《Weirds Eye》 Ch. 1-1 - Sordid Homecoming TIME SEEMED FICKLE TONIGHT, especially with the lack of light in the hallway, but judging by the amount of cigarette ash caked around my feet, I must¡¯ve been standing outside my office for a little over an hour. It was quiet, save for the low angry buzz-thrum of the broken light fixture a few feet down near the stairway window. I''d been out of town for a while, chasing old wives'' tales up north across the border in Vancouver. I was meant to only be gone for a month, but rumors about red-eyed devils and speaking shadows had surfaced while I was poking around, of things twisted and turned, that had me extending the stay out of town for an added three weeks. Of course it all just ended up being hokum, but it paid to be diligent these days. These were monstrous times after all. The drive back home after a month of nothing had been an odd six hours, with the stink of sweat and car leather having come to cling to my skin like a rancid new coat so thick I wasn''t sure a hot shower could get me to take it off again. Going up the stairwell earlier I ran into old Mrs. Flick out of apartment 23; at first I thought it may have been the smell of me that left her screaming for Christ and scrabbling back to her door, but now¡­ now I wasn¡¯t too sure. I took one final drag, the taste bittersweet: just the way I liked them. But this was my last smoke and I was all out of excuses. I ground what little was left of my Cocky beneath my heel and wiped the ash from my collar. Time to say hello. Rope had been unceremoniously strung across the closed door to my office. From it dangled a sign, wooden and worn with extensive use. "NSPD SCENE OF CRIME - TRESPASS ILLEGAL AND WILL BE MET WITH GRAVE LEGAL PUNISHMENT". As good a welcome back home as any. I used my old army knife to cut through the rope, the sign clattering on the floor breaking the silence that had crept up on me for the past hour. Later, much later, I would come to attribute an almost religious significance to that old piece of rope: a boundary broken, a line crossed. The fraying demarcation between ¡®before¡¯ and ¡®after¡¯. So callously, foolishly cut. Past the rope I saw Horus'' unblinking, exotic eye vaguely backlit against the murky glass of the door. Beneath it: "Paixley & Co. Weirds Eye Investigations". I tried the handle. Unlocked. The door creaked open, blanket darkness painting the familiar outlines of my office. I fumbled for the light switch to my right, bathing the interior in a soft, warm glow. Whatever I¡¯d been expecting, it wasn¡¯t this. The scene was mayhem, or what was left of it at least. A few specks of dried blood were usually signs of a good party in my book, but the silhouetted chalk outline beside my desk - the latter distinctly *not* in the position where I had left it the last time I was here - implied that the type of red spilled here recently hadn¡¯t been the drinking kind. That explained both the sign and the smell of lingering murder. My cabinets to the left looked ransacked, a few loose sheaves of paper on the floor being toyed with by the wind coming in from the open window on the other side of the desk. It looked like someone had violently shoved it to the side, strewing my possessions across the room at one point, but someone afterwards had taken the bare minimum of time to place them back on it. The Blues? I stepped inside for a closer look. To my right, the couch doubling as my bed looked relatively untouched, despite the rest of my office looking the victim of a hurricane. I ignored the chalk outline on the ground for now, stepping over it to reach for the window. Despite the summertime, the midnight wind blew in cold from the west.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Having shut it, images flashed through my mind, of Nancy¡¯s righteous rage, chucking her bible at my head, missing, hitting the glass. The crunch of shards days after. I had had the pane replaced before I left town and kept the exorbitant bill to prove it. So why were there cracks in the window? I counted three distinct points of impact on the outside glass that were not there before I had left town, spidery tendrils bleeding across the outside surface. I pressed my thumb against the points of impact from the inside, exerting pressure. No give. Birds would¡¯ve done more damage. The cracks would¡¯ve been bigger at least. I opened the window again carefully, stuck my head in the cold to look outside. I saw a dimly lit cityscape defying somnolence. In the far distance blazed the neon signs of downtown New Seattle, calling all comers, all night, every night. Closer by I saw dark streets light-speckled by mystical street lamps. Closer still, right outside my window however, I saw only black. The street lamp that used to be only a few feet opposite my window wasn¡¯t turned on. Hmm. I shut the window again and spotted a pair of drinking glasses on my desk. They seemed to have survived the original onslaught of whatever had transpired here. I picked one up, inspecting it: clean. A travesty. The other one had the tell-tale smell of fruity sweet. Holding it up to the light, I saw a mottled trace of an amber residue coating the bottom. Peaches? Something I¡¯d only drink if it was free. Two glasses, only one poured. I moved over to my next worry, the safe in the corner of my office. I sped on over and knelt beside it, reaching for the combination lock. My blood ran cold, seeing a sliver of light hug the contours of one of its corners a bit more intimately than I was used to seeing. Someone had left it open. I jerked the door open further. My army Colt was gone. A pang of pain pinched me in the soul, feeling like an old friend had been taken from me. I reached inside the safe on touch. Nothing. The Peruvians were gone, too. Those would be a lot harder to replace on short notice. Damn it. Checking the rest of the shelves, most everything of value that I had inside was gone. My savings, my works, everything except what looked to be my war medals seemed to be missing. I looked around my office again, trying to get a read on the situation. Had someone robbed me while I was gone, managed to get into my safe? But why take everything but my medals? There was real gold and silver in these, even if you couldn¡¯t find a way to pawn them off on the streets you could smelt them down and sell what was left for a lot more money than what I knew I had kept in my safe. I glanced towards the chalk outline again, remembering my priorities. Looking about further, my eyes fell on the calendar hanging from the back wall. Something didn¡¯t look right. I stood up, walked over towards it. The year read 1952, the month, July. Strange. I left in early May. It should¡¯ve been void of anything other than Liza¡¯s birthday on the 11th of June. No man makes appointments in his own absence, right? And yet scraping my eye over the calendar¡¯s contents of the past few weeks when I knew I was out of town, I saw that someone had been marking the whiling of days with a combination of numbers on dates, although there didn¡¯t appear to be any rhyme or reason to them. The first one was on June 2nd, Monday, 53, crossed out. June 5th, Thursday, 17, crossed out. Hang on. June 9th, Sunday. Not a number this time, but a word. A name? Cleo, accompanied by a time and a symbol I couldn¡¯t quite make out the meaning of: ?. Looking further down the entries, I saw more crossed out numbers appear at random throughout the week, but the same entry for Cleo repeating itself every following Sunday for the rest of the month of June. A steady appointment every Sunday at 8:30 PM. I reached behind me for the phone askew on the desk, opposite where I liked to keep it, then dialed the first number that came to mind. Silence, no pulse. Disconnected from service. What the hell was going on? Dead receiver on my ear, I took one last look around my office to see if I may have missed anything. If I had, it would have to wait for daylight. I put the receiver back on its stand, then finally took the time to inspect the chalk silhouette just behind the desk, kneeling down beside it. Dried life¡¯s red ink had been