Edward
It is a gray day made for the movies, but by the time Edward arrives on the sidewalk outside of the El Capitan Theatre in Hollywood, there are no other patrons. Inside, a janitor and a concessions-stand worker ignore him as he walks past the theater chamber and hurries up the stairs leading to the balcony. The golden light illuminating the hall gives his dark skin and closely cropped curls a warm sheen.
His leather satchel bounces against his leg as he goes, and he adjusts the strap while pushing his black-rimmed glasses back up on his nose. He wonders if he should have bothered bringing all this paperwork with him—write-ups he’d done on the new video footage, crime statistics, other reports on similar murders in this part of the city. How some of those statistics line up with the business dealings of Grand Central and Lumines. Anything that might help convince Samantha Lang to give him more of whatever she knows.
Paperboy,some of the officers teasingly call him at the station when they see him hauling in boxes full of news clippings or struggling for an hour with the office’s copy machine.
But he still keeps scanning documents, still stays hunched over stacks of reports on his desk, still reads through cases in bed with his night-light on while his boyfriend sleeps.
Edward is the only one up here this afternoon. He takes a seat in the middle of the rows and aisles, the chair that Samantha Lang had told him to use, but it’s broken, so he picks the one right next to it. Then he sinks down onto the cushion and waits. The movie playing today isImagine the Water,one in a series of cult classics that have been running all week. On the enormous screen, Frankie Van Norton is having a thoughtful conversation with an old man on a hilltop, and the sound of his voice echoes through the empty space.
Edward’s mind drifts to Sam and the case of her mother’s murder. He’sonly been on the force for two years. In that time, there has been a series of murders in the city under mysterious circumstances. A dozen just in the past few months alone. He recalls some of the names: Henry Maclan, Kane Zhukov, Ashley Hanover. Many connected to Lumines Group and Grand Central entities, although no incriminating evidence to link one to the other. Bodies found with signs of physical trauma—bleeding in the brain, punctured hearts, crushed bones—but no evidence of how that trauma might have been inflicted. No fingerprints, no broken skin. Internal damage with no external wound.
Or strange evidence that isn’t evidence at all.
Like the footage with William Taylor.
Edward could clearly see the young man’s face in the video as he walked up to Connie, could see him lift a hand and touch her shoulder. But there were no physical wounds found on her body, nor any fingerprints, nor anything directly connecting Will’s gesture to Connie’s death.
The footage wasn’t even saved in the same directory as all the other evidence for Connie. Edward found it in the archives, an unsorted clip in a sea of discarded files. Evidence like that didn’t just accidentally end up there. Someone tossed it.
Edward doesn’t know exactly who it might be, or how many could be involved, but he has seen the department’s ties to these corporations, has noticed a senior detective who meets with Diamond Taylor, knows the chief attends fundraisers for mayoral candidate Doherty.
There is a bigger story in this social web, but Edward hasn’t quite pieced it together yet. So, for now, he’s trying to be careful—he reached out to Sam on a burner phone, checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed this morning.
Even with the video, Edward feels limited in what he can do. Will touched Connie’s shoulder, she stiffened, and he walked away and got back into his car. By the time he drove off, she had fallen to her hands and knees, then collapsed.
It isn’t incriminating. She could have had any number of undiagnosed conditions, which their medical examiner is now checking for. Heart attack. Aneurysm. Blood clot. It isn’t enough to convict Will of anything. The best Edward could do is perhaps bring him in for questioning, which Will won’t agree to without a lawyer present, anyway. And Grand Central’s lawyers are notoriously powerful.
Edward scowls at the movie screen. He isn’t sure what bothers him more—the lack of enough solid evidence to settle these cases, or the fact that the old-timers at the station seem largely to have given up.
Look at this kid.
You’re wasting your time, chasing all these dead ends.
Leave it be.
Just let him. The young ones’ll realize it eventually.
He doesn’t get it. All his life, he has strived to finish what he starts, has found deep satisfaction in a job well done. And yet, at the station, he sees so many others with their determination worn away. What’s the point of becoming a detective if you have no itch to solve a mystery?
Up on the screen, a car drives slowly past the two chatting men and parks under an apartment complex. Inside, the driver’s face is obscured in shadows.
Edward watches the film for ten minutes before a presence behind him draws his attention. It’s the way the echo changes around him now, hitting something small and solid in the seat directly at his back, a figure who doesn’t say anything. It’s so subtle that a part of him is convinced no one is there at all. It’s just himself and his anticipation creating a ghost out of the air.
A moment later, he feels a hand touch his upper arm, pulling subtly at him, gesturing wordlessly for him to stand. His skin prickles. He does as the stranger wants. As he rises to his feet, the hand begins to pat him down, searching the insides of his jacket, checking for wires running under his clothes, fingers gliding across his chest and back. He keeps his hands raised and remains very still.
“You’re not being recorded,” he says quietly.
The figure doesn’t answer. At last, the hand withdraws, and a second later, he feels two fingers press gently against the top of his shoulder. He sits back down. The chair squeaks under his weight.
“You told me seat 9F,” Edward says without turning his head. “But it’s broken.”
“Glad you can think for yourself,” she replies.
In person, Samantha Lang’s voice is soft, and something in his mind automatically wants to ignore it, as if convincing himself that she isn’t really there. Edward frowns and forces himself to concentrate.
“I appreciate you meeting me here,” he says.
