Crime scene investigation is both science and art, as I had come to discover even before I came to work for the city's CSI division. Granted, as a vixen therian, I have certain qualifications that most humans don't have and could never acquire. I was particularly good at my specialty, but I am fully capable in the more mundane aspects of the job as well. My certifications are not honorary; I worked through my degrees, doing my best not to kiss or sniff more butts than was strictly necessary. What I can do that most others can't has to do with certain residual aspects of a violent crime that people don't ordinarily think about. In an attempt to make it sound scientific, the accepted term in the department is “disincorporation syndrome." It's actually the response of a spirit that's been forced out of its body, suddenly and usually prematurely. That's where I come in. My name is Naomi McLeroy, and I am a pneumanologist, from the Greek root for “spirit" (or, in medical terms, “air" or “breath"); to use a term borrowed from mythology, I'm a Charonite. I help guide souls to where they need to go.

                As the storyteller once told us, “Not all who wander are lost." I had the experience of guiding a spirit back to its body – a young she-puma, beaten and terrorized, who fell into a coma less for physical reasons and more from simple fear and not wanting to face the world any longer. I might not have found her at all, if it hadn't been for a young singer whose songs seemed to draw the spirit forth and give it comfort. I brought the tom to her, had him play to her in her hospital room, and after several days, she returned. It's not often that I get to help a spirit have a second chance in this world. I'm usually only called in as part of a crime scene “clean-up" (to use the less charitable term some of my co-workers have for my job). In fact, I'm most often on the scene just as the regular CSI team is finishing up its work. That's why their conspicuous absence from the location that I was told to report to made me cautious.

                On any ordinary assignment, I would get a call on my cell, giving me the location and a few particulars; on rare occasion, my friend Lillian Braddock, a lead CSI with remarkable sensitivity (for a human), might offer her insights on what or who I might find. In this instance, I'd gotten the information in an email – strange enough – and the information provided said that CSI had already dealt with the scene, so no particular precautions were necessary. That, in itself, was enough to make me wonder what was going on; showing up with no one there really made my fur itch.

                The office block was an old one, the kind made to squat low both to avoid being conspicuous and to provide the proper ambience of decrepitude. Each of the three floors consisted of the sort of L-shaped, elongated, cheerless corridor that had been lit either to conserve power or simply to prevent anyone from getting a really good look at the surroundings, enough for sight but not for vision. The walls were painted a color that could be described as “Oyster Shell White," assuming that the oyster had been existing in toxic waters for an extended period. All the doors were the same, all the signage either missing or too new, each claiming a different type of occupation, each with the same sad state of success never quite achieved. It was the sort of building where small sickly businesses go to die.

                And someone had helped one of those businesses along by killing its owner.

                The place I was looking for was at the end of the top floor. I took a few moments just to breathe, to get some kind of scent on the place (literally). The email from Central had been somewhat terse and unhelpful, and I was hoping to fill in a few of the gaps in the story by getting some olfactory clues. The building itself was tired and moldy, a miasma of desperation, hopelessness, fear, criticism remembered, dreams long since forgotten. No one was particularly happy to be here, even during working hours. At this time of evening, it was more like a set for a bad 1930s movie, right down to the grimy window at the end of the hallway, the one that could never be opened for having had its frame painted over so many times.

                Suite 322 had no nameplate, which made me suspicious all over again. I just couldn't get a reading on the place. A confusion of scents assaulted my deeply-offended nose, but nothing stood out as being anything living or having recently lived. I could make no connections, not even sufficient puzzle pieces to be assembled later. I felt myself frown, wondering if I should have brought an officer with me. Even the indolent pudge-pot of a security guard downstairs would have been at least a witness; unfortunately, he was sufficiently under-bathed to have been a major stumbling block to my investigation.

                I pushed the door open and stepped into the office, obeying that automatic command that we give our bodies when we have the feeling that we have to move forward, even if actual motion seems like a damned stupid thing to do. Three things struck me at once. First, the door was open – not merely unlocked, but actually slightly ajar. Second, there was no crime scene tape anywhere to be found, not even bits of it usually left behind when the crew leaves a place. Third, and most worrying, is that there wasn't a single sense – not scent, not sensation – that a violent crime had taken place here.

