Relentless Enemy

2. THE RELUCTANT OBSERVER

2THE RELUCTANT OBSERVER

Chicago, Illinois: Eighteen years later

Sergeant Eric Hammond signaled to his colleague from the doorway of a dingy Chicago apartment. “Walsh—Walsh, can I see you over here for a second?” Hammond’s tone was terse and hushed.

His words were directed toward two uniformed Chicago officers standing at the center of the apartment, just short of the bedroom door. Between them stood a tall, strong-looking man wearing a dark tan, three-quarter-length trench coat. As Detective Daniel Walsh turned to see who was calling him, a couple of quick sideways head jerks from Hammond let Walsh know that his superior and good friend had brought to the scene something Danny needed.

“Hey, listen, guys. I’ll be back in a minute,” Walsh told the two officers.

The apartment was large for this area of Chicago, but with his long strides, Detective Walsh reached the door quickly, and Hammond pulled him over near a corner.

“You know, Danny, it ain’t that easy pulling this stuff off for you,” Hammond said.

The two were huddled close. At six foot two, Hammond was nearly as tall as Walsh but slimmer and lacking Walsh’s football-player-type body.

“Eric, relax, man. We’ll be quick—you know that. You gave Forensics the wrong address, right?”

“Yeah, but don’t make me lie like that again. And don’t put my ass in a sling just ’cause you wanna phone a friend—again—on this one.” Hammond drew even closer to Walsh as his voice lowered in volume. “I can’t argue with results. You know that. When your guy started helping out with these scenes a couple of years back—well, I get it that he’s got some kinda knack for sensing s**t. But you gotta dial back being so bold about it. I’ve got him tucked away and waiting downstairs, and I’ll help get him in here on the down low. But then you get him out fast. Got it?”

“I get it,” Walsh said. “Don’t worry. It’ll take no time, and no one will be the wiser. So, how was he? Did he give you any static when you told him we were pulling him in again?”

“Danny, it’s clear he doesn’t like being any part of this stuff. He ain’t no damn cop. You know that.”

“I know, pal,” Walsh replied, tapping his colleague’s shoulder in mock reassurance. “I try not to drag him into our world too much, but I think we’ll need him on this one.”

Walsh noticed that the two officers in the middle of the apartment were watching his animated dialogue with Hammond in the corner. He quickly turned to engage them. “So, listen, gents. I’ve already got a guy from Forensic Services here who’ll be able to get to work on this until an FS investigator arrives. But I’m gonna need the two of you to step out and start canvassing the building.”

Hammond knew this was his cue to leave the apartment and retrieve the person whom Walsh was anticipating. As Hammond left, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape at the entrance of the apartment, one of the street officers began to protest. “Walsh, come on, man. We got other units coming that can handle all that. Plus, you told us a few months back, the next time you caught a s***h and burn ’round here, you’d let us in on the process. What went down in that kitchen is epic.”

“Guys, another time. I’m guessing the whole building’s keyed up with us being here. Discreet.” Both officers shot a look of annoyance toward Danny and then turned to talk among themselves. As they did, Danny took a few moments to survey the crime scene again. Then, quicker than he would have imagined, they all heard the sharp snapping of fingers that called at their attention. It was Hammond, who had reappeared at the door. Standing behind him was another man dressed in khakis and a dress shirt, holding a black attaché bag and wearing a dark baseball cap that read Chicago Forensic Services pulled down over his forehead. Hammond directed the two officers out of the apartment as he brought the new person in. “Come on, boys, come on. Let’s make a little room in here and have you two watch the front and start working the halls. Can’t let things get cold.”

As the two officers filed past the new arrival, they were more preoccupied with their annoyance with Walsh than with who had arrived from the FS. “Ah, come on, Walsh. This is bullshit, man!” one muttered. The other waved his hand dismissively at Walsh as they exited.

Danny sought to placate them as they slipped from the apartment. “Guys, all right. I owe you one here. I get it.”

