👻 Casper PI

👻 Casper PI

by Joe Giordano

The trend toward remote work provides a ghost like me the opportunity to thrive as a private investigator. You’re probably puzzled why I remained on Earth. At death, my spirit should’ve been propelled toward the afterlife, but I didn’t have the necessary momentum and got stuck in a sort of limbo. Not ideal, but I’m trying to make the most of my situation. I travel like a waveform of invisible light but much slower, of course. Alive, I’d been a CPA and retained my mental abilities, but my desire for personal development didn’t stop, and I decided to make a career change. PI work involves more interaction with people than a CPA. The results haven’t always been uplifting.

Prospective clients contact me on Zoom. I use a voice synthesizer and keep the video turned off, promoting anonymity as enhancing my investigative ability. You’re wondering why a spirit needs an income? Not the goal. Boredom’s still possible when you’re dead, and my gigs get me out of the house. PIs are hired by wives who suspect that their husbands cheat. Tedious. Still, nobody can match my ability to track an unfaithful spouse. Hell, I could crawl into bed with the illicit couple, and they wouldn’t hear me breathe – which I don’t.  Once the pawing starts, I save agita by leaving the scene, hiring a photographer who snags the compromising snaps. My triggering numerous lucrative divorce proceedings have led to a flood of word-of-mouth customers. Still, I pray that my next Zoom call will be about something other than nailing a dirtbag spouse. 

Ghosts hear things. To try and scare up some variety in my cases, I hang out in hotel lobbies, eavesdropping on conspiratorial conversations. Occasionally, I tip the cops about crimes about to go down. My information has been so reliable that every Brooklyn detective picks up when they hear that “Casper” – my little pseudonym joke – wants to speak with them. 

An Hispanic man in his early thirties, speaking with an accent, Zoomed me. 

“I want to bring the man who killed my father to justice.”

Murder. A welcome respite from cheaters. “You’ve been to the police?” 

“They’ve given me the runaround.” 

Frustration was an emotion I understood. 

He continued. “Everyone says you’re the best PI in Brooklyn.” 

Normally, I’m wary about flattery, but the intensity on his face told me I couldn’t turn him down. “What was his name?” 

“Pedro Morales. I’m his son Eduardo. He was killed in Texas.”

That was a curve I wasn’t expecting, and I took a beat before asking, “Tell me what you know.”

“Charles Cochrane murdered my father.” 

“I presume Texas police seek him?” 

“Not for this.” 

A curious statement, but I remained focused. “What makes you so sure he murdered your dad?” 

“My father disappeared the day Cochrane supposedly died in a car accident. I believe Cochrane faked his death, killed my father, and used his body to fool authorities that he was the victim.” 

I wondered at the complexity of such a scheme. “You have proof?” 

Eduardo replied without sarcasm. “If I had proof, I wouldn’t need a private detective.”

I was intrigued. “What motive did Cochrane have for murdering your father?”

“He needed a dead body to pass for his, and my father and he had the same build.”

My blood would’ve chilled if I had any. “He killed him for convenience?”

Eduardo couldn’t hide the bitterness in his tone. “My father worked for Cochrane and could be easily lured to his death.”

“What about DNA?”

“Cochrane’s health directive prohibited an autopsy. A top attorney saw that his wishes were respected. The police had no evidence of a suspicious death to counter the stipulation.”

I pondered why Eduardo was calling me about a Texas murder when the realization hit me. “You’ve found Cochrane?”

“He’s changed his appearance, but I’m sure it’s him. I followed him to his Brooklyn apartment.”

“You took a photo?”

“Absolutely.” 

Why would the police be so easily deterred? Unless… “Could Cochrane have been put into witness protection? The cops wouldn’t look closely at a faked death to help somebody disappear.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Text me Cochrane’s image and address. I’ll follow up and let you know what I learn.”

The minute I spotted Cochrane, I knew there would be trouble. I approached him on Flatbush Avenue, and I could tell from his eyes that he saw me. That meant only one thing.

