"Bummer, Dude!"

(1995)

By

Jay P. Hailey

and

The Vista City Players

1969:

Graham "Cracker" Johnson was nicknamed for the cracker. He liked being thought of as a graham cracker. Nobody thought of him as a sweet treat today, as he sat in the Vista City Police Station.

The free wheeling "Hippie" lifestyle that Graham enjoyed had its drawbacks, he thought. Especially when it came to doing his civic duty.

"Get a haircut, punk!" A sergeant said, as he passed. Graham noted the man's flat topped buzz cut, his sunburned arms and the USMC tattoos on his fore arms.

Graham was dressed in his usual clothes; bell bottomed jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, leather vest with long fringes and moccasins. He had shoulder length brown hair and was growing out his mustache into a long handlebar affair.

"A fascist oppressor pig." Thought Graham, but he carefully did not say anything. He wanted to do the right thing. He only wished that there was somebody "cool" to report murders to. Being a federal witness in this crowd was a drag.

Graham looked around the squad room of the police station for the detective who had brought him in. Graham felt as though he might need a buddy here in a minute.

Most of the VCPD was concerned with the every day business of a police station, but a small group of police officers gathered in a knot a couple of desks away and shot hateful glances at Graham. They blamed "Hippies" for all that was going wrong with the world. Viet Nam, the free love movement, the spread of drugs into society, social unrest and all the blacks getting uppity. Graham smirked to himself. The oppressive establishment was reaping what it had been sowing for a hundred years. Yet, instead of addressing their own faults, the older generation preferred to blame men with long hair for all their problems.

Graham's smug attitude vanished when he realized that he was still alone inside the police station. The social and political irony of the situation wouldn't bring him back to life after he was lynched, or beaten to death.

He looked around and saw the detective who was escorting him to safety. Moody was in his late forties. He had also been a Marine at one time or another. He carried himself with a self contained sense of competence. His face was lined and rugged looking, and his once blond hair was now turning into gray fur that bristled from his bullet shaped head, no more than half an inch in length at any time.

Graham figured that Moody was about as cool as any cop was ever going to be. Moody did what he said he was going to do, and heaven help what ever got in his way. He also was willing to give even a Hippie the benefit of the doubt, once.

Graham didn't know where that John Wayne ultra tough shit came from. There were times when he would have liked to have had some. It seemed as though he was made of different stuff.

"That's what I get for being born in the Age of Aquarius." Graham wryly thought.

"You doing okay, kid?" Moody asked. He was somewhat concerned for the dimwitted hippie in his care. The young man seemed to have a kind heart and no fucking clue of what he had just stepped into.

"I'm getting seriously negative vibes from your cop brothers over there." Graham said, gesturing towards the knot of officers in the corner.

Moody stared for a moment trying to sort out what Graham had just said. "All right. Wait here."

Moody walked towards the knot of officers who had been shooting unkind looks at Graham. The knot dissolved as Moody approached leaving only the other former Marine.

Moody said "Callahan, do you have a problem with my witness?" He was standing nose to nose with Callahan. Their eyes locked into each other.

"Witness, my ass." Callahan said "He probably had some drug induced hallucination." He held on, but Moody knew he would cave in. Callahan was a bully. Ever since the two had been kids in High School at Vista City, Callahan was small man who liked to catch foreigners, blacks and those rumored to be queer alone and beat them up with his pack of hyenas. Moody had always despised the inherent unfairness of it.

They had both gone into the Marines after High School, continuing a long rivalry. They never discussed the Marines with each other. They both knew what had happened. Callahan had become a desk jockey while Moody went to the front lines in Korea.

Now they were continuing their rivalry. Moody still despised Callahan's bullying, and called him on it whenever he got the chance.

"My witness did his duty, coming forward to report a crime. If you have a problem with that, then come and talk to me. Whenever you like." Moody grinned down into Callahan's face. Callahan never had the guts to go one on one with Moody, and by now he never would.

Callahan dropped his eyes and growled "You'll be sorry, dealing with that hippie bastard."

Moody turned around and went back to Graham. His face was serious, but he was happy. Any day that he got to back Callahan down was a good one.

"Whoa! Major territorial imperative!" Graham said, impressed. He was the only bystander gauche enough to comment. Most of the cops at the VCPD wisely said nothing.

"If he messes with you, call me. I'm going to be in the Captains' office talking to the D.A."

Graham watched Moody disappear into the office to talk to the suits about the legal stuff. Graham didn't really understand exactly what was happening, but he knew that he had stirred up a hornet's nest of suits and weird language. He now thought that the decision not to mention that Moonshadow, his girlfriend to the cops was a good one. She was a warm hearted, giving person, really in tune with the universe, but she couldn't handle pressure worth a damn.

-*-

"Cracker" and "Moonshadow" got into his old VW bus and drove for a couple of hours out into the woods. They enjoyed the feeling of nature around them. Graham thought it might be nice to get a pad out in the woods and hang out there full time and really get groovy. Moonshadow, or Karen, was a little too straight to take the hippie thing that far.

Therefore, they commuted. In the woods, that night, they built a fire, spread out some blankets and watched the fire burn down while cuddling and smoking marijuana to enhance the effect.

Then they heard another car. It parked on the other side of a rise from the two nature headed hippies.

Feeling a little playful, they climbed to the top of the rise and had spied on the other car.

They saw a big old black Lincoln. Several men got out of the car. They wore suits and dark glasses and those weird little hats. Graham never understood the purpose of those hats. One of the guys didn't have a hat. He looked as though he was having a bad time.

The other men pulled the disheveled man out of the car and dragged him a certain distance away from the car.

Karen gasped beside Graham when they saw the guns that the men were brandishing. Graham shushed her. He knew they couldn't drive the VW bus away. The Mob-Dudes would hear it starting and shoot them. Their only hope for making it through this was to be quiet.

One of the Mob-Dudes went to the Lincoln's trunk and opened it. He pulled out a shovel and took it over to the disheveled man. He thrust the shovel forcefully into the man's hands.

The man threw the shovel down and cursed at the Mob-Dudes. They shot him. It wasn't like on TV, when there's a bang and a little hole and the bad guys just quietly lay down. Graham had to grab Karen's mouth the keep her screams from drawing the Mob-Dudes attention.

It was night time, but there was a full moon and the lights of the Lincoln made the scene a kind of nightmarish twilight as the man writhed on the ground and screamed, bleeding to death from his torn body.

Graham shivered at the memory and fervently hoped that if he was going to die that it would not be by a bullet. It seemed like it had hurt the man, a lot.

The Mob-Dudes made some dumb jokes and smoked cigarettes while digging a hole in the ground. Then they rolled the man into the hole and covered him up. It was a miserable and cold couple of hours that Graham and Karen spent under the bushes at the top of the rise watching this. Then the Mob-Dudes packed up into the Lincoln and left the scene.

-*-

The drive back to San Francisco was a serious bummer for both Graham and Karen. Karen just huddled miserably in the passenger seat and cried.

After a day or two, it came down to a fight.

"They'll kill us!" Karen hissed

"I can't deal with the dis-harmony, Moonshadow. That was just too negative. I have to try to balance the scales, you know?"

"Don't call me that! This isn't some dip shit philosophy lesson! This was the mob! If you try to tell the cops what we saw and they'll kill us and our families!"

"But, like, what good is a harmonious philosophy of life if you drop it and run when things get tough?"

"Harmonious philosophy my ass! I'm not going to die because your stoned ravings make you want to be a witness against the mob!" Her eyes were wide and her knuckles were white.

"Moonshadow, I am sensing a major lack of harmony here."

"Look, it's not like the pigs are going to believe us, anyway. Let's just go away for a while and see what the harmony tells us then? We could go to Mexico, and live up in the mountains with the Indians."

"They wouldn't accept us, with this dis-harmonious energy in us."

Karen shrieked in frustration and stomped into the bedroom of their small Haight-Ashbury apartment, slamming the door.

Graham moved to the door. "Look, you do what you gotta do, Moonshadow. I'm going to try to even things up, okay? I promise that I won't tell the cops about you, okay?"

With that he packed his small batch of belongings into his knapsack and prepared to move out. The pad was paid up through the end of the month, and that was more than enough time for Moonshadow to find a new old man, if she could get harmonious enough to make a relationship fly.

Graham traveled light and was always ready to move. He believed what the Indians said about moving lightly upon the Earth, and leaving no track.

As he walked out of the apartment and turned uptown Karen shouted at him from the window of their apartment. "Cracker, you asshole! Keep your damned mouth shut about me!" Graham could see tears running down her face.

Getting the police to listen had been more of a challenge than Graham had anticipated. He was laughed out of the San Francisco Police Station a couple of times.

Then a single detective decided that he needed a break from paperwork and decided that running down the hippie's hallucination would be easier than writing another report.

First the detective had brought out the hallucination detector. It had been assembled when a composite drawing made from a witnesses' description had turned out to look exactly like Edward G. Robinson.

Graham looked at the mug shots in the book and blanched "Wow! That's James Cagney! He was really a mobster? No wonder his gangster movies are so good!"

Eventually they had sorted it out, and Graham identified a popular mob suspect, Frank Giancano, as one of the "Mob-Dudes." From a missing person's report Graham identified Harry Ketcham as the victim. Ketcham was an investigative reporter for the San Francisco Tribune.

