and your wives over for dinner.”

“My wife would just love to see this place,” Frank replied. “We’re planning on building a house and I’m sure this place could give her lots of ideas.” His hand glided over the solid oak railing as he added, “Jake isn’t married.”

Abby stopped and looked at Frank. She tried to sound sincere as she said, “Well, he can certainly bring his girlfriend.”

“Nope. Jake’s kinda a loner these days.”

She let Frank pass her on the stairs as she smiled broadly. Without realizing it, she started to whistle.

Jake listened to Preston’s voice on the recorder. Preston had received a call from his wife informing him she wouldn’t be home for another month.

The second call was from a Bill Simpson, who was looking for votes for a labor bill being introduced. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“My, my, we certainly are talented.” Just as his finger touched the eject button he heard the cocking of a gun just above his right ear.

“Don’t even think of taking that.”

Slowly Jake straightened up, leaving the tape sitting up in the chute of the recorder.

“Never crossed my mind.” He turned and stared down the barrel of Sam’s 9mm stainless steel Taurus. He clenched his jaw in anger. “Don’t EVER point a gun unless you plan on using it.”

She grabbed the gun with both hands. “What makes you think I won’t?”

Abby entered smiling. “There you are. I thought I heard you come in. Lunch is ready,” Abby announced, appearing unconcerned about Sam’s armed threat. As Abby turned to leave she looked back at Jake and said, “Don’t look so nervous, Jacob. She never keeps it loaded when she’s in the house.”

Sam dropped her arms and shot Abby an accusing look. Jake breathed a sigh of relief. With a soft laugh, Abby turned and left.

By the time Sam finished her phone call to the Crime Lab and glanced over the daily log, Jake and Frank were already halfway through with their lunch. On the table in front of them were the pictures from Preston’s safe.

“Just make yourselves at home,” Sam spit out. “Go through the mail in my mail box while you’re at it.”

“The gym will be fine for starters, thanks,” Frank said.

“There’s not much here. Exactly what were you hoping to find?” Jake asked.

She gave a shrug of her shoulder in response and took a sip of iced tea.

“Who hired you? Do you have any idea what would happen to your career if you were caught?” Jake tossed the pictures toward the end of the kitchen table.

“I work alone.” She threw her napkin on the table and stood up saying, “You ruined a perfectly good dress.”

“Dress? What about my tux?” Jake argued. “And we can also talk about my bruised ribs.”

“Sounds more like a bruised ego,” Frank mumbled.

“And what about Preston’s computer?” Jake continued. “What did you print off of it?”

Sam explained the menu and how Preston seemed to be unusually interested in something he had typed after receiving a call.

“Do you know who called him?” Jake asked.

“No,” Sam lied. Setting her plate in the sink, she added, “If you were half as good of detectives as you two claim to be you would have noticed something interesting on the videotape. You keep focusing on my being where I shouldn’t have been rather than focusing on Preston having something he shouldn’t have.”

“If you mean the pin, we already noticed it,” Frank replied. “They may be close, but we don’t know for sure if it connects Preston with the deceased.”

“I held it in my hand. The same visions were there as when I touched King Tut in the lab.” She looked into their skeptical faces. “I know this sounds crazy to you. But all I can tell you is what I sensed.”

Jake walked over to the counter. “What exactly did you… sense

… when you touched King Tut?”

Sam explained the vision of lightning bolt shapes, the smell of gun powder, screams of battle. The men were silent for a while.

“Why don’t we stick with what we know right now. The pin that a presumed murder victim held is the same as a pin owned by our state representative,” Jake said.

“Weelll, let’s not exclude everything,” Frank said slowly.

“Finally, someone with flexibility,” Sam whispered, loud enough for them to hear.

“I prefer logic,” Jake clarified.

Sam jabbed her fists onto her hips. “Let’s try this for logic — Preston had something to do with King Tut’s murder. And once we get an I.D. on the victim, I’ll shove the logic right down your throat.”

Sam circled Skip Foley’s desk impatiently. He looked up from his phone conversation and signaled that he would be another minute. Skip had been the print technician at Headquarters for the past fifteen years. During his first month on the force, he had tried to break up a fight in a local bar, only to take a bullet in the leg. It shattered his knee cap and left one leg two inches shy of the other. He refused to go on disability. Instead, he trained with the FBI and became one of the best print technicians in the state.

Skip hung up the phone and swiveled his chair around to the computer. Jake and Frank leaned over his shoulder. Sam continued to pace.

“It’s a positive match?” Sam asked.

“Absolutely.” Skip punched the keys on the computer and pointed to the screen. “Who’s the primary?”

Frank jerked a thumb toward Jake. “He always gets the good ones.”

“No. I always get the unsolvable ones.”

“No case is unsolvable,” Sam said simply.

“Military records?” Frank asked eyeing the report coming off of the printer.

Sam ripped off the printout. “Harvey Wilson, born July 10, 1930, in Huntsville, Alabama. African American. Father, James, a postal worker. Mother, Ruby, a homemaker. Let’s see,” she ran her eyes down the form, “joined the Army out of high school, stationed in Hawaii.”

“Not a bad assignment,” Skip commented.

“He was part of the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division dispatched to Korea in June of 1951,” Sam continued. “Last assignment was to delay the advance of North Korean troops in

Mushima Valley.” Sam read the rest in silence, then looked up. “He was reported AWOL August 13, 1951.”

“AWOL?” Frank repeated, as if his mind had been in a fog during the ride back to Precinct Six.

Sam cranked the windows open in her office. Tossing a handful of sunflower seeds on the sill, she clicked her tongue, then called out in a language the two men didn’t understand. Immediately, two mourning doves flew over, looked up at her and started pecking at the seeds.