With the other officers now gone and the new arrival approaching Walsh, Sergeant Hammond asked, “So, you two are good now, right? Let’s make it snappy.”

“No problem, Eric. I’ll ping you in a few minutes,” Danny said, addressing Hammond by his first name.

As Sergeant Hammond shut the door of the apartment behind him, Detective Walsh let out a measured exhale and slowly turned toward the man who had just walked past him to stare through the living area and into the kitchen.

“So . . . do you have enough to work with, here?” Danny asked.

Craig Henriksen stood a couple of paces from Walsh, closer to the interior of the apartment. Henriksen was twenty-eight years old with full, wavy brown hair, cut short. Just shy of six feet tall, he walked with a slight stoop, and as his shoulders slumped forward, his body language spoke of someone with the grim realization of what he was there to do.

He walked slowly through the dark interior of the apartment into a well-lit kitchen. His eyes moved around the room, focusing briefly on the contents it held and what remained of a graphic crime scene. A pool of drying blood had formed on the vintage 1970s kitchen table, and blood spatters stained a wall near the cabinets. But there were only limited signs of a struggle. Aside from a couple of overturned chairs—one clearly being where the victim had been seated—there was little other indication of a fight to match the amount of the victim’s blood that had been spilled. As Craig’s eyes surveyed the scene, they followed from where the victim had sat to where he had ultimately landed near the base of one of the table legs next to an overturned chair. The body’s shape could be seen through the old, thick sheet that now covered it.

“Why do you continue to drag me into these things, Danny?” He turned his head and leveled his gaze at his cousin.

“We’re not going to have this debate right now. We don’t have much time. And I need you to, you know, do your thing.” He paused before declaring, “You’ve got the gift, and I’ve got the way we can use it.”

Craig drew a heavy sigh, his slight build slackening even more as he leaned forward. Closing his eyes, he began to knead his forehead with one hand, pulling the baseball cap from his head with the other. “And it has nothing to do with it being you that gets to catch a break on a case, right?” Danny looked down, avoiding Craig’s eyes, and remained silent, knowing not to push his cousin too much.

Relenting as he always found himself doing, Craig said, “Let’s just get on with this. I don’t want to spend all night here. I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow.” He turned and continued scanning the kitchen, his expression pained.

“So, what can I get for you? Do you need the shades drawn more, lights dimmer, the door—”

“No,” Craig interrupted. “You know I can make this work the way it is. Just watch the door and the hallway until I’m done.”

The two men had never tested whether what was about to happen would be visible to anyone else. The nature of that had always been so spectacular, and haunting, that they had never dared take such a risk.

Danny still hadn’t answered Craig, who turned his head to stare impatiently back at his cousin. “Right. Absolutely. You’ve got it,” Danny said, moving toward the closed apartment door but maintaining a view of the kitchen.

Craig took a slow, deep breath, opened his eyes wide, and zeroed in on a particularly thick bit of blood spattered on the wall. He moved slowly over to it. “How long has it been again?” he asked.

“Um, I’m guessing about an hour, maybe two. You still able to—”

Danny cut his question short when Craig raised his hand, asking for silence as his eyes fixed on a bloodstain on the wall about belt-high near the end of the table. He moved in closer and reached out toward the wall, touching the hardening bloodstain. He began to rub it purposefully, grimacing as if he were somehow causing it pain. Danny strained his eyes to see more clearly. Only a few lamps illuminated the apartment as the early evening twilight could be seen settling through a patchwork of thick, ugly curtains that hid the windows. While Danny watched Craig, he thought he saw the hardened blood begin to liquefy beneath Craig’s fingertips.

Craig continued to rub the bloodstain slowly, his mind momentarily wandering. Why would someone do this to another person? What causes such rage, such violence?

