Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  I asked a nurse, "What happened to the Jane Doe in four eighteen?"

  A quick glance my way, a quick referral to a chart, and the quick reply: "She's been moved. You'll have to speak to a doctor."

  But before I could find a doctor, a couple of plainclothes security men quietly found me and escorted me into a small lounge where I was offered coffee and delicate questions. And before that could really get off the ground, Alison Saunders made the scene and rescued me with a crisp, professional air. She was one of the rhythms of the place, so had a leg up on the situation. She identified me and vouched for me; the cops went on their quiet way; Alison told me about Jane. Even she did not know the whole story at that moment; she did know that her telephone call had sent the nurse into a surprise confrontation with a killer, she also knew that Jane was receiving emergency attention, and she was curious as hell about the "vision" that had alerted me to the life-threatening situation.

  I was not too inclined to discuss the matter and still had not done so when the word came that resuscitation efforts had been terminated and Jane officially declared dead. Some L.A. homicide cops were on the scene by that time, and the small lounge was becoming crowded as the investigative routine began encroaching on the ordered processes of the institution. My friend Cochran arrived at some point during the early going, so I was spared some of the indignity that would naturally adhere to the situation. He smoothed the way for Alison and me to give our statements and get the hell out of there.

  I am not ashamed to admit that I would not do well as a hospital professional. I do not possess the toughness of spirit, or whatever, required to regard the drama as mere process. Death affects me, involves me. Like John Donne, I suppose, I feel diminished by every death, and I cannot simply shrug it away when it confronts me. Even the very old and the very ill take away a piece of me when they go and I know it, and yet I do not regard death as a finality beyond which there is nothing. It is not a singularity but a natural and necessary change of state; by some accounts it is even a pleasant and ennobling transmutation, the means by which life renews and reinvigorates itself into an ever-broadening avenue of expression. That is my belief, too, so I do not really understand why I always feel so deprived by another's death. And I feel particularly resentful of a death of violence, even that violence produced by virulence and disease within a body, but especially that arrogant violence exercised by a conscious entity who would deliberately deny the full exercise of life to another.

  I give you this here, only as an insight into my state of mind on that beautiful Los Angeles afternoon as I left the hospital with Alison Saunders—or, perhaps, to dimension my reaction to the death of a young woman, who, after all, I had only just met and who, at best, had something less than half a life left to live at the time I met her. Maybe also I hope to lend perspective to the reaction of an amateur, like me, versus that of a professional like Alison. She lived only a short distance from the hospital so was in the habit of traveling back and forth "the healthy way"—by foot. I was not in total agreement that the feet were the healthiest mode of transport for a woman on any Los Angeles street. I mentioned that, the statement producing soft laughter and the observation that, at any rate, the circumstances provided a good excuse for us to share the ride in my car. She had decided to leave work a couple of hours early and had changed from the hospital whites to a very becoming outfit, simple skirt and blouse, which made her look even younger and definitely more appealing.

  I asked her, point-blank, "How old are you, kiddo?"

  And she replied, point-blank, "Old enough for a Ph.D. and two years in the trenches. Old enough, also, to pick my own man, my own time, and my own place."

  I decided that was old enough—she was on her own—and so was I.

  As we walked to the car I told her, "Don't know how you handle the daily tragedy."

  She said, "It's not exactly daily. And we don't lose them all, you know. Actually the mortality rate here is very low. We cure a lot more than we kill."

  I observed glumly, "Well, that's a comfort. I guess. But how do you handle a Jane Doe—the loss of a highly personal patient?"

  She told me, almost lightly, "It hurts, if that's what you mean. Just have to learn to take it in stride. And, after all, we did not kill her."

  I had no response to that. We walked the rest of the way in silence. My car was in the visitor's lot, which meant a pretty good walk and therefore a long period of silence. I suppose she sensed my mood and was trying to respect it. But I was wondering about her and the anesthesia of feeling that was evident in the reaction to her patient's death.