                The place was pristine, in that showroom-model-house sense. In the front part of the office, a secretarial desk and chair showed signs of age and wear, but otherwise seemed to be waiting for a new occupant. No equipment, no papers, not even any significant amount of dust remained. The carpet below my hindpaws had been steam-cleaned, sanitized, dried, vacuumed, combed out, ready for whoever might want to sequester their perishing enterprise next. Two doors led into two other office spaces, but from what I could see, hear, and smell, they were even more empty than the space I was standing in.

                I know people who say that there's nothing they're afraid of, but Nothing is something to be afraid of when you expected Something. I couldn't scent anything of any person, human or otherwise, and I'm not talking about just the body or bodies that were supposed to have been found here. There should have been the lingering presence of the CSI team. Standard procedure says to avoid artificial scents, but my nose is sensitive enough that I should have smelled something – sweat at the least, or maybe even bad breath caused by newbies trying not to lose their guts. I could feel my fur bunching up and my tail twitching. This place was cleaned up and abandoned several days ago, maybe a week or more. I shouldn't be here at all.

                “Hello, Naomi."

                I felt my tail go full bottle-brush with fright, pivoted sharply toward the voice to see the tall, lanky form leaning against the wall behind the secretary's desk. He was smiling softly yet soberly, his detective's badge still displayed in that flip-fold wallet perched in his jacket pocket.

                “Phillip?" Hating the cliché, I put a forepaw to my chest, tried to make my tail relax. “I'm not feline; I haven't got any lives to spare, thanks all the same."

                “I'm sorry to do this to you. I did what I could to make everything feel normal for you."

                “You're calling this normal."

                “About as normal as it gets for a ghost."

                I couldn't stay mad at him. He and I were actually talking about getting married before he was killed on the job not quite a year ago. His dark suit was what he'd always worn, not the one he was buried in. As stupid as it is, we tend to spend money for things that, in the long run, really don't mean a damned thing.

                “I have to assume you're here for a reason."

                His smiled broadened a bit. “I'll take any excuse to see you. But yes, there's a specific reason. This was a crime scene. You weren't called in on it, although I don't know why not."

                “When did it happen?"

                “Ten days ago. You may not have been available. I needed to tell you about it, and this was the only place I knew I could get through to you."

                I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You're connected to this."

                “Not literally, but figuratively." He shrugged. “Turns out that there's protocols even on this side of reality. This crime scene is linked to two others, and I have a strong feeling that there's going to be more. The problem is, no one on your side has seen the pattern yet."

                “What got you involved?"

                “I sort of did your job," he said ruefully. “No one was called in, and there was someone who was … well, I guess you could say he was on the fence. He couldn't quite accept that he was dead, and he had some issues that he was desperate to correct on your side. He was lingering, except that it wasn't entirely his choice, so there was…"

                “…a lot of psychic turmoil at the scene," I finished. “So much that it overloaded everyone's senses, even the therians. No one called for a Charonite, because no one could sense the man's presence."

                “Male, yes, but not a man. He was a skunk, and I'm not being metaphorical. I'm not sure if that had anything to do with it; the only skunks I met when I was alive were the human kind." Philip managed a grin. “He was able to see me, though, and he latched on to me, trying to figure out what was going on. It can't have been an easy transition. He ended up seeing his own body before the coroner's group could seal up the bag. Not pretty."

                “Tell me."

                “Shotgun to the chest, point blank."

                I winced. “No wonder I smell so much fresh paint. New carpet too, I'm guessing."

                “They finished the work yesterday. That's why I waited until now to contact you."

                “Which reminds me," I said, folding my arms. “Since when can spirits hack emails? Or is that particular horror visited upon us even in the afterlife?"

                Philip spread his arms, holding his fingertips carefully placed as if posing as a Buddha. “We are all but energy in the universe."

                “Sorry I asked. Okay, Where is our non-corporeal mustelid? Did you keep track of him?"

                “Not exactly. We may all be energy, but we don't all stay in touch with psychic cell phones."

                “At least not until Apple can figure out how to make a buck off it."

