Title: Found
Author: Lament
Pairing: Speed/Eric
Fandom: CSI: Maimi
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, "Lost Son" wouldn't have happened.
Spoilers: "Lost Son"
Warnings: WiP, and well, Tim's a ghost. Also, references to Timmy's demise.
Author's Notes: I was in a weird mood when this story came to me. You're going to need to suspend disbelief and have a sense of humor. I wrote this, in part, as a response to fandom's refusal to accept the death of a beloved character. It's one of the things I love about fandom. Shared denial. : D Anyway, that's the fancy literary reason I wrote this. I also wrote it because I thought it would be more fun than mourning our "lost son."
Summary: My response to "Lost Son."***
Standing in the corner of the locker room, I fold my arms across my chest. It's been a weird couple of days. To be honest, it all seems like a dream. And yet, I know it's not.
I guess I always knew death was a possibility, but I dismissed it as something that happened to other cops, other teams. Even when death hit close to home—Megan's husband, H's brother—it always seemed distant.
Shaking my head, I let out a breath. Maybe it really didn't happen the way I remember it. Maybe this is some surreal dream, and when I wake up, I can have that talk I've been meaning to have with the man I . . . the man I love. Wow. I'm still getting used to the sound of that. To be totally honest, I fought my feelings for a long time. They scared me, I guess. I'd finally managed to choke my courage up enough to spill my guts when it happened.
"Damn it," I snap, hurtling my fist toward my locker.
Instead of doubling over in pain, I just stare silently at my arm, or what I can see of it anyway. You'd think I'd feel horrified by the fact that my arm from the elbow down is currently submerged in my locker. Oddly enough though, I'm more curious than anything. Must be the scientist in me.
I guess this is the evidence I needed. Now I'm sure what happened to me. I died. I'm dead. I've bit the big one. Yet here I am.
So I'm a ghost.
Okay. I can work with that.
Straightening my body, I try to open my locker, but every time, my hand goes right through. Damn. How did Patrick Swayze do it in Ghost? I seem to remember him talking to that crazy ghost in the subway . . .
Hmm . . . I glance around. So I wonder if I'm alone. Maybe I'll bump into Sean Donner or Raymond Caine. Or maybe I could wander down to the morgue. If I want to find a dead person, that would be good place to start.
Unless I can't leave. Maybe I'm stuck haunting the locker room. That would suck.
"All right, Frank," says a familiar voice, "I'll see you."
Eric.
Eric Delko. The man I love.
Why, why, why didn't I tell him?
Letting out a breath, Eric drops onto the bench in front of our lockers. He sits, unmoving, for a while, and then he stands up and starts to take off his shirt.
Okay, well, that could be an advantage to haunting the locker room. Maybe he'll take a shower. It's not like I've never seen Eric without his shirt before, but before, I couldn't stand here and blatantly stare.
Eric definitely has a nice chest. It's strong and well-developed, but not so overly muscular that he looks burly. I don't know how many nights during my life I laid awake thinking about Eric's chest. And his arms. And his . . .
Feeling emboldened, I walk over to Eric and say, "So, Delko, why don't I come over to your place tonight? We can hit the sheets. You won't even have to buy me dinner."
Eric tosses his shirt beside him on the bench, and then leans forward, resting his head against cold metal. After a few seconds, he lifts his head, and to my surprise, reaches over and opens my locker. It's empty inside, but Eric stares into it, as if he's looking for something.
Suddenly, he slams it shut. "Dammit," he says, "Why didn't I tell you?"
"Tell me what?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "What's the worst you could have said?"
"I don't know," I say, even though I know he can't hear me, "What did you want to tell me?"
Just then, Calleigh ambles in. "Hey, stranger," she drawls, "You finally going home?"
"Yeah," Eric says, "I'm headed that way."
"Well," she says, "Do you want to grab a bite?"
"No, Cal. Not tonight."
Calleigh reaches out and places a hand on each of Eric's arms. "Come on, Eric. You've been living like a hermit since Tim died."
He has?
"Leave me alone. I'm fine," Eric says defensively.
"Eric," Calleigh says, "It's been a month."
A month? I've been gone a month? No way. It was a couple of days ago.
"Calleigh," Eric says brusquely, "Leave. Me. Alone. Okay? People die."
Calleigh sits down on the bench. "Eric, everyone is concerned about you. You've been so stoic."
"I've already had the lecture from H," Eric says, "Thanks."
Standing up, Calleigh leans over and kisses Eric on the cheek. "Call me if you need me, Eric. Please."
"Yeah, whatever," he mutters. Slumping onto the bench, Eric stares up at the ceiling. "This can't be happening," he says quietly.
"I know what you mean, Delko," I say, sitting next to him on the bench. "I can't believe it."
It aches to see Eric like this. I want to reach out to him, to touch him. Summoning my resolve, I stretch my arm toward Eric, and gingerly lay it on his shoulder. For a split second, I think I may have done it. My hand rests on Eric's shoulder rather than passing through it. Then suddenly, whatever control I have slips away, and my hand fades right through Eric's body.
Suddenly, Eric jumps up as if he's been hit. Grimacing, he reaches up and starts to rub the very place I touched him.
"You felt that," I say, hope swelling in my chest, "You felt that."
"I need sleep," he murmurs. Throwing his shirt back on, Eric stares in my direction, and then bolts out of the room.
***
I stand in the doorway of the locker room, staring at the now-empty hallway Eric just disappeared down.
There's no door separating me from that same hallway, but still, I'm standing here like a coward. What am I afraid of? That I might be stuck in the locker room? So what if I am? What? At least I'm here.
On the other hand, if I can get out of the locker room, I can explore, and maybe figure out what's going on.
Letting out a breath, I shrug and take a step forward.
Into the hallway.
Cool. So I'm not stuck in the locker room.
Letting out a breath, I amble down the hall toward the trace lab. Since Eric and Calleigh were heading home, I'm guessing it's time for the graveyard shift . . . the graveyard shift. Cute.
Actually, the fact that I'm stuck haunting CSI headquarters has to be some kind of afterlife commentary on my tendency to work too much. I'm really very amused.
When I finally reach trace, I stand outside and peer into my old stomping grounds at Brett, the nighttime trace "expert." Hack is more like it. We were always having to redo his work on my shift.
I watch with interest as Brett leans against the counter and chats up Maren, the night shift's resident queen of DNA. Actually, she's really good. H has been trying to get her on day shift for years.
H.
Hmm . . . If there's one thing I learned during my life, it's that no matter how long I hung around here, H still left after I did.
Forgetting about Brett, Maren, and their romantic escapades, I wander toward H's office. The door is closed, but sure enough, his light's still on.
When I was alive, I used to wonder what H did in here late at night. I mean, a guy can only have so much paperwork. So I'm thinking maybe I could just go in and sit unobtrusively in the corner. Besides, it would be nice to just hang out with him for a while.
I'm about to walk into the office when I remember the door. Damn. Okay, it's just a door. Then again, I seem to remember something about Patrick Swayze being freaked out by the door because it was so thick. But it's a door. I put my hand through a locker door. Besides, I'm a scientist. When scientist encounters a problem, they experiment until they find a solution. They take risks, plunge into the unknown.
Then again, the last time I took a risk, I wound up bleeding to death on the floor of a jewelry store.
Shutting my eyes tight, I remember walking into the store. I remember seeing a guy hiding under a table. I remember pulling my gun. Then it's all a jumbled mess until I hear H talking to me, soothing me, trying to will me into the world of the living. But I just couldn't fight it. It all happened so fast.
I died, and H was with me.
Taking a breath, I walk straight toward the door, and suddenly, I'm on the other side. Well, that was easy. I didn't feel a thing. Clearly, the movie exaggerated a bit.
H is behind his desk, leaning bonelessly back in his chair. My God. He looks so alone.
Walking around H's desk until I'm behind him, I gaze over his shoulder. He's thumbing through a photo album—a scrapbook, really—with lots of pictures of his brother Raymond, his nephew, and Yelina. There are also pictures of a few people I don't recognize. Hmm . . . H and a woman. And they look happy.
Just then, the door to H's office swings open, and I jump slightly. I'm ghost, and still, I jump.
"Hey, H." It's Frank Tripp.
"Hi Frank," I say exuberantly, "Hey, did you come to my funeral?"
"Hi, Frank," H says. He's trying to sound cheerful, but he's failing miserably. I wonder if H is always like this when no one is around.
Frank points over his shoulder. "You about ready to get out of here?"
H flashes a thin smile. "Actually, Frank, I think I'll hang around here."
"I just ran into Delko in the parking lot," Frank says, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Asked him if he wanted to get a beer, but he took off like a shot. H, I hate drinking alone. It's either you, or I have to go home to my wife."
Cocking his head at Frank, H nods dutifully. "Give me a minute, Frank."
Absentmindedly rapping the doorframe with his knuckles, Frank says, "I'll be by the front desk."
H watches the door swing closed. Shaking his head, he reaches into his desk, pulls out a handful of newspaper clippings, and then opens the scrapbook to an empty page.
When I lean closer to get a better look, I feel my breath hitch.
It's me.
The clippings are about me.
Squinting, I read the headlines: "Officer Killed in the Line of Duty;" "Tragic Loss for Miami Law Enforcement;" "One Son Found, Another Lost"
Staggering backward, I pick up the nearest object—a pen—and I hurtle it toward the wall, all my fear and anguish and rage pouring out.
When the pen lands with a thud against a window, both H and I look up, startled.
H narrows his eyes and glances around the room. After a moment, he raises his eyebrows, and then returns to the clippings.
While H works on his scrapbook, I slowly walk toward the pen. Squatting beside it, I gingerly reach down and try to pick it up again. But no matter how much I try, my fingers just go through it. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Standing up, I turn to H. "Hey, H," I say, my voice shaking slightly, "I don't suppose you can hear me."
H doesn't answer. Instead, he lets out a breath and stands up. Opening the top drawer of his desk, he gently places the scrapbook inside.
"Well, Speed," he says as he opens the door to his office, "That's another day."
"H," I choke, "Don't leave me here alone."
As H steps out of his office and closes the door, my knees give in and I collapse onto the hard surface. "H," I say again, "Don't leave me here alone."
***
I spent most of the night curled up in the corner of H's office, brooding. For a while, I kept trying to open his desk drawer so I could get a look at those news clippings, but no matter how hard I tried, my hand just kept going through the desk.
So I gave up.
As the night went on, the fear and the anger and the depression moved in with full force. Suddenly, it hit me how alone I really am. No one knows I'm here. They all just stuck me in the ground and moved on. But I am here. I don't know why, or for how long, but I'm here. Of course, I was given to depression when I was alive. I used to go home after work, sit alone in my apartment, and dwell on my problems until I fell asleep. Now that I'm a ghost, I've discovered that I don't need sleep. Consequently, I have a lot more time to sit around and think. Probably not a good thing.
