part 5

Traffic is a bitch. I sling Jennifer’s duffel out of the car and head inside. She can have it back when she gets some fucking help. Ahead of me looms the grey cement of the precinct house. The newer ones are a lot nicer, but this serves its purpose well enough. Glass walls may look fancy, but they’re an unnecessary liability for a law enforcement building. I check in with my badge and nod my greetings to the SPD. A couple of people glance my way, but their eyes are narrow, assessing me. Word must have gotten around. Leo stands up abruptly as I pass his desk, grabs me aside.
“You doing okay, man?” He looks concerned.
“Yeah man, just doing my job. About fucking time, right?” Leo opens his mouth, then pauses, shrugs, considering me.
“I meant with Jenn. But yeah, that too, I guess. You’ve got all the fucking luck lately.” He scratches his thinning black hair, then claps me on the shoulder. The gesture is awkward. “Listen, you want to go out later? A bunch of us are hitting Norm’s later.” I smile, but I know the offer’s empty. At the best of times, I am an outsider at these gatherings. An incident like last night’s just reinforces the divide between what I do and what they do.
“Sounds good, but you know, with my recent track record I’m not sure it’d end well.” Leo laughs, pats my shoulder again. “Hey, do you know a good locksmith?” He eyes the duffel, eyebrows narrowing in.
“That bad? Shit. I know a guy, real discreet, but he’s out of town. Check Craigslist.” I wave him off, and he wanders towards the coffee machine.

I set off down the hall to my office. Cubicle, really, but I like to give myself airs. I shove Jennifer’s bag beneath the desk and boot up the ancient PC. There’s a massive pile of paperwork on my desk, and a violently pink post-it note attached to my monitor. I recognize Rachel’s cramped scrawl. Reading it is another matter, but I make out something about a meeting. At…about 30 minutes ago. Shit.

I sprint down the hallway to the conference room, tucking in my shirt before I open the door. Robert looks up at me, annoyed, gestures towards a chair. Volya glares as only a Russian can. I have clearly overestimated my leeway.
“...were able to trace the blood’s signature back to the scene. Inadmissable in court, but police were able to strip some DNA from the alley, they’ll handle that from here. So the issue for us right now is not finding the murderers, it’s finding whoever is fucking up the lines around Capitol Hill. As you can see from the chart, they should be passing from…”
I drag out a chair and sit down, glancing at the Powerpoint. Robert’s right, the way the lines lie, any free magic in that area of the city would be minimal. During a line surge you might get enough for some phenomena, brief visitations, stuff like that, but nothing corporeal. You’d have to be living a lot closer to a line for reanimations. And accidental resurrections, even with minimal brain function, that takes a shitload of ambient power. The kind that shouldn’t be running loose in West Seattle. The captain stands up, planting his massive hands on the desk. His jowls wobble as he coughs loudly.
“Thank you Robert. I’m sure we are all aware of the gravity of this situation. Robert will be out measuring the depth of ambient power in the area and checking for any traces of interferences. We do not yet have an exact estimate of the amount of line flow diverted, and we’ll need Mitchell’s statement to corroborate the witness testimony, but it appears that this was a partial resurrection. Minimal function, likely undirected, likely accidental. And you all fucking know what that means.” He pauses for breath, long enough to squint in my direction. He swears the Lasik worked, but his vision is the best argument for avoiding discount ophthalmologists that I’ve ever encountered. “I know you guys haven’t seen a lot of action lately, but that just means that the media will ream us harder if there are any screwups. Robert here saw what went down in DC, and I guarantee you we do not need any of that shit from the local anti-bureau loonies.” Robert’s smile strains as he stares at the Captain. He excuses himself and sits down as the Captain moves to the front. “We checked the registry. No one on the West end. Big fucking surprise. Now, the cops have been doing interviews in the building itself, about the murder, nothing else. We almost got the Times to hold it, but fucking KIRO showed up and then the papers got pissy and decided to run it after all. So whoever it is, they know the game is up. They’ll be hiding any trace of their activities, and playing it cool. We need some of our folks out in the field, checking with neighboring buildings, nothing blatant.”
I can see the clipboard already. Do the objects in your house seem to move when you’re not looking at them? Have you received any calls with cryptic, cut-off speech? Have any dead loved ones lately appeared in your dreams? Have you seen any animals with severe injuries, still moving around? Dogs, cats, pigeons? Unusual levels of plant growth? Messages in Ouija boards, fridge magnets, left on your notepads in strange handwriting? It’s a paranoid’s wet dream, when we come knocking. Half of them want to tell you about how their neighbor is a reptilian alien trying to steal their genitalia, the other half greet you at the door with a gun and call you a government-mandated murderer. Which I suppose in a way, I am.

“Frid, Green, you pull survey duty.” Volya frowns, and Lydia stifles a groan. “Wilson, you’ll be assisting Rob. Mitchell, I’m sorry, but we can’t have you involved in this. After last night, the media would eat us alive. Good work though. You’re on call for routine stuff. Check with me before you go out on anything.” He nods, and I sneak a glance towards the empty box of donuts. “Alright. Get out there. Mitch, do your fucking paperwork.”

Everybody stands to file out. Lydia arches her back with an audible crack. She smiles at me and flashes a thumbs up as she passes out of the room. I give one last mournful look at the empty pink box and follow her out.