"You're late, West," Detective Joe Harding said the minute I arrived.

Yellow tape and a growing crowd of morbidly curious onlookers surrounded the crime scene. The dead guy was wearing overalls and muddy work boots. He was propped up against a dumpster and somebody had bashed half his face in with something heavy. The smell of old bread and pasta from the dumpster did little to mask the scent of blood and the already putrefying corpse. At the mouth of the alley, city morning traffic rushed by, cars honking and people yelling.

"Yep, sorry," I replied. "Traffic was terrible." That was sort of true. I had only run into traffic because I overslept and couldn't find my hairbrush, leaving me to throw my brown hair up in a messy ponytail, but my boss didn't need to know that. Joe looked like he was refraining from rolling his eyes. He was nearing forty and usually had a patch of stubble because he couldn't remember to shave without his wife's nagging. This contrasted with his short neat hairstyle that hadn't changed in the five years that I had been partners with him. Joe was taller then me by a good foot and he could look downright intimidating when he wanted to, which worked out well for getting suspects to talk.

"Forensics didn't find an ID," Joe said. He scratched his chin. "Busboy found him this morning when taking out the trash. I want uniforms to start asking around. Somebody must have seen or heard something. West, accompany the body back to the morgue and let me know when Mabel finds something." The forensic team was already on site. They had been collecting and cataloging evidence from the body and around the dumpster, but Mabel could better examine the body back at the station.

"Oh come on Joe," I replied. "I was ten minutes late!" Nobody liked the morgue. It was cold and full of dead bodies. Whenever I was forced to go down there, I swore that I could hear whispering. Joe said that it was the pipes, but I was never convinced. Last time I had been down there one of my heels ended up with something slimy all over it. The only person who liked the morgue was Mabel, but I was convinced it was probably in her job description to be weird and creepy.

Despite my protests, I ended up sitting in the morgue with Mabel and the John Doe twenty minutes later. Mabel was in her thirties, had a short-cropped hairstyle, and wore thick owlish glasses. She was short, but built like a bull and rumor was that she had beaten a guy to death in a bar fight. I made sure to keep the dead guy between me and her at all times.

"Who is he?" Mabel asked.

"No idea," I replied. "Hoping you can give me some evidence or something."

"You could ask," a much deeper voice said.

"What?"

"What, what?" Mabel blinked at me through her thick owlish lenses, a scalpel in her hand. "You feeling okay there, Leela?"

I nodded and took a deep breath. Must have been the lack of sleep or too much coffee or the morgue itself. Mabel gave me one last questioning look before turning her knife on the John Doe's chest.

"You're not really going to let her cut me open?" The same deep voice asked.

Some fresh air would do me some good. Mabel could come find me if she found something. The lights in the bathroom hummed when I turned them on. Luckily, it was empty. I didn't want an audience if I was really losing my mind. I splashed some water on my face and readjusted my ponytail.

"You okay?"

I turned around. A man in denim overalls and muddy work boots was standing in the middle of the women's restroom. What made the situation weirder was that the man's head was concaved and bloody, like the John Doe sitting on Mabel's table.

I drew my gun and pointed it at the guy. I didn't know if he was a zombie or a vivid hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and caffeine, but I wasn't letting him near my beautiful brains.

"Whoa!" The man raised his hands and smiled. I assumed it was a smile, because his lips curved upwards to reveal bloody broken teeth. It looked more like a grimace than a smile. "I'm trying to help."

"Help?" I said. This was it. I had officially lost my mind. I was trying to reason with a zombie/ghost/hallucination. "Help with what? You're supposed to be dead. You're supposed to be on the autopsy table in the next room."

"And I'd like to help you catch the guy who bashed my head in," the man replied. He stuck out his hand for me to shake. "I'm Mac Walsh."

"Leela West," I replied, declining to shake the hand of the still very dead Mac Welsh. Maybe I was hallucinating. At least my hallucination was polite. "Why aren't you in the morgue anymore?"

"I still am," Mac said. "My body is at least. For some reason you're the only one who's been able to hear me so far."

"So I'm talking to your ghost?"

"Sure."

"How am I talking to your ghost?" I demanded. This wasn't the first time I had seen ghosts. My parents always chalked it up to an overactive imagination and after a while so had I. A doctor wrote me a prescription for ADHD because everyone assumed I couldn't pay attention and was making up stories. After the medication and several years of therapy, even I was almost convinced that I had been making the stories up. After that the ghosts or whatever they were disappeared. This past month I had been so busy with work I had forgotten to refill my prescription. Now, I really wished that I had.