As daybreak neared, I dragged myself to my feet and trudged back toward the locker room. I almost ran into someone on my way, so being the polite guy I am, I said, "Excuse me." It took a couple of minutes before the absurdity of the situation hit me. I'm dead, and I forgot. Just for a second, I forgot. Wild.
-----
From my place in the corner of the locker room, I watch as various personnel wander in and out.
So far, I haven't seen anyone I don't recognize. But if it's been a month, I have to wonder . . . have they replaced me yet? And what is this person like? Do they fit in? Did I? Will everyone forget about me?
Letting out a long breath, I kick the nearest locker. The thudding sound causes Tyler, our AV tech to jump two inches. He glances around the locker room, shrugs, and then strolls into the hall.
Interesting. If I'm trying to make myself solid enough to touch something, I can't do it. But if I'm trying to linger in a corner unnoticed, then . . . whammo . . . I'm solid. So, maybe it's that I'm thinking too much.
As I'm pondering my ghostly abilities, Calleigh finally shows up. She plods perfunctorily to her locker, looking like she hasn't had much sleep. Wordlessly, she stuffs her belongings into her locker and treads out—presumably to find H and see what's on the agenda for today. Part of me wants to follow her, but I hold back. I don't know why. I keep trying to think back to the last time I spoke to her, and all I can remember is apologizing to her for borrowing her light and not recharging it. If I spoke to her after that, I don't remember.
After a while, I find myself peeking around the doorway into the hall. I'm a little concerned because I haven't seen Eric yet. If my sense of time is back on track now, Eric's fifteen minutes late for work. Granted, that's happened before, but I have to worry. He could've been in an accident or something.
Ten minutes later, Eric finally shows up, half-jogging into the locker room. He has that panicked look on his face. The one people get when they've done something H isn't going to like.
"Hey, Eric," I say amiably, "You've got to start showing up on time. Didn't we have this conversation like a month before I died?"
"Okay," Eric mutters as he takes off his jacket, "What am I forgetting?" He glances around the room, as if someone is going to answer his question.
"Hey, don't look at me," I say, shrugging.
Eric lets out a breath, and then starts to exit the room. He's almost out the door when he turns around and tears back to his locker. "My pager," he mumbles.
"Yeah, you'll need that," I say.
Eric rips open his locker and starts rummaging around for his pager.
Over Eric's shoulder, I see H appear in the doorway. H holds back for a minute, like he's observing Eric. Finally, he inches slowly into the room.
"Hey, Eric," he says pleasantly.
I'm quite familiar with that tone of voice. It's the one H uses when he's about to grill you for information, but he doesn't want you to feel threatened. I got that tone of voice a lot.
"Hey, H," Eric says, "Uh, sorry I'm late. I . . ." Eric averts his eyes from H's and bites his bottom lip, "I really don't have a good excuse."
That took guts.
"Is everything all right?" H asks.
Eric shrugs. "Yeah, I just didn't get much sleep. I couldn't get myself moving today."
H crosses his arms, his eyes boring into Eric. "I talked to Hagen this morning."
John Hagen? Uh oh. This can't be good.
Exhaling, Eric shakes his head. "I knew he couldn't keep his mouth shut," he says bitterly.
Cocking his head, H says, "You want to tell me what happened?"
A look of apprehension flits through Eric's eyes. "I had a few drinks, and I got into his face," he says. Then hastily, he adds, "H, it wasn't my fault."
"Wait a minute," I laugh, "You got in Hagen's face?"
"What was the fight about?" H asks.
"H, it wasn't a fight," Eric snaps, "If it was a fight, he'd look a lot worse."
"I don't know Eric," I say uncertainly, "Hagen looks like he could handle himself."
Eric turns his back to H, collecting himself. Then he faces H and says, "He bugs me."
H smiles thinly. "Well, he bugs me, too. But we're on the same side, Eric."
"I know."
Patting Eric on the shoulder, H says, "Listen, let's try to maintain a civil relationship, okay?"
"Okay, H," Eric acquiesces.
"Good man," H says, "Grab your gear. We've got a body."
Every fiber of my being wants to follow H and Eric, to work the scene with them. But just as I'm about to race out of the locker room, self-doubts begin to hit me, and I chicken out. Instead of following H and Eric, I stand in the dank, open space of the locker room, and watch them disappear down the hall.
***
I've been "haunting" CSI headquarters for about a week. Or it could be longer, but the first time I remember being conscious of my surroundings was a week ago when I suddenly found myself in the corner of the locker room. Since then, I've spent my days skulking around the locker room, trying to work up the nerve to venture out and visit my friends. Every time I get to the doorway, though, I chicken out. Part of me is afraid to see the new guy—there must be one by now. I don't know. I just don't think I could handle seeing Eric, H, and Calleigh buddying up to whatever loser they hired to replace me.
And if I'm being honest, I'm also worried that I'll discover I've been forgotten. That absolutely terrifies me. I mean, what if they start acting like I never was? Would I be trapped here, with no one to talk to? Would I fade away?
I'm starting to understand why I've heard so many stories about scary, pissed-off ghosts. A week and I'm already bitter.
Nights I don't have a problem with. I pretty much own this place at night. I usually drop by the trace lab to see what Brett, the nighttime trace guy, is up to. Then I go and sit with H until he leaves for the evening. After that, I pretty much wander the halls, trying to find something to pass the time.
I'm still haven't figured out how to make myself solid enough to pick things up. Which is why I'm currently sitting in the break room, about to drive myself crazy in a vain attempt to pick up a ballpoint pen. This has become an obsession.
Gingerly, I reach out and attempt to touch the ballpoint. Nothing. Frowning, I try again. Nada. With one finger, I swipe at the pen. Still nothing.
"Dammit!" I spit, "This is useless!"
Angrily, I strike out at the ballpoint as if I'm trying to swat a mosquito. The tip of my middle finger connects with the pen and sends it flying across the floor.
. . . I did it. I freakin' did it.
Hurrying across the room, I plunk myself down on the floor and close my eyes. Okay. I have to clear my mind, and I have to relax. Calmly letting out a breath, I tap the pen with my index finger. As I watch the pen start to spin around in a circle, I laugh out loud.
"Yes!" I shout triumphantly. Like a little kid with a new toy, I keep tapping the pen and watching it spin.
Just then, I hear a loud crash, followed by an earsplitting scream.
I glance up just in time to see a bucket of soapy water tumble onto its side, sending its contents streaming out onto the floor. I jump to my feet and peer around the doorway. The night custodian bolts down the hall, shrieking and pitching a bag of sponges at a passing lab tech. Oops. It never occurred to me that someone might actually see the pen spinning around in a circle. Poor woman probably thinks this place is haunted.
-----
A group of lab techs assemble in the hallway, apparently trying to figure out what caused the custodian to wig out and race down the hall, screaming. They mill around, talk in hushed whispers, and point at nothing. Soon, Maren and Brett swoop into the break room as if they're "securing the scene." Whatever. They need to get a life. For a while, I watch the flurry of activity with interest.
Suddenly, it dawns on me that I should test out my new "powers" by trying to get into H's desk.
"Okay, guys," I say to the crowd, "I think you have this under control." I point over my shoulder. "I'm going to head to H's office and get some stuff done."
I sweep easily through the office door and seat myself in H's chair. Comfy. It's weird. I never wanted the kind of responsibility H has—of course, I'm not sure H ever wanted it either—but now I sort of regret that I'll never get the chance.
Taking a breath, I slide open the top drawer of the desk and pull out H's scrapbook. Slowly, I flip the pages, my eyes scanning newspaper clippings, wedding announcements, and family photos. There's a matchbook from some apparently swanky restaurant I've never heard of. And a child's drawing. A snapshot of a woman who looks a lot like H—maybe his mother. Pictures of H and his brother. A couple of Yelina. Whoa. A wedding picture . . . H was married? Tugging at my bottom lip, I lean back in the chair. I feel like I'm violating H's privacy.
Then again, I have a right to read the articles about my own death, don't I?
Flipping ahead a few pages, I start to see evidence of my existence. My life. There's a picture of me when I was years younger—right after I met H. It's funny. I couldn't stand the guy when I first met him. He didn't seem to like me very much either. There are some photographs of me, H, Eric, Alexx, and Calleigh at Alexx's Christmas party. Hmm . . . he kept a one-paragraph write-up someone did about me for a trade magazine.
And then I come to evidence of my death. He's got one of those little "In Memoriam" things the funeral homes print up. Creepy. On the following page, there's a crumpled up note . . . from Megan. It says she's sorry she didn't make the funeral. Too many memories of Sean. Wonder why it's crumpled up. For that matter, I wonder why he saved it.
Finally, I come to them. The articles. To tell the truth, I'm not sure why I want to read them. Do I think my memory will come back? Do I want it to?
My eyes gaze over the articles. They all say the same thing—stats about how long I was with the crime lab, how old I was, that I worked trace. And every one ticks off the events of my death in a sterile, efficient manner—H and I showed up at the jewelry store to check out a lead. I spotted a hidden assailant and pulled my gun. I was shot in the ensuing firefight.
They arrested one guy who will be tried as an accessory to murder.
And then I see something I didn't expect. It's a quote from H: "Were it not for Detective Speedle's actions, I would not be here today. He saved my life."
My God. H credits me with saving his life.
I sit behind H's desk for a long time, just thinking about my life and death. If I was looking for closure from these articles, I didn't get it. Instead, I've plummeted myself into a deep state of melancholy. A few weeks ago, I was alive. Now, I'm a memory in a scrapbook.
When I finally glance at the clock, I realize that it's morning, and H will be here soon. Gently, I return the scrapbook to its home in H's desk and seat myself unobtrusively in a chair by the wall. Usually, I go back to the locker room and wait for everyone to get here. Today, though, I stay and wait for H.
About five minutes later, I hear the lock to H's door click. The door swings open, and H ambles in, dropping his bag next to the desk.
I rise from my chair and walk right up to H. "Hey, H," I say, "I read those articles. Thank you for saying what you said. Not that I believe it's true." Placing a hand on his shoulder, I continue, "Still, it makes me feel like I did something with my life."
H frowns and touches his shoulder.
"Did you feel that, H?" I ask.
Letting out a breath, H walks around and drops himself into the chair behind his desk. Almost as soon as he sits down, his pager goes off. Glancing at the screen, he lifts himself back up and snatches his sunglasses off the desk.
"You got another body?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says.
As soon as the word is out of his mouth, both H and I practically jump out of our skins.
"H," I say, throwing myself forward, "You heard me."
His face completely drained of color, H glances around the room. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, as if he's desperately trying to knock something back into place. Then, running his fingers through his hair, H backs out of his office and shuts the door.***
He heard me. H actually heard me.
