Murder Through Time (World Bureau Legacy Book 1) Read online

  World Bureau Legacy Book 1

  Murder Through Time

  A.R. Grosjean

  All rights reserved solely by author, A.R. Grosjean. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. All people, and their names, in this story are fictional, and do not represent any living or dead person, nor do the places. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. For this permission, you must contact the author at [email protected]

  Copyright ©2021 A.R. Grosjean.

  This is first printing.

  ISBN#

  ebook: B09B5RD42Z

  paperback: 9798543628348

  Cover Design By A.R. Grosjean

  By Pixabay

  Dedication

  Murder Through Time has been dedicated to my darling husband, Jack Grosjean, who encouraged me to write and stood by me as my ideas scared the crap out of him at times. I would like to thank my friends and fans who also stood by me as my stories unfolded, bringing them a piece of my soul. I am thankful for you and cherish you, thank you. I’ve also dedicated this book to my children and grandchildren, who inspire me to continue down the path of writing and exploring new worlds. Thank you, everyone.

  A special thank you goes out to two women who made this story more possible than if I had worked on it alone. Amanda DeShane and Sanchari Das, whose suggestions through the editing process made this story, come to life! Thank you!

  Chapter One

  Marcus stood, slumped in the shower, letting the hot water rush down his filthy body. The golden hues of the shower stall metal framing cast a beam of light across his muscular frame. It highlighted the scars covering his back and torso from near-death shootings and knife battles. The shower stall was nestled in the corner with panes of glass held together with a gold frame. The inside wall was covered in a white marble that matched the counter. It was simple, yet elegant against the white walls surrounding the stand-alone shower.

  He stood in the shower for an eternity it seemed, as his mind wandered, and the water sprayed down the back of his neck, swiftly rushing down his back and legs. Steam lifted in the air, almost hiding him. His muscles ached from his previous assignment, but he would never complain. The pain meant he was alive—more than he could say about some of the criminals he stopped.

  The white rag in his hand brushed across his skin, erasing the dirt he obtained from rolling on the ground with the criminal he’d been fighting. Marcus chased after Max for days. When he finally caught up to him, they went straight into a brawl. Max kept yelling that he wasn’t going in that easily. He didn’t play or fight by the rules. Max stomped on Marcus’s foot, poked him in the eye, and took off running. Marcus chased him again and leaped onto his back, bringing him to the ground. As he reached for his handcuffs, Max elbowed him in the gut. He tried army crawling away, but Marcus grabbed him by the foot and pulled him back. Max turned around, shook his foot loose, and jumped to his feet. He attempted to run away again, screaming what he already said. He wasn’t going with him. Marcus pulled out his weapon and fired it, hitting Max in the leg. He dropped in agony, but still refused to give up. Marcus had seen this happen before, but this guy was nuts. He began rolling around in the dirt as if he was trying to shake the sting off. Marcus found his moment to strike and grabbed his arm and was pulled down. They rolled together for what seemed like an hour, until they stopped. Max had passed out. Slowly, Marcus pushed himself up, stumbled towards Max, and slapped the handcuffs on him.

  As his mind went over the fight, the soap suds with a musk aroma washed over the scars. The scars were evidence of his job and reminders that no one lives forever. He wore them proudly. He could have stayed in the shower all day, washing away the memories of the last job he took, but the loud ring in the next room took him out of deep thought as the water rinsed away the suds.

  He stepped out of the shower, leaving the water on, grabbed a clean dry white towel and wrapped it around his waist tightly to hold it in place. His tanned skin glowed in the sun’s rays that shone down through the skylight. He walked through the doorway, grabbing a smaller towel off of the hook by the door, and began drying his hair. The towels were both soft to the touch, which felt like heaven against his rough skin.

  “Shower off.” The water turned off at his command. His voice was deep and firm as he spoke with authority that he had learned through the academy. The bureau academy was where he learned to become the agent he was. It was a brutal 10 years of training, mentally and physically, but it was worth it in order to grow into the man he always thought he wanted to be. He jumped through hoops to join the Time Travel District within the World Bureau because it was required.

  Marcus scampered into the living room, signaling the overhead light to turn on automatically. “TV on, answer.” The television screen lit up and the captain appeared on the screen. He was a large man, balding from the top, but revealed a sandy-brown hair, and he was tall even though the screen didn’t show that much.

  “Good morning, Marcus.” The captain’s voice was robust. The clothing he wore was simple. The dark brown tie hung from his neck and matched the suit jacket as if he had bought them together. The jacket was opened, revealing the beige shirt beneath.

  “Morning, sir. Missed you this morning when I brought the suspect in. What can I do for you?” Marcus asked as he tossed the used-smaller towel on the chair behind him.

  “I’d hate to interrupt your morning routine, but I have a case for you and you’re the perfect man for it.”

  Marcus wanted to turn the assignment down since he had just gotten home but he loved this job, so he agreed to take it on. “All right. What do you have for me?”

