Catherine Willows, second in command of the night shift at the Las Vegas Crime lab, grabbed her kit from the back of her company issued Yukon and shut the door, before heading over to yellow crime scene tape.
“Evening, Catherine,” Sofia Curtis greeted her, holding up the tape for her to step under. “Nick and Greg are already here.” She indicated over to two men, one blonde, one brunette, who were busy examining what was once a body (falling thirteen hundred feet of a building rarely leaves a body looking like a body).
“Do we have an ID?” Catherine asked.
“No wallet or money on him,” Sofia told her.
“Any witnesses?”
Sofia glanced down at her notebook. “So far, I’ve spoken to eleven people. One claims he was climbing the wall of the hotel and slipped, another claims he was pushed by Elvis, another claims to have witnessed aliens drop his body off,” Sofia sighed. “It goes on.”
Catherine turned and surveyed the crowds. “Why watch television when the real thing is much more entertaining,” she muttered, sounding almost bitter. Her eyes stopped on a tall man with dark hair, who was standing with a woman with her hair falling in loose curls down her back. It wasn’t the woman’s red dress, or his suit that caught her attention, it was an evening in Vegas, after all. It was the fact that they were standing to one side, barely paying attention to what was happening around them, and they looked like, or rather, the woman looked like, she was talking to a third person… who wasn’t there.
With a frown, she set her kit down. “What seems wrong with that picture?” she asked Sofia, before walking over. Sofia looked in the direction Catherine was heading, worked out what she was talking about, and followed.
“Excuse me,” said Catherine, interrupting the pair, who had turned their attention upwards.
“Evening, Catherine,” Sofia Curtis greeted her, holding up the tape for her to step under. “Nick and Greg are already here.” She indicated over to two men, one blonde, one brunette, who were busy examining what was once a body (falling thirteen hundred feet of a building rarely leaves a body looking like a body).
“Do we have an ID?” Catherine asked.
“No wallet or money on him,” Sofia told her.
“Any witnesses?”
Sofia glanced down at her notebook. “So far, I’ve spoken to eleven people. One claims he was climbing the wall of the hotel and slipped, another claims he was pushed by Elvis, another claims to have witnessed aliens drop his body off,” Sofia sighed. “It goes on.”
Catherine turned and surveyed the crowds. “Why watch television when the real thing is much more entertaining,” she muttered, sounding almost bitter. Her eyes stopped on a tall man with dark hair, who was standing with a woman with her hair falling in loose curls down her back. It wasn’t the woman’s red dress, or his suit that caught her attention, it was an evening in Vegas, after all. It was the fact that they were standing to one side, barely paying attention to what was happening around them, and they looked like, or rather, the woman looked like, she was talking to a third person… who wasn’t there.
With a frown, she set her kit down. “What seems wrong with that picture?” she asked Sofia, before walking over. Sofia looked in the direction Catherine was heading, worked out what she was talking about, and followed.
“Excuse me,” said Catherine, interrupting the pair, who had turned their attention upwards.
* * *
Taylor had her arms wrapped around her waist as she faced Maddy and Aiden, still feeling her stomach gurgling around her. “We’re not in New York anymore,” she muttered.
“I think the phrase is, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Maddy corrected her.
“I know perfectly well what the phrase is, Madeline,” Taylor snapped. “The point is, why the hell are ghosts following me around the country?”
“Don’t blame us,” Aiden told her. “It’s not up to us.”
Taylor glared at her before muttering darkly about how she knew exactly who was at fault, and what she’d like to do to them.
“Well,” said Maddy. “Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.”
One of the new ghosts cleared her throat. Taylor turned, a little surprised, at the two new ghosts. There was a male… well, it was the guy who had fallen from the building, although he wasn’t looking much like anything at that moment, and a female – the one who had coughed.
“Taylor, this is Holly,” introduced Maddy.
“Since when have you ever known who the ghost is until I find out? And for that matter, why is there a fourth ghost? Or is this one of these cases where I’m going to be running in circles because there are actually two cases?”
Holly turned to Maddy. “She talks too much.”
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. “Who the hell are you?”
“Holly Gribbs,” Holly repeated in a professional tone. “I’m your Vegas liaison.”