scattered around the wooden floorboards of my office, spelling the story of a dark deed done. In the midst of it all, demarcated with cheap chalk, the hollow outline of a person. I knew the Blues tended to let reporters snap shots of crime scene bodies if they got wind of one, but whatever had happened here must¡¯ve left the body in a pretty bad shape. They usually only went through the effort of outlining a silhouette if the body was in a deplorable condition, unfit for pictures in the evening newspaper. Can¡¯t upset people¡¯s dinner. Judging from the outline, the victim must¡¯ve been male, five-ten, slightly overweight. Funny. Sounded familiar. Ch. 1-2 - Meet the Dog HALF AN HOUR LATER I was down by my building¡¯s reception desk, sorely missing my gun. Mr. Vanruyt was the building¡¯s superintendent, an overweight, balding man in his late 50s whose droopy facial features reminded me of an old bloodhound who¡¯d long since made his bed. Despite the late hour I found him sitting behind his desk in his cramped office on the ground floor of my apartment building, last week¡¯s headlines held up in his hands. I had walked into his office almost a minute ago but he hadn¡¯t bothered to acknowledge my presence, but I knew I got his attention the second I stepped in: his eyes hadn¡¯t moved an inch from page two. ¡°Anything good?¡± I asked, breaking the silence. The man had never liked me much, on account of me bringing in too much strange foot traffic into the building for his liking, and on account of him being a bastard. Vanruyt nudged the paper up slightly, showing off the headlines of last Tuesday¡¯s New Seattle Tribune: SAUCERS SEEN OVER WASHINGTON. Reports of a swarm of UFOs over the capital. ¡°Bunch of nonsense.¡± He stated simply, flipping through to the next page. ¡°Little green men don¡¯t exist.¡± I nodded. He was right about that. Not the otherworldly kind at least. Vanruyt adjusted the lamp next to him to give himself better reading light, changing the angle of the lampshade away from his face. The shadows around his droopy features seemed to tighten in the dark as a result, reminding me less of a bloodhound and more of a mastiff. ¡°Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be back here.¡± He said. ¡°On account of all the mess upstairs, I mean.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here. What happened up there? I was gone for a few weeks and I came back to¡­ what? It looked like the aftermath of a German soiree up there.¡± ¡°Did you say you just came back?¡± ¡°Came in just a few hours ago, yes, back down out of Vancouver. I told you before I left, didn¡¯t I? That I''d be gone for a few weeks.¡± Vanruyt tilted his head just a tad, like a dog hearing something strange. He wet his thumb and flipped to another page, one dominated by an advertisement touting the superiority of the American military. His eyes however, kept still where they were. ¡°You¡¯re the dick, aren¡¯t you? Murder, sir.¡± Vanruyt paused, flipped another page, then continued. ¡°Someone got shot in the head, leaving a mile of a mess behind them. I overheard the Blues saying the body was left to rot up there for about a week before it got found. I think the official term they used for what was left of his face was ¡®smithereens¡¯.¡± Murder. Considering what I saw back up in my office, that fact obviously didn''t surprise me. But the way Vanruyt seemed to be acting did. He seemed more cagey than usual. ¡°Who was it that kicked it? And any idea how they got inside my office? I noticed the lock wasn¡¯t busted.¡± I asked. Rather than replying, Vanruyt shifted in his seat, the wooden chair that barely supported his weight groaning in protest, and opened up one of the drawers of his desk. He took out a wadded up scrap of paper, uncrumpled it with one hand, then slid it over the desk towards me. I recognized the chicken scratch, just like I recognized the fact that Vanruyt was purposefully avoiding answering my questions. ¡°This from Lloyds?¡± I asked, looking over the contents of the note. I didn¡¯t recognize the phone number, just that it was from a landline downtown. ¡°Sergeant Lloyds left that number behind, told me to give it to you just in case you came calling. Seemed silly to me, but here you are. You¡¯re fortunate I didn¡¯t throw it out.¡± ¡°Lucky me.¡± I said, sliding the paper in my coat pocket. ¡°Can I use your phone?¡± ¡°Certainly, sir. I¡¯ll add it to last month¡¯s rent.¡± ¡°Last month? I settled up my rent in advance before I left.¡± Vanruyt finally looked up at me from his paper, blood-shot eyes turned into greedy beads in the dark. ¡°You settled up your rent for the month of June, sir. Today¡¯s July seventeenth, with rent being at the start of the month.¡± Damn it. I knew I shouldn¡¯t have overstayed my welcome in Vancouver as long as I did. But I didn¡¯t want to take another chance and end up losing. Again. ¡°That¡¯ll be ten cents for a local call, fifty for out of state for the operator. And there¡¯s the added charge for being late with the rent, coming to about a buck a day for each day past the first of the month.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Vanruyt¡¯s eyes slid on over to the clock hanging on the wall. ¡°And I¡¯ll be sure to add another dollar to the tally in about an hour. Unless, of course, you can settle up by midnight?¡± Murder and money mentioned in the same minute. Like I said: a bastard. I gritted my teeth. ¡°I didn¡¯t think so.¡± Vanruyt nodded mercilessly, turning back down to his paper. ¡°Just make sure you settle up the bill before the end of the week or I¡¯ll have to look for a new tenant.¡± ¡°What about my office?¡± I asked. ¡°There¡¯s still blood all over the place.¡± Vanruyt shrugged, making a vague motion towards the phone on the wall. ¡°Sergeant Lloyds told me not to touch the place until I got told otherwise, so I haven¡¯t had the chance to get anything done of the sort. Get the green from the Blues and I¡¯ll get right on adding the cleaner¡¯s tab to your unsettled tab.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it? Someone gets murdered in my office and I¡¯m the one that¡¯s left with the bill?¡± ¡°It¡¯s the way of the world, isn¡¯t it?¡± said Vanruyt, eyes back on his old news. ¡°What did you expect, a welcome basket? It¡¯s tough luck but at the end of the day you agreed to my lease, sir. I¡¯m just trying to make due somewhere south of the sun. If you don¡¯t like it, you can find yourself another place that¡¯s dandy with allowing a place of work operating out of a residential building. ¡± Not something I was looking forward to. For all his flaws (most of them cardinal sins), Vanruyt¡¯s unashamed greed had proven useful, if not dependable, many times before, the least of which was allowing me to slip him an extra twenty a month to allow clients up on the sly, saving me the hassle of needing an actual registered office elsewhere. I thought of the emptied safe in my office, nothing in it left but my medals. I¡¯d have to hit the bank early in the morning, first thing. I walked over to the phone by the wall, which hung old and quiet. ¡°Fine.¡± Was all I could get past clenched teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a lengthier reply. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number Lloyds left me for a local landline, the dial tone screeching in my ear. ¡°On the by, my landline looks to have been shut off for some reason. You wouldn¡¯t happen to know anything about that, would you?¡± I asked, trying to sound casually indifferent. ¡°Has it?¡± Vanruyt replied, seeming unsurprised. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him having reached the last page of his paper, closing it, refolding it, then making the bizarre decision to start reading it again from the front. The headline SAUCERS SEEN OVER WASHINGTON screamed at me again. ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to have someone come in and take a look early next week.