Death Retroactive: The Retro Justice Force Mysteries, #1

By Dahlia Bishop

Save the girl, or save the Timeline

 

Standing over the dead body of a 17-year-old girl, Detective St. John Deveraux hopes she was murdered. It's the only way he can save her. He's part of a new police force in an alternative Seattle that can execute a murderer before the crime is committed, but only if it meets the agency's strict guidelines. So far none have. 

 

As Deveraux closes in on the girl's killer, he finds his own agency implicated in her death and faces an impossible choice. If he convicts her killer, he'll reset the Timeline and lose all his knowledge of the corruption in his own force. But if he holds his superiors to account, he'll lose the chance to impose the sentence of Death Retroactive and do the one thing he came here to do... raise the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notable Characters Press
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201411237

Dahlia Bishop

Stories are the best, aren't they? Especially, when they're about larger than life detectives and moody cityscapes. I'll share those with you here but also maybe a little bit about my dramatic basset hound and the shaggy sheepdog I'm teaching to talk... slowly. I live and write in Seattle so there will be a lot of rain in my stories but also mountains and trees and slippery cobblestones. I hope you enjoy them. Please drop me a note if you do!

Book preview

DAY ONE

CHAPTER

ONE

Seattle — Present day, but not this one

"J ust type," Reston said. He had just turned his key and granted access to The Box . All that stood between violence and justice now was for me to finish the report. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

They wanted me for my imagination. Or so I was told over soggy fish and chips the night Commander Anthony Reston made his pitch to me at the pub under my London flat. Solving murders took a particular kind of mind, he told me, especially the way his team did it. He saw that in me. I suggested he saw my ten years of closed cases at the London Metropolitan Police and drew some conclusions.

If he were hiring for a traditional police department, he’d look for the best detective, he said as he gestured with his piece of cod. But he was hiring for the Retro Justice Force and he’d have taken a loser—he used that word—if that person could think the way he needed them to. I’d heard of it, of course—everyone had heard whisperings. It was a new kind of police force that could truly set things right. 

But my mind would be the very thing I’d sacrifice to do this job. I knew that now.

Back then, I took Reston at his word. Or maybe I just took the out. I’d spent ten years tracking down killers in an attempt to bring justice to a world undone by violence. But jail cells and death sentences, foot chases and handcuffs helped so little as to feel meaningless. The victim was still dead. The family still grieved. And there was always another murder. I wanted someone to offer me hope so badly that I saw it along with the dust motes caught in the yellow light that shone down on Comdr. Reston’s balding head. 

I did wonder, initially, if he meant that my mind worked like a killer’s. I wondered that before I made peace with the idea that all of ours do. It’s not that I have brutal flights of fancy. But I could tell a story, imagine a person from their soul to their skin. I could feel what might have pulled out that latent ability to kill and then construct, or rather re-construct, just the right set of circumstances that could lead me to the perpetrator. How Reston knew that at that time, I have no idea. 

But now, it worked against us both.

You’ve got to understand... I said.

No, I don’t, Commander Reston replied. Type.

I watched over his shoulder for Dr. Nina Ash. We rehearsed this all last night but had to work it out so quickly. If I got this wrong I’d have to wait for the next case. And by then I might forget. I would forget.

There are nuances, I said.

Is he guilty? Reston asked.

I was known to be empathetic. We planned to take advantage of that.

He was confused, I continued. And it was our fault.

Does the victim deserve to live? Reston pressed on.

Of course she did. But I’d taken that into consideration. I glanced around the room. Where was Nina?

It looked like any other squad room in any other building. 

Almost.

Laminate desks filled the space. Nothing fancy. Modern and clean, but with no special features. They were separated by half-walls in dark gray and sat on beige low-pile carpet. Detectives chased down leads with the same mix of purpose and boredom as any department. Phones rang and were silenced. Fluorescent light glared from the dropped ceiling. It contained both the energy of dedicated people hard at work and the soul-crushing emptiness of a stark office building. 

Except.

In the back of the room, the Box hummed. 

