Spook Squad (24 page)

“No exorcisms today, no matter how tempting it might be. Treat anything you find, physical or otherwise, as evidence. Leave it intact.” While Dreyfuss outlined a schedule and ran through the areas where we’d been granted special access, I wrestled with the knowledge that Agent Bly could pluck the state of my emotions right out of my head, and no amount of times tables or nursery rhymes would make a damn bit of difference. Worse yet, it was possible my mental gymnastics around Dr. Santiago had all been for nothing. Maybe she was an empath too, and all I’d managed to do was generate a big wave of anxiety in her presence.

As we headed toward the car, Dreyfuss hung back with Bly for a whispered conversation. Cripes, he couldn’t even be bothered to be subtle about telling Bly to spy on me? Dreyfuss retreated to his office and Bly caught up with the group. “What?” he asked me.

I gave a sullen shrug.

Jacob glanced back over his shoulder but kept his mouth shut. At least he couldn’t be read by Bly. In fact, knowing Jacob like I did, I probably understood him better. I took some comfort in that.

“You’ve got your orders,” I told Bly. “I get it. Nothing personal.”

He didn’t look particularly concerned. “Not everything’s about you, Detective.”

Maybe not. But it was a lot safer to assume it was.

*
 
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*

I stared at the back of Bly’s shaved head as he drove us downtown, predictably, in a humongous black Lexus SUV. I expected Richie to point out a dozen automotive features I didn’t care about. He was still out of sorts, though, and he spent the ride to the prison staring out the window. Jacob and Bly discussed possible angles of approach. I kept my mouth shut and tried to map the location of the bald spot that caused Bly to embrace the clippers…but I couldn’t find one. The stubble on the back of his head was full coverage.

Back in the day, the only guys with full heads of hair who would opt to shave it off were skinheads. The shaved head was probably still some kind of fashion statement now, though in my mind, it didn’t exactly go with the dark suit. I could see Bly buzzing himself bald as an intimidation tactic. Or maybe hair interfered with his emotional radar.
 

I would expect to be quietly melting down over the idea of heading to a federal prison without so much as a gram of Auracel in my system, but it was actually comforting to be accompanied by three other Psychs, even if Richie was inept, and even if Bly was only there to get a read off me and report back to Dreyfuss.

Empaths are pretty common. It’s estimated that a percentage of the population with high social aptitude is actually empathic to some degree. In giving us our assignments, Dreyfuss hadn’t specified any levels—but if he had, I’m guessing Bly’s rank would’ve been impressively high.

For the most part, empaths don’t spook me. At least…they didn’t. Not until Richie reminded me that a strong enough empath can actually project an emotion—and that it was possible Stefan had been doing just that. Back then, I hadn’t known enough to protect myself, either. Now I knew. So I was hoarding white light like it was going out of style, all the way downtown.

Usually, when Zigler and I walked through a scene, it was a pretty low-key affair. We’d find our grid. I’d give him any impressions I formed. We’d leave. He’d type up our findings and due process would ensure whatever we found exonerated the perp. But as we pulled up to the MCC and I got a load of the setup, I realized our investigation at the prison was a much bigger deal.

What I initially thought was a construction barrier actually turned out to be a set of corrugated metal walls put up to shield us from the rest of the world while we combed the very spot Roger Burke went down. It would have taken a lot of pull to have a safety box built on a morning’s notice. Then again, it took a lot of pull to commandeer a skybox on Thanksgiving.

The thing was, if anyone had consulted with me, I could’ve saved them a lot of work by mentioning there’d be nothing in that particular location to find. I’d seen Roger Burke’s spirit whisked away before his corpse started to cool. I’m not sure if I believe in hell. But if it does exist, I think that’s where he is right now, stoking the big furnaces and sharpening the pitchforks.

Jacob spoke to the guard in charge—military, very intimidating, though not intimidating to him. I watched the way they looked at Jacob, too. His air of entitlement, his calm ease, his whole attitude—coupled with the way he actually looked and listened to everyone he came in contact with—earned him the instant respect of every manly man who crossed his path. I stood up straighter in hopes of being categorized with Jacob and Bly, rather than Richie…who’d undoubtedly be asking some stone-faced soldier what kind of car he drove and offering an unsolicited critique. But when I risked a sidelong glance Richie’s way, he was just watching and waiting. What a relief.

