by Linda Welch
He sounded angry now, but I expected that. Grief tosses you all over the emotional spectrum.
Nothing for it. I joined my hands atop the table - I no idea how to go about this. “Brad Spacer gave . . . mentioned me because I’m good at what I do. He also knows I have a talent which often gives me an edge over other investigators. Did he mention that?”
“No.”
“I find victims of violent crimes. I’m the last resort when the cops are stumped. Not that I was involved in their investigation of Trewellyn’s disappearance, I didn’t live in Utah back then.”
“But you found Jack after I came to you? Just like that? How, when everyone else failed?”
“I’m psychic, Mr. Jericho. I talk to the dead. I talked to Jack.”
There, I said it. Whew.
Poor man. Obviously, from his twisted expression, trying to process the little I told him screwed with his brain.
Then his face smoothed out. He gazed into a distance I couldn’t see, barked out a sound of disbelief and looked back with a curl to his lips. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” he murmured as he shook his head.
“Mr. Jericho, I know - ”
“Miss Banks, I know, and have known for some time, Jack must be dead. I wanted proof so I could let him go. Therefore, when the police failed me I sought other avenues of . . . investigation. I even went to a medium. He gave me messages from Jack. I knew him for a charlatan half an hour into his performance.”
He took me by surprise when he surged to his feet, lips a shade away from white, eyes steely with anger. I thought he was coming at me over the table. His voice rose harshly. “And now you have the gall to try the same trick on me!”
I shoved my chair back. “Jack. This was your idea. You can step in any time. Help me out, will you?”
Jack spoke from behind me. “We were ten. The Eagles Lodge had a big shindig. I dared him to sneak in and steal some fancy cookies. He knocked a dish off the counter, cut his hand. We told his parents he broke a dish at his house. We smashed one of his mom’s saucers and smeared his blood on it, because getting inside the Lodge was breaking and entering and he’d be in big trouble.”
“Eagles Lodge,” I said loudly. “Broken dish.”
Eyes fixed on mine, Jericho slowly sank down on his chair.
I repeated what Jack had said in full, then kept quiet as Jericho absorbed it.
“There are better ways to handle this. I expect the poor man doesn’t know what to think,” Mel said.
Easy for her to say, but she was right. I should have decided exactly what to say before he arrived.
Jericho dropped his gaze to fisted hands. “I don’t want to believe that, but how else could you know about the Lodge? We told no one.”
His posture changed, became alert. I could read his mind: Unless Jack told someone else, and they told me, and this was a scam.
“I know it’s difficult to believe, but what I do is no secret down at Clarion PD.” Except they don’t know I can summon the dead, because I can’t.
“You mean to say Jack is here?” he said. “You were talking to him just then? What did you mean when you said ‘this was your idea’?”
“To see you again. He wants this meeting.”
I glanced at Jack to see him with both palms stuck to his mouth. “I think he’s eager to speak to you. What do you say?”
He sounded weary now. He didn’t believe me, he humored me. “How do I talk to a dead man?”
I blundered on. “I’m the go-between. Jack can hear you; I tell you what he says.” Now I sounded like a phony, the sideshow clairvoyant with her crystal ball. I could say anything, and he was supposed to take on faith I wasn’t a scam-artist.
“Just do it,” Jack said from near my right shoulder.
“He doesn’t believe me, Jack.”
“He’ll change his mind when we get going.”
“You called him Trewellyn or Jackson before - now it’s Jack,” Jericho commented, voice laced with cynicism.
Um. “I feel familiar with him now.”
“And how,” from Mel.
“Tell him to ask me something,” Jack said.
I spoke to Jericho reluctantly. He didn’t trust me. As I predicted, this had turned into a farce. “Jack wants you to ask a question.”
Considering, Jericho pursed his lips. “Very well. Ask him how he died.”
Now I knew for sure he didn’t believe me. A man this sensitive to the loss of his friend would not ask that casually. “He can hear you, Mr. Jericho. I don’t need to ask him.”
