The Omission Index, Ch. 1- Static Harvest, Pt. 1

A wave of suicides hits 1976 Gary, Indiana, when a ghostly AM broadcast echoes victims’ last thoughts—drawing Hale and Kwan into the static.

1976

Even in this economy, Hale’s job was better than most. He drove a decent sedan, not some gas-guzzler everyone was complaining about, but solid enough. His job afforded him regular meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner, usually hot. He’d bought a house almost four years ago on his salary alone; his wife didn't need to work.

There were days he didn't need to work at all. This wasn't one of those days.

Hale hated the percussive whump-whump-whump of the helicopter blades, the vibration rattling his teeth, but it was usually the fastest way to get from their Oregon base to wherever the job demanded.

Today, that was Gary, Indiana. The faint, pervasive scent of sulfur and industry already seemed to hang in the air miles out.

"Portal?" Kwan asked, his voice barely audible over the engine roar. He stared out the window, watching the cars shrink below, tiny metal bugs crawling along asphalt ribbons.

Hale managed a short laugh, shaking his head. "Regulations."

Kwan just grunted, turning back to the window. Hale knew better than to press. Kwan had fought in Vietnam, carried the weight of it in his silences. Choppers weren't his favorite way to travel, and Hale respected that without needing the details Kwan never offered.

"Think of the view," Hale offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Kwan didn’t turn. "Flat."

The flight droned on. Kwan seemed content watching the Midwestern checkerboard slide beneath them. Hale pulled out the faxes he’d grabbed detailing the Gary incident. Better to absorb the preliminary report before his boots hit the gravel. Steel town. Rough times. Suicides. Unusual suicides.

***

Officer Lula Ramirez felt the grit under her knees and the oppressive July heat on her back. This was the fifth suicide in two weeks. This one was Kaz Kowalski. Steelworker. Stepped off a rail yard overpass onto the tracks below. She could smell the creosote from the railroad ties mingling with something metallic and coppery.

Blood and brain matter painted the gravel around the terribly twisted body. Lula swallowed hard, the image flashing unwelcome similarities to her cousin, Marco. He'd jumped too.

Two men in olive green jackets, with "SHP" starkly embroidered over their hearts, were already directing the local forensics team, waving them back from the immediate vicinity. One held a device that whirred softly, its needle twitching – it reminded Lula of the Geiger counters from old sci-fi movies.

"What's that?" Lula asked, nodding towards the machine.

The agent holding it glanced at her, his expression blank. "Standard equipment."

"Who are you people, exactly? Those jackets... SHP?"

"Just passing through," the agent replied noncommittally.

The second agent, who'd been conferring quietly with the forensics lead, turned. He offered a tight, professional smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "He was a steelworker."

"He had a name," Lula insisted, heat rising in her own voice now. "Kaz Kowalski."

"If you know his name, Officer...?" the second agent prompted.

"Ramirez. Lula Ramirez. I was first on scene."

"Ma'am," the first agent said, his voice softer but firm. "This area is now under federal jurisdiction. You'll need to step back."

"Federal? Are you FBI?"

The second agent glanced at the first, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.

"Let's just say we handle cases that are... outside the norm," the second agent said. "We're SHEPARD."

"SHEPARD?" Lula repeated. "Your jackets say SHP."

"Older issue," the first agent clarified smoothly. "The agency is SHEPARD. We investigate unusual incidents." He paused, his gaze serious. "Like this one."

Lula frowned. "Unusual?"

"That's putting it mildly," the second agent added, a touch of smugness back in his tone.

Just then, a dark sedan pulled up, crunching over the loose gravel. Two men got out – a Caucasian man in his early forties with tired eyes but an alert set to his jaw, and an Asian man in his thirties who moved with quiet efficiency. They wore plain clothes – jeans, shirts, leather jackets – but carried the same laminated ID cards as the jacketed agents.

"Ah, Hale, Kwan," the second agent said, his forced smile tightening. "Took your time."

***

Hale disliked Reid and Knopff on principle. Their arrogance radiated off them, and their methods often felt heavy-handed, prioritizing containment over understanding. Yet, they consistently received commendations.

"Status?" Kwan asked, his voice low and even, cutting through the tension.

Reid consulted his clipboard. "Victim Kazimir Kowalski. Age forty. Apparent suicide. Impact trauma consistent with fall from height."

"The reason we're here, Reid?" Hale interjected, stepping past him towards the body, ignoring the local officer's surprised look.

"Elevated quantum signatures," Knopff said, gesturing vaguely with his detector. "Residual Auracium traces as well. Faint, but present."