¡± After I pay up first, of course, is what he meant by that. *click* The dial tone voided to silence and I could hear someone breathing on the other end. ¡°Hello? Lloyds? Is that you? It¡¯s me-¡± There was the sudden sound of a cymbal crashing right in my ear, making me wince. Hung up on, with the handheld being slammed on the cradle on the other end. Asshole. I redialed, somewhat more forcefully this time, lamenting another lost ten cents down the drain. *click* ¡°Lloyds? It¡¯s me, Paixley, don¡¯t hang-¡± ¡°You son of a bitch,¡± interrupted a familiar voice, crackling from the other end. ¡°I thought it was some sort of sick joke. Good to hear from you, pal. You¡¯re the only mutt I know that would try calling me so late twice.¡± ¡°Likewise. Now hear me out, I¡¯ve been out of town for a hot second and I come back to--to I don¡¯t know what. Do you have any--" ¡°It¡¯s been a real doozy up here. You¡¯ve been gone for so long, I thought you were dead.¡± ¡°No, I''m still breathing. Can you--¡± ¡°Yeah, I can hear it, you sound like a walrus on his deathbed. Listen, it¡¯s good you called. I don¡¯t want to say too much over the line ¡®cause of them Commies but you should meet me tonight by Southwest, as soon as possible. Fastest I can be there from here is in an hour. I¡¯ll wait for you there.¡± He paused, then added: ¡°And bring smokes. I¡¯m all out.¡± "Wait, I--" Another crash of a cymbal. Brutally hung up on again, my ear left ringing from the sound. I was left staring at the wall ahead of me in silence, the screech of the dial tone back in my ear. Not even a word in edgewise. I hung the receiver back up, then adjusted my hat, bringing the brim low. ¡°Thanks for the call.¡± I said to Vanruyt in passing. I didn¡¯t get a reply back, but I could feel his gaze on my back on my way out the door. Southwest precinct, huh? Not a long drive from here, not if you just count the distance. But the bad memories go on for miles. The thought of going back there made me feel like a ghost, spooking back to his old haunt. Moments later my feet hit sticky pavement just outside my apartment building. New Seattle. A city of secrets. Half a million clumped up souls never in a talking mood, where the people were as gray as the buildings they lived in, each basement tending to hide little hints of horror. Despite the ceaselessness of the city, wakeful and busy even in the quiet of night, the air in the city was a thick summer fog, feeling pickled and still, as if the smoke hadn¡¯t been aired out of a room after the previous night¡¯s party. It was the kind of air that felt easy enough to choke on, each breath proving laborious. I thought of the dried bloodstains surrounding the chalk outline in my office, counting them each individually in my head. Each one reverberated through my skull like a drumbeat of war. I swallowed rising bile, determined to soldier on. Time to move. Ch. 2-1 - Sleepless in New Seattle SUMMER WAS IN FULL SWING, but there was somehow never any lingering heat in New Seattle once the sun went down, as if the mortar and the bricks that held the city together couldn¡¯t wait to go back to being cold and lifeless once the lights were out. After a short detour to Deering''s, I¡¯d been driving my way downtown, lonely on my way, for the past half an hour. I passed a few people and even fewer cars, which both surprised me and didn¡¯t. Tonight felt like a night where it didn¡¯t seem right to stay out on the wrong side of the sun. My Buick passed through the hazy fog of the night like a ship lost at sea. A midnight drive to downtown New Seattle was a journey straight out of a twisted fairytale, the kind where sailors rarely make it back to shore, despite their loved ones¡¯ prayers back home and the lucky charms they always kept abreast. I left home with neither. So, really, what chance did I have? I stopped at the crossroads at Fifth¡¯s, just on the cusp that was considered the city¡¯s center. The road ahead was quiet of traffic. I kept the engine running, hot and noisy. Dead cars lined the one-way street to either side and although I couldn¡¯t see anyone, I could hear the sounds of poor people at play, jazz music and cheap laughter coming from the block over. Even castaways had their fun. I looked down at my hands, clenched tightly around the steering wheel. I noticed my knuckles were almost sheet-white from the iron grip I hadn¡¯t even realized I was holding, shaking from the strain. I tried to release the tension, to relax my palms, but found I couldn¡¯t. The sensation of unease that had been growing in my gut all night had turned physical and I knew it wasn¡¯t the running engine that had my digits tremoring. I could feel it in my fingers and I could feel it in my bones, this buzzing, continuous thrumming, subtle but relentless in its pitch. It was that same feeling I remembered having back during the war, those twinges in my gut, that rattling in my bones, moments before the mortar shells would hit, even before the distant sounds of the beginning cannonade had reached us. It felt like some deep-seated, primal instinct, an ancient intuition geared towards self-preservation and survival at any cost. It felt like it was my body warning me to get going, to get away, to get out of the foxhole. To run, run, never stop running. I¡¯d felt it sometimes when I was with Nancy, too. The boys in my unit laughed at me and called me a fool the first time I ran out on them to switch to another foxhole over because I had a bad feeling. Then they called me lucky the second time and gave me a medal that never felt earned. The third time they didn¡¯t call me anything. They just listened when I said it was time to go. "You okay there, Sal?" What? "Give me your weapon, Sal." "W-what?" I stammered, opening up my eyes. The light of the sun was harsh, painful to look at. Why? It hadn''t been, just a minute ago. I scrunched my eyes almost shut, squeezing them together against the glare of the day. I felt the wet of tears at the corners of my eyes welling up, looking up to the voice. God, it was painful. "Your gun, Sal. The rifle. Give it to me." said the man. I had a hard time placing the name of a face I was more than sure I knew quite well. The man''s eyes were wide, wider than I could ever remember them seeing, his face covered in grime and red. It took me a moment to realize that it was blood, dripping from his face and onto mine. I couldn''t tell whose blood it was, but it didn''t seem to be either of ours. The man was looming over me as I was lying on my back. His breathing was quick and shallow and, for some reason, raspy. Mason. That was it. Paddy J. Mason. He''d never told us what the J stood for. I remember putting a dollar in the pot that it''d be Jebediah. "Please, Sal. Your gun! Come on, buddy, give me the goddamned gun. Mine''s shot to shit and they''re coming, Sal. They''re coming and you need to get up. You need to get up and you need to give me the goddamned gun so I can shoot some of these goddamned krauts." I became aware of the sounds of gunfire. Guns and fire. Fire. It wasn''t sunlight that had me tearing up, making it hard to see past the edge of the hole we were dug in, but the searing sight of flames, licking the edge of my vision, burning my retinas. I looked down at my hands, the Garand in my grip, clutched to my chest as if it were the only thing left in the worth clinging on to. I saw Mason''s shaking fingers desperately trying to edge their way past mine, trying to wrest the gun away from me.