                My former fiancé ignored me, which was probably for the better. “I think I can track him; I have a feeling he's still here, somewhere. I don't have the connection, but it seems to involve at least four others apart from himself, and not including the woman who was also found at this crime scene. Two of them – himself and one other – have been killed. Our skunk seems to be confused. He knows that there are five involved, and that three are still alive, but he couldn't give me names, nor what the connection is." He gave me a rueful smile. “It seems that my interrogation skills worked only on the living."

                “What do you suggest?"

                “If I can find him again, maybe I can convince him to talk to you. You're more sensitive than I ever was or could be. I need you to get him to open up, remember names, remember what the connection is, so that he can give you enough evidence to link up the other crime scene and save the other three people he was connected with."

                “Easy-peasy," I said, an eyebrow raised. “While I'm at it, I'd like a pony."

                “You won't bait me into any kinky remarks, my little fox."

                “My, how you've changed."

                “I still have my ego, and it's easily deflated."

                “Males." I shook my head, forcing a smile despite that tightness in my heart, feeling the loss. I dug out a notebook and pen from my carryall. “Okay," I said. “This is one crime scene, ten days ago. Give me the location of the second, and how long ago. From that, I should be able to get information on of all the victims. While I work on that, you find our friendly perfume-maker and find some way to get him to talk to me."

                “I'll put it on my musk-do list."

                I didn't dare tell him that, as horrible as his puns were, I missed them too.

* * * * * * * * * *

                The ocelot looked at me with an accusing look in her golden eye. “You know, they have actual detectives for this sort of thing."

                “Show me one who'll take a therian's word, without evidence, and the only lead being another ghost. I'm just lucky that Philip is still as good a detective as ever."

                Ren put her forepaw on my arm gently. “He's still watching. That's love, in my book. Okay, then." She put both of her nimble-fingered forepaws onto the keyboard in front of her and got ready for action. “Who's up?"

                “Alex Dunston. Therian skunk, killed ten days ago." I gave her the address of the homicide, where I'd met Philip, and she had the file up on her screen almost instantly. I looked over her shoulder, scanning for information. “Not the business owner?"

                “Not according to this, anyway." Ren's brows knotted in a very human-like expression; her left ear twitched, which was the “tell" that I told her about when warning her not to play poker. “The business is listed as Cyrus Pennington-Steele, CPA, LLC, and probably more alphabet soup that wouldn't fit on a business card. Not much of a paper trail, but enough to tell me that both Dunston and the secretary, Majorie Whitfield, were paid by the LLC. Dunston appears to have been the head bookkeeper."

                “He was the grunt while the boss took all the profit."

                “Got it in one." The ocelot's fingers did their Riverdance imitation again. “Looks like the boss has done a bunk as well, though. Can't find any activity from him since the day of the shooting. No cell activity, no charge cards, nothing. He's off grid."

                “So maybe someone was trying to get to the boss and took it out on the employees instead?"

                Ren nodded slowly. “It would make sense. The other theory is that he's the shooter, for whatever reason, and that's why our detectives can't find him either." My feline friend took another look through her information. “For that to work, though, he would have to have money squirreled away somewhere; he hasn't touched his business bank account, or his personal—" She stopped, mid-sentence.

                “I know that look," I said.

                “Pennington-Steele has no personal accounts."

                I echoed the words I'd heard human children use. “Wait, what?"

                “None. No personal credit cards, no personal checking accounts, not even a utility bill for a home or apartment. He's literally off the grid." Ren issued a low growl, but quietly. We were alone in the office, at this time of night, but she knew her manners around humans and therians both. Humans would take the sound as one of displeasure; I wasn't fluent in the feline tongue, but the sort of language she was expressing was among the first that I learned. We all do that, with any language – “cuss words" are picked up first. I missed part of the inflection, I'm sure, but it had something to do with the suspect's lineage, even though skunks are mustelids, not canines.

                “How long has this been going on?"

                More key clicking. “This is crazy. This boss-person has plenty of documentation – drivers license, school records, registered CPA, birth certificate, passport – but he's got no money accounts except for the LLC. If he lives somewhere, it's not on our records."

                “What about the license and passport?"

                “Rent-an-address places. Legal, but dodgy."