The guard escorted us in. It felt strange in the cube. Maybe a bit claustrophobic. A fresh tape outline had been placed where Burke had fallen, and an evidence marker showed where the slug had lodged in the side of the building after it exited Burke’s skull. Like the rat-holes in our basement, the granite was now patched. I’d expected the enclosure to be open to the sky, but no, of course not. Not with all the El tracks and high-rises around it affording a perfect place for a sniper to set up shop. “What type of gear do you need?” Jacob asked.

“Obviously I can’t work without my incense and whatnot,” Richie said.

“But that’s exorcism gear,” Jacob said. “Dreyfuss said to treat it as a crime scene and leave paranormal evidence intact.”

“Well if you know everything,” Richie snarled, “then why’d you bother asking?”

Jacob must’ve been briefed on the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Still, I imagine it cost him to keep a straight face. He motioned to a pair of guards, who wheeled over something heavy covered with a tarpaulin. Something trailing a very long extension cord. The hair on my forearms prickled even as the object was revealed.

The GhosTV guts from Dr. K’s lab had been mounted in a plexi box like a specimen in a museum. Richie’s eyes went wide, then he looked away quickly as if he hadn’t noticed. He must know what it was. As the organization’s top medium, he’d probably sat through some sort of experiment in the lab…although I’d wager he was pretty bummed when he realized it didn’t get ESPN.
 

“Maybe you should do the honors,” Jacob told me. It made sense, since I was the only one getting a useful boost out of it, but I couldn’t help but notice Richie staring at me disconcertingly as I approached. I did my best to chalk it up to his vision issues, checked the settings, found the power switch and turned it on.

A moment later, a red network of veins popped up in Jacob’s forehead. I was especially curious what Richie would look like, since my enhanced vision didn’t seem to work in the mirror, and I wasn’t sure what I looked like when my subtle bodies were on display. He crossed his arms and looked at me. His arms left tracers behind. Not too scary—I could handle that. Then Agent Bly turned to face us, and he looked like the Visible Man.

At least now I could match the visual to the talent. My brain interpreted empathy as thin skin. Literally.

Bly looked shocked, in a way that only someone with no eyelids can look. Shocked, and eerily eager. The tip of his nose was gone, and the absence of lips made it look as if he was grimacing. Under the influence of a GhosTV, I’d seen other thin-skins before. But despite the missing nose, Bly looked more like himself than the others had. Must’ve been the shaved head. The muscles in his forehead came down at an angle from either side where they attached to the top of the skull, forming a V in the middle that echoed his stubble hairline.

That meant Dr. Santiago was likely a telepath, so my times tables and earworms had probably been effective in shielding my true thoughts. And also that she probably thought I was either really clever, or batshit crazy. Now if only I could get Bly out of the way so I didn’t have to dwell on moderating my emotions. “It’ll be better to have the mediums walk the grid alone,” I said. “Less interference in the subtle bodies.”

If Bly detected my bullshit-generating emotion in play, he didn’t let on. He and Jacob stepped outside the corrugated metal box, leaving me alone with good ol’ Einstein in the very spot I’d seen Roger Burke die.

Richie put his hand on my forearm. With all the articles I’d read fresh in my mind I now knew he was dealing with compromised motor skills, so I figured he was steadying himself. But we weren’t exactly walking, or doing anything else that should make him unsteady. Just standing there. He said, “Thanks. The other agents can be a pain in the ass.”

I was tempted to point out that Jacob was
my
pain in the ass, but it wasn’t worth getting into. Not when Richie didn’t really understand half of what was said to him, and laughed along to cover for it. Especially when it might lead to some conversation where he’d imply I was secretly straight all these years and I just didn’t know it. I shrugged off his hand and said, “Okay, how do you want to do this?”

He visually scanned the enclosure in a long, slow sweep and said, “Are you getting any impressions?”

I sighed. “No.”

“We’ll adjust the settings.”