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Sal, god-GODDAMN it, if you don''t give me that gun I''m going to cut off your goddamned fingers, you hear me?" I saw Mason''s fingers pull back, then heard the sound of steel rattling against leather and knew it had to be the sound of Mason''s knife being drawn. I don''t know why that scared me, but it did. Did I really care that much about my fingers? I saw mine relax slightly, but never stop shaking. Almost immediately, Paddy tore the Garand from my grip and I felt him roughly climb over and past me, positioning himself to fire past the rim of the hole we were dug in to. In the wake of my rifle''s grip I was left feeling hollow in more than just my hands. The sudden sound of gunfire directly above me felt comforting for some reason. Hot, empty shells started hitting me on the side of the head and I concluded I wasn''t wearing my helmet. The daze was wearing off. I looked around the foxhole for the first time and realized it had gotten a lot bigger. I saw the wet ruin of what was left of corporal Hammond, who didn¡¯t listen. I then heard Mason scream, screaming over the sound of his own gunfire, something about krauts and shells and The sudden car horn coming from behind me was a brutal wakeup call to something I''d rather not have answered, shocking me back to where I¡¯d been. I felt disoriented for a moment, then remembered where I was, my fingers still white. I acclimated back to my surroundings, my car, the wheel, the seat, and became aware of my skin, of the filth that caked it and the sweat that stuck to it, and how it interacted unpleasantly with the dark camel coat I was wearing, like gritty grains of sand rolling up and down my back whenever I moved an inch. I cranked down the window and stuck my head out for a breath of fresh air, then waved an apology at the car stuck behind. "Sorry, pal." I called out. I waited for a response for courtesy''s sake and got none. "You have a good one." I added, pulling my head back in. I ignored the feel of sand on my back and ground my foot down onto the pedal. I took a left down Fifth, away from the music, the laughter, the people. The car in my rearview mirror slinked up to the spot I''d just been in and lingered there for a little too long considering the lack of traffic. Again I felt my gut grimacing, warning me. I eased up on the gas, locking eyes on the other car''s lamplights. I''d almost gotten to a second standstill in the middle of the road, before I saw the other car inch up, then make a slow turn right, opposite the way I was going. Left alone again on the road. A ship adrift once more. Good. The fog seemed to have grown even thicker during my short time down memory lane. Old buildings shrouded in mist, once uniform and white like a cheerleader¡¯s teeth, had now grown crooked over the years, showing me large, lunatic smiles on each corner I sailed past. The shadows cast by the street lamp lights were the shapes of sharks on the prowl in dark waters. I¡¯d never felt closer to being chum bait. The nearer I got to downtown, the more I couldn¡¯t help shake the feeling that I was getting closer and closer to a whirlpool I¡¯d have no way of getting out of. And yet I kept steady the course, smoothly sailing to my destination, obliging the pull of something I didn¡¯t quite fully understand. I took another left and made my way onto Third. Unlike in most other great cities of America, New Seattle¡¯s center was anything but. In New Seattle, businesses and entertainment had always preferred to open up at the fringes of the city whenever it expanded, preferring the new sheen of the freshly formed rather than the remnants of the building-bones at the center of the city left behind after the Great Seattle Fire of 1889. People not from the place read ¡®downtown¡¯ in the classifieds and think it¡¯s historically significant, never wondering why the home princes are dimes on the dollar compared to any of the other metropolises. ¡°It¡¯s the deal of a lifetime, easy living in one of America¡¯s greatest cities!¡± Within months they¡¯re usually willing to pay triple rent just to move into the nearest doghouse that isn¡¯t anywhere between First and Third. The heart of old Seattle had been left to rot, because nobody wanted to deal with the ghosts that were left to linger. Sure, few ever heard them and even fewer ever saw them, but almost everyone that spent any significant time in downtown New Seattle had felt them. Almost a century after the Fire the dead still creeped and lingered, softly screaming just beyond the edge of most people¡¯s hearing for help to put out flames that hadn¡¯t burned in almost a century, unable to find their way past the Din. I was pretty sure that was the reason why big band music had always been so popular in New Seattle. Nothing seemed to drive away the sounds of the dead like a good drumbeat, something the tribes in Africa learned long ago. My driving was slow, having to navigate through the fog that blanketed Third''s realm, and for fear of hitting a pothole in the road that would send me catapulting, swimming with the sharks. I felt the tension in my body increasing by a sliver of fraction each time my car passed over an unfirm cobblestone during the last stretch of way. Not for the first time I wondered where all my taxpayer¡¯s money went. Surely at some point all that extra cash burning in the city commissioner¡¯s pockets should have formed a hole or two by now, enough to pay for asphalt roads? By the time I stepped out of the car my neck was stiff, my back was sore, and one of my teeth felt like it was on the verge of cracking. And I still hadn¡¯t had the chance to shower. Luckily, Lloyds was the type of man who thought personal hygiene was a luxury a hard-working man could ill afford. I placed a hand on the engine hood and already felt it cool faster than I would¡¯ve liked or even thought possible. I straightened my coat, fixed my hat, then slid a hand into my pocket, fingering the fresh edge of an unopened pack of Cockies like it was holy writ. It had cost me an arm and a leg from that midnight-peddler off of Deering¡¯s and the temptation was great, especially at this cold of night, but the man asked for smokes, and in the case of Lloyds that never meant secondhand. I stepped out into the fog and left the shadow of my Buick behind. Ch. 2.2 - Dead NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME THAT NIGHT, I felt like I was doomed to be somebody else¡¯s dinner. The New Seattle Southwest Precinct looked monstrous in the still of the dark. From a distance, the two large windows on either side of its mahogany-doored entrance loomed like a madman¡¯s eyes, glinting with the reflection of what little light the nearby streetlight dared to shed in this part of the city. It was watching my coming with hungry anticipation. NSPD Sergeant Alphonse Lloyds was standing on the corner off the side of the building, his sizable frame silhouetted solely by the tip of his cigarette lighting up at my approach. It might as well have been a lighthouse, calling to me in the fog that blanketed the realm. The nearby streetlight seemed miles away in comparison. ¡°Look who showed.¡± said Lloyds. ¡°I was wondering what made the rats go running.¡± ¡°I thought you said you were out of smokes?¡± I replied, fishing out the pack from my coat pocket. Lloyds took one final lengthy drag of his cigarette, before flicking the remainder of it into the nearby gutter, the last embers of it left sputtering. Everything bled to black. ¡°I am now.¡± ¡°Providence provides.¡± I said, tossing him the pack. ¡°Hallelujah.¡± A moment later, Lloyds took a pull from a fresh cigarette, the cherry''s flare giving me a good look at the damage done to him since I saw him last. He had always been a fan of the drink, but the past few months he seemed to have really hit the sauce. Animated, craggy jowls where the razor couldn''t reach stubble and a nose redder than fruit, ripe for bursting. He''d been fighting a losing battle with his hairline for quite a while, but the few tufts remaining seemed like the last company of soldiers left during a war long lost. But his eyes were clear as crystal, measuring the making of me from tip to toe like a butcher might a hefty slab of meat, looking for the prime cut. ¡°Never took you for a godly sort.¡± he said at length, his face accentuated by shadow. Something uncomfortable embered in his eyes, something I couldn¡¯t quite place my finger on. ¡°I¡¯m not anymore.¡± I said. ¡°War?¡± he asked in a self-evident tone. I just nodded. ¡°Same.¡± We stood there for a while brooding as silence crept, reminiscing about all the bad things we did for good reasons. Lloyds sucked down smoke by more than a lungful, then exhaled it to speak in a pitying compassionate voice usually reserved for talking to the terminally ill. ¡°You¡¯re dead, Paixley.