Ghost Mortem (Bordertown Chronicle Book 1) Read online

  My father and Vikki exchanged another look.

  “Well then,” Vikki said with a sly smile. “I don’t know about you, partner, but I’d welcome a pair of fresh eyes on the case. But you’re the ranking officer here, so it’s your call.”

  “Ranking officer?” I said. “Dad, you just got here. How do you already outrank Vikki?”

  “Gavin, I’m not really sure how much attention you’ve been paying for the last twenty-three years or so, but um…I’ve got a lot of years of law enforcement experience under my belt.”

  “Okay, okay,” I nodded. “Right. Well, anyway, um…what do you say?”

  “About you? Having a ride-along with the two of us?” He chuckled and then looked at Vikki, who seemed to actually be enthused by the idea. So he relented. “You know what? Why the hell not? I’ve been riding your ass about getting a job for god knows how long now, and if your job is for me to ride your ass around town, then who am I to argue, right? Wait. That sounded a lot creepier and dirtier than I meant.”

  Just about everyone around the table laughed.

  I'm not sure why. It wasn't that funny. But I think in my case, it was the first time I was excited by the idea of spending time with my father. The first time in a long time.

  We had some other light conversation for a while after that. I was feeling much better about the dinner. Everything was going well. Perfectly, really. And I was getting excited about doing a ride along with Vikki the next day. Even if it was also a ride-along with my old man. I was excited.

  Chapter 19

  The next day, my father and I met Vikki bright and early for our long-anticipated ride-along. Apparently, our first order of business was to head over to the precinct and fill out a few forms, wherein I waived my right to file any kind of class action suit, should I somehow be injured, dismembered, possessed, cursed, partially or fully digested, turned undead, soul-devoured—whatever that means—and/or killed the old-fashioned way. I also had to sign off on an agreement whereby I promised to follow ten unbreakable rules of B.T.P.D. law enforcement. Most of it effectively boiled down to: stay out of the way, and don’t try to be a hero. Once these forms were signed, in triplicate, I was given my own copy to keep in my wallet at all times to “remind me of the rules,” as Sheriff Porter put it. Yeah, right. As if my father wasn’t going to be doing that for me, like six times an hour anyway.

  “Welcome to the official B.T.P.D. ride-along program,” Sheriff Porter concluded, reaching forward to shake my hand, his massive belly spilling out onto his desk.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. “I won't let you down.”

  The sheriff's handshake was surprisingly strong. Almost like he was one of those poser shit-heads who squeezes your fingers way too hard to make sure you understand who the alpha dog is. You know, like that shit-head, narcissistic president of ours. There was something incredibly disingenuous about this handshake, like he was sizing me up and wanted me to know it. Come to think of it, he was sort of like a slightly taller, much uglier, and extremely fat version of my old man. This was a guy who took exactly zero shit from anyone. And I'd believe it too. Sheriff Porter was huge! This man was large, and in charge.

  “Just remember,” Porter continued, “The B.T.P.D. and the Bordertown Chronicle often help one another out. So just remember: we give you access, and you, in turn don't make us look bad in the press. Capisce?”

  “Understood sir,” I said.

  “Good. Otherwise I'll kick you out so fast your head'll spin.”

  “Okay. I got it.”

  “Oh, yeah, and I almost forgot. Here comes your press pass.”

  He nodded to an office admin who came over and handed me a brand new, still-warm-from-the-laminating-machine press pass, with my name and picture on it and everything.

  “Sweet!” I said, admiring it.

  “Just remember: it'll only get you onto crime scenes if there's one of my deputies present. And even then, only if you don't get in the way while the C.S.I.s are trying to work.”

  “You mean while Doc Braunstein is trying to work.”

  “Don't be a smart-ass,” he said, in a curt tone I pretty much just wanted to obey.