Schrödinger’s Box—designed by quantum scientists but used by the police to establish a new kind of justice—was just a humble looking black box, about the size of a large dog, but its power was staggering. It sent information back in time to execute a murderer before the crime. I had done it many times myself since joining the force. And with each successful case, each timeline reset, I lost the memory of what came before. The only reason I knew I’d succeeded was because of the logs the Box spat out every morning.

On my screen, the cursor blinked.

Deceased

I locked eyes with Reston. Bonnie Crewes had died of a gunshot wound to the abdomen in the frantic act of a man deranged by grief over what he had done, what he’d unwittingly taken part in. I was here to restore her to life by typing in her name. If I didn’t—if in understanding the killer’s mind I sought to excuse it—she would remain dead. But there was a way, I reasoned, that Bonnie could live and so could the man who shot her. I’d have to go back all the way to the beginning.

I typed:

Ivy Deveraux_

A green light flashed.

Date of Death

Again I typed:

August 24, 2003_

Again, the green light and again it wanted more information:

Manner of Death

Gunshot wound to the chest_

A moment, then another flash. The Box checked my work against databases from hospitals and city halls, looking for admittance reports, death records, anything to ensure there was such a person as Ivy Deveraux, who died of a gunshot wound on that specific date. Indeed, there was. I could continue.

Accused

Colin McClymmont’s face floated before mine, twisted with the anguish it bore when I arrested him for this crime. He knew exactly what an arrest by the RJF meant. At some point in his past, he would die. And soon. It was easy to imagine how he’d looked last Sunday night, with a gun drawn on Dr. Rahan Rao, his mentor and founder of the RJF who had fallen from grace so utterly and completely he ended up teaching high school physics. Colin had worked it out, what Reston and Rao had done to the RJF, done to the Timeline in their quest for power. He confronted Rao in a foolish attempt to find justice. And he was about to die for it.

Type, Reston insisted.

I did. But again, not the name he expected. A man sat in prison for years for a murder that persisted unchecked, untouched by the RJF. We weren’t allowed to go back that far. Pull on a thread from 20 years ago and who knows what chaos might ensue. But that’s exactly what I hoped for. If Ivy had never died, I’d never be standing here. I wouldn’t have thrown myself into the fight for justice, would never have become an officer in London, would never have sought redemption in the RJF, would certainly not be standing here arguing for Colin’s life. And for all I knew, the RJF wouldn’t be the same. The logs showed I’d solved 49 cases this year. That’s nearly one per week. Would these two men have fought so underhandedly for control of the Timeline if it weren’t ever changing?

I typed in the name of Ivy’s killer.

Evidence

It was the last field. I typed in the evidence I knew by heart. But I couldn’t do anything with it. Not yet. I needed Reston to walk over, look at my work, and approve it with a retinal scan. I needed Nina.

He was confused, I said, stalling. He was confused because of us. ... I pleaded. His mind wasn’t what it should be.

Reston said nothing, so I tried again. We don’t have to kill him. We can send the information to the Scrub Team and just tell them to distract him for a minute, to call Social Services.

Reston was immovable in every way. He struck a physically intimidating presence for most. I was taller at 6’2" but not by much. He was broad and flat, rough and sure of himself, as though he were carved out of granite by a moderately skilled craftsman.

That is not what we do, he said. He breathed the words out like a low growl. But I wasn’t cowed. I needed him to argue with me.

We could.

First, we had the atomic bomb. Then we had the Cold War. Now look at all that nuclear energy can do. Would we have seen Mars without Chernobyl? This technology is in its dark infancy, and this is what we are allowed to do with it. Only murders. You can thank society’s obsession with homicide for the ability to play God with Space and Time. Once we understand the Timeline better and know how to preserve it, maybe we’ll be allowed to do more. For now… type.

That last word sputtered forth like a missile. I went back to my report. I gave an account of Ivy’s last day. The Box would find it correct because nothing lived as vividly in my mind as that sequence. I knew every name, every nuance.

Reston locked eyes with me.

Ready? he asked.

