The Omission Index, Ch. 2- Static Harvest, Pt. 2

The investigation deepens in Gary, 1976. Hale identifies a suspect behind the suicides, but the true danger emerges when the psychic broadcast targets Officer Ramirez.

The abandoned WLTH station was dark, with only the faintest glow of daylight creeping through the boarded-up windows. A musty odor of mold and old papers permeated the air. The floor was strewn with broken pieces of wood, old cans and bottles, and scraps of paper, the last of which crunched beneath Hale's boots as he walked through the space.

"How long has this place been closed?" Hale asked Lula.

"Years. It's a shame. When I was a girl, it was a nice place." Lula sighed. "They used to have a show about gardening. My mother loved that program."

Hale had brought only Lula and Kwan with him. He had left Knopff and Reid back at the station, wanting his most trusted partners—and the local insight Lula provided—for this initial sweep.

"Can we get our hands on the employee records from the station?" Hale asked.

"Not sure if those records are still being maintained," said Lula.

"Look into tax records," Hale said. "Anything. We need to track down anyone who's associated with the station."

"I'll get on it," said Lula. "You think someone who worked here is behind the deaths?"

"It's a lead."

"Maybe," said Lula, "but I've never known the media to kill people."

"There's a first time for everything," said Hale. "The person responsible could be hiding out here. It's as good a place as any."

"Here' is a pretty big place," Kwan said, gesturing to the expansive, shadowy space around them. "How do we narrow it down?"

"I don't know yet," said Hale. "But I have a feeling we'll find out soon."

Lula and Kwan had their sidearms out, moving cautiously. Hale remained unarmed by choice; he needed his full concentration to detect the subtle echoes, and the weight and presence of a gun were unwelcome distractions.

The station was relatively small, only three stories tall. The three of them made their way to the main broadcast room on the second floor, where banks of equipment still stood, shrouded in dust and neglect. The room was filled with old, outdated broadcast consoles, reel-to-reel machines, and turntables. The screens on the monitoring equipment were all blank, dead eyes staring into the gloom.

"You'd think a company would have sold this stuff off," Kwan commented, nudging a heavy, stand-alone microphone that looked like it belonged in the 1940s.

Hale peered over the main console desk, his eyes scanning for anything out of place. The dust was less dense here, disturbed in patches, suggesting someone had been in the room fairly recently. He searched his memory for the nuances of radio equipment he'd picked up over the years. Which buttons and knobs would be used most frequently for a simple broadcast? What parts would likely remain untouched?

"Do you guys see a logbook anywhere?" he asked. "A notebook, maybe, kept near the recording equipment?"

"Nothing obvious," said Kwan after a sweep of the nearby surfaces.

"Right," Hale murmured. "The old-fashioned way, then."

He began systematically touching switches, dials, and faders on the console, pausing after each contact, extending his tactile net, searching for residual echoes. He started with the microphone Kwan had pointed out. He touched the base, the stand, the pop filter. Something faint, but nothing substantial – just a lingering metallic echo, a tinny psychic hum that often accompanied Auracium use.

The same was true of the other items on the console. The large monitor speakers gave off a faint buzz, but no discernible message or emotion. The tuning dials offered nothing.

"I think whoever was here tried to cover their tracks," Hale said, rubbing his temples where a faint thrumming had started. "All I'm getting is that metallic hum. It's like a sonic shadow left by significant Auracium use. It overwrites or masks fainter, more organic echoes. No distinct messages."

"How can you be sure it wasn't just some vagrant sleeping here?" Lula asked, her hand resting on her holstered weapon.

"The Auracium residue suggests otherwise," Hale replied. "And the way it's obscuring things... whoever did this knew enough to use Auracium at an intermediate level, maybe to power the broadcast, maybe to deliberately muddy the psychic waters. This isn't someone just dabbling; they have some experience."

Hale covered his mouth with his palm, thinking. He could see Kwan and Lula exchanging glances, waiting.

He turned back to the microphone. Instead of just touching it lightly, he focused his tactile net, pushing it forward, enveloping the microphone head as if squeezing it. The metallic hum intensified in his senses, but beneath it, echoes splurted out, fragmented and desperate, like gasps from a strangling victim.

Fragments of thoughts. Words.

"...Need to feed... need to survive... so hungry..."

Hale pushed harder with his power, ignoring the mounting pressure behind his own eyes, feeling like he might crack the old plastic casing.

