Chapter 15: The Crime Scene Awakening
October 27, 2008 - Morning - Cole Vineyard, Napa Valley
The wine cellar smelled like oak and copper.
Marcus Cole lay between two rows of aging barrels, blood pooled beneath his head, eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling. Expensive bottles lined the walls—decades of vintages, hundreds of thousands of dollars collecting dust while their owner collected flies.
The team spread through the cellar like a search pattern. Lisbon directed forensics. Cho photographed evidence markers. Van Pelt interviewed staff upstairs. Rigsby examined the entry points.
And Jane wandered, touching nothing, seeing everything.
I stood near the body, trying to piece together the sequence. Blood spatter on the nearest barrel suggested the first blow landed there. Scuff marks on the floor indicated struggle. But something about the angles felt wrong—the forensics didn't match the physical evidence.
Then the headache hit.
Sharp, sudden, like someone had driven an icepick through my skull. I staggered, catching myself on a wine rack. The System activated with an intensity I'd never experienced.
[ **WARNING: NEW FUNCTION INITIALIZING** ]
[ **TRACE RECONSTRUCTION MODE: UNLOCKING** ]
[ **SCANNING ENVIRONMENT...** ]
[ **PROCESSING TEMPORAL MARKERS...** ]
[ **ENERGY COST: SIGNIFICANT** ]
[ **ENERGY: 62/100 → 57/100** ]
Blue-white light flooded my vision. Not blinding—translucent, overlaying reality like augmented reality gone haywire. And then the figures appeared.
Ghost silhouettes. Transparent, moving through space with deliberate purpose. Two figures—one tall, one shorter. The taller figure's movements were aggressive, violent. The shorter one retreating, stumbling.
[ **TRACE RECONSTRUCTION: ACTIVE** ]
[ **FIGURE A: ENTERED FROM NORTH STAIRWELL - 23:47 HOURS** ]
[ **FIGURE B (VICTIM): RETREATED TOWARD WINE RACKS** ]
[ **STRUGGLE COMMENCED: 23:49 HOURS** ]
[ **FATAL BLOW DELIVERED: 23:52 HOURS** ]
[ **ENERGY: 57/100 → 42/100** ]
The ghost figures moved in perfect synchronization with the System's narration. Figure A—the killer—entered through the north stairwell, footsteps silent in my augmented vision. Marcus Cole turned, surprise registered in his body language. Words exchanged, tension escalating.
Then violence.
The killer lunged. Cole retreated, knocking over a wine bottle. The glass shattered near my feet—I could see the ghost bottle falling, could track its trajectory. Cole tried to run deeper into the cellar, but the killer was faster. First blow caught him on the shoulder, spinning him around. Second blow connected with his temple.
Cole fell. The killer stood over him for exactly forty-seven seconds—the ghost figure's timer counted it down—then fled through the south exit.
[ **RECONSTRUCTION COMPLETE** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 78%** ]
[ **ENERGY: 42/100 → 12/100** ]
[ **WARNING: CRITICAL ENERGY DEPLETION** ]
[ **MIGRAINE IMMINENT** ]
The ghost figures vanished. The cellar snapped back to normal reality. And my knees buckled.
Lisbon caught my arm, her grip strong. "Colen? You okay?"
My vision swam. The migraine was already building, pressure mounting behind my eyes like a dam about to burst.
"Fine," I managed. "Just... I think I know what happened here."
Jane materialized beside us, concern masked by curiosity. "You went very pale just now. Are you certain you're alright?"
"Migraine starting. But I'm fine." I forced myself upright, pulling away from Lisbon's support. "The killer entered from the north stairwell at approximately eleven forty-seven PM. Cole was down here checking wine inventory—see the clipboard on that barrel? He turned when he heard someone, they argued, Cole tried to retreat deeper into the cellar."
I walked through the space, retracing the ghost figures' paths.
"First blow here, near this shattered bottle. Cole knocked it over while dodging. Second blow connected near the body's current position. The killer waited—probably checking for vitals—then exited through the south entrance." I pointed. "That's why the blood spatter doesn't match initial assessment. It wasn't a single confrontation. It was a chase."
Lisbon's expression shifted from concern to professional focus. "Cho, check the south entrance for trace evidence. Rigsby, review security footage for the north stairwell around eleven forty-five."
Jane studied me with uncomfortable intensity. "That's remarkable deduction from limited evidence."
"Just following the physical markers."
"Is it?" He circled me slowly, analyzing. "Because you described specific timing, precise movements, exact sequence of events. That's not deduction—that's reconstruction."
[ **WARNING: PATRICK JANE SUSPICION INCREASED** ]
[ **ANALYZING: JANE'S ASSESSMENT OF YOU** ]
[ **SUSPICION LEVEL: +34%** ]
[ **SUBJECT SUSPECTS ENHANCED ANALYTICAL CAPABILITIES** ]
[ **ENERGY: 12/100** ]
[ **SEVERE MIGRAINE: ACTIVE** ]
The pain spiked. I pressed fingers to my temple, fighting to keep my expression neutral.