"Quantum signatures?" Officer Ramirez cut in, her brow furrowed. Hale finally focused on her – local PD badge, determined set to her chin, eyes sharp despite the grim scene.

Knopff waved a dismissive hand. "Agency business, Officer."

"This is my city," Ramirez stated, her voice level but firm.

"And this is our investigation now," Kwan said, his quiet tone somehow carrying more weight than Knopff’s dismissal.

"Officer Ramirez," Hale said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. He recognized her type – good police, protective of her turf, needing answers. "I understand this is your scene, but incidents involving potential Super activity or related phenomena fall under SHEPARD's mandate. We'll handle it from here and liaise with your precinct chief later."

"With all due respect," Ramirez countered, stepping forward slightly, "five deaths in two weeks? One was my cousin, Marco. He jumped from a parking garage roof. Just like this." Her voice thickened slightly. "This isn't just 'phenomena,' it's killing people in my town."

Hale paused, raising an eyebrow. The personal connection shifted things. "Tell me about your cousin. Was he prone to depression?"

Ramirez took a visible breath. "Down sometimes, sure. Who isn't? But not like this. No history of serious mental illness. Not in the family."

"Tough times," Knopff offered dryly. "US Steel's been laying people off."

"Three hundred people got laid off," Ramirez shot back. "Marco wasn't one of them. He wasn't even a steelworker."

Hale nodded slowly. He knelt beside the body, a brief, unwelcome image of his own father, covered in mill grime after a long shift, flickering through his mind. Kaz Kowalski, Polish-American steelworker. It felt... close. He reached out, activating his 'tactile net' – a subtle shift in his perception, like static building behind his eyes, allowing him to sense the echoes of strong emotion and recent actions left on objects... and people.

He gently touched Kowalski's cold forehead. The echoes flooded in, fragmented and jarring, tinged with an overwhelming emptiness: Can't feel. Can't taste. Nothing tastes right. Nothing feels right. Can't go on. Can't go on. What's the point? Can't feel anything. Nothing. Just a shell. Not alive. What's the point. What's the point.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

A hand clamped onto Hale's arm. Ramirez pulled him back, her eyes wide with shock and anger. "You don't just... touch him like that!"

Hale pulled his arm free, shaking off the lingering psychic chill. "Doing my job, Officer."

"He's deceased! That's disrespectful... and tampering!"

"He was a person," Hale corrected, his voice low. "Recently. Memories, strong emotions... they leave an echo. My job is to read those echoes. His last thoughts, actions."

Ramirez stared, comprehension dawning. "You're... you're a Super?"

"Lots of us around these days," Kwan commented mildly, observing the interaction.

"But... the laws? You're not supposed to reveal..."

"The laws are complicated," Kwan said. "It's the seventies, Officer, not the forties. Whole generation of us living normal lives. Mostly."

"Normal," Hale echoed with a wry smirk. He refocused, reaching out again, closing his eyes, filtering the static for clearer fragments. Kaz at the mill... arguing with his girlfriend... staring blankly into a bathroom mirror... the drone of a radio playing indistinctly... the rail yard... I can't feel... jumping... The echoes faded into silence.

Hale opened his eyes, breathing slowly.

"Well?" Reid asked impatiently.

"Nothing concrete. Just... overwhelming apathy. Like a switch flipped about a week ago. Before that, seems he was fine. Then... empty."

"Empty?" Ramirez echoed, frowning.

"Can't explain it better than that," Hale admitted.

"Our instruments confirm zero external compulsion factors," Knopff announced with a hint of satisfaction, as if ruling things out was a victory in itself.

"So, that's it? Nothing?" Ramirez demanded.

"We need to look at the other victims," Hale said, standing up and brushing gravel from his jeans. "Find commonalities. Routines, schedules, connections."

"You'll keep me in the loop, then," Ramirez stated, more a demand than a question.

"That won't be necessary," Knopff began, but Hale cut him off.

"We will," Hale said, meeting Ramirez's gaze. "Informally. We need local context."

"This started as my case," Ramirez insisted.

"Your jurisdiction gets complicated when Supers or related phenomena are confirmed," Hale stated flatly. "We're federal agents with international purview. Think of us as... specialized consultants who take the lead." He saw the frustration in her eyes but also the desperation. "Look, Officer. We both want answers. You help us with local knowledge, access... we find out what happened to your cousin and the others. Unofficially, you're part of the working group. But SHEPARD files the report."

Ramirez hesitated, glancing towards the body, then back at Hale. "Fine. Just... find the truth."

"We will," Hale said. He had a bad feeling about this case, a chill that had nothing to do with his powers.