So, I've been deliriously excited since my encounter with H this morning. Last night, I had no hope. Now . . . Now I've communicated with the other side. I mean, I kind of freaked H out, but who cares? He'll get over it.
After H left, I ran around headquarters looking for someone else to talk to. I couldn't find Eric and Calleigh, so I snuck in behind Tyler and rattled off some witticisms. He and I usually got along pretty well, and . . . well let's face it. He's a little weird. I figured that might give him a leg up on the "hearing a ghost" thing. Unfortunately, I got no reaction. Valera was a bust, too.
Bummed, I dragged myself back to the locker room and proceeded to sulk in the corner.
Leaning against a locker, I tug on my bottom lip. What do I know so far? First of all, both H and Eric felt me when I touched them. And H actually heard my voice. But I've been sitting with H for hours, rattling on and on. Why did he hear me now? I wasn't trying to make myself heard.
About then, I notice a goofy-looking patrol officer wander into my locker room. Like a good CSI, I decide to investigate. I watch as the officer pries open the locker next to mine. As he shoves his belongings into the waiting cubbyhole, his gaze drifts to the nametag on my locker.
"You're probably wondering who 'Speedle' is," I say. Leaning against the locker, I look the officer up and down. "That would be me. I'm guessing you're the loser H hired to replace me. So, what are your qualifications?"
New Guy ignores me.
Dork.
Undeterred, I press on. "Hey, you know, you kind of remind of me of this lab tech from Vegas I met at a forensics convention. You from Vegas?"
Still ignoring me, New Guy shuts his locker and wanders out the door.
Frowning, I plunk down on the bench. Part of me wants to follow the guy and haunt him until he runs screaming down the hall like the custodian did yesterday. It's irrational, I know. H had to replace me eventually. But this guy? It looks like H hired him right out of the patrol car. What did he do? Wave the guy over on the side of the road and offer him a job?
-----
After a healthy dose of brooding, I decide to go out and look for New Guy. I need to know that he's not a total doofus. I mean, how can I trust him around my friends if he's an idiot?
When I finally find him, he's standing in the hall, talking with Alexx. As I watch New Guy chat familiarly with my friend, I can feel my blood start to boil. Clenching my jaw, I hurry over to listen in on their conversation. Alexx is filling him in on the particulars of a case. I don't catch all the details because I'm too busy glaring at New Guy.
To Alexx's credit, she looks completely disinterested in the conversation. Finally, with a flick of her wrist, she shoves a file into New Guy's hands. "That would be my assessment," she says coolly. Then she turns on her heels and walks away.
"Yeah," I say victoriously. Turning to New Guy, I say, "Alexx is my ME. Keep your hands off."
Having told New Guy how it is, I hurry after Alexx. She looked to have been heading toward the break room. Sure enough, I find Alexx rustling through the refrigerator for her lunch. "You getting ready to eat?" I query, dropping myself into a chair. "Mind if I join you?"
I realize too late that when I sat down, my added weight caused the chair to creak slightly. Alexx glances over her shoulder at the sound. Then she shrugs, pulls out her lunch, and joins me at the table.
When I was still alive, Alexx and I used to have lunch together all the time. She would pull out pictures of her kids and update me on how they were doing in school and what kinds of new things they were learning. I feel like I know her family even though I only saw them at Christmas parties.
After she lays out the contents of her lunch bag, Alexx snaps open her wallet and starts to pull out a picture.
I narrow my eyes. Her sandwich hasn't turned into a projectile yet, so I'm assuming she hasn't heard me talking to her. And yet, she's pulling out her pictures, just as if she knows I'm here. Tugging a single photograph loose from her wallet, Alexx places it carefully on the table.
I lean forward to have a look. Hmm . . . It's not a picture of the children after all. It's a photo of me. I remember giving it to Alexx last year. I rarely have my picture taken, but my mom had been bugging me for a new one. So I caved and got some taken. When Alexx and Calleigh found out, they each demanded a copy. Eric asked for one, too, sheepishly claiming he "needed a new dartboard target."
Gazing at my photograph, Alexx says, "Did you see what Horatio has stuck us with?" Shaking her head, she bites into her banana.
She's having a conversation with my picture? Okay, I can run with this. "Yeah, I saw. He's an idiot."
"I give him a month, honey," Alexx says.
I lean back in my chair. "You think a month? I don't know."
Alexx lays the half-eaten banana peel on the table and picks up a chicken sandwich. "I can't believe Horatio put him on this case of all cases. Calleigh must be going nuts."
"Why?" I ask, leaning forward.
Shaking her head, Alexx slumps in her chair. After a few seconds, she sits up straight and gingerly starts thumbing my picture. "This isn't getting any easier, Timmy."
Biting my bottom lip, I place my hand on hers. "I'm sorry," I say.
Alexx lets out a breath. "I never thought you of all people would wind up on my table. I can still see you lying there." she croaks.
Suddenly, the crushing realization hits me between the eyes. My autopsy . . . Alexx performed my autopsy. My God. "Alexx," I say, my voice cracking, "I'm so sorry."
It makes sense, though. Even if someone tried to get her to stay uninvolved, Alexx probably would have refused to let anyone else touch me. And H . . . he'd be the same way. He likes to keep family affairs within the family, so to speak.
About then, Eric walks in and leans against the table, the balls of his hands supporting his weight. He smells good. "Hey, Alexx," he says.
"Hey, you," Alexx returns.
Eric glances down at my picture. He narrows his eyes at Alexx, but doesn't ask any awkward questions. "You met the new guy?"
A look of displeasure flits across Alexx's face. "Mmm-hmm. What do you think of him?"
Eric half-laughs. "He's a dork."
"That's what I said," I interject.
Not having heard me, Eric continues, "He's a little eager."
"A little?" Alexx says, raising her eyebrows, "If Horatio has died in that firefight, Ryan would be after his job."
Ryan? New Guy's name is Ryan?
Eric pulls a chair away from the table and plunks himself down in it. He snatches my photograph from the table. "Anyway, Cal wants to go out for dinner after work. I know you probably have to get home, but if thing with her dad turns out badly . . ."
"Wait a sec," I say, "H put New Guy on a case involving Calleigh's dad?"
I'm seriously going to have to have a talk with H.
Alexx takes a sip of orange juice. "No, I'll call my husband. Is the eager beaver coming with us?"
"I hope not," Eric says, a sour look ghosting across his face. Gently placing my picture back onto the table, Eric pulls himself into a standing position. "I'd better go find H."
"Did you have lunch?" Alexx scolds.
"I'll eat tonight," Eric mock-whines, "You mother-hen."
-----
After lunch, I started to follow Alexx down to the autopsy theatre, but I chickened out. Ever since I realized the Alexx performed my autopsy, I've been completely freaked out about going down to the morgue. I don't know what I'm afraid of. No. No, I know exactly what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I'll remember my autopsy. I have these tiny fragments of memory already. I remember hearing H's voice calling my name, and then nothing for a while. And then the next thing I recall is another voice. I can't make out the words, but I remember someone talking to me, soothing me . . . Alexx. I've seen her do it hundreds of times. To Alexx, the dead are just like any other patient. She talks to them, tries to keep them calm, make them feel secure.
She did that for me . . .
Since I couldn't bring myself to follow Alexx to the morgue, I instead ran around headquarters, trying to find information on Calleigh's dad. I figured I should at least know what's going on. All I discovered is that he apparently was drunk driving last night and hit a guy. But it looks like the guy was already a corpse when Duke hit him.
As I pace back and forth, considering the situation, Eric breezes past me "Hey, wait up," I say. I follow Eric as he rounds the corner and marches down the stairs. It doesn't take long for me to realize where we're going.
The morgue.
I follow Eric as far as the hallway leading to the autopsy theatre. "I'm going to wait here," I say. Glancing uncomfortably around the corridor, I lean against the wall. According to the clock, shift was over a half-hour ago. Alexx usually does her paperwork before she leaves, so I'm guessing Eric will wait for her, and then they'll meet Calleigh. So, I'll just stay here.
After a few minutes, a harried man in a suit rushes up to me. "'Scuse me," he says breathlessly, "I was wondering if you can tell me where they took my car?"
"Hmm?" I say.
"My car," he says impatiently, "You work here, don't you?"
"Sort of," I mumble. Then it occurs to me that, as a ghost, I should be invisible. "Wait a minute," I say, "Can you see me?"
The man throws up his hands. "I may as well be talking to myself." Murmuring something about his "tax dollars at work," the man hurries down the hall.
I stare at the guy as he disappears around a corner. Okay, hang on. So this guy came from the morgue, right? And he can see me. Morgue plus ability to talk to a dead cop . . . I think that guy was a ghost. Creepy. But it tells me one important thing. I may not be alone here. Maybe I can find another ghost who knows the ropes better than I do. Yeah.
-----
Sucking up my fear, I pass through the swinging doors into the main part of the autopsy theatre and let my eyes scan the room. So far, so good. No memories yet.
Alexx is in her street clothes, but she's conferring with one of the night shift coroners. Eric is milling around near the door, looking as uncomfortable as I feel.
I walk slowly around the room, looking for some sign that another ghost is here. For a morgue, though, it's not exactly bustling with spectral activity. In fact, I think I'm the only ghost in the room. I do, however, find the body of the guy I spoke to in the hallway. Cause of death? More than likely, a massive head injury. He's a mess. No open casket for this guy.
As I scan the scene, I hear Calleigh's voice behind me.
"I am so relieved," Calleigh says to Eric and Alexx. "I took him home. I'd like to think this was a wake-up call, but I don't know."
I stroll up to the threesome, resisting the sudden urge to take Calleigh's hand in mine. "So, Cal," I say, "Eric and I think the newbie is a dork. What do you think?"
I take Calleigh's silence to mean that she agrees with us.
"So," Calleigh says, "Did you hear the nightshift thinks headquarters is haunted?"
Alexx looks up. "They do?"
I glance up at the ceiling. "Well, technically it is."
Calleigh shrugs. "I don't know. It's not like we've never lost a cop before, but ever since Tim died . . . I don't know." She shakes her head. "It's silly." As Eric, Alexx, Calleigh, and I walk into the hallway, Calleigh continues, "Some custodian saw something move by itself last night."
"Not by itself," I say.
"And apparently," Calleigh says, "People heard sounds come from Horatio's office, even after he went home."
Oops.
"Whatever," Eric scoffs.
"Well," Alexx says, smiling, "I kind of like to think our boy's still with us. I talk to him sometimes."
"You do?" Eric asks.
"Yeah," I say, "We had nice talk at lunch."
"I still feel his presence," Alexx says, "Sometimes when I feel a breeze, or I hear a noise, I like to think it's Tim."