Knowing that the unfortunate hippie now had a tiger by the tail, the detective had gone straight to the D.A.s' office, without reporting to his own superiors, first.

The District Attorney identified the area where the hippie had said that he witnessed the crime. It was Vista City, a small transport junction city three hours north of San Francisco.

Then the D.A. called the VCPD and grabbed Moody. Moody had worked with the D.A. on one occasion. The D.A. knew that Moody himself was incorruptible, and that the VCPD was too small to have been tampered with by the Mob as of yet.

With Moody gathering evidence and protecting the witness, D.A. Morrison knew that he had a better than average chance to bring the case to court. If only the sole witness wasn't a soft headed hippie!

-*-

Graham sat in the station and thought about how Moody was really in harmony with the universe, although he probably wasn't aware of it. The universe could certainly use the John Wayne tough guys to balance out the really dis-harmonious Mob-Dudes.

What was the big deal with kids smoking grass?

A cop came up to Graham with a pair of small styrofoam cups. "Would you like some coffee?" He handed one to Graham.

"Thank you." Graham accepted the cup. "That's really harmonious of you." He looked at the cop. He was a slim, compact man with an olive complexion and piercing blue eyes. His uniform was neatly pressed and immaculately clean. Callahan evidently didn't like him. Graham saw the detective staring at the cop. It was no wonder. The new cop's sense of style made Callahan seem even more like a pig.

The cop looked at him quizzically and said "Thank you," before moving off on his business.

Graham sipped his coffee. It tasted good. He needed the pick me up. The burden of being a witness was a heavy load to carry.

-*-

The cop with the piercing blue eyes walked briskly and purposefully out of the Vista City Police Station and across the street to a waiting black Lincoln. He got into the car.

As soon as he was in, the car started up and drove away. As it drove away Frank Giancano said "Did you do it?"

The cop started to take off his uniform, removing the disguise. "It's done."

Giancano grinned. "Great. Now, even if he survives, nobody'll believe him."

The mobster with the piercing blue eyes said without any emotion at all "He won't survive."

-*-

Graham finished his coffee and looked around for Moody. He was still in the Captain's office talking the legal shit with all the suits.

Callahan was staring at him. Graham knew that he wouldn't do anything, not while Moody could stop him. Soon Moody would take Graham out into the woods. Graham would lead him to the shallow grave, and the case would get underway.

Then the rush hit him. It was a powerful experience, and Graham was amazed. "Oh, wow," he said. It took the hippie a few moments to understand what was happening to him. He was tripping, hard.

Things seemed to slow down inside the station and his vision took on an almost supernatural clarity as the first wave of an acid trip took him away. "Oh, man." Graham racked his brain. When had he last taken acid?

Next to him a hooker was set down. He looked at her face in horror. There was thick make-up on her face. He could see the lines where layers rested on top of the skin. Laugh lines around the woman's eyes had cracked the layers of make-up there. To Graham the whole thing combined to make it seem as though the woman's whole face was drying up and cracking into flakes right down to her skull.

Catching his glaze, the hooker looked for a moment. She saw how dilated his pupils were and what his body language was saying. "Damn. You're really frying, aren't you?"

To Graham, it sounded like "Whaugh, waugh, waugh, waugh, aren't you?"

The silliness and horror combined in Graham's mind. With a small hysterical giggle he said "Oh, man!" He knew now that he was in trouble. He had never tripped so hard in his life. He couldn't remember when he had taken the hit either.

He reached out and felt the hooker's skull. The bone was dry and hard, but somehow, still alive. "Oh, man!"

The hooker felt the gentle touch on her face and saw the horror in Graham's eyes. A small part of her said "Hey! I'm not that bad!" However, she knew that what ever this guy was touching and what was real were not the same, anymore.

She gently grabbed his hand, and said "Listen, everything's going to be okay, honey."

Graham looked around. The police station was filled with zucchini people awash in blood. "Oh, shit!" He squeaked.

"Chief!" The hooker yelled at a nearby cop. "This guy's freaking out!"

Panicking, Graham knew he had to get away. He stood and tried to run, but the whole station house flipped over. As the floor came back around under Graham's feet, he lost his balance and felt onto a sea of silly putty.

Stalks of asparagus surrounded him. He knew the end was near. Screaming he covered his head waiting for blow to fall.

After the hookers warning, the whole station turned in time to see Graham fling himself across a desk. He rolled and almost landed on his feet, only to fall to the floor.

As he huddled on the station floor screaming incoherently, a couple of cops grabbed him and tried to do first aid.

"Call an ambulance! This guy has overdosed on something!"

Hands of silly putty grew from the floor and grabbed Graham, holding him out straight. A clown leaned down into his face and said "Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!"

Graham had never been afraid of clowns until now. "What's going on, man? Why are you here? What's the fucking deal, man?"

The cops trying to keep Graham alive until medical aid arrived didn't understand his outburst. Moody and the D.A. shared a defeated glance as their witness writhed on the floor.

Looking back down on the overdosing hippie, Moody shook his head sadly. "Aw, kid." Was all that he could bring himself to say.

A wave of riotous color, sound and scrambled sensory input came and took Graham away, forever.

1995:

"Won't you come home, baby?" Sonja's mother pleaded.

"Is that your daughter again?" Sonja could hear her father yelling.

"We've been through this before, Mama." Sonja said. She was surprised at how calm she sounded.

"I don't understand why you must do these things." Sonja's mother was honestly hurt and confused.

"I don't want to marry anyone and settle down yet. It's not enough for me." Sonja explained. The explanation was insufficient. Sonja had been raised on stories of what travelers her clan was. A race of cunning adventurers roaming from city to city, all the way across the world. Sonja saw herself as one of these adventurers. When her father told her that her job was to get married and stay barefoot and pregnant Sonja knew that her only chance to be who she wanted to be was to leave. The traditions of the Gypsies were about men, not her.

Now her father was angry, shouting that he didn't have a daughter. Her mother was hurt, and called regularly to try to persuade Sonja to return home and settle down.

"Mama, I've got to go. I have work to do."

"Please take care of yourself, baby. Think about coming home, soon?"

"I love you Mama. Good bye."

Sonja hung up the phone. Having completed her monthly ordeal of guilt, she felt free to concentrate on getting ready to go to work.

During her first six months as an officer of the Vista City Police Department, Sonja had done all the jobs that they had assigned to the new rookies. Mostly they were boring. Almost all of them required getting up at four in the morning.

When Sonja had been five years old, her great-grandmother had taken her home for the day. Sonja usually enjoyed visits with the old woman. She was frequently bombarded with candy, treats and compliments from Grandma's friends about how cute she was.

This day was different. "Grandmama" had held Sonja down and tattooed a butterfly over her heart. Sonja had not liked that. Afterwards Grandma had made up for it with a special round of treats, but it didn't really make up for the red skinned irritation and pain that a tattoo entailed. When Sonja asked her Grandma why she would do such a thing, Grandma merely smiled and said "It's for your protection." She refused to say anything more about it.

Years later, during one of the routine and boring VCPD assignments, a motorist pulled a gun on Sonja and her partner. They both reacted with the proper steps that their training had taught them. The confused motorist was as high as a kite and quickly dropped the gun, but not before Sonja's partner got to watch Sonja's butterfly tattoo flutter up onto her face. The butterfly would always flutter about on Sonja, when she was in danger. It would put itself in a visible position and then its magic would work. Sonja was harder to hit when the butterfly could be seen, and maybe a touch more difficult to injure. It didn't replace kevlar, in Sonja's experience, but it did add some protection.

Sonja had been reassigned shortly after that incident.

Now a member of the Special Investigations Squad, Sonja was safely away from the main police forces where her butterfly tattoo might disturb them. Almost every member of the Special Investigation Squad was weird in one way or another. This made Sonja feel more at home with them than she usually felt with the rest of the VCPD.

Sonja volunteered for the night shift at the Special Investigation Squad because it allowed her to report to work in plain clothes and not in the stiff uniform. Also, the night shift entailed working with the old unsolved case files. The captain of the Special Investigation Squad. Scott Ashby had people examining the old files for clues to odd happenings in Vista City. This was a kind of triage. The detectives were to assess the possibility of solving the cases. It was boring, and safer than a street patrol. The night shift did have its drawbacks, however. Tonight, riding her bicycle to work would be impractical. It was also at night that evil spirits and monsters were more likely to be about. Following an encounter with werewolves in the hills north of Vista City, Sonja was reading up on supernatural phenomenon.

If more werewolves or something showed up, then the Special Investigation Squad was supposed to handle it. This was even if the high command of the VCPD didn't believe it. In fact, it was better for all concerned if they didn't. At least that's what Captain Ashby said. In the last six months, there had been exactly two such encounters. This was balanced out by building fires, Yakuza gunsels, and other things that had plagued the day shift. Sonja judged the night shift to be a good bet for a quiet evening. If not, she felt fairly confident in her training, her unique knowledge, her partners, and her butterfly.