  “I sent the information to your communicator. I need you to detain suspect 10739 and bring him back to the bureau for questioning. I know you just arrived home from completing another assignment, so I do apologize for the bad timing.”

  When Marcus heard the word—bad—he cringed, remembering how abusive his mother was. She was the reason he had become an agent for the World Bureau. “Marcus, you are such a bad son. Why do you even bother trying?” His mother smacked him on the side of the face, dumped the laundry basket on the floor, and told him to wash it again. He was six years old, but the memory remained a part of him since it had been just the beginning of a lifetime of abuse. He had an inner drive to do his job well and hopefully stop people from doing harm to each other.

  At one time, he would have been called a police officer, but the name ‘Police Officer' hadn’t been used for a hundred years now. Since that day all police units became one, joining the FBI as it was once called. The police of the time had become corrupt and needed too many shake downs, so the FBI took over. When they dismantled the police departments, the President learned it would be better if they worked as one. He called the other countries, shared his ideas with them, and the World Bureau was born.

  His apartment had an open plan, designed for one. A long island, which was made of a combination of metal and white marble with hints of gold and silver, divided the kitchen from the living area. The design was a cross between elegance and industrial, which suited him just fine. The top of the counter was cluttered with a mix of things on one end. His communicator was one, which was what cell phones were called now—have been for a hundred years or so. Next to his communicator, a black device with a large screen—an option between black or silver—sat papers for his filing, notes for the housekeeper, a form of a credit card
, change from the year 1895, and a few other things he had dropped in his passing. The polished chrome shined with a glowing light as his communicator cried out with an alert. He slogged to the counter and picked it up. His boss’s eyes followed his every move.

  Marcus opened the file and looked it over. Marcus felt tired, but he loved his job and seldom turned down an assignment, especially when the captain handed it to him. The aroma of coffee lifted his spirits though, until he saw the suspect he was asked to obtain. Anger and disappointment filled his mind. At the top was a picture of his old partner and the information below it. Ryan Guilnet, age 35, last seen in the year 2028. Below this information revealed what Ryan was wearing. Marcus clenched his fist as he stared at the picture of Ryan wearing his normal jeans, dark t-shirt, and sneakers. The car he was seen driving was an old Buick; grey, four-door model. The witness was Harold Pine who lived across the street from where Ryan was seen. The address of his last known location was 652 Superior Street.

  Chapter Two

  Ryan stood in the square-shaped kitchen, which was clean and modern. He leaned over the body as he snapped another picture with his communicator. The communicator was silver with a large screen, which he had chosen differently from his ex-best friend, since he was going to be partners in a year after graduating from the academy. It had everything a communicator needed at a single touch, except GPS—his watch had that. The woman had been dead for an hour according to the history records, so he missed the crime. He still didn’t know who did this or why. Or even why he had been framed for it. He stared at Billie for a moment contemplating the reasons for everything.

  Ever since the first murder of Billie Reynolds, a normal woman who worked for a nursery for plants, Ryan had been on the run. He was forced to investigate on his own to clear his name. So far, all he knew was that it was his weapon that was used. He was a good agent and had only broken the law once in his life. It was something that haunted him to this day.

  If he had been assigned to this crime, he would have been given the necessary equipment to investigate, but today he was on his own. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans as he thought of ideas to prove his innocence.

  Ryan had seen this crime scene before, but it was in another time, and she’d been a little older. He lost count on how many times Billie had been murdered in this kitchen, according to the World Bureau’s records. The name of the killer was the only thing not on record.

  He knelt over her lifeless body as he examined the wounds. A puddle of blood pooled under her as the wound was drying up. Her blonde hair was spread out as if she had been standing when she was struck. Billie’s clothes were the same as each scene before; she was dressed in green spandex pants that had extra pockets on the side. The bullet had gone through her chest, which was covered by a sports bra and loose-fitting tank top in the same shade of green as the pants. He left the kitchen in search of a pen, located one in the living room, and returned to her body. He used the pen to lift the shirt to see the entire wound. He snapped another shot, holding the communicator closer to the wound. Ryan returned the pen in the cup holder on the desk next to the window in the living room.

  He knew the test results would come back saying his weapon was used here too and it was the only evidence linking him to the crime, but it was enough. His mind went back to the motives. He didn’t normally make enemies unless you count the crooks he’d put in jail, who would naturally jump at the chance to frame him. None of them were out on bail, but their communications with the outside world had been revoked. Visitations weren’t permitted anymore—hadn’t been for years. It was highly unlikely for this to be someone he’d arrested.

  The heat from the summer air increased, causing sweat to drip down his brow. Ryan pulled his gray vintage t-shirt up and wiped his forehead so it wouldn’t drip onto the woman, giving them more evidence of the crime. He stood up, releasing his sweaty grasp on the gray t-shirt, letting it drop back into place around his middle as he strolled forward to the other side of the wooden table. There were unopened letters scattered on the table, which appeared to be bills. The envelopes were all white, except for one—it was light brown. Ryan looked at them without touching anything and read the address.

