The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke)
Read The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke) Online
Authors: John Rickards
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Memories are like rare butterflies. Left alone they will dance around your head for a time before fluttering delicately away into the sky, the colors and patterns on their wings blurred by distance until you can no longer make them out at all, knowing as they go that you will never see them again. But if you trap them and pin them under glass, trying to preserve them, the same colors still fade over time, the form crumbles, and all you’re left with is a decayed reminder of living glory you cannot restore, a reminder whose imperfections will either drive you mad or else force you to bury it away, ashamed and bitter, in the dark so that it can no longer torment you.
In my memory, the air is full of the taste of spruce bark, dry and earthy and bitter. It mingles with the scents of a hundred other plants and flowers I can't name, all combining in harmony to form a singular perfume which, for some reason I can't place, reminds me of old wine casks. Grass stalks rattle beside my head. July sunlight flushes warm against my skin. The hum of insects going about their daily lives forms a chorus line for the sound taking center stage: a woman's laughter.
I know that if I open my eyes now, I'll see a pair of red-brown butterflies marked with patterns like orchid blossom skipping through the air above me in a complex, whirling, mating dance. Then I'll shade my eyes against the glare of the sun, watching them until they pass behind the tall grass. And then I'll hear...
And then. And then.
The memory I have now is like one of those butterflies. I can watch it over and over and over again until the colors fade, but I can never reach out my hands to catch it and hold it safe forever. And I can never change it, or the other ones that come after.
Boston, MA.
2003.
I wasn’t a cop, but sometimes I still got to remind people I’d once been an FBI hotshot years after I’d crashed out of the Bureau. We were in a lecture theater much like any other. Rows of padded benches spread up towards the low, wide windows at the back of the room, surrounding the dais at the bottom like the seats of a Roman amphitheater. Forty, maybe fifty men and women were scattered around the auditorium, most concentrated in the first five or six rows. I couldn't see anyone whose eyes weren't on the man speaking next to me or on their notes in front of them. Everyone bright and keen and eager even with the winter doing its damndest to smash the building down around them.
“Your instructors at the Academy may have told you that there are two broad types of suspect,” Robin Garrett told them. He was my boss as well as my oldest friend. He’d been a better Bureau man than me, quitting because he wanted to, not because he had no other choice. “There are those who just want to get their guilt off their chest,” he said. “Even if it takes you a while to get the whole story out of them, you'll get your confession, because they want to confide in someone. And there are those who will clam up and won't give you a damn thing.”
The people who’d shown up here on a dreary Thursday evening at the start of January to hear our words of wisdom were mostly trainees from Boston's Police Academy. The rest were newly-graduated police officers willing to sacrifice an hour or two of their spare time on the chance it’d boost their conviction rates and help them make detective.
“The ones who eventually break down and give you everything they've got aren't a problem,” Rob said. “It's the other kind — whether they're experienced criminals or just stubborn — that'll make you work for every ounce of information you can get.”
I could hear hail smashing like handfuls of pebbles against the windows at the back, even over the electrical hum of the projector illuminating the screen behind us. Every gust of wind brought a fresh batch in a rhythm like a heartbeat, the sound of a hundred hourglasses being turned over at once.
“Alex will speak in a little while about interrogation techniques and matching your approach to the individual suspect. That's his field. Mine is the proper preparation beforehand to maximize your chances of success, whether you're after a confession or just information.”
Every once in a while Boston PD paid us a small but reasonable amount to give evening lectures to rookie recruits and patrol division newbies desperate to get their shield. We passed on our experience — Rob had been a field agent and I was once a specialist in the Bureau's NCAVC violent crimes division — and maintained our good standing with the BPD, and they got cops with a slightly broader degree of training for very little budget outlay. Everyone was happy.
“If you make sure you have as much relevant evidence and knowledge to hand as possible before you even open your mouth, you'll have more chance of cutting through any bullshit and lies they try to feed you. You may even be able to make them think you know more than you do and trick them into giving themselves up.” He paused for effect. “Just make sure you get it right.”
The projector glow behind me changed and I knew they were seeing a photo of Bernard Leon, charged with murder in Phoenix two years previously. This was Rob's part of the show. Now the introduction was out of the way, he’d run them through two examples where police had to rely on confession evidence to make their case: one failure and one success. After the story of the botched Leon investigation, he’d tell them about Dan Rothman, a career criminal suspected of holding up a Detroit jewelry store and seriously wounding a member of staff. The detective who eventually wrung a confession out of Rothman, along with his subsequent successful prosecution, was given a promotion as a result.
I wanted a smoke, and I missed being able to do that indoors. I figured everyone had to have one unhealthy vice, and that was mine. I didn’t drink much, wasn’t violent or prone to gambling, but I liked tobacco. The rest of the city — the rest of New England — didn’t feel the same way though. My girlfriend had started trying to persuade me to cut down from thirty a day, but I didn’t have the willpower. I was working on it, but not hard enough to notice. She was a doctor — a regional medical examiner for a large chunk of northern Vermont, no less — and I didn’t doubt she’d eventually wear me down.
