Mind Shifts Jack Hunter's Time

By John Critz

What if technology made reincarnation possible? You could die one day, and wake the next wondering, what happened? You remember your past, but the person looking back at you in the mirror is a complete stranger. Would the nurturing of your past life guide you, or would the nature of your new body?

It wasn’t immortality Jack was seeking, he had a nobler purpose for his work. His brilliant, naive mind was taken advantage of. When Jack realized his life's work was going to be misused, he tried to stop it. But it was too late.

Self preservation and revenge guided Jack for decades, but his past was about to catch up with him. Will Hunter be Jack’s last Mind Shift?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Critz
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311088727

John Critz

Today I can check off another accomplishment in my life. I am officially a published author! OK, so there are lots of published authors. Just like when I was skydiving there were lots of skydivers. Or when I finished my first Ironman distance triathlon, there were lots of Ironman distance triathletes. But I am the last person I ever thought would write a book.In elementary school I was diagnosed with dyslexia. Not too severe, but bad enough to jumble things around and make reading a serious chore. And spelling, forget about it. It took me well into my forties to accept that I would never be a good speller, and not be ashamed or so embarrassed because of it. It is what it is.I was never officially diagnosed with ADD, but I do seem to have a very difficult time staying on task for more than about fifteen minutes. My mind is always jumping to something else. And finally, I’m really good at starting projects, but not so good at finishing them.So why would I ever start writing a story that would require me to read my own work, spell so many words, expect myself to stay focused, follow through, and complete it? Especially when I have no idea what popular authors writing styles are like. I’ve only read one book in my life.Why did I start? Because I had a great idea for a story, and I’m blessed with a vivid imagination. I knew I could get help from family and friends with spelling and editing. So almost three years later, I’m a published author!I hope you enjoy my story.Sincerely,John Critz, Author

Book preview

Chapter 1

Change of Shift

A calm came over him, his tense muscles relaxed and gave way to sleep. His chest rose, and fell, one last time as the peace and quiet of the night comforted him. The noise of the gathering crowd faded. The glare of the flashing police lights dimmed to darkness. Jack Gates was dead. Blood flowed freely from the wounds in his chest. The falling rain washed his life over the street where his body lay. Gates’s shift had come to an end.

***

One hour before Gates’s death

Hey, get your ass up here. We’ve got work to do! came Detective David Walker’s words echoing off the narrow alley walls and finding Detective Jack Gates’s ears.

Fuck you, was all that came back. A fairly common, and endearing reply between partners.

Gates stood on the sidewalk along Boylston Street looking down the long, high, canyon like walls of the alley. As he began walking back in time he appreciated the quality of the college fraternity graffiti neatly decorating the alley walls for the first ten feet or so. Vivid in color and design, these murals had obviously been given a lot of thought and time in stroking each arc of the masterpiece. Deeper in, the art morphed into raw, monochromatic, gang related tags of ownership over their territory. The smell of garbage and human waste grew deep in his nostrils and stung the backs of his eyes. The false security offered by the streetlights lining the sidewalk behind him faded the further he ventured in. Through shards of light and shadow he looked down to his left at a spot on the alley floor, tight against the wall, where he remembered finding a homeless man frozen to death. The man appeared peaceful, like he laid down to sleep and just never woke. Another twenty feet further, where the gang tags faded to a dark filth hiding the lower portions of the alley walls, Gates passed the spot where they found the lightly dressed drug addict’s body. He’d fallen just a little too far back into the alley to be noticed, stiffly curled into the fetal position with desperation and pain set on his face. There were no good memories in this place.

The narrow alley ran from Boylston Place to the end of Allen’s Alley, a wider service alley off Tremont Street. It was meant as a fire exit for the neighboring apartment buildings, fire being about the only reason anyone with any sense would ever go down it. Tonight however, it may be the only way out for Gates if the drug deal he was about to engage in went south. He walked it now to make sure there were no obstacles to get in his way in case he had to run it later at full tilt.

What the hell were you doing down there? We’ve got to get you wired and ready. Walker scolded Gates in a thick Boston accent as he unpacked the listening equipment from the trunk of their car.

Just taking a stroll down memory lane. You should try it sometime, Gates bantered.

Fuck you. Let’s get this over with and get down to McNellie’s for a drink. You’re cutting into my booze time here, Walker batted back. The anxiety in his tone was almost palatable.

Their undercover operation had been going on for eight months and tonight they were about to meet with the man himself, Victor Chavez. The plan was to bring the whole organization down on top of him. Walker seemed more nervous than usual about the whole thing. Gates knew the drinking jab was just Walker’s way of trying to make lite of the situation. Gates also knew that no matter what happened, Walker would have his back. He trusted Walker with his life and tonight was probably going to be a test of that trust. Victor Chavez was not the kind of man to go quietly. Or come alone.

I don’t know why you sound so scared. I’m the one going to be standing in front of him when the shit goes down. You’ll probably be hiding behind some beat cop, safe and dry, over across the way, Gates poked at him.