Craig guessed there were probably many people who’d be curious to know what happens during violent encounters such as the one that occurred in the apartment. They might even imagine an ability that enabled them to turn back time, to view how the violent situation had unfolded, even if the insight gained was fuzzy. Craig actually had this ability. But for him, it held no appeal.

His mind was drawn back to the apartment as the color and tone of the room began to change, as though a thin, grayish-red fog were descending and thickening in the kitchen. All the tangible things that he and Danny had seen moments ago—the table, the blood spatters, the overturned chairs, the body on the floor—were enveloped in mist. The only things left visible in the room were Danny and his cousin. And then the sound they had heard before started again. A muted, pulsating sound. It was though they were hearing a human heartbeat through a stethoscope.

“It’s beginning,” Craig said breathlessly. He stopped rubbing the bloodstain but continued to hold his hand against it. His heart started to race. He’d never gotten used to this.

He turned to observe the kitchen, which seemed to have completely transformed: he and Danny remained the only visible objects within the grayish-red veil that permeated the room.

But now, a ghostly black silhouette in seated position emerged in the middle of the room where the dining table had been. The shape had the look of an older man. It was the shadowy form of the murder victim. Only the hazy black shadow of the victim was visible. No other furnishings—chairs, tables, cups—could be seen. While no other sound could be heard but the faint pulsating, Craig and Danny stood in rapt silence, nonetheless, taking in the movements of the black figure against the slow-moving fog that had filled the room. It was like watching an eerie mime performance: the shadow moving and interacting with invisible objects.

Craig maintained contact with the bloodstain on the wall as he and Danny watched the victim’s silhouette react to what may have been a knock at the apartment door. The aged victim appeared to move sprightly out of the frame of the kitchen for a few moments, returning to the kitchen with a slower-moving male visitor, whose silhouette was slightly larger. It had the movement and mannerisms of someone significantly younger than the victim. “Danny, it doesn’t look like there was a problem between these two.”

“Wait . . . ” said Danny.

The two shapes seemed to talk and interact normally, but every time the victim’s silhouette appeared to look away from the visitor, the visitor’s hands and fingertips twitched. He looked impatient or anxious. “See, the new guy is getting antsy,” noted Danny.

Over the next five minutes—although it felt like much longer—the visitor grew more animated, now clearly feeling irritated. At first, it seemed as though the victim was trying to calm the visitor, but then he turned and shuffled over to a kitchen cupboard and seemed to remove something while keeping his back to the visitor. Meanwhile, the visitor was scoping the kitchen and apartment as if trying to see if anyone else was nearby. Having retrieved something from the cupboard, the victim returned to where the table would be, sat back down, and with a resigned motion, his head hung low, pushed the object toward the visitor.

“This is taking too long,” Craig complained as he remembered Danny’s caution that they had only limited time.

“Shh.” Danny held up his hand. “Here it comes.” As if his request was a signal to the two shadows, the visitor talked animatedly to the victim while moving slowly behind where the victim was seated. Then, in one quick motion, he ripped a closed fist across the victim’s throat. The fist must have held a knife; Craig and Danny could both see the victim’s throat being slashed. Blood, visible in the recreation as black droplets, flashed from the victim’s neck and spattered against the wall and onto the floor. One of the black, shadowy sprays of blood landed where Craig now held his hand firmly in touch with the bloodstain on the wall. The victim clutched at his throat as he collapsed onto the floor.

“Oh, Jesus.” Craig reflexively squinted his eyes and looked toward the floor, trying to avoid seeing the final moments of the gruesome assault as it replayed before him. After all, he knew he was only there to unlock a view into the past. Danny was the one who would peer into it for clues.

“What’s he doing now?” Danny muttered, daring not to blink.

Craig snapped his attention back to the scene: the black silhouette of the now-dead victim on the floor, his assailant seeming to rummage through the cabinet the victim had opened just a few minutes earlier. The assailant held something in one hand as he dug around the cabinet with the other. He looked over toward the victim’s silhouette on the floor. In an act of apparent disgust, he spat on whatever he held in his hand, then hurled it furiously toward the ground as he lunged toward his victim and delivered a punishing kick into the dead man’s side. He then drifted over to the edge of the apartment, pushed upward on what was probably the window, and disappeared from the re-creation, apparently down the fire escape.