“Come again?” Taylor asked, turning to the familiar ghosts for an explanation.
Maddy shrugged. “We’re not the only ghosts in the world. And we’re certainly not the only ones who have to do this job.”
“And on that note, I think it is time you two left,” Holly told Maddy and Aiden.
“We’ve got to go,” smiled Maddy. “But don’t worry. Holly has been doing this a lot longer than either of us.”
Maddy and Aiden vanished leaving Taylor with an impatient looking replacement, a human pancake, and a very bewildered looking boyfriend. “Las Vegas liaison?” Taylor repeated, staring at the dead woman. She was wearing a white and gold suit, just like Maddy and Aiden, although, unlike Aiden’s hers was still immaculate. She had curly, chin-length brown hair, and hazel eyes, and a been-there, done-that expression.
“Save him,” the fourth ghost piped up. He was… to put it nicely, really not a pretty sighed – barely looking human… something which Taylor was not appreciating.
“Who is him?” Taylor asked.
The ghost pointed upwards… well, tried to, but his hand flopped miserably around, leaving a bloody, bone-protruding stub pointing upwards instead.
Taylor’s stomach gurgled further. “Give me a break,” she muttered, looking upwards.
“Excuse me.”
Taylor and Flack turned to find a woman, easily in her late thirties with red hair, and a very stylish appearance, staring intently at them. Just behind her was another female detective with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Hi,” said Taylor, still silently cursing Maddy and Aiden.
“Who are you?” the woman asked them.
Flack shot Taylor a look as he pulled out his ID and held it open for them to see. “Detective Don Flack, homicide detective with the NYPD. This is Taylor Turner.”
At the sight of a badge, the two Nevadan criminalists expressions softened. “Sofia Curtis, Vegas homicide. This is Catherine Willows with the Las Vegas Crime Lab,” she said, introducing the two of them. She pulled out her radio, “I’m going to have to confirm you are who you say you are.”
Flack nodded and reeled off a number. “That’s the number of my chief.”
Taylor rolled her eyes and reeled of another number. “And that’s the number of Detective Mac Taylor. He’s a supervisor at the New York Crime Lab. Unlike Don’s chief, he’s more likely to be at the lab at this hour.”
Sofia gave a small smirk. “Sounds familiar,” she muttered, before replacing her radio for her phone and dialling the number Taylor had given her, taking Flack’s ID with her.
“Did you see anything?” Catherine asked, with a small smile, noticing the comment which was clearly aimed at her supervisor.
“Vic fell from the roof,” Flack told him. “10:08 by my watch.”
“He was pushed,” Taylor corrected him.
Catherine pursed his lips. “You saw someone push him?”
Taylor winced and closed her eyes. “Alright, this is going to sound really crazy.”
“Taylor,” Flack muttered in a warning tone.
Taylor turned her attention to Flack, “How else am I going to be able to help? Besides, the ghost appeared here for a reason – so surely it’s because I’m expec-”
“It’s been nearly a year, and Mac and Lindsay still don’t believe you,” said Flack, cutting her off.
“But everyone else does!” Taylor insisted.
Flack sighed patiently. “And how long did it take for me to believe?”
“Too damn long,” Taylor told him. “But you believe me now.”
“The point is, nobody believed you at first, Taylor, so why go through all of this again?”
“Marty believed me.”
Flack scowled. “Oh, of course Marty believed you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Taylor demanded, her eyes narrowing.
“Nothing,” Flack said.
“It’s clearly not nothing, or else you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Just drop it, Taylor. It’s not important. And it’s not the point,” he argued. The two were oblivious to the fact that they had gained several other observers.
“Then what is the point?” Taylor glared at him, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Ghosts, Taylor. Ghosts.”
“Ghost?” came a new voice.
Taylor shook her head, realising where they were arguing and turned to a tall, young man, with sandy blonde hair, who was wearing a LVPD crime lab vest – the name Sanders on it. “Alright, this sounds crazy, I know, but I see ghosts.”
“Like the Sixth Sense, see ghosts?” asked the final newcomer, a thick Texan accent, and a crime lab vest adorned with the name Stokes.