A melody broke through the static. Distorted, but recognizable. Polish lyrics. Hale knew the haunting vocals instantly. Czesław Niemen. The iconic Polish rock-blues singer. The song lamented the evil in the world, the callousness of man.

Hale abruptly released his psychic grip on the microphone. The sudden absence of resistance made the hum in his ears roar, momentarily drowning out the sounds of the room. He winced, steadying himself with a hand on the dusty console.

"What's wrong?" Kwan asked, taking a step closer.

Hale looked up, seeing the concern etched on his partner's face. "I'm fine," he managed, waving a dismissive hand, though the hum lingered. "I got something," he said. "Whoever's doing this... they're Polish-American too. That should narrow things down. Talk to former station employees who fit that demographic. Not just them, their families, friends."

"That could take days," said Lula.

"Yeah, it will."

"What else?" Kwan asked.

"They're probably a fan of Czesław Niemen."

"Niemen?" Lula questioned.

"Rock-blues singer from Poland," said Hale. "Big in the sixties. Still resonates."

"Why that specific singer?" Lula asked.

Hale met her gaze but didn't elaborate on the song's specific despairing lyrics he'd sensed, the justification held within them. The suspect hadn't just listened to the song; the echo suggested they believed it, deeply. "It's a strong connection," he said simply.

***

Lula hated being here. The grief in the St. Stanislaus parish hall felt thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of incense and melting beeswax candles. The Polish parish in Gary was holding a vigil for those who had taken their own lives, a special prayer service for the devastated families.

The hall was crowded. Hundreds had come, their faces etched with sorrow and confusion. People sat huddled in the pews, some sobbing quietly. The late afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting long, amber shafts of light across the somber gathering.

Lula sat beside Hale in the front row. Kwan was on Hale's other side, a quiet, solid presence. Hale himself was still, his face somber, eyes fixed on the altar where Father Jankowski stood. The priest, usually known for his round, jolly face and booming laugh, looked diminished, his thick white beard seeming to weigh him down. Lula knew him well; she couldn't reconcile the man she knew with the sorrow engulfing her community.

Father Jankowski's voice trembled as he spoke. "This community has suffered greatly. We are a small community, a tight-knit one, and each of us feels this loss. A neighbor, a family member, a friend. Our hearts go out to the families, for we know their pain is unimaginable."

A woman seated behind Lula let out a heart-wrenching wail in Polish, words Lula didn't understand but whose anguish needed no translation.

"When the plants closed," the priest continued, his voice gaining strength, "our community felt the blow. We were all affected. And now... now these deaths. I know people blame themselves. Feel they didn't work hard enough, didn't fight hard enough. This is not true! There is nothing anyone could have done against the decisions made far away, by corporations driven by greed. They come, they promise, and when times get hard, they leave. They abandon us."

Heads nodded throughout the hall. Lula felt a familiar hollowness in her chest.

"These deaths," Father Jankowski said, his voice dropping, "these suicides... they are a sign. A sign that we are a community in trouble. That we must band together, help each other, support each other. We must remember who we are! Remember our strength! Because when times are difficult, we must have the courage to stay! To fight!"

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a moment on Lula. She shivered under the weight of it, averting her eyes, her stomach churning.

"We mourn tonight," he concluded. "We pray for the repose of their souls. But tomorrow, we move on. We remember. We do not allow our community to die. We keep fighting. And we remember the victims. For the Polish spirit is not defined by failure, but by courage, by resilience!"

"Amen," murmured voices around them. "We will not let their deaths be in vain."

"God bless you all," Father Jankowski said, making the sign of the cross. "Go with God."

The crowd began to rise, shuffling slowly, embracing, offering hushed words of comfort. Lula remained seated, frozen.

"Lula," Hale said quietly beside her. "You okay?"

She shook her head numbly. "No. This is... terrible. And I feel like... like I should have done something."

"You didn't know," Hale said simply.

"Didn't I? All these weeks... Maybe if I'd pushed harder, connected the dots sooner..."

"There's nothing you could have done differently to predict this," Hale stated firmly. "We're dealing with a Super using unknown methods."

"Yeah," Lula sighed heavily. "Don't you guys have a registry for Supers?"

"We do," Hale admitted. "But registration isn't foolproof. A lot don't register, especially if their families were ashamed or afraid. There's still stigma. We can't force compliance, even though it's technically illegal not to."

"So, we just wait for more people to die," Lula said bitterly.