"Years of crime scene experience," I said. "You see enough murders, patterns emerge."
"Perhaps." Jane didn't sound convinced. "Or perhaps you're simply more observant than you let on."
Rigsby's voice crackled over the radio. "Found something on security footage. Unknown male, late thirties, entering north stairwell at eleven forty-six. Getting a clear screenshot now."
Cho's radio followed. "South exit has fresh scuff marks and fiber evidence. Looks like someone left in a hurry."
Lisbon looked at me, then at the crime scene, then back to me. "Good work, Colen. Take some aspirin and rest. We'll handle the follow-up."
I didn't argue. The migraine was crushing now, vision blurring at the edges. I made it to the CBI van before my legs gave out completely.
October 27, 2008 - Evening - Tedd's Apartment
The ice pack was pathetic comfort.
I lay in darkness, curtains drawn, phone silenced, with frozen gel pressed against my skull. The migraine wasn't just pain—it was System overload, neurons firing in patterns they weren't designed for, processing information that shouldn't be accessible.
The System provided unhelpful updates.
[ **TRACE RECONSTRUCTION: TIER 0 UNLOCKED** ]
[ **ACCURACY: 75-80% ON RECENT SCENES** ]
[ **ENERGY COST: 50 POINTS PER MAJOR SCENE ANALYSIS** ]
[ **COOLDOWN REQUIRED: 10 MINUTES BETWEEN USES** ]
[ **CURRENT ENERGY: 8/100** ]
[ **ESTIMATED RECOVERY TIME: 48 HOURS MINIMUM** ]
[ **RECOMMENDATION: LIMIT USAGE UNTIL ENERGY MANAGEMENT IMPROVES** ]
"Limit usage. Right. Because I had so much control over it activating the first time."
The ability was powerful—potentially case-breaking. Being able to see how crimes unfolded, tracking movements and timing with numerical precision, would make me invaluable to CBI. But the cost was enormous. Fifty energy points had drained me to critical levels, triggering a migraine severe enough that I'd considered going to the emergency room.
And Jane had noticed. Not just the migraine—the deductions themselves. He'd called it reconstruction, which was exactly what it was, and his suspicion had spiked accordingly.
"He's too smart. Eventually he'll figure out I'm not normal. Then what?"
My phone buzzed. I ignored it. Another buzz. Another. Finally, I checked.
Jane: That was impressive work today. Also concerning. Your migraine seemed severe.
Jane: Similar to my own when I push too hard analyzing crime scenes.
Jane: We should discuss your methods sometime. Compare techniques.
The last text made my stomach drop. Jane wanted to compare techniques, which meant he wanted to understand how I'd arrived at such specific conclusions. If we had that conversation, he'd either see through my lies or I'd have to reveal more than was safe.
I typed a response with shaking fingers.
Methods are just experience and observation. Nothing special. Thanks for the concern.
Jane: If you say so. Rest well. Tomorrow will be interesting.
The threat—or promise—hung in the digital space. Tomorrow would be interesting. Jane would push harder, dig deeper, try to understand the puzzle I represented.
And I'd have to decide how much truth to give him.
October 29, 2008 - Morning - CBI Headquarters
Two days of rest brought my energy back to functional levels.
The migraine had faded to a dull ache by Tuesday morning. I returned to work moving carefully, avoiding bright lights and loud noises. The team noticed but didn't comment—even Jane kept his distance, though his observation never stopped.
The vineyard case closed cleanly. Security footage had identified the killer—Marcus Cole's business partner, angry about profit disputes. Confession came after six hours of interrogation. Standard resolution.
But the Trace Reconstruction hung over everything. The ability was real, powerful, and dangerous to use. More importantly, it had made Jane curious in ways that could unravel my entire existence here.
Rigsby approached my desk at lunch. "Hey, you feeling better?"
"Yeah. Migraines are brutal but they pass."
"That was some detective work at the vineyard. How'd you figure all that out?"
"Crime scene analysis. Read enough police reports, you start seeing patterns."
He nodded, accepting the explanation. But across the bullpen, Jane watched from his couch. His expression was neutral, thoughtful, the look of a man solving a puzzle one piece at a time.
My phone buzzed. Text from Lorelei.
Lorelei: Visited three more shelters this week. Getting good intel. Want to review findings tonight?
Me: Absolutely. My place at 7?
Lorelei: Perfect. Bringing Chinese food. You look like you need feeding.
The normalcy of that exchange—planning dinner with my girlfriend, discussing investigation work, maintaining the rhythm of daily life—felt surreal against the backdrop of System abilities and Jane's increasing suspicion.
I had powers that broke physics, memories of a TV show I'd watched in another life, and a mission to prevent a serial killer's future recruitment of the woman I was falling for.
And somehow, I had to pretend it was all completely normal.
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