Right now, I have an almost irresistible urge to hug Alexx.
Calleigh stops in her tracks and looks quizzically at Alexx. "Are you saying you believe in ghosts?"
"Yeah," Alexx says, "I guess I do. When I was a little girl, my grandpa died. A week after the funeral, I was sneaking into the kitchen for a cookie, and I heard him say, 'Girl, you don't need a cookie.' I turned around, and for a split second, I thought I saw him."
"You saw a ghost," Eric says.
Alexx pauses as if she's trying to decide once and for all. "I don't know," she admits, "But I felt a lot better thinking grandpa was still there."
Eric frowns. "Well, if you want my opinion, Alexx, you should let Speed rest in peace."
"Eric," Calleigh drawls.
"He's dead, Cal," Eric says, "He died on us. He's not running around the halls of CSI headquarters. He's in the ground, decomposing."
Ouch.
Calleigh takes Eric's hand. "Look, I know you're hurting."
Yanking his hand away from Calleigh, Eric snaps, "That has nothing to do with it, Cal. Bottom line? Speed's dead. Let him go."
***
Decomposing. The word rings through my head again and again. Decomposing. My body, my flesh, my bones…they're lying in the ground, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rotting. Decaying. Decomposing.
So, that's pretty much what I've been thinking about for the last couple of weeks, and I've got to say…it's not doing much for my mood.
Using my rotten mood as justification, I've spent the past few nights freaking out the graveyard shift. I started out with little things—knocking pens off tables, tapping people on shoulders. Two days ago, though, things escalated. I started slamming doors, banging on lockers, and yesterday, I knocked over a chair in front of the night shift supervisor.
My behavior is wrong, I know. H would call me on it if he knew. But it's wrong in an amusing and oddly soothing way. And anyway, it's not like I'm going to get caught.
Besides wreaking havoc, I've also been weighing my options. I've realized that I can't just lurk in the locker room for the next few hundred years. I'll go crazy. So, I need to find a way to communicate with the living, because as much as I don't want to admit it, I need people in my life. I need my friends.
I figured that my best shot was to communicate with Alexx or H. Alexx is open to the idea of ghosts, and H has actually heard me once. Of course, I'm not sure how I'll handle the inevitable freak-out from their end when I actually do make contact with one of them and they realize they're talking to a ghost. But hey, no plan is without its complications.
For a week, I tried to communicate with H. I sat in his office and yammered about everything I could think of. Additionally, I tried to will myself to become visible to H. I mean, I've read tons of books about people seeing ghosts. It has to be possible. But no matter how hard I tried, or how loud I got, H couldn't see or hear me.
This week, I've been concentrating on Alexx. Currently, I'm "assisting" her with the autopsy of Mike Malloy, a 17-year-old carjacking victim. Basically, Alexx is removing Malloy's clothing while I stand here making cute comments. Alexx and I make a great team.
"Alexx," I say, leaning forward, "I think this guy is dead."
The db in question is standing across the room, trying hard not to look at his cold, lifeless body. "Very funny," he says.
Shrugging, I say, "I try."
The one thing about trying to communicate with Alexx is all the ghostly interruptions. Since the first day I visited the morgue and whined about the lack of spectral activity, this place has become some kind of lounge for the dead. And they all want to talk to me.
"Detective?" Malloy says.
"Just a second, kid," I say. Then I turn to Alexx. "Come on, Alexx. You said you believe."
Alexx caresses Malloy's cheek with a gloved hand. "You went much too young, sugar."
"Nobody's ever old enough, Alexx," I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Malloy inching his way toward Alexx and me. He cocks his head to get a better look at his body, but then he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to look at me.
"Detective?" Malloy says.
"Just a second," I say. Taking a step forward, I place a hand on Alexx's shoulder. "You know I'm still here, Alexx. Talk to me."
Malloy taps me on the arm. "Detective?"
"What?" I snap. "What? Can't you see I'm trying to talk to my colleague?"
Malloy narrows his eyes. "I don't think she can hear you."
"Really?" I say, "Thanks for the head's up."
Frowning, I return my gaze to Alexx. She's cleaning the blood off the kid now. Soon, she'll be cutting him open.
He doesn't need to see this.
Placing a hand on his arm, I lead him toward the door, I say, "Come on. Let's get out of here."
"Where're we going?" Malloy asks.
"Out into the hall. She doesn't need us here now."
Malloy and I stroll easily through the double doors into the hallway. The kid doesn't even flinch when we pass through solid matter. Apparently, he's adjusting to the ghost thing a little quicker than I did.
"So," Malloy says, tugging on his bottom lip, "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Oh perfect.
"Sure," I say, "What is it?"
He licks his lips. "How'd you…you know?"
"How'd I die?" The muscles in my face twitch. "Line of duty."
"Well…were you shot?"
"Yeah," I say, slumping against the wall.
Malloy nods. He's quiet for a few seconds, and then he takes a step forward. "Did you take any perps down? Did you shoot anybody?"
My breath hitches. "Kid, you sound like a bad detective movie."
Shrugging, Malloy paces back and forth. After several moments, he turns to me. "What now?"
"Now?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, "What do I do now?"
I gaze at the ceiling for couple of seconds, and then I say, "I don't know."
He walks over until he's beside me. Then he leans his body against the wall, mimicking my position. "Well," he says, "You still work here or something, right? Where do you live?"
"Live?" I say, raising an eyebrow, "I hang out in the locker room."
"You live in a locker room?" He grins. "Cool. Maybe I should haunt the girl's locker room at my school."
Rolling my eyes, I say, "Look, I got myself killed in the line of duty. Now I haunt a locker room. I never said I was a role model."
Malloy juts out his bottom lip. "You're the only one I got."
Licking my bottom lip, I place my hands on my hips. "You got parents?" I ask.
"Yeah," Malloy says.
"Then go home to your parents."
He frowns. "What for? I'm a ghost, right?"
"Mike," I say, in what I hope is a firm, authoritarian voice, "Your mom and dad need you. Go home."
Malloy looks as if he wants to argue with me, but instead, he nods. "Okay," he says. He gazes at me for a few moments, and then he turns to walk down the hall.
"Mike," I call after him, "If you need anything, check the locker room. Down the hall, take a sharp right, then two lefts."
"Okay, Detective," Malloy says, "And thanks."
-----
After Malloy sulks away, I trudge hollowly down the hall and out the front door. I'm halfway across the parking lot before I realize I don't know where I'm going. Letting out a breath, I turn to head back up the steps that lead to the lobby.
But before I get there, I realize I'm not the only one in the parking lot. A few yards away, I see the New Guy, standing by his car, peering into the engine.
Out of curiosity, I guess, I amble over to him. I have half a mind to introduce myself to him. I can just see the look on his face.
Stopping next to the New Guy, I gaze into the engine. "Car's like a human body," I mumble, "Has a heart, a brain…and it's all pretty fragile."
"Yeah, I guess," the New Guy says, glancing up. He holds out his hand. "Hi, by the way. Ryan Wolfe."
I feel blood, or whatever I have now, drain from my face. He heard me. The New Guy heard me. And since he's looking directly at me, he must be able to see me, too. Either that or he's comfortable talking to air. I bite down hard on my bottom lip and fight the urge to hug the New Guy and tell him how wonderful it is to meet him face to face. Instead, I settle for a neutral but pretty shaky, "Are you talking to me?"
Wolfe grins. "There's no one else here. You night shift?"
"Not really," I say, "So, do you work here, Wolfe?"
"Yeah," he nods, "CSI, day shift."
I swallow. "What's up with the car?"
"I don't know," Wolfe says, "I called Triple A." He grins. "Poking around in a car engine involves getting dirty, and I don't like getting dirty."
I laugh. "How do you work with Delko?"
Wolfe narrows his eyes. "You know Delko?"
"I used to work with him," I say, shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
Leaning against his car, Wolfe says, "So, I've never seen you around. Did you transfer to another crime lab?"
"What?"
He points at me. "You're a criminalist, right? I mean, I guess I assumed since you worked with Delko. And, you know, you're wearing a badge."
For a long moment, I stare at him. Then, holding my breath, I slowly let my eyes trail downward. Sure enough, my badge is still clipped to the waistline of my jeans…I still have my badge. Wow. Who knew?
After several seconds, I let my face break into a grin, and then I look up at Wolfe. "Yeah, Wolfe," I announce, "I'm a CSI."
And it's high time I acted like one.
***
When we arrive at the scene, Calleigh brings the Hummer to a stop and unbuckles her seatbelt. Turning to Wolfe, she says, "You go inside and see where Horatio wants you. Eric and I will handle things out here."
Wolfe makes a face that looks like he's just eaten four lemons. "Sure thing, Calleigh," he says.
Meanwhile, Eric drags himself out of the back seat. Pointing toward an angry-looking crowd, he says, "I'm gonna go start getting statements."
Both Calleigh and Wolfe look startled to hear the sound of Eric's voice. Eric hasn't said much to anyone all morning. Instead, he pretty much spent the earlier part of the day wandering around the lab looking incredibly busy (and sexy) doing nothing. And when Calleigh filled him in on the case, Eric just nodded a lot and climbed into the Hummer.
"Okay, Eric," Calleigh says, in a tone that falls somewhere between perky and exhausted. "I'll be over in a second."
While Eric and Calleigh get to work, I gaze at the Lopez house. I never thought I'd find myself back here again, and yet, here I am. What a case to come back on.
-----
It's been a pretty eventful few hours. Last night, I ran into Wolfe in the parking lot. Just as I was fantasizing about introducing myself to him…boom!…I was visible. Two weeks of trying to talk to Alexx and H get me nowhere. One half-hearted thought about freaking out the new guy and suddenly, I'm a real, live apparition. Weird.
Aside from the visibility thing, I discovered something else important last night. I still have my badge, which, as far as I'm concerned, means I'm still a criminalist. Bottom line—I have a purpose here, and I intend to work.
The one wrinkle in my plan, though, was Wolfe. I had to find out if he was some weird psychic who could see me all the time, or if I just accidentally discovered how to make myself visible like I accidentally discovered how to touch things. So, I hid in the locker room until I could get Wolfe alone. Then, concentrating hard on how much I wanted to be invisible, I stepped out from my hiding place and rattled off some of my best snarky comments.
I got no reaction from Wolfe. Nada. Nothing. And fortunately, I got no reaction from Eric, who came trudging past Wolfe just as the shift started. As much as I want Eric to see me, I just don't picture it happening first thing in the morning, in a dark locker room with Wolfe standing there.
-----
So, here I am. My first day back on the job, and it turns out I'm working one of my own cases—Donny Lopez, a smart-ass baseball player who allegedly killed his wife. He was standing trial for it, but on a court-supervised field trip, someone stuck a really big knife into his head.