¡± Slowly, over the course of illimitable seconds, it began to feel like someone was scraping away the lichen that had come to smother the walls of my brain ever since I came back into town earlier that evening. In the wake of such vacuums, reality seeped in. Like peeling off the crust off an old wound, it felt painful and freeing in equal measure. And then it hit me like the wrong side of a brick. ¡°I¡¯m dead.¡± The words left my lips a statement, not a question. Again.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Flashes of a memory lightninged through my mind of a dimly lit street and a rain-slick road. Fastly approaching headlights and a claxon far, far too late. My chest started aching painfully from the memory of an old impact. That car crashing into me back in ¡®48 should¡¯ve been fatal. It had been fatal. I was declared dead on the scene, half my chest caved in such a way that left most of my organs a soup. It wasn¡¯t until hours later already on my way to the morgue that I showed signs of life. A miracle, they said. I could hear Lloyds asking me something, but it was difficult to understand him over the sound of mortar shells whistling down towards me. No, not a miracle. Just lucky. Lloyd¡¯s lips moved again, the shape of two worms writhing in the smoke of it all. ¡°What?¡± I asked. My voice sounded croaked. ¡°I said: like I told you on the phone, it¡¯s a real doozy. Your landlord found you in your office last week with a bullet to the brain. He phoned the Blues at first then realized his mistake and gave me a call right after, remembering we went way back. I¡¯ve a feeling he was just hoping I could keep the noise down for him.¡± Lloyds was staring into the middle-distance, seeing nothing. ¡°Saw you myself, body full of rot and half your skull like a jigsaw shot around the place. You know, like one of those children¡¯s puzzles.¡± Lloyds took another drag to buy himself some more time to explain and I realized the look I saw in his eyes was one I was intimately familiar with, that of hard memories resurfacing up from grounds thought stamped on tight. ¡°Carlyle and Jacobson were first on the scene still trying to figure out who you were by the time I got there half an hour later. Thicker than spit I tell you, the both of them. Your name was on the damn door.¡± Lloyds lets out a raspy chuckle, bringing us both back to the reality of the night. And you¡¯re certain it was me? I didn¡¯t ask the question out loud, but Lloyd¡¯s must¡¯ve read it in my silence. ¡°It¡¯s hard to believe, I know. But I¡¯m telling you, even with half your head gone, I¡¯d recognize that dumb look on what was left of your face anywhere.¡± he said. I lit up a Cocky of my own and it flared up like a localized conflagration that dispelled the mist but little else, trying damn hard to ignore that deep-seated vibration I felt in my bones. Shaky smoke wisped away from me and I realized that my hands were quaking again. Or maybe they had never stopped. The tobacco on the tongue tasted cheap, like the kind of cheap that came from a bad deal, and my lungs were in revolt, all of a sudden taking offense to the smoke they were always craving. ¡°But I also knew,¡± Lloyds continued, ¡°that something wasn¡¯t right. It never is with you. I spoke to your neighbors, your landlord. I tried Nancy, but she never returned any of my calls.¡± Nancy. Christ. ¡°They mentioned that you¡¯d been acting differently lately. Amicable, friendly. Striking up conversations to chat nicely in the hallway. You know, not *you*.¡± Lloyds paused to ash his dying cigarette. ¡°Then your landlord said something that made me itch in that special place inside the back of my head. He said a few days before I found you quietly rotting that you¡¯d swung by his office and flipped your lid, shouting about wanting your deposit back. That you wanted him to cut all the services to your place and give you the check by the end of that week.¡± That explained the disconnected phone, I thought. ¡°But what really tickled my gums was the way he phrased how you were acting at the time. He said you looked like a hunted animal. Those were his exact words. Like someone had a gun to your temple and was threatening to let the lead fly at any moment.¡± I noticed that Lloyds had stopped smoking altogether, his Cocky having petered down to a stub. He was watching me intensely through the curtain of cigarette haze between us, as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface of my face. My voice was the sound of crunching gravel when I finally spoke up again. ¡°How in the hell is that possible? So, what, my body¡¯s lying in a grave somewhere, kissing dirt?¡± Lloyds shook his head. ¡°No. The second I figured something sour was going on, I had them ice you instead. You¡¯re down at the morgue, kept nice and cold. I had your place locked down and told what¡¯s his name, Van-route?, to not touch any of the bedlam. Wouldn¡¯t have been the first time you came back from the grave, so I figured I¡¯d just wait and see if you¡¯d come calling like a high school sweetheart. Lo and behold." Lloyds cracked a side-grin, but I could feel the suspicion seeping in his behavior. Couldn¡¯t blame him. Not everyday you see a dead man walking. Not in this neighborhood at least. Ch. 2.3 - Man ¡°So, once upon a time there was a dead man walking," I said, "except he ain¡¯t dead: he¡¯s in two places at the same time. Here, and keeping a healthy temperature down at the local stiff-box.¡± ¡°Who knows, you get down there and give yourself a little kiss, might wake yourself up,¡± Lloyds said in an easy-going tone, but his face was still tight with wariness. ¡°True love and all,¡± he added. ¡°Messy,¡± I said, the inside of my mind crackling dangerously like an electrical fire. I had dealt with my fair share of monstrous mysteries during my stint here as a spook detective in New Seattle, but never anything quite as strange as this. ¡°You saw the scene then. You got an idea as to what happened?¡± I asked. ¡°Nothing I¡¯d be willing to put down in an official report,¡± Lloyds replied. ¡°You¡¯re the one that deals with the freak shows. My best bet? A long lost-twin, jealous and vengeful ¡®cause your parents cradled the wrong kid onto the curb and took a bullet that was meant for you.¡± ¡°And your second-best?¡± Lloyds shrugged and even in the near-dark I could see the dandruff snow down from his heavy-set shoulders. ¡°Commie science,¡± he said conspiratorially. ¡°I read in the papers a while back they managed to make a frog out of a baby out in Pennsylvania. Cloning they called it, said they¡¯d be able to make doubles out of people soon enough, called ¡®em replicas. And if some posey-plucking college whizz-kids can do it, well, I don¡¯t see why Ivan couldn¡¯t have figured out a way to do it, too.¡± ¡°Is that what you think? That Red¡¯s smart enough to come up with a way to make a frog-man double out of me? Then what, they blew my skull to puzzle-pieces while I was outta town?¡± ¡°I think,¡± Lloyds leaned in towards me, the cherry-flare of his cigarette casting his features into a mask of suspicion, ¡°that those Commies are desperate to get their hands on some of our science after the war, seeing as how it was our tanks and guns that saved their world from the Krauts.¡± I thought about it, weighing the possibility of it all. ¡°Sounds flimsier than a watered down drink,¡± I said after a moment, glancing up at the precinct¡¯s ravenous window, ¡°and something tells me that you¡¯d bet it all on Red on this one. If you¡¯re thinking that they offed the real Paixley up in my office and that I¡¯m some Soviet kook, you¡¯ve been cooking with too many fumes in that dingy little apartment of yours.¡± My tone of voice fell on all fours, down to a threatening prowl. ¡°So if I hear any of that leave your lips, you better be prepared to lose them.¡± I¡¯d only taken a dime¡¯s worth of drags from my Cocky, but the taste it left behind in my mouth was sour to the point of poison. I crushed the rest of it beneath my heel, my hands digging into my coat pockets as I leveled Lloyds a dangerous stare. ¡°I haven¡¯t had a shower in three days. If that number gets up to four solely because you couldn¡¯t wait another day for an open casket viewing, your body¡¯s going to be taking up space on the slab next to mine down at the morgue. Now show me what you¡¯ve got for me.