Fragments

by James F. David

  “What else?” Wes asked.

  The officer merely shrugged. Then he said, “Come on in, I want to show you something.”

  Inside they followed him to a back room. Glancing into the bathroom as they passed, Wes could see a woman dusting a radio for fingerprints. Wes followed them into a study.

  “Take a look at what’s on this desk.”

  Wes leaned over next to Elizabeth. There were Xerox copies of journal articles stacked along one side. The titles were all from parapsychology journals. Elizabeth picked up one of the articles and turned to face Roy.

  “What’s this got to do with us?”

  “How about this for a theory? You’re using that equipment to create ESP and then control people. You’re using retarded kids because their minds are easier to control.”

  “It’s nonsense,” Elizabeth said. “Besides, why would we use this power to kill fraternity brothers?”

  “I spoke to the fraternity brothers and they told me what they did to Ralph.”

  Elizabeth flushed, and then said, “But that’s no reason to kill—”

  “Isn’t it? You’re not one of the researchers, are you, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m part of the team—”

  “Your job is to protect the retarded kids, isn’t it? Just how far would you go to protect them?”

  “I wouldn’t kill someone over a stupid prank. Besides, Pastor Young didn’t have anything to do with what the Kappas did to Ralph. So why murder him?”

  “There you go again, calling his death a murder.”

  “You implied it was murder.”

  “Now that you mention it, there is a reason you might want him dead. Take another look at that desk. See the yellow pad?”

  Wes looked to see a list of names with phone numbers. Some of the names were crossed out, and others had multiple phone numbers. It took him a second to realize the names were from the articles on the desk.

  “It looks to me,” Roy continued, “that the good pastor was on to you and your ESP experiments, and was trying to find some way to prove it.”

  “It’s nonsense,” Elizabeth protested again.

  “Are you working on a Department of Defense grant? CIA perhaps?”

  “We’re supported by the Kellum Foundation—it’s well respected,” Wes said.

  “I’ll want to check that out.”

  Wes’s stomach knotted. He doubted any project interested the Kellum trustees enough to risk being associated with murder, but if he tried to stop an inquiry he would only look guilty. He decided instead to try openness.

  “Fine, but first let me demonstrate what we’re doing—and it has nothing to do with parapsychology—and if you’re not satisfied then I’ll give you the names of the trustees.” Roy agreed and they left, stunned by the bizarre accusations. Outside, Elizabeth started rummaging through her coat pockets, pulling out an old church bulletin.

  “Wes, do you have a pen?”

  He handed one over and she wrote furiously.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I memorized some of the names from the list. I think we should call them. Maybe we can find out what Phil was doing.”

  “We’ll only get in deeper, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth looked at him, amused. “Deeper than being accused of being psychic killers, and using retarded people to carry out our murders?”

  Wes sighed, admitting it couldn’t get any worse—but hadn’t he said that before?

  “Well lookee here! We found Wes and Elizabeth.”

  Turning, Wes saw Ralph and the savants. Arms folded across his chest, lips puckered, Ralph was in his concerned mode. Beside him, Daphne stood head down, glancing up shyly. Short, ugly Luis stood behind Daphne, staring dumbly, crooked teeth protruding. Yu, next to him, stared emotionlessly. Wes could see Archie coming down the block, his puffy orange hair and blue Mickey Mouse glasses a sharp contrast against the muted colors of fall. Behind him trailed Len and Karon.

  “What a coincidence, here comes your gang,” Roy said.

  “Where have you been?” Ralph said to Wes in his concerned voice. Then switching instantly to friendly, “Hello, Officer Winston. We’re going to get Slurpees. You want to come? You want I should bring you one? I can carry two. I can carry more than that, can’t I Wes. Course I need a box to carry a lot.” Thump, he hit himself in the head. “How could I be so stupid? I only have to carry two. You don’t want one? Well okeydokey then. See you later.”

  Wes watched the savants head off down the street and fell in behind them. He felt the policeman’s stare all the way down the block.

