Page 36 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Sam squints as he studies the scanned document of what was originally a handwritten report, trying to make out the details of the almost illegible scrawl. “Bruce Hernando Reyes was reported missing on the twenty-eighth of May 1986. Born in July of fifty-seven. If we’re assuming he died around the time of the report, that would have made him twenty-nine years old, which tracks with the age range the doc gave for the bones recovered.”

“Who reported him missing?”

“His father, Antonio Reyes, and the residence listed is in Surbiton, not far from the grounds where the bones were discovered.” Sam scrolls down the screen, his gaze tracking back and forth as he reads the notes. “It seems that the last place he was seen for definite was at the sports grounds. He played the final game of the season but didn’t show up for work that evening.”

“Where did he work?”

“Somewhere called Blue Thunder. He was a bartender.” Sam starts tapping away at the keys again and then scrolling across the touchpad. “Blue Thunder was a cocktail bar in Soho. It opened up six months before Bruce disappeared and closed its doors in ninety-two… wait a minute, this is interesting.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t just a cocktail bar.” Sam continues to read. “Up front, yes, that’s what it looked like, but it was actually an underground gay club. There’s a whole page dedicated to it on Facebook with pictures from when it first opened.” His gaze narrows in concentration. “Let me see if they’ll allow me to join their closed group,” he mutters to himself, and I can feel myself bristling. I almost feel like a useless spare part.

Hearing the door to the flat open and close, I transfer my attention from Sam to the doorway of the kitchen just in time to see Tristan appear and give a loud sneeze, almost losing his steamed-up glasses in the process.

“Hi,” he sniffs.

“Oh, sweetheart.” I wince in sympathy. “You look soaked through.”

“I am, right through to my boxers, which are giving me a wedgie,” he says miserably, then lifts his chin in Sam’s direction. “Hey, Sam.”

“Tristan,” he replies, a small smile playing on his lips. “Commiserations on the underwear situation, but did you happen to find out anything useful?”

Tristan shakes his head and water droplets fly in all directions. “Not really. Bruce has some pretty big gaps in his memory.”

“How big?” I ask in concern. After all, the one thing we had going for us with this cold case was the fact we could actually question the victim despite the fact he’s dead, but if he can’t remember anything, it’s going to make our job ten times harder.

“From just before his death to about six months after,” Tris replies. “He doesn’t even really remember how he ended up at the bookshop. Whitechapel’s a fair way from Surbiton, after all.”

“If he was even killed in Surbiton,” Sam murmurs. “The gaps in his memory aren’t that unusual. From what I understand, the more traumatic the death, the more likely the deceased’s mind blocks out the memory of it and everything surrounding it.”

“He must have had a pretty gruesome death to lose six months after, then.” Tris frowns. “I mean, Dusty was murdered, but she only lost about twenty-four hours.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be physical trauma,” Sam replies. “It could be emotional trauma. If he knew and was emotionally attached to his killer, the betrayal of his murder could’ve done it, or, as you say, it could’ve been a long, drawn-out, painful death. There’s no way of knowing at this point.”

“God, that’s too awful to think about.” Tris shudders, but not from the cold, and sheds his wet coat. “Did you guys find anything?”

“Not much yet,” I answer. “The remains are male, about thirty years old, and we’re just waiting to see if they can get a DNA profile from his bones. Dr O’Hara thinks they’ve been buried for about thirty to forty years. All the circumstantial information fits. And we’ve got a copy of Bruce’s missing persons report. He was last seen playing a rugby match, but that night he didn’t show up for his shift bartending at a place in Soho. That’s pretty much it so far.”

“It’s a start, I suppose.” Tristan sniffs again, loudly, and I hand him the tissue box from the table. “I’ll have to go back to work on Monday, so I can reach out to the forensic anthropology department, see if I can find out any more information. Dusty and I also brought Bruce back with us.”

“What?” I turn my head toward Tris as he blows his nose. “You brought Bruce back here? I thought he couldn’t leave the bookshop. Or the portal? Whatever. You know what I mean.” At least, I hope he does because I’m just getting even more confused about all this.

“Apparently, he can but only for short periods of time.” Tris kicks off his boots and crosses the kitchen, leaving wet sock prints in his wake, to drop his dirty tissue in the bin before washing his hands. “His cousin Angie is babysitting the doorway for a while so he can help us figure out what’s going on. But there’s something really weird going on at the bookshop.”

“Weird how?” I ask tentatively, not sure I actually want to know the answer.

Tristan turns around and leans against the sink. “Excuse the phrase, but it’s like a ghost town in there… only minus the ghosts.”

“What?” I shift in my seat to try to get more comfortable and fail when my leg throbs.

“Literally all the ghosts have disappeared,” he clarifies. “I’ve never seen the place so empty. Madame Vivienne is having a field day. She never wanted them all there in the first place.”

“Why would all the ghosts suddenly vanish like that?” I glance at Sam, who’s frowning. This can’t be good. I may not know much about spirits and the afterlife but what Tristan is saying starts ringing alarm bells. Just what the hell is going on? First this strange storm that won’t let up, and now ghosts going missing?

“I think I might go and have a word with Bruce,” Sam asks Tris.

“Be my guest.” He waves his hand toward the doorway. “I think Dusty’s taken him to the living room.”