Letting out a breath, I glance up and see Wolfe scurrying up the walk to the kitchen of the Lopez house. "Eager beaver," I mutter to myself and run to catch up to him.
I follow Wolfe into the kitchen and find Alexx there, kneeling beside Donny Lopez's body while H confers with my favorite medical examiner about the case. Almost as soon as we get there, though, H tells Wolfe to work the kitchen, and then hustles into another room. I get the distinct impression that H isn't too keen to work with our newest recruit.
After H leaves, Wolfe strolls up to Alexx and says, "Knife missing from this block could be our murder weapon."
Wow. Brilliant assessment, New Guy. I'm almost embarrassed for him.
Alexx glances up. "Nice work, Ryan," she says. "I think you may have cracked the case."
Ouch. That had to sting.
Wolfe shakes it off and replies, "Thanks. I have a keen grasp for the obvious."
Alexx offers only an icy glare in reply and returns to documenting her findings. I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I feel a swell of gratitude and validation toward Alexx right now. She's not charmed by this dork.
"Look," Wolfe says. "I know you and Tim Speedle were close."
My breath hitches at the sound of my own name coming from Wolfe's lips. I remember how many times I've talked about people—vics—I never knew…hashing out the secrets of their lives, questioning their integrity, making jokes about the way they died. Now, knowing what I know, I have to wonder how many of those people were standing right next to me while I chatted so casually about them.
"I know this is Speedle's case," Ryan continues. "I'm not trying to replace him."
"Aren't you?" I ask, pacing back and forth.
Alexx glances up. "Good," she says. "'Cause I don't need any new friends."
Licking my lips, I lean against the counter and stare at Alexx. It hurts like crazy to see her in pain because of me. Maybe making myself visible to her isn't even a good idea. Maybe seeing me again would only reopen the wound. Maybe…maybe I should just let her get on with her life.
"All I want is to do a good job," Wolfe says.
At that, Alexx gazes awkwardly at Wolfe. "Okay," she says after a moment. "Tell me what you see."
I bite my lip hard.
Wolfe and I both kneel down. I lean over Lopez's body and mutter, "Single blow to the head. No sign that he put up a fight."
"Single blow to the head," Wolfe says. "No defensive wounds on his hands or arms. Means no struggle."
Well, give the New Guy a sticker.
"Good," Alexx says. "What else?"
"We probably won't find the victim's blood on our killer," Wolfe says.
"And why is that?" Alexx asks.
"No liquid blood at time of impact. No second hit. No spatter."
Alexx looks as stunned as I am at Wolfe's assessment. "Well, look at you go," she says appreciatively.
Wolfe flashes a cocky grin.
Jerk.
Fearing that Alexx and Wolfe are about to have a moment, I stand up so quickly that almost lose my balance. Letting out a breath, I stalk out of the kitchen in search of Donny Lopez.
-----
I poke around the Casa de Lopez until I finally stumble across our vic. He's sitting on the bed in the room he and his wife, Miranda, shared, and he's sort of rocking back and forth. In his right hand, he's clutching a picture of himself and his wife so tightly I think he might break it by sheer physical force.
"Mr. Lopez?" I say, inching into the room.
Lopez flinches when I say his name. He glances around as if to see what other "Mr. Lopez" I might be talking to. Then he stands up and gazes at me for a few seconds.
"Wait," he says, pointing at my chest. "You're that CSI…the one who said I killed my wife."
"I never said you killed your wife, Mr. Lopez," I say, straightening my body. "I only collected the evidence."
Gazing at his wife's picture, he half-laughs. "I didn't do it, Detective. I mean, I might as well have."
I glance around the room. "Well, I'm not here to work your wife's murder, sir. I'm here to work your murder."
"My murder?" Lopez drops himself onto the bed, cradling his head in one hand and still clutching the picture in the other. "Then it's real?" He starts laughing so hard, his face begins to turn red.
"Mr. Lopez," I say, gesturing in his direction. "If someone were to walk into this room, they'd see that picture floating in mid- air."
Lopez glances at the photograph. Letting out a breath, he places it onto the side table with a loud clank, and then lies back on the bed.
Glancing over my shoulder, I say, "I know this is uncomfortable, Mr. Lopez, but I need to ask you some questions."
Still laughing, Lopez says, "I guess I'm not playing next season."
"Mr. Lopez," I say, "I need to ask you if you saw your attacker."
Lopez stops laughing and sits up. "You're taking my statement? What's the matter with you, idiot? I'm dead."
Rolling my eyes, I snap. "You think you got problems?" I take a step forward and point at the kitchen. "Some dork is trying to steal my life."
Whoa, Speed, I think, Rein it in. You're working.
Narrowing my eyes, I say, "Look, Mr. Lopez. I'm trying to solve your murder here. If you don't want my help, whatever."
After a long moment, Lopez turns to look at me. "I didn't see nothing," he says.
"Did you hear anything?"
"Not a sound."
Nodding, I ask, "Mr. Lopez, have you received any death threats?"
"No more than usual," he says, shrugging. Pacing back and forth, Lopez asks, "Can you, like, communicate with the living or something? Or were you planning to write my killer's name in blood somewhere?"
I stare acidly at Lopez. "I can talk to the life-stealing jerk."
Lopez grins. "You got some issues, or what?"
"Look," I say, "If you do find anything out—"
He smacks me on the shoulder. "A little jealous?"
"Okay, first of all," I snap, pointing at Lopez. "Don't touch me. And secondly, if you find anything out, drop by headquarters."
Lopez smirks. "Should I ask for you at the desk, Detective?"
"Try the locker room," I say, gritting my teeth.
***
After I leave Donnie Lopez, I wander out the kitchen door and into the driveway, closing the door tightly behind me…
Okay, so I just opened and closed a door in front of more than thirty witnesses. That was smart.
No one seems to have noticed, though. They're all too busy complaining about what how inconvenient it was for Donnie Lopez to have gotten himself murdered.
Shrugging, I wander over to Eric, who's wading through the mass of witnesses/suspects. Currently, he's talking (or trying to, anyway) to a juror who, from the looks of things, is giving Eric a hard time. The guy just looks like a smart ass.
"—justice if you ask me," the juror spits.
Eric glances up at the man, a look of disgust ghosting his face. "Poetic justice?"
Inching my body closer, I fold my arms across my chest. Eric's kind of hot when he's being righteously indignant.
"Did you see the pictures of the crime scene?" the juror snarls. "What that animal did to his wife? He got what he deserved."
Eric gazes at the juror. "We're done," he says, watching as the man returns to his fellow-jurors. It's weird. From the expression on Eric's face, I can't tell if he agrees with that prick, or if he's sickened by him. And that scares me a little.
Lately, Eric's been hard to read. Granted, I spend a lot of time avoiding humanity by hiding in the locker room. But I know Eric, and he's gotten grim lately. He alternates between doing a pretty fair imitation of a zombie and walking around with a smiley face plastered where his normal face should be. Eric's always been the kind of guy who keeps things to himself and everything, but I just can't get a bead on what he's feeling.
-
There are so many ways this could go wrong.
I've kind of pulled myself off of Donnie Lopez's murder. Instead, I've decided to reopen the Miranda Lopez case. Consequently, I'm sitting on the floor of a broom closet, a few photos from Miranda Lopez's file strewn across the floor. This may not be the brightest thing I've ever done, but if I want to take another look at this murder, I need some alone time with the case file. And since I can't exactly waltz in and grab it, I've been pilfering it a few pieces at a time, periodically swapping the pieces I'm done with for new stuff.
Maybe it's stupid for me to listen to Donnie Lopez's claims of innocence. But there was something in his voice…I'm not sure what it was. It's not like he asked me to reopen the case, but to be honest, I never really felt right about wrapping up the investigation anyway. The DA was breathing down my neck, and I never felt like I had enough time to look at it from every possible angle.
So far, my investigation hasn't really turned up anything new. I was a little curious about how Mr. and Mrs. Lopez were having a loud argument, and the kids didn't hear anything. I don't know. I always heard it when my mom and dad fought.
Okay. Now what's this? I narrow my eyes at a photograph of Miranda Lopez's body. I've been looking at this picture for an hour, so I blink hard. When I open my eyes, I gaze intently at the knife that's lying discarded by Miranda Lopez's body. The blood on the knife is pretty shallow, now that I'm looking at it. Donnie Lopez is a big guy with a lot of upper-body strength. It seems improbable that he would take such a weak swipe at his wife if he was in a fit of anger…
Huh. Donnie Lopez might just have been telling me the truth.
-
So, now that I have evidence that potentially clears Donnie Lopez's name, what do I do? Lopez had a point. I can't exactly storm into H's office and fill him in. And I can't see me writing a cryptic message on the wall. I guess I could take that punk into my confidence.
Tugging my bottom lip, I sneak toward a conference room where Eric is standing next to a uniformed officer. From what I can hear of the conversation, they've found a suspect they like for Lopez's murder. Down the hall, I see Calleigh rounding the corner with one of the jurors from Lopez's trial. Eric and the uniform walk down the hall the meet them, so I seize the opportunity to run into the conference room and plunk down the photo of Miranda Lopez and the tell-tale knife. I leave it out, so it's visible. All l I have to do now is somehow draw attention to the shallow blood marks on the murder weapon!
I lean against the table, my full weight resting against the table. All I have to do?
-
"Come on, Cal," I whisper into Calleigh's ear. "Just pick up the picture."
This whole interview, I've been trying to reach Eric and Calleigh…communicate with them enough to get them to look at the damn picture. So far, I've had no luck. Calleigh keeps swatting at her ear, though, so apparently I have some kind of presence.
Maybe I could knock the picture off the table somehow. Either Eric or Calleigh will pick it up and take a look. That would work. As I reach for the photo, Calleigh decides to do the same thing. She turns it around and slides it toward her.
"Oh, I see how you are," I smirk. Leaning against her chair, I say, "Okay, now look at the knife. The knife, Calleigh. Look at the blood on the knife."
As I talk to Calleigh, I can half-hear Eric talking to their suspect. I feel kind of bad distracting Calleigh, but Eric can handle it. It's sort of a shame I can't watch him interrogate the guy, though. Eric's confidence in his abilities has grown in the past few years. Now, when he interrogates a suspect, he exudes poise, strength, and a fair amount of animal magnetism.
But duty calls. "Look at the knife, Calleigh," I say. "Come on." I speak louder. "The knife, Cal. Look at the knife. Look at the blood."
I glance up as the uniform leads our suspect out of the room.
"Look at the knife," I say. "The knife."
Calleigh stares at the photo for a long moment, and then rubs her temple. "Oh, God," she says to Eric.
Eric glances at the picture. "What's wrong."
Looking up, Calleigh says, "I don't think he did it."
"Nice work," I say.