¡± Lloyds held my gaze for a few tense moments, as if he was judging my words beyond just the merit of their meaning. Then he nodded and I could see some of the tension leave his face. ¡°Had to make sure,¡± he said, half-apologizing, half-dismissive. ¡°Better be sure by now. What gave it away?¡± ¡°No Commie bastard could mimic that subtle charm of yours.¡± ¡°When they use the phrase ¡®red-blooded American¡¯, they¡¯re talking about me.¡± Lloyds let out a sound that was halfway between a choked grunt and a laugh, the sound of it like sandpaper against my eardrums. ¡°As far as the city of New Seattle is concerned, you¡¯re viewing the world from behind permanently closed eyelids and any change to that fact is going to start drawing eyes. And you know what they say about that. You turn heads in New Seattle¡­¡± ¡°You best be prepared to lose your own,¡± I finished for him. ¡°Got it.¡± ¡°Considering someone¡¯s already rubbed you out once,¡± continued Lloyds, ¡°it might be best we keep any rumors of you still breathing between just the two of us.¡± ¡°Going to be hard. I haven¡¯t exactly been a cheap-skate with showing my mug.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Who else knows?¡± asked Lloyds. I thought back on the people that saw me tonight. ¡°Just two,¡± I said. ¡°Vanruyt, my landlord, and Mrs. Flick, who lives on my floor. She saw me coming up the stairwell.¡± ¡°You mean that batty old hag from apartment #23?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one. Take it you¡¯ve kissed?¡± Lloyds grimaced. ¡°Like the French,¡± he said, then dug inside of his coat, producing a file that he waved around as he spoke. ¡°This is why I told you we needed to meet. I mentioned the Italians might have been involved in offing you, which scared the brass something fierce. I¡¯ve more than a hunch that they¡¯re involved in that racket. Captain told me to keep it clean and stop sniffing around too much.¡± Lloyds tapped his drink-engorged nose as he handed me the file. ¡°Lucky for you I¡¯ve had a bad case of clogged sinuses lately. Hard to get the stink out these days.¡± ¡°Like wine on a bride¡¯s whites,¡± I replied knowingly, looking down at the folder of my murder in my hand. It was depressingly thin and yet it felt heavy in my hands, as if there was more weight to it than its mere physical properties could accurately convey. ¡°That¡¯s the only writeup. Brass didn¡¯t allow me to make any copies,¡± said Lloyds. ¡°I think they want to accidentally lose it sometime soon, so I¡¯ll need it back tonight.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t have things go missing without permission at the NSPD,¡± I said as I began reading through its contents. -- At 1052 PM July 9th, dispatch received a call reporting the discovery of what the caller assumed to be a dead body (Person 1) at 165 NW 153rd St, apartment #21. Caller identified himself as Robert Vanruyt (Person 2), manager of the residence and landlord of the victim. Officers Carlyle and Jacobson were dispatched from the New Seattle Southwest precinct to interrogate and survey the potential crime scene, arriving on location at 1109 PM. After securing the area and confirming the presence of a dead body, officers took Vanruyt¡¯s statement. What is stated is in summary and should not be considered verbatim: Vanruyt reported going to the victim¡¯s domicile at approximately 1030 PM July 9th over an issue with late rent payment. He knocked on the door, receiving no response. Vanruyt proceeded to enter the domicile using a master key. Vanruyt claims he did this to leave a note for the victim. Upon entry, Vanruyt turned on the light and made immediate note of the excessive blood pooled on the floor, though he claims he was unable to see the body as vision was obstructed by the victim¡¯s desk. Immediately suspecting foul play, Vanruyt proceeded to immediately leave the apartment to contact the police. Upon preliminary examination of the domicile, officers Carlyle and Jacobson recognized the domicile to be the scene of a crime as they discovered the body of Person 1 and called for immediate backup. Sergeant Lloyds (Homicide and Narcotics) was off-duty nearby and responded to the call, arriving within minutes on the scene. Upon arrival, Sergeant Lloyds affirmed the presence of a dead body and charged officers Carlyle and Jacobson with securing the premises. Examination of the crime scene was cursory due to [REDACTED], with several [REDACTED] being found on the victim¡¯s [REDACTED]. The victim¡¯s body was quickly identified to be that of the forty-seven years-old Salvatore Paixley, a local private investigator. Alcohol and drinking glasses suggest the victim had been drinking alone at or around the time of his death. Cause of death was a singular gunshot through the front of his head, entering anterior and below the left eye. No bullet remains were found on the premises, indicating the bullet was likely still lodged inside the victim¡¯s skull. Investigation of the domicile itself indicated the likely cause of death to be suicide, as all the windows were closed and the door locked from within, but upon further interviewing Vanruyt amended his original statement to include the fact that he closed an open window in his original foray inside the domicile. When asked about this, Vanruyt indicated he closed this on account of a heavy draft. Of interest was the state of the safe located in the corner of the domicile which was found to be open and unlocked. Any semblance of money or valuables appeared to be missing, although a collection of war memorabilia and an as-of-yet unidentified manuscript were found within. Cursory examination of the victim''s body revealed the presence of a concealed and loaded gun within the victim''s coat pocket, identified as a Nagant M1895, a Russian small arms revolver. As the victim was a veteran of the war, it is believed he may have brought it back as a souvenir. The weapon appeared to not have been fired in some time, excluding it as a potential weapon used in the scene of the crime. At this point, Sergeant Lloyds entertained the possibility of a homicide, with robbery as a potential motive. The state of the decomposing body and documents present in the domicile suggest that the likely date of death was July 4th, although [REDACTED] with which the [REDACTED]. Questioning the victim¡¯s neighbors, they reported to have neither heard nor seen any sign of unusual disturbances that could not have been attributed to the city-sanctioned usage of fireworks until past the time of midnight on said date. The last person to report seeing the victim alive was a local resident in the building by the name of Anne Goodie (Person 3), who mentioned having seen the victim sometime around 0800 PM during the evening of July 4th. Goodie reported to have met the victim in the stairwell as she was descending the stairs and he ascending, indicating that he was likely en route to his domicile. -- The rest of the report was little more than the remnants of a further fairytale gone bad. The redacted sections were the work of someone told to paint a layer of ignorant-white over dark details: Lloyds being ordered by the brass to keep it clean. The last thing that caught my eye was a physical description of the body. Male, 5¡¯11, age-range 40-50, with gray-black hair and brown eyes. Medium build. I thought back to the silhouette drawn in chalk on the floor of my office. No wonder it looked familiar. Ch. 2.4 - Walking ¡°Says here they found a Red¡¯s revolver?¡± I asked as I jotted down some key notes from the documents into my own pad. ¡°Small piece,¡± Lloyds nodded, blowing smoke unceremoniously at my face, ¡°still solid for an iron, but it looked hadn¡¯t been fired since what must have been the war. I assume you took it off some rogue Ivan? Buddy of mine got a pair of the type himself, taken from a couple of Commie corporals that were a little too eager about rough-housing with some of the local girls in Berlin.¡± ¡°Yefreytor,¡± I said absentmindedly, running over the details of the folder again. ¡°What?¡± ¡°It¡¯s their word for corporal.