I don’t want you to fuck up all my hard work. Lift up your shirt, Walker said, getting the wire ready to hide on Gates. Gates lifted his shirt and Walker taped the microphone to Gates’s chest while Gates hid the recorder down his pants, tight against his private parts. The idea was if one of Chavez’s men patted Gates down they wouldn’t grab his balls and find the device. Walker backed away about twenty feet, put the earpiece in, and turned on his receiver.

Say something smart, Walker instructed Gates.

My partner’s a dick, Gates said in a low, obvious voice.

So original. That’s no way to talk to the guy protecting your butt. I just might forget to save your ass. Got it. Ok, turn it off and save the batteries, Walker threw back.

Yes dear. Gates reached down and turned off the recorder.

Alright, less than an hour to show time, Walker said. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

The plain clothes officers would be in place in the next fifteen minutes or so, posted close enough to the alley exits that they could spring the trap once the word was given, but not so close as to scare off the pray. Gates went over his background story in his head, remembering answers to questions Chavez had asked during their undercover courtship. Where he had come from, what he was going to do with the drugs. If Chavez questioned him again, he could not hesitate, he could not give a different answer. Gates was ready to play his role.

Yah, I got your cash right here.

But looking down the barrel of the snub nose .38 caught Gates completely by surprise. It was even more of a surprise when he felt the three heavy blows slam into his chest, throwing him back and to the ground. The accompanying deafeningly loud sounds. The hot, burning sensation deep inside his chest that no matter how hard he tried to put out, he couldn’t.

The three hollow point rounds punched through the initial layers of Gates’s clothing and flesh, the tips spreading open wide as they drove through the meat of his body ripping large holes in his back as they pulled the flesh from him and spread it on the alley walls behind Gates. Shock flooded his mind. He saw Walker looking down at him, touching the side of his neck while Gates’s body grasped desperately at each fleeting, rapid breath leaving it. Walker’s voice called out desperately over the radio

Officer down! Officer down! Need backup and a bus at 452 Tremont Street, Allen’s Alley. Hurry!

Walker disappeared from view, his footsteps fading down the alley. Jack’s mind flashed to stories he had read about the French Revolution, and the guillotine be-headings. How the executioners would quickly grab and lift the severed head from the basket by the hair, holding it high so the blood thirsty crowd could watch the eyes darting from side to side, the mouth groping for air, but no lungs to draw a breath. It could take up to a full minute for the head to die. Jack wondered, was he already dead and just didn’t know it yet? The burning from the holes in his chest subsided, the noise, the street lights, the distraction of the falling rain on his open eyes began to fade. Jack had his answer, he knew Gates’s shift was over.

What the hell had just happened…

Chapter 2

Bear Tracks

Forty-five minutes after Gates’s death

Lieutenant William Bear Danaher approached Allen’s Alley from Tremont Street. Lifting the yellow crime scene tape high enough to walk under it without bending he came onto the scene with an air of confidence and authority that told everyone present exactly who was in charge. A barrel chested, slightly shorter than average man, Danaher was a fourth generation Boston cop and he had a big chip on his shoulder. When he came through, people moved aside for him.

Danaher walked quickly to where Gates’s body was lying, instinctively taking in and evaluating the scene as he moved through it. He noted Detective Walker a short distance off and to his left talking to a uniformed officer who was diligently scrolling in his logbook. Walker couldn’t help but feel Danaher’s eyes on him. The two men made brief, but intense, eye contact. For Danaher, Walker would have to wait, his focus returned to the moment at hand. His pace involuntarily slowed the last few steps. He was reluctant to look down, not wanting to accept the reality and unable to stop the feeling of loss invading his chest, Bear allowed himself a moment with his fallen comrade, and friend. Then, taking a deep breath, he stiffened, stood tall, and took charge of the scene.

Get all the information you need, then get him off this filthy ground and out of this stench as soon as you can, Bear instructed the forensic investigators standing by with a tone that expressed his compassion for Gates.

Yes sir, one replied.

Danaher turned with deliberate intent. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened. His eyes narrowed. Lowering his chin he tilted forward and headed directly at Walker.

Walker had been dreading this moment. He could almost feel the growl resonating deep from Bear’s chest as he approached. Walker’s body visibly withdrew. He dropped eye contact. His shoulders fell. Lowering his head slightly and taking a small step back, he braced for impact like a disobedient child who knew they were in trouble. More accurately, like a sub member of a pack being approached by the angry alpha male. Walker just rolled over and offered his belly to the beast.

Walker tried spilling his story first. I don’t know what happened, he began.

Shut up! I don’t want to hear it. Danaher barked, cutting Walker in half. You filled the officer here in on the details? Bear snarled, gesturing toward the beat cop standing with them.

Yes sir, Walker said, feeling the alpha’s jaws clenching down on his throat.

