48 Hours

My tongue ran across my lips. The saltiness I tasted mixed with a strange flavor that didn't belong. I knew what it meant as I pushed myself off the floor. A wipe of my hand across my mouth confirmed my suspicion. It was sweat mixed with my blood.

How I got there was hazy. I remembered walking into the building, looking around the ramshackle corner space, and thinking it was a dump. Once upon a time, it was prime real estate. And for any business, it's all about location, location, location.

Climbing to my feet, I felt pangs of discomfort in my midsection. It was so dark inside the building I had to get out to see what time of day it was. When I did open the door, I imagined it was morning as I stood in front of the blinding white light.

I was wrong. It wasn't morning, it wasn't night, and as a matter of fact, it was no time of day. I should have known when I woke up with a mouth full of blood, but I hadn't grasped my situation. Then, it hit me.

"Shit, I'm dead," I said.

I knew it when I looked down at my shirt, soaked in my blood. Judging by the amount of blood and the phantom pains I felt, someone shot me twice in the gut. Once would have done the job. The second round, or the double tap, was to be sure.

My feet left the ground before being whisked away from the sidewalk. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a woman. She wasn't dressed in all white, not like we imagine an angel would be. At first, I was afraid I landed where I always expected to, in Hell.

"Buck Hamilton," she said, looking up at me.

Of course, they would know who you are. I struggled to grasp who I was. I wasn't supposed to be dead. That wasn't my destiny. It had to be a mistake.

"No, kiddo, it's not a mistake," she announced.

Was she reading my mind? How could she? Stuff like that didn't happen to people like me. I led a plain life. I went to work, did my job, and came home.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The woman appeared normal. She wore khaki pants, a black teeshirt, and black boots. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I'd have offered to buy her a beer under different circumstances. She looked like one of the gang.

"I'm Kara," she told me.

"Am I dead?" I asked, hoping to get an answer I liked.

Kara smiled, walked toward me, and lifted my shirt. She shook her head the way people do when they have bad news to share.

"Yep," she finally answered.

"Is this..." I started to ask, not knowing how to finish.

"This is the part where you have to make a big decision. You're unfinished," Kara told me.

"Unfinished," I wondered.

"It means it wasn't your time," she announced. "And since nobody's missed you yet, you have a choice to make."

I must be dreaming, was my first thought. If there was an afterlife, why wasn't I roasting over a flame in the pit? I'd always known when I died, I was going downstairs. What was the delay?

"You were murdered," explained Kara. "And after years as a cop, you now get the opportunity to go back and find your killer."

Who killed me? Why would anyone kill me?

"Frankly," she admitted, "that's a question I can't answer. Someone above my paygrade wants you to find out. We'll send you back for 48 hours, and if you solve your murder, you get a second chance."

Was she for real, I wondered. I was scouting a spot for a business. I was planning on getting off the force and living a less violent life. Now, I was dead and offered a second chance if I could solve my murder. What would you have done?

"Deal!"

Then, as bizarrely as I woke up in that strange purgatory-like place, I was back. I'll never know why I returned the way I did. Unless I solve my murder, that is.

Looking down at my body was weird enough. Suddenly, I needed to find a mirror. If I was still on the ground, what did I look like? I ran to the building bathroom.

"Yikes!"

They couldn't have sent me back as myself? Instead, I came back as an aging alcoholic. It didn't make my task any easier.

"Alright, Buck. Let's get to work," I reminded myself.

Finding a murderer in a city with 250,000 people was going to be difficult. But they say that most murders get solved in the first 48 hours or grow colder by the minute. Most victims know the killer. So I started with that.

Looking around my body, I didn't find any evidence that there was a struggle before I got shot. Honestly, I would have preferred signs of a fight. Whoever killed me got within a few feet. It was someone I knew.

Who wanted me dead? A better question was, who did I know with the chops to kill me themselves? The more I looked around, the more I began to believe it wasn't a professional job.

"Casings," I mumbled, staring at one against a wall.

They hadn't policed their brass. Nobody had found the body, and it was an empty property, and they didn't police their brass. I picked one of the casings up and knew the gun was a .9mm.

After seeing it was a .9mm semi-auto model, I rifled through my pockets and found my keys. At least the car was still outside. If I didn't solve this in time, the Suburban would be what I missed the most. It took me ten years, but it was mine.

I found it right where I left it. Surprisingly, it was in one piece. Whoever shot me hadn't rifled through the car, hadn't taken any of the files inside, and all of my gear was there.

