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goneforfree · 2 years ago

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Archive #7

A ghost can be many things. A memory, lost dreams, whispers in the night. But I know what my ghosts are. They’re the sudden, severed souls of the victims I encounter in every new crime scene. As a detective in homicide, I knew the job came with sleepless nights and endless paperwork, but the supernatural was usually omitted. I can still remember the night of my first encounter. Eight years ago, a child was walking home from school and never reached his destination. After a certain amount of time, a missing child’s case turns into a homicide case very quickly. Witnesses claimed they saw the boy enter a blue sedan, and when my team tracked the car down it wasn’t far, parked at the very same school. As we searched the area, we found the perpetrator. A new substitute teacher from the outskirts of the city. But they couldn’t find the boy. I kept searching, scouring empty classrooms and janitor closets until I looked through a window and saw the boy running in circles around a tree on the playground. I run down and call my team, relief flooding my system because these cases usually always end for the grim. When I reached the tree, the boy was nowhere to be found. Only a freshly dug grave and two little shoelaces sticking up from the dirt.

“Detective! Detective Whitlock!” I stumble out of my reverie, recognizing my underling’s voice, a new hire fresh from college and eager to be out on his first crime scene. The door in my office swung open, “Detective Whitlock, have you been watching the news?” I rub my temples, “Richie I know I told you to either call me detective or Whitlock, but never both. It’s a mouthful to hear every time.” Richie nods his head twice, “Sure thing, boss. But the news-,” I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “The body found on the river. I’m expecting a call any minute.” My underling stirs in his stance as his eyes shift to my phone. I recognize his nervousness instantly, years of questioning witnesses and suspects honing my senses. “Tell me,” I demand. Richie snaps his eyes back up to mine, his mouth slightly agape. His body sighs in defeat, “I overheard from Chief Stacy that you were gonna be left out of this one, boss.” My interest peaks. Stacy always has me take the lead in newsworthy cases like this. Even the smaller hit and run cases I was at least seconded in, just to be thorough. My skills as a detective were always over subpar, to say the least. But the ghosts have given me a bigger success rate than any of my seniors at the time, leading me to evidence and witnesses, resulting in a bigger workload. I guess they want their murder solved just as much as I do. I glance down at my watch. Grabbing my jacket, I take off my tie and hide my badge into my back pocket. I toss the keys to Richie, “Now, which river was it again?” Richie fumbles as he catches the item. “But Detective Whitlock- “ I give him a sharp stare. “Uh, sir. You’re not on the case.” I stretch my arms above my head, hours of hunching over a desk taking a toll. “I’m well aware of that, Richard. But as of two minutes ago, I am no longer on the clock.”

It was the Hans River, I soon found out, where they found the body. A curious place because it was more like a stream than a river, a little too small to have rushing waters or a lot of local animal life. It was a popular spot back when I was in high school because there was a bridge up stream, a perfect height for throwing rocks or makeshift bungee jumping. Despite that, I’ve only visited twice. I wasn’t very popular amongst my peers then, not keen on making friends after being forced into a big move to a new city. Not much has changed, thinking about all the dismissed lunch and party invites from coworkers. I tell myself it’s because I can’t afford small distractions, not when there’s a dead mother trying to show me the murder weapon her husband used or a dead teenager wailing over her own body. The dead take priority over the living.

“Alright, boss. Here we are.” Richie slows the car to a stop just behind a slew of police cars and news vans all parked along near the bank of the river. I shake my head, already noting the sloppily placed boundaries on the crime scene. They should have at least pulled it a couple hundred feet farther from the river in case of footprints or tire tracks. The weather was awful, bleak and grey, a cold front sweeping over the city making me wish I brought my thicker jacket. We walked towards the throng of reporters, my hands shoved into my pockets, and pushed through them until we reach the caution tape. I try to peer through bodies of police until someone roughly puts a hand on my shoulder, slightly pushing me back. “James? Man, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.” I recognize Officer Montez, a street cop I’ve worked with many times. Dependable and follows order well. I’ve requested for him multiple times for those reasons, but I suspect he thinks that makes us friends of sorts, always calling me by my first name. I brush his hand off, now overwhelmed with confusion. “I think I can decide that for myself, Montez. I’m off duty, just a curious bystander.” I spot Chief Inspector Stacy not far off, and with my pride hurt from the blatant omittance from the case, I wave my arms and call out, “Chief Stacy!” Montez quickly darts his head back and forth from us, trying to pull my arms down and quiet me. “Trust me, James. This ain’t a good idea.” The Chief looks my way, his eyes widened behind his lenses before motioning Montez to move me out. Richie starts to protest, but I quickly shut him down, opting to wait for the media to die down before causing a scene. Officer Montez escorts us to one of the police vans. “Just uh, wait here for a minute, man. The Chief’s almost done so he’ll come by and see you soon.” And with another hand on my shoulder, more like a pat this time, Montez walks back into the crowd. I can feel Richie looking at me, waiting for some sort of answer as to why this case is so off limits, until I see a familiar silhouette from a distance. Long black hair tied tightly back, a signature red puffer jacket, and a DSLR resting on her hip. I leave the van, telling my underling to stay there, and a run up to greet her. “Hey! Hey, Ami wait!” My voice came out in a rush, eager for her to turn around. When she does, her face lights up and I have a feeling so does mine.

