More pink slips: The algebra teacher, Victor Flynn, called to discuss Robin’s progress. There were early signs of improvement.
For God’s sakes, this he felt compelled to pass along on a Saturday?
“Maybe he has the hots for you,” Sally commented.
“Oh, now there’s a fun thought,” Claudia murmured.
Sally laughed. Then she explained that Flynn had been at the school catching up on work when he heard about the Avery murder; he told Sally he thought the news would cheer Claudia up given “the tough day she must be having.” He was disappointed that he couldn’t talk to her personally.
Crushing the message into a ball, Claudia looked at the next slip. Someone—a Madam Suarez—called to see if the police might want assistance. Her fee was very reasonable for investigators.
“She’s out of New Orleans,” Sally explained. “I’ve read about her in the Enquirer. One of those psychics who’s always getting press. One of the things she makes a lot of noise about is Elvis. Says he’s still alive, being held prisoner somewhere in Central America.”
“Tell her when she produces Presley’s body we’ll be happy to talk to her,” said Claudia. She handed the message slip back to Sally. “No, wait a minute. Don’t say that. Just say we’ll . . . think about it. The psychic community might not understand my wit.”
The last message was from Dennis. It said, “I’m smiling cartoons for you. Keep the faith.”
Claudia tucked the message in her pocket, ignoring Sally’s steady look. This was one she’d answer herself. Then, steeling herself, she went back to her desk and made the calls to the media. She danced around the Markos business, telling each reporter nothing but making it sound like she had, and assured all of them exclusives the moment something broke. Not a very original dodge, but it would work for awhile.
Chapter 15
The man ran his finger tips along the rough bark of the branch. If it came down to it, the branch would do just fine. He nodded and got down to business, hardly working up a sweat. He liked the idea of using a branch. It couldn’t be traced, for one thing. For another, it was natural.
Pulling the saw against the branch, the man gave great thought to his circumstances. So far, he’d done well, and he was only doing what had to be done. If he could just resist the panicky feeling that sometimes threatened to overwhelm, he would continue to do well. In daylight, that was easy. He could review his actions clearly, think rationally.
It was only at night when shadows fell that he jumped at every little noise. It was only then that he wondered if he’d overlooked anything. That he had to wonder at how far the loop would take him. Worried that he hadn’t broken the circuit.
The problem was, he couldn’t count on a one of them to keep their mouths shut. Once the chatter started, it continued endlessly. Like playing telephone, almost. He had to stop it. And in a way, well, he was doing everybody a favor.
Alone on the land, the man threw back his head and roared, tickled at the notion. He was doing them all a favor!
And God Bless America, it was still possible to get away with murder. Or at least what the law of the land defined as murder. Fortunately, they were stooges, all of them, even Hershey. The cops were all lined up like ducks crossing from one pond to the other. Hershey was right there in the middle. For that matter, if it came down to it, she might even be useful.
The man wiped his brow and looked around the vast property. Look at this, for instance. Here he was right out in the open, the most obvious place in the world, and no one was looking. No one would think to look here. The man was reminded of a baby playing peek-a-boo. If the baby couldn’t see you, then you couldn’t see it.
The branch eventually gave in to the man’s will. He knew it would. He hefted the thing, feeling the weight. He looked around and swung it a few times, hard. Perfect. Better than the bat. He was aware of the irony, that it was a branch from an orange tree. Just the right touch for Indian Run.
One thing, for sure. He would do what he had to do. For himself. For everyone. It was all a matter of being in control, and it was a lesson worth repeating. Hadn’t he learned that from the best?
The man eyed the tree, then hacked off several more branches. Why not. This was what being in control was all about. He was thinking good. He was following his own instincts. Really, he was just about untouchable.
Chapter 16
The Church of the Awakening Spirit stood box-like on overgrown St. Augustine grass threaded with weed. Trees stood in random clusters here and there. Adjacent was a small graveled parking lot, two-thirds of which was filled. Psychics and mediums had turned out in force for Sunday services. In a moment, they would be coming out.
Leaning against her car, Claudia smoked a cigarette. When the killings were solved, she would give them up again.
In less than two weeks it would be Thanksgiving, and increasingly it looked like the murders of the mediums would still be served up as news along with turkey. More than a week had passed since the discovery of Irene Avery’s body; two since Overton’s.
Claudia dispiritedly tapped ash to the ground. The investigation was going nowhere. No latents in Avery’s house. No line on the baseball bat. No physical evidence that amounted to anything. Between the two mediums, more than fifty clients seeking spiritual advice had been interviewed, an easy two dozen more than once. The FBI’s Behavioral Investigations Support Unit in Quantico, Virginia was slowly putting together a psychological profile on the killer. Of course, Claudia thought bitterly, it wasn’t a priority case; the killer hadn’t killed often enough to merit the attention of a Ted Bundy. Only the notoriety of their profession gave the dead mediums access to the FBI’s vast computer network and expertise.
At five after ten, the plain wooden door to the church opened. People started to emerge. Most were women. They spoke in low tones.