I couldn’t strike the final key without his assistance.

And Nina hadn’t come. I didn’t know what had held her up, but it was a hastily made plan with a lot at risk for her. There was another way.

I stood up and drew my gun. I don’t know what I expected. But laughter wasn’t it.

You’re getting more clever, was all he said as he strode toward my computer.

Stay right there, I said as Nina burst through the door. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled his own gun.

Nina, you’ve got to stop letting him do this.

What do you mean? She asked, breathless. This was the first time, the first time we’d gotten this far. It was our one moment.

How many cases have you solved? Fifty some? I think your confidence has become a problem.

I had no idea what he meant by that. But I didn’t have time to ask. Maybe if I just hit enter. It was desperate, but for all I knew the double authentication was just something he told me to keep me from doing exactly this.

I lunged for the keyboard.

Reston’s shoulders eased down. He smiled, like he was about to ask me over for hamburgers in the backyard, or whatever normal Americans did on the weekend. But when he opened his mouth, it wasn’t that at all. 

This is gonna hurt, he said. But don’t worry. In a moment, it won’t have happened at all.

A light flashed and pain exploded in my head as the bullet seared through my cheek. I lurched again toward the keyboard, dripping blood and bits of flesh, as Reston said. Damn.

He fired again.

8:00 AM Monday

My head was shattered. This was already shaping up to be a tough morning. My pulse rocketed through my temples. What had I drunk last night? I wrested my mind back to dinner, which was by myself, at my kitchen table. Maybe I was getting sick. I rubbed at my eyes.

But I forced a smile when Commander Reston greeted me. It was a new day, after all, full of possibilities. Even feeling like I’d been wrecked, I truly believed that. 

My name is St. John Deveraux. I work at the Retro Justice Force. And I can undo death.

DAY TWO

CHAPTER

TWO

"Y ou’re late," Commander Reston announced as I walked into the squad room. He held a paper cup of coffee in his hands as he crossed the space from the small break room to his office. 

Reston wasn’t a small man, though he didn’t come close to my height. Even past his prime, with most of his hairline so far back he had to tip his head down for you to see it, he resonated strength. It’s something good cops have, a gravity that draws you in and holds you there till you deal with him. He had prominent ears and a long nose, but once you looked at him, it was the intensity in his blue eyes that kept you from looking away.

Nothing gets past you, I said. Guess that’s why you’re the boss. The exchange felt rough this morning. Not quite banter. Or maybe it was me who was on edge. It was three days from the one-year mark at the RJF and I wondered how long I could continue without solving a case.

Reston did his best impression of a laugh and continued on to his office just to the left of our openwork maze of desks. Our squad room resembled one you might find in any major city, with a few notable exceptions. One is that it sat four stories beneath the ground floor of the Seattle Police Department. There was some concern that our technology might be dangerous to humans—what that said about us working directly alongside it, I tried not to think about.

The Box dominated the space, squat and dark and always humming—like it was hungry.

Maybe today would be the day. 

Though we had no conscious memory of a solved case, we should have some feeling of success, of accomplishment. Both of which I lacked completely. Instead, I had a throbbing headache and the ever-present sense of defeat. But I hadn’t built my career on feelings and wasn’t about to start now. The logs kept by the Box would tell us how many cases had been entered and how many it acted upon. It was the only quantifiable evidence our department had that it actually worked. We used it to justify our existence to the government and reassure the public. It involved some kind of Timeline accounting that was above my paygrade.

I hit the same black button I hit every morning. It spat out the same depressing news it did every morning:

Deveraux

Cases Worked: 32/Cases Complete: 0

Hey, at least one of those numbers keeps going up! Dt. Darren Fogg shouted. His ponderous form stretched the bounds of the desk chair next to me as he leaned back precariously.

I tossed my laptop bag on my desk and rubbed my eyes. Inexplicably, he had solved 10 cases this year alone.

Good morning to you, too, I said.

Long night? Looking a little rough.

I’d picked up Thai takeout and ate it at my kitchen table with a non-alcoholic beer and the crossword puzzle, then gone to bed by ten. 