  I nodded and looked back for my dad, or for Vikki, who were both apparently still doing paperwork of their own. Vikki was draped over a desk talking to my dad and someone else, presumably one of the dispatchers. From my vantage point, her cute little butt seemed to be calling out to me, demanding to be objectified. It made me feel equal parts aroused and ashamed.

  Vikki Valliant, you are such a babe. And it's like you don't even know—

  “You shouldn't stare at Deputy Valliant like that,” said the sheriff.

  “I wasn't um…” I started, snapping out of my reverie and prostrating myself in my seat.

  He just replied with a stern look that said 'I see right through your bullshit.'

  “Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe I was a little. Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. I'm really just here to work.”

  “You know,” he began thoughtfully. “Back in the early eighties, when I first started here. We didn't have women on the force. For pretty much this reason. I mean look at her.”

  “I thought you said you didn't want me looking at her.”

  “Don't be smart-ass. Look at her.”

  I did. I admired the way her back arched perfectly. The way she just spoke with her friend—presumably Steve from dispatch. I admired the way she tossed her hair when she laughed.

  God, what a babe!

  “She's basically eye candy,” he said.

  I couldn't agree more, I remember thinking. But wait…something about him saying it like that put me on edge.

  “I'm sorry, what?” I replied.

  “Don't get me wrong, son. I'm not saying there isn't a place for women in law enforcement. But I think in the field, looking like she does, she's more of a liability.”

  “Right…I take it you don't identify as a feminist.”

  “There's male feminists now? That's a thing?”

  I laughed. When he didn't, I cleared my throat.

  “Oh. You're serious. Well…yeah. I'm mean…we're all in this together, right? Trying to make the world a fairer and juster place?”

  “Bah. I'm not here to argue about women's lib. I'm just trying to run a police force. And as much as I'd rather it be my men out there than my men and women out there, at least I'd prefer they not be sleeping with the press, capisce? I've got a reputation to worry about.”

  I nodded. “I wouldn't want to tarnish your good reputation, sir.”

  “I don't just say this for my benefit. People who get involved with Vikki Valliant…let's just say it usually doesn't end well for them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There's a reason she lives alone now.”

  “Why's that?”

  “What, are you writing her biography? Go ask her yourself if you need to know.”

  I nodded.

  “So…” I added, after some thought. “You're saying she's single and you think she might actually be interested?”

  “Don't make me climb over this desk and kick your ass.”

  I gulped. “I wouldn't dream of it, sir.”

  “Good. Now get out of here. Get your pop to show you around or something.”

  Chapter 20

  I took my leave of the sheriff's office and greeted Vikki, my dad, and their third interlocutor. He was a flamboyant guy with a reddish face, perhaps in his thirties, wearing a checkered vest. He had curly hair which looked like it had been jelled with about half a tube of Brylcreem.

  “Got my badge,” I announced.

  They turned to me. Vikki and her friend looked amused. My father, perhaps halfway between weary and amused.

  “You mean your press pass,” my dad said.

  “Whatever. Same thing.”

  He shook his head.

  “Congrats, Gavin,” Vikki said. “Have you met Steve yet? Our dispatch
er? He likes donuts. He particularly likes to eat all the Boston Screams, even though he knows they're my favorite.”

  “Tee-hee,” he chimed, almost musically, in the most stereotypically flamboyant way. “Guilty! Sorry!”

  I took a good gander at Steve. To say his skin had a reddish tint would be an understatement. He was blood-red, and the thick black Brylcreemed hair failed to fully conceal a couple of sharp horns. In contrast, his smiling teeth and his bulbous eyes were so white they almost seemed to radiate light. He also had a well-styled goatee.

  “Steve from dispatch is a demon?” I blurted, before my brain had enough time to filter my mouth.

  My father buried his face in his palm.

  “Devil, actually,” said Steve.

  “What's the difference?” I asked, my mouth apparently just not getting the memo.

  Vikki's jaw dropped.

  Oh great. I've put my foot in it again, I realized. I wanted to put my head in my own hands. But…what kind of asshole face-palms himself?