"We'll stop him before that happens," Hale promised.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because we have leads now. Strong ones. We'll figure this out, Lula."

Lula nodded mutely, looking at the tear-streaked faces moving towards the exits. "Don't you feel anything?" she asked abruptly, turning to Hale. "These are your people too, Hale. Polish-Americans. They're hurting. Doesn't it affect you?"

Hale met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "I've never met any of them."

"But the connection... your heritage..."

"I have no personal connection to them," Hale stated, his voice even. "And seeking one now would cloud my judgment. Bias, preconception... those are luxuries I can't afford on a case. My focus has to be absolute."

"So, I'm the one with the bias?" Lula asked, a spark of anger flashing in her eyes.

"That's not what I'm saying," Hale countered, his tone sharpening slightly. "I'm saying personal connections make agents vulnerable. Every case involves pain, loss. If I absorbed that pain, let myself become personally invested every single time, I'd burn out or make mistakes. You build walls. You have to."

Lula bit her lip, looking away.

"Lula," Hale asked gently. "What is this really about?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"Are you thinking about Marco?"

She nodded, tears welling again.

"It wasn't your fault, Lula. Nothing in the reports suggests you could have foreseen or prevented it."

"I know," she whispered, her throat tight. "But he was family. My cousin. It feels like my responsibility."

"He made his own choices, Lula."

"You could at least pretend to feel sad," she said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Hale remained silent, but she saw something flicker deep in his eyes – a shuttered pain he refused to acknowledge.

"Sorry," Lula mumbled. "It's just... hard."

"I know," Hale said after a moment. He stood up. "Come on. Let's go."

Lula allowed Hale to guide her out of the hall into the cool evening air.

"What now?" she asked as they walked towards Hale's car, Kwan falling into step beside them.

"Back to the precinct," Hale said. "We follow the leads. Employee records, tax records, cross-reference with Polish-American families, known Niemen fans. We keep digging."

Lula glanced at Kwan. "What about you? Do you keep your feelings locked up too?"

Kwan offered a rare, wry smile. "Sometimes."

"Must be lonely."

"Better than the alternative," Kwan replied quietly. "Being eaten alive by it. You learn to cope."

"I suppose you do," Lula conceded.

"The silver lining," Hale interjected, "is that our killer isn't entirely invisible. The Auracium residue, the music choice, the language, the likely background... it all points towards someone specific. It won't be long now."

Lula felt a knot tighten in her chest. Hope felt dangerous. "I hope you're right," she said, not entirely believing it.

"Optimism, Lula," Hale said. "Or at least stubbornness. It's all we've got."

***

The Next Day

Hale disliked interviews. Poking, prodding, sifting truth from lies, fear, and self-preservation. It was exhausting.

The man sitting across from him in the sparsely furnished living room, however, seemed almost eager to unburden himself. The air smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and old dust.

"It was a bad time," Stan Korbacz said, his face a mask of remembered grief. "We lost everything. Our jobs, our homes. My kids... they went hungry. My wife cried herself to sleep every night."

"You're referring to the recession, after the mill layoffs," Hale prompted gently.

"'Recession'," the man spat the word. "Sounds like a little dip. This wasn't a dip. For us, it was the end of the world. We were poor to begin with. When the jobs went... we had nothing left. Nobody cared."

"Did you ever... consider ending things?" Hale asked carefully.

Korbacz didn't flinch. "Sure. Every day. I'm ashamed to say it now, but I prayed for death. For me, for my wife, my kids. It felt like the only way out, a mercy."

"What changed?"

"Nothing changed, not really. The world kept getting worse. But I looked at my kids. My wife. They needed me. Couldn't give up. So, I fought. Still fighting."

"I see," said Hale.

Korbacz laughed, a harsh, hollow sound. "Does that make me sound terrible? Thinking about it then, being glad I didn't now? Am I a coward?"

"Not at all," Hale said truthfully. The man's pain felt raw, genuine. No psychic alarms were going off; this wasn't their Super. Just another victim of circumstance.

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Korbacz," Hale said. "Just a few more routine questions, if you don't mind."

Stan gestured for him to continue.

"Are you familiar with the musician Czesław Niemen?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah. Powerful stuff."

"Do you enjoy his lyrics?"

"Yes. He tells the truth. Speaks truth to power."

"I see," Hale said. "Is anyone else in your family a fan?"

"My son, Miloscz. Big fan. Loves Niemen."

"Would he agree about the lyrics?"