You’ll have to come with me next time. Seattle’s Monday night scene is unparalleled.

Fogg coughed in a way that sounded like scoffing. Though, to be fair, most of his exhalations had a condescending note to them.  

Yeah, I’ve heard you Brits know how to party. He winked, as though maybe I didn’t get it. I’m pretty sure there was nothing to get. I went about unzipping my bag and pulling out my laptop. 

Don’t bother, Reston called in his deep baritone from his office. You need to get out to Everett and check out a homicide. Take a second with you.

What happened? I looked around the squad room for Dr. Ash, but hadn’t seen her come in yet. 

Woman stabbed her husband in the kitchen. And Ash is already out looking at the body of a 17-year-old girl who didn’t wake up this morning. Take Fogg. 

I’m the one that took the call. Deveraux is my second, Fogg protested.

I sank into my chair. A domestic violence was not the kind of case I signed up with RJF to handle. In my experience, and I had quite a lot, women rarely stabbed their husbands for no reason. There was no way this would meet RJF standards. Especially not if I was leading the investigation. 

Let Fogg have it, I said. He was here first, anyway.

When you make Commander, you can make those calls, Reston said. I opened my mouth to reply when our desk phones rang. I snatched up my receiver.

Deveraux, I answered.

This is Trenton Greer upstairs, a younger officer began. Just got a call from Monroe PD. They’ve got an exposure death they think might be suspect. They need an RJF detective to take a look.

It gets cold enough in Seattle to freeze to death?

It’s in Monroe, he said, again. Out by the foothills, and yeah, it does, but not usually inside your own car, parked outside your house.

I’m on my way, I said. You on for second?

Greer had been trying to transfer into the RJF for months. He’d have a car waiting for me by the time I got up to the ground floor and would have it waxed if I gave him an extra fifteen minutes.   

Looks like I’m headed to Monroe. Fogg, it’s your lucky day, I said. DV is all yours.

Fine, Reston said, But grab some coffee while you’re out. You look terrible.

 Victim’s name is Colin McClymmont, Greer said as we got in the car. Works at Sky Valley Consulting in Monroe, Washington. Married to Casey McClymmont. Aged 26. No kids. He lives 1.4 miles from work. Often walks but drove because of the weather. He was found dead this morning by his wife.

This morning? I asked.

Greer nodded as he pulled out of the parking garage onto Virginia St. In the heart of Seattle’s downtown.

Why not last night?

Came home after she went to bed? Don’t know.

It’s an interesting question, I said.

Greer shrugged. Probably not the wife who killed him, though. Not even sure how this is homicide. It’s just a weird case.

You want to be RJF? I asked.

Trenton’s eyes cut to mine. More than anything.

Find the interesting questions, and stay with them, I said. See if you can find an equally interesting answer.

Greer grunted a bit. He wasn’t the sort to live in the question or sit with wonder. Our imaginations did not work the same way at all. But on the other hand, he’d probably solved at least one case this last year.

We drove on in relative silence. It was a 20-mile trip that began by driving north on I5. It was bitterly cold for Seattle, which meant the cloud cover that brought a dusting of snow last night was long gone, and the sun caught the tips of the rough lake water so that tiny points of light glinted on either side of the floating bridge we took to get east of the city and eventually to the Cascade foothills. Monroe’s Main Street once would have looked like something out of a child’s picture book. An American flag stood proudly at one end, and people bustled in and out of local shops. But a closer look revealed the shuffle of those struggling with substance abuse, the multiple layers of clothing on those who had nowhere warm to sleep, and the paint that peeled just enough to say this wasn’t exactly a picture of small-town perfection.

We turned off Main, driving slowly on the icy side streets, and wound closer to the farms that bordered the city to the south. Houses built at the turn of the last century, in varying degree of upkeep, lined the street. The one we were after was a two-story Victorian painted blue with white trim. A sedan was parked out front, as were three police cars and an ambulance. Officers stood nearby. Greer pulled up to the curb, and I opened the door.