I looked up at the windows, trying not to watch the clock. Three feet high, six across. Black mail-slot gaps gazing out into darkness. Tiny silver lights twinkled and flickered across them as though it was a clear starlit night out there, but they were just smears of sleet reflecting the lights of the city as they dribbled down the glass. My mind wandered as I watched countless drops of icy water trickle and die. Groceries to buy. Laundry to do. The weekend. Gemma.
“And now Alex Rourke will discuss the different interrogation techniques themselves,” Rob said, bringing me back to the present. A hundred-odd eyes were glittered at me. “They're all yours, Alex.”
An hour and a half later, the last of the BPD’s newest additions had filtered away, leaving us to pack up and head for home. I’d just dropped my laptop back in my bag when we were joined by Lieutenant Aidan Silva, a man who always put me in mind of some kind of Grimm fairytale bear given human form. He had a mop of chestnut hair matched by a bristling beard flecked grey by the years, and between them a round, heavy nose and a pair of dark, sunken eyes. How and when he and Rob had become friends, I didn't know. They shook hands before Silva leaned over and offered me a paw.
“I don't know what your people have been putting in their food, Aidan,” Rob said as he stuffed our notes into a bag, “but we actually had some intelligent questions at the end. Caught me by surprise.”
Silva grinned, baring his teeth. “I hear there's a couple of them can walk and chew gum at the same time, too. Better hope it's not the start of a trend, otherwise I'll be obsolete in a couple of years.”
“You and me both. We'll end up in a retirement community together. Alex can come look after us and make sure our copies of
Sports Illustrated
are kept up to date. What's on your mind? Don’t usually see you at these things.”
“Jolene's decided to invite some people round for dinner and drinks on Saturday night,” the lieutenant said. “I figured an all-Department gathering would be too much like work so I was hoping you guys could shore up the numbers. Fill space, drink my beer, spare me from Jolene’s friends and my neighbors.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rob said. “Unless I’ve missed something, Teresa and me should be able to make it. Al?”
“Gemma’s down this weekend. I’ll check with her when she arrives tomorrow night; if she’s up for it, we’ll be there. Otherwise...”
“Sure, sure,” Silva said and mimed whipping.
After he’d gone and we’d packed, Rob and I hunched against the full force of the elements in the parking lot and contemplated our imminent death by drowning. He said, “You got anything else planned for this evening?”
“Tidying. I’ve got to get the apartment neat before Gemma gets here else she’ll think I’m letting myself go.”
“Don't wear yourself out. You've got to meet a client first thing tomorrow.”
I grimaced in mock pain as he dropped into his car, then hurried over to mine. I didn’t use it often in the city, and gas prices would probably see it sold to someone with more money than sense at some point, but I as it went I owned a genuine, honest-to-God 1969 Stingray Corvette. Pale blue, original fittings, acceleration that would snap your neck if you weren’t sitting back right. It looked like a shark in the wet. I dived into its welcoming interior and wiped water out of my eyes, trying to think warm thoughts. Run-off from the roof sluiced down the windshield in front of me, laced with ice crystals that melted and vanished as I watched. Rob's tail lights blurred red as his car pulled out of the lot, then disappeared altogether. Only then did I have the cigarette I’d wanted all evening, like I was a spotty teenager afraid of getting caught with a smoke, and watched the world wash itself away around me.
We had a smart if unspectacular office in a smart if unspectacular office building not far from Kenmore Square, and against all odds I made it there on time the next morning. Robin Garrett Associates, the sign downstairs said. Licensed private investigators, process servers, business security and criminal consultants. Missing persons something of a stock in trade, as with most businesses like ours, picking up scraps the cops left behind. We had a secretary and three junior employees. We were, by the standards of the trade, a solid outfit, and we were good at our jobs.
The client coming in today was a missing persons one. I’d guessed as much, but the notes that our PA Jean had collected over the phone the day before confirmed it. The sheet of paper was on top of the layered strata of paper covering my desk.
Colleen Webb.
Son Adam (25) last heard of nearly two months ago - Burlington, VT.
Husband dead - car wreck - six months ago.
Moving out of old neighborhood- insurance money, can’t find son to tell him/discuss with him.
And, in Rob's handwriting:
Don't think she's a time-waster. See what you can do.
At the bottom was her phone number and address in Roxbury. Bad neighborhood.
Mrs Webb arrived a few minutes after I did. She was a woman somewhere in her forties. Dark hair going grey, neatly tied back out of her eyes. Steel-rimmed glasses on a lined, tired-looking face. Emerald green wool coat, charcoal sweater and matching pants. Sensible shoes. All of it looked fairly new. Over her shoulder was a brown leather bag.
When she shook my hand, her palm felt damp and papery but her grip was firm. I gave her my best professional smile and offered her a seat. “Mrs Webb, I'm Alex Rourke. How can we help?”
She sat very straight with her bag clasped on her lap. Hazel eyes darted quickly over my desk, me, the rest of the office, as she replied. “It's about my son Adam. He hasn't been in touch in months and I haven't been able to get hold of him.”
“Where was he last time you spoke to him?”
“A place called Burlington in Vermont. I don't know if he was living there or not. He traveled around.”
“Did he have a regular job?”
She shook her head. “I don't think so. He used to pick up work now and then, but he never said anything to me about settling down. When we spoke last, he said he was a tour guide. But that was back in October, and I don't know if he would have been for much longer.”