  Billie Reynolds

  652 Superior Street

  Fort Lane, Indiana

  His eyes moved on before catching the zip code. It didn’t matter to him, anyway. Ryan marched away from the table and inched towards the counter. He turned around and stood there as he tried to envision the crime in his mind.

  Ryan had always been good at seeing these things act out in his head. It was how he caught the criminals, most of the time. He could get inside their heads. He brushed back his black hair as he prepared to become someone else. He pulled his right hand up, in the form of a gun, and pulled his index finger back as if he was about to shoot someone standing in front of him. Based on where Billie was, he could assume the shooter was right-handed, and taller. He could also assume he or she was standing right where Ryan had been standing from the angle of the wound. Based on the fact that there weren’t any broken windows or the front door being smashed in, Ryan knew Billie must have known her killer. But did she personally know him? Was the killer a friend? Was it possible a woman killed her, or was it a man? Was he or she some form of a worker like a cable or telephone repair man? Ryan worked through each question feeling defeated because he didn’t know more than he already did. He kept asking himself, why would someone frame him for this? There weren’t any connections between him and this woman, so he began thinking the cable man wasn’t a likely suspect. He looked at the crime scene again. He was missing something, and that made him feel frustrated. He slumped over the body and studied her. A headache began to form as his lips became dry. He rubbed his temple, but that didn’t seem to help.

  Chapter Three

  Marcus and Captain Smitty continued to discuss the assignment at hand. The communicator was clutched in his hand as he watched the screen. He waited for the captain to say something like why he was chosen for this case. He knew the man he was being asked to bring in, and he couldn’t believe it.

  The captain loosened his tie as he peered down at Marcus. He took a sip of water and set it down. He coughed to clear his throat. “Ryan is the reason you’re perfect for this assignment, Marcus. Do you think you’ll be able to handle him with the history between the two of you?”

  Marcus looked down and thought about Ryan for a moment. They were best friends through childhood and the academy. Then Ryan had an affair with his fiancé. He couldn’t look at Ryan, let alone be his friend anymore. He asked to be transferred since they were partners too. Marcus shook his head and looked up at the captain. “Sir, I’ve never let my personal feelings interfere with my work,” he said as he put the communicator on the stand next to the chair.

  “All right. Get dressed. I’ll have an air-taxi pick you up in thirty. You will be reporting to dock 5 for your time chamber. The full file will be waiting for you at the dock.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The screen went black, so he shut the TV off. “Blinds open.” As the blinds opened, the sun blinded Marcus for a moment as it was brighter on this side of the building and was more direct than the skylight. His eyes adjusted, so he looked out of the window for a moment. There was another floating apartment building across the way. It wasn’t as nice as the one he lived in, and was cheaper, but it was a sight to look at. The shining metal that it was made from, always shimmered, giving him more sunlight. That was why he chose this apartment—the lighting. Being on the top floor had nothing to do with it. He picked up his coffee, which was cold now, and finished the last two sips. As he placed it back on the windowsill, the apartment began to shake. He peered out the window and watched the building across from him disappear and reappear several times before staying in one place. The quake stopped. That was the second time quake that morning. For the last several years, they had been occurring more often, but lately they have been coming and going two or t
hree times a day. It was a sign that something was wrong with the time continuum.

  Marcus turned around and looked at his apartment to make sure nothing had changed. The simplistic style was still there. The metal counter that divided the kitchen from the living room hadn’t changed. The apartment was a modern design, which appeared clean, and he liked it that way. Marcus picked the coffee mug back up and carried it to the kitchen. He rinsed it out and placed the empty mug in the dishwasher, added soap, and started the cleaning cycle. He planned on putting the dishes away later in the evening upon arriving home. Then he’d get a good night’s rest.

  Marcus walked into his large closet between the bedroom and bath and opened a small panel next to a door beside the open hanging area within the walk-in closet. He pressed the buttons 2-0-2-8 and the door to the inner closet opened. This was the only part of the closet that was enclosed, keeping everything within it concealed. The rest of the closet was filled with hanging rods with his clothes neatly hanging in order of their color and style, and drawers where he kept his socks and other things. Marcus picked out a detective's uniform, gathered a pair of black socks, underwear, and a plain white t-shirt; and took everything to the bedroom. Marcus dressed in the clothes from the era he was about to visit, made his bed, and watered his two aloe vera plants next to the window in the bedroom. On this side of the apartment, there were a few floating restaurants. As he gazed out of the window, he could see the first one, as flying cars coasted through the fly-through, customers picking up their orders. A few clouds were nestled just below as if the place was resting on them. Marcus didn’t think fairy tales were real, but for a moment it appeared he was staring at something that came out of one. He’d never visited that restaurant, but he did know they sold vegetarian burgers, a hot treat for a meal. He preferred meat in his burgers, but they weren’t available anymore.