AfterNet 01 - Good Cop Dead Cop

Chapter 1
WASHINGTON, D.C. (AP) — Since the discovery of the afterlife, police departments across the country can’t retain officers and are finding it increasingly difficult to hire new ones, according to a Department of Justice study released today.
“Even before the discovery, many departments were bracing for a wave of retirements as officers hired in the mid-1970s approach retirement. … But since 2000, recruitment goals are down nationwide 25 percent,” the study said. “At the same time, violent crime, which was on the decline in the mid-1990s, has risen sharply. And most of the violent crime increase is not related to drugs, theft or property crimes, but to civil disorder: riots and demonstrations.”
Deputy Attorney General Rosalind Bresnahan, speaking at a press conference to announce the study, said, “The riots may have peaked at the end of the millennium, but the potential is always there. The level of violence is escalating and the risks the police face are forcing many officers to think, ‘Is this job worth the risk?’”
    Munroe peeked around the doorway and ducked back.
    Shit ! thought Munroe . I don’t have to do that. I’m dead, remember. Oh yeah, that’s right, he said to himself. Bullets cannot harm me. I’m Superman!
    He moved back into the open doorway and looked at the dark void of the room. His sight slid into the infrared but he saw nothing. No electrical or water services seemed to enter this room in the sub-basement of the old train station. I never knew this cow town had anything this old, he thought, or this big.
    He pulled back out of the empty room and continued down the brick-walled corridor, following the infrared glow of the water pipes above him. He almost imagined he could hear the drip of water. How long had he been down here? Five minutes at the most, he thought. Damn! If I could only wear a watch. They might be getting worried back there. Worried about what? he countered. They know nothing can happen to me.
    Munroe continued down the corridor and peeked through a glass door that showed a confusing scene. Lit only by a desk lamp somewhere in the back, he saw the shapes of mountains, in fact the same Rocky Mountains he saw every day looking west.
    He looked at the sign printed on the glass door — “Platte Valley Model Railroad Engineers.” It was a vast model train layout. Interesting, I got to check this out sometime.
    Suddenly to his left he saw a glow move in the corridor and disappear as the suspect he’d been following ducked into another one of the little rooms. How many are down here? I must be out beyond the walls of the building. I think I’m underneath the train platforms. He continued down the corridor and saw that the pipes overhead stopped. Sliding back into visual light, he saw that the wall he faced confirmed that the corridor ended here. Looking to his right, where the person had run, he saw a solid door that was partially open. Sliding back into infrared, he saw on the door the smudge of a handprint now fading into invisibility.
    The door left an eight-inch gap against the frame. A little tight, but some momentum should get me through. He backed up and willed himself through the opening, feeling himself stretched thin and tensing himself for the sproing of his essence reforming.
    Ugh, hate that. OK, let’s see what’s here.
    Only a small amount of light spilled through the open door, but it was enough for Munroe to make out that the room held stacked boxes about four feet high. Moving down the aisle formed by the boxes, he could see a small man huddled behind a large semi-automatic, using the boxes for cover. The room was maybe 10 feet by 20 and contained only the boxes, darkened fluorescent overhead lights and the suspect.
    Maybe 20 years old, a kid, thought Munroe, and definitely not matching the description of someone almost six feet tall and well built. He might be Hispanic and he probably was a gang member and he most definitely was scared.
    This was not a good situation. Only one way into the room and the kid had the doorway covered. If they can’t talk him out, he’s leaving here dead. Yet again, Munroe wished he could do something, anything physical. If only I could wail and clank chains like Marley’s ghost. He moved closer to the kid to see if he had any other weapons besides the semi, which he now recognized as a .45-caliber Colt M1911, a beautiful weapon. Wow, big expensive gun for a small kid. The kid seemed to think so too,