"Oh, most certainly. But you'd have to ask him. He's at work now, down at the post office sorting facility. Why?"

"Just covering all bases," Hale said smoothly. "Is Miloscz interested in electronics? Does he tinker with things – transistors, TVs... radios?"

"Not really. But he listened to the radio a lot. One station especially."

Hale leaned forward slightly, keeping his posture relaxed but his senses sharp. "Which station was that?"

"Uh, Union Voice, I think it was called. Mostly oldies, but they played Niemen sometimes. He'd listen to that one song over and over... 'Dziwny jest ten świat'. Strange is this world. That was his favorite."

Hale felt his pulse quicken. 1370 AM. He glanced at Kwan and Lula, saw the same recognition in their eyes. This was it.

"Could we possibly take a look at Miloscz's room?" Hale asked, keeping his voice even.

Stan looked surprised. "He doesn't keep much. He's... modest. Not much junk in there."

"We'd still appreciate a quick look. Standard procedure."

Stan shrugged, resigned, and led them down a short hallway to a small bedroom. The walls were painted a pale, institutional green. A single bed was pushed against one wall, a simple dresser beside it holding a few framed photos. The room was tidy, almost spartan. A set of bookshelves stood near the bed, and a small desk under the window held an old portable radio and a stack of magazines.

"We're looking for anything unusual," Hale said. "Would you mind waiting outside, Mr. Korbacz? It won't take long."

"Alright," Stan said, closing the door behind him.

Hale turned to Lula and Kwan. "Check the desk, bookshelves. Kwan, closet. Lula, dresser. The radio's obvious, but let's be thorough."

They moved quickly and quietly. Lula opened dresser drawers, Kwan searched the small closet, and Hale began flipping through the magazines on the desk – mostly technical journals and sci-fi digests.

"Anything?" Lula murmured, closing the bottom drawer.

"Found this," Kwan said, holding up a small, crumpled piece of silvery mesh, like fine netting made of foil, tucked away on the closet shelf.

Hale took it, rubbing the material between his fingers. He reached out with his senses and immediately felt it – the distinct, cold, metallic hum. "Auracium," he confirmed.

"Woven into a foil?" Kwan asked, frowning.

"A prototype, maybe," Hale mused. "Testing the weave, the energy conduction. The actual transmitter antenna would need something much larger, probably too big to hide easily in the house."

"Makes sense," Kwan agreed.

"Found meds," Lula said, holding up a small prescription bottle from the nightstand drawer. "Valium."

"Antidepressants," Hale noted. "Fits with what his father said about the recession hitting him hard."

"You think he's our guy?" Lula asked, her voice low.

"Niemen fan, listens to 1370 AM, potentially unstable, now confirmed access to Auracium... It's looking likely," Hale said grimly. He walked back out to the living room where Stan Korbacz waited nervously on the edge of the couch.

"Stan," Hale began, his voice gentle but firm. "Is there something about Miloscz you haven't told us?"

"No," Stan said quickly, too quickly.

"When did he Activate, Stan?"

Stan's face drained of color. "Activate?"

"Yes. When did his powers manifest?"

Stan shook his head, hands beginning to tremble. "I... I don't understand."

"It's a simple question."

"Miloscz doesn't have powers."

"Is that what he told you? Or what you chose to believe?" Hale pressed gently. "Your son has a gift, Stan. A potentially dangerous one."

"You're wrong."

"Think back. When he was a teenager. Did he ever go away unexpectedly? Any unexplained absences? Strange changes in behavior you couldn't account for?"

Stan rubbed his temples. "He was a moody kid. Teenagers..."

"Think hard, Stan. Any period he was gone?"

Stan hesitated. "Maybe... for a couple of weeks. One summer. When he was fourteen."

"Where did he go?"

"Some camp... up in Michigan, I think. Said it was for hiking, nature stuff."

"And how was he when he came back? Different?"

"He was always quiet," Stan admitted slowly. "But... yes. Quieter still. More intense. Serious. I thought it was just growing up."

"He went to an Activation camp, Stan," Hale said flatly. "Run by some guru or grifter promising to unlock potential. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it twists things. He's a Super, Stan. And we believe he's involved in the suicides."

"No!" Stan cried, half rising from the couch. "Miloscz wouldn't... he couldn't! He's sensitive, he's hurting himself! He takes medication! This is... it's a cry for help, maybe, not..."