Then get your ass back to the precinct and get it all down on paper. And I mean every last, little, detail. Starting with what you had for breakfast this morning to what time you took a shit. You got me! I want a list of everybody that knew anything about this bust. I want to know everything you know. And most of all I want to know why I have a dead cop! And you’re going to god damn tell me! Danaher growled through clenched teeth while jabbing a thick finger in Walker’s face. He leaned in so close Walker could feel the heat and spit from his words.

Walker took his lashing without protest. He was disappointed Danaher didn’t want to hear his side of the story, he had been mentally rehearsing his statement and delivery just for this moment. He wanted to stay on the scene and help but the Lieutenant had put his… request… in such a way that he didn’t risk pushing back. Eager to withdraw from the encounter, Walker took the opportunity. He turned and headed out of the alley in a direction that didn’t take him past Gates’s body again.

Danaher, already knowing the answer, questioned the officer, Is the money gone?

Yes sir, the officer replied.

Were the ink packs blown? Danaher continued, as a legitimate next question.

The officer’s eyes widened, I’m not sure sir, he stuttered with a worried tone, as if he were a rookie and missed the obvious question to Walker.

Danaher’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened again as he leaned slightly forward causing the officer to pull back a little. Bear hated incompetence. He turned and called toward Walker Walker, I assume you blew the ink packs in the money. Right?

Without stopping to address his superior Walker turned his head slightly and said in a voice he thought Danaher might be able to hear if he were listening, Of course., as he turned left out of Allen’s Alley and took in his first deep breath of fresh air since entering the alley several hours before. The well lit street, bustling with its happy people busily bringing their night’s dining and entertainment experiences to an end, as if nothing had happened, felt like a very different and safe world.

Somebody bring me Chavez! I don’t care if he’s hurt, but I want him alive, and able to answer questions. And I want the goddamn money and drugs back! Now! Danaher commanded. His instructions were not directed at any one detective or officer specifically, but was more a plea to the gods of justice in general. Danaher turned, and headed out of Allen’s Alley with a determined pace. Passing Gates’s body he slowed and giving one last fare thee well gaze down at him muttered, I’ll see you again in the afterlife my friend. And I’ll find the bastards that did this to you. I promise.

Bear didn’t feel the difference between the dark oppressiveness of the alley and the light and lively world of Boylston Street. For him, the world was one environment, a battle zone between opposing interests.

Danaher was a warrior, he would have made a great Trojan, Roman, or Viking. If he could give Gates a proper warrior’s sendoff he would. Atop a blazing funeral pyre, or set adrift in a burning ship. The kind of ritualistic ending he wanted for himself. He should have been born two thousand years ago in a time when men lived and took action with honor. When dying in battle was a good death. And growing old, which for Danaher meant useless, was rarely a problem. He respected Gates and considered him an equal. He had been a very good cop. One Danaher was comfortable with covering his back heading into tight situations, and there weren’t many on the force anymore he trusted with his life. Too many detectives today were far too interested in keeping their expensive suits clean, putting on latex gloves before touching anything, and talking about the science of an investigation rather than putting their noses to the ground and following the scent, and signs, of the trail before it went cold. Gates was old school, like Bear, and knew how to track a case. Danaher sometimes wondered if Gates might have had a little Mohican in him. He would truly miss Detective Jack Gates.

Walker, on the other hand, was a different story these days. When Gates was first partnered up with him, Walker was one of the best. He could follow the faintest of clues and track down a perp with the best of them. He was alert and sharp when breaching a dangerous situation and even Danaher would let Walker cover his back. But not these days. For whatever reason, Walker had lost the instincts, or the desire to really follow a lead, and Gates seemed to be the only one that would let Walker cover his six heading into trouble. Walker seemingly had burned out and given up, just hadn't left the job yet. He looked tired all the time. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and there were days you could smell stale whisky oozing from his pores and on his breath. But to Gates, he was like a brother, and Gates would always take care of him. Even enable Walker at times. Not because that’s what partners did for each other, but because that’s what you did for family. Danaher felt Walker would have been better off killed in the line of duty years ago. When he still had pride, integrity, honor. Respect.

***

Ninety seconds after Gates’s death

The rainwater draining away through the city’s sewers instantly turned a bright red as the dye packs exploded in rapid succession throwing ink out in all directions covering everything within a fifteen-foot radius. Drops of red shot out onto Tremont Street through the opening in the curb, spreading out over the wet surface like so many drops of oil spreading colorfully out over the water from the falling rain, before retreating back down into the hole from which they came, taking all the visible evidence with it as it washed back down into the sewer, mixing with the blood flowing down from Gates’s body, and draining away.

Chapter 3

Partners

Three and a half years before Gates’s death

The sound of the falling rain crescendoed repeatedly as the random winds drove it hard against the large precinct windows. Sargent Danaher approached Detective Walker’s desk with a stranger in tow and stated in a matter-of-fact kind of voice, Here’s your new partner. Try hard not to get him killed today.

Turning to Gates and pointing to the empty desk in front of