Selected Short Stories Featuring Ghost Dust

Ghost Dust & Selected Short Stories

by Nicolas Wilson

Hi.

I’m Nic. This is my first short story collection, out in the spring of 2013. These and a collection of my journalism will be available for free at various etailers and from my website: www.nicolaswilson.com.

Interspersed with the short stories, you’ll find snippets of novels I’m working on or have finished. I’m calling them entertisements, because the word amuses me. Some are available for purchase now, others will be available soon. I also encourage you to check my website for other projects of mine, including RSS feeds of stories that update weekly, and a newsletter so you can stay informed when my new work comes out.

I sincerely hope you enjoy these stories, and thank you for reading.

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Table of Contents

Hypotenuse: A detective and a witness become acquainted as he investigates the death of one of their neighbors.

Colossus: An arctic scientist explores the habitat of the Colossal Squid, and finds a secret even larger than the cagey mollusk.

Support: An Explosive Ordinance Disposal officer connects with his family as he wrestles with an especially difficult day in Iraq.

Something to Say: A forensic tech examines the body of a woman murdered outside a police station.

Why There Are No More Dragons Or Unicorns: A father's tale of the last dragon and unicorn.

Turing's Test: A computer with a personality disorder mulls its own idiosyncratic existence with its human roommate.

Only Numan: A young man with a genetic predisposition toward unstable genes is given the opportunity to become a part of governmental experiments to develop superhumans.

Prisoners of War: A forensics anthropologist and a left-for-dead Marine track a war criminal, in post-war Vietnam.

Raider: A woman comes to grips with her own identity and mortality while breaking into an Egyptian pyramid.

Dante's Infirmity: An old man and his family struggle to preserve his humanity and independence, navigating the medical establishment, as he approaches the end of his life.

The Ghost Club: Mr. Houdini and Mr. Doyle explore the question of life after death.

Suicide Spear: Humanity takes the battle to an alien homeworld's doorstep, after decades of a devastating war of attrition.

Hang Around: A cowboy, a Buddhist monk, and others relive the results of one choice.

Ghost Dust: A patient reflects on the aftermath of 9/11.

Bloody Hands: A community shares responsibility and blame after a young boy's call for help.

Green Thumb: A Department of Agriculture employee has a chance run-in with a farmer covered in chemicals. This short story was eventually expanded into a novel, Dag, now available.

Dogs of War: Two Explosive Ordnance Disposal soldiers recover together, after nearly dying in an explosion. This story is part of a novella, Dogs of War, available for free to newsletter subscribers.

Nexus: The crew of an interstellar star ship try to screw the alien species they meet before their corporate backers can screw them. This is the opening chapter of Nexus, coming summer 2013.

Hypotenuse

It’s supposed to be my night off. I can’t tell if I’m asleep and dreaming of sweating in my apartment, or if the neighbors’ loud sex/fighting has pulled me out of my stupor. But I must be awake because there’s a pounding at the door nearly as heavy as the one in my head, and I’m staggering towards it.

It’s a uniform, a little nervous and a little pissed that he’s my wake-up call. It’s my night off, I tell him.

Yeah. But we’ve caught a few other bodies tonight. So it’s not your night off anymore.

I squint at him. I’m drunk.

He squints back at me. No, just hung over. Besides, it’s not like you have to drive anywhere. Body’s downstairs. I mutter something about pants and try to slam his hand in the door, but he’s more awake and sober so he moves it out of the way in time.

My clothes, which I’m pretty sure I remember passing out in, are splayed out like a body at the foot of the bed, as if I died in them and then evaporated out. I’m not sure what I spilled on them, but it’s formed a solid blob of cloth connecting my shirt to my pants. My slacks are dark enough that nobody’s going to notice unless I have to peel them apart. I slip my head through the shirt and look at my red tie. It's just a little too disheveled to tighten, but I’m in no mood to retie it, so I ball it up and throw it at the trash can. It floats peacefully onto an old Big Mac wrapper smeared with what I hope used to be mayonnaise.