Suddenly, Kwan appeared in the hallway doorway, his expression urgent, hand hovering near his weapon. "Hale! Problem. Lula turned on the radio in his room. Now she's... just standing there. Eyes glazed over."

Hale's blood ran cold.

"You have to believe me!" Stan pleaded. "My boy isn't a killer!"

"We'll discuss it later, Stan," Hale said curtly, already moving towards the bedroom.

"You can't arrest him!" Stan grabbed Hale's arm. "You have no proof! I know our rights!"

Hale yanked his arm free and pushed into the small bedroom. Lula stood rigidly beside the desk, staring vacantly at the old portable radio, which now emitted a low hum and the faint, haunting strains of Niemen's voice.

"Lula," Hale said, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

She didn't react.

"Turn off the radio," Hale snapped at Kwan.

"No," Lula whispered, her voice raspy, unfamiliar.

"Lula," Hale said more firmly. "Look at me."

She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, yet held a disturbing intensity. She mumbled something, words slurred, thick with an accent that wasn't her own. Broken Polish.

"Nie bój się, córeczko. Będzie dobrze," she intoned softly, melodically.

"What did she say?" Kwan asked, hand now firmly on his sidearm.

Hale felt a chill despite the stuffy room. "She said... 'Don't be afraid, little daughter. Everything will be fine.'"

"She keeps repeating it," Kwan reported grimly.

Hale reached past Lula and switched off the radio. The music died abruptly.

"No!" Lula cried out, a raw sound of protest. "Please... no..."

Hale grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to face him fully. "Lula! What's happening? Fight it!"

"He's... talking to me," she stammered, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "His voice... it feels... warm. Safe. Please, let me listen."

"It's a manipulation, Lula! Fight it!"

"It's too strong..." she sobbed.

"Come on, Lula! Snap out of it!" Hale cursed under his breath. He hated this. Hated doing it.

He grasped her temples firmly with both hands, fingers pressing against her skin. Closing his eyes, he extended his tactile net, sinking psychic hooks into her aura like clamping jumper cables onto a battery. Then he pulled, hard, drawing her surging, chaotic emotions into himself.

It was a violation. A forced intimacy. A desperate last resort.

"Oh God," Lula gasped, shuddering. "Stop... please..."

"Fight it, Lula! It's not you! It's him!"

"Please..."

"Fight him! Don't give in!"

Her emotions flooded him – grief for Marco, guilt, fear, despair, amplified and twisted by Miloscz's influence. It was a tidal wave threatening to pull Hale under. Woven through it, he could hear Miloscz's psychic voice – crooning, insidious, tempting.

"Nie bój się, córeczko. Będzie dobrze," it whispered, a siren song of oblivion.

And then, another layer beneath it, colder, more focused: "Gary Works. Parking Lot. Thursday."

"No," Hale grunted, straining against the psychic onslaught. He tightened his grip, focusing on the physical anchor – the warmth of Lula's skin, the frantic thrum of her pulse beneath his thumbs. He sucked in the toxic brew of emotion like a vacuum, feeling dizzy, his own heart pounding.

Gradually, Miloscz's insidious whisper faded from the Maelstrom.

Hale released his grip, staggering back a step, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, looking intently at Lula.

She blinked rapidly, wiping furiously at her eyes. She looked shaken but present. "What... what was that? What did you do?"

"I'm sorry," Hale said, feeling drained. "I had to break his hold, get his voice out of your head. Sometimes... the only way is to pull the amplified emotion fueling the connection."

"That was... incredibly intense."

"Yeah," Hale agreed raggedly.

"Did you get anything useful?" she asked, her voice still trembling slightly.

Hale nodded, slumping onto the edge of Miloscz's bed, trying to clear his head.

"Are you alright?" Kwan asked, stepping closer, his concern evident.

"Miloscz," Hale said, looking up at them. "He's planning another attack. Another death."

"Where?" Kwan demanded.

"Gary Works. The steel mill. Tomorrow. Thursday. In the parking lot."

"Who's the target?" Lula asked urgently.

"He didn't specify," Hale said, rubbing his forehead. "I don't think Miloscz even knows yet. Just the time and place."

"Parking lot... he'll use a car radio," Kwan deduced quickly. "Broadcast range will be limited. But how do we know which car? Who to protect?"

"I don't know," Hale admitted. "So, what do we do?" Lula asked, straightening up, her police training kicking back in despite the ordeal.

Hale took a deep breath, pushing past his own psychic exhaustion. "We get there early tomorrow. And we wait."