  23

  PARAPSYCHOLOGISTS

  Elizabeth’s short-term memory was good enough to get six of the names from Pastor Young’s list, and a city for each. Each of the cities had a university, and that’s where they started their search, quickly locating three of the professors. Two of them had talked to “Dr. Young” about their research. He’d asked about subjects they had tested for ESP. After an hour Elizabeth summarized what they had so far.

  “I knew Phil was a psychologist, but I didn’t know he was so well known. He’d researched psychic ability and seemed to be trying to track down one of his old subjects. He was asking about a male subject who didn’t like to be photographed. I don’t know if he ever found him.”

  Unenthused from the beginning, now Wes was sure they were wasting their time. “Elizabeth, I don’t think this has anything to do with what’s happening here. Pastor Young was probably pursuing a former interest, maybe considering a return to the field.”

  “He wasn’t updating himself on research, he was asking about a particular person. He was searching for someone—someone with ESP.”

  “Someone tested for ESP! No one has ever proved it exists, you know. If you can get someone claiming paranormal ability to agree to be tested in a controlled environment—which they normally avoid—the ability suddenly disappears. They have excuses, of course. They claim electromagnetic radiation from the equipment interferes with their ability, or maybe they blame their sudden normalcy on the light from neon tubes, or the phase of the moon. They blame anything and everything rather than face the dreadful fact that they are just ordinary people who will live anonymous lives, then die, quickly forgotten by their friends and family.”

  “Not demonstrated to your satisfaction is not the same as nonexistent!”

  “You’ve accused me of lacking self-awareness, now look at yourself. In spite of no evidence of a connection with the murders forty-five years ago and those today, you see a relation. There’s no connection between Pastor Young’s accidental death and the killings and yet you call around the country to find one. No evidence of ESP, yet you believe in it. It’s not rational.”

  Frowning, Elizabeth spoke softly. “Wes, you are a faithful apprentice to the scientific method, but there are other ways of knowing—just as legitimate. I don’t have to experiment to know someone’s hurting, in love, or angry. I can appreciate a sunset without understanding the orbital mechanics that make it possible. I can read a novel and get more insight into human nature than any battery of psychological tests could ever give. There’s a feeling, intuitive side of life and it’s just as legitimate a source of understanding as is the scientific method.”

  Wes paused, not wanting to tarnish the friendship they were developing, then added carefully, “You’re right. I know we’re different in our approaches, but ultimately we’re both seeking truth. Honestly, Elizabeth, I don’t see how this helps us.”

  “I don’t either, but I keep thinking about what Officer Winston said about us using psychic powers to turn the savants into killers. I mean, what was Phil calling these people about? Maybe the last three on the list can tell us something.”

  It was nearing two and the East Coast schools would be closing soon, so they went back to work tracking the other three names. In their first round of calls they found that two of the faculty were not listed at the schools they had called, and one was on medical leave. They dec
ided to ask for faculty in the psychology department with the most years of service, hoping they would know the former professors. Elizabeth discovered that a Dr. Leahey had indeed worked at the University of Florida but had been killed in an accident a few years ago. When she heard Dr. Kinghorn at the University of Connecticut had also died in an accident, she probed for details. “Well, it was kind of odd,” his department chair said. “The witnesses said he and his family were sitting at a railroad crossing waiting for an approaching train. Just before it got to them he pulled forward and stopped. The whole car was demolished. None of them survived. You would have thought he did it to commit suicide except anyone who knew him, knew he wouldn’t do that. He loved those kids! Why kill them?”

  After relating the story to Wes, Elizabeth called back to the University of Florida to ask for details on Dr. Leahey’s death. It too turned out to be an odd accident. “I wasn’t there,” his colleague said, “but it happened out at the airport. Dr. Leahey and his wife owned a small plane and liked to fly on weekends. His wife was at the controls warming up the engine while he got something out of the car—I heard it was a lunch. He came out to the plane, got to the door, stopped, then turned and walked into the propeller. It was pretty horrible. His wife had a nervous breakdown.”

