Psychic City

by Page Turner

  “Where does it bring us?” Penny said.

  Viv brought out her notes on the case and spread them before Penny and Karen.

  “Geez, Viv,” Penny said. “This is busier than Amarynth’s board. Guess you learned more than painting from your old art teacher… what was his name again?”

  “Mr. Herman,” Viv said. “And I suppose so.” She smiled thinking about the old guy. He was old when he’d taught her over a decade ago and in those days never well for more than a few days at a time. She suspected he’d passed by now, but she could remember all too well his love of conspiracy – and his flair for visually representing it.

  An entire wall of his home studio had been plastered in a wide variety of maps – over which he’d pasted news articles about strange happenings, tracing a spidery network of ley lines between them. Conduits of power, he’d called them.

  It was all a little spooky Viv’d had to admit, but of all the people who seemed troubled by the emergence of the Psychic Phenomenon, Mr. Herman had found a more constructive outlet than most. Or at least, a pretty darn harmless one.

  Mr. Herman had also let her know that he met with other likeminded folks, people who were attempting to pool their knowledge and find a way to explain the psychic emergence. The Web Spinners, they called themselves. To Viv it seemed more like a supernatural fantasy football league. They got awfully invested in their analyses, but at the end of the day, that knowledge wasn’t ever applied. They adjourned, split up, and went to their respective everyday lives – which remained largely unchanged by their extracurricular activities.

  And the world at large barely knew they existed.

  When she’d dropped out of art school to join PsyOps, Viv had quickly forgotten all about Mr. Herman and the Web Spinners. But Penny was right. It appeared that something about that experience had stuck, and she’d internalized a way of organizing complex, contradictory information that made sense to her but to a third party looked pretty darn cracked.

  Viv riffled a stack of papers through her fingers as she thought.

  “Okay,” she announced in as resolute a voice as she could muster, hoping that feigned confidence would convince herself as well as her audience, “if we’re looking at women, that narrows the field considerably. We have just a few suspects that haven’t been ruled out.”

  “Martin’s sister, Darian Meek,” Penny said.

  Viv nodded.

  “It isn’t her,” Karen said.

  “And just how do you know that?” Viv asked.

  Karen frowned. “Viv, it’s all wrong. All of my intuition is telling me it’s not her.”

  “Karen,” Viv said in a small voice, “I don’t mean any offense by this but…”

  Karen steeled herself for Viv to say something rude, as pretty much every time someone started out by saying “no offense,” offense was sure to follow.

  “…intuition isn’t enough to rule out a suspect. Especially since you haven’t done a proper feel on her. This isn’t even your empathy talking. This is just your gut, isn’t it?” Viv finished.

  Karen sighed. She nodded. “But you know, Viv, you know better than anybody else how strong a gut feeling can be.”

  “I do,” Viv replied. “But strong isn’t the same thing as reliable. And anyway, subjective strength certainly doesn’t make for a convincing case for conviction.”

  “Tell that to some other PsyOps teams,” Penny muttered. She was right of course. Their role as PsyOps agents did allow them more leeway to accuse, arrest, and even charge than the normal police force. All you had to do was claim a gut feeling came from your psychic intuition and wave your fingers mysteriously, and the non-intuitive mucky mucks in the Psychic State government would look the other way – provided of course, the arrest didn’t run afoul of their own personal interests.

  Corruption ate both ways. Given the proper set of circumstances, it was possible for the innocent to end up condemned and the guilty to be set free. Everyone knew it.

  But that didn’t mean anything to Viv.

  “Look, the State might be okay with putting away innocent people in order to look more efficient or to help the president win another election, but I’m not,” Viv said. “And I never will be.”

  “I know,” Penny replied. “And I know you’re right.” She got a faraway look on her face. “I just don’t know how long it’s going to be okay to think like that.”

  Viv frowned. “Don’t go there,” she said. “I know it’s been bad the past few years, with all the changes. The cutbacks, the extra regulations. But the war is over now. There are other changes happening, too.”

  Penny didn’t say anything.

  “There are,” Viv replied. “Has it been getting worse? Sure. But at any moment it could get better. There are still good things in the world, even if you have trouble seeing them sometimes. Even if they’re crowded out by darkness, pettiness, fear. People are creating and inventing and living happy lives. There are good things still in the world, things that are moving forward. And those good things aren’t just going to stop developing and going exciting places because the wrong people are in charge.”

  Penny and Karen didn’t say anything.

  “And while that happens, I’m going to keep acting like corruption’s days are numbered. Not just because I can’t stomach becoming one of the monsters – although I suppose that’s true – but because I really do believe that there’s hope. I feel like we’re on the edge of something big, and nobody – not you, not me, and not even the people in charge – knows what we’re going to tumble over into next. All I know is that the future is uncertain, so uncertain that an entire army of precogs couldn’t predict what’s ahead of us,” Viv replied.

  Penny nodded.

  “Regina Withers,” Karen said.

  “Hm?” Viv said.