"Do I look like the expert on ghosts?" Mac asked. He winced and rubbed his head. "I wish there was some pain killers in the afterlife; I've got a wicked headache."

"You and me both buddy," I muttered, holstering my gun.

"Hey, I'm the one who just got brained by a tire iron."

My cellphone rang. I holstered my gun and walked out into the hallway, trying to ignore the ghost in the bathroom. The caller ID said Joe; I answered it and hoped he would say something that made sense.

"Hey, West," Joe said. "So nobody saw or heard anything and the cameras trained on the restaurant are only on the parking lot and front door. Mabel got anything?"

"Not yet," I replied. "I think our dead guy is Mac Walsh."

"Why do you think that?" Joe asked. "Did you find an ID?"

"There was a name on the John Doe's overall's," I said. I wasn't sure if there was or not. I couldn't believe that I was listening to a ghost. I kept waiting for myself to wake up and for this to all be some really weird dream caused by pineapple pizza.

"We'll check into it," Joe replied. I could hear the skepticism. "Let me know when Mabel finds something and have her run dental records." He hung up and I glanced at the ghost of Mac Walsh.

"So, Mr. Walsh," I said. "If you're actually a ghost. Can you tell me who killed you?"

Mac shrugged. "Not exactly," he replied. "Some guy tried to jump me on my way to work. I tried to hit him and then he's grabbing a tire iron and BAM! It all goes dark. Next thing I know I'm floating over my own body and the guy is making off with my wallet."

"So you don't know who killed you?" I asked.

"I got a good look at his face," Mac replied. "If I see him, I'll let you know."

"Hey, Leela," Mabel stuck her head into the hallway. If she had noticed me talking to apparent thin air, she didn't comment on it. "I think I got something."

I followed her back to the morgue, Mac walked next to me. I was surprised to see that he wasn't floating. I wasn't sure how being a ghost worked. On the table, Mac Walsh's body looked like a twisted version of Operation.

"That just ain't right," Mac muttered.

"So, our John Doe was done in by something heavy and metal." Mabel looked down at her notes as she spoke. "Something like a –"

"Tire iron?" I supplied.

"Yeah, the metal shavings I found matched," she said. "If you get me the tire iron, I can run it against these particulates."

"I'll let Joe know," I replied. "Hey Mabel, can you compare John Doe's dental records and see if they match Mac Walsh."

"No problem," she said with a wave. "See you with the next dead guy."

"Thanks, Leela," Mac said.

I headed out of the morgue with Mac following. "Don't you have to stay with your body?" I asked.

Mac shrugged. "No idea," he said. "Let's find out."

I ignored him and dialed Joe's number.

Joe answered after two rings. "Hey, West, tell me you got something."

"Mabel pulled metal particulates," I said. "The murder weapon is a tire iron, cause of death is blunt force trauma."

"At least it's something, we found a wallet a couple of blocks over, no cash or credit cards, just an ID. Your hunch was right. I'll have Mable double check the information against the John Doe to be sure." Joe replied. "I'm on my way back to the station. Uniforms didn't turn up anything in the their canvassing."

When Joe got back to the station, the first thing he did was have Mable double check if Mac Walsh was really the dead guy. The dental records matched and the wallet was empty of cash, so Mac was also right about it being a robbery. Luckily, Joe suggested the robbery idea so I didn't have to.

"Nice detective work, West," Joe said after it had been proven. "Mac Walsh, 56 year old divorcee. He's got a daughter who lives close by. Uniforms are bringing her into the station so we can talk to her."

Veronica Walsh was nearing thirty and had stick straight blonde hair, brown eyes, and a bright purple coat. She looked like a women who would be at the PTA bake sale or volunteering at the church banquet.

"Miss. Walsh," Joe said, shaking her hand and offering her a seat. "I'm Detective Joe Harding, this is my partner Detective Leela West."

"Please to meet you. Call me Veronica," she said. "What is this about?"

"You're father is Mac Walsh, correct?" I said.

Veronica sighed. "Yes, has he been drinking again?"

"No Veronica," Joe said. "We found his body this morning."

Veronica look stunned. Her eyes filled up with tears.

"Can you think of anybody who would have wanted to hurt him?" I asked.

Mac, who had been somewhere behind me for most of the interview now crossed to the chair next to Veronica's and sat down. He placed a comforting hand on her arm, but she didn't react.

"No," Veronica sniffled. "Mac and I, we hadn't spoken in a few years. I was so upset with him drinking all the time. I didn't want my kids around that."

"He didn't have anybody who had a grudge or anything like that?" Joe asked. I handed her a box of tissues.

Veronica shook her head, taking a handful of tissues and dabbing at her eyes. "Everybody loved him. Well everybody, except family."