  Wes listened to the story, cringing when he heard about the propeller death, but showing no other reaction. Frustrated, Elizabeth pointed out the obvious.

  “Two deaths, both from unlikely accidents!”

  “Accidents happen. Besides, we talked to three who were fine.”

  “I only got six names from the list. Who knows how many more accidents there were.”

  “Or how many accidents there weren’t.”

  “The last name on the list—Dr. Birnbaum—he’s on medical leave. Aren’t you curious about why he’s on medical leave?”

  “Curious? No. Mildly interested is the best I can manage. But I know you well enough to know you won’t be satisfied until you find out.”

  Elizabeth smiled and picked up the phone. “Want to bet dinner it was an accident?”

  “You’re on. I like steak.”

  “Be prepared for Chinese.”

  The department chair at Ohio State University was reticent, but confirmed Dr. Birnbaum’s medical leave, then explained that he was hurt in a traffic accident. After gloating, Elizabeth called directory assistance and found three Birnbaums in the Columbus area. On the second try Dr. Birnbaum’s wife answered, saying he couldn’t take any calls. Despite Elizabeth’s pleading, Mrs. Birnbaum would not put the professor on the phone. It was a dead end.

  “OK, so I buy you Chinese food,” Wes conceded. “It will be worth it if you’re finally satisfied that there’s nothing to this.”

  “I’m not satisfied. There was something about Mrs. Birnbaum’s voice.”

  “She was probably exhausted, taking care of her injured husband.” Then, exasperated, “Won’t anything satisfy you?”

  “Maybe a talk with Dr. Birnbaum.”

  “You said he wasn’t taking calls.”

  “That’s according to his wife. Next week I’m going back to Chicago to report to the Kellum Foundation. I think I’ll swing through Columbus and drop in on the Birnbaums.”

  The mention of the foundation gave Wes chills, but he’d come to trust Elizabeth and was confident she wouldn’t use what had happened to unfairly end the experiment. They sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee in silence, Wes watching her face, waiting for what he could see was coming—he just didn’t know what it was.

  “I’ve been thinking about those accidents,” Elizabeth said. “They were so bizarre. People just don’t suddenly drive out in front of an onrushing train, or just walk into propellers.”

  “Yes they do. Someone starts daydreaming, loses presence of mind, and steps off a subway platform. Haven’t you absentmindedly touched a hot pan, or driven through a stop sign? It does happen.”

  “Sure it does, but I’ve never come across so many in such a short period of time to people in the same profession.”

  “They’re spread out over years, Elizabeth, and in widely separated parts of the country. Have you ever checked accident rates for any profession? Then how can you know this is an abnormally high rate?”

  “Maybe it’s because of what happened to Marshall.”

  Wes had forgotten that her first assistant had been killed in an accident.

  “He died like the others—senselessly. He was standing on a curb with his family, waiting for a traffic light, and suddenly he stepped out into the street. His wife said he couldn’t have timed it better if he had planned it.”

  “Knowing someone personalizes it, making you think it’s more tragic than just another accident.”

  “I understand that theory, Wes, but how many accidents have to happen before they’re no longer accidents?”

  Knowing better than to try and answer, Wes gave up and let Elizabeth try to make sense out of what had happened. Instead, he sipped his coffee, wishing he’d picked a different city for his experiment.

  24

  DEMONSTRATION

  Two days after Pastor Young’s death, Officer Winston came for his demonstration. Ralph met him at the door with a hearty handshake and a loud “Hi-how-ya-doin?” When Elizabeth arrived to rescue him from Ralph, the policeman thrust a box at Elizabeth, saying, “Here’s the puzzle, what the hell’s it for?”

  Taking the puzzle, Elizabeth ushered him in to where the savants were being prepared. Wes frowned when the policeman entered. Wes had grown reluctant since the offer had been made, but Elizabeth encouraged him to be open and Wes explained liberally. Officer Winston listened politely, but uttered only an occasional “If you say so.”

