M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“Yeah, tell that to my conscience.”

“That is your problem, not mine,” I told him with a grin.

He huffed out a heavy sigh. “Shit, white man, every time ya’ get involved in an investigation we end up arguin’ about somethin’.”

“It’s been a bit worse this time around, hasn’t it?” I acknowledged. “Good thing we’re friends.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “So why the hell do we do this?”

“Probably because we’re both strong-willed individuals who, although we’re seeking the same result, have diametrically opposed ways of going about achieving it.”

“You have been hangin’ around my sister too much.” He returned his own grin.

“So have we cleared the air?” I asked after a moment.

“I’m still not exactly happy with ya’ blindsidin’ me in there like ya’ did,” he returned.

“Would it help if I apologized?” I asked.

“Right now? Not much. Later, prob’ly.”

“I can live with that,” I said. “So can we get back to the business at hand?”

He gave me a long, hard look then rubbed his chin with the back of his hand before pointing a finger at me. “Can ya’ do this without Felicity here ta’ nail your foot ta’ the floor?”

“Yeah, I should be okay.”

“Don’t try ta’ snow me.”

“I’m not,” I answered with genuine sincerity. “We’re not talking about channeling a spirit here, just a bit of interactive hypnosis. There really shouldn’t be a big problem.”

“What if the stuff she remembers is graphic? Couldn’t that be a problem?”

“It probably will be graphic,” I conceded. “But apparently not violent. She’s alive and she obviously wasn’t tortured or anything, so it should be okay.”

“Nothin’ funky?”

“Well,” I shrugged as I spoke, “depending on what I see, it could get a little spooky.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he nodded. “Better let me fill McLaughlin in before this goes any farther.”

“So you’re actually going to let me try it my way?”

“I dunno yet,” he said. “Lemme think about it.”

Detective McLaughlin was only inches from colliding with us as we entered through the squad room door on our way back to the interview room. There was an almost wild look contorting her face, and the level of energy she was exuding was physically palpable.

“Whoa!” Ben jumped back, juggling a pair of hot coffees. He had stuffed the unopened can of soda into his pocket. “Where’s the fire?”

“Forget about Hodges,” Charlee announced the matter-of-fact statement. “She’s gone.”

“Do what?” Ben exclaimed. “Whaddaya mean gone?”

“She left,” she continued, obviously worked up about something. “You guys weren’t gone for two minutes, and she bolted. Said she was sorry, but all she wanted to do is tell me she remembered something about a dress.”

“It wasn’t because of me was it?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” she spoke in a rapid fire staccato, her voice building into a near frenzy. “She was still way too spooked when she showed up. I’m surprised she stayed as long as she did to be honest. But anyway, that’s not important.”

“Not important? But…” Ben started to object.

“No, listen to me.” Charlee shook her head vigorously and gestured. “I just now got off the phone with University Hospital. They’ve got a thirty-two-year-old blonde rape victim sitting in Emergency right now.”

Ben stopped cold and looked at her. “You pretty sure it’s our guy?”

“Can’t be positive, but according to the doc, her neck is bruised up, and she can’t remember where she’s been since Saturday night.”

Ben quickly looked around for a place to dispose of the drinks he was carrying. Finding none, he shoved the cups of coffee into the hands of a uniformed officer who was walking past, giving no explanation other than a muttered, “Here. Merry Christmas.”

His attention remained focused on Charlee, and I could almost feel the surge of adrenalin that kicked into him as he ramped up to her level. We were already hurrying through the sex crimes squad room as he spoke, “Get the CSU on the horn now. Tell ‘em ya’ need an evidence team at this woman’s residence immediately if not sooner. We need ta’ hit this before anyone can screw with the scene.”

“Already done,” she answered as we jogged.

“Did they tell ya’ who’s runnin it?”

“No.”

“Call ‘em back and tell ‘em ya’ want Murv. I don’t care if they hafta drag his ass outta the shower or what. We want the best on this, and I’d almost swear that guy could lift a print off a fuckin’ puddle of water if he had to.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll go check in upstairs and let ‘em know what’s up, then we’ll meet you out back. I’ll drive.”

“See you in ten,” she told us as she peeled off toward her desk.

“Make it five,” Ben called after her.

I had to break into a near run to keep up with my friend as he hooked around the desks and shouldered open the door leading to the stairs.

“Why are we in such a rush,” I asked, following him through into the stairwell but lagging behind as he took the stairs two at a time.

“Because I wanna get ya’ together with the victim while everything’s still fresh,” he said.

“This is kind of an about-face. I thought you were still a bit leery about all that.”

“Oh, I am,” he called down. “I’m just taking my turn.”

“What?”

“My turn,” he repeated, his voice starting to fade in the distance as it echoed from the concrete walls. “You said it was my turn ta’ trust ya’ for a change. Well, I’m gonna trust ya’ ta’ figure out who the sick asshole is that’s doin’ this.”

He had already disappeared from view, and I could hear the creak of the door slowly closing behind him. I forged on, and finally topping the first flight of stairs, I rounded the landing and started up the next set, only to halt dead in my tracks.

Seated on the top stair was a blonde in her early twenties, clad in a cheerleader’s uniform. Her arms were crossed, and she was leaning forward with them resting on her knees. The toes of her unnaturally white sneakers pointed slightly in toward one another, and she was staring at me quizzically.

After a brief interval of motionlessness, her mouth began to move. A short measure later, completely out of sync with her lips, words began glancing from the walls with a phase-shifted quality that I’d come to expect from the earthly manifestations of spirits.

I’m dead, She’s dead.

D-E-A-D, dead.

She’s dead, I’m dead.

D-E-A-D, dead.

Her head bobbed back and forth in time with the ditty as she spoke, making the lack of synchronization between the movement of her mouth and the words just that much more disconcerting. Her eyes remained locked with mine, unblinking, and I could do nothing more than return the stare.

The past two days of quiet had lulled me into a sense of complacency where such ethereal visits were concerned, and her sudden appearance here took me by surprise, especially since I was used to hearing the dead, not necessarily seeing them. At least not while I was awake.

I simply stood there, unsure of what to say.

She continued the piece of morose poetry, picking up the disharmonious pace as she went.

Rowan, Rowan, he’s our man!

If he can’t do it, nobody can!

She’s dead, I’m dead, what to do?

Find the killer, we’re counting on you!

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

Catch the killer, don’t let him go.

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

Make him suffer, don’t you know.

If he screams, well we don’t care,