I strap on my shoulder holster, reach for my jacket, and then the knocking comes back at the door. Before I even consider why, I squeeze the grip on my gun. I open the door, and it’s just the uniform, shifting nervously in his too-polished shoes. You shouldn’t pester a man when he’s armed.

I thought maybe you’d passed back out. Oh, if only.

I step out into the hall, pat my jacket to make sure my keys are in it, then look at the uniform. Tell me you brought me coffee. His hand’s empty, but shaking. He’s probably just had a whole Red Bull. Kids these days. On the corner there’s an owner-operated café, Lucinda’s. Lousy coffee. This time of morning she’s probably pissed in it. That should wake me up.

He walks me down the steps to the apartment at the end of the hall. I knew the girl who lived there- knew her in the sense that I’d seen her around and knew her name, and kept intending to ask her down to the piss-coffee café but never had. Who found the body? I asked.

Neighbor from upstairs, the floor above yours. They had plans to go to the gym, I guess they were work-out buddies. The door was open when she got here, and that’s when she found the body. Another uniform is upstairs with her in her apartment; she’ll be ready for questioning when you need her.

No hurry, I tell him. If she really only saw the body then there isn’t much the scene won’t tell us. If she knows anything else, the more tired she is the more likely she’ll be forthright. I pause at the threshold of the apartment.

The uniform notices my reticence. I’ll be back with your coffee in a moment.

And not a second longer, I say, thankful for the small psychological push, and walk in. Claire is leaned up against her bed in the main room. No blood, no gore, no rape; thank God for small favors. Has the ME been and gone? I ask the uniform who’d been watching the scene.

Naw. He’s with Mahoney across town. Murder-suicide by GSW with a possible sexual assault. So he’s running late.

Beautiful. I walk through the apartment. I’d imagined being invited here. Everything is as I expected, like the floral patterns in the kitchenette, except where it's not (but still fits), like the rabbit motif in the bathroom. Then the uniform gets back with my coffee. If it’s black, I’ll kill you. His eyes widen, but he pulls a mound of creamers and various sweeteners from his jacket, and piles them on the kitchen counter in front of me. You, I eyeball him, shall live. For now.

I huddle over the gooey black beverage, pour in various creamers and shake in sweeteners until it turns caramel and I take a sip. Mmm. Can barely taste the piss anymore. Next time, spot me some Starbucks, or at least a McDonald’s coffee. He shoots me a look, a nonverbal question of if there'll be a next time, and I return a half-nod in reply. It certainly wasn't my first.

Now normally I wouldn’t be as big a pain in the ass, but with just the two of them here it seemed a golden opportunity for both school and theater. Now, presumably, the two of you would someday like to be real police. Don’t take that the wrong way. We all start off as dumbass unis, but the difference between an old man walking a beat and real police is knowing things. So gather around, children, it’s time to learn.

It wasn’t a robbery; killer knew the vic. There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing rifled through, even her wallet and car keys are still in her purse on the counter. And that scarf, that scarf around her neck was brought here to be the murder weapon. She’s very particular. Look at this room; there’s a very specific design scheme at play. Look at her in all of those pictures, it’s the same. Bright red scarf with those clothes? No.

My coffee mule perked up. How can you be sure nothing’s been taken? Place is a mess.

You can never be sure, but the mess, that’s from the struggle. Burglary: drawers would be open, contents spilled out. Obvious valuables in plain sight would be missing. But the drawers are all closed. All of this mess, I motioned to clothes, blankets, books and pillows scattered around the floor, is from two people fighting. Look at the rest of the house, closet, bathroom, all pristine.