  Elizabeth took over the explaining when the savants and Gil were fitted with their helmets. Wes took his station and watched Shamita’s brain-wave feeds appear on his screen. Wes started the integration, then hesitated. Typing furiously, he modified the program.

  “What are you doing, Wes?” Shamita whispered.

  “Let’s use Daphne as the matrix, and reduce the parameters on Yu and Luis. We need something from Gil—select out something.”

  “We won’t get Frankie if you do that.”

  “It’s just a demonstration,” Wes said.

  Shamita knew what he was doing, and said nothing. Soon the wave patterns began to change. Wes was setting up Daphne’s pattern for the matrix when a flashing clown head appeared in the corner of Wes’s screen—Len was sending a message. Then a small plane flew across, pulling a sign behind it reading, Why are we changing the parameters? We won’t get Frankie this way, and any new memories will confound the personal memories Frankie has been building. Len stared over his terminal, puzzled. Wes sent back, We’ll make it a brief run and avoid creating any complex memories. Wes didn’t add that he was afraid Frankie would start talking about killing Ralph or Shamita again. Then he remembered Elizabeth—would she cooperate?

  “Elizabeth, I need your help,” he said. “Karon, explain to Officer Winston how the EETs work.”

  Puzzled, Elizabeth came and stood behind Wes.

  “I’m going to change the program—use Daphne for the matrix, instead of Gil,” he said softly.

  “Why? What difference will it make?”

  “We’ll get an integration just like before, but this personality will be different—more of Daphne, for one thing. Also, because we’re modifying the mix, don’t call it Frankie—call it Pat or something.”

  Elizabeth frowned, but nodded. Shamita finished changing the parameters, then leaned back, sighing deeply. When Daphne’s matrix was ready Wes set up the integration program to piece together a new intellect, then paused.

  “All right, Elizabeth, begin the demonstration.”

  Elizabeth went to each savant in turn and asked them to do a calendar problem, solve a simple puzzle, read a page and recite it, and solve a remote-association problem. Only the problem in their specialty could be solved. The policeman watched quietly,
asking no questions. When she was done, Wes ran the integration program, piecing together a new intellect.

  “Gil will do the hearing, and Yu will speak,” Wes explained.

  “Your name is Pat. Can you hear me?”

  “My name is Frankie. You know that, Elizabeth.”

  Surprised, Elizabeth turned to Wes, who sat openmouthed. Shamita and Len exchanged shocked looks; then Len whispered in Karon’s ear. Wes quickly hid his surprise when he saw the policeman taking in the scene.

  Recovering, Elizabeth said, “Of course your name is Frankie. How are you tonight?”

  “I feel different.”

  “I’m sure it’s temporary.”

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” Roy asked. “I thought you said something about them getting blended together?”

  “It’s OK, Elizabeth,” Shamita said. “I cut off audition.”

  “They’ve blended brain functions to create a uniquely functioning mind,” Elizabeth explained like an expert.

  “So why is only one of them talking?”

  “It’s only one mind, so they have only one voice.”

  Pleased with Elizabeth’s explanation, Wes let her continue.

  “Shamita, can you make Luis the voice?” she asked.

  After a minute of typing, “Ok, try it again.”

  “Are you there Frankie?”

  “Of course, where would I go?” The voice came from Luis’s thick lips.

  Unimpressed, the policeman turned to Elizabeth. “So someone else is talking? So what?”

  Signaling a cutoff, Elizabeth whispered, “Try this, Roy. Whisper a question to Gil, softly so that Luis can’t hear you. Something simple.” After another signal to Shamita, she added, “A friend of mine wants to ask you a question. Go ahead, Roy.”

  Roy bent and whispered a question in Gil’s ear.

  “No, I don’t know Joshua Ringman, or Scot Salyer. Should I know them?” Luis said.

  Elizabeth frowned at the policeman, who stared defiantly. After the cutoff signal she said, “I told you to keep it simple.”