  I steered her to the car and opened the door for her. She started to enter but then checked herself, pulled back for an exterior view, exclaimed, "Wow! What is this? Porsche?"

  I hoped the car had not heard. "Maserati," I corrected her, probably in a very offended tone. The Maserati is my chief indulgence. I do not take kindly to slights against her.

  "Oh. I always wanted a Porsche." She slid in and buckled up while I went around, muttering under my breath and reminding myself that there is no accounting for tastes.

  But already this lady, this clinical psychologist with a Ph.D. and a teenager's face and tastes, was becoming less attractive to me. I did not like the anesthesia and I did not like the valley-girl mentality that could not discern a diamond among rhinestones.

  I buckled in and asked her, almost belligerently, “Where to?”

  "Why don't you show me your place?" she replied with a teasing smile.

  "That's at Malibu," I informed her, hoping she would think it too far removed.

  "Perfect," she purred. "I always wanted a place at Malibu."

  "With a Porsche in the garage, eh?" I growled under my breath.

  But she heard it. "I suppose I would settle for a Maserati," she said playfully.

  I supposed she would, at that.

  But I was not so sure that the Maserati would settle for an Alison Saunders. That, of course, was before I displaced her anesthesia.

  Chapter Five: States of Mind

  It was the wildest, the loudest, the longest, and the most violent orgasm I'd ever encountered. She ended up crying as though her heart would break, and that brought a bit of dismay until I tumbled to what was happening with her. The stiff professionalism—the anesthesia—was melting, that was all, and sometimes that can be a painful process. So I held her and comforted her with gentle caresses and soft words while she worked her way through it.

  Presently she moved onto her side and began stroking me back. For quite a while, then, we just stroked and talked.

  "Slimebags."

  "Is that for me—or just us guys in general?"

  "No—I was thinking about—he slashed her throat, too, Ash."

  "Jane? Jane's throat?"

  "Yes. When the nurse—guess he was afraid he hadn't finished her. He knocked the nurse down and slashed Jane's throat before he ran away. But I was just thinking ... I see an awful lot of this stuff. Why do men do this to women? Why do they feel the need to totally degrade us in every way?"

  "You're the clinical psychologist. You tell me. But make it a bit less general, please. I know lots of guys who have never felt that kind of need."

  "Not that way, maybe. But you all do it to one degree or another. If we fuck, we're wicked. If we don't, we're cold. If we're pretty, we pay too much attention to our looks. If we're not pretty, we're pigs or dogs. If we want a career, we're trying to compete with men. If we don't, we're lazy. If we make it in a career, we got there on our looks. If we don't make it, nobody really expected us to, anyway. If we love a man so much we hurt inside, he walks all over us. If we don't and he can't, then we're incapable of love."

  "That's all nonclinical. But I'll bet you have an answer for it."

  "Maybe. I think it's our reward for motherhood. Little boys grow up adoring their mothers, yet resenting their domination."

  "Love-hate relationship."

  'You could say that."

&nbs
p; "How 'bout little girls?"

  "Why do you think women are so catty toward one another?"

  "So maybe you've got a point. But what does all this have to do with Jane?"

  "It has everything to do with Jane. How many battered men have you seen? Battered by a woman, I mean?"

  "Not many, I guess. Not any, I suppose."

  "But men batter women all the time. I mean, we get one or two cases every week. Vicious stuff. Savage! Not that I put Jane in that category. But I've seen some almost as bad. Some have also been raped, but most of these women are battered by husbands or lovers."

  "Jane had not been raped."

  "No evidence of it, no. That being the case, the odds are that she was attacked by a husband or lover. He thought he killed her. So he dumped her on the freeway, tried to make it look like a sex crime."

  "You think it was not a sex crime."

  "She showed none of the—Look, Ashton, a woman who has been violently raped has wounds other than those that show on the body. Wounds of the mind. No, I do not think—he killed her over something else, or thought he did. Came back today to finish the job."

  "I need to call Cochran."