Claudia watched for Mary Curtell. The way Marty told it, although her aunt was certified only as a psychic, not a medium, she nevertheless subscribed to the religion and philosophy of Spiritualism. Believers accepted that spiritual life transcended death and that a greater intelligence beyond the corporeal world prevailed. They also, of course, believed contact with the spirit world was not only possible, but provable.
“As far as they’re concerned, Spiritualism is perfectly in sync with Christianity,” Marty had told Claudia. “They’ll tell you that it advocates adherence to Christ’s lessons and that Jesus was actually the greatest psychic teacher ever to live.”
At Claudia’s dubious expression, Marty shrugged and added, “Hey, I’m just telling you what I know. And don’t walk yourself into a debate. Believe me, the Spiritualists know the Bible and they can point out references in a heart beat.”
Claudia crushed her cigarette under her shoe and started forward when she spotted the round psychic. They made eye contact. Claudia didn’t know how much of this whole psychic business she bought into. Certainly she didn’t buy Madam Suarez’s brand. But could there be validity elsewhere? Maybe yes, maybe no. Hell, who was to say?
In her characteristically blunt fashion, Mary Curtell said, “I’m flattered, Detective Hershey. Anyone else would be looking for God at a church, but here you are looking for me.”
The two exchanged wry smiles.
“There’s a small picnic area on the north side of the church,” Mary Curtell said. “It’s not much, just some trees, a few tables and benches and a rusted barbecue grill, but we can sit and talk.”
When they were seated across from each other, Claudia explained that her visit was unofficial. Their talk would not go on a report.
“Frankly, I’m running a little counter to some of the thinking on these murders,” she told the woman. “There’s a push for the investigation to continue full tilt in a direction I think is premature.”
Mary Curtell nodded. “It’s a small town, Detective. Word is filtering out that the chief is gunning for Tom Markos and you aren’t.”
No longer surprised at the speed w
ith which news traveled, Claudia merely shrugged and said, “Something like that. We’ve been all over the board on this one. But because Markos took off the chief is convinced he’s the best suspect, maybe the only one.”
“Sure, and it makes sense,” Mary Curtell continued. “Anyone who knows Donna was sleeping with Markos would come up with the same thing. Who’s kidding who? Markos is bad news.” The psychic waved at someone in the parking lot, then turned back to Claudia. “But he didn’t do it. I told you before and I’ll tell you again, whoever killed Donna was not someone close to her.”
“Look,” said Claudia, “I’ve been inundated with calls from psychics and clairvoyants and mediums and astrologers and whatever. People from all over who claim they know who killed Overton and Avery. Some insist it is Markos, and they know how we can find him. Others say it’s someone else and they can help us track him. I even got a call from that Madam Suarez—”
“The Elvis connection,” laughed Mary.
“Right.”
“And what you’re hearing isn’t making a lot of sense, am I right?”
“They’re speaking in tongues,” said Claudia, “and I don’t have time to track down leads based on, you know. The switchboard’s going nuts. It’s not unusual for police to get calls from psychics who want to help, but because the victims are psychics themselves—”
“Mediums.”
“—mediums, everyone and his brother is coming out of the woodwork.”
“And you want me to help you sort things out?”
Claudia watched a few stragglers pulling out of the parking lot. “I want you to distill what you’re hearing from the psychics in this community, from the ones who knew the victims themselves.”
“The case must really be going badly because for you, this is really reaching.” Mary Curtell cocked her head. “I don’t mean that unkindly, but you’re as much a skeptic as the day you showed up at my door.”
“Maybe a little less so.” Claudia watched the woman’s face. “Without at least some ambivalence I wouldn’t be here now.”
For a long time the psychic said nothing. She picked at a jagged splinter on the bench. Her eyes were steady when she looked up. Her voice was soft.
“Your killer has a fixation with hands. Either that, or they at least represent something to him. Don’t ask me to explain that. I can’t. It comes from a highly regarded medium in the community, but I won’t give you her name; she’s terrified. I will only tell you that I believe her.”
Reflexively, Claudia drew her cigarettes from the bellows pocket of her jacket. She held them up. “You mind?”
Mary Curtell waved a hand. “Go ahead. Just don’t ask for my psychic impression of your lungs.”
Claudia smiled thinly. No one could ever leave it alone anymore, this whole thing about smoking.
While Claudia put a match to her cigarette, Mary Curtell continued. “There’s more, Detective Hershey. And what I’m about to tell you comes from me.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“I keep seeing ash. And I keep seeing light coming from a small window.” The psychic shrugged. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were privy to some private viewing. “The ash, the light somehow they’re connected to Donna’s house. But I don’t know how.”
Claudia bit her lip to conceal her disappointment. It was turning out to be a bust after all. Hands, ash, light. Shit. She might as well be watching Donna Overton going into a trance on video again.
“Both could be symbolic,” Mary said slowly. “The ash, especially. It could be representative of something.” She shook her head vigorously. “But they’re fundamentally important. Somehow.”
Thunder clouds were building in the distance. This had been a mistake, coming out here, one of those desperate measures. Maybe Suggs was right. Maybe stubborn pride—something—was pushing all reason to the back of her mind. Claudia watched the clouds shifting, growing darker. What did she have to show that Markos didn’t do it? That he didn’t kill both women?