Ami is a reporter I became familiar with, dare I say almost friends, after being interviewed by her so often in all my cases. She seemed to find my inner workings noteworthy, asking more about the emotional intricacies and connections of my cases rather than the plain facts other reporters salivated over. It wasn’t until our fifth interview where I realized Ami and I went to high school together. She was also rather secluded, her head bent down over a book most of the time. Funny thing about outcasts, we don’t even fit in with each other. The more I saw Ami, the more she intrigued me. She’s of Japanese descent, her parents moving her the States after the earthquake that devastated her city. I finally asked her to lunch one day, interested on why she reports the way she does. I never find myself dwelling on someone that was alive for too long and so I knew there was something about her I needed to figure out. We met at a diner, her choice, and I arrived fifteen minutes early as I always do. Ami arrived right on time, sans red puffer and camera and her hair loose for the first time. She spotted me, smiled, and walked over to sit down. “Hello, James.” Her tone was always soft and barely above a whisper, she talked to you as if she’s telling you a secret. After I indulged her in small talk, understanding that it’s a custom people usually follow to make others feel comfortable, I decided to ask her the question that’s been running through my head. “Why did you become a reporter? It seems to me you’re more fit to be a therapist or guidance counselor.” I flinched after the words left my mouth. This is why you don’t have friends, Whitlock. Ami laughed, “I was waiting for you to ask me that.” She gets a far look in her eyes, like a hundred memories flash through them, staring through me more than at me. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I froze. She’s waiting for my answer, and I hold my breath. “No,” I lie. Ami rested her back against the booth, her arms crossed. “That’s alright, most people don’t. I’ve never seen one, but I know their sadness.” My ears perked, “So you can… feel them?” I asked. Ami shook her head and smiled, like I just said a joke that didn’t land. “After the Tōhoku tsunami, Japan was left in ruins in more ways than one. The number of tragic deaths was felt by the whole country. The day after the tsunami it started to snow and the dead were stuck, frozen in place. As time passed, there were many ghosts that came from the land, seeking loved ones or roaming aimlessly before falling back into the sea. But we do not fear them. We believe that the dead are much closer to the living than you think, like a shoji screen sliding back and forth, there is only a thin door that separates us from them.” I listened intently to her, seeking an answer to an unspoken question. “I knew I wanted to be a reporter to give a voice for the distressed families, but also because these tragedies always leave a ghost behind. I want to find their voice too.” She gave me an inquisitive stare, “Your interviews have always been the ones I look forward to. It’s almost like you know the victims, know their sadness.” I almost felt compelled to tell her the truth. That I’m plagued with their grief at all times and that I felt like I had no choice but to solve the case or else I’d be haunted for the rest of my life. A curse, not a blessing. “I guess I’m just that good,” I gave her a cocky grin and leave it at that. Ami laughed again. “I guess you are,” but then she paused. “The dead are grateful towards you, James. You’re their voice.” I never thought of it that way. At first it spooked me. The little boy in the playground, the woman stuffed into a closet, all the way to five friends gathered around a basement where they were tortured and murdered. It felt like a curse to not only find the bodies, mangled and bloody, but to also see the aftermath that the horror doesn’t end in death. But Ami saw this grief and poured light into it. She understands that life is fragile, that death is always near, and that’s why we should still live, even for one more moment. A blessing, not a curse. Lunches with her became a part of my routine after that day.

“I hate the break it to you,” I huff, out of breath from my sprint, “but I’m not on this case.” Ami tilts her head to the side, silently asking me why. I shrug, “I don’t know why either, but I’m keen on finding out. The Chief’s got some explaining to do leaving his best detective off a big one like this. I mean, there’s more reporters here than police,” my eyes cut to her, “no offense.” She shakes her head with a smile, my comment not bothering her. “Detective Whitlock!” I shift my gaze behind her and I see Chief Stacy making his way towards us. That was quicker than I thought. I look back at Ami, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t say anything, her eyes look glossy. I open my mouth to ask her what was wrong, but the Chief calls my name again. I repeat my promise of a swift return and then made quick strides towards the Chief a short distance away. The older gentleman’s face as bleak as the sky, his demeanor dejected in a way I’ve only seen after yet another case is left cold. I decide to ask first before he could start any excuses. “What’s going on here, Chief? Why is everyone telling me I can’t be involved?” Stacy steadies his gaze at me, “Son, it’s the reporter.” I furrow my brows. What reporter? He sighs, “It’s Ami. The body we found is Ami Satori.” I whip my head around. Long, black hair tightly tied back, red puffer, and a camera slung around her neck. Ami doesn’t smile, she doesn’t laugh, she just has that faraway look again.

A ghost can be many things. A hundred memories, dreams gone and lost, a voice in the night. But I know who my ghosts are, and this one can stay.

#short story #fiction #ghost stories #kinda

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goneforfree · 3 years ago

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Jeff Buckley | “I know It’s Over” (demo) (cover of The Smiths original song)

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goneforfree · 3 years ago

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best Disney film. i’ll argue all night.