¡± Lloyds grunted again, blowing smoke unceremoniously into my face. ¡°Didn¡¯t know you spoke Motherland,¡± Lloyds said, suspicion creeping into his voice again. ¡°I know how to order vodka and six different ways of calling your mother a dog too, if you¡¯re ever up for being tutored. I take my payment in ounces of bourbon. Also, it¡¯s not mine.¡± ¡°What isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°The gun you found on the body. Never owned a Nugent, but I did keep my army piece. A Colt.¡± I tapped on the details of what had been found in the safe in thought. ¡°But it¡¯s not listed here,¡± I said musingly. ¡°So, what? You lost your peacemaker?¡± Lloyds whistled low as he ran a hand across his balding head in thought and for a moment I couldn¡¯t help but wonder why he no longer bothered wearing a hat. He wasn¡¯t doing himself any favors not wearing one, looking the way he did these days. ¡°Looks like.¡± I replied. ¡°Registered?¡± ¡°Not officially. It was left in the wash when I handed in my fatigues back in 1946. I haven¡¯t gotten around to swinging by an army barracks since then. Silly me.¡± ¡°Silly you,¡± Lloyds agreed knowingly. ¡°Report¡¯s in your name,¡± I said. ¡°They got you smushing paper trails these days, huh?¡± Lloyds thumbed over his shoulder at the precinct building. ¡°I¡¯m the only one that knows how to write down here.¡± ¡°Noticed some things were stenciled out in the report. Anything else you think I should know?¡± I asked. Lloyds looked me keen in the eye, settling my gaze with an unsettling one of his own. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°But you¡¯re not going to believe me until you see it for yourself.¡± His left eye twitched unpleasantly as he searched for the words to convey what he¡¯d seen. When he spoke, he spoke in between exhalations of layered cigarette-smoke. ¡°Your skin had sloughed off, already being eaten by maggots,¡± said Lloyds, his tone that of a man who¡¯d seen too much. ¡°Your guts were slimy ribbons leaking soupy shit and the insects were a wet buzz in the air, so thick a curtain I thought I might choke on a lungful of fly. And your brains were *everywhere*, bits on the floor, the desk, the wall. It was the sorest sight I¡¯d seen since the war. But the worst part? The worst part was at first that I wasn¡¯t even realizing what I was seeing, ¡®cause of the complete lack of smell, you see? There you were, rotting like carrion in the summer heat, but I didn¡¯t smell a thing coming off of you.¡± It was an uncomfortable, distressing thing to have someone describe your own guts to you in such vivid detail. "The sight of it all didn''t match with what I knew I had to be smelling. There wasn''t even the whiff of rot. All that sweltering, putrid mess of you all over the place, but the strongest stench in the room was my own cologne," Lloyds finished.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°I''m not sure how I feel about another man having seen my insides. Feels a little too personal,¡± I said. "But if there wasn''t any reek coming off of the body, that''d definitely explain why nobody had complained about any smell in the middle of summer." My eyes ran over the description of the crime scene again. My crime scene. ¡°Saw more of you than I¡¯d ever care to admit,¡± said Lloyds, agreeing. ¡°I had you bagged up quick before the press got there, just to stop them from asking any questions. You ever encountered anything like that before? Corpse with no smell?¡± I shook my head. ¡°No. But all that does is narrow down the possibilities as to what it could be.¡± ¡°It?¡± asked Lloyds, not understanding. ¡°Yes, *it*,¡± I said, nodding. ¡°Whatever''s down at the morgue, it¡¯s some matter of Weird, alright. Even some sort of body-copy of me would have had to have some sort of reek to it. That thing you said about frog-men? It¡¯s real, except it¡¯s not just something either us or the Soviets came up with first. The Krauts have been experimenting with trying to influence the human breeding process since well before the war, trying to create the perfect human specimen. Why do you think that bastard kept on screaming about racial purity all the time? We went there to stop him from messing with things he shouldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I thought we went over there to save the free world.¡± ¡°There can be more than one noble cause as to why a man might pick up a gun.¡± Lloyds watched me for a moment, assessing me like a man might assess a rabid animal. It was obvious from the look in his eyes that he no longer thought I was a communist, but rather a lunatic. His Cocky had ashed to a nub, but despite this he kept it clenched tightly in between the corners of his mouth like an old dog chewing. ¡°It¡¯s fine if you don¡¯t believe me,¡± I said, shrugging off his skepticism as I handed him back the folder. I¡¯d gotten everything out of it that I needed. ¡°Just keep an eye out for two men named Watson and Crick in the papers over the next year or two,¡± I continued. ¡°They¡¯re from across the pond, working on something big that¡¯ll change the world.¡± ¡°Yeah? And what¡¯re they going to do?¡± ¡°They''re going to prove that the biggest difference between you and a banana is the fact that bananas don¡¯t sleep.¡± ¡°And you know this how?¡± ¡°Strange ships tend to carry stranger sailors. I meet a lot of interesting people in my line of work. ¡± ¡°Sounds like insanity.¡± ¡°More insane than having a conversation with a man whose brains you saw splattered across an office floor?¡± That gave him pause. Lloyds kissed his teeth and brought a hand to his eyebrow, rubbing it in consternation. ¡°Look. This is all doing my head in. God¡¯s truth, even if I get the wheels of justice turning properly on this, it¡¯ll be a hell of a time to try and get them turned onto the right track. You know the NSPD, they like their men dirty and their cases cleaned. They¡¯ll want to know why a man declared dead thought it a good idea to get back out of his grave. I wouldn¡¯t put it past the brass to have another bullet put into your brain just to keep the papers pristine for when inspection day comes ¡®round.¡± ¡°Nothing you can chalk up to a mistake? It wouldn¡¯t have been the first time that I¡¯d taken a left turn on my way to the graveyard.¡± Lloyds shook his head. ¡°Not that simple. There¡¯s still an extra body unaccounted for and I signed off on your name being attached to it. Not my best moment, but I didn¡¯t really have a choice with Carlyle and Johnson getting to the scene first.¡± I dug my hands deep into my pockets, my fingers feeling for my pad, my pack of Cockies. All I was missing was the cold comfort of my Colt to get me safely through the next few nights. ¡°Any chance I can swing by the morgue tonight? I want to take a good, long look at myself.¡± I asked. ¡°I¡¯ll ring the coroner,¡± Lloyds replied thoughtfully, ¡°he¡¯s an old friend of mine. Let him know he¡¯s got a shadow swinging by in an hour. He knows not to ask too many questions when I come calling in for favors after midnight.¡± I extended my hand. ¡°Thanks, Lloyds. I owe you.¡± Lloyds gripped my hand firmly, giving me a solid shake. ¡°Looks like you owe me your life.¡± ¡°Something like that, sure,¡± I replied. ¡°And one last thing.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°The report mentioned something about a manuscript found in my safe. You got any idea as to what happened to it?¡± ¡°Probably bagged up as evidence.¡± ¡°Any chance I could get it back?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a rookie swing by in the morning, drop it off in your post. You know Paixley, I don¡¯t envy the burden of your own death.¡± I shrugged and adjusted my hat, making ready to leave. ¡°The way I see it, there¡¯s no cleaner slate than a fresh grave.