“Go back to Donna’s house. Look again.” Mary Curtell stood. She dusted the seat of her skirt. “I’m not asking you to abandon the reality you cops steer with. But a look beyond that won’t hurt you, either.”
“One more question,” said Claudia, smoke slipping from the side of her mouth. “Of all the things I’ve heard, just now and from the psychics who’ve been calling in, no one yet claims to be, uh, in touch with Donna Overton’s spirit. Can’t the mediums, you know, log in?”
“Things are always black and white in your world, aren’t they, Detective?” Mary Curtell sighed. “It’s not that way in the spiritual world, I’m afraid. Shades of gray dominate.”
They walked together to their cars. Claudia thanked the woman several times, trying to compensate for the doubt she knew she was projecting. Whatever Mary Curtell was or wasn’t, her instincts were good.
“By the way,” Claudia said, “that trouble you mentioned with my daughter? Well, we’re pretty much working things out. I think maybe what you said may have prompted me to stop being such a weasel with her.”
The psychic looked up sharply. “Whether you believe me or not with what I’ve just told you, don’t brush aside what I said about your daughter.”
“I’m not, I—”
“You are. You’re trying some flattery on me, but it’s coming across as patronizing. I can live with that. I don’t even dislike you for it. But you won’t be able to live with yourself if your disregard for what I say turns tables on you.”
“Well, then, what exactly are you saying, Mrs. Curtell?” Claudia irritably stubbed out her cigarette, reached down and pushed the butt into the pack. “What am I supposed to make of it?”
“Your daughter’s on a path. It leads into woods. It’s dark, and she’s walking into it. I keep seeing the light fading behind her—”
“Oh, come on.”
“—and something is in those woods, waiting. Something evil. She’s in trouble.”
That damnable chill crawled along Claudia’s arms again. Goddamn psychics.
“Call me if you see any more,” Claudia said at last. She heard the sarcasm in her voice, couldn’t help it.
“You’ll see before I do,” said Mary Curtell. Her eyes held Claudia’s. Then finally, she struggled into her car, looped the seat belt around her waist, and drove off.
Claudia watched the departing vehicle. A mockingbird started up somewhere. Turning, she looked for the bird in a clump of trees. Didn’t see it.
How ridiculous that it should feel like an omen.
Chapter 17
Except for a crooked strip of yellow crime scene tape still across the front door, padlocked by the police and repaired just enough to make it close, nothing announced that the serenity of the small house had been shattered two weeks earlier. No reason to guess that it would be on the market for an eternity, eschewed by buyers who would not want the ghost of Donna Overton competing with their dinners or nights around the TV.
But that’s how it would be. The Reverend Donna Overton might have found peace, but her house never would. And the most that Claudia could hope by now is that the house might still yield secrets the dead medium would not.
It wasn’t much of a hope. Whatever wasn’t discovered during the initial crime scene investigation wasn’t likely to be discovered now. Claudia knew that. As assigned homicide investigator she herself had directed the crime technicians’ efforts in the slow, methodical fashion that in Cleveland had provoked heated exchanges with every new murder she caught.
She took too long. She wanted too many surfaces dusted for prints, too much area vacuumed, too many photographs taken, and a way too many items bagged for analysis.
Give it up, they would tell her, the doily under the lamp had nothing to do with the shotgun wound in the victim’s temple. But she would make them bag the doily anyway, and then she would hound them to make her case a priority, to get the evidence scrutinized and put on a report ASAP. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn�
�t. Mostly they did, though, because Detective Lieutenant Claudia Hershey had a rep for seeing things no one else did.
But Overton’s house . . . she’d missed something. She felt it, even without Mary Curtell’s stern admonition to go back. It might have been because the crime scene had been botched from the get-go. Or maybe because that damned Suggs followed her like a bloodhound, resentment etched in his eyes.
Well. It didn’t matter. Monday had fallen with no new leads and so here she was, back again, pulling the tape off the front door and letting herself in for another look. Her instinct and the psychic’s impression were too much to ignore, no matter how clearly logic laughed.
The house was chilly, even though the air outside fanned a pleasant warmth, Florida’s siren call. Claudia lingered just inside for a minute, taking in the quiet setting, letting her eyes filter things in a way she couldn’t when men in uniforms were crawling all over it.
She tried to envision Donna Overton returning from the seance, then took the steps she imagined the woman had taken. Kitchen, bathroom—no, probably bathroom and then kitchen. She’d poured herself some water. She’d gotten her cigs out.
Then what? Had the doorbell rung? Did someone knock? Claudia furrowed her brow, recalling the medical examiner’s report. Because the blood on the floor had been diluted, presumably the water hadn’t been drunk, at least not most. And the cigarette found on the floor hadn’t yet been lit. It looked more and more as if the woman hadn’t been home more than perhaps five or ten minutes before someone came to the door.
Had the killer been lurking behind a bush, just waiting? Claudia shook her head irritably. It seemed unlikely, too risky. No one would have known precisely when to expect Overton in because the invitation to conduct the seance had been spontaneous. The woman’s closest friend hadn’t even known about it. Did that mean, then, that someone had followed her home?
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