Oracle: A Story from The Reels Read online

  ORACLE: A STORY FROM THE REELS

  BRIAN B. EWING

  Copyright © 2020 Brian B. Ewing

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9798676849627

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  CHAPTER 1

  The musk of forgotten trash and wet asphalt wafted throughout the brick-lined alley as Sisto was escorted past the police tape. The sirens were off, but the spinning lights above the patrol cars created a colorful walkway in an otherwise usually desolate atmosphere. A younger patrolwoman, Sisto guessed around twenty-six or twenty-seven, with a tight, dirty, blonde bun, was expecting him. She explained that Caden has sent the request over the radio for her to greet him after receiving the text that he had arrived. The patrolwoman knew who he was and seemed a bit unnerved as he was guided up the flights of concrete steps. He was used to the look she gave and didn’t take any offense. It was the very opposite demeanor of what he had come to appreciate in Detective Caden over the handful of cases they had worked together the last two years. The patrolwoman’s partner, Calvin Bell, on the other hand, was visibly creeped out by Sisto’s presence and made no attempt to hide it. The last flight of stairs they trudged up had the number four spray painted in stencil as the ascension leveled off. They passed a neighboring apartment from the crime, where a young patrolman was taking a statement from a middle-aged, overweight man in a bathrobe with a slew of colorful adjectives coming out of his mouth, probably annoyed at the time the questioning was occurring. Sisto looked at his smartphone; it was just past three in the morning. The witching hour, as some refer to it. He approached the heavily-guarded residence.

  He had become desensitized to the horror most of the recent late-night phone calls brought, but as he approached this crime scene, it felt different. It felt like the first time he had helped on a case with Caden and Bell—the nerve endings in his fingers on fire, head throbbing, on the verge of losing his lunch, turning each corner of the murder scene. . . it almost felt like a distant memory that belonged to someone else. Those feelings flooded back the moment he stepped through the crowd of forensic investigators and patrol officers protecting the integrity of the downtown apartment.

  The inside of the quaint living room could have doubled up as one of those smash rooms you pay to go break things with bats or sledgehammers. Shards of broken glass from picture frames, décor vases, and other trinkets, which must have fallen in the tussle, now decorated the floor. A wave of agony flooded over him as he approached the bedroom, because he was now approaching the victim. The couch was at an unusual angle from the struggle and had thankfully blocked much of his view of one body. Nonetheless, in the corner of his eye, he saw the bottoms of limp feet, presumably a male based on the size, with porcelain debris protruding from them, coated in blood and surrounded in a coagulating dark hue. He would double back to get a vibe off the man after he checked in with his colleagues; he continued to a bedroom door off to the right of the living area.

  The assault on his senses made his knees buckle. Even before hovering over the body and looking at her, a feeling of light behind his closed eyelids pulsed and showed him a beautiful and petite woman in a cardigan and jeans walking down the street, her arm intertwined with a very tall fit man, who Sisto could imagine as being a personal trainer or model. The vision, or “The Reels” as Sisto called them, since they resembled old school movies on a projector, panned out, and the street was recognizable to him. There was a hole-in-the-wall Chinese pop-up restaurant the couple had passed, confirming to Sisto that they were off Broadway and Third. He had pinpointed it easily as he had gone there himself recently and enjoyed the orange chicken lo mein. His Reels were never great as far as the audio went. He was not sure if that was something he could fine tune as time went by or if that was how the hand was dealt—allowing him to see atrocities, but having the audio sound like you were listening from another room. Regardless, it was clear that the two were not squabbling. They were happy and smiling and simply in love. He had a feeling that the two had finished some sort of event, a movie or theater show, and were ready to head back to their apartment to bask in domestic bliss, maybe making love before drifting off to sleep. The Reels exposed them jay walking across the damp street, going another block or so before approaching the apartment building he now stood in.

  It was then that Sisto noticed a shimmer from behind where the couple had just advanced from. A man with cold eyes, void of any emotion in his face, came out of a shadow and into a streetlight, as he crossed to follow the couple. The shimmer came from a tool clasped in his hand which was caked in dirt and grime. At first, it looked like a sword or aluminum bat, but as the man came closer into view, Sisto saw through his third eye—it was clear the man carried a polished chrome pipe.

  “If it isn’t the clown of the town,” a sarcastic Bell announced, breaking Sisto from his so-called gift.

  Coming back to the present, Sisto retorted quickly, not wanting the veteran detective to think he would just take the man’s shit with no repercussion. “If it isn’t the hardest-acting detective around.”

  Bell’s smirk disappeared immediately as he started to approach, before a gloved hand grasped his forearm at lightning speed, making Sisto wonder if Caden had some sort of intuition herself.

  “Settle down fellas. This shit between you two is annoying.”

  Detective First Grade Camille Caden walked out from the overweight man’s shadow and into view. “Thank you for coming at this time of night, Tom. We appreciate it.”

  The last sentence was directed to Sisto but spoken to Bell. Caden was the only person on the police force that used his first name unless Bell wanted to be a prick and mock him and Caden.

