THE INVESTIGATION
Practical Homicide Investigation addresses the use of psychics in investigation as follows: Practically speaking, police officers are naturally skeptical of psychics and psychic phenomena. However, from an investigative point of view, anything that has proven to be successful in one investigation should certainly be considered in other cases. It should be noted that information provided by the psychic may not always be accurate and in some instances may have no value to the investigation (Geberth, p. 718).
Thus far, the reliability of psychics for law enforcement has not been established. Anecdotal information is sometimes impressive, and even surprising, but nothing can be concluded about using psychics as resources in solving a crime.
Timothy
Nora Comes to New York
I got back to New York on a Monday, and all that week there was no word from Nora. Every day I thought she might call—and nothing.
How do you stop waiting for something? My answer was to get busy with something else. I might have watched a movie or done some work. I would have found something. But it turned out I didn’t need to, because Celia showed up at my door a couple of days after her last disastrous visit.
The doorman didn’t buzz me. I’m sure she told him not to, and she’d been there often enough that he did what she asked. As a result, I was unprepared when there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, there was Celia. I certainly hadn’t been expecting her after the way I’d let her leave on Monday. But it wasn’t the Celia I had seen on Monday that showed up at my door—it was the Celia who was so self-sufficient she gave the impression that even if the world’s population were wiped out, she would be just fine. It was the Celia I preferred. It was the Celia who, truthfully, I admired.
But I didn’t know that right away. I saw her, and I wasn’t happy about it. I’m sure she could tell, but she just smiled in that way she always used to smile—as if nothing I said or did or felt could move her in the slightest. She made no apologies; she just stepped forward as if there was no question of whether I was going to let her in. And when she did that, she was right: there wasn’t any question.
Within minutes we were in the bedroom, and, I have to admit, I didn’t think of Nora even once during the next few hours. You might be thinking, what kind of love is that? After Celia got dressed and left, I know I asked myself that question. I didn’t have an answer.
Celia was over every night that week. Don’t ask me how she managed it with Marcus. I didn’t question it. I needed the distraction. And that’s one thing I can say about Celia—she made for a very good distraction. I asked her to spend the weekend with me, and, to my surprise, she said yes.
I felt myself slipping back into my old life. If I could manage to keep my mind from thoughts of Nora, I could almost pretend that whole thing had never happened.
And then she called.
Nora called me Monday morning from work. I could picture her there, in her uniform, behind the counter, picking at a muffin with her fingers. Sometimes she didn’t even eat it. I had stood there often enough and watched her just pick one apart.
“It’s Nora,” she said. Then, almost abruptly, “I want to come to New York if that’s still okay.”
“When?” I asked her.
“Whenever you want me,” she said.
“This week,” I said. I was afraid to wait longer. I didn’t trust my love to last. I know there had been a long time between the first visit to Kansas and the second, but it still felt so fragile, as if it could disappear at any second. Maybe it already had. When she told me she was coming, I didn’t feel the surge of happiness I had anticipated. I felt nothing. No excitement, no dread. It was like dropping a stone into a well, waiting for a splash, and getting just silence.
She said, “I’ll book a flight today and let you know.”
And she did.
I went to pick her up at the airport on Friday. It was below freezing in the city, with a wind that sliced right through whatever you were wearing. Some people broke out their furs, which was somewhat unusual for New York. The rest of the city shivered in their fashionable and not very warm jackets.
Nora came off the plane in jeans, a big knit sweater, and a parka. Of course she’d worn the same things in Kansas, but in New York they made her look out of place. Provincial. A little awkward and dumpy, though in reality she was anything but.
I couldn’t help it—the first thing my mind did was to compare her to Celia, who had continued to come over nearly every night that week. Celia had jokingly said it was like last call at the bar. And like last call, the sex had been better—so much better—because of the very fact that we both knew it was about to end.
So when I saw Nora, my first thought was, “Oh my God, what have I done?” But I put a smile on my face to, hopefully, cover it.
Nora saw me a moment after I spotted her, but she didn’t smile. So I stopped smiling as well. And that immediately felt so much better. Then I remembered. I didn’t have to pretend with her. I didn’t ever have to pretend with her. By the time she reached me, my heart had gone from empty to, well, something else.
When she reached me, I took her hand. I was always surprised by how tiny it was. I held it as we walked to the baggage claim. We didn’t have to wait long before the belt started up, and I thought it was an omen that her suitcase was the very first down the shoot. It was one of the old hard-plastic kind, with a handle and four awkward wheels that didn’t roll. It was surprisingly light when I lifted it off the belt. I stood for a moment waiting for another when she said, “That’s it. I only have one.”
I carried her one suitcase to the car I had waiting outside. The driver came around and took the suitcase from me and tossed it in the trunk while we climbed into the back for the drive into the city.
We were silent for most of the drive, but she kept her hand in mine as she looked out the window. She had never been to New York, and as I looked out the window over her shoulder, I tried to imagine what it would be like, seeing it for the first time. In front of my eyes, the familiar disappeared and was replaced with—I’m not sure I can describe it. But I knew then that what I felt in Kansas wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t something that would die when transplanted away from wheat fields and open sky. I was addicted to being with Nora. I wanted her with me. I wanted her physical presence, because when I was with her, I felt like there was magic in the world. Isn’t that what we all want?