Flack sighed, “I know this sounds crazy. Hell, I didn’t believe it at first, but she has helped solve several crimes back in New York.”
“Another psychic?” muttered Stokes darkly, before turning and leaving, heading back to the body.
Sanders watched him leave before speaking, “I believe you.”
Both Taylor and Flack’s mouths dropped open. “Say what?” asked Taylor.
“Greg here believes he has an expertise in the occult,” Catherine explained. “His Nana Olaf was-”
“Is,” Greg corrected, “Nana Olaf is a psychic.”
Catherine nodded. “And Greg’s family seem to think Greg has inherited this.”
“You remembered?” Greg seemed a little shock, barely noting the light mocking tone in Catherine’s voice.
“I’m not a psychic,” Taylor interrupted. “I just get visits from ghosts who need help before they can move on – usually because they have died in suspicious circumstances.”
Catherine frowned. “You flew all the way over from New York to help on a case?”
Flack shook his head. “We’re on a vacation, actually. Transporting a car from San Diego to New York, but I won a raffle a few years back for a few nights in Caesars Palace, so we made a little detour here.”
“Do I look like I’m dressed to be helping on a case?” Taylor asked, indicating to the length of her dress.
Catherine, noticing Greg staring, cleared her throat. “Who said anything about helping on a case?”
“We don’t want to interfere in your case,” Flack assured her. “No questioning or processing. We just want to observe, maybe offer some information if we can help.”
Greg turned to his supervisor. “Didn’t you have a psychic help out a few years back,” he frowned. “The stalker – remember, he saved Nick… oh…” Greg trailed off.
Catherine pursed her lips. “And where is that psychic now?” she asked Greg.
“I’m not a psychic!” Taylor insisted. “I can’t see the future. I can’t tell you exactly what happened to the victims. They just appear, giving some of the most ambiguous clues imaginable, and I have to try to translate them.”
Catherine looked from Taylor to Flack. “As a member of the NYPD,” she said, addressing Flack. “I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s not procedure to have unsolicited help,” she glanced at Taylor before turning her attention to back to Flack. “It’s not worth my job to bring you into this. However, we will need to take your statements, so Greg?” Barely staying long enough to make sure Greg agreed with her command, she turned and joined Nick at the body.
Greg sighed. “Look, the last psychic ended up dead,” he told them, with a frown. “Actually, the last two psychics we encountered are dead, but the second one was a victim and wasn’t actually a…” he trailed off after catching sight of the expression on Flack’s face.
“I. Am. Not. A. Psychic.” Taylor told him through gritted teeth.
Greg shrugged. “A psychic is someone who can see things others can’t – whether that be the future or spirits.”
Taylor frowned. When put that way..? She shook her head. “Never mind,” she muttered.
“Look, I believe you, I really do, but Cath… I’m sorry. Anyway, I need to finish helping at the scene. Can you come to the Crime Lab? I can make sure someone takes your statement there,” he handed over a business card before turning to leave.
“Greg?” Taylor called after him. Greg stopped and turned, looking at her expectantly. “I think you might find something useful on the roof.”
Greg nodded. “It’s my next stop.
Flack watched Greg leave and turned his attention back to Taylor. “Well that went as expected.”
Taylor shrugged. “If I’d have given up with you and Mac, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I might not be, but you might be,” Flack frowned. “Are you saying that you and Stokes would be hooking up?”
“Stokes?”
Flack pointed over at the Texan, who was busy placing a small green cone next to something on the ground. “He had a similar reaction to mine… or at least, that’s what I would have liked to have done.”
“You’re a doofas,” Taylor told him, rolling her eyes.
“I think the phrase is, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Maddy corrected her.
“I know perfectly well what the phrase is, Madeline,” Taylor snapped. “The point is, why the hell are ghosts following me around the country?”
“Don’t blame us,” Aiden told her. “It’s not up to us.”
Taylor glared at her before muttering darkly about how she knew exactly who was at fault, and what she’d like to do to them.
“Well,” said Maddy. “Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.”
One of the new ghosts cleared her throat. Taylor turned, a little surprised, at the two new ghosts. There was a male… well, it was the guy who had fallen from the building, although he wasn’t looking much like anything at that moment, and a female – the one who had coughed.