  “Yeah, thanks so much, Tom,” Bell smarmily spewed, proving Sisto’s point.

  The next hour basically went how you would expect from a crime scene debrief, if the debrief was done by a patronizing older brother or bully, paired with an actual detective that was open to suggestion and was great at her job. They walked through the scenario and pieced together, which was pretty spot-on from what Sisto’s third eye showed him. They intricately presented the intruder’s steps through the floorplan, getting past the mountain of a boyfriend with what they thought was a bat, then proceeded into the bedroom for the real target. Listening to Caden’s analysis of the carnage surrounding them, the scenario seemed familiar to Sisto, as if he had heard something along the same lines on the news in the past week or two.

  “She was beaten and raped and left for dead,” relayed Caden, revulsion in her voice. “This is the fourth M.O. of its kind in this area in the past month. Nothing is for sure until the autopsies, but from initial forensic evidence, she was killed about an hour and a half to two hours later than the tall drink of water laying in the front room. That puts the start time of the occurrence closer to eleven, finishing he
r off around twelve-thirty. The 911 call came in close to 1 a.m.—lady claiming she saw a disheveled man in his thirties leaving with blood on him, carrying a blunt instrument.”

  Knowing the shit that could come his way, Sisto gritted his teeth while softly stating, “Pipe.”

  “What?” Bell chimed in.

  “It was a pipe. Maybe a foot, foot and a half long. Chrome polished.”

  There was snort of disbelief from Bell, causing Sisto to look at the perspiring brow and wispy grey hairs of the hardheaded detective.

  “You got anything else for us?” Caden greedily inquired, ignoring her partner’s distaste for the situation.

  “Late thirties, early forties max. Came out of the Northeast alley next to the Chinese pop-up on Broadway and Third. Must have followed a block and a half or so and piggybacked off someone entering the building so he could gain access to the stairwell.” Sisto tried to process everything, going back in his mind step by step to what his cinema-esque eyelids had projected. “I would start around that area and see if someone saw him go back through that way after the crime. I would ask around the shelters there. He was visibly dirty, possibly homeless, and probably sleeps in that vicinity.”

  Annoyed that someone with two years of community college and no certifications, aside from the few participation medals from 5k marathons, had somehow got acknowledged as credible in his field, Bell snapped, “You gotta be kidding me. Don’t you have a circus show to get to with all the other freaks of the world?”

  “You called me. I didn’t ask to be woke up in the middle of the—”

  “I didn’t fucking call anyone; get that straight buddy!”

  “I called him,” Caden shouted over the two adult children. “I know you don’t like this, Bell, but I have seen it with my own two eyes and if you ever thought out of the box and shut your mouth, you would have seen it on the previous cases as well. He can do something. I don’t know what it is or how to explain it, but if it helps put away a monster that would do this,” she pointed at a battered body with crimson splatter caked against a queen-sized bed’s headboard, “then I am going to fucking take the help. You better get on board, or you can ask Captain for a different partner.”

  Bell huffed, rolled his eyes, and left the room, making sure to shoulder check Sisto on his way out, one last fuck you before heading back to the station. Sisto looked away from the apartment door after Bell stomped out and back to Caden. She was no taller than five-foot-three, but she wielded a fury that easily added another six inches in stature. She had medium-length dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, as it usually was. Her honey-brown eyes, darting around and absorbing everything from the scene, finally fell upon him.

  “He isn’t a bad guy, Tom. He is old school, and he is old school for a reason. He has done good work since the early nineties. Try to cut him some slack. This is outside my general comfort as well.”

  “I get it. I really do,” he assured her, “but after all these months and handful of cases, you would think he would just accept the handout.”

  “Is that what you’re giving me? A handout?” Her brow arched in disapproval.

  “No. Not at all. Look, Caden, contrary to popular belief, I don’t think of this as a gift. I never asked for it. But, after all these years, it seems to be here to stay. So, let me help out, cut me my consultant check, and we can do this dance again on the next go-around.”

  She quizzically scanned his facial features, took a second to analyze, and then finally spoke, “How did you get your gift?”

  He could tell that she had been holding onto that question since the day she met him, and finally something had allowed her to come out and address it. “Some other time, Detective.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The best part of catching a case with Caden depended on how close the call was to a designated meal. She would usually invite Sisto and let the Saratoga City PD pick up the tab. They went to the IHOP down on University and Northern, midway between the station where Caden had to go and write up her report. It was no more than a five-minute walk from the bus stop, whose route went right by Sisto’s overpriced apartment. The primary-blue colored roof welcomed them as they entered, and Sisto and Caden could both smell the intense aroma of vanilla and maple syrup.

  The hostess guided them towards a table but Caden insisted on the booth just across the way. She explained that the booth gave them more space to spread the food. Sisto laughed to himself at the statement, realizing that the structure and organizational skills that Caden had sharpened on the job ran into her daily life as well. The waitress, Amy, approached them, recognizing Sisto’s face, as he frequented the joint regularly. Amy had worked there at least as long as Sisto had been going there, which, based on his quick math, was about six years, and she was always on point. She could have easily lost her smile over the years, no doubt letting whatever dreams she may have had in her youth slip away, but every time he visited, she had her smile in full force. Sisto appreciated it, and while he was not sure it was always genuine, he respected her for putting it on like part of the uniform.