“But you need to tell me what he says.”
The statement sounded like an accusation. Nope, not going at all well.
Jack stared right at Jericho and spoke to him, not me. “I was murdered,” he said dramatically.
“He was murdered.”
Jericho didn’t blink an eye. “Ask him how.”
“Talk to me, not her!” Jack said, swinging both hands up in irritation.
Yes, this acting the medium was awkward. I offered Jericho a halfhearted smile. “Jack says talk to him, not me.”
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” Jericho said.
I stiffened my spine. “Mr. Jericho, I’m doing this as a favor to you and Jack,” I pointed my index finger at the hallway, “but it’s all the same to me if you walk out the door and I never see nor hear from you again.”
He rose up. “I think it’s for the best, don’t you?”
Jack shot past me and stopped inches away from Jericho. He butted his head at him and put hands to hips. “Don’t you dare walk out on me again!”
I stood. “Forget it, Jack.”
No, I wasn’t angry, but I’d had enough. Never should have let Jack talk me into it in the first place. Stupid idea.
“Tell him what I said,” Jack told me.
I sighed. “Jack said, don’t you dare walk out on him again.”
Jericho went still. “What?”
I repeated it.
“I wasn’t the one who walked out,” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Jack as he flapped his hands before putting them back on his hips. “Who took off to Pinkie’s in a snit?”
Again, I repeated Jack’s words, and suddenly they were having a conversation with no guidance from me. Jericho fixed his gaze on a point halfway across the kitchen, not on me. He spoke as if he heard Jack’s voice, not mine repeating what Jack said.
“And who came after me because he didn’t trust me?”
Jack made a noise in his throat. “I did, but silly me, how stupid was that? You were having way too much fun without me.”
“I made a new friend, but you had to make a big deal out of it.”
“A guy feeling you up wasn’t a big deal?”
“You saw what you wanted to see.”
“You think I wanted to see another guy’s hands all over you? What am I saying, those weren’t hands, they were tentacles!”
I sat down hard.
Dale sounded world-weary. “Jack, it was innocent.”
“Innocent? With Mr. Muscles clinging to you like Saran Wrap?” I mumbled for Dale’s benefit.
“Bullshit! You couldn’t see past the green-eyed-monster!”
“Honey, you couldn’t see past the bulge in his pants.”
“Son of a bitch. You’re gay,” I said.
Silent, Jack and Dale looked at me and although Dale could not see Jack, he moved toward his old friend as Jack stepped to meet him. As if they drew together for comfort, or defense.
Why the drama? So they were gay, no big deal.
Wrong. Homosexuality was a huge deal in Utah when Jack was alive.
Knowing that, their story made sense. Like many Utah gays back then, they pretended to be straight to avoid stigma and condemnation, and out-and-out persecution was not uncommon. But New York City was already more accepting. That’s why Jericho left a promising career.
The tragedy of their lives struck me anew. If only they had stayed in N
ew York City, Jack would be alive, and maybe they would have twenty-four years of togetherness under their belts. New York is so much kinder to gays than good old Utah, which is still a challenge for those who want to make a life here.
And I had no idea. But how could I?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I almost asked Jack, but turned my head to Jericho just in time.
“What does it have to do with Jack’s murder?” Jericho kneaded his hands together. “Was it a hate crime?”
“I don’t have an answer for either those questions. But if I’d known, I could have asked my friends in the gay community about Jack.”
“It was underground back then, and we weren’t part of it,” Jack growled.
But Jericho thought I meant now. “I doubt you’d find anyone who remembers me and Jack.”
“Probably not,” I conceded.
“Can we get on with this?” Jericho asked.
“You want to continue?”
“Oh yes.”
I saw a long day ahead.
***
Jack watched the taillights of Dale’s car dip over the brow of the hill. He turned away from the window with a small sigh.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Jack?”
“Humph! Why should I make an exception for you?”