"V, it's not your fault," Mac said softly. He patted her arm, but she didn't feel it or hear him.

Joe stood up. "Thank you for your time Veronica, I'm sorry for your loss."

Veronica blew her nose and didn't reply.

"I'll have some uniforms take her home," Joe said to me. "Walk her out?"

Mac followed Veronica and I out of the precinct.

"Leela, tell her I'm sorry for everything," Mac said. "Tell her that."

"These officers are gonna take you home now," I said to Veronica. She still looked weepy and her mascara was smudged. "I'm sure your dad was sorry for what happened between you two."

"I hope you catch the guy who did this," Veronica replied. She got in the car and I gave instructions to the officers to take her back. I caught a glimpse of Mac in the backseat next to his daughter. I wondered how far from his body he could get.

I walked back into the precinct. There was a small whoosh noise and Mac was standing next to me.

"Looks like I can't get far from you," he said. His expression gloomy.

"What do you mean?" I said. We were walking back to my desk, past Joe's.

Joe looked up from his notes. "What?"

"Well we know it was a robbery," I said, trying to cover up my talking to thin air. "We should look into any reports of attempted robberies in the area."

"I'll have Hartly pull the reports of attempted robberies," Joe said.

Mac sat down next to my desk. "First, I couldn't wander too far from my body. Now, I can't wander too far from you. It's like we're linked somehow."

"Great," I muttered, sitting down in my own chair. "Any idea how to break that link?" That is just what I wanted, to be linked to a dead guy. I hoped that this case would be solved before I had to go home. Mac did not need to know where I lived.

"Nope," Mac said. "Solving my case?"

"Why are we even linked in the first place?" I said under my breath.

"Maybe because you can see ghosts and you found my body," Mac replied. "I'm not an expert on ghosts."

"Neither am I."

A half hour later, Hartley dumped a pile of files onto my desk.

"These are all the reports of suspicious activity in the area," He said. "Feel free to go through them." His tone suggested that he thought the idea was stupid, but Hartley was one of those really old cops who thought women shouldn't be on the force. Maybe the idea was stupid, but I was listening to advice from a ghost.

The first half of the pile got me nowhere. Mac was leaning over my shoulder and looking at each mug shot, shaking his head each time.

"That's the guy," Mac shouted. I jumped, the file slipping from my hand and hitting the floor.

"Jesus, Mac," I growled. "Scare a girl half to death why don't you."

"You okay there, West?" Joe asked. He was walking back to his desk with a new cup of coffee.

"Fine," I replied. Joe raised his eyebrows, but went back to his desk. I grabbed the file off the floor and flipped to the mug shot. "You sure?" I muttered, holding the picture up slightly for Mac to look at.

"I'm positive," Mac replied. "That's the guy who tried to rob me." I looked at the address for the suspect. It was close to the crime scene, close enough to warrant questioning.

"Hey Joe," I said, walking over to his desk. "I think I got something."

"Really?"

"This guy's name is Alex Conrad." I handed Joe the file. "He's been picked up before on attempted robbery, but nothing's stuck. Get this, he's been convicted of aggravated assault and the weapon used-"

"Don't tell me," Joe interrupted, now he looked interested. "A tire iron."

"Yep."

Joe stood up and grabbed the jacket off the back of his chair. "I think we should go have a chat with Mr. Conrad and see if he can shed some light on this case."

Conrad's house was empty or at least nobody answered the door when Joe banged on it and announced, "Alex Conrad? NYPD, we just want to ask you a few questions."

"Doesn't look like anyone's home," I said as Joe continued to knock. "Hang on a minute." I could seem movement through the window. Somebody was climbing out the back window. "He's going out the back."

"Dammit," Joe said. "Just what I wanted to do today."

Joe and I each took a seperate side of the house and advanced, guns drawn. The backyard was overgrown with weeds and broken rusty lawn chairs. There was a dried up bird fountain, but no Alex Conrad.

The gate for the chain link fence surrounding the property banged shut. Joe was closer to the gate and ran through it, I was two steps behind him. Alex Conrad was sprinting down the small side street. He had clearly not been expecting the police to show up at his door. The frayed edges of his bathrobe flapped behind him like a demented blue and white striped bat. He was wearing boxers and a dirty white t-shirt.

"I hate running," Joe panted. He did love his wife's cooking, which was one reason he was rather large and intimidating.

"Come on old-timer," I replied. "You're the one who didn't want to bring backup." There was a stitch developing in my side. I hated running after perps too, but Joe complained about it enough for the both of us.

Joe grunted in response.