After showering, dressing, and eating, Sonja was ready for the night shift. She went downstairs and with a healthy sense of optimism jumped into her VW bus. She had bought the old thing in a used car lot after her original supervisor threatened to fire her for not having a car. Sonja had enjoyed riding her bicycle to work. It made keeping in shape easier. Sonja's original supervisor was something of an asshole, unable to deal with Sonja and her ethnic background. He hounded anyone who was not a white male out of his squad. Sonja had originally satisfied herself that Sergeant Callahan was due for retirement any second, and did what she could to accommodate him.

Callahan disliked the VW bus as much as he disliked Sonja, but was unable to complain. Sonja was now technically able to respond to an emergency call once she had her car. That her normal bicycle route led her to meet the Assistant Chief of Police bicycling his way to work every morning removed any pressure that Callahan could bring to bear.

The VW bus was simply worn out, and only started after a session with its friend, the mechanic. It had the smell of marijuana imbedded in it somewhere. Despite thorough searches by the drug sniffing dogs and narcotics officers nothing was found except the smell.

Tonight, Sonja kept a good attitude that bordered on self-deception as she turned the key. Surprisingly, the VW bus started right up. Perhaps the continuous attention of the mechanic was paying off.

Sonja drove the few blocks to work. Once there she checked in at the front desk and then went around to the back of the Police Station. The building was a Frankenstein-like collection of buildings interconnected and added to by modern constructions.

Around the back, facing the old factory building was the old squad room that was the headquarters for the Special Investigations Squad. The old factory was now the police garage.

Inside, Sonja checked in with the other Special Investigations officer on shift, Rebecca Stevens. Rebecca had a shining silvery metal right arm. Sonja thought it looked pretty at first glance, but was probably a pain in the butt full time.

Rebecca had been a detective in the LAPD, specializing in Yakuza style organized crime until a bomb had taken her right arm off. Afterwards Rebecca had been part of an experimental medicine project at UCLA. The Vista City Police Department was the only ones who would hire Rebecca after she got her cybernetic prosthesis. It had been intended that she train other officers, but Rebecca insisted on going back out onto the street as well.

"How's it going?" Sonja asked Rebecca.

Rebecca looked up, and yawned. "Quiet. Nothing but old files to keep us company tonight."

"Oh, darn," Sonja said in sarcastic disappointment. She sat down at her desk and got to work, jamming through the old files.

Several hours later, Sonja was having trouble staying awake and concentrating on the paperwork. She went over to the coffeepot, only to find that there was no coffee left in the cupboard.

"Where's the coffee?"

"Oh, we're out. I have my diet cokes so I didn't grab any more."

Knowing that coffee was going to be prerequisite of reading any more old files, Sonja said "I'll go get some" and wandered off into the maze of corridors that linked the old buildings.

There were extensive storage areas in the VCPD headquarters, with materials for nearly every contingency that could be imagined. The coffee was readily available and easy to get to, once you knew where to look.

Sonja started back to the old squad room. Even after she had been on the force for eight months, Sonja had to be careful not to make a wrong turn.

Coming around a corner, Sonja ran into a hippie. He was tall and slim, wearing old bell bottomed jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt and a leather vest with a long fringe. His hair was shoulder length brown waves and he had a mustache.

"May I help you, sir?" Sonja asked him. She sympathized with getting lost in the maze, but was a little concerned. It was after eleven that evening, a little late for the rest of the station to be open. The only sections that were open for business were the main squad room, running night shift street patrols, and certain detectives still at their desks, trying to keep ahead of the paper work. It was unusual for a witness or a crime victim to be in the station being questioned this late. Access from the main squad room and the booking areas was supposed to be controlled.

"Wow." Graham said. He was starting to come down from his trip. This was characterized by brief moments of clarity followed by more hallucinations. Graham didn't know where he was.

"Like, I'm sorry to bother you, okay? But, where am I?" He was speaking to a short, slim woman. Her eyes were large and green. She had an olive complexion and thick black hair. She seemed to like jewelry, wearing a profusion of rings and at least three different necklaces around her neck. She was wearing a cotton peasant shirt in an off white color, an Indian style long vest with a profusion of small mirrors sewn into it, and blue jeans. She was also wearing high topped leather shoes.

"Are you lost?" Sonja asked. Her training and instincts told her to keep control of the situation and not give too much information away, until she found out more.

"Whoa, yeah. Last I remember I was in the Vista City Police Station." The hippie swayed uncertainly. "I don't feel too good."

Sonja took his arm and led him the rest of the way into the Special Investigation Squad room. "Take it easy. I'll help you. What's your name?" She could see that he was under the influence of something. She spoke calmly and quietly to the hippie.

Graham went with her, relieved that someone who wasn't angry was in control of the situation. "My name is Graham. You know, like the cracker?" He smiled "Lots of people call me 'Cracker'."

Sonja led Graham into the squad room. He said "Oh, wow," as he caught sight of it. Graham recognized the squad room of the VCPD, but it was different. The desks were still there, but there were less of them. They all had these little TVs on them, and a small typewriter keyboard made out of the same color of plastic in front of them. The wooden church benches that he was just sitting on were gone. The desks were spread out. There were couches and comfortable chairs scattered here and there.

There were posters with a variety of strange images on them. Not the psychedelic images that Graham liked but things like a little vial, with a white crystalline substance in it, and the legend "Crack Kills" along the bottom. Another showed a cop's torso with a lap and shoulder belt. It said "Buckle up. It's the law." Still another showed a gun pointing at you. Its barrel was huge. It said "Are you wearing your Kevlar?"

A black lady watched Sonja drag Graham in with interest. She looked nice, but Graham couldn't understand why she was wearing a silver metal casing over her arm.

"Sit down here, please." Sonja said, showing him to a seat near her desk. He sat down. With a shock Graham saw that she was wearing a police badge on her belt. He had overlooked it as one of her jewelry jangles.

He looked at the black lady. On her jacket, a badge hung on a black holder, flipped out of the pocket, just they way Moody liked to wear his. She was still watching the whole process with amusement.

"Would you like some coffee or something?" Sonja offered. She could see that he was high, and figured that liquids couldn't hurt. She also wanted to soothe the man, before asking questions.

"No thank you."

"Okay, Graham, Let's get down to business. What are you doing here?" Sonja asked him.

He focused. "I saw the Mob-Dudes kill this guy." Graham told her.

Sonja looked at him intently. "Okay, when was this."

"Like, just a couple of weeks ago."

"And where were you?"

"I was in the woods just north of town along highway Twenty-Four."

"Okay, tell me what you saw."

"Are you, like, cops, too?"

Sonja cast a glance at Rebecca. She noticed that Rebecca was staring at her with a bemused expression. "Yes, I'm Sonja Traveler and that's Rebecca Stevens. We're detectives here."

"Pleased to meet you." Graham said to Rebecca. She said nothing, still gazing at Sonja with a curious expression.

He turned back to Sonja "You're cops, really? I bet Callahan must hate that."

Sonja bit down a snicker. When Callahan found out that she had been made a detective in the Special Investigations Squad, he tried to cancel her transfer there, saying that she didn't have enough experience to be a detective.

"Do you know Sergeant Callahan?"

"No, but Moody faced him off in here today. It was real John Wayne."

"Sonja," Rebecca said "Who are you talking to?"

Sonja looked at Rebecca unsure if she was kidding.

"I'm Graham Johnson." Graham explained. "I'm here to lead Detective Moody to the body, Then I'll testify against the Mob-Dudes," He grinned

"Rebecca, what are you talking about?" Sonja said out of the side of her mouth.

Rebecca looked at Sonja with a patient look. "Who are you talking to? I don't see anyone there, Sonja."

A wave of dizziness over took Graham. "Oh, wow." He said "I must still be tripping."

Sonja reached out and touched Graham. "He's right here."

Things began to get weird for Graham again. "I'm sorry about the radishes," he said.

"What radishes? What are you talking about Graham?"

Rebecca got up and moved towards Graham. Her arm dripped silver on the floor, while Sonja's jewelry reflected a thousand alternate universes where super heroes fought for truth.

"Please tell Moody that I'm sorry." Graham said.

As Rebecca approached Graham, Sonja could see him dissolve into a riot of color that faded away. She backed up from the chair with her eyes wide. "He disappeared!" She squeaked.

Rebecca looked at Sonja dubiously. "Uh-huh."

"I'm serious! He was here and then he disappeared!"

"Sonja, are you sure?"

"Yes!"

-*-

Other than that, Sonja thought, the night hadn't been too bad. She repressed a hysterical giggle as she prepared to leave the station. Graham had not appeared again, leaving Sonja to wonder if she had been hallucinating or if Graham was some sort of ghost.

On the off chance that he was, she said a few of the old prayers that her grandmother had taught her, way back when. Sonja was surprised at how well the childhood memories had returned. The prayer was a plea to God to protect his children from evil spirits.

On the material side of the ledger, Sonja left a note on Angelo Mancuso's desk. Angelo was one of the most uptight and detail oriented people Sonja had ever met. It made him an excellent detective, but sort of weird in person. Sonja knew that she could run down the answers to her questions, given enough time and enough luck. She also knew that Angelo would be able to do it in much less time, with much less effort on her part, and best of all he would enjoy it.

The note she left him read, simply "Who is Graham Johnson, AKA 'Cracker'?"