Right. Jack hid his homosexuality all his life, so why should he change after death? I think he and Dale were reared in conservative homes with certain beliefs drummed in their heads from an early age. I doubt they disclosed their conflicting feelings to anyone. And when they were old enough to understand, pretending they were no different from their friends, family and coworkers seemed best for all concerned.
What a crying shame they thought they had to.
***
I shouldn’t have told Royal about Jack as he sipped coffee. After we cleaned up the spatters on the table and floor and I mopped at his shirt with a damp cloth, he sat across from me sniggering.
“Oh, can it!”
He coughed on another chuckle. “I cannot believe you didn’t know Jack is gay.”
“How could I? Despite what you’ve seen on TV, gay men don’t really stand around dangling limp wrists, cock their hips all over the place or walk with little mincing steps.”
I glanced to where Jack stood at the west windows. With wrist bent to rest the fingertips of one hand on his cocked hip, he stroked his other index finger over his lower lip. Catching my gaze, both his hands shot down, stiff at his sides. He stood erect with shoulders squared and chin jutting.
I rolled my eyes. “Very macho, Jack.”
He tossed his head, stuck his nose in the air and sashayed out the kitchen.
“And when I think of the times Jack’s. . . .”
Royal dipped his head and eyed me over his shades.
“Ogled me.”
“Now that makes me mad,” he said with a smirk. “A man ogles you and I cannot sock him in the jaw.”
Jack’s voice came from the hall. “I’d like to see him try.”
I pictured Royal swiping at thin air, falling all over the place, and had to grin. “Anyway,” I went on, “they had a row and Dale took off to a gay bar.”
“Our first gay bar in New York City,” Jack said as he sidled back in the kitchen. “Our first gay bar, ever. We were supposed to go together.”
“And Jack went after him. Some guy came on to Dale and Jack made a scene.”
“Me? I asked him to take his hands off, in a perfectly reasonable tone.”
“The guy asked Dale if he should leave, and I guess Dale wanted to ruffle Jack’s feathers, ’cause he said no. So Jack left in high dudgeon. Dale followed him back to their hotel where they had the mother of all fights. Jack returned to Utah and got back his job with Big Powder.”
“I thought he’d come after me,” Jack said.
“You told him over, finite, and he shouldn’t try to find you.”
“He needn’t have believed me.”
“Dale thought Jack would return to New York City,” I told Royal. “Jack thought Dale would come looking for him. When Dale eventually called Jack, the number had been disconnected.”
“Because I was already dead,” Jack put in.
“Dale took that as a sign Jack didn’t want to be found.” I hitched my shoulders. “Time passed, Dale got on with his life. When he took a trip back here, he couldn’t resist the temptation to look Jack up, see if he still lived in Clarion.”
Royal nodded meditatively. “So they lost each other due to a lover’s tiff. Did the meeting help, was it worth the effort?”
I beamed. “Chatting up a storm.”
I heard a gusty sigh from Jack “All those years, lost.”
“It’s over, then? Done?” Royal asked.
I made a face. “Not exactly. Dale wants a reunion next year and Jack’s all for it.”
***
Jack’s voice ricocheted down the stairs. “My guy Dale he’s a hunk uva male, listen to me brothers if you wanna hear our tale. We were just. . . .”
“Sad,” I told Mel.
“Verging on pathetic.”
“He has no idea, does he?”
“That his rap sounds like a limerick? No.”
Chapter Twenty
I stood to one side as an officer shepherded Randy Kent through the living room, his hand on the cuffs which secured Kent’s hands behind his back. Hannah aimed a kick at Kent’s shin. She put serious effort in it. Pity her foot didn’t connect.
She rushed in front of Kent, faced him and tried to spit in his face. She tried twice, until Kent and the officer walked right through her. She didn’t raise so much as a minuscule globule of spittle. Dead people can’t spit. How many times had she attacked him? She knew she couldn’t touch him, but she gave it one last try anyway.