Driving home, I rattled off potential suspects in my murder investigation. I needed to stop saying my murder investigation like I was a detective. I was the dead guy on a floor in an abandoned business. Some poor shmuck that won out in an auction and wouldn't be opening the doors at all if someone had their way.

The drive did me some good. I came up with a handful of people that might want to off me. Most of them as revenge. I had to eliminate the less likely. There wasn't enough time to go through the entire bunch. For that, I needed computer access.

"Good," I said, pulling into an empty driveway.

I wasn't ready to face Helen. How could I be? I was in a different body. The man she knew as her husband was dead, even though she didn't realize it yet. If I got a second chance, she'd never have to go through that pain.

Home. I stopped for a second to take it all in. I didn't know when or if I'd ever stand there again. We'd had plans, plans that were suddenly up in the air. Why had I waited so long?

I started searching the Saint City database. One by one, I eliminated possible suspects. Most were still in prison. There were a few that paroled to addresses outside the area.

I kept searching until I was down to two, and they weren't the types to murder someone in cold blood.

"Dammit," I sighed, not hearing Helen's car pull into the drive.

When the keys hit the door, I panicked and ran upstairs. I heard Helen call my name. I nearly answered her. What a mess that would have been. Instead, I grabbed a badge I kept on a chain.

"Mrs. Hamilton," I yelled down the stairs. "Don't be alarmed. I'm with the Saint City Police. I'm here about your husband."

The look of terror on Helen's face made me hate myself. It was the only way I could leave the house without raising suspicion. I had to tell her the truth, or at least part of the truth.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Detective Cates, but you can call me Jack. Please, sit down," I suggested, pointing to the sofa.

Helen sat down, a slight tear streaking down her cheek. Helen knew the risks of being married to a cop. It was her worst fear. She'd always supported me, even though she hated the job.

"When did it happen?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"That's why you're here, right?" she asked. "To tell me Buck's dead."

I'm not dead yet, I thought to myself. Under the circumstances, I understand the conclusion Helen jumped to. Technically, she wasn't wrong. I was the only person that knew besides the shooter.

"I'm sorry, but we're looking for your husband. He's gone missing," I told her.

"Missing," she sighed.

"Yes maam," I replied.

"How can I help?" she asked.

Helen was surprisingly calm. I admired her ability to handle stress and stay calm under pressure. I told her I was there to check Buck's files, computer, and anything else that might give us a clue where he was.

"Sure," she told me. "Go ahead. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I'll do that," I promised, "and we're going to find him."

Helen hugged me, leaving mascara on my shoulder. I went to the computer and started searching my files again. I needed a clue. Unfortunately, I didn't find anything of use.

I went to find Helen to tell her I was leaving. As I walked down the hallway, I heard her talking to someone. Looking in, she was on her phone.

I cleared my throat to get her attention. My new voice was hard to hear. I was a lot more gravely sounding. It was like I'd smoked for thirty years.

Helen turned, surprised to see me there. I told her I was going to get back on the streets.

"You and Buck must be a lot of like," she said.

The Suburban, dammit. How did I forget that? I quickly told her the department had a deal on Suburbans.

"The Chief was with the FBI for fifteen years. I think he's got a complex," I said.

I hated lying to her. When I walked out, I felt like it was goodbye. I had no idea who would take me out. Pulling away, I noticed a white Range Rover coming slowly toward me. As we passed, the driver stared holes through me.

I went by the department, but they wouldn't know who I was. So, I drove back to my dream property, where my corpse was waiting for someone to find it. Sadly, there weren't any squads. Nobody was guarding the entrance. It was still the unknown crime scene.

Parking on Madison was light. I squeezed in down the block, not wanting to be discovered in my car. I wished I had somewhere else to go, but this was it for me, so I snuck inside. There I was, still dead.

Try and try, as I might, I couldn't help but talk to myself like a damned fool. It took me all night long to work things in my head. Who had the most to gain from me dying? Then, I remembered something that I saw.

That's how investigations work? Something happens, and you try to fill in the blanks. The whys begin to make sense if you ask one question right. Then, the picture starts to form. It's not always pretty, especially when you're the deceased.

This sort of thing happens all the time. Why was I given a chance to come back and solve my murder? What was so special about me?

Suddenly, I wasn't alone. The woman from purgatory was there with me.