  “That’s the other suspect that makes sense,” Karen said. She pointed to a small web that Viv had traced between various facts. “Think of it. Proximity to Bronson Eck. She’s the producer on his family’s reality TV show. She has a vested financial interest in his being freed from prison, right?”

  Viv nodded. “Yes, I suppose she does.” She didn’t say it aloud, but she was a little irritated she hadn’t thought of that first.

  “She’s also potentially a ‘damn rich asshole.’ She could have been the one on the other end of that suspicious phone call that Heather took,” Penny said. Phone records had been less than helpful. There was a call at the time that Martin’s sister had reported, but the number traced back to a burner phone. Nothing they could tie to a suspect.

  “Although,” Viv said. “We only have Darian Meek’s word for that. And she could have lied about that to direct suspicion away from herself.”

  “True,” Karen admitted. “But let’s just take a second and stay with Withers for another minute.”

  “Okay,” Viv said. “She wasn’t on the list of crowdsourced investors, for one.”

  “No,” Karen said. “But Bronson Eck was.”

  Viv frowned. “Why would she kill to cover his interests again? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, not as we’re thinking about it now, no,” Karen said. “But let’s make it make sense.”

  Viv groaned. “I hate this game.”

  “I know,” Karen replied. “But it’s worked well in the past.”

  “Fine,” Viv said, because Karen was right.

  “Okay, what would make Regina Withers willing to kill multiple times for Bronson Eck?” Penny said.

  “Bias,” Viv replied.

  “Hm?” Penny said.

  “The big kind of bias,” Viv said.

  “Maybe they’re lovers,” Karen said.

  “Oh please,” Penny said. “She’s classy. Powerful. Accomplished. He’s a sleazy trust fund baby who can’t keep it in his pants.”

  “I’ve seen s
tranger matches,” Viv replied.

  “Viv!” Penny protested.

  “What?” Viv said. “I know she’s your hero, but when it comes to their love lives, people sometimes have really questionable taste.”

  Penny frowned. “I could say something really mean right now, but I’m not going to.”

  “I know,” Viv replied. “I’m evidence of your questionable taste. It’s fine.”

  Penny sighed. “It’s no fun when you say it for me.”

  Karen giggled. “Anyway, I think that’s where we should look next. We need to check on the alibis of Darian Meek and Regina Withers.”

  And so they did.

  Checking Darian’s alibi turned out to be a rather quick affair. Department of Corrections could account for her whereabouts at the time of the third set of murders. Darian had unfortunately indulged once again in illegal substances, and at the time the crime was committed, she was being held awaiting trial, behind bars, a guest of the State.

  Martin told the team that he’d briefly considered springing his sister out via bail but was perturbed enough this time to let her sit in there and think for a while.

  “Besides,” he added, “when she’s in jail, at least I know where she is.”

  He’d felt cruel making the decision, he told them. The way he was raised, you weren’t supposed to let your family suffer in such a way. “But I guess I ended up doing her a bigger favor,” he said. “Since she’s been cleared of suspicion.”

  “Funny how these things work out sometimes,” Viv had replied. It was a frustrating development. As much as she liked Martin and didn’t want anything awful to happen to anyone in his family, it would have been a much simpler matter seriously investigating someone like Darian Meek than a high-profile person like Regina Withers.

  With his sister cleared of suspicion, however, Martin was happy to call in some extra favors, even if it meant exposing the department – and his team in particular – to more scrutiny.

  Still, confirming Withers’ alibi took days. Even with Martin on board pulling very important strings, there was a tremendous runaround as their calls were directed through a vast network of industry representatives, in charge of coordinating filming schedules and travel arrangements for network talent.

  However, at the end of the paper chase, a firm alibi hadn’t emerged. There remained ample time for Withers to have committed all three murders. It would be tight – but possible.

  This was enough for Martin to push a court order through to obtain a sample of Regina Withers’s blood. They braced themselves for Withers to hire high-powered lawyers and begin a prolonged court fight.

  However, this didn’t happen. Withers showed up at the appointed time and voluntarily gave a sample.

  “We’ve got her!” Viv exclaimed.

  “But if it’s her,” Penny said. “Why isn’t she putting up more of a fight?”

  “I don’t know,” Viv replied. “Maybe she’s cocky enough to think she can beat us post-arrest. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

  Penny frowned. It was true that she’d pedestalled Withers for decades at this point, and that did skew her impression of her in a way that was undeniable, but her fandom also meant she was quite familiar with Withers. What she would know. How she operated. This was no legal amateur. This was the Queen of True Crime they were talking about.

  Withers knew all about how suspects were investigated, how the State built its cases. In certain segments of her TV programs, Withers even gave advice to viewers about how they should act when suspected of a crime, and such advice was tailored based on guilt or innocence.

  If you were guilty, Withers advised, you surrendered nothing to the police. You made the entire process as onerous as possible.

  Hell, Penny remembered, if you were innocent but felt ill equipped to prove it, Withers advised similar. Make headaches for the police at every possible opportunity. Force them to pay more attention to other targets that were less of a hassle (and if you were innocent, these would also be targets that were more likely to have actually committed the crime).

