Tuesday, November 6

18:40 Hours

"Central to all units. Report of shots fired at East Coast Green, 108 Fifth Avenue. Multiple reports, gang-related, handle code three."

I knew the town and knew exactly where we were. "Ocean and the Boulevard," I said.

My partner, Johnny Keegan, reached down and switched on the toggles as the lights and sirens blared. The Hemi V8 Dodge Charger Pursuit engine revved and jerked as I pressed the accelerator to the ground.

"Six-Three-David handling primary, three blocks away," said Keegs.

The back end of my radio mobile patrol car fishtailed. The lights reflected the wet street, and the siren resounded off the brick and steel buildings.

We hit the straightaway, power calling, onto Fifth Avenue. Keegs emptied the chewing tobacco from his mouth into his spit cup. When I regained control of the RMP, he handed it to me, and I did the same. 

"Kill the lights," I said. Everything went silent. Then, taking the mic from the cradle, I depressed the push-to-talk button.

"Six-three David on scene. All covers come in stealth." The sirens went silent into the night. It was quiet, eerie almost, our black cars hidden all but for the streetlights.

I stopped the RMP three houses down from the store. Keegs and I got out of the vehicle and drew our Smith and Wesson 40 caliber pistols.

As we approached the shop facade, I tactically staggered us, taking the lead position closest to the storefront. Keegs, on my right side, maintained a three-yard disbursement. 

I held my fist in the air, my elbow flexed. Then I outstretched my arm, my palm facing down, and motioned for Keegs to stay low. Finally, I circled toward the street to better my line of sight inside the store.

There was no movement. I waved Keegan forward and waited until he was on my inside hip. He tapped me, and we were swift in entering the shop.

There were three bodies on the ground. The first two were men. One was dead, gray matter all over the counter and display case. The second was bleeding out from a neck wound. It didn't look like a gunshot.

The third, a woman, shot in the back, her body convulsing with every breath. She would have to wait until we knew it was safe.

We continued forward towards the back of the shop. We positioned ourselves on our side of the archway. I nodded, and we crisscrossed, moving towards the rear.

"Clear," I yelled out as I looked into the bathroom and small office, both doors open.

"Small room, clear," yelled Keegs from the break room. We put our pistols away, and I reached for my collar mic.

"Six-three David, Central. Scene secured. Need a bus forthwith this location, and homicide. Have at least one D.O.A."

"Central, Six-three Senior Corporal, copy... Bus dispatched, homicide notified."

It wasn't long before the place swarmed with bystanders, busses, medics, and Homicide Investigators. I reported to the detective in charge and received the customary, "thanks, Corporal. We've got it from here."

This was a strange hit. A health food store, no money taken out of the cash registers, no merchandise missing, and no sign of territorialism. Nothing but three victims and none of them had any I.D. on them.

No. Don't go there. Not your job. Situational Awareness.

I had to stop myself because this wasn't my problem, and I was too tired to figure it out.

"Hey, Keegs. Keep those freaking people back, will you please... Detectives are inside, and God forbid, we step on their evidence."

I watched Keegan push the crowd back. Then, C.S.I. stretched the yellow border tape across the street from light pole to light pole.

That was when I first saw him.

A white male, he stood five foot five, weighed about one hundred twenty pounds, and was scrawny. He was pale as a ghost, and the black eyeshadow, lipstick, and mascara didn't help his complexion. He dowsed himself with black fingernails, eyelashes, makeup, as Goth as they come. His hair came to a point in his forehead, stiff with gel. His boots, navy pea coat, and high-collared shirt were all black. His eyes were dark blue, cold, and pitted. Yet I'll never forget, as long as I live, that warped smile on his face.

"What the hell is your problem?" I asked him as I walked over to the line. "Something amusing you?"

"Aye, please, officer. Mine name is Caleb Crowningshield. May I tend to mine own shop."

Something was wrong. Darkness rushed my mind, foreboding, suffering, and dread. There was something wicked about him.

When he looked at me, I winced. I swear I heard a woman crying out in my thoughts and writhing in pain. Her wail pierced my ears, and I felt trapped in stasis. My skin tingled as if being held to a flame. As it intensified, the prophet in me saw blood and doom.

This man is death—the mouthpiece of an ancient evil.

"Art thee well, officer?" His words cut through me but brought me out of my trance—his tone, accent, something devious.

I shook my head and watched as he leaned forward to read my nameplate.

"Senior Corporal Kelly," he said. "Art thee —?"

"I am, Mr. Crowningshield," I snapped. "There are three wounded people in your shop: two shot, one killed. Perhaps you can help us identify them. None have identification."

He wore a proud smile, polite almost. He was courteous, courtly, and very Old World. That's what scared me.

"You won't identify them, and I can't help you," he said. "Ours is a place of anonymity, and I wilt keepeth yond way."

He looked past me and shook his head slightly.

"These have no family. Nobody shall behold f'r those folk, I assure you."

His smile was slow to vanish as he put his hands and fingers together as if to pray. "I would like to see those folk. To say goodbye."

By now, Keegs was at my back. I turned and looked at him wide-eyed at the presentation of Mr. Crowningshield. Keegs had a wad of chewing tobacco back in his mouth and spat on the street.

"I don't know where the hell you came from, Casper, " he said. "And I don't give a rat's ass who you think you are. One of your friendly ghosts has a canoe-sized hole in his head. One of them has his throat cut, and another won't live the night. So do yourself a favor, stop acting like an asshole and help us figure this out."

Keegs paused and loosed a stream of tobacco juice towards Crowningshield. I took him by the shoulders and patted him on his right cheek. "Okay, we're done here."

I moved Keegan to arm's length and sent him back to the car.

As I turned back to Crowningshield, he laughed. It was singularly impassive and void of emotion. As I waved him through the tape, he stopped and bowed. He walked away but looked over his shoulder and made direct eye contact.

"Twas was nice to meet thee, Senior Corporal Kelly," he said to mock me. "They call you the Prophet, don't they? The street thugs? I shall see you again, yes?"