¡± Lloyds and I stared at one another in the hazy dark of the last light of his cigarette¡¯s dying embers. A moment later he wordlessly turned to walk away, already striking up another Cocky. Smoke played him on his way out, leaving me in the dark to fend for myself. Ch. 3.1 - Mirror Image IF THE DRIVE DOWNTOWN had been me adrift at sea, walking the steps down into the basement of the NSPD morgue felt like I had gone overboard, being pulled down into tarry depths by unimaginable forces beyond my hope to control. Each step down was like another stone being used to line my stomach. My hand reached into my inner coat pocket, feeling for the one thing tonight that might give me a chance to come back up for air. Before the night was through, I was going to get some answers. Stepping forward, the basement tiles were flecked with an uncomfortable array of browns, ochres and blacks, leading up to a man in a stained cutter¡¯s apron apprehensively waiting for me at the end of the hallway, dimly lined by fluorescent light bulbs flickering angry at the dark. The coroner looked like he hadn¡¯t slept in days, unwashed brown hair and dark circles under his eyes implying a man chronically at work. The crooked bend in his back made me believe he was one more unsolved hit-and-run victim away from cutting warm meat instead of cold. We shook hands as I came up to him. His hand was hot and clammy, wet with something more than sweat. ¡°Mr. Gallows I presume?¡± he asked. Gallows. Lloyds always had a twisted sense of humor. ¡°The very same.¡± I said. I saw a look of uncertain recognition in his eyes, as if he¡¯d seen me before but wasn¡¯t sure where to place me. After a moment, he just nodded as he retracted his hand, leaving my hand oily in the wake of his. ¡°The name¡¯s Casey. John Casey. I was told you¡¯d be coming by to take a look at a body.¡± Casey walked over to a nearby desk, picking up a clipboard. He ran a finger down the length of its paper, tapping it on what I saw was my name. ¡°#107F. Salvatore Piero Paixley. Strange name.¡± ¡°Italian, sounds like.¡± I said. ¡°Paixley?¡± ¡°Italian-immigrant. I think.¡± The coroner huh¡¯d, then motioned towards a side-room separated by a medical curtain stained with uncomfortable colors. ¡°He¡¯s laid out for you in there. Last slab.¡± Casey handed me the clipboard and what I noticed was the autopsy report. My autopsy report. ¡°I¡¯ve got work on another body I need to be doing,¡± Casey said as he walked over to a nearby washing basin to clean his hands, ¡°so I can¡¯t help you with anything practical. So if you have any questions, now¡¯s the time to ask before I¡¯m red to the elbows.¡± I skimmed over the contents of the autopsy report while Casey had his back turned to me, then took out my notepad. ¡°You¡¯re the one that did the autopsy?¡± I asked as I flipped through my pad¡¯s pages. ¡°Yes. I got called in for it.¡± Casey replied in a grumbling tone. ¡°On my night off.¡± I looked down at my palm, rubbing the oily residue his hand left on mine between my fingers. The color of it was an off-putting maroon, the smell of it a suspicious saccharine. Memories of Egypt flooded back to me. It took me a moment to place it considering the stuff was hard to come by these days, but the devil¡¯s allure was hard to mistake for anything else once you¡¯ve had a taste of it. Laudanum. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I couldn¡¯t blame him. Sometimes you just needed a little something sweet to get you through the bitterness of another New Seattle night. Besides, this city was a hell of a workload for a coroner. ¡°Anything you think I should know about the body?¡± I asked. Casey turned around with his rinsed hands, wringing his hands in a nearby towel as he spoke. ¡°Everything worth mentioning is in the report.¡± ¡°I meant more along the lines of something¡­ stranger.¡± Casey stopped drying his hands, leveling me with a look I could only describe as professionally suspicious. I could almost sense his hackles rising. He took more care with his next few words than he likely did with most bodies that passed under his knife. ¡°The autopsy on Mr. Paixley was done according to standard procedure. Who was it again that sent you?¡± I raised my palm in apology. ¡°Take it easy, pal. I¡¯m not here because of a foul. Lloyds did.¡± His shoulders calmed again and he exhaled deeply, the tension leaving his face. ¡°Right. I probably should have led with that question.¡± Casey roughly rubbed at his eyes, then blearily blinked his vision back. He threw the towel away and picked up a nearby medical tray. I noticed the scalpels and tools were pristine, neatly laid out in the order he would need them. He values his work more than himself. Interesting. ¡°As for yours,¡± he continued, ¡°the thing that immediately stood out to me as inexplicably peculiar--which is what I¡¯m assuming you¡¯re asking after--was the complete lack of malodorous scents coming from the body. There was the smell of maggots--like ammonia--but little else that I would expect coming from a body that was that far along the stages of decomposition when it was first brought to me.¡± ¡°And you said you performed the autopsy the night it was brought in?¡± I glanced down at my pad, checking the date from Lloyds¡¯ police report. ¡°The night of July twelfth?¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right.¡± ¡°What about any belongings found on his body?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve set up any effects he had on his person by the body in a box. You can look through what he had on him, but,¡± and the coroner¡¯s voice dropped an octave or three lower as he fixed me with a warning look, ¡°I won¡¯t tolerate any stealing. Lloyds and I have an understanding, but the man lying there on that table has already lost his life. I¡¯d rather not see him robbed of anything else.¡± A man with vices, but clear integrity. It was beginning to feel like I was staring in a mirror. A broken one, but a mirror all the same. I extended my hand out for another shake, felt it tightly gripped by his. ¡°Scout¡¯s honor. How long do I have?¡± Casey glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. It was almost three AM. ¡°To be honest,¡± he said as he started walking down the hallway with his tray between his hands, ¡°I would rather you have left already. My work will take me the better part of half an hour. I would rather not see you still after that.¡± ¡°My handsome face will be nothing more than a memory.¡± The moment I said it, I knew that had been the wrong thing to say. Casey paused and glanced back at me over his shoulder as if he had just realized something. As if he just remembered where he¡¯s seen my face before. He looked at me for another moment, before shaking his head slowly from disbelief. ¡°Yes, Mr. Gallows,¡± he said as he continued on his way. ¡°See that you¡¯re gone by the time I am done.¡± I watched Casey walk away until he was gone from sight before I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he had recognized my face because he''d been putting it together last week or maybe he didn''t. Either way, Lloyds was right. I needed to be careful. Someone had tried to murder me and succeeded. The fewer people knew of me not taking up space in the ground, the better a shot I had at getting back at my would-be killer who hadn''t even done me the decency of digging me a hole. I pulled back the medical curtain separating the adjacent mortuary room, revealing half a dozen different tables arranged around a large archaic medical theater. The light was low, but it was just bright enough to make out that the slab at the far back was the only one that wasn¡¯t empty, occupied by a macabre shape hidden by a stained white sheet. I started walking towards it, my stomach an anchor. All my senses sharpened as adrenaline spiked up my awareness as I got closer, my gut not just telling, but screaming for me to get out. It felt like the buzzing in my bones was almost loud enough to drown out the electrical thrum of the ice-boxes that lined and dominated the nearby wall where they kept the rest of the stiffs of the city. Coming up to the table, I simply stared at a familiar silhouette hidden under the cloth. Five-ten, male. Slightly overweight. No longer funny. My mouth had dried up. I swallowed, just barely, and reached out a hand to tear off the sheet. There¡¯s something to be said about seeing the sight of your own corpse laid out before you in gory detail. Surreal. Terrifying. Incomprehensible. Weird.