  "Why?"

  "Because he purposely told me nothing about this case. Wanted me coming in untainted, cold."

  "But ... it's over now. Why do you—"

  "You said the killer tried to make it look like a sex crime."

  "Yes."

  "Yet there was no evidence of rape."

  "Well ... a sadistic sex crime."

  "A sadist does not merely bash the brains out."

  "Neither did this one. He decorated her body."

  "How so?"

  "Crudely so. Brutally so. With the glowing end of cigarette, it seems. Breasts and torso. Sick little design on her tummy."

  "Design of what?"

  "A satanic symbol."

  "Shit."

  "I've seen a lot worse."

  I sighed, reached for a bedside pad, quick-sketched a design I had in mind, showed it to Alison. "Anything like this?"

  She recoiled, sucked in her breath, said, "That makes me want to throw up."

  "Seen it before?"

  "Yes. Put it down, please."

  I returned the pad to the bedside table. "Is that the symbol you saw on Jane's body?"

  "Close enough, yes."

  I sighed again. "I need to call Cochran." I was reaching for the telephone.

  She caught my hand, held it, said, "Not right now. Please. Keep talking to me."

  I settled back, resumed the soft caresses—not at all an unpleasant task—thinking, too, about the disordered male minds that enjoy desecrating such a body. I have never directly encountered a female body that did not awe me by its sensual softness and smooth warmth. I make no bones about it; I adore the feminine sexual mystique and everything connected with it. Maybe I never felt dominated by my mother. Certainly I can remember rubbing her smooth cheeks with my little-boy hands, and I have at least a phantasmal memory of snuggling happily to her soft bosom. Alison's suggestion of a love-hate tilt to the son-mother relationship was certainly not new in psychiatric annals; if the reasoning was valid, then I supposed that the reverse could also be true. If so, the mother-son relationships could set the tone for future man-woman relationships. But I voiced none of that to Alison.

  She asked me in a whispery voice, "Do you think oral sex is a perversion?"

  I thought about it for a couple of microseconds, then replied, "For some, maybe."

  "How 'bout for you?"

  "Couldn't have proper sex without it," I said casually. "The mouth is a primary organ, isn't it? How much could any of it mean without a kiss?"

  "I meant ..."

  I chuckled and traced an invisible line from an up-flung hip to her knee. "I know what you meant. And what I said still goes."

  She took a deep breath, said, "Well I've always wanted to try it."

  "So why haven't you?"

  "Guess I never found a man with the—I mean, that I feel comfortable enough with."

  "Do you feel comfortable with me?"

  She did not directly reply to that but immediately twisted about and began a timid exploration of my torso with her lips.

  We both became quite "comfortable" very soon after that. And, to tell the truth, I did not have another lucid thought for quite a long time. It was totally a right-brain experience, enacted beyond space and outside of time. So much so that I was a bit disoriented as to time and space when I came down from that, had difficulty extracting myself from the soft tangle of limbs, not sure as to exactly who I was or where I had been.

  But I came out of that right-brain domination with a much better handle on who Jane Doe was and where she had been.

  And I came out, I believed, with an "image" of her killer—an image formed of symbols, nightmarish shapes, and shadows.

  I mentioned none of that to Alison. I let her sleep while I prepared a light dinner.

  The ocean breezes were a bit cool, but she wanted to eat on the deck overlooking the surf in the moonlight, so we did. And without a lot of conversation. She was pensive, almost withdrawn. I was sort of in the same shape. I guess we each gladly respected the mood of the other.

  She helped me clean up the mess in the kitchen, then quietly told me, "I have to work tomorrow. Guess I should get going."

  So I took her home. We talked a bit on the way, but it was all small talk. I walked her to the security door of her apartment complex, and she told me good night there.

  "I hope this is not good-bye," she said wistfully.

  I smiled and told her, "We've hardly said hello."

  Then I returned to the Maserati and sent her on a beeline for Cochran's place, in Hollywood.