The ghost inside Cochrane had him shout. “Why the hell are you bothering me?”

A couple of passersby momentarily reacted to Cochrane’s yelling, but likely figured he was on his cell and continued walking.

I stayed calm and communicated telepathically. “What’s your real name?”

“None of your business. Get lost.”

“I’m not leaving until you’re straight with me.”

Cochrane huffed. The ghost said, “My name’s Simon.”

“Why have you inhabited Cochrane’s body?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m a PI, and I have a client who thinks Cochrane murdered his father.”

Simon took a moment before responding. “Tell him Cochrane didn’t murder anybody. Case closed. Disappear.”

He began to walk away, but I stuck to him.

He spun to me. “Are you going to leave me alone?”

“Not until I get some answers.”

Cochrane scowled, then led me into a corner luncheonette and a booth in the rear with a Formica table. A redheaded waitress, clicking gum, arrived with an order pad. 

“Coffee. Black,” Cochrane said. He gestured toward me with his chin. “I don’t think he’s having anything.”

Her eyes flitted briefly toward the blank space that was me. In Brooklyn, people who talk to phantoms are as common as bagels and pizza and most folks quickly create distance. She returned with a mug, left a check, and fled.

Cochrane sipped his coffee, and I took the opportunity to observe him. Gray, in his sixties, with a face as wrinkled as a shar pei’s butt, he sported a paunch the size of a watermelon. 

“Stop stalling,” I said.

“Don’t you miss the sensation of a physical form?” He leaned closer. “The passion of sex?”

I grimaced. He’d touched a sore spot. Being a ghost wasn’t exactly living. “Of course,” I said.

“Well,” he puffed up a bit, “I did something about it.”

“You took Cochrane’s body. Did you murder him?”

Simon scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I had the power to kill,” he spread his arms in display, “do you think I would’ve picked this physique?”

He had a point. “What happened?”

“To be reincarnated, I needed to hijack a corpse at the moment of death, before deterioration began.” He paused for that fact to sink in before continuing. “How many people have keeled over in front of you?” 

“Nobody.”

“Exactly. One-in-a-million chance. Creates a dilemma.”

“Obviously, you succeeded.”

He scoffed. “After years of frustration.”

“What about Pedro Morales?” 

“I’ll get to that. I wanted a young, virile body, someone handsome enough to score with the ladies. I’d hang out at night clubs, sticking close to ripped dudes, hoping they’d overdose on drugs, but no luck. I even tried psychic suggestions that they stick their fingers into an electrical socket.”

“That’s sick.”

“Don’t judge.”

 “If I ever proceed to an afterlife,” I stated emphatically, “it would be a hell of a thing if I were denied Heaven because of a sin I committed after I was dead.”

To Simon’s credit, Cochrane looked uncomfortable. “Well, when you want something badly enough, you do what you must.”

“What was that?”

“I took to haunting dangerous intersections and caught a break.”

“Tell me.”

“Cochrane was driving with Morales when he lost control and hit a tree. Morales had more serious injuries, so I jumped into Cochrane’s body and kickstarted his heart.”

“Why did the authorities believe that Morales was Cochrane?”

“Morales’s face was smashed. For me to keep Cochrane and not have an inquiry, I switched IDs and took off.”

“Texas cops didn’t dig very deeply to think Cochrane was dead.”

Cochrane shrugged. “I paid a veterinarian to surreptitiously treat my injuries. Afterward, I couldn’t stay in Texas and risk being recognized, so I boarded a Greyhound bus to New York.”

“Why Brooklyn?”

“A melting pot of millions, many trying to change their lives. I figured I could live anonymously. Until you showed up.”

I eyed Simon suspiciously. “If you’re not satisfied with Cochrane’s body, what will you do?”

His gaze wandered.

I said, “Now that you have a physical presence, you can take control of your destiny by murdering a young man and inhabiting him. Is that your plan?”

Cochrane grimaced. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You were hired by Pedro’s son.”

I stayed silent. 

“A guy has been tailing me. He looked strangely familiar and now I realize the resemblance to Pedro.”

