Dancing with the Dead ✔

Chapter Six - Good Ghost, Bad Ghost

I've never been to a police station before. After all, I'm not the type who gets involved with the authority much. That aside, right now I'm standing in front of CNPD—short for Casa Nova Police Department—station. The navy blue-painted building isn't as big as I imagined, probably only the size of two small houses combined. 

Meanwhile, the sun has set and if I want to avoid getting kicked out of my apartment, I'll have to make this quick. I push the large glass door and step inside. 

The first thing that catches my attention is the long black receptionist desk right in front of me. Behind the desk are two wide windows and one simple wooden door standing side by side. The grey sheer shades are closed, but I assume the officers are behind that door. Here I thought there would be tons of detectives, dealing with different kinds of criminals, perhaps even a frantic lady looking for her cat. But no, I seem to be the only visitor here.

The sound of a keyboard being typed on echoes from behind the desk. I walk towards it, looking for anyone I can talk to. The height of the desk prevents me from knowing if anyone is sitting behind that desk, but as I step closer I can see a bald policeman sitting behind it. The plump man's hand is busy typing into his computer while his other hand is clutching a small chocolate-covered-heart-shaped doughnut. My gaze then falls to the empty box of doughnuts next to the computer.

What is it with police officers and doughnuts?

"Excuse me, officer," I say, flashing a polite smile.

He stops typing and looks up at me. "Yes? How may I help you?"

"I called earlier about a John Doe, from St. Mary's," I say, resting my arms on the desk.

"Oh, the doctor?" he asks, still munching the doughnut that's already in his mouth.

I nod in agreement.

"Please wait here. I'll go get the Captain." He stands up, but not before he shoves the rest of the doughnut to his mouth and taps his right hand on his sides, cleaning the crumbs left on his hand.

As the officer opens the door behind him and walks inside, I look around to search for a place to rest my aching feet. I walk towards the empty set of chairs near the white-painted wall and take my seat.

"Do you think there's a chance I'm a billionaire?"

I look to my left and see John sitting—or more like pretending to sit—next to me with sparkles in his eyes. I furrow my brows as I glance at his ragged clothes, in which he quickly mimics.

"Okay, maybe not." He rolls his eyes. "Or maybe I'm a secret agent! The name's Doe. John Doe," he mimics James Bond with full-on confidence.

I stifle my laughter. Ever since we walk out of the hospital earlier tonight, he's been talking nonstop about his identity, who he might be, who he wants to be. I'm telling you, the man has some serious imagination.

"I'm just kidding," he says.

Still chuckling, I can see on the corner of my eyes that he's looking at me with a huge smile on his face. But after a while, that smile turns into a sad smile. Sensing something's wrong, I shift my gaze towards him.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He doesn't answer right away as he seems to be lost in his own thoughts.

"John?" I call his name but his mind seems to be drifting to God-knows-where.

It's not until I wave my hand back and forth in front of his gaze that his mind returns to the present.

"Nah, it's nothing, doc," he assures me with a forced smile.