“Taylor, this is Holly,” introduced Maddy.
“Since when have you ever known who the ghost is until I find out? And for that matter, why is there a fourth ghost? Or is this one of these cases where I’m going to be running in circles because there are actually two cases?”
Holly turned to Maddy. “She talks too much.”
Taylor’s mouth dropped open. “Who the hell are you?”
“Holly Gribbs,” Holly repeated in a professional tone. “I’m your Vegas liaison.”
“Come again?” Taylor asked, turning to the familiar ghosts for an explanation.
Maddy shrugged. “We’re not the only ghosts in the world. And we’re certainly not the only ones who have to do this job.”
“And on that note, I think it is time you two left,” Holly told Maddy and Aiden.
“We’ve got to go,” smiled Maddy. “But don’t worry. Holly has been doing this a lot longer than either of us.”
Maddy and Aiden vanished leaving Taylor with an impatient looking replacement, a human pancake, and a very bewildered looking boyfriend. “Las Vegas liaison?” Taylor repeated, staring at the dead woman. She was wearing a white and gold suit, just like Maddy and Aiden, although, unlike Aiden’s hers was still immaculate. She had curly, chin-length brown hair, and hazel eyes, and a been-there, done-that expression.
“Save him,” the fourth ghost piped up. He was… to put it nicely, really not a pretty sighed – barely looking human… something which Taylor was not appreciating.
“Who is him?” Taylor asked.
The ghost pointed upwards… well, tried to, but his hand flopped miserably around, leaving a bloody, bone-protruding stub pointing upwards instead.
Taylor’s stomach gurgled further. “Give me a break,” she muttered, looking upwards.
“Excuse me.”
Taylor and Flack turned to find a woman, easily in her late thirties with red hair, and a very stylish appearance, staring intently at them. Just behind her was another female detective with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Hi,” said Taylor, still silently cursing Maddy and Aiden.
“Who are you?” the woman asked them.
Flack shot Taylor a look as he pulled out his ID and held it open for them to see. “Detective Don Flack, homicide detective with the NYPD. This is Taylor Turner.”
At the sight of a badge, the two Nevadan criminalists expressions softened. “Sofia Curtis, Vegas homicide. This is Catherine Willows with the Las Vegas Crime Lab,” she said, introducing the two of them. She pulled out her radio, “I’m going to have to confirm you are who you say you are.”
Flack nodded and reeled off a number. “That’s the number of my chief.”
Taylor rolled her eyes and reeled of another number. “And that’s the number of Detective Mac Taylor. He’s a supervisor at the New York Crime Lab. Unlike Don’s chief, he’s more likely to be at the lab at this hour.”
Sofia gave a small smirk. “Sounds familiar,” she muttered, before replacing her radio for her phone and dialling the number Taylor had given her, taking Flack’s ID with her.
“Did you see anything?” Catherine asked, with a small smile, noticing the comment which was clearly aimed at her supervisor.
“Vic fell from the roof,” Flack told him. “10:08 by my watch.”
“He was pushed,” Taylor corrected him.
Catherine pursed his lips. “You saw someone push him?”
Taylor winced and closed her eyes. “Alright, this is going to sound really crazy.”
“Taylor,” Flack muttered in a warning tone.
Taylor turned her attention to Flack, “How else am I going to be able to help? Besides, the ghost appeared here for a reason – so surely it’s because I’m expec-”
“It’s been nearly a year, and Mac and Lindsay still don’t believe you,” said Flack, cutting her off.
“But everyone else does!” Taylor insisted.
Flack sighed patiently. “And how long did it take for me to believe?”
“Too damn long,” Taylor told him. “But you believe me now.”
“The point is, nobody believed you at first, Taylor, so why go through all of this again?”
“Marty believed me.”
Flack scowled. “Oh, of course Marty believed you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Taylor demanded, her eyes narrowing.
“Nothing,” Flack said.
“It’s clearly not nothing, or else you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Just drop it, Taylor. It’s not important. And it’s not the point,” he argued. The two were oblivious to the fact that they had gained several other observers.