Ahead of us Conrad seemed to be losing steam or at least slowing down. Either way, Joe and I were gaining on him. Conrad tripped over his slippers and hit the ground hard. Joe and I reached him before he could get back up.

"Stay down," Joe growled. He shoved Conrad back down. I kept my gun trained on Conrad as Joe handcuffed him, reading him his rights.

"I swear I didn't do anything," Conrad protested the whole way back to the car.

"Yeah?" Joe asked. "Why'd you run?"

"Cause who doesn't run when the cops are knocking?"

"Innocent people," I said.

"But I am innocent," Conrad said.

"Whatever," Joe muttered. He put Conrad in the back on the car. "Let's get a search warrant and find out how innocent Mr. Conrad really is."

Back at the station, Conrad continued to shout that he was innocent. Joe put him in one of the interrogation rooms. Mac and I stood on the other side of the glass observing.

"So that's the guy?" I asked.

Mac nodded. "You don't forget the face of the guy who killed you."

"I'll take your word on that," I replied.

Joe exited the interrogation room. "Let's let him stew in there while we wait for the search warrant."

"Hopefully Mabel can find some DNA evidence," I said. All we really had on the guy so far was the word of a ghost only I could see and the fact that he had run when Joe and I knocked on his front door.

The search warrant came through shortly after Conrad started demanding for a glass of water.

The inside of the house was just a dilapidated as the outside. Several wobbly stacks of yellowing magazines and newspapers were near the door. There were even more down the hallway and several on the steps leading upstairs.

"Tell me he doesn't own a cat," Mac muttered. "I beat the place is infested with them." Several beat cops spread out through the house, searching for the tire iron or something else that connected Conrad to the murder of Mac.

"As long as it's not rats," I replied.

The house smelt like there might be a cat lurking somewhere among the piles of stuff. It was a musty dank smell and I knew that I would have to wash my jacket several times to get the scent out. There was a shout from the kitchen. Hartley had found the cat. The mangy black and white feline had lept at him from the top of the cupboard.

"Leela, take two officers and search the garage," Joe ordered. "I don't think the house is

gonna turn up anything."

"Sure thing," I replied. Vincent and Sheila followed me to the unattached garage. It was as cluttered as the house had been. "Vincent, start on the wall and Sheila, start over there." Slowly over the course of an hour we made our way through the multitude of boxes and crates, eventually meeting in the middle next to Conrad's car.

"Anything?" I asked, trying not to sniffle to much. All the dust was aggravating my allergies.

"Nothing," Vincent replied.

"Great," I muttered.

"Did you check the car?" Sheila asked. We all looked at the car.

"Not yet," I replied. "Want to start with the trunk? Vincent, check the passenger side," Sheila opened trunk and pulled out several more boxes. I was impressed and horrified by the amount of boxes that Conrad owned. The drivers side yielded nothing more than a half empty carton of cigarettes and several handfuls of receipts.

"Nothing," I said.

"Same," Vincent replied.

"Got it," Sheila said. She held up a tire iron that had dried flecks of blood around the edge.

"Good job there officer," Mac said.

"Excellent, nice work Officer Vang," I said. "I'll let Joe know. Take it down to Mabel so she can test the DNA."

Back at the precinct, Joe and I, along with Mack were all sitting in the interrogation room with Conrad.

"Look, Conrad," Joe said. "We know you killed Mac Walsh."

"I didn't," Conrad protested.

"We found the tire iron that you hit him with in your trunk," I said. "The crime lab is analyzing the blood on it right now. How much do you want to bet that'll it come back as a match for Mac's?"

Conrad spluttered, his face turned a shade paler. "It was an accident."

"Accident my ass," Mac muttered.

"I just had the tire iron with me to try and scare the guy," Conrad continued. "I wasn't planning on hitting him with it. I just wanted his wallet."

"What happened after you tried to rob him?" Joe asked.

"The guy attacked me," Conrad replied. "So I hit him with the tire iron. It was self defense!"

"You were trying to rob him," I said.

"Well yeah," Conrad said. "But that's no reason to attack somebody."

"That was not self defense," Mac muttered. "I barely even hit him."

After Conrad's confession, Mabel was able to confirm that the blood found on the tire iron had indeed been Mac's. Joe had just handed over all the paperwork and evidence to the chief when his phone rang.

"There's a body on Third and Fifth," Joe said. "Let's go check it out."

I hoped that this body would stay dead. I did not need to deal with ghosts or specters or whatever Mac was.

"How'd you know the suspect was Alex Conrad?" Joe asked. "There was nothing, but assault with a tire iron to point us to him."

"Just a hunch," I replied. Over Joe's shoulder, I could see Mac give me a thumbs up and dissolve.