Now the scene was still, leaving only the black silhouette lying motionless on the floor. “Is that enough? Can I stop?” Craig asked Danny.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Thanks.” Danny’s eyes were darting back and forth, his mind no doubt busy trying to piece together what he had just seen, searching for clues.

As Craig removed his hand from the wall, the reddish veil that had filled the kitchen area immediately receded, like fog burning away in the early morning sun. The black silhouette on the floor vanished, replaced by the actual body covered with its heavy, dark sheet.

It was over. Neither man seemed surprised by what they just witnessed. They’d learned of Craig’s ability during their years growing up together. It was something they’d both kept secret—an ability to see, in shadows and silhouettes, muted actions and movements from violent past events.

Craig heaved a deep sigh. He had begun to feel lightheaded, having stooped over during the entire re-creation. As he rubbed his forehead again, he and Danny heard voices coming down the hall from outside of the apartment.

“This one was close,” remarked Danny. The re-creation had almost lasted too long. The forensics team might have entered the apartment at any moment, and neither Craig nor Danny knew what they would’ve seen.

As he had done before, Craig stared curiously at the hand that had been touching the bloodstain on the wall, as if it wasn’t even his. His power to do these things had always been a mystery, even to him.

Danny cut his introspection short. “Craig, listen. Put this on,” he said. He withdrew a dark, fire department baseball cap from his trench coat and pushed it onto Craig’s head. Then he shuffled Craig from the kitchen toward the front door.

“Seriously, Danny? You drag me down here, and now you’re going to just push me out?”

“Yeah, go down out the front, and Hammond should probably be there. He can take you back over to work. It’s all good—you just have to get outta here, you know?”

Before Craig could say anything else, Danny ducked his head under the tape across the door just as two members from Forensic Services were about to come through it. As Danny pushed Craig past them, one of the examiners cast a puzzled look at the civilian in the firefighter’s ball cap who was passing by. Danny greeted the team, ushering them into the crime scene as he called to Craig, who was now slowly making his way down the hall toward the stairs.

“Hey, thanks again for helping get this all sealed up. Sergeant Hammond out front can take care of that other stuff for you.”

With that, Danny retreated back into the apartment. There was an electricity now. The men from Forensics began setting up, and Danny felt a rush from having the insight that only Craig’s power could provide. He directed the forensics team around the crime scene and quickly shared with them his hypothesis about where they needed to look for clues. Danny’s mind leapt ahead to the police ceremony later in the week and thought this chance to quickly solve another case couldn’t be more perfect.

Craig emerged on the street, where several Chicago police cars were parked. He glanced around but didn’t see Hammond. As he stared up toward the third floor of the shabby apartment building where he’d just been with Danny, the juxtaposition of his time there kept him transfixed for a moment. It always seemed surreal, his ability to channel the wrongs of the past and make them visible before his cousin’s eyes. He shook his head in disbelief at the scene that he had actually created. For what reason? How am I able to do this? And why? These questions haunted him, but he always felt obligated to help his cousin.

The early evening sky had given way to a veil of low, gray clouds matching Craig’s mood. Great, he thought, realizing that he would need to make it back to work either by cab or the L. None of the officers had yet taken notice of him as they busied themselves interviewing the residents who approached the apartment building. To avoid getting wet and delayed—or even worse, being identified as a faux member of Forensic Services—he quickly turned and made his way down the street.

As he walked ahead, his eyes scanned the sidewalk and the street in all its normalcy, save for the arrival of the police on the scene. There couldn’t have been a more stark contrast between the two realities Craig had seen with his own eyes only minutes apart. In the aftermath of these experiences, he felt confused and out of place. Most of all, he felt alone.