***

Lula Ramirez found herself coordinating with SHEPARD, a situation she deeply disliked. Hale and Kwan seemed professional, if strange, but Reid and Knopff treated the Gary PD station like a minor inconvenience. Still, it was her only way to stay involved.

They’d split up. Reid and Knopff headed to the coroner's office, clearly expecting resistance. Lula was back at the station with Hale and Kwan. The station smelled of stale coffee, cigarettes, and mimeograph fluid. A desk fan oscillated lazily, doing little against the afternoon heat.

"Decent town," Hale remarked, glancing around the utilitarian space – worn linoleum floors, metal desks, wanted posters curling at the edges.

"We manage," Lula replied curtly.

"Almost quaint," Hale continued, seemingly oblivious to her tone. "Not like Chicago."

"You're from Chicago?" Lula asked, surprised.

"Born and raised. South Side."

"Doesn't feel very Midwest sometimes," Lula mused.

"And you? You don't sound like you're from Gary."

"Guadalajara, originally. Moved here when I was three. This is home."

"Never been to Mexico," Hale said.

"Smaller Chicago, less smog, less crime," Lula offered with a small smile. It faded quickly.

Hale turned serious. "Get the families of the victims in here. Anyone who lived with them, close friends. We need routines, diets, habits. Specifically, when did they notice the change? The... emptiness."

"We already asked basic questions."

"Ask again. Ask specifically about mood shifts, loss of interest, changes in taste, sensory perception. Anything. Get them here. Now." Hale wasn't asking; he was assuming command of this part of the investigation.

Lula bristled but nodded. She was used to hierarchy, even if this felt imposed. "I'll get the desk sergeant on it."

"Good. I'll start reviewing the case files your department has."

"And if the families have nothing new?"

"Then we dig deeper. Toxicology reports, maybe tissue samples if the coroner cooperates."

"Can a Super power analyze blood?"

"No," Hale said flatly. "At least, no one we have on call. That takes a microscope and a lab. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He asked for coffee, and Lula pointed him towards the sputtering machine in the breakroom. The few other officers present watched Hale with wary curiosity as he walked past, his leather jacket and longer hair marking him as an outsider despite his Chicago roots.

"Where's your partner?" Lula asked when Hale returned, mug in hand.

"Kwan? Stepped out." Hale nodded towards the front door where Kwan stood leaning against the brick facade, watching the street. "Smoke break."

"You don't smoke?"

"Body's got enough weirdness going on," Hale said cryptically. "Don't need to add carcinogens." He took a sip of the arguably bad coffee.

"So, how did you end up... like this?" Lula asked, lowering her voice. "With the Shepherds, with... powers?"

Hale paused, his gaze distant for a moment. "It's SHEPARD," he corrected automatically. "A, not E. No S." He sighed. "It's not like the comics. No radioactive spider. We call it Activation. Usually happens during adolescence. For me? Polish-American family, dad worked the mills right here in the Calumet region, Mom fiddled with ham radios. One day when I was fourteen, I got encased in some kind of biological cocoon. Woke up... different. Able to sense the echoes. Residual thoughts, emotions, strong actions left behind on things... and people."

"Echoes," Lula repeated softly.

"Yeah. Faint. Like listening to a worn-out recording."

"You weren't in Vietnam, then?"

"Activation put me on SHEPARD's radar early. I was already with the agency by the time Vietnam escalated. Desk work mostly, back then." Hale turned back to the files spread across a borrowed desk, clearly signaling the end of that conversation thread.

Later, Reid and Knopff returned, tight-lipped. Lula overheard snippets – the coroner was being difficult, demanding federal warrants for anything beyond a standard autopsy.

"I can talk to him," Lula offered, stepping into their huddle.

Knopff scoffed. "He’s an old bull."

"So am I," Lula retorted.

Hale looked up from the files. "Give it a shot, Ramirez. Can't hurt."

"Don't wait up," Lula said, grabbing her keys.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Kwan murmured, having reappeared silently beside Hale.

***

Two hours melted away under the flickering fluorescent lights. Hale was three family interviews down, each conversation adding layers of grief and confusion but few solid leads. They were ordinary people – a teacher, a mechanic, Kaz the steelworker, Marco the cousin who worked in retail... lives marked by everyday struggles and small joys, suddenly extinguished by an inexplicable despair.

Kaz's family – parents, sister – were the most recent, their grief raw. Typical immigrant stock, proud, hardworking. Kaz went to trade school, loved his girlfriend, argued about politics, bowled on Thursdays. Normal. Until he wasn't.

