Elites

Chapter One Wednesday, December 22 I let out a series of slow, measured breaths as the world comes back into focus. In through the nose, out through the mouth, Gina’s voice says inside my brain. Satisfied, I lean back in the interrogation room’s uncomfortable metal chair and crack my eyelids open. My gaze falls upon the soiled kid’s baseball cap clutched in my fingers. With a sigh, I toss it onto the table. “Bax?” a familiar voice asks. “Did you get something?” I turn toward the door, where Natalie surveys me with a raised eyebrow. Also in the room are Captain Callahan and two detectives I barely know. All three men are looking on with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely suppressed impatience. “Yeah. Some dude in a late-model Chevy truck with a short, patchy beard pulled up, jumped out, and grabbed the boy right off his bike. Poor kid definitely knew the guy. Called him ‘Uncle Matt.’” “Uncle Matt?” Detective Szymanski, a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a dark blue suit jacket that desperately needs replacing, skims through the folder he brought with him, pulls out a photograph, and shows it to me. “Is this the guy?” I squint at the photo. It’s definitely the man I just saw in my flash. “That’s him. Without a doubt.” “Son of a bitch.” He hisses through his teeth as he shows the pic to the captain. “Matthew Gorman, Mason’s uncle on his mother’s side. Lying bastard swore up and down he didn’t know where his nephew was.” “Didn’t his work buddies alibi him for the day of the kidnapping?” the captain asks. “Yeah.” Szymanski shoves the photo back in the folder. “Request permission to go crack that alibi like a ripe walnut.” “Granted.” The veteran detective gives me a nod that I interpret as gratitude, then leaves. Using a folded paper towel, I place the baseball cap back in its evidence bag. Natalie steps forward, scoops it up, and gives me a hearty thump on the back. “Nice job,” she says. “Thanks.” I reach for the water bottle she placed on the table twenty minutes ago, twist the cap off, and take a triumphant swig. It’s funny—after that mess with Chrissy Marsh ended almost two weeks ago, I thought my life would end up ten times more chaotic than it already was. I fully anticipated Tim and Elyse, the people behind Chrissy’s kidnapping, to out me as a psychic for the part I’d played in their arrest. Every day since then, whenever I’ve stepped out of my townhome, I’ve expected to be confronted by a ravening pack of reporters bombarding me with questions while plastering my face over every TV, computer, and cell phone screen in the universe. But it hasn’t happened. In fact, my life’s been quiet. Peaceful. Normal. And that scares the s**t out of me. How messed up is that? I distinctly remember telling Natalie that I was taking a break from psychic investigation while I directed my energies toward my job as a Hill O’ Beans barista, being Trina’s quasi-big-brother-s***h-role-model, and my burgeoning romantic relationship with Piper. It wasn’t my intention to get back into the investigative game so soon. But, as has become the norm in my bizarro life, fate had other plans. The day before Natalie arranged to bring me to the precinct to fill out some paperwork so I could get paid for my stint as an unofficial “consultant” for the Phoenix Police Department, an eight-year-old boy named Mason Crenshaw was abducted on his way home from his piano teacher’s house. His mother’s desperate, repeated pleas for his safe return tore my heart out, so I offered my services again. Mason’s baseball cap, thankfully, offered up the images I needed to help the cops nail the jagoff who took him—who just happens to be Mrs. Crenshaw’s asshole brother. What a world. “So,” I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice, “any other cases I can help with?” “Easy there, Kreskin,” the captain says, his Fu Manchu mustache bristling. “The department appreciates your input, but I can’t just bring you down to the evidence locker and say, ‘Have at it.’ If you’re serious about helping, we’ll have to come up with a set of rules and structure that’ll minimize any potential issues.” I furrow my brow. “Is that really necessary? It’s not like my ‘input’ is part of any official record, is it?” Natalie takes the seat opposite me. “No, but as I’m sure you know, psychics exist in a very gray area as far as the law is concerned. Any leads we develop, any evidence we uncover as a result of your flashes, is inadmissible based purely on the fact that they were psychically obtained. Therefore, the burden falls upon us to show that we could have connected the dots through non-supernatural means.” I nod. “Does that work?” “Not always.” The other detective, who earlier introduced himself as Jared Kehoe, speaks up for the first time. I put him around fifty, with tanned, almost leathery skin, thinning dark hair and sideburns, and