                “Pictures?"

                I watched Ren pull up a photo of a comparatively non-descript human, along with a description. I took down the information. “What would we require to BOLO him?"

                “More than we've got, probably, although we could at least list him as 'person of interest,' wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of his employees."

                “Automobile?"

                “Registered to the LLC. Insurance paid through the company, too. You want that in the BOLO?"

                I thought about it. “It couldn't hurt, but if his guy is as careful as he seems, I'll wager that the car is in the garage connected to the office building." I shook my head. “This isn't going anywhere. Let's try the other name Philip gave me."

                “Go."

                “Jasper Rickman. Found dead fourteen days ago." I gave the address of a modest apartment complex just on the good side of the DMZ between poor-town housing and recent gentrification. Ren brought up the information quickly, including a drivers license picture of a nice-looking badger who had been caught in that “derp" moment between boredom and smiling for the camera. I took the stats off of the license. “Anything interesting about this one?"

                “Apart from needing a better fur-trimmer? Not much. Financials look pretty boring, nothing to trip any alarms. LPN creds, working at a small clinic not far from his apartment. No passport. No activity anywhere since t.o.d., so no one's grabbed his identity. Worked at the clinic for the last, mmm, looks like five years; cashed his checks, kept his claws clean, nothing outstanding…"

                I stopped taking notes to look at the queen's flying fingers, screens appearing and disappearing so quickly that I couldn't keep up. “What is it?" I asked.

                “Not online, why are they never online…!" She expressed herself with a short spit, after which she apologized. “With everything going digital, you'd think someone would have started digitizing all of the old yearbooks… and there's no Muzzlebook page, damn!" She huffed, put her fur back down. “I shouldn't complain; it's only high school, after all, and in small-town Texas besides."

                “What is?"

                “The connection. Pennington-Steele, Dunston, and Rickman all went to the same high school in Mexia. Graduated the same year."

                I checked the dates. Something was very badly amiss. “You're certain they're the same people?"

                “That's how they're listed. The cross-check seems valid." Ren looked up at me. “Why?"

                “Because the human is twelve years older than the other two."

* * * * * * * * * *

                Lillian Braddock met me at our favorite little coffee dive, the Has Bean, owned by an actor who was smart enough to know that fame, like glory, is fleeting. When his career in films and stage moved on, so did he, having saved much of his money instead of indulging in an extravagant lifestyle. Which isn't to say that he pinched pennies – he hadn't yet been able to roast his own beans, but he knew the place that did, and that was the important part. Most therains, like myself, were partial to decaf most of the time, if only because we had our own ways to “get a buzz." Lillian, being a “human of a certain age" (as she kidded), allowed herself the occasional cup which she described as “black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss." She told me that it was an old Polish proverb, but I still think she got it from a detective novel somewhere. Not that I blame her.

                “I remember that one," she said, when I asked about the skunk. “CSI reproduced it as being in stages. The killer entered by the front door, probably without much to-do, stepped up to the secretary's desk, and shot her up close. He went to the inner door, may or may not have tried the knob – no prints found – but ultimately kicked it open, found the skunk near the window, heading for the fire escape, and shot him even closer. Left by the front door, it would seem, closing it behind him – again, no prints. Self-locking door."

                “Building egress?"

                “No direct evidence, although I'd wager the staircase down to the basement garage. Maybe a car there for him, maybe not. There are no security cameras in most of the building, at least not working ones." She sipped at her coffee, apparently enjoying her kiss. “I get the feeling that security is not a big selling point in that building, or at least the tenants prefer to skulk more than be observed. I saw cameras on every floor, with a nice red light glowing, but the wiring doesn't lead anywhere. They're fakes."

                “So our killer knew that. Fake cameras in the stairwell?"

                “Nothing at all in the stairwells, on either side of the building. Even if the perp didn't know the other cameras were fakes, a quick check of the place would show no cameras on his escape route."

                I sipped at my own kiss, decaf and the color of sweet caramel. I like cream. Sue me. “I take it no one heard anything."