Snow lay thick on the ground. The sidewalk was nearly indistinguishable from the road—just a gentle slope up, its ridge hidden by blown drifts of powder. I wrapped my scarf around my neck a bit tighter and blew into my hands.

Where is he? I asked a uniformed officer as I stepped carefully up to where I thought the sidewalk should be.

The officer pointed to a vehicle two car lengths ahead of me and surrounded by crime scene tape.

Still in the vehicle?

She nodded that he was and walked with me up to the sedan parked directly in front of the house.

When we heard RJF was involved, we followed protocol. Which is basically stop everything till you get here.

I walked up to the car, its roof still covered in waves of snow, and peered inside. There he sat, waiting. Waiting for someone. Waiting for safety. Waiting for me to imagine possibilities grand enough, outlandish enough, to hit on the one that caused his death.

I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket and snapped them on before pulling the door open. His skin was blue, as frozen skin is. His lashes frosted. His clothes torn off.

A flash of pain shot through my head. I squeezed the door handle like I was biting on a bullet till the sensation let up and I could focus my eyes again on the man in the car.

His sweater stretched across the backseat. The undershirt tossed near the gas pedal. His belt, socks, and shoes were off and scattered as well.

Long scratch marks intersected all over his torso.

I opened the driver’s side door to get a better look. It still smelled of nothing but frost. His neck looked even worse, scratched all the way up to his chin.

Looks like he was attacked. Greer pointed to the abrasions.

These didn’t kill him, I said. They hardly drew blood. We’ll check under his fingernails for tissue. See if he fought back. I motioned for a Monroe Police officer to ask them to do just that.

Maybe someone held him here while he froze, and he tried to push them off. They took off his sweater to make it go faster and cut him up in the process.

I looked around the head of the deceased, lifting his hair. I carefully pulled his head from the headrest. It was stiff with cold as well as rigor. There were no blows. His neck, though scratched, did not appear broken.

Could you hold down a grown man long enough for him to freeze?

I looked up at the Monroe police officer. Have you talked to the widow? I asked.

She nodded. We took a statement. She’s expecting you.

I gestured for Greer to follow, then rapped on the emerald front door. A woman appeared before I finished knocking. She clutched a tissue in one hand. Her eyes looked like they’d run out of tears hours ago. There’s a look that’s beyond weeping—dry and defeated.

You’re them? The ones that can fix this?

Detective St. John Devereux, ma’am, with the RJF. I answered, showing her my badge.

She held the door open for me and I stepped into a small family room with a kitchen just beyond it. The floors were dark softwoods, and I was careful to wipe the snow from my feet on the rug by the front door. My eyes went to the windows. They were the older kind that you push up from below when their brass latches were undone, and they lined the front wall. Most likely they would be too tall to access without a ladder from the front, as the house was built up from the street. I’d want that checked, though.

Her eyes cut to the street, to the car. She wore leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair, copper and stick straight, was tucked hastily behind her ears. Her skin looked unnaturally pale where ordinarily it might have looked porcelain, set off by a wash of freckles over her nose, and red, swollen eyes.

They told me to just leave him like that, she whispered, as though confessing. Her eyes followed mine to the windows.

It’s the right thing to do, I said.

She nodded. I called 911, but I knew. She choked on her words. He was so blue. I asked immediately for RJF, but they insisted on sending medical help and regular police first.

That’s how it works, I said, nodding.

I know there’s a time limit. Her eyes flicked to the gear shaped badge pinned to my chest.

A few minutes won’t matter to the RJF, I said, and then said again, You did exactly the right thing.

She let out a big breath, visibly relieved.

I gently shut the door behind her and gestured to the small round table in the kitchen. Could we talk?

She nodded vigorously. I’m so sorry, yes, please, she said as she led the way through the living room and we both pulled out a chair to sit facing each other.

Are you Mrs. McClymmont? I asked. I was fairly sure, but we start by having people tell us what we already know.

She nodded. Casey.

"You wanted RJF right away. Why do you believe this is