his
pistol, a weapon, anything . . . but found none.
“Why did you shoot?”
He kept his cool voice as light as pink petals jittering in the wind. “I’m
looking for Chief Advert. Have you seen him?”
“He told me to.”
The ticking landed
on D.’s shaking shoulders. They cramped. What did he mean? “I thought you said
you had your own authority.”
“I do!” protested
the bloody officer. “But . . . he threatened. He didn’t want any arguments. If
I did, then . . .”
“Who was this man?
Was it the chief?”
“He’ll kill me if I
say anything.”
“The chief will kill
you—?”
“I never said it was
the chief! But I won’t speak of him. Just please, please leave me alone! I need
to get as far away from here as possible.”
“Why deal with all
the hassle? Wouldn’t it be easier to work things out with whoever ordered you
to do this disastrous deed? If I were you I’d think about doing that first before
running off and looking like a fugitive.”
“It’s not the chief,
goddam. . .” The bloody officer’s voice faded as he continued. “I don’t take
orders from him. He told me you would know him more than I ever would. See,
rumors spread around here and . . . and . . .” He swallowed thick blood. “A
ghost . . .”
Just the sound of
the word brought unwanted presence. “Spirits don’t exist.”
“You think they
don’t exist, but they’re here. And no, it’s not the babbling floating
see-through bullshit.” He lowered his voice, so low D. had to lean in close to
hear it. “He’s haunting the place.”
“The police
department?” he asked.
“Not just that,”
said the bloody officer. “He wants the government, too. He used to work here,
and he was one of us until . . .” The bloody officer went to his feet and ran
off.
“Go then!” D. cried.
“See what’ll happen to you when the chief gets here!”
Whatever he said,
the bloodied officer didn’t say anything about it. Later on there would be a
special on a news program somewhere at 6 or 8 in the evening, and there would
be a mystifying report on the murder of Officer Princeton Sun. Pictures of him
would be shown, the most iconic one to date being the shot where his screaming
face covering half the photograph, everywhere else there were holes scattering
all over his chest, blood oozing out of his eyes. Stumps were left where his
arms should have been.
D. searched the
station. Nobody else seemed to be there, so he did a quick look to see if maybe
Advert was captured and hidden somewhere. He searched through every room,
looking for the chief. He wasn’t found. Jokingly D. thought about going through
the lost and found box to see if anyone dropped him there. D. even went to the
records of jailed people, where he witnessed something he probably shouldn’t
have.
All the files were
marked with red tabs, which probably meant the dangerous one possibly. For a
police department station, it sure wasn’t organized like one, with all the
regular things D. saw in departments from the upper part of the city. Maybe things
were different, like the lack of lights on the ceiling. It gave a dingy look to
the place, like a long lost attic.
One of the files he
went through was so dirty you needed to wash your hands clean before going back
out, either that or use latex gloves. He flipped through them all, wishing he
would find something that might add to the case he was working on. Three
profiles seemed to fit with the disappearance of McDermott: a man named West
Lake, another by the name of Apollo Stone, and Douglas Teague, a teenager
locked away in a prison, it said, far away from the mainland. Alcatraz shut
down many years ago, he heard, so he ruled that one out. San Francisco seemed
too far away to travel there, if it still existed. All or none of these people
could relate to the McDermott case, but at least it was something. Maybe they
were marked with red so that Chief Advert could look at them later, possibly searching
for info
pistol, a weapon, anything . . . but found none.
“Why did you shoot?”
He kept his cool voice as light as pink petals jittering in the wind. “I’m
looking for Chief Advert. Have you seen him?”
“He told me to.”
The ticking landed
on D.’s shaking shoulders. They cramped. What did he mean? “I thought you said
you had your own authority.”
“I do!” protested
the bloody officer. “But . . . he threatened. He didn’t want any arguments. If
I did, then . . .”
“Who was this man?
Was it the chief?”
“He’ll kill me if I
say anything.”
“The chief will kill
you—?”
“I never said it was
the chief! But I won’t speak of him. Just please, please leave me alone! I need
to get as far away from here as possible.”
“Why deal with all
the hassle? Wouldn’t it be easier to work things out with whoever ordered you
to do this disastrous deed? If I were you I’d think about doing that first before
running off and looking like a fugitive.”
“It’s not the chief,
goddam. . .” The bloody officer’s voice faded as he continued. “I don’t take
orders from him. He told me you would know him more than I ever would. See,
rumors spread around here and . . . and . . .” He swallowed thick blood. “A
ghost . . .”
Just the sound of
the word brought unwanted presence. “Spirits don’t exist.”
“You think they
don’t exist, but they’re here. And no, it’s not the babbling floating
see-through bullshit.” He lowered his voice, so low D. had to lean in close to
hear it. “He’s haunting the place.”
“The police
department?” he asked.
“Not just that,”
said the bloody officer. “He wants the government, too. He used to work here,
and he was one of us until . . .” The bloody officer went to his feet and ran
off.
“Go then!” D. cried.
“See what’ll happen to you when the chief gets here!”
Whatever he said,
the bloodied officer didn’t say anything about it. Later on there would be a
special on a news program somewhere at 6 or 8 in the evening, and there would
be a mystifying report on the murder of Officer Princeton Sun. Pictures of him
would be shown, the most iconic one to date being the shot where his screaming
face covering half the photograph, everywhere else there were holes scattering
all over his chest, blood oozing out of his eyes. Stumps were left where his
arms should have been.
D. searched the
station. Nobody else seemed to be there, so he did a quick look to see if maybe
Advert was captured and hidden somewhere. He searched through every room,
looking for the chief. He wasn’t found. Jokingly D. thought about going through
the lost and found box to see if anyone dropped him there. D. even went to the
records of jailed people, where he witnessed something he probably shouldn’t
have.
All the files were
marked with red tabs, which probably meant the dangerous one possibly. For a
police department station, it sure wasn’t organized like one, with all the
regular things D. saw in departments from the upper part of the city. Maybe things
were different, like the lack of lights on the ceiling. It gave a dingy look to
the place, like a long lost attic.
One of the files he
went through was so dirty you needed to wash your hands clean before going back
out, either that or use latex gloves. He flipped through them all, wishing he
would find something that might add to the case he was working on. Three
profiles seemed to fit with the disappearance of McDermott: a man named West
Lake, another by the name of Apollo Stone, and Douglas Teague, a teenager
locked away in a prison, it said, far away from the mainland. Alcatraz shut
down many years ago, he heard, so he ruled that one out. San Francisco seemed
too far away to travel there, if it still existed. All or none of these people
could relate to the McDermott case, but at least it was something. Maybe they
were marked with red so that Chief Advert could look at them later, possibly searching
for info
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