Then she packed up and got ready to go home. Sonja made a mental note to bring in a treat for Angelo tomorrow. They were always treats. One did not bribe one's partners. Ashby came in and that meant that the less masochistic detectives on the Special Investigation Squad would be in, soon.

On her way out the door, Sonja ran into the Assistant Chief of the VCPD, Alejandro Moody. He was a slim, compact man, with a pale complexion, and thick, black hair, that he kept cut into a bushy, close cut. He liked to keep in shape, and dress for success. His yuppie image was almost complete, except that he enjoyed how the Special Investigation Squad upset the more conservative members of the VCPD.

"Good morning, Sonja." He said cheerfully.

Sonja managed a wan smile. The morning was rough on her. "Alex, did you ever know a hippie named 'Cracker'?"

He thought it over carefully before answering. "No. My Dad didn't like hippies. He claimed that they were unreliable. By the time I was making my own friends, the hippie thing was a done deal. We all wanted to be disco dancers."

Sonja rolled her eyes, "Ah, the glory days of the first grade."

Moody grinned "Those were the days."

"Well, have a good morning, Alex."

He turned back to work intent on his busy day. "Thank you, Sonja, Sleep well."

-*-

Sonja went home and prepared for bed in the cheery morning sunlight. Even though she had been awake all night, the bright morning sun spoke to some deep part of her, It seemed like it was time to get up and attack the day with a good attitude.

The sun was, in fact lying to her. Sonja was irritated, even as she grinned into the sunlight. "As soon as I am conscious," She promised herself, "I will rethink this night shift stuff."

Sonja immediately jumped into bad and tried to go to sleep, while it was still cool. Sleeping was a difficult matter in the cheery morning sunlight. Sonja tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. Eventually she was able to drift off.

In her dream she was standing on a golf course. Sonja actually played golf once or twice to see what the fuss was all about. To Sonja, playing golf amounted to an overly complicated method of playing "fetch" with yourself. Dreaming about it was not usual.

Graham said "Oh, Wow. Where did the golf course come from?"

Sonja wondered why she was dreaming about a hippie and a golf course. "No more night shift for me," she said to herself.

"I was trying to show you where the body was, but they built a golf course here!" Graham sounded distressed. "I'm lost! How did they build a golf course so fast?"

Sonja bit back descriptive comments about Graham's ancestry and lack of brain power. She realized that the unreality of the dream world might influence reality later. "Graham, meet me at the Police Station and STAY OUT OF MY DREAMS, PLEASE!"

"Is that where I am? Cool!" Graham grinned. He faded away.

Sonja awoke with a start. Two hours had passed. She was hot, sweaty, tired, and irritated. "Great." She growled.

It seemed hotter than it should have in her apartment, that afternoon. Sonja had just moved to Northern California from Calgary, Canada about a year before. She enjoyed that a light sweater was all that she ever needed, even in January. She enjoyed how warm the summers got. Even when it got too hot, and she felt as though she would bake into a Sonja pastry, to be found and sampled by the forensics team, she didn't mind. She simply remembered the blizzard of '93 that had snowed her in at the North Slope Ski Lodge. She was stuck there for a couple of weeks with the alcoholic security guard, the weird Viking ski pro, The slimy lounge lizard, who charmed women out of enough money to get by, and even the Mountie, Kelley Staton. He was the other most detail oriented person that Sonja knew. He was constantly writing everything down in his notebooks.

Then an avalanche had damaged the lodge forcing them to evacuate across the snow.

After this, a ninety-degree summer's day listening to Rebecca tap her metal fingers or watching Gary Dawson drool over a motorcycle catalog didn't seem very bad, at all.

-*-

That evening, Sonja showed up at the station, with red eyes, and a heavy head. She had not been able to get back to sleep. Sonja mostly blamed her weird dream of Graham for her lack of sleep. She overlooked how hot and bright everything was. Sonja eventually realized that she wouldn't have gotten much sleep today, anyway, but she still growled at Graham, on general purpose.

Getting herself together, Sonja tried to maintain as she entered the Squad room.

Seeing the look on her face, Rebecca shook her head. "Trouble sleeping?"

Sonja went straight to the coffeepot and poured some. Then she slouched in the chair at her desk, muttering dark comments in the Romany tongue .

"Don't worry, it's part of the adjustment process." Rebecca said "If you want to take a nap on the couch, later I'll cover for you for a couple of hours."

"Thanks." Sonja said. She got up and walked over to the comfortable couch and stretched out.

"I'll have to wake you up in couple of hours." Rebecca warned.

"That's okay." Sonja said. She knew that even a couple of hours would help.

"Just be ready to return the favor, some day."

Sonja picked up her head "I'll buy the Chinese food, next time we're on stake out."

"That'll do." Rebecca turned back to work.

-*-

Later that night, Sonja was able function. She returned to her desk, and found the file on the top of it. It was a manila folder from the closed case files.

"Graham, "Cracker" Johnson. DOA, Vista City General Hospital June 26, 1969. Cause of death: Drug overdose." A note was scribbled in the margin said "LSD"

Another part of the file was the opening of a murder complaint, by a detective John Henry Moody, VCPD.

The complaint was a more detailed account of Graham's statement.

There was a background report on Graham. He was born in 1945 in Taos, New Mexico. He was raised on a small farm in the countryside, near an Indian reservation. He graduated High School in 1963, and served a hitch in the Army. After a few years in Japan, and a supply depot in Oklahoma, Graham left the Army. From there his record became harder to trace. Evidently, he had traveled around pretty extensively. Sonja understood this. She kept reading. Graham's last known address was in the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco. He claimed to have moved out the day he filed the complaint. A subsequent investigation revealed that he had a roommate there, probably female, but she was gone, and Moody was unable to track her down.

Moody's notes revealed that he believed that Graham was not alone during the event but witnessed it with a companion, probably female. Moody's notes were also enthusiastic about catching Frank Giancano. He thought that Graham was the best break that was likely to come up against the man. However, after a while he had simply had to give up on the investigation. There were not enough leads to justify the effort. The case was closed on the first of January 1971.

The picture of Graham looked exactly like the hippie that Sonja had met the night before.

Sonja was thinking furiously. The ghost of a dead hippie was haunting her. Why? To solve the case? How? Sonja imagined putting on the full gypsy regalia and trying to convince a judge that she was in contact with a federal witness, who was testifying from beyond the veil.

Either he would laugh himself sick, and have Sonja locked up, or he would believe her. That might be worse. There were many federal witnesses in the afterlife.

"How's it going?" Rebecca asked.

"Rotten. I'm being haunted."

Rebecca looked at Sonja very carefully "Is he back?" Rebecca had heard that there were people who simply couldn't adjust to the night shift. She had always pictured a lack of sleep and a bad temper. Hallucinations were taking it a bit too far.

Sonja waved the folder with picture of Graham in it. "That guy who was here last night was DOA in '69."

"But, I never saw anything."

"No disrespect, but you are not a Gypsy."

Rebecca didn't like being told what she could and couldn't do because of where her ancestors were from. An angry expression crossed her face. "What, do you have `The Sight'?"

Sonja thought about it. "Well, I guess so, huh?"

Rebecca got a chill. What if Sonja wasn't kidding? Rebecca was still on administrative probation after shooting the werewolf. Who was to say that there were no such things as ghosts, after all? "Please, Sonja, please tell me that you are fucking with me."

"Well, I know who to call in this situation," Sonja said.

"Ashby?" Rebecca had faith in Scott's ability to know what was going on.

"Nope. My Grandmama."

"Your grandmother can deal with ghosts?"

"Hey! She makes good money doing it! You'd be surprised at how much money some people will pay to talk to their deceased loved ones."

Rebecca shook her head. "I don't believe this."

"You keep telling yourself that. But do it quietly. I'm on the phone."

Sonja dialed the number and waited. After a fairly long time, her Grandmama picked up. "Hello?"

Sonja said "Hello, Grandmama."

"Sonja! So nice to hear from you. Dearie, you are troubled this evening, I can tell."

Sonja grinned. It was hard to hide things from your psychic great-grandmother. "That's pretty good."

"Nothing to it! Why else are you calling me in the middle of the night!?"

Abashed, Sonja said "I'm sorry Grandmama."

"Just don't make a habit of it dear. We witches must stick together."

"Witches?" Sonja was confused, but she was certain that there was not a bubbling cauldron in her apartment.

"The outsiders misuse the word. It refers to Gypsy women with the sight. You and I are the origin of the myths, Sonja."

"I wanted to talk to you about that," Sonja quickly outlined her troubles with Graham.

"Well, it was about time. The dead are easy, dear. They are usually too busy with their own concerns. If they walk among us, they are either confused, or on a mission."

"Okay, what do I do?"

"Whatever you want. The dead can't overly disturb the living. It's not right. It's also up to us, what we do about it."

"I just want the poor guy out of my hair. He's making my partner nervous."

"Tell your partner that you have it all under control and then charge him through the nose, dear!"

"Okay, Grandmama, but what do I do about the hippie?"

"Like I said, the dead are easy. Tell him he's dead and that he should head for the bright light. Most of the time, that'll work."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then he's on a mission of some sort. The easy way is to say the telahama prayer. You remember that one? It will make him stay away from you. As a last resort you can help him settle the score, then he can move on. I don't recommend that, though. It's strenuous. We witches must take care of ourselves, dear. Adventures and quests are notably hard on witches."