"What are you talking about?" Eric laughs nervously. "The guy just confessed. We got him."
"No, not him," she says. "Donnie Lopez. I don't think he killed his wife."
Eric stares at Calleigh, a bewildered expression on his face. "Then who did?"
-
The daughter, as it turns out. Which might explain why Donnie Lopez cleaned up before he called for an ambulance. I've been looking around for Lopez, but I haven't seen him. I'd like to talk to him, ask him how much he knew. Part of me really wants to know if he was a dad protecting his daughter, or if he was just a guy who was wrongfully accused. But I guess I may never know.
I wander through the parking lot, enjoying the night air. It's funny. I never really took the time to enjoy things while I was alive. I pretty much went to work, went home, and then came back to work the next morning. On rare occasions, I would have dinner with Alexx, or Eric would drag me to a club. Even then, I felt like I was in a mad rush.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wolfe, scooping his car keys off the ground. Squaring my shoulders, I stalk toward him.
"Hey," I say, concentrating on wanting to be seen.
Wolfe glances up. "Hey," he says. He stares at me for a moment, probably trying to place me. He flashes a lopsided grin. "My car works again," he declares.
"Good," I snap, crossing my arms tightly across my chest.
"Um…I think Delko's still inside."
I talk a hard step toward him. "Alexx is a friend of mine," I say.
Wolfe glances at the entrance to headquarters. "I don't know her very well, but she seems nice," he says.
I glare. "Don't get too cozy."
Biting his lip, Wolfe says, "Look, I don't know what I—"
"Don't steal my friends," I bark. Then, I turn on my heel and walk back toward the entrance to the building. As soon as I'm out of Wolfe's sight, I will myself to be invisible again.
When I arrive at the doors into the lobby, Eric brushes past me, so I stop to watch him walk away. It sucks. I've been stuck at headquarters every single night—all alone. I wander the halls, scare a few people sometimes, and try to keep myself sane. Then, I sit in the locker room and wait for the morning shift to come to work. And then I do it all again.
Well, not tonight.
-
Even though I can pass easily into Eric's condo, I wait for him to unlock the door. I don't know…it seems polite. After a few seconds, he pushes open the door and trudges inside, tossing his bag onto the floor and his keys onto a table by the entrance. He doesn't bother to turn on the light. Instead, he just drags himself over to the couch and half-collapses into the cushions.
After about ten minutes, he pulls himself into a standing position and slogs into the bedroom, kicking his shoes off as he goes. When he reaches his bed, Eric drops onto his side, wrenching his shirt off just before his head hits the pillow.
I lower myself into a chair by the window and gaze at the man I love. Talk about lost causes.
After a few minutes, Eric's body starts to tremble slightly, and before too long, I hear the muffled sounds of his sobbing. Whoa. In all the years I've known Eric, I've never seen him cry, and believe me, we've been through some heavy stuff. Licking my bottom lip, I rise slowly from my chair and inch toward Eric's bed. When my foot hits a certain place in Eric's floor, the floorboard creaks slightly, causing Eric to lift himself half-off the bed and look over his shoulder. Shaking his head, he lies back down, curling his body into a ball.
Biting my lip, I ease myself onto the bed, trying hard not to shake the mattress too much. I would imagine that finding your dead male best friend next to you in bed when you're already having a bad day would be a mite unsettling.
Carefully, I drape my arm around Eric's waist. At first, he sort of flinches, but after about a minute, I feel him relax and settle into my embrace. Before long, I can hear Eric's breathing settle into a soft, steady rhythm, and I know he's asleep.
Resting my head against Eric's shoulder, I close my eyes and try to take solace in this small comfort.
***
Moonlight seeps into Eric's bedroom, bathing Eric's face in a gentle glow. It's almost…romantic.What's even more romantic is that we're lying here pressed together, and we have been for a couple of hours. My arm is lightly draped over Eric's ribcage, and my head is half-resting on his pillow.
With the index finger of my left hand, I slowly trace the skin along the waistband of Eric's jeans. His skin feels like I thought it would—kind of velvety. As my finger travels along his abdomen, Eric stirs a little, and then snuggles back against me. I wonder what it feels like when I touch someone…what it feels like for them.
Licking my bottom lip, I dip my finger just inside the waistband of Eric's jeans, tracing the same pattern as before. After a while, my finger comes to a stop.
Whoa, Speed, I think to myself. Don't get too frisky here.
What am I even doing? Letting out a breath, I sit slowly up, trying not to shake the bed. Lying in this bed with Eric not knowing I'm here is a harsh torture. I can't do this to myself anymore.
With a quick look back at the sleeping form, I plod through the bedroom door and into Eric's living room.
I might as well spend some time doing a little investigative work while Eric's sacked out.
I've been to Eric's apartment before, sure. But before, I was never able rifle through his things without being noticed. I'm hoping to figure out what's been going on inside Eric's head the past few months. He lets his guard down at work so infrequently that it's nearly impossible to tell what he's thinking.
By the bathroom door, I notice a basket filled with neatly-folded laundry. Well, he's one up on me. My stuff was clean, but I usually just pitched it into the basket. I figured, why fold it? I'm going to wear it.
Grinning like an idiot, I lean down and snatch a pair of Eric's boxer shorts out of the basket. Pretty standard paisley-print, cotton. Still, they're Eric's. I'm touching Eric's underwear.
Folding the boxer shorts into a relatively neat blob, I place them back into the basket. I really need to grow up. They're just underwear. I'm wearing a pair myself. At least, I assume I am. Lifting my shirt, I hook my left index finger into a belt loop and tug at my jeans. Yep. Boxer shorts. Huh. My nice black silk ones. Not the kind of thing I normally wear to work.
Of course, I'm pretty sure I was wearing a blue shirt when I was shot, but I've been wearing my dark brown one and my favorite pair of jeans since I can remember. I can't imagine my mother would allow me to be buried in this outfit. Maybe you automatically get put into your favorite clothes when you become a ghost…That's kind of nice.
Shrugging, I meander into Eric's spare room. It's full of boxes, stacked on top of one another. Apparently, Eric's using it as a storage area. Well, it's his condo. Me, I'd turn it into a library.
Dropping onto my knees, I start to poke around in the containers.
"Hang on," I mutter, pulling a handful of CDs out of the box. "Since when does he like Skynyrd? Huh. Add that to the list of things I didn't know."
Depositing the CDs back into their box, I lean forward to peek into another container. More CDs, a few DVDs. And then I notice something oddly familiar peeking out of another box—my motorcycle helmet. I walk over to the box on my knees and peer inside. My shirts. My high school yearbook. My motorcycle clock.
This is my stuff.
Some of it, anyway. Must be stuff my mom and dad didn't want. I don't know if I should be offended they gave it away, or pleased that Eric wound up with it. Does this mean he asked for it? Or did H tell him to pick up my stuff and box it up for charity?
I wander around the room, peeking into each box. In the middle of the room, I find several boxes of books stacked into a teetering tower. My books! Like a little kid at Christmas, I start digging through the containers, pulling out old Biology texts and novels. Digging deeper, I start pulling out of random books. An Anthropology text. A volume of Keats. A history of Criminology. Hmm… I feel my cheeks begin to flush. A book I bought a couple years ago about diving.
Just then, I hear movement out in the living room. Apparently, Eric heard me gleefully tearing through the boxes. As the doorknob turns, I glance down at the book I have in my hand. Uh oh. As the door clicks opens, I drop the book onto the floor with a thud.
Eric pushes open the door and hastily flips on the light. He stalks into the room and peeks behind a stack of boxes.
"Oh, come on, Eric," I say. "No one would be able to hide back there."
"Get a grip, Eric," he mutters to himself.
Shaking his head, Eric turns to leave the room, but something stops him short. Walking over to the diving book I dropped, Eric kneels down and scoops it up, a baffled look on his face. After a few seconds, he sighs and pitches it into a box.
The next morning, I putter around the condo while Eric gets ready for work. Part of me wanted to sneak into the bathroom while he was showering, but I decided to be a respectable ghost.In a few minutes, Eric waltzes into the living room, his cell phone in one hand. Snatching a blueberry muffin from a box on the counter, he says into the phone, "Marisol? Hey. No, I'm headed that way now."
Marisol is one of Eric's sisters. I've never actually met her, but she seems to call and bug Eric a lot, so I feel like I know her.
"Listen," Eric says. "Did you come over yesterday? Oh. Well thanks. But you didn't have to wash my underwear."
I bite down hard on my bottom lip.
Running his fingers through his hair, Eric says, "I mean, I could've done that." Eric is silent for a several seconds, and then he says, "Well, I haven't felt like it. I know." Grimacing at the phone, he says, "Listen, were you messing around in my spare room?" Eric pulls the refrigerator open and grabs a bottle of cola. Twisting off the cap, he says, "Well, stay out of that stuff. That's my business. Just stay out of it." Eric lets out a breath. "No," he snaps. "No. Just don't touch it at all. I'm not. No, I'm not." Literally falling onto the couch, he says, "What? Oh, whatever. I've been meaning to. I will. No, I will. I have to get ready for work. Okay. I love you. Stay out of that stuff."
Snapping the cell phone closed, Eric picks up his bag and keys, and heads out the door.
Following close behind, I say, "So, I guess you're ready to head to work then. Me too. I've been waiting on you, you know."
***
It's funny how life can blindside you, and suddenly, you're facing something you thought you'd never have to face. Like you come out of the grocery store, and you find out someone has plowed into your car with an SUV. Or the person you love decides to leave you for another man. Or you go to work one morning, and you wind up dying on the floor of a jewelry store. You don't expect these things to happen, but they do. And without warning, your life is changed dramatically.Take me, for example. One day I'm worried about paying the rent, the next I discover I'm a ghost. And to make matters worse, the only person who can see me is the little weasel who stole my life. I can't help but feel like this is all part of some grotesque joke, and that the universe is laughing at me.
Ha. Ha.
Yesterday, though, things weren't so bad, because I spent the night with Eric. Now, a few months ago, the sheer thought of spending the night with Eric would've me into a hormonal pile of goo, basically because I've been in love (and lust) with Eric for a long time. But last night, staying at Eric's place was about more than that. It was a tiny nugget of comfort in my otherwise solitary existence. I don't want to sound maudlin or anything, but being with Eric, walking around his apartment…it felt real, and I haven't felt anything real for months.
As we pulled into the department parking lot this morning, I was almost crushed with despair. It was over. I'd gotten a little vacation from my afterlife, and now, reality was setting in.
To make matters worse, I discovered that Miami was about to be hit by a natural disaster.