“Then what is the point?” Taylor glared at him, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Ghosts, Taylor. Ghosts.”
“Ghost?” came a new voice.
Taylor shook her head, realising where they were arguing and turned to a tall, young man, with sandy blonde hair, who was wearing a LVPD crime lab vest – the name Sanders on it. “Alright, this sounds crazy, I know, but I see ghosts.”
“Like the Sixth Sense, see ghosts?” asked the final newcomer, a thick Texan accent, and a crime lab vest adorned with the name Stokes.
Flack sighed, “I know this sounds crazy. Hell, I didn’t believe it at first, but she has helped solve several crimes back in New York.”
“Another psychic?” muttered Stokes darkly, before turning and leaving, heading back to the body.
Sanders watched him leave before speaking, “I believe you.”
Both Taylor and Flack’s mouths dropped open. “Say what?” asked Taylor.
“Greg here believes he has an expertise in the occult,” Catherine explained. “His Nana Olaf was-”
“Is,” Greg corrected, “Nana Olaf is a psychic.”
Catherine nodded. “And Greg’s family seem to think Greg has inherited this.”
“You remembered?” Greg seemed a little shock, barely noting the light mocking tone in Catherine’s voice.
“I’m not a psychic,” Taylor interrupted. “I just get visits from ghosts who need help before they can move on – usually because they have died in suspicious circumstances.”
Catherine frowned. “You flew all the way over from New York to help on a case?”
Flack shook his head. “We’re on a vacation, actually. Transporting a car from San Diego to New York, but I won a raffle a few years back for a few nights in Caesars Palace, so we made a little detour here.”
“Do I look like I’m dressed to be helping on a case?” Taylor asked, indicating to the length of her dress.
Catherine, noticing Greg staring, cleared her throat. “Who said anything about helping on a case?”
“We don’t want to interfere in your case,” Flack assured her. “No questioning or processing. We just want to observe, maybe offer some information if we can help.”
Greg turned to his supervisor. “Didn’t you have a psychic help out a few years back,” he frowned. “The stalker – remember, he saved Nick… oh…” Greg trailed off.
Catherine pursed her lips. “And where is that psychic now?” she asked Greg.
“I’m not a psychic!” Taylor insisted. “I can’t see the future. I can’t tell you exactly what happened to the victims. They just appear, giving some of the most ambiguous clues imaginable, and I have to try to translate them.”
Catherine looked from Taylor to Flack. “As a member of the NYPD,” she said, addressing Flack. “I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s not procedure to have unsolicited help,” she glanced at Taylor before turning her attention to back to Flack. “It’s not worth my job to bring you into this. However, we will need to take your statements, so Greg?” Barely staying long enough to make sure Greg agreed with her command, she turned and joined Nick at the body.
Greg sighed. “Look, the last psychic ended up dead,” he told them, with a frown. “Actually, the last two psychics we encountered are dead, but the second one was a victim and wasn’t actually a…” he trailed off after catching sight of the expression on Flack’s face.
“I. Am. Not. A. Psychic.” Taylor told him through gritted teeth.
Greg shrugged. “A psychic is someone who can see things others can’t – whether that be the future or spirits.”
Taylor frowned. When put that way..? She shook her head. “Never mind,” she muttered.
“Look, I believe you, I really do, but Cath… I’m sorry. Anyway, I need to finish helping at the scene. Can you come to the Crime Lab? I can make sure someone takes your statement there,” he handed over a business card before turning to leave.
“Greg?” Taylor called after him. Greg stopped and turned, looking at her expectantly. “I think you might find something useful on the roof.”
Greg nodded. “It’s my next stop.
Flack watched Greg leave and turned his attention back to Taylor. “Well that went as expected.”
Taylor shrugged. “If I’d have given up with you and Mac, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I might not be, but you might be,” Flack frowned. “Are you saying that you and Stokes would be hooking up?”
“Stokes?”
Flack pointed over at the Texan, who was busy placing a small green cone next to something on the ground. “He had a similar reaction to mine… or at least, that’s what I would have liked to have done.”
“You’re a doofas,” Taylor told him, rolling her eyes.
Originally posted: 29/09/2006