  “Demons are netherworlders who observe no laws,” Vikki said. “Devils, on the other hand, are law-abiding demons who oftentimes get a bad rap because of the stereotype.”

  “Oh,” I said. I didn't know what to say. I felt like I couldn't stop offending people. “Well…” I continued. “Steve, you certainly are a handsome devil.”

  Steve cocked an eyebrow at me. Then he cracked a smile.

  “Well, thank you, sweetie. We devils do love a good compliment.”

  “So how come you're not in uniform?”

  “Technically, like you, I'm a civilian, so I don't get one. But I like it this way. I mean, check me out. I'm fabulous!”

  I somehow managed to suppress a bad pun about flaming homosexuality. The whole idea of stereotypes notwithstanding, I also wasn't sure if devils could engulf themselves in flames or not. I'd have to consult E.E.R.I.E. later.

  “This is our bulletin board,” said Vikki. “It has all our BOLOs and our missing persons.”

  The board had a whole series of faces: men, women, boys, girls. Some human. Some 'monstrous'—such as that is. There were an awful lot of missing people here.

  “Damn, there's a lot of them,” I said. “How many people get lost around here? Doesn't seem like a very big town.”

  “They're not all from here,” said Vikki. “We coordinate with departments all over nearby counties, so this is a lot of people who've gone missing from Saskatchewan, Montana, North Dakota, Manitoba, and the surrounding regions. Some further out, if the case is weird enough. Everywhere all over the U.S. and Canada, really. Sometimes even further out than that.”

  “You think they're likely to turn up here in Bordertown?”

  She shook her head, a smirk of amusement on her face.

  “All the time,” Vikki said, her smile bright and infectious. “I still can't get my head around it, and I've lived here all my life. I don't know what it is about this place, but we've had people from as far as seventeenth century Japan show up here.”

  “Wow, that's…wait. What do you mean seventeenth century Japan?”

  She just shook her head and laughed.

  “We had to find him a Japanese translator, and even he thought the guy was baka—er—crazy at first. But then our translator recognized his dialect, and we figured out where he was from. We still haven't figured out a way to send him back. I'm not sure we can.”

  “So…what happened to him?”

  “He lives here now. That's what happens to people after weird events like that. There's not a lot of places people like him can go. He lives on a rice farm on the edge of town and teaches bushido. We actually passed his farm on the way to…you know.”

  I nodded.

  Then, on the bulletin board, I spied a familiar face. It was a face I hadn't expected to see again. I read the name from the bulletin. 'Danielle Dorian.'

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “I know this girl.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. That's Danny. I just talked to her a couple of nights ago. On the road. Like, maybe an hour and a half before I met you.”

  “Really? Are you sure? She's been missing almost two weeks.”

  “I know it's her. Same face. Same hair. Same rough description. Dad, you saw her.”

  “I saw a girl of approximately that height high tailing it away from you pretty fast, Casanova.”

  I blushed a bit at that, embarrassed. Maybe a bit angry that my dad was embarrassing me in front of Vikki. That hadn't exactly been my finest moment.

  But Vikki smiled, amused.

  “I know it's her,” I said. “She said her name was Danny. She was on a skateboard…and see? Here it says she's probably on a skateboard.”

  “Okay,” said Vikki. “I believe you. Have a seat.”

  “Why?”

  “We'll have to file a report with the Estevan P.D. And with the Mounties.”

  “Seriously? I mean, it's not like I know where she is right now or anything. And anyway, she's not really missing. She just…isn't so happy with her mom and stepdad right now. I mean she's sixteen. She's old enough to move out on her own, isn't she?”

  “It doesn't matter, Gavin. She's a minor and she's missing. And just think about how her mother must feel right now. She'd probably be relieved to know her little girl's just on the run. Especially with a deranged serial killer out there.”

  That gave me pause. I realized I hadn't really put the two events together until now…that this girl was out there on her own, and now there was a serial killer abducting girls her age, torturing them, doing god-knows-what to them, and then killing them and leaving them as macabre cadavers for the authorities to find.