Killer was someone she trusted enough to let in the door, trusted enough to turn her back on- and that’s when the killer wrapped the scarf around her throat. And she fought like mad to get loose. She was a small woman, but she put up a good fight, and that tells us something. Killer’s either a man, smaller in stature, or a woman. If the scarf was worn here, then that points to a woman, but I’d be surprised if it was that sloppy. Everything else is considered and careful. No hair, no blood. The killer took their time, cleaned up just what they needed to without leaving anything telling. The door was left open on purpose. Somebody wanted us to find the body sooner rather than later. I paused. What do we know about the witness? She have an alibi?

Said she was warming up for the gym, alone, in her apartment.

So effectively no. It’s probably time to talk to her. At least one of you has to stay and secure the scene until the ME drags his sorry ass here. Flip a coin for all I care.

The last uniform is standing in the hallway upstairs. He’s young, hasn’t shed the baby fat from his face, and he's green enough that he looks nervous being here. He’s had her keep the apartment door open, but didn’t want to stay inside.

I walk into her apartment and immediately understand why. Witness is a looker, even dressed-down in an old sweatsuit with bands on her wrists that remind me of the 80s. She looks up at me, and her eyes flick nervously from me to the uniform, and I realize I’m not in dress blues and just barged into her place like I live here. Homicide detective, I say, and reach for my badge.

Oh, she says, flat affect.

You and your friend always exercise late at night like this?

I got talked into a membership at a 24 hour gym, and- no. We’ve only gone twice. It was going to be our routine.

Mind if I see your driver’s license?

So long as you don’t look at my weight. Or birth date. I chuckle as she hands it to me; I like clever women. It’s a little odd to have a potential murder suspect flirt with you, but it beats outright hostility any day.

What if it’s pertinent to the investigation?

She raises an eyebrow. How could it be?

"Well, you said you’ve only started using your gym membership. This ID isn’t that old, so the weight should still be about right- unless you embellished the truth. Knowing whether you embroider facts is important to know, Lisbeth."

Actually, I said Claire and I had only started going nights. I’ve been working out on and off for a couple months. She shot me a knowing look, though I couldn’t tell if she knew she looked good, or knew most men would be afraid to say anything to the contrary.

Hmm. I said, and stared at her ID, putting it so close to my eye that the image went blurry. Then I walked slowly over to her, staring.

Are you trying to tell if I’m lying?

No; microexpressions are too quick to detect with the human eye. I’m just trying to make you nervous.

Doesn’t telling me that defeat the purpose?

No. Just keeps you on your toes.

She narrows her eyes. Have you been drinking?

Hours ago. I passed out in the interim. I think I slept it off. Why? Am I swaying?

No, I just smelled it.

I stop and sniff my shoulder. Ah. Apparently my jacket has also been drinking- but I assure you he is sober enough for detective work. She's beginning to droop noticeably. It must be three, four in the morning. Even for a night owl that’s getting to be late.

"I could use a cup of coffee."

I look to the uniform still in the hall. You can head out. I don’t think she’s going to make a break for it. He nods and trots off down the hall. Grab a coat, I tell her.

We walk down the steps. I take her purposely down past Claire’s; it has less effect than I’d hoped, since she was chattering about something, and it wasn’t until I stopped in and nod at the ME who’d finally arrived that she realized where we were, and went silent and white.

But since she was distracted it doesn’t tell me much; she was trying not to think about it, yeah, but both a murderer and somebody who discovers a dead body would want to avoid the topic.

Lucinda’s is open, of course; Lucinda’s is always open, and Lucinda herself is propping up a wall by the register- though she barely registers it when we push open the door.

We sit in a booth far enough away to have some privacy (though Lucinda, like a lizard sunbathing on a rock, rarely conveys anything approaching consciousness). Lisbeth paws nervously at a menu, until I speak. I’d stay away from the coffee. Try one of the flavored Cokes, if you need the caffeine.

Flavored Cokes?

"They just squirt a little of the Italian soda mix into a Coke, but since the Coke machine and the mix are all out here at the bar, you know she isn’t putting anything horrible or personal into it- barring her doctoring the glasses beforehand. I don’t even want to think about that level of premeditation."