At this point Sonja had a short crisis of conscience. What her Grandmama was saying made perfect sense. What did Sonja care about a thirty year old unsolved murder anyway? However, the part of her that had made the promise when she took her oath spoke up. It's a crime, and I have to do my best.

Sonja had been taught that a lie to the outsiders wasn't really a lie. It was perfectly okay to say whatever you wanted to them, so long as you were honest among the People. Sonja concluded, after some time, that Sonja was the only one she had to be perfectly honest with. If she wasn't fairly rigorous with it, then she would pay for it later. Sonja's promise to do her best as a cop was not to anyone else. It had been to Sonja. That was the one person she couldn't lie to. Besides her Grandmama, that is.

"Okay, so you help them resolve their problems and then they can move on?"

"You're going to do that for this spirit that you spoke of? What's in it for you, dear? Will his relatives pay you?"

"No, Grandmama, it's just that I'm a cop, and I have to try to solve the crime. That's all."

Sonja heard her Grandmother heave a sigh. "I knew when I first saw you that you were going to go places and do things that no other witch has done before. That's why I gave you your butterfly, dear. I guess that you know your own path better than anyone else at this point."

"Thank you, Grandmama."

"Cash is the sincerest form of flattery, dear. Please don't call so late next time. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Yes, Grandmama."

Sonja hung up the phone. "We have to solve the crime."

Rebecca looked at Sonja. "We?"

"You were here when the spirit manifested. It's a sort of link."

"Honey, I can't even see his dead ass."

"Do you want an invisible ghost following you around?"

Rebecca's face grew grim. Sonja was surprised at how easy it was.

"Okay," Rebecca conceded "What do we do?"

"What golf courses were built in Vista City after 1969?"

-*-

Graham entered the Squad Room. He didn't know exactly where he had been a few moments before, but he knew roughly where he was now. He hoped he was really beginning to come down from the acid. The hallucinations were getting old.

"Hello, Cop-Ladies." He said.

Sonja jerked her head out of the old case file she had been trying to read. It was odd. Graham hadn't been standing there the moment before, and then there he was.

"Hello, Graham." Sonja didn't really know how to deal with him.

Rebecca looked at Sonja. "Is he back?"

"Hi, Becky." Graham said waving at her.

"Yes, he's here." Sonja said.

"Yoo-hoo, Becky, I'm right here." Graham waved his hands in front of Rebecca's face.

Sonja watched Rebecca. Her face couldn't help but react to the Hippie, but it didn't. She looked right through him. "Oh, God." Rebecca said quietly.

"Is she okay?" Graham turned to ask Sonja.

This brought the whole thing home. Sonja had to face it head on. "She can't see you, Graham."

"Really? Why? Is she blind?"

Sonja shook her head. "No, Graham. How do I put it?" She remembered a piece of her training from the police academy. Taking a deep breath she said "I'm afraid there's been an accident."

Graham was really confused "What kind of accident?" He was getting a weird groove from the police woman in front of him.

"Ah, I regret to inform you that you've died, Graham."

"I what?" Was she putting him on?

"You're dead." It sounded ridiculous to say, but Sonja couldn't think of another way to handle it.

"No way!" Graham said. He couldn't believe his ears. He started to grin "You're putting me on!"

"No, I'm not. Rebecca can't see you because you're a ghost."

"No way!" He turned to Rebecca and pleaded. "Please tell me she's putting me on!"

"He's here, isn't he?" Rebecca said.

Graham went over to Rebecca. "Becky! Halloooo!" He screamed.

"I still can't see anything." Rebecca said.

Graham reached out and put his hand through Rebecca's face. His hand just kind of flowed through her face leaving a sort of fluttering psychedelic light at the place where they touched. Both Graham and Rebecca screamed and leapt back from each other.

"Oh Man! Oh Man! Oh Man!" Graham yelled.

"I felt it touch me! It's in the room!" Rebecca yelled.

Sonja looked at Rebecca's pale face and wide eyes. She figured that Grandmama would be asking Rebecca for her credit card number at this point. Sonja also knew that Rebecca would have gladly given it her. Sonja knew what Rebecca was making in the Vista City Police Department. She decided that it wasn't worth it.

"Calm down, he won't hurt you." Sonja wished that she had a way to make sure of it.

"I must still be tripping! That's what it is! Man, I wish this trip would end. I feel like I've been fucked up for days!" He shook his head trying to clear it.

"Graham, you're dead! Do you see a light?"

The hippie turned, looking carefully around the squad room. He even went so far as to look under Rebecca's desk. "Nope, no light. I'm alive."

"Could you do what you just did if you were alive?"

"What did he do!?" Rebecca yelled.

"Nothing. What about it, Graham?"

"Oh, Man, you shouldn't fuck with someone like this when they're frying! I'll have a bad trip! I'll wind up clawing my eyes out or jumping off a building or something!"

"Go towards the light, Graham. That's where your final rest is."

"Yeah! Head towards the light!" Rebecca yelled into the room at large.

"What light?" Graham was confused and badly upset.

"You don't see any light?"

"No."

"Head towards the light, Graham!" Rebecca encouraged.

"This is such a bad trip!"

"Graham, calm down."

"I'm dead and I'm having a bad trip! Why should I calm down?"

"So we can help you on your way."

"On my way where?"

"How should I know? I haven't died, yet."

"Oh, man!" Graham stopped. That had made the most sense of anything he had heard for a long time. "You want to help me?"

"Yes, Graham we want to help you."

"Even Becky?"

Rebecca asked "Has he gone into the light, yet?"

"No." Said Graham

"Yes, even Becky."

Rebecca stopped and looked at Sonja "You know I hate that name."

"I'm sorry. He hasn't gone into the light, yet."

Graham walked over to Rebecca "You hate to be called Becky?"

"Yes, she does." Sonja said.

Rebecca was beginning to catch on "My name is Rebecca, please use that." She said to the room.

Graham reached out and put his hand through her face again. Rebecca stiffened "He's touching me again. Does he want something from me?" She looked around, not seeing the dead hippie in front of her.

Graham looked at Sonja. "She really can't see me?" Sonja shook her head. Graham reached out and grabbed Rebecca's breast.

Sonja tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. What else would a guy do if he was invisible, but cop a feel? Totally tacky and in character.

Rebecca jerked back. Her face took on a gray undertone, and she tried to shrink away, until she caught Sonja's face. Then she got angry.

"You listen here, you son of a bitch!" She bellowed. "You touch me again, and I will find a way to beat your little dead ass if I have go and find it and dig it up!"

Graham shrank back. He didn't want to make anyone angry or unhappy. That wasn't who he wanted to be. He realized how thoughtless he had been. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. That was crude! Tell her I'm sorry, okay? Sonja tell her I'm sorry."

"He says he's sorry, Rebecca."

"He just better not touch me again, or I'll kill him again, and I'll make it hurt worse."

"Okay. Tell her okay, man."

"Can we get to work, please?" Sonja asked Rebecca and Graham.

"I don't know what good I could do. I mean he's dead, right?"

"We have to find out what's keeping him here, and try to settle it. Then he can move on."

"Oh, wow!" Graham exclaimed "I must be caught in the cosmic disharmony of the murder!"

"What?" Sonja wasn't sure what Graham had just said.

"I went to the police to try to balance out the scales. The act of murder on that poor dude was really disharmonious."

"Okay, so you went to the police because you wanted to see justice done?"

"Well, that's a sort of straight laced way to put it, but yeah."

"So why did you take the LSD?"

Graham thought carefully "I'm still fucked up. I don't remember taking the hit."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah. Am I really dead?"

Sonja showed him the autopsy report. "Oh, man." Graham moaned disconsolately "I wonder whatever happened to my dad?"

"Graham, I know that this is a shock to you, but I need you to work with me here. We need to 'balance the scales' as you put it."

"Oh, wow. This has turned out to be a lot tougher than I thought."

-*-

Sonja and Graham poured over a map of Vista City.

"Okay, We, I mean I went into the woods off Highway Twenty-Four, just after the turn off from Valley Boulevard."

"Trace it for me."

"Um I think it was around here. But that golf-course is, like, all over the place."

"Graham, concentrate. If we don't find the body, then we don't have a case. Nothing gets settled."

"Oh, wow." Graham put his head down on Sonja's desk. Sonja decided to change tracks.

"Who was out there with you?" She said. Detective Moody's report had been completely accurate. Graham hadn't been able to add much to the information in it. Sonja gambled that Moody had read the situation correctly. She knew that he had been right when she saw Graham's reaction.

"Nobody was out there, man. I was just out there smokin' a little weed and getting into nature, okay?" Graham lied.

Sonja sighed. "Graham are you sure?"

He nodded vigorously "Oh, yeah!"

"All right, then, find me the body."

"Maybe I could lead you to it."

"Then let's do that."

Sonja turned to Rebecca who was pouring over the organized crime reports on Frank Giancano, and his branch of the West Coast Mob.

"Rebecca, he says he can lead us to the body."

Rebecca looked out the window, and then back at Sonja "What, now?"