  That was the first time I felt a twinge of guilt for not trying a little harder to get Danny to come with us. Then again, there's something about being really pushy about getting a strange minor into a car full of strangers that makes that sentiment maybe a little ironic.

  “Fair enough,” I said, and nodded.

  We proceeded to spend the better part of an hour doing even more paperwork. So thanks for that, Danny. Wherever you are. Thanks a lot. Although seriously, I have to admit I found myself hoping that, wherever Danny Dorian was, she was safe. Even if she was kind of an ungrateful brat.

  Chapter 21

  Our next order of business was to make a stop at Dr. Larry Braunstein’s machine shop. Vikki explained this was actually the basement of his own home. Which meant, oddly, that dad and I were getting a look at Raven’s co-op placement before she was.

  As we walked up the walkway to his rather sizeable mansion, I noticed a number of metallic radio towers, maybe about three feet in diameter and about ten feet high, spaced about eight feet apart. They seemed to surround his home.

  “What's with the radio towers?” I asked.

  “They're hyper-wave ecto-beacons,” said Vikki.

  I nodded. “Oh. Of course. Duh.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “They pulse at a low frequency which repels ectoplasmic emanations. Or, in even simpler terms, they repel ghosts.”

  “Right. Wait…does Doc get a lot ghosts trying to break in or something?”

  “What makes you think he's not trying to prevent them from breaking out?” she said with a crooked smile.

  Vikki rang the doorbell, which seemed to play the opening few notes of the original Star Trek theme. We waited a few moments while I started completing the melody in my head. Then, bored I suppose, I started humming it out loud.

  Surprisingly, Vikki joined in. Only, the really surprising part was she was creating perfect harmony, rather than merely joining me on the same notes.

  This girl never ceases to impress me.

  Doc's door opened, and we cut it out.

  “Oh, it's you, boychik,” he said.

  “Hey Doc,” I said. “I'm everywhere, apparently. I love the doorbell ringtone, by the way.”

  Doc nodded and waved us inside.

  Doc's home was spacious, but considerably more cluttered than
ours. We passed by several rooms chalk-full of old electronics, boxes of papers with labels like 'quantum G-diffuser schematics', and 'anti-matter fusion accelerator' and another simply labeled 'volcano base plans'. To call Doc a pack rat, or a hoarder would reek of understatement. Perhaps it would be a bit like saying that Donald Trump was a bit of a narcissist, who would occasionally spout xenophobic bullshit. Of course, given my own track record so far, who am I to talk about xenophobic slurs?

  Doc had a bunch of pictures up on the walls of him at a much younger age, I noted. Pictures of him on a sailboat, with a lot more hair. Pictures of him from the early 1990s maybe, with some of the police officers from way back then. Most were presumably retired by now. Pictures of him shaking hands with former Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau. I considered asking why he didn't also get one of himself with our new Prime Minister, to complete the family set, but I didn't. There was another picture of him at a pub with several people I didn’t recognize. I imagined they must all be technological innovators of some kind, because I did recognize two of them to be Elon Musk and Richard Branson.

  That must have been some party, I thought to myself.

  There were a lot of photographs of him with a young, pretty, black-haired woman. She seemed to be everywhere, often pictures being of just her, sometimes with her hair up and a Star of David, not unlike mine, decorating her long neck. In one photo, she had her hair down, and she was wearing a lacy bodice. A boudoir photo? It didn’t take long to conclude she no longer lived with the good doctor. Although whether she’d divorced him or died, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable asking either.

  That’s when I noticed the nursery. It wasn’t terribly visible from the places we could actually step. The towers of boxes barricaded the walkway to his basement and the rest of his home, but at one funny angle, through a mirror to another room, I could see part of a crib, and a number of stuffed toys, as well as a baby monitor on a dresser. And then—and I couldn’t be sure of this—but for a moment, I thought I could hear a baby crying.