Now I had every intention of spending the day with Eric. Unfortunately, I got interested in watching Tyler set up a new database, and Eric and H left for a scene without me. Well, I guess I needed some geek-out time with Tyler anyway. During my life, Tyler was one of the few people I spent any off time with. We're both AV and computer geeks, so we'd occasionally hit a cyber café or something. To this day, I don't think Eric or Calleigh know that.
As a consolation prize, I wound up following Ryan to his crime scene. His solo crime scene. How a newbie rates his own crime scenes while Eric is stuck backing someone up all the time, I don't know. And I have to say, I don't like how Ryan is starting to become chummy with Alexx. I've noticed that sometimes, Alexx talks to him the way she used to talk to me, and that ticks me off. What Alexx and I had was special. She was like a mother to me. So…now what? I'm replaceable?
I have a good mind to become a really bad-ass ghost and haunt that weasel.
Anyway, I've been trying to catch up with Eric for the past two hours, but I can't find him. His car's still in the parking lot, so I know he hasn't gone home already. Earlier, I heard someone say something about H and Eric being involved in a shooting at a bank, and I kind of freaked out for a minute until I overheard someone say they were both all right. I mean, the ghost thing is pretty lonely, sure, but I don't want to see H or Eric on this side of the spectral curtain anytime soon.
As soon as Ryan and I finish up "our" case, I wander around in vain trying to locate Eric. Finally, I head back to the locker room to wait for him. I've decided that I'm going to go home with him again tonight. I mean, what's the harm?After about fifteen minutes, I hear Eric's voice.
"—Hummer doesn't make him invincible."
Calleigh lets out a long-suffering breath. "Well, at least he saved Riley."
Eric rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he grumbles. With a flourish, Eric swings open his locker and snatches out his bag. From the looks of things, he's doing his best to ignore Calleigh, even though she's inching more and more into his personal space.
There was a time I thought that maybe Eric and Calleigh might have feelings for each other. When I watched them together, I saw the connection, the trust…Also, they spent a lot of their off time together, going to movies and having lunch. It's not that Eric and I didn't spend any time together, because we did. Eric used to say that he was "single-handedly responsible for Speed having a social life." And to be honest, he was right. But with Eric and Calleigh…They were just so natural together. They made each other laugh, and I resented the hell out of it.
So I did my best to fit into my role as lab recluse. I groused about social events, and I made a point of grumbling every time Eric dragged me out to a club. Looking back, I should've just sucked it up and told Eric how I felt about him. Even if he had turned me down—which he probably would have—the stress of wondering would have been gone.
Anyway, one night, Eric and Calleigh decided to take me out for "a drink" after work. We went to this yuppie bar, and Eric proceeded to tell me how concerned he and Calleigh had been about me. Calleigh said she didn't understand why I spent so much time alone, why I didn't go out with them once in a while. They wanted to know if there was anything I needed to talk about. So, I was pretty much floored by the whole thing, not to mention uncomfortable. I just kind of sat there like an idiot. What did they expect? I'm not known for my social skills or my finesse regarding emotional matters.
To make the evening even more awkward, Eric proceeded to get me drunk enough that I asked them if they had a thing going. Calleigh kind of laughed at me, and Eric started to look as embarrassed as I felt. They told me that no, they didn't have a thing going. They were like brother and sister, they said. "Besides," Calleigh said. "Eric prefers dark hair."
The rest of the evening is sort of a blur. The next morning, I woke up on Eric's couch, and he made me breakfast. He teased me mercilessly about misinterpreting his relationship with Calleigh, and we made plans to hit a club that night—just him and me. And Cal—I have to love her for things like this—she made a special effort to spend time with me so I wouldn't feel left out. As strange as it sounds, most of the discomfort I felt regarding the thing with Eric and Calleigh was gone. Sure, I was still the odd man out in a way…but I had my place in each of their lives, and now, I felt more certain of that.
Letting out a breath, Calleigh leans against the row of lockers. "So," she drawls, "About the bank…"
"I don't want to talk about it, Cal," Eric says. He continues to pull things haphazardly out of his locker and stuff them into his bag.
"It was a good shoot," Calleigh says evenly.
What?
Eric shoots Calleigh a look. It's not a glare, really. Just a look.
"Are you off for a couple of days?" Calleigh asks.
Eric shakes his head. "Come on, Cal. There was a natural disaster. We're still putting the city back together."
Calleigh nods. "So, when's your post-traumatic?"
Post-traumatic? What the hell happened to him today?
Eric stops shoving things into his duffle bag. He stares into his locker for a few seconds, and then turns to Calleigh. "H says I don't have to go. So I don't think I'm going to."
"And here I thought it was regulation," Calleigh says, not even trying to hide the disapproval in her voice.
"Calleigh," Eric says, pushing his locker door closed. "H says I don't have to go unless they push it. So, I'm not going to go. Cool?"
Calleigh looks like she's going to argue, but then she says, "Well, what are you doing tonight?"
"I'm going out," Eric says.
"Want some company?" Calleigh asks. She places a hand on Eric's shoulder.
"Nope. I'm going alone," Eric says, fighting the zipper on his bag.
With a look of defeat, Calleigh pulls her hand away from Eric's shoulder. "Well, now that Speedle's gone, I guess you and Horatio are vying for the title of Lab Loner."
"Actually, Cal," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "H has always been sort of a loner."
Eric glares at Calleigh for a long moment, an almost acidic expression settling over his features. "Better than Lab Robot," he says. Grabbing his bag, he strides out of the room.
Well, that was a bitchy thing to say. I stare after Eric for a moment, and then I turn to Calleigh. "He'll probably call and apologize tonight, Cal." Given the expression on Calleigh's face right now, I sure hope he calls her.
The ride home is unusually noisy, considering Eric thinks he's alone in the car.. In addition to my unheard lecture to Eric about why he should be nicer to Calleigh, there's the racket from hip-hop CD Eric puts in and cranks up to top volume. I'm surprised he doesn't get pulled over, as loud as he has it.When we finally reach his place, Eric and I sprint up the steps to his condo, and I wait patiently while he fumbles for his key and opens the door.
"Marisol," Eric says as he drops his bag just inside the door. "What are you going here?"
Marisol. Huh. I don't know what I was picturing when I thought of Delko's sister. But the woman standing a few feet away sure isn't it. She's some kind of strange hybrid of a supermodel and a soccer mom. She gorgeous, but she looks like exactly the kind of woman who would sneak over to her brother's condo in the middle of the day to wash his underwear. I'm guessing she even brought him a casserole or something. Or baked goods, maybe.
Crossing the room and enveloping Eric in her arms, Marisol says. "I came by to bring you some fresh fruit. And also, I made a couple of things you can heat up in the microwave. I taped instructions to the containers."
Eric rolls his eyes. "Marisol, I know how to use the microwave."
She pats him on the cheek as if to say, "You think you do, silly boy."
Eric lays his keys down on the table and paces around the room. After a few seconds, he points at his spare room—my room—and asks, "Did you touch that stuff?"
Snatching a feather duster off the coffee table, Marisol says, "No, I didn't touch it, grouchy." She walks over to Eric's bookshelf and starts to slide the duster across the wooden surface. "What are you going to do with that stuff?"
Eric folds his arms across his chest. "I don't know yet. I'll worry about it later."
"You can't just let it sit there," Marisol says. "Maybe you should give some of it to charity."
Shaking his head, Eric leans against the back of the couch. "I'm not giving it to charity."
"You have a lot of room on this shelf. Why don't you bring the books out here?"
"That would be terrific," I interject.
"I told you," Eric says, his teeth clenched. "I'll figure it out later."
"I'm sure Speed's other friends might like to have some of that stuff," Marisol continues. "Maybe you could sort through it together. It might help the grief—"
"Why don't you just let me handle it, Marisol?" Eric snaps.
With a bang, Marisol places the duster onto one of the nearly-empty shelves. "You don't have to bite my head off, Eric. I've never taken that crap from you, and I never will."
I really like this woman.
Licking his lips, Eric says, "I'm sorry. Look, I just had a bad day at work."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No," Eric says. "Not really."
Marisol gazes at him for a few moments, and then returns to dusting.
Inching slowly across the room, Eric picks up a small paperweight from the bookshelf. "Actually," he says in a wooden tone. "There's something I should probably tell you. It'll be on the news."
She turns to him. "What is it, honey?"
Eric rolls his eyes. "I, um, I shot a perp."
The feather duster slips out of Marisol's hand. Licking her lips, she says, "Did he…"
Eric nods. "It was a good shoot, Marisol. IAB's all but cleared me. I just need you to run interference with Dad and Mom. I can't deal with Dad asking questions or Mom trying to drag me to church right now."
Marisol puts her hand on Eric's forearm. "Come on over here and sit down. I'll make you something to eat."
"I'm not hungry, Marisol," Eric says. "I ate at work."
Patting Eric on the head, Marisol says, "I'll make you something to eat."
Eric leans his head back and watches his sister stride purposefully into the kitchen. He inhales deeply, and then slowly releases the breath. He leans forward and snatches a diving magazine off the coffee table. After thumbing through it for a few seconds, he pitches it back onto the cluttered oak surface.
I circle around the couch and sit down gently. Every muscle in my body—or non-body—wants to pull Eric into my arms and hold him. In all the years I've known Eric, we've only embraced once, and it was actually the stereotypically "manly one-armed hug." As a matter of fact, I think that happened the night he and Calleigh got me hammered. Anyway, I'm not a hugger, and I never have been. But right now, I want to squeeze the heck out of the guy.
After a few minutes, Eric's sister comes breezing out of the kitchen, holding a dishrag in her hands. "I'm heating up some black bean soup," she says.
Eric twists his body around to face her. "I'm going out."
Marisol leans down and kisses him on the cheek. "After you eat." With that, she walks across the room, snatches up the duster, and starts working her way around the condo in some kind of mad dusting frenzy.
Eric just sits helplessly on the couch, his hands clasped across his lap. It's as if he's been given a "time-out" for some kind of misbehavior.
After dusting Eric's computer desk for all it's worth, Marisol, whirls around the room to the coffee table and starts straightening up the magazines, remote controls, and other paraphernalia. "You go almost every night," she says. "Is there someone special?"
Eric shakes his head. "No one special."
"Well, you're too old to be running around chatting up girls in a bar," Marisol says, patting him on the cheek.
Smirking, Eric says, "Trust me. There won't be any chatting."
Marisol shoots him the kind of look I thought only my mother could produce. "I hope you're nice to these girls," she says.
As I think about Eric going out tonight, I feel my own looming disappointment descend upon me. I suppose I could go with him. It was always fun to be his wingman. But that was when he knew I was there. Everyone thinks he's a player, but when I went along, he usually didn't hook up. Sure, he flirted, but we usually wound up back at my place watching horror movies or something. I guess he felt bad ditching me. Since he doesn't have me to worry about now, though, he'll probably go home with some girl, and I don't think I can handle seeing it.