pale blue eyes. “When I started out in Philly PD, we had a psychic who consulted with us on several high-profile cases. Sometimes we were able to build on what she told us enough to satisfy a judge, sometimes we weren’t.” “Your psychic was a woman?” “Uh huh. Sweet old lady. Lottie something-or-other was her name. Passed a few years ago.” He clicks his tongue. “Not every case she helped on had a happy ending, but she sure made a believer out of me.” “Even so,” Natalie says, “the captain’s right. We can’t just turn you loose on our case files without approval.” I stare into my enemy-turned-friend’s chocolate-brown eyes for several seconds, playing out the possibilities of becoming a full-fledged psychic consultant in my mind. During my delinquent period, the notion of helping the cops, in any capacity, would have been about as ludicrous as climbing Mount Everest in only a Speedo. “Fair enough,” I say, shoving a hand through my hair. When I first discovered I could unlock a virtual treasure trove of memories from inanimate objects just by touching them, using my ability this way seemed perfectly logical—not only could I help my fellow man, but it would help me assuage my guilt for turning my life into a complete s**t-pile. While I struggled to get a handle on not only the scope but the nature of my ESP, I learned the hard way how not to investigate crimes. On two occasions, I’ve almost gotten my stupid ass extinguished because of my reckless nature. But I’m smarter now. Thanks to Gina, I’ve got a firmer control of my psychometric ability, and on what it means to be a Special. And thanks to Natalie, I’m much more well-versed in things like rules of evidence and police procedures. I don’t need to be a hero to help. Just like with this case, I can use my powers to give the PPD a nudge in the right direction, all within a controlled environment. Who knows how many cases, long cold, I can help close? Time will tell. “If we have any more cases that require your…unique talents,” Natalie says, “we’ll let you know.” “Okay.” I stand, snag my jacket from the table, and pull it on. “Cap?” Kehoe’s forehead wrinkles as if in deep thought. “You want to give Mr. Baxter a crack at the Redbird?” “The what?” I whisper at Natalie, puzzled. She doesn’t respond. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Captain Callahan says. “I still haven’t heard back from the symbology expert in Colorado yet. And last I checked, the lab was running more metallurgical tests on it.” “Director Lovett told me this morning those were done,” Kehoe says. “Come on, Cap. What’s it gonna hurt? Maybe we can at least find out who John Doe was.” The captain scratches the back of his mostly bald head as he faces Natalie. “You’re the lead detective, Rojas. What do you think?” Natalie stares at me for a few moments, then shrugs. “I’m with Kehoe. Barring a ninth-inning miracle, this case is heading for the unsolved pile. If Bax doesn’t get anything from the Redbird, we’re no worse off.” The needle on my internal curiosity gauge spikes, but I remain silent. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it sounds hella cool. Captain Callahan heaves out a sigh. “Yeah, okay.” He digs a cell phone from his jacket, taps the screen, then puts it to his ear. “Hey, Mike. Are you done running tests on the Redbird?” Pause. “I see. Could you have CSI Olsen bring it up to Interrogation One, please?” Pause. “Thanks.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.” Since it seems I’m not leaving yet, I sit back in the chair. “Someone wanna tell me what this Redbird thing is?” It’s Natalie who obliges. “Six days ago, the fire department responded to a blaze at an abandoned warehouse on Baseline. Thankfully, they were able to put it out before the whole place went up. We were called in when a body was discovered in the wreckage, naked and nearly burned to a crisp.” Whoa. She continues, “We had to classify him as a John Doe, as there wasn’t enough left of him to run prints or dental records. We sent his DNA to CODIS, nothing yet. All we know for sure is that he was male, mid-to-late forties.” “Did the fire kill him?” I ask. “No, that happened postmortem. Cause of death was a bullet to the heart. From the powder burns on the guy’s internal organs, the M.E. identified the slug as a .40 hollow point from a Glock 27 semi-auto. Our only other clue was a coin.” “What kind of coin?” “A silver one,” the captain says, “featuring the outline of a bird. We haven’t been able to match the symbol, or the coin, to anything in the national database. Chief Travis sent a copy of the report to the FBI, but it may be weeks before we hear back.” “There were also traces of red acrylic paint on it, so Director Lovett—who’s a huge Arizona Cardinals fan—started calling it the Redbird,” Kehoe adds. “Gotcha.” I drum my fingers on the table in anticipation. “And this Redbird was, what, in the guy’s