I suspected where this was going. “He won’t bother you any further. I’ll see to it.”

“So you say. Still…”  Cochrane mused. “Good looking kid.”

“What the hell are you thinking, Simon?” 

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Cochrane waved dismissively. “You did your job. Now, you can leave me alone.” He rose and strode from the luncheonette. 

I worried about Simon’s next step. He wouldn’t want Eduardo to broadcast his Cochrane identity.

I contacted Eduardo on Zoom.

“I don’t believe Cochrane murdered your father. They were together in a car accident, and you were right. He switched identities with your dad so he could disappear.”

Eduardo sounded incredulous. “How can you be so sure he didn’t murder my father?”

How to answer that question without appearing to be insane? 

“Look,” I said, “I think it best that you don’t continue to pursue him.”

Eduardo’s voice rose. “Did he pay you off?”

“I’m concerned that Cochrane might cause you harm.”

“Why? If he’s not guilty of murder?”

I responded with a half-truth. “He doesn’t want you to reveal his lie.”

Eduardo was indignant. “Your services are no longer necessary.”

He exited the Zoom.

If I could, I would’ve blown out a long, frustrated breath. 

I decided to surveil Cochrane and, sure enough, spotted Eduardo trailing him. While Simon gave no outward indication, I suspected that he sensed Eduardo’s presence and welcomed the tail.

Cochrane shopped at an electrical supply store, leaving with an armful of stuff. My angst spiked that he planned something sinister. 

Following Cochrane that evening, Eduardo approached his apartment. The door was left open, and a few meters inside the entrance, Cochrane stood, sneering. I wanted to shout a warning but had no means and no time to alert my detective contacts. As Eduardo crossed the threshold, Cochrane flipped a makeshift switch. The door’s jam and floor had been wired to electrocute Eduardo. He jolted stiff, then shuddered for some moments before he collapsed on the floor.

I needed to act quickly.

Simon hadn’t realized that I observed the drama. Before he could inhabit Eduardo’s body, I jumped in ahead of him. 

I heard Cochrane swear in frustration. 

Inside Eduardo, I grabbed his soul by the scruff of the neck to keep the spirit from popping out until I could kickstart his heart. To my relief, Eduardo revived, and I left his body. I wondered if he’d remember what happened. Clearly, he understood he’d been in danger from Cochrane. He jumped to his feet and attacked, striking him with his fists and knocking him out. Lying unconscious on the floor, I could see Simon’s ghost desperately trying to awaken Cochrane.

Eduardo ripped some electrical wire from the doorway and used it to bind Cochrane’s arms and legs. He pulled out his phone and dialed 9-1-1. By the time the police arrived, Cochrane had recovered and was sitting up. Inside him, Simon looked helpless. 

Eduardo showed the cops the boobytrap and described how Cochrane had attempted to electrocute him. When the police moved to arrest and cuff Cochrane, Simon squeezed out of his body and Cochrane fell limp, dead in their arms.

An EMT appeared and confirmed that Cochrane had expired. The cops insisted that Eduardo accompany them to the station to make a statement.

When they’d left, Simon, as red-faced as a ghost can get, confronted me.

“You bastard. You couldn’t mind your own business?”

“Whether you’re dead or alive, committing murder is wrong.”

“Yeah. Mister Model Citizen.” He huffed. “You were jealous that I was alive.” 

Was envy part of my motivation? I shook that off. 

“Now,” he concluded, “I’m back where I started.”

“Pursue your evil outside of Brooklyn if you don’t want to suffer a repeat failure.”

As Simon stormed from the apartment, I said to his back, “I’m keeping an eye on you,” realizing that if he tried to murder another young man, I’d be lucky to stop him.

When I returned home, I found voice mail messages from prospective female clients seeking my help to get the goods on their cheating husbands. After my experience with Cochrane and Simon, the thought of returning to messy divorce cases felt like a relief. As I said, since becoming a PI, my increased interaction with people, alive or dead, hasn’t always been uplifting.