"Yes, now. Why wait?"

"'Cause it's dark. When it's dark it's hard to see." Rebecca patiently explained.

"What are you afraid of?" Sonja said, pulling on her light coat, and checking her gun.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, wait up. You too, Graham!"

-*-

Sonja, Rebecca and Graham cruised up Valley Boulevard in an unmarked car. Rebecca didn't like to drive with her metal arm. It didn't move like her natural right arm had, and she didn't trust it. She sat in the passenger seat and briefed Sonja on the contents of the Organized Crime Files.

"Graham stepped on some pretty big toes." Rebecca said "The Mafia isn't my area of specialty, but Frank Giancano seemed to be pretty heavy with the Families back east."

"What evidence do we have?" Sonja said, taking the turn onto Highway Twenty-Four.

"Nothing concrete. There are statements from various witnesses, all of whom have died, or disappeared. The guy is made of Teflon. It's as hard as hell making anything stick to him. In '79 he was charged with tax evasion."

"When all else fails, turn on 'The Untouchables'." Sonja said, dryly.

"Even that didn't work. Frankie somehow managed to make the records disappear. Nothing survives to testify against him."

"Oh, wow." Graham moaned. "I got stoned by Al Capone!"

"Will the body help?" Sonja asked.

"That depends on what the forensics department can get from it."

Sonja parked the big gray unmarked police car off the side of Highway Twenty-Four. Most police officers spent a majority of their time in such cars. Sonja understood how much of "Cop-Think" came from the big car. It slid smoothly along the road, it had power to burn, and it was a big car, so you knew that if you hit anything, then that was a bad day for whatever you hit. By comparison her VW Bus was a rattling chugging nightmare that couldn't get out of its own way. Sonja made a point of trying not to let the police car affect her thinking that way. She tried to imagine the VCPD equipped with nothing but Yugos. That helped.

Graham was in the seat behind her. The car amazed him. It looked like something out of "The Jetsons" he wondered which James Bond button you would push to make it fly.

There was a small dirt access road right off the main highway. They had pulled in to be confronted with the eight-foot chain link fence and gate that guarded the back of the Indian Hills Golf Course.

"Oh, man, they fenced Mother Nature in!" Graham said.

Sonja and Rebecca got out of the car. Graham simply stood up. There was a psychedelic discontinuity where he moved through the body of the car. Sonja didn't like to look at it.

Instead Sonja walked up to the gate and dug in her fanny pack for her lock picks. They were official locksmith tools, and had cost Sonja a pretty penny. Sonja thought that it was worth it. Her brothers had taught her to pick a lock with almost nothing, but the proper tools always made the job easier.

Rebecca slid up behind her. "You that know that if Captain Guthrie hears of this, we're going to be in major shit."

Sonja looked back as the lock mechanism clicked and opened. "I won't tell her. Will you, Graham?"

The Hippie shook his head "Mum's the word."

Sonja continued to Rebecca "So if you don't tell her, then we'll be okay."

Opening the gate, Sonja and the others went through. Sonja and Rebecca brought their flashlights with them, as well.

Graham led them up to the beginning of the golf course. He whispered to Sonja "From here in, it's different now. I don't know exactly where I am."

"Just do the best you can," Sonja told him.

Graham looked carefully at the lay of the land. His parking spot seemed to be on the fairway of the twelfth hole. The land rose up to a ridge, and the twelfth green was on the other side.

Graham smiled as he recognized some trees of to the right hand side of the fairway.

"Okay, we were like right here, and If I recall correctly, the Mob-Dudes were down there. That would make the dead guy's, I mean the other dead guy's grave right down there." He pointed to a sand trap near the green.

"That's pretty cold, to build a sand trap on top of him." Rebecca said.

Sonja thought for a few minutes. "How did they dig the sand trap and not uncover the body?"

Graham said "I wonder..." and moved towards the site.

Rebecca kept looking around, and Sonja watched as Graham went to the sand trap and kneeled down. The hippie stuck his head into the sand trap making one of those disturbing discontinuities. He snapped his head back up and returned to Sonja. "I can see some bones down there, but not a lot else."

Sonja thought it through. "Cover me." She said to Rebecca.

"Oh, great." Rebecca said.

Sonja needed evidence to get a search warrant with. It was a finicky business. The chances were good that Sonja and Rebecca would get into trouble for invasion of privacy and illegal search and seizure. Acting on an anonymous tip and making the initial search at night might invalidate all the evidence that would be found later. But without getting some supporting evidence, all Sonja had to ask for a warrant with was a voice that no one could hear telling her where to look.

Sonja skulked down into the sand trap and began to dig with her hands. "Graham, guide me, please. I need a small bone that we can get out of here."

"Okay, over a little to your left."

Sonja dug for quite a while, before she found the bones. "Ugh." She said to herself. A part of her viewed them as just bones and evidence of a crime. Another part of her remembered that these had once been a human being. Sonja tried to listen to the analytical portion of her mind more closely.

She found a finger bone and slipped it in to her pocket. Then she began to put the dirt back in the hole she had made. Sonja didn't want the rest of the evidence disappearing before she could come back with a search warrant.

"Like, Sonja?" Graham said "You need to look at this."

Sonja turned to see a beefy security guard stick a .44 in her face.

"Freeze." He said.

Sonja was amazed at how big the gun looked. She could feel an electric jolt up and down her nerves. It was extremely scary. Sonja slowly raised her hands. Her knees felt weak. "I'm Sonja Traveler. I'm from the Vista City Police Department."

"Do you have some I.D.?" The security guard said. His voice was quavering. He obviously was ready for a fight.

Sonja carefully reached her thumb and forefinger into her fanny pack. She took out her I.D. wallet and opened it up to show the excited guard her badge.

-*-

Scott Ashby listened to Sonja's story calmly. His interest seemed mild, but Sonja knew that he would catch and analyze every detail.

"So, acting on the information given to you by this ghost, you went to the Indian Hills Golf Course and dug up the finger bone?" He asked.

"That's correct. The rest of the body is still there."

"And you think that this can provide the evidence to complete the Giancano case in the file."

"Yes, sir."

Ashby breathed a deep sigh. "All right. I'll see what I can do. But for God's sake, don't tell Captain Guthrie any of this, or the whole Squad will get locked up." He stood up. "Tell the Captain when you're ready to see her. I'll try to get to that body."

Sonja felt unaccountably happy. Maybe Captain Guthrie would discipline her, but it seemed a lot easier to deal with when your boss was on your side. She hoped that it wouldn't mean getting him into trouble, too.

It was six thirty in the morning. Sonja felt the hour keenly. Strong coffee sat in a styrofoam cup on the desk in Captain Ashby's office. Sonja and Rebecca had slunk away from the Golf Course after phone calls from the security guards had awakened everyone except possibly CNN. Graham had simply disappeared. Sonja hoped that he had not been stranded at the golf course. Somehow, she didn't think so.

Now, Captain Guthrie came in. She was a stocky woman about fifty years old, with silver hair and delicate hands. She was dressed in conservative business clothes. She looked like someone's grand mother. In fact, she was.

"Now, dear. I heard that you had a run in this morning."

"Yes, Captain." Sonja said. It was hard to remember how dangerous the woman was once she was in the room with you.

"Well, I'm sure we can work the whole thing out." She sat down at Scott's desk. "Oh, dear me, I don't know how to work these old IBM compatibles. I have an Apple in my office, you know. How do I get into the reports?"

Sonja helped Captain Guthrie get into the reports and then began to tell the edited version of the story to Captain Guthrie, the supervisor of the Vista City Internal Investigations department.

-*-

Two hours later, Sonja felt beaten down. Captain Guthrie was the hardest sort of person to lie to. Captain Guthrie simply listened at first. Sonja had to make sure that the whole story hung together carefully. She didn't get any warning once Captain Guthrie started to ask questions.

Eventually, the older woman said "Dear, I understand that you're trying to hide something. That much is plain. I will make a deal with you. I will simply watch you. If, when this thing comes to a natural end, all the evidence stacks up and you have followed the law, then I won't say a word. However, if we find, when all is said and done that you have broken the law, then I will fire you, and prosecute you to the fullest extent. Am I clear?"

Sonja felt like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She fought the feeling, drawing herself up to her full height. "Yes, Captain Guthrie."

"We have had this discussion before, Detective. My position is plain. The rules must be obeyed. You will not violate the fourth amendment on my watch, if I can help it."

After the stern lecture, Sonja was allowed to leave. She gathered her belongings and began to leave the maze like police station. In the hallway, she saw her old supervisor, Sergeant Callahan walking stiffly towards her. His shoulders were tense and his face was red.

"Detective!" He called "I want a word with you."

Sonja stopped irritated. First dressed down by Captain Guthrie like a child and now to be yelled at by an ancient baboon of a cop. She held on to her frayed temper.

"Did I hear right, that you've been monkeying around on the old Giancano case?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Sonja said.

"That case was closed in 1971, God damn it. Isn't there enough crime for you in 1995?"

"We got some new evidence, Sergeant. It might have been the break in the case that Detective Moody was looking for." Sonja was quiet and spoke plainly. She didn't want to be up on an insubordination charge, or she would be about finished in the VCPD.