That night I slept with her in my arms, just like I had imagined. Her body was white and her hair spread out like a river of red on the pillow and over the sheets. She wanted to put it up in a braid, but I wouldn’t let her. Unlike anyone else I had ever known, her face didn’t change when she slept. She wasn’t like a child. She was just Nora with her eyes closed.
In the morning I was able to slide my arm from beneath her head and get out of bed, and she didn’t even stir. I went to the kitchen and made coffee and brought back a cup for her.
I had to touch her shoulder to wake her, but when her eyes opened, she went from deep sleep to fully awake in a moment, the way you imagine a trained assassin might.
She sat up and took the coffee from me. She took a sip and immediately made a face.
“You make terrible coffee,” she said.
I laughed. “Okay, we’ll go out for coffee. There’s a Starbucks on the corner. You’ll feel right at home. Go on and get dressed.”
I watched as she got up and crossed to her clunky blue suitcase. She opened it up and surveyed the contents for a minute. I could tell that she wasn’t happy with what she saw. Her movements were hesitant. She picked out a pair of jeans and a turtleneck. But when she put them on, I could see the black pants were the wrong cut—baggy and pleated and tapering to the ankles, so they made her look like a bowling pin. And the turtleneck, though there was nothing wrong with it, couldn’t save her from the pants. Plus, the parka was destined to go over it anyway.
She turned around and caught me watching her. And she knew
what I was thinking. I could see it. She looked me right in the eye as if to say, Well, what did you think you were getting?
I felt a flood of some emotion. I searched to label it, and I was surprised what I came up with. It was pride. It made no sense, but there it was. She was so genuinely herself. Even here in New York, she was still herself. And at the same time, it made her seem more mine. Everyone in New York was on display, but Nora was different. She was hidden. And I wanted to keep it that way.
The weekend was a dream. I felt like I lived a secret life. I showed Nora a New York I realized I had never seen. When Monday came around, I brought her to the office with me. I had decided she would come in and work with me once she got settled. After I had gotten over the shock of her education, I realized I could share with her the only thing I loved in the world up until that point—my work. There was a conference room I never used, and I could easily make it into her office. I had it all planned.
Nora seemed to like it. She spent all day Monday with me, sitting and listening to my phone calls, looking over the computer systems, talking to Marie, my assistant. But that night, when I said something about going back in the next day, she asked me if she could have a few days to get oriented to the city.
My initial gut reaction was disappointment. I had to admit, I didn’t really want to let her out of my sight. If I could have said no, I would have.
Without Nora with me at the office, the week seemed long. The days couldn’t quite hold my attention. I looked forward as I never had to leaving the office and going home.
When I got home, Nora would tell me about what she’d done that day. She experimented with the subway and hailing cabs. She walked around Soho and the West Village. She took a trip up to Central Park and got lost wandering along the paths. She said she did some shopping, but I didn’t see evidence of any new clothes. For that week, she wore the same sweaters and jeans she had brought with her.
On Friday I asked her to meet Marcus and me for a drink. I told her I’d come home and pick her up, but she insisted she’d meet us there.
I was looking forward to Marcus meeting her. I was sure he wouldn’t know what to make of her. I imagined his face when he saw the jeans and the sweaters and the long braid and the parka. I could picture the judgment that he wouldn’t be able to hide. All week I had seen it on the faces of waiters and other couples when we went out. They looked at me and they looked at her, and their faces looked like they were looking at a math problem that didn’t quite add up.
That was the look I expected to see on Marcus’s face. So when we were sitting at the bar and I saw his eyes fix on someone behind me, with the look that he usually reserved for his wife, I didn’t even bother to turn around. That was not the look that Nora was going to elicit.
Then I felt a hand on my back, and I turned.
It was Nora, and it wasn’t Nora. The jeans were gone; the hiking boots and parka, gone. In their place was a black dress: long sleeved, high necked, but very short. She wore black stockings and high heels. A black coat swirled around her almost like a cape. Her hair was down and straight and stunning against the black. And she was wearing makeup, not a lot but enough to transform her. She was breathtaking. Just as she had been that first night when we had gone out to dinner and she had gotten dressed up. She hadn’t done it since—how had I forgotten what happened when she stopped hiding?
“I’m Marcus,” Marcus was saying, holding out his hand.
“Nora,” she said, and stuck out her hand, straight armed and enthusiastic like a boy. At least she hadn’t changed in that way. She was still Nora. But now her beauty was out there for everyone to see.
I could immediately see the effect she had on Marcus. Marcus knew a genuine from a fake. It’s true, he had chosen Celia. But before meeting Nora, I would have chosen Celia as well. Celia was what you were supposed to want, what the world held up as success. Nora was what you only dared to dream about.
“How do you like New York?” Marcus asked. “You like it better than Kansas?”