Eric gazes at Marisol for a moment, and then he tugs on his bottom lip. "So," he says. "What are you going to tell mom and dad about what happened today?"
Marisol stops straightening. Smiling brightly, she says, "Oh, Eric. Don't worry about it." Setting the feather duster on the couch—and pretty much on my lap, if you want to get technical—she beams, "I'll check on your soup."
I shift my body so that the precariously-balanced duster doesn't go toppling off my lap. In the process, I wind up kicking the leg of Eric's coffee table.
At the noise, Eric sits up straight. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Marisol asks.
Eric bites his bottom lip. He glances around the room, surveying the place like he would a crime scene. Finally, he says, "Never mind."
***
"You all right, Ryan?" Alexx asks.Ryan glances up, blinking his eyes hard several times. "Hmm? Just tired."
"He hasn't been getting a lot of sleep," I tell Alexx. "His apartment has recently become haunted."
For a week, I accompanied Eric home after work, rather than lurking in my locker room. At first, being with Eric made me happy, because I felt like I finally had some connection to the living. I kept telling myself that soon, I would be able to contact him. But that never happened, and in truth, I didn't bother to try. I don't know if it was hopelessness or fear, but every night, I stayed out of the way and just watched Eric live his life. And every night, Eric would go out, while I sat at "home" alone. Seeing Eric get ready to leave every night, seeing him move on… It was too much.
One day at work, things crumbled at my feet when I realized that Eric was starting to warm up to my replacement. During a case, Eric and Calleigh decided to haze him, thereby giving him their seal of approval, as far as lab etiquette goes. Raw and bitter, I climbed into Ryan's car that night, thirsting for horrible vengeance. Okay, I didn't go over the top. But I did decide to live up to my ghostly duties that night.
The haunting started out small. I would rattle things and knock on doors. Ryan was startled by the noises, but he's a little braver than I gave him credit for. So, I kicked things up a bit. I started to whisper his name and open doors. These past few weeks, he's been getting pretty edgy.
Sucks to be him.
"Ryan," Alexx says suddenly, "Our vic has something interesting on his arms. What do you think that is?"
"Looks like chalk dust," I say.
"Looks like chalk dust," Ryan echoes.
I glare. "Didn't I just say that?" With a smirk, I flick him on the arm.
He grabs his bicep. "Ow."
"What is it?" Alexx asks, gazing at Ryan.
At first, Ryan looks startled that Alexx would ask such a thing. Then, he flashes a smile. "Cramp or something."
I flick him again, this time on the shoulder. He winces, but keeps his mouth shut.
Alexx turns all business again and says, "I'm pretty sure it is chalk dust, but I'll give you a sample to take to trace."
"Really, Ryan," I chide. "You should have asked for the sample the second she brought it up."
"Yeah," he says. "Thanks, Alexx. I'm pretty sure it's chalk dust, though." He blinks again.
Alexx narrows her eyes. "Baby, maybe you'd better tell Horatio you need to go home. You're no good to anyone tired."
He shakes his head. "Well, then tell the county we can't work any more triples."
"I hear you," she says.
Casually, I slink up behind Ryan and touch his back. He jolts into the air and spins around, swatting at the air.
"Ryan," Alexx says. "What's the matter with you?"
Gasping, Ryan crosses his arms. "I thought somebody touched me. Sorry."
"Do I need to call Horatio and tell him you're overly tired?"
Ryan looks dazed. "No," he snaps. "I'm all right."
"That's a little trooper," I say.
I should feel guilty, but I'm enjoying this all too much. Leaning against the autopsy table, I say, "I'm a ghost, Alexx. I haunt, right? It's an accepted behavior pattern where ghosts are concerned? It's kind of my duty to be a bad ass ghost and haunt people. Isn't it? Of course it is. So, really, I was slacking off in my duties before I started haunting Ryan."
Alexx ignores me and instead turns to poor Ryan. "You know, you could ask Delko to help you. He just finished his case."
"Please," Ryan says dismissively. "I'm not going to Delko and telling him I need to take a nap before I can solve crimes."
"He understands the stress, Ryan. He and Speed used to have each other's backs all the time."
Ryan glares. "I'm not Speed."
"You're damn right, you ass," I grouse. Clenching my jaw, I reach over and knock a clipboard off the table. As it clatters to the floor, both Ryan and Alexx jerk away from the sound. Wide-eyed, Ryan gapes at the clipboard.
"I've got to go," he stammers.
Alexx takes a step forward. "Ryan, wait," she says.
"I'm going to run this to trace," he says breathlessly and flings himself toward the exit.
Letting out a breath, Alexx kneels down beside the clipboard and gingerly touches it with her thumb. Then, she glances up and lets her eyes scan the room, as if she's searching for someone. After several long seconds, she stands up and mutters something to herself. She speaks too low for me to hear everything she says, but I think I hear my own name.
Trace confirmed that the substance on our vic's arm was chalk dust. This new information led us to a high school over near where Megan and Sean Donner used to live. Calleigh, Ryan, and I climb out of the Hummer and trudge up the walk toward the school. Boy, I miss my high school days. They were some of the greatest days of my life. Sure, I got picked on. But I had great teachers, a best friend who turned out to be more, and a lot of books at my disposal. Life wasn't bad.As we walk past the school library, I let my eyes fall on the rows of books. I have to do a double-take, because I see someone I never expected to see again—Mr. Chernitski, my old Biology teacher. Mr. Chernitski was my favorite teacher. He's the guy who encouraged me to go to Columbia, and he's the guy who listened to my constant, hair-splitting questions in lab. During my second year of college, I heard he was moving to Miami to be closer to his mother, who was in a retirement community in Coral Gables. By the time I got here, though, Mr. Chernitski had already died after falling from a roof. It appears he never left.
I linger by the doorway to the library and watch as Ryan and Calleigh move toward the crime scene. After they disappear up the stairs, I take a breath and step into the library. This is ridiculous. My old science teacher isn't going to recognize me.
Licking my lips, I walk over to the lean man with brownish hair. "Mr. Chernitski?" I say.
Mr. Chernitski glances up at me and narrows his eyes. Shaking his finger, he says, "Give me a moment. I know your name." After a few seconds, he takes a step toward me and smiles. "Tim Speedle."
"You remember me?" I say, beaming like an idiot.
"How could I forget the kid who took our Science Club to nationals?" He crosses his arms. "So, I heard you'd left Columbia."
"I did for a while," I say. "After Aaron died." I wince at the memory of Aaron's snowmobile accident. It hadn't killed him right away. He lived for a couple more years, but they said his death was due to "complications" from his injuries. So basically, the accident took two long years to kill him.
"I'm sorry about that, Tim," he says. "I guess you didn't make it long yourself. Either that, or you have an amazing tolerance for talking to dead people."
Letting out a dry chuckle, I say, "I died a few months ago. Shot in the line of duty. I was a cop."
"A cop?"
"A crime scene investigator."
Mr. Chernitski nods. "I always thought you'd go to into research."
I shrug. "It didn't seem important after Aaron died. Actually, I guess he's the reason I do this job. To honor him."
For a while, we just stare at each other. Finally, Mr. Chernitski walks over and drops into a chair next to a table full of science magazines. I follow suit.
"I have a lot of questions," I say. "About all this. This existence."
"I don't have a lot of answers, Tim," he says. "One minute, I'm falling off the roof, and the next, I'm watching my students walk into class like an average day. Only, they weren't expecting to see me. Instead, it was that dumbass gym teacher. What does he know about science?"
"How much time had passed?"
He rubs his nose. "A few days, I guess. The students kept asking questions about me, and for a while, I couldn't understand what was happening." He cocks his head. "And then I figured it out."
"Are there any other ghosts around?"
"In the school? Yeah." Mr. Chernitski shifts in his seat. "There's a guy who haunts the music room. Kid from the seventies."
"What about outside the school?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You haven't seen any other ghosts?"
"A few," I say, "But this is all still new. And I don't get out much."
"Well," Mr. Chernitski says, rubbing his bottom lip with his index finger. "There are ghosts all over the place. Some have been around for centuries."
"Really?" I say, my mouth open. "So does everyone become a ghost?"
Mr. Chernitski leans back in his chair. "I don't think so. There wouldn't be a lot of room if everyone became a ghost."
"Good point," I nod. Taking a breath, I lean forward. This is the first real veteran ghost I've had a chance to talk to. There's so much to ask the guy. "Do you know how long we stay? Or why we become ghosts?"
He reaches over and arranges the magazines into a pile. "Maybe we have unfinished business," he says. "I've been asking myself that for years. I mean, I was single. All I had were my mother and my students. Now, I wasn't excited about dying. But my mom was well taken care of, and I wasn't leaving a wife or kids. I don't know why I stayed here."
"How about contacting people? Do you appear to people? I've only done it once, and I wasn't trying."
"Well, I've been seen by students when I didn't know they were around. I almost appeared to my mother once, but I settle for chatting with her while she sleeps."
"Have you appeared to anyone on purpose?"
"One time, yeah. One of my students was in trouble, depressed. So I let him see me." He rests his elbows lazily on the table and says, "You concentrate on wanting to be seen. Sometimes manifesting is difficult, depending on how solid you become."
I lurch forward and choke, "Solid?"
He nods. "Ghosts can become solid for a brief period of time, but it uses a lot of energy, so you're usually unable to manifest for a while after."
"How long?"
"How long can you manifest? A couple of hours, I've heard. I've only done it once, and it was draining. The guy upstairs does it all the time."
"So essentially, we're made of energy," I say. I suspected that, but I wasn't sure.
"That's my assessment, Timmy." He gazes at me. "Who do you want to contact?"
I glance into the hall, suddenly interested in a poster that's advertising a school play. "My friends," I say. "I think the ME knows I'm still here, but I can't seem to manifest to her."
"Why do you think that is, Timmy?"
Swallowing, I glance up. Suddenly, I feel like I'm in 9th Grade Honors Biology, and Mr. Chernitski is trying to talk me into joining the Science Team.
"Maybe I don't know how," I say.
Mr. Chernitski leans forward. "Maybe it's psychological. You're afraid of hurting them. Or being rejected."
Ouch. Bullseye.
Lowering my voice for some asinine reason, I say, "The only guy I've been manifest to is the loser they hired to replace me. My best friend and my old boss—they've felt me touch them. And my old boss heard my voice."
"Why do you want to contact them? Do you have a message?"
I clamp down on my bottom lip. "I have a theory, actually."
"Okay. Lay it on me."
"Well," I say. "I don't think we're dead. I mean, I still crave things, Mr. Chernitski. I want people. And I cry. Does that sound dead to you, because it doesn't to me." I lean closer. "Mr. Chernitski," I say. "I think we're still alive. We're just…body-deprived."
***
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