“The settings are fine.” I walked a grid just to be sure. Once I’d found nothing there, I sucked in a bunch of white light and focused hard on the vague tape outline of Burke’s body. Nothing there, either. I even tried mentally calling to him, since I was full of light and GhosTV signals. I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected to discover even if I did get to speak to him. It wasn’t as if I’d ever had success in trapping him in a lie. I wasn’t up for the mental sparring, but if I was lucky, maybe I could see if he had any insight as to why Laura Kim, of all people, would want him dead. Or maybe I could figure out why he’d want to frame her. Burke never showed up, though, so I was spared the effort of teasing out his truth from his lies.

With nothing happening on the spirit front I shifted my focus to the physical, though I’d been trying so hard, it took a moment to reorient myself. I was adjusting my internal faucet when Richie grabbed me by the arm again and said, “What are you doing right now?”

Since when was he Mr. Feely? I peeled out of his grasp. “Normal centering stuff. You know, like The Nun taught us. White light. Why—do I look any different to you?”

He squinted at me and shrugged.

Once I thought about it, I realized his learning style might be more kinesthetic than visual, since one of his many issues was compromised vision. But since I didn’t want him grabbing me again, I decided not to mention it.

“You’re not sensing any activity?” he asked. “Not even with the tuner activated?”

“There’s really nothing here to sense.”

“We need to calibrate the settings.” What did he think it was, a car engine? I must’ve been looking at him funny, because he added defensively, “That’s what Dr. K would do. Hee-hee.”

Since I wanted to figure out what happened to Roger Burke as much as anybody, I hunkered down in front of the set and nudged the dials one way, then the other, using the tracers my hand generated as a guide.

“That’s how you gauge the signal?” He was right on top of me. “Why?”

I sidled over to put a little space between us. “I get a little, uh, visual disturbance when…” now he’d probably think I was mocking his eyesight problem. “Just a small…it’s not important. The settings are fine. But there’s really nothing to see here. This particular ship has sailed.”

He half-turned and gazed down at the tape outline. “That’s a shame.”

It was. But maybe it was for the best that I wasn’t dealing with Burke himself. Even if I managed to call him back, he’d probably manage to muddy the waters worse than they already were. Criminals are notorious gossips, though. Secrets are one of their main forms of currency. Hopefully we’d find someone inside who knew why a hit was carried out on Roger Burke, and who might have ordered it.

*
 
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*

Sure, I’d been inside the Metropolitan Correctional Center before. Seeing the visiting areas is one thing. Having access to the cell block is another. I was allowed to keep my sidearm, as were Jacob and Agent Bly. After reading up on Richie’s condition, I was doubly thankful that he’d never been issued a service weapon.

I’d found the metal box outside claustrophobic. The six by ten cells, by comparison, were suffocating. Two people lived in this closet of a room, day in, day out? The stainless steel toilet was right there in the open, which made me clench all over at the thought of taking a dump where a cellmate could see and smell it. Worse, the sink was built into the side of the toilet, and a drinking fountain was fixed in the sink.

I’m no germophobe. In fact, rimming my boyfriend is my idea of a good time. Still, I suspected I’d expire from dehydration before I drank water that shot up from the back of a toilet.

If shitting was bad, sleeping in the cell would be no treat, either. The bunk beds were fixed to the wall, a pair of narrow metal shelves that screamed out “morgue.” You couldn’t even call the mattress they held a futon. It was more like a flimsy pad. A pair of drawers was suspended from the lower bunk, a small desk-like shelf jutted from the wall, and a backless concrete column of a “chair” rose from the floor before it.

Among all these details—the close quarters, the profound and dehumanizing sparseness, the toilet drinking fountain—what struck me the most was the window. I’m no architecture buff, but I do know the MCC caused a big stir in the seventies when it was constructed. The building itself is a big pointy triangle, and the windows are vicious slits. From the outside, the rows of vertical window recesses make the building face look like a cuneiform tablet, but from inside the cell, the single window dominated the room. It was a bizarre postmodern slot, taller than me, maybe seven feet tall…and only five inches wide. How many inmates lay tucked into their morgue shelves on their hard, thin pads, staring at that awful slot, wishing they could extrude themselves out through it, into freedom?