                “Oh, the guard did." Lillian smiled, a look that made me wonder if she might have a predatory streak in her. “He couldn't check any cameras, but he hopped on the next elevator and rode up to the third floor, gun drawn. To hear him tell it, he looked like an FBI pro. I'd translate that as Fat-Butt Idiot, but I'm far too nice to say it out loud."

                “Naturally." I couldn't help the grin. “So our killer had a good minute or more to get down the stairwell. When was all this? What time of day?"

                “Evening-ish, called in around 6:30 as I recall. In theory, I guess that qualifies as 'working late,' in the 9-to-5 world. And before you ask, no, no one heard anything."

                “Of course not; shotguns have silencers." My joke made Lillian chuckle, which was all I could ask for. In a building like that one, it pays to be deaf. “You said no prints… other evidence?"

                “Nothing obvious. We know the weapon was a shotgun, but no real way to tell how it was fired, from the shoulder or the hip. Too messy. Educated guess? The secretary was seated, and the spatter suggested that the trajectory was down-angle – probably from the shoulder."

                “Height?"

                “Slightly above average for a human, I'd say – maybe 182 to 188 centimeters, somewhere in there."

                I smiled. “You've gone metric."

                “Seems rude to use 'feet' when I'm talking to someone with hindpaws." Lillian shrugged easily. “Besides, metric is universal; the Imperial system is just dying a slow death."

                “Not so for our skunk."

                “True." She sobered a little and asked softly, “What's your stake, kitling?"

                I smiled at her use of the affectionate term. “Got a tip that this may be related to another murder – a badger named Rickman."

                “Murder?" Lillian frowned. “Don't I remember that being an overdose case? Ruled suicide, wasn't it?"

                “Eidetic memory, or did it just stick with you?"

                “Not that many therian suicides. If you'll forgive the stereotyping, therians seem to have better social structure than humans do, or at least more options for friends and family."

                “Stereotypes aren't necessarily wrong. We can't depend on them, of course, but there's some truth to it. Suicide rate is pretty low, overall." I sipped my coffee-laced cream again. “Here's the thing, though: Rickman was a nurse, LPN. You'd think he'd know better."

                “Or have better access to drugs."

                “Could you have a look at the file for me, just in case anything is wonky?"

                “Don't you mean hinky?"

                “Different program altogether."

                My human friend laughed. “Will do. Anything else?"

                “I figure Rickman had no detective in charge, if he was ruled a suicide. Who caught the Dunston killing?"

* * * * * * * * * *

                The detective squad room was still called “the bullpen," despite not having a bovine in sight. Old phrases, like old traditions and old prejudices, die hard. Prioritization of cases suffered the same general fate. Humans with skin colors other than what is called “white" can get less attention, if the victim isn't someone with a high profile. Such people got a boost when therians appeared; we're now more likely to be at the bottom of the list. It was unsurprising that Dunston caught one of the few therian detectives in the squad room. The good news is that he was trained by the best, and Philip never once took any heed of the prejudicial comments of his fellow detectives who sometimes called him the “dog catcher." Our dating didn't make things easier, but Philip was never one to settle for “easy."

                When Philip made his lieutenant's bars, his first job was to make sure that the homicide detectives under his new command were the best he could find, whether human or therian. His captain was forward-thinking enough to let Philip have his head, but even Philip knew that therians would be like other-skinned humans, or even human females – they'd have to work twice as hard to be thought half as good, so far as the outside world was concerned. His best and most loyal protégé rose to Detective Sergeant shortly before Philip's death. As a raccoon, Anderson Pelletier was still handed the “less important" cases, and frankly, therians throughout the city could be glad of it.

                The bullpen was loud, and even though I'm a CSI consultant, I'm not always the most welcome presence in the room. I got a nod from the captain as I went by his glassed-in office, and Andy was already on his hindpaws as I walked toward his desk. He had a file with him, and he took me by the arm to guide me back out to one of the small conference rooms (not, I was happy to see, an interrogation room). With the door closed, the quiet descended sharply but with relief. “Oh my ears and whiskers, as the rabbit said." He grinned at me and gave me a hug. He would have been Philip's Best Man, as Lillian would have been my Maid of Honor. The balance seemed appropriate.

                “Good to see you, Andy. Still noisy in there, I see."