  If Withers were guilty, she wasn’t following her own advice. She was acting as though she were innocent, and that time would easily prove it.

  That’s why Penny wasn’t surprised when the blood test results came back later that afternoon: Wrong blood type. Not a match. Martin wasn’t going to bother to send it to the United States for DNA testing. No need to squander another favor when it wasn’t going to lead anywhere.

  Viv was crushed. Their last promising suspect was cleared.

  How were they ever going to solve this case?

  Taking a Flyer

  The very next day, still feeling the sting of reaching yet another dead end, Karen wandered through a maze of shops, ones she’d never seen before and wasn’t sure she’d ever see again. Skinner could be like that sometimes. Certain neighborhoods were a risky place to open a business. It wasn’t as though the locals could afford to buy most of what they were selling, confined to a paltry psychic allowance, a pittance after they were taxed for existing.

  Really, the businesspeople were at the mercy of business travelers and tourists. People who were in Skinner for the day, a weekend, or perhaps a week conducting business or gawking at the native tueys, like a busful of visitors to Amish country would gape at the locals.

  Karen suspected tourism was the true golden goose that businesspeople were chasing, just based on the establishments that seemed to do the best. Keep the busiest. And stay around the longest.

  The more tourism-centered a business venture was, the more successful it was. The crown jewel of Skinner’s Chamber of Commerce was arguably the Museum of Psychic Innovation. Priced just beyond the budget of most intuitives, even the comparably monied Green Star variety, the museum chronicled the emergence of the first precogs, the still developing frontier of psychic taxonomy, and as the brochures boasted, the way that the government had “cleverly harnessed psychic power to build a better society.”

  Yes, it actually said that.

  More like exploited us, Karen had thought the first time she had stumbled onto one of the brochures. One that had flown away from someone’s hand and stuck unceremoniously to a trash can, demonstrating why such pamphlets are often called flyers.

  Lost in her own thoughts and taking random turns down streets without thinking, she almost missed a familiar face sitting out on the patio at Cambria, a bougie café just outside Skinner’s psychic inner ring, a place that boasted of serving genuine Italian espresso but whose baristas also couldn’t be bothered to seem excited about doing it.

  Karen almost missed the familiar face but not quite.

  It was Viv’s mother, Tender Lee. Sitting across from a man in a business suit. Tender was predictably engaged in a kind of obvious pantomime of adoration. This was her default behavior around men, especially ones that appeared wealthy. Her breasts swung under a dress that managed to simultaneously showcase impressive décolletage and also to be loose enough that the rest of her spectacular figure was obscured enough to instill intrigue. She laughed at regular intervals, a throaty passionate laugh, but one whose authenticity you would begin to doubt if you looked into her eyes and saw her smaller expressions and lack of reaction, not all of which could be attributed to Botox.

  Still, Viv’s mother looked spectacular. A good 30 years younger than the age that was likely on her birth certificate. Not that she let anyone see it.

  That woman really knows how to dress, Karen thought, lifting her hood and pulling up the strings on her hoodie tighter. Tightly enough so that they’d obscure her face should Viv’s mother look in her direction.

  The last thing I need is a run in with Viv’s mom. Their interactions were always tense, awkward. And besides, Tender was clearly busy entertaining a man of great interest.

  Even as she hid beneath her hood, however, Karen
found it hard to look away from Tender, as she always did. Tender was nothing if not eye-catching. There was something wildly improbable about her appearance. Karen noted Tender’s makeup was flawless, her blonde hair impeccably coiffed – except…

  Karen stopped dead in her tracks. Gray roots peeked up from Tender’s scalp. Enough gray showing that Karen could see them from where she stood across the street from the café.

  Enough undyed growth to make it evident that it had been months since she’d had her hair colored.

  But that was her alibi, Karen thought. That’s why we ruled her out.

  Tender’s hair looked nice enough other than that, but it was clear that she hadn’t seen a colorist in quite some time.

  As she walked closer to Tender and her gentleman friend, Karen felt their emotions simultaneously. With concentration, however, she was able to quickly sort out which emotions belonged to which person. The man felt pride and a hint of sexual arousal. Tender felt bored.

  At that very moment, Tender turned and spotted her. And her boredom flicked over to rage.

  Karen took off running. Her feet carried her all the way home. She didn’t stop or look back. Although emotions assailed her every second of the jog, coming from random people on the street, in cars, even people relaxing in their homes just out of her visual sight, Karen didn’t digest or process them. She flew, operating on blind instinct.

  Besides, the din seemed relatively muted compared to the screaming in her own chest. The anxiety. The dread of everything that could follow if her instincts were correct.

  It can’t be, she thought, her own breathing becoming heavy as she ran, the blood rushing into her ears. It can’t be. But it is.

  When she reached their house, the wall of other emotions fell and she was left with her own. Viv and Penny looked up at her, their faces dropping into unison demonstrations of relief.

  A pantomime of Oh there you are. We were so worried about you. We’re glad you’re safe.

  Knowing that Viv and Penny had been worried about her made what Karen had to say next even harder to say.