"Don't talk to me about Detective Moody. I knew Detective Moody. We served in the Marines together. We joined the Force together, and let me tell you something!" Callahan pointed his thick finger in Sonja's face, "He was ten times the detective that you'll ever be! Now, if he couldn't break the case, then what possible chance do you have?"

Sonja could feel her face grow hot, "We have new evidence, Sergeant..."

Callahan exploded. "Don't talk to me about new evidence! The only witness was some drugged out hippie who ODed right in the God Damned squad room! Now, Moody could never close the case, and neither can you. Leave it alone! That's a God Damned order!"

Sonja could feel her fists clench and her eyes burn. She couldn't help it. All she could hope was that Captain Guthrie would have mercy when the shooting was over. As she opened her mouth to reply a new voice appeared in the hallway.

"Is there a problem, Officers?" Sonja turned to see Alejandro Moody, in his morning bike riding clothes. He must have just gotten there.

Callahan got a pained look on his face. "No, Sir. Everything's copacetic. I was just giving the Detective some career pointers." His tone was jolly and casual. Sonja could see a vein pounding in his neck.

"Fine, fine." The young Moody approached the two. "What's the subject?"

Moody knew that his rank as assistant chief bugged Callahan. Alejandro knew that he owed the position to his education, a college career that his mother and father had insisted on. He also knew that Callahan always saw him as "Moody's kid". He had to give the old cop credit though, Callahan never addressed him as "Alex" in front of any other cop.

"We got some new information on an old case, Sir." Sonja said.

"It's the Giancano case, Chief, one that your dad worked on."

"Oh? Well, good luck. I know that one always bugged him." Moody said. "Was that the call I got this morning, something about the Indian Hills Golf Course?"

"Yes, Sir." Sonja said

"Ah, and where do we stand on that?"

Callahan said "Listen, Chief, she's a novice, if your dad, God Rest 'im, couldn't crack the case, what chance does she have?"

"Acting on a tip, I got a finger bone from a DB at the golf course. It's in the forensics lab, now. If that's the body specified in the case, then there might be enough evidence to go to court on. Anyway, it's a lead, maybe not in the same case, but it's a lead, nonetheless."

Moody nodded, Callahan looked stunned. "Did Captain Guthrie chew you out?" Moody asked

"Yes, sir." Sonja said, irritated.

"Good. I put you in the Special Investigations Squad because I like you Sonja, but if you mess with Captain Guthrie, You're just dead. I won't lift a finger, Okay?"

"Yes, sir." Sonja said.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Callahan growled. He turned and stomped off.

Sonja and Moody watched him go. "I'm sorry." Sonja said "I don't want to cause trouble between you and your father's friend."

"Think nothing of it." Moody said "It's an old family tradition. You just remember what I said about Captain Guthrie and keep your nose clean, right?"

"Okay, Chief." Sonja said watching his reaction. Alejandro grinned. He didn't take job titles as seriously as he took his responsibilities. You could be flippant as long as you got the job done.

Sonja went out to her VW bus and went home. She got more sleep that day.

-*-

Out on the twelfth green of the Indian Hills Golf Course, Scott Ashby and Angelo Mancuso stood around casually and watched the backhoe and the forensics team work. Mancuso smoked. It was his one gesture against the academic accountant persona he lived.

"One thing I can't figure out." Mancuso said.

"What's that?" Ashby said.

"Where did the tip come from? All the known witnesses against Giancano are either dead or missing."

"Good point." Ashby said. He wondered just how much of the truth to tell Angelo. Mancuso's best trait was his logical deductive mind. Scott was afraid that if Angelo knew too much about weird mystical phenomenon then he would never be able to spot a mundane murder again.

"Hey, Cap'n Ashby!" One of the forensics workers yelled "We hit pay dirt!"

-*-

In his office Frank Giancano sat, viewing the monitors that scanned his small kingdom. He had retired from active family business years ago, but the Indian Hills Golf Course was a wonderful dodge, tax shelter, money laundering machine and general set up. It was also a dumping ground for the people that the family, in its wisdom, had decided to whack. Now the jig might be up. He saw Scott and Angelo move forward to look at what the backhoe had uncovered.

Giancano knew that the time for subtle maneuver was quickly ending. He picked up the phone and dialed a specific number. It wasn't written down anywhere. Giancano had committed it to memory years ago.

"It's me." He said. "We got a problem..."

-*-

"...And I'm afraid that that's the ball game." Ashby said to Sonja. "We have all the pieces but one. We need to put Frank Giancano at the murder. We have enough to convict him if we can find a witness."

Sonja thought about it. "We can't put a ghost on the stand. We'd be laughed out of court."

"The elder Moody's report makes it clear that he thought there was another witness. What do you think?"

"I'd bet that he was right, but if he couldn't run her down in the year after the murder, what chance do I have?"

Ashby looked grim "You'll have to get the information from Graham."

Sonja rolled her eyes "Great."

-*-

"No way!" Graham yelled.

"It's the only way to balance the scales, Graham." Sonja pressed.

"Man, I promised not to bring her into it!"

Sonja sighed. It was an impasse. "Then you have to decide. Do you want to live in the Vista City Police Department until you fade away, or do you want to move on?"

"But, I promised." Graham huddled miserably.

-*-

Karen Carstairs was having a normal day in her suburban home. Her kids might call today or they might not. Karen could never tell. Her ex-husband was off with his latest young mistress. Karen didn't even hold it against him any more. She realized that it was just the way he was. He did make some beautiful children, though.

Karen thought ruefully of her own romantic prospects. Her latest interest had been burned in his past, too. So, they danced around each other, both afraid to go any further. She sighed. There would be plenty of time.

Then the gray sedan pulled up outside. Karen put down her coffee cup and watched the two women get out of it. She could still smell "Pigs" after twenty years. Karen smirked at her old, dusty, left over paranoia. The sixties and early seventies were a long time ago. Taking a small inventory of her mind, she was surprised to discover that there was nothing the Cops would want with her, anyway. She hadn't had any pot in the house for oh, five years now. Karen wondered when she had become so staid and normal.

Walking up to the house, Rebecca and Sonja saw a single story suburban house with a well tended lawn, and faint signs of age. It had a low brick facade and an Oldsmobile in the driveway.

Sonja couldn't believe that people actually lived this way. In all of her travels, she had never been to a stereotypical suburban neighborhood. Looking around, Sonja saw an older man mowing his lawn, while small children played in a yard further on.

Sonja composed herself as the two policewomen reached the front door of the house. Sonja pressed the doorbell. She was a little nervous. She shot a look at Rebecca. Rebecca had already put herself into the competent, direct and vaguely threatening detective's persona. They didn't teach it at the academy, but it was really the only way to enter a strange situation and not loose control of it.

The door opened and revealed a middle aged woman with carefully coifed blonde hair and only a few extra pounds distributed on her body. Her clothes were mid level expensive, Neiman Marcus or some such.

"Hello?" The woman said, guardedly. Sonja assumed that this was Karen's mother.

"Hello, Ma'am. I'm Detective Stevens and this is Detective Traveler of the Vista City Police Department. Is Karen Goldman available?" Rebecca showed her I.D. as she said this, belatedly Sonja dug for hers.

"I'm Karen Carstairs. Goldman was my maiden name."

Sonja was shocked. She knew that it had been thirty years, but to picture this middle-aged suburban housewife with Graham was difficult. It seemed like the subject for a tacky television movie of the week.

Rebecca never batted an eye. She was in detective mode. If you appeared calm and unmoved, people assumed that you were not making judgments. They were more liable to tell personal details to a calm, accepting figure than an accusing one.

"May we ask you a few questions, Ma'am?" Rebecca made an uncertain motion.

"Yes. Please, won't you come in?" Karen was in hostess mode, being polite.

Karen led the two policewomen into her living room where she invited them to sit. "May I offer you a drink? Some coffee, possibly?"

Sonja looked around at the carefully matched furniture and fittings, completely clean and slightly devoid of personality. It was a show room. A moment's observation told Sonja that no one really lived in this room. It was kept immaculate for visitors.

"No, thank you." Rebecca said.

"Ah, No." Sonja said.

"Oh. All right. What may I help you with today?" Karen thought that they were going to hit her up for a donation for the policeman's fund or try to sell her tickets to something. She had about decided to go ahead and buy something, when Sonja spoke up.

"Do you remember Graham Johnson?"

It struck Karen like a blow. She sat down heavily with her mouth open. "Oh, God." She said.

The fear that Karen had put behind her fell down on her like a ton of bricks. After Graham had wandered off to do his good deed, Karen had realized that he might spill her location to the Cops or worse, to the Mobsters. She had run. Karen had spent a good number of years looking over her shoulder. The fear that some day, somehow a hand might fall on her shoulder had bothered Karen for years. She had started having nightmares about the murder.

Eventually she had gone into therapy about it. After so long the fear and pain had faded to a mere coloring. Background noise.

Now, when she had least expected it, the past had raised its ugly head. Karen had waited more than half of her life to complete the matter and put it behind her.

"Where is he?" Karen asked "Is he okay?"

"No, Ma'am. I'm sorry."

"When? What happened?"

"He died of an overdose of LSD in 1969."