hand?” “No.” Natalie grimaces. “It was in his stomach.” “He swallowed it?” “Either that, or he was force-fed it before he died.” Captain Callahan leans his large frame against the table. “Anyway, like Detective Rojas said, we’re pretty much out of leads at this point. So if you’re up to it…” I take a few seconds to consider the sanity of what I’m being asked to do. It’s a lot to digest. No pun intended. Whoever killed this guy took the trouble to cover their tracks by making him unidentifiable, disposing of his body in a place where there wouldn’t be any witnesses. Could it be a serial killer, and the coin is some kind of sick calling card? It’s only been two months since I helped the cops end Harold Crane’s yearlong killing spree. The last thing this city needs is another wacko like him. Especially around Christmas. On the other hand, if the dead dude swallowed the coin deliberately, that sets off an even wider array of possibilities. He could be a thief, a smuggler…or a spy. Color me intrigued. A young man with a shock of black hair and a dark blue polo appears in the doorway. We lock eyes, and a smile washes over his face. “Bax! How ya doin’, man?” “Doing okay, Eddie,” I greet CSI Olsen, the captain’s son-in-law. My gaze then falls to the plastic evidence bag in his hand. “Is that it?” “This is it.” He holds the bag out to Captain Callahan. “I was going to ask why you wanted it, but since Bax is here, I can guess.” He flashes me a grin. Eddie, along with about a dozen others within the department, already knows about my ESP. Given how much I loathed cops not long ago, it took me a while to come to terms with the fact that so many in law enforcement know what I am and what I can do. Well, most of what I can do, anyway. I haven’t gotten around to letting my fellow investigators in on my other little secret—namely, that I have regular conversations with dead relatives. The captain takes the bag from Eddie. “Thank you, Mr. Olsen, that’ll be all for now.” Eddie’s face falls. “Please, sir, do you mind if I watch Mr. Baxter in action? You know I’m into supernatural stuff.” “Mr. Olsen—” “I don’t mind,” I interject. “It’s not like he hasn’t seen me do it before.” Captain Callahan scowls briefly at his son-in-law, then lets out a snort. “Fine. Let’s just do this.” He hands me the bag, Four pairs of eyes survey me as I examine the object inside the bag. It’s about the size of a half-dollar, and despite spending who knows how long inside a human being’s stomach, it looks almost brand new. I spot a few flecks of the aforementioned red paint dotting its surface, which is emblazoned with the outline of a giant predatory bird. A quick scan of the other side reveals the same design. There are no other markings. With a sigh, I unseal the bag and tip the coin onto the table. It spins briefly on its axis, the sound reverberating off the obnoxiously green concrete walls. When it finally settles, I hover my fingers above it. Immediately, I feel something, like a psychic gust of wind that makes me yank my hands away. Oh, man. My ability to detect psychically charged objects is still in an intermediate stage, but even I know this coin is the psychic equivalent of a live wire. I can practically see the bird depicted on the coin’s surface opening its beak and screeching at me to touch it. Natalie’s eyes flash with concern from across the table. “Are you okay?” I nod slowly. “Yeah, but…wow. This thing is putting out psychic energy in waves. I have to do this carefully, or it’ll be like a grenade going off in my mind.” “Then maybe you shouldn’t touch it. We welcome your help, but it’s not worth risking brain damage.” I recall the moment the ghost of my great-grandfather, Amos, fused his psychic energy with mine in order to save me from dying at Tim’s hands. It worked, and I escaped with only a bad headache, but damn, it hurt. Natalie’s right. Touching this coin would be a moronically stupid risk. On the other hand, how can I sharpen my psychometric skills if I play it safe all the time? “I can do it,” I say with far more confidence than I’m feeling. “Are you sure?” the captain asks. I nod. “But if it looks like things are going sideways, rip the coin from my hand, okay?” Natalie rises, skirts the table, and moves to stand next to me. “Ready when you are.” With a final glance at Natalie, Eddie, Kehoe, and the captain, I focus on the coin. Going through the breathing regimen that Gina taught me at the outset of my powers, I push my concentration as hard as I can. One millimeter at a time, I guide my fingers closer to the metal surface. The interrogation room dissolves away before I’ve even made contact, and an image jumps into my mind. Faint at first, like a blurry photo, but coalescing with each passing second. Then comes a spike of adrenaline, of desperation, of almost paralyzing fear. Here goes nothing. My fingertip grazes the cold metal of the coin.