  The two sat on opposite sides of a blue vinyl booth—Caden sitting upright with good posture, Sisto laying across his side, back against the wall with his right foot extended, putting the length of the booth to full use. They both ordered coffee, Caden upholding the stereotype of cops and their black coffee with no need to soften the bitter bite with sugar or cream. Sisto embraced the current time in human history, where he could get his caffeine executed with a smooth warm hazelnut flavor to it. Caden didn’t box herself into any stereotype when it came to her meal however, as the petite woman ordered so much that just listening to the order gave Sisto heartburn. After shaking the cramp out of her hand from jotting the novel Caden dictated to her, Amy brushed a blonde-kissed silver curl out of her face and behind her ear, directing her focus to Sisto, and asked him what he wanted in her cute Southern accent.

  He saw dread in her eyes, as if she was expecting to use another sheet of paper to match Caden, but Sisto just ordered some breakfast crepes and hash browns. He thanked Amy, who kindly acknowledged him while heading back to put in the order, and he went on to sip his hot hazelnut-flavored coffee.

  “What does your boyfriend think of your profession, Detective Caden?” he slipped in, before taking another sip.

  “Real smooth,” Caden replied, looking unimpressed as she cupped her warm, bitter brew.

  “So, Mr. Perfect is out of the picture now? What was his name? Rory? Reginald?”

  “Do you think I dated a time traveler from the past? Are people even named Rory or Reginald anymore? I have never met either in my twenty-nine years.” She deflected, but while pondering over her first sip, she caved in. “Ron. His name was Ron, and yes, he is out of the picture.”

  “Ron! That’s right, like Captain Ron,” Sisto spat out, letting his dorky random movie reference climb to the forefront.

  Caden didn’t register the connection, or just didn’t care for Kurt Russell comedies. Sisto mentally took note of both her age and her dating status and moved on. “You know I am twenty-nine too. Maybe we went to the same high school?”

  Caden took a sip of her coffee and blew Sisto’s attempt to be cute out of the water. “Thomas Andrew Sisto. Thirty-one years of age. Landed average throughout Saratoga Booker High. Bartended through community college, fell off the grid a few years after that but popped back up working as tech support part-time at a reputable company until fifteen months ago, where you quit to be a full-time consultant for SCPD and Mustain PD. No wife. No kids. No immediate family in the vicinity. No real friends to speak of.”

  “Well, you realize if you do a background check, you won’t find yourself having much to ask in the way of small talk,” replied Sisto, trying to hide his slight annoyance Caden had taken the time to try and dig up dirt on him.

  Sisto was glad that some of his personal events “fell off the grid” as Caden stated. He wasn’t ready to have that conversation with her yet. Th
e banter went on about the scene they’d just left and ping-ponged around a few different topics, leading up to the eventful question he knew she would ask.

  “You could tell me how you got your gift and what made you start using it the last few years? Did you always have it or did something happen?”

  The brash and direct tone Caden used on him made him feel more like a suspect than colleagues trying to get to know each other. Before Sisto had time to think of an escape, Amy popped up with her sunshine smile, placed the tray on the table, and set out the spread for him and Caden to refuel. Saved by the bell, he thought. He looked at Caden, her eyes recognizing his relief as her nosey inquiries had been derailed by Amy, but let it be for the moment. Her eyes beamed, as plate after plate kept appearing in front of her. Sisto, with his meal in front of him, looked up and witnessed the joy spilling from Caden’s eyes. It made him smile, seeing how happy she got around food. He had been somewhat surprised the first time they’d met for lunch during their first case, that a fit little woman like her could take down a plate of onion rings, followed by a half-pound burger topped with enough things to add at least another inch or two to its height, accompanied with mashed potatoes, and finished with warm apple cobbler. Today was the equivalent of that feast, but in breakfast form. Sisto looked at the smorgasbord she had ordered for herself with awe. There was a Denver omelet to her left, a full stack of buttermilk pancakes covered in melting butter and syrup in the center, and off to the right were hash browns, crispy bacon, a cup of fruit, and a large orange juice.

  She dug in as if she hadn’t eaten in three days. Within twenty minutes, she was down to only half the omelet left. In the back of his mind, he wondered how many extra jobs he would have to consult on to pay for a night out of dinner and drinks with her. He hoped to be able to find out one of these days, but the thought subsided quickly, and the two went back to small talk. Even though it was small talk, it still seemed substantial to Sisto, and never fell into an awkward silence too long, at least in his mind. As if hearing his thoughts and trying to make a liar out of him, she asked who his team was, which led to that whole uncomfortable “I know I am a man but don’t give a shit about sports” reply, as he really couldn’t care less. Sisto had seen and done things in his life that, in retrospect, made him feel that giving even a minute of his time to worry about which grown man in what colored jersey took their ball and made a goal, touchdown, or homerun, seemed idiotic. He just didn’t give a fuck and couldn’t remember a time he ever had.