A neat little man in his neat little bachelor pad, with delicate features and fine-boned wrists, black-haired Randy Kent didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look strong enough to hurt anyone. At first sight I thought, I could swat you across the room with one hand. But his apparent fragility and the way he hunched his body was a deliberate ruse to make others think him harmless, pathetic even. He wasn’t frail, he was wiry, and his long-fingered hands had the strength to smother a woman’s cries, to stop her drawing another breath, to hold her down as he killed her.
Hannah Worstley, twenty-three, a cute woman with short, light-brown hair tapered at her nape. Her eyes were a pale dreamy blue. She liked miniskirts, hand-knitted wool tops and waistcoats in bright colors; high-heeled stilettos and chunky gold-tone jewelry. She lived with her older sister Gloria in a bungalow on the outskirts of West Jordan City and drove a red Mini Cooper. I won’t describe her expression as Kent left the house - he raped and strangled her, slowly, and like all victims of a violent demise, her expression froze on her face as she died. Not her flesh and blood face, but that of her shade.
A newspaper delivery boy found her naked body in the alley behind the Hastings Bookstore. West Jordan Police Department was stumped. They did not have a single suspect and the killer left no clues.
Gloria remembered Hannah briefly mentioned several dates with a coworker, although Hannah didn’t say his name, but not one employee at Cliffhanger Arcade claimed the relationship and none recalled seeing Hannah with anyone, or heard rumors. Gloria wondered why the man denied it ever happened. In Gloria’s book, that made him a suspect.
We agreed with her.
Gloria came to Banks and Mortensen as a last resort. She hoped someone with unconventional skills could discover what law enforcement could not.
Not that the police disbelieved Gloria when she spoke of Hannah’s boyfriend, but they had nothing to go on. Her coworkers stuck to their stories: Hannah did not date any of them. So Gloria turned to us.
***
We checked out everyone, male and female, married and single and found no cause to suspect them.
Many elements are involved in solving a case and sometimes one is plain, old-fashioned luck. Royal and
I were in his truck, parked across the street from Randy Kent’s condo when we saw him at his living room window, and I saw Hannah right behind him.
You have an edge over other investigators when your partner is not of this world, but we didn’t use Royal’s otherworldy skills. We did use a set of good lock picks. We waited till Randy left the house at six o’clock that evening. Royal whipped across the street, got the front door open and the alarm disconnected in a flash and took off after the guy, leaving me to talk to Hannah. If Kent headed for home before I left his house, Royal would come back and get me out.
Unethical? You want ethical or you want a killer behind bars?
Some serial killers can’t resist souvenirs - not the kind you get on vacation, the T-shirts and mugs - I mean their victim’s personal possessions. Hannah showed me where Randy hid his little keepsakes.
I’ve worked a number of police cases in Utah and that gave me a little leverage when I talked to Mike Warren. I didn’t approach West Jordan PD, they don’t know me like Mike does. I’m well aware that both I and the police walk on slippery ground when I’m involved in an investigation. No matter what I say, they are leery of making an accusation without proof of guilt, so sometimes I have to stretch the truth. I told Mike that Gloria hired us, we were staking out Kent’s house, same as we did his coworkers, and I got a strong reading from Hannah from inside. Then I saw Kent through his living room window as he looked at his mementos. Mike talked to West Jordan and encouraged them to take me seriously.
Two days passed until West Jordan got a search warrant, during which I fretted Kent would suspect something and leave town, or destroy the evidence.
I couldn’t tell the officers where Kent hid his souvenirs, because then they would suspect I broke into his home, which in turn meant I could have planted them. I pretended to need a clearer reading from the shade of Hannah Worstley and for that I had to go in the house.
When an officer started on the screws which held the bathroom mirror to the wall, I wanted to jump in there and tear it free with my bare hands.
A carved wooden box in the niche behind the mirror held a whole lot more than Hannah’s ankle bracelet.