"What did he eat?" Hale asked each family. Blank stares. Home cooking, maybe a TV dinner. "What did he drink?" Beer, sometimes whiskey. Water? Sure, tap water. "Entertainment? TV? Movies? Radio?" Movies were a luxury. TVs, some had them, some didn't. But radios? Everyone had a radio. Kitchen radios, bedside radios, portable transistors. They listened while working, cooking, falling asleep. It was the background noise to their lives.

That was the thread. Flimsy, but there.

"Bring me the radios," Hale had requested. "The ones they listened to most often."

Now, Hale sat staring at the growing pile of files, the scent of stale paper filling his nostrils. Reid and Knopff had commandeered the small lounge, the tinny sounds of a soap opera drifting out. Kwan sat nearby, methodically sharpening a knife with a whetstone, the soft shhk-shhk a counterpoint to the station's hum.

"Anything?" Kwan asked without looking up.

"One thing." Hale tapped the files. "Radios. Every victim listened regularly. Need to check the specific units, see if there’s residue, find the stations." The connection felt tenuous, but the consistency was undeniable. And Kaz's echo... the drone of a radio playing indistinctly...

"Long shot," Kwan observed.

"All we've got," Hale conceded. This case felt personal in a way he usually avoided. Kaz Kowalski, steelworker. Like Dad. The Polish names on the victim list resonated uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling down. Detachment was survival. They were here to fix the anomaly, hammer the nail back in, not mend the broken lives left behind.

"I'll check the units as they come in," Hale said.

"Good." Kwan paused his sharpening. "Ramirez called. She smoothed things with the coroner. He's cooperating. Sending preliminary tox reports over tomorrow."

"Progress."

The first radio arrived near sundown, brought in by a weary-looking patrolman. "Kaz Kowalski's family dropped this off," the officer said, setting a large, wood-grain tabletop radio on the desk. "Said it was his main one."

"Thanks," Hale said. "Appreciate it."

It took another two hours for the remaining radios to trickle in, brought by relatives or collected by officers. Kwan had gone out for takeout; greasy burgers and fries sat half-eaten on the desks.

Hale lined up the five radios. He had a list of local Gary AM and FM stations. He started with the first radio, tuning the dial slowly, his hand resting on the plastic, reaching with his senses. Static. A burst of Motown. More static. Nothing.

He moved to the second, then the third. News reports, crackly music, preachers. No echoes.

On the fifth radio, Kaz Kowalski's radio, he tuned towards the lower end of the AM band. As the needle hit 1370 AM, he felt it – a powerful wave of psychic residue, thick and cloying. Grief. Utter despair. So potent it made him gasp, leaning back in his chair.

"Hale? You okay?" Kwan asked, instantly alert, knife forgotten. Reid and Knopff looked over from the lounge doorway.

"Give me a second," Hale rasped, focusing. There was no broadcast signal on 1370 AM – just static. But beneath the static, buried in the echo left on the radio's components, he heard it: fragments of a song, a mournful baritone voice singing a haunting melody in Polish.

The melody tugged at childhood memories, sitting in his Babcia's kitchen, the smell of baking bread and the sound of her imported records.

"Find something?" Kwan pressed, moving closer.

"Something." Hale quickly checked the other four radios, tuning them precisely to 1370 AM. On each one, he felt the same sickening wave of despair clinging to that frequency, weaker on some, stronger on others, but undeniably present. And beneath it, the ghostly fragments of that same sad, looping song.

He strained to catch the lyrics through the psychic noise. Finally, a phrase surfaced, clear and chilling in its familiarity. "Tak jest i tak będzie..." Hale whispered, the Polish words feeling thick on his tongue. "Such is life... Such is the way it is."

"What's that?" Kwan asked.

"The song," Hale said, his voice low. "Old Polish lament. My grandmother used to play it. 'Such is life. Such is the way it is.' Haven't heard it in years." A cold dread settled in his stomach. "1370 AM. According to the registry, that frequency belongs to WUNV, 'Union Voice'. It's been dark since the '71 contract strikes. It shouldn't be broadcasting anything."

Kwan absorbed this, his expression grim. "A ghost signal on a dead station playing a song that amplifies despair. Plausible vector."

"More than plausible," Hale said. "I'll call Ramirez. Let her know we have a target frequency."

"Right," Kwan nodded. "What's the plan then?"

Hale met Kwan's gaze, a shared understanding passing between them. "We find the source of that broadcast. And we shut it down."

"And if shutting it down clean isn't an option?" Kwan asked quietly.

A hard smile touched Hale's lips. "Then we burn the place to the ground. Whatever it takes."

Kwan nodded slowly. "Whatever it takes."

***