“I thought I would,” Nora said. “But it’s just different.”
“You don’t like it better, living here in New York?” I said.
She turned to me. “Of course I do. But you’re what makes it better. Not the place.”
How can I explain to you how she said that? It wasn’t coquettish. It wasn’t said to flatter me. It was just the truth.
I happened to glance at Marcus’s face, and I saw the admiration that only needed time to turn into envy. Then I saw Marcus look past Nora, and his face changed to a frown.
He turned to me and said, “I’m so sorry, Tim. I told her not to come.” I turned around and spotted her just as he said, “But it seems that my wife is here.”
When Celia reached us, she kissed her husband, turned to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then she pulled back and pretended to notice Nora for the first time.
I did the introductions. “Nora, this is Celia, Marcus’s wife. Celia, this is Nora.”
Nora stuck out her hand again, and Celia looked at it as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She ended up taking Nora’s fingers in a half shake.
I saw Nora’s eyebrows go up a fraction.
“So, Nora,” Celia drawled her name. “How do you like New York?”
It was the same question Marcus had asked, but Celia’s was dripping with condescension. I saw Marcus wince.
Nora glanced at me, as if to try to gauge how she should play the situation. I gave her a little nod that I hoped she understood meant she had full permission to defend herself against attack.
She gave the answer that Celia’s question deserved—which was barely an answer at all.
“It’s fine,” Nora said.
“Fine?” Celia repeated. “That’s all you have to say about one of the greatest cities in the world. It’s fine?”
Nora pretended to think for a moment. Then she said, “Yes, I think that’s about it.”
“You people from Kansas don’t have much to say for yourselves, do you?” Celia said, with a little laugh, as if the laugh would make it seem less offensive. At that moment I realized that Celia was doing exactly what I used to do: she walked a line, staying just barely on the safe side of rude. It usually threw people off balance.
But Nora didn’t seem fazed by it at all. She just shrugged and said, “In Kansas we don’t spend a lot of time talking about our food. We just eat it.”
Marcus and I laughed.
And I have to give Celia credit. She looked over at Marcus, then at me, then back at Nora. And she realized that she wasn’t going to win this one. So she gave up with good grace.
“Let’s start again. I’m Celia,” and she held out her hand again, and when Nora took it, Celia gave a real handshake. Then Celia leaned over and whispered something in Nora’s ear.
Nora shrugged and nodded.
Then Celia looked at us and said, “We’ll be back in a bit.”
She took Nora’s hand and started to lead her away.
“Hold on, where are you going?” I called after her.
Marcus wasn’t happy with it either. “Come on, Celia, let’s just get a table and have some food.”
“You get the table. We’ll be right back.” She didn’t even turn around as she spoke.
Marcus and I looked at each other. I shrugged and tilted my head toward the tables. He nodded, and we grabbed our drinks and walked over to be seated.
When we were settled in at a table, Marcus asked, “You think Nora will be okay?”
“I think Nora can hold her own,” I said.
“I should say so. Where on earth did you find her?”
“Well, Kansas.”
“Are there more of her?” he asked, almost wistfully.
“You’ve already got one of your own,” I pointed out.
Marcus looked at me. After a second he said, “Not really. I think she’s having an affair.”
I think I hid my reaction well.
“Why do
you think that?” I said.
“Just a feeling. But that’s not the worst.” He stopped to take a long drink of his beer, as if he needed courage to say what he was about to say. He put the beer down, carefully centering it on the napkin. Then he said, “No, the worst part is that I don’t even care. I actually almost hope she is and that she will leave me. She’s not . . . It’s not like I thought it was going to be.”
“How did you think it was going to be?”
“Oh, God. I don’t know.” He put his hand up to his forehead and held it for a moment, as if his head hurt. “I wanted . . . I wanted something more. More than just the dull routine, you know. I wanted life to be . . .”
“Magical?” I said.
He winced at the word. “I would have settled for glimpses of happy. Is it like that for you?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to rub it in.
“What on earth did you do to deserve that? Even being crazy in love with Celia, I never felt like life was magical. This might sound awful, but it gave me a rush when we were out and I saw how everyone else looked at her. But you must get that as well with Nora.”
“She doesn’t usually look like this,” I said. “She usually wears big sweaters and hiking boots and this big puffy jacket. Then she just looks like a normal girl.”
“How could she be just a normal girl?” Marcus looked over at the bar. Celia and Nora were talking as they waited for drinks. In terms of physical beauty, Nora couldn’t compete. But she had something else.
Nora happened to glance over and catch me looking at her. Without changing her expression in the slightest, she did that thing with her eyebrows, raising them just a hairbreadth. Then I saw the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. And she turned back to Celia.
“She couldn’t be just a normal girl,” I agreed.
“Anyone could see that,” Marcus said.
That started a feeling in me. A flutter of panic. If everyone could see it, that meant that everyone would be trying to take her away from me. After all, look what had happened to Marcus with Celia. Hadn’t I done just that? Some guy was bound to try that with Nora. What Marcus said next didn’t help either.
Through the Heart Page 17