                He rolled his eyes in a very human expression of exasperation. His tail flicked an accompanying statement of its own. “I don't know how they can think, even if their hearing isn't as good as ours. Sit down, sit down. How did you get wind of this case?"

                I smiled at him and tapped my nose.

                “The skunk, or Philip?"

                “Philip."

                He grinned back. “I should have known. When I got this case and took a look at the data in the file, I smelled wintergreen."

                I had to laugh. Philip was a sucker for Teaberry gum; it's mild wintergreen flavor was almost his signature. I was glad that it was only mild, as too much of the scent would probably have overloaded my sensitive nose. “How much do you know?"

                “Only that there's more here than meets the eye. What have you found?"

                Quickly, I filled him in on the basics that Ren and I had discovered, along with Philip's comments about the other victim (the presumably suicidal badger) and that, from what Philip had discovered, two others were in danger. “My current plan," I told him, “is to hope that Philip is able to find me again, this time with Dunston in tow. The sum of the hints is that he knows what's going on."

                “How does the badger fit in, um… Rickman?"

                “No idea. Any paperwork?"

                “Only from the coroner probably. It was labeled suicide."

                I nodded. “That's what Lillian told me, although—"

                The door burst open without the courtesy of a knock. The human who followed looked bulky enough to be the bovine missing from the “bull pen," and he seemed just about as courteous. LeSarde, I seemed to remember. “Hey, squirrelly," he said to Andy. “You caught another one. Go see the captain."

                “He's not a squirrel, LeSarde."

                The voice confirming the identity of the particularly rude (and allow me to reassess – not bovine, more like porcine, may the pigs forgive me) human belonged to Capt. Miles Messenger. The broad-shouldered, dark-skinned human used to play an athletic game that humans in this county continue to call “football," for reasons yet unknown. He had, to use the colloquialism, climbed the ladder the hard way over his 18 years on the force. Philip had trusted him completely.

                “Now," he said in a voice brooking no compromise, “would you care to apologize to your raccoon superior and the lady vixen, or are you looking for more desk time?"

                “Just deliverin' a message," LeSarde grumped, but he also followed it with an apology – terse and insincere, but an apology nonetheless – before he left. He wedged himself out the door, oozing past the captain, his bald face turning a particularly interesting shade of red. The captain himself looked as if he had smelled something that he didn't much care for. I felt rather the same.

                “Sorry, Andy," he said softly, entering and closing the door behind him. “For that, and for this." He handed a file folder to the raccoon and looked over to me. “How are you, Naomi?"

                “Officially or unofficially?"

                He smiled. “Let's keep it between friends."

                “I may have a connection between a couple of recent deaths."

                “Make it three," Andy said softly. He looked up from the file, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Do smell it, too?"

                I shook my head. “And he's not in the room, so far as I can see, hear, or smell. Must be a signal just for you."

                “Just my luck," he smiled wryly. “I'm not all that fond of wintergreen."

                “Ain't even gonna ask," the captain murmured. “Andy, just in case I haven't said it enough, or if you just want a witness to it… I know that no one can handle therian investigations a tenth as well as you can. This isn't, and never has been, punishment duty."

                “I know it, Cap'n; thanks for saying."

                The human looked to me. “CSI is probably there now, if you want to follow on."

                “Couldn't hurt. Who is it?"

                “Michael Barfield," Andy supplied from the file. “Real estate agent; weasel." He grinned up at the captain. “Genetically."

                Messenger snorted. “Got enough of the other kind. C.O.D.?"

                “Slit throat, up close and personal." The raccoon scanned the notes further. “At his house, not his office. He seems to have operated more by cell phone than anything else."

                “Real estate agent or broker?" I asked.

                “There's a difference?"

                “Brokers are state licensed. Agents aren't. And Realtors are part of the National Association of Realtors – not necessarily licensed, but bound by rules of ethics and stringent guidelines."

                Andy nodded, scanning the notes. “Agent."

                “Where did he go to high school? Does it say?"

                Pages flipped. “Mexia, Texas."

                I stood uttering a single sound in the vulpine tongue.

                “What does that translate to?" the captain asked.

                I smiled at him. “Bingo."