Karen was stunned. He hadn't even made it a year. Worse, an overdose of LSD was not in character for Graham. He was always careful about his drug usage. Karen didn't realize this until later, as she grew less careful herself.

"What is this about?" Karen asked. Was she being fingered for being a druggie twenty years after the fact?

"We wonder if you know anything about an incident in the woods near highway Twenty-Four?" Rebecca asked.

Karen wondered if Graham's overdose was some sort of murder plot. It didn't sound right, somehow. It was too arcane. However, there was some danger involved, no doubt. Karen's therapist had told her fifteen years previously that the issue would never really die until she confronted it, somehow. Either by talking to Graham or by telling someone. Karen had been too afraid. She had too much to lose. Her home and her children. Now, there was no one besides Karen on the hot spot.

"Just a minute. I have to make some calls, and then I'll tell you everything I know."

Rebecca and Sonja looked at each other. This was going better than they had expected.

"Just one thing." Karen said.

"What's that?" Rebecca asked.

"I don't expect a miracle, but try to keep me alive, okay? I want to see my grandkids."

Karen called her children, and told them that she was going to be out of reach for a while.

-*-

"Yeah, we got a live one." Frank Giancano said into the phone. "My source tells me they found the other witness to the Ketcham thing."

He listened for a moment.

"I don't care how, just take care of it." He hung up.

This was a very bad situation. If the cops closed in on a mobster these days, the accepted practice was to roll over for them. To try to cut a deal with the prosecutor's office. The option was not open to Frank Giancano. He knew too much. If it appeared that he would go down, then the big boys from back east would turn to an older and less civilized practice. Frank wasn't too worried. His knowledge gave him power. His connections had taken care of every witness who had turned up before. Several of them were buried in his very own golf course.

-*-

Scott Ashby and the D.A. were in the Captain's office grilling Karen about the events of that night.

"Graham covered my mouth, and so my screams weren't heard by the killers." She said. She told it like it was an old story. "The man took about ten minutes or so to die. He screamed a lot. Then, after he stopped writhing, the killers took the shovel and began to dig a hole."

The D.A. looked at Ashby. Scott could see the joy in the man's face. His career was made if he brought down an old time mobster like Frank Giancano. The young attorney tried to keep himself calm, for the benefit of Karen.

Scott simply worried. He didn't like what had happened to every other witness so far.

"Do you think you could identify the killers after so long?" The D.A. asked Karen. She remembered her nightmares. "Oh, yes," she said.

-*-

A couple of hours later Alejandro Moody was escorting a writer through the Vista City Police department. The man was a leading author of police stories and had sold millions of books. He had asked to be allowed to tour the VCPD to see how the small police force was getting ready to enter the twenty-first Century.

Moody took him through the forensics labs, and through the new high tech evidence rooms. Moody was grateful for the opportunity to communicate what the VCPD was doing to the public. They were after all, the paying customers.

"I hear that you have a Special Investigations Squad." The writer said. He was a slim man, with a compact body, and piercing blue eyes. Moody hoped that he would make it into his middle fifties with so much on the ball. At the mention of the Special Investigations Squad, Moody smiled wider, although he was worried. The avowed purpose of the Special Investigations Squad was to handle the more difficult, long term and politically unattractive investigations. Moody knew that if the writer publicized some of what happened in there the Vista City Police Department would lose a lot of credibility.

Moody had no real choice. The man had asked to be allowed to see, and it wasn't up to Alejandro Moody to sweep anything under the rug. He led the way to the Special Investigations Squad room.

-*-

Sonja was in the Squad Room writing her end report. She was trying to imagine how to mention the way she had gotten Karen Goldman's real name. "The ghost of her murdered boyfriend told me." It didn't seem professional, somehow.

"An informant, whose name has been with held by request." That sounded okay to Sonja. She wondered if her unusual senses would lead to more such inconsistencies in her reports.

Graham watched Karen through the window between the squad room and the Captain's office. "Oh, wow," was all he could bring himself to say. Karen looked so old, and so white bread.

Callahan strode up to her desk. It was unusual for him to venture out of his own department. It wasn't done often by any one, but Callahan's attitude often made him unwelcome outside of his own section.

"I bet you think you're hot shit." Callahan said, challengingly.

Sonja simply looked at him. If she took the bait and got back in his face she knew that she would be in the wrong. Oddly she remembered that her Grandmama had never taught her any hexes or curses or any of the evil things that old Gypsy women often did to their tormentors.

"Bummer, dude! Knock it off with the bad vibes!" Graham actually got his back up at the old cop. Not that it did much good.

"Little Mizz Traveler, cracked the case that old man Moody couldn't. Huh!"

Ashby stepped half out of his office. "Is there a problem Sergeant?"

Callahan whirled on Ashby, ready to do battle when Moody and the Writer walked through the door.

"This is the Special Investigation Squad." Moody said.

Sonja looked at Moody and the man with him. Her hackles rose. She instantly took a dislike to the man. Callahan looked like he had swallowed a whole cow.

Ashby said "Mr. Moody I wish that you had warned me- "

The Writer carefully scanned the faces of the people in the Squad room. He scanned past Sonja, Callahan, Rebecca, Ashby and into the Captain's office. There was the target, Karen Carstairs. How to eliminate her in front of all these witnesses?

"You!" Callahan choked. He rose and began to approach the Writer. "I know you! You're the scum that whacked that Hippie!"

` "No way!" Graham yelled. A beat later he recognized the Writer as the nice, well-tailored cop who had given him a cup of coffee.

Sonja boggled and began to stand. Rebecca stayed carefully seated.

Moody said "What the Hell-"

Ashby stepped back into the doorway to his office, and began to close the door.

The Assassin knew that his only shot was now blown. Somehow the big red necked cop had made him.

"You son of a bitch!" Callahan roared.

The Assassin reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. The move was so casual and so quick that Sonja froze for a second. She started to reach for her gun, and knew that it was going to be too late.

Graham ran through the wall into the Captain's office.

Scott closed the door to his office and moved to place Karen and the D.A. behind cover.

"Duck, Honey! It's way bad!" Graham shouted into Karen's ear. He hopped against hope that she could hear him. Without knowing quite why, Karen began to dive behind Scott's desk.

There was a soft pop, and a thumping sound from Callahan's chest.

"Gun!" Moody screamed as he dove for cover.

Sonja had her gun out now but felt that the grip was wrong. She brought the gun up.

A bright light flared from Rebecca's arm. It made a strange buzzing snap. A bolt of energy hurled across the room and missed the Assassin.

Callahan lumbered into The Assassin. The Assassin casually threw him to the ground. Sonja saw the slim automatic pistol in the Assassin's hand.

Looking around, the Assassin saw that the only man between himself and freedom was Moody. Moody was rolling to his feet in a decent martial arts stance. The Assassin gauged the younger man's capabilities absently. The younger man might have actually had a chance, except for the gun, of course.

The Assassin raised his gun to Moody's face. Moody's eyes widened. Sonja screamed "Freeze!" Hoping to throw the Assassin off, just a little.

Callahan rolled into the Assassin and bit his leg. The Assassin screamed and pointed the gun at Callahan. The gun made another soft popping noise.

Sonja got her grip right, and fired into the Assassin. Her 9mm service pistol seemed to bark with a physical intensity in the small room. The Assassin was staggered. He looked up at Sonja, shocked. Sonja looked into his eyes and saw the disbelief. The Assassin had never been shot before. He never believed that anyone could.

Before Sonja could squeeze off another shot, Rebecca's metal arm buzzed again. The bolt caught the Assassin in the stomach and doubled him over. There was a burning smell.

Sonja shot the Assassin again.

-*-

Callahan's funeral was a somber affair, with everyone in dress uniform. The firing squad was composed of Callahan's old squad, and Alejandro Moody. The priest said the words and they lowered the old cop into his grave.

Sonja was hot and uncomfortable in her dress uniform. Her hair was pinned up and she wore white kid gloves. Everything that could be shined on her uniform was, and everything else held a crease. Sonja had primped maniacally. Callahan rode her hard about getting her uniform right. She wanted it to be absolutely perfect to say good-bye.

The Master of arms called them to attention, and then the VCPD Saluted while Moody and six other officers fired into the air three times.

-*-

The case against Frank Giancano wound up taking a year. Graham didn't have to wait a year. In Sonja's dreams, he appeared surrounded by a bright white light. Sonja felt the light as a powerful love.

"Hey, it looks like I'm done, Sonja. I wanted to say thank you and good bye."

"Wait!" Sonja yelled "What's it like?"

Graham said "That's for me to know and you to find out. Later, much later." He grinned and Sonja felt him go away, never to return.

The next morning Sonja ran into Alejandro Moody on their bike route to work. Moody seemed withdrawn and pensive. Sonja was worried about him. He hadn't taken the shooting or the death of Callahan very well.

While walking their bicycles into the station, Sonja stopped Moody. "Listen, are you okay? I'm not speaking as one of your employees. I'm asking as a friend."

Moody looked up at her and then sighed. "I think I'm going to be okay. I had a dream last night..."

"Oh?"

"My dad and Callahan came to tell me good bye. I guess it sounds kind of weird, but I feel better, now."

"I know exactly what you mean." Sonja said.

-end-