  I'd hardly said hello to Jane Doe, either.

  Chapter Six: Pick of the Litter

  The police had no leads at all in this case. And actually there had not been a lot of push toward developing any. She's a big city, Los Angeles is, with undoubtedly one of the finest police departments in the world but also beset by a criminal population that exceeds the total population of most American cities. The cops in this town are virtually under siege—to the extent, at least, that there is always considerably more crime than there are time and resources to respond to it. So Cochran's "Jane Doe" case—which only very lately had become a homicide—had not received a lot of attention.

  What they had, until now, was an assault victim and a weapon. They did not know the victim's name or place of residence. No one had been pressuring for a quick solution here. No one had come forward to identify the victim or her assailant. It had been, therefore, one of those "backwater" cases that a guy like Cochran was expected to work on only when there were not more pressing matters at hand.

  But this one had gotten under Cochran's skin. He'd been working it on his own time, for the most part. He had distributed her photograph around the country. He'd kept up with missing-persons reports from every region. He'd put the arm on every informant on his list, several times around, and he'd even taken to hounding the lockups and questioning suspects in other assaults.

  Cochran was a good cop, and he had done all the right things with all the time at his disposal. He'd come to me as a last resort, and I suspect that he'd intended to pay my fee out of his own pocket. He was that kind of cop. He didn't even mind that I punched his door bell at midnight, though I suspect that his wife did, and even she plugged in the coffeepot and tried to put the best face possible on that midnight invasion of their privacy.

  I had not met Georgia Cochran before that visit to her home. Jim had spoken of her, and of their two kids, but he was not the type to say a lot about his personal life. From what he had said, it was my impression that he had a happy marriage and a satisfying home life. I liked her instantly. And I liked the sleepy-eyed ten-year-old who came to the kitchen to investigate the late-night sounds in there. She wore an old-fashioned flannel nightgown, and her blond hair was braided and tied with ribbons, a vision straigh
t from a child's storybook. What really arrested my attention, though, was this kid's strong resemblance to our Jane Doe. Jim saw me looking at her as her mother shooed her back to bed, and I guess he knew what I was thinking. Neither of us needed to say anything about the resemblance; I thought I understood why Jane Doe had found a place beneath this tough cop's skin and why he'd devoted so much of his own time to her.

  But he could not tell me a hell of a lot more than I already knew. The killer was either very lucky or very cagey. Other than the unfortunate nurse who had walked in on the murder scene, no one at the hospital had noticed him. The nurse's description was worth nothing. The guy was wearing surgical togs and had the mask covering his face from the eyes down, cap pulled down onto the brows. She described the eyes only as being "very cold." As for the rest of it, he was "very strong" and wore blue-and-white running shoes. Apparently the guy had thought it out rather carefully; he also wore rubber surgical gloves; the outfit was found abandoned in a public rest room two floors up.

  That was all the substance. I had told Cochran earlier, at the hospital, about the "mental alarm" that sent me scrambling to Jane's room but too late. We talked a little about that, that night at the Cochran home, and I told him about the rush of symbols that remained etched in my brain. I quick-sketched several of them for him; we drank coffee and talked a little about diseased minds and heinous crimes until Georgia shut us down with a shivery complaint about "the horror show."

  I left a few minutes after that. Cochran walked me to my car, held the door, and leaned in to tell me, "I should have pulled your chain a week earlier. Wish I had. Sounds like you were getting onto something. Nothing you gave me jogged anything, but ... I already looked into the devil worship bit. There’s enough of that around, but all I could make of it is a few pathetic sickie kids who'd grab for anything to give them a sense of power. I tend to agree with Dr. Saunders that it was just a camouflage job, that cigarette tattoo on Jane's belly. I think the killer knew her, probably intimately. That was a desperation stunt, you know, walking into that hospital in broad daylight with murder on the mind. She could have identified him, I'm sure of that. Well ... I doubly want the bastard now. Let me know if something else floats in on you, eh?"