"Because," she told me. "You were lost and taking your eyes off your calling. Sure, you made some mistakes and crossed some lines along the way, but your plans to change your life weren't serving anything more than yourself."

"I've put in my time," I told her. "Don't I deserve a piece of the dream?"

"Look what it got you. This was never your path," insisted Kara.

What is my path? Before I could ask, she was gone. I looked around, frustrated with my guardian angel. The cryptic message was as irritating as her presence. I swore if I found out who killed me, I'd figure out who Kara was.

I was exhausted. Somehow, I fell asleep at the shop. I woke up and went to the boutique store half a block away. Cops didn't make much, but nobody bought that a cop couldn't get a change of clothes once a day. Fortunately, when they killed me, they didn't rob me. I still had my wallet and some cash.

I drove home and walked up to the front door. Knocking three times, I waited until Helen answered. Something I looked at yesterday was a key to solving my case. I was following my gut, but it was all I had.

"Mrs. Hamilton," I said when she opened the door. "I'm sorry to bother you. I need a second look at your husband's computer."

Helen invited me in, asking if I'd made any progress finding "Buck."

I wanted to tell her to sit down and share the truth with her until her phone rang.

"If you want to get that, I'll only be a minute," I promised.

Helen went over to the French doors by the deck. She loved the way the sun filled the dining area during the day. I grabbed the laptop, turned around, and knew what I'd seen yesterday. What happened to Helen's phone?

Helen was a lot of things, but she wasn't the type to give up her smartphone for an old-fashioned flip phone. Why would Helen be using a burner?

I pretended to walk out, grabbing the door and slamming it so she would hear. I sat the laptop down and moved to where I could listen to her talk.

"He's gone now," Helen told someone. "It's just the detective from yesterday."

Who was she talking to? Did my wife give up on me? Was she having an affair?

"No," continued Helen. "No, he didn't mention seeing you drive by. No, don't worry. They haven't found Buck's body. They're still looking at him as a missing person. Come on by, you'll like what I've got on beneath my robe."

Why? What was the reason for murdering me? I knew I was working long hours. I hadn't been home much. But that was all about to change.

I announced myself and walked back into the room. I thanked my duplicitous wife for cooperating. I asked Helen to sit.

"They've found Buck," I told her.

Helen stared at me. A look of disbelief washed over her. I could see her hands start to tremble. She mumbled the words, oh no.

"He's alive," I assured her.

"He's what," she stoically replied.

"He's also identified the man that shot him," I continued. "We'll be taking him into custody soon."

"How's that possible?" she asked aloud.

That was when I reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the burner phone she was using. It was the evidence I needed and the first piece of a very icky puzzle. When I put my hands on the burner phone, I changed back.

Kara was there, in my house. I was no longer Jack Cates. I was back in my own body.

Helen's motive was my big secret. Two months ago, by pure luck, I won the Powerball game. It was how I was opening the business. I'd kept it a secret, or so I thought.

Helen paid the assassin out of her life savings. It didn't leave her anything when she got caught. As for Detective Buck Hamilton, that wasn't the path I chose. Kara was right. Buck's path includes something other than running a business.

Sitting there quietly, I waited for Dr. Cones to respond. As my therapist, Dr. Cones listened to me recount tales from what she called my schizophrenic imagination.

"Well, Buck, it sounds like you've got the potential for another hit on your hands. You must realize that some of this comes from inside you," she promised. "This woman, Kara, is a manifestation of your ideal mate. You're projecting angelic status onto someone in your life, and I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Nobody can be that perfect."

"But you like the story?" I asked.

"Like it. I think this one will be a huge success," Dr. Cones admitted.

"Great," I told her.

Time was up when there was a knock at the door. Dr. Cones answered the door, and in walked my well-dressed driver.

"You don't want to be late, sir," my driver told me.

"Oh, you're right," I admitted, looking at my watch. "Doctor, we'll pick this up next time."

I walked by and gave Dr. Cones a soft handshake and a gentle peck on the cheek. As I walked out, I could hear Dr. Cones mutter, 'No more rich artistic types.'

I got down to the limo and in the back. Looking in the front seat, I locked eyes with my driver.

"What did the doctor think of your story?"

"She thought it was bloody good," I admitted. "Said it would be a huge success. Now, let's not just sit here, my dear."

"Yes, Buck."

As the car pulled away, I had a splendid idea. Dinner with an angel, or rather, a reaper, sounded great.

"Kara, my dear. Do you have plans for tonight?"