“Really. What, she doesn't trust us to do the fuckin' job?” Sincebaugh shouted.
“I got the call, was told to be here, guys. What can I say?”
“One way or another, looks like Lew Meade's going to wrench this case loose,” said Ben. “Just waiting for us to fumble, Alex.”
The FBI photographer shrugged. “I only take orders, gentlemen.” He then went straightaway to work. He talked as he fired away over both the body and the wall, commenting on the grotesque nature of the crime, saying he'd thought that he'd seen everything until now. He seemed to need to talk in order to work; it seemed to be a way of calming his nerves.
The FBI fingerprint guy and Dr. Coran followed, and she went straight to the detectives, saying, “You were wearing gloves the whole time, I hope, so we don't pick up any unnecessary prints, gentlemen?” Satisfied, she went to work without looking at the body because she was stopped stone cold by the bloody writing on the wall. Alex watched her for a moment before he and Ben moved off, deciding to comb the little two-room apartment in the meantime, checking into cupboards, drawers, the refrigerator, staring at photos of friends, family, anything they could find.
Finding little of use, Sincebaugh returned to the bedroom to find a jittery Dr. Coran seemingly unable to concentrate on her work. She dropped a vial, swore and began a procedure over. From time to time, she stared up at the message on the wall. This seemed only to further upset her. Meanwhile, the fingerprint man said he'd done all he could, and so he began huddling with the two photographers, who knew one another from previous engagements. Each man promised to have prints of one sort or another to Sincebaugh before his shift was over tomorrow. The two photographers and the dust man left together, speaking of locating a watering hole after each dumped his evidence at lockup.
Alex went to Jessica Coran and asked if she were okay. She looked up into his eyes and said,”Nobody said anything about the writing on the wall. It took me by surprise.”
“Yeah, us too.”
“It's him, Alex... Matisak.”
“What? Whataya mean?”
“It's his new thing. He writes poetry in blood on walls after each of his kills.”
“But his M.O. is completely different from this. He wasn't here, Jessica.” He tried his most reassuring tone.
“You don't put anything past Matisak. He may've killed this boy just to get me here to see this!” She pointed to the blood message on the wall. “That's his doing, his handwrit-ing.”
“You can't know that.”
“It's his way of telling me that he's here, close by, watching me.”
“You're jumping to conclusions not in evidence, Jessica.”
“Get hold of myself, right?” She glared up at him. “He shadowed my every move on the Claw case in New York from his jail cell. This...this would be a cakewalk for him. I'm telling you he's been here, in this room. I can sense him. Hell, I can smell him.”
It was then Sincebaugh heard a clamor from outside in the hallway and going toward the noise, he saw Dr. Kim Desinor pushing forward through the crowded hallway, followed by Lew Meade and Captain Landry. Alex could only drop his gaze and shake his head in a gesture of defeat. He had one badly shaken M.E. working the scene, and now he'd be forced to deal with a psychic on the premises.
“Stand aside, Alex,” ordered Carl Landry at the doorway, and Alex dutifully did so, casting a worried glance in Ben's direction. Kim Desinor followed his eyes for a moment before going toward the bed and body, noticing immediately the blood communique over the bed. When the psychic stepped away from the horrid scene at the bed, she went toward the kitchen, trying to come up for air. She came face-to-face with Alex instead. He hoarsely whispered into her ear, “Doesn't look like we'll need an exhumation now, Dr. Desinor. We got a body right here for you to psi over.”
She captured his gaze and drew it into her own for a millisecond, finding a firm strength in this man, some anchor for her reeling senses. This death scene wasn't like anything she'd ever faced before. It was so bloody, not at all like the body fished from the river the other day with its hideous wounds bathed and washed clean. Here the full horror of what the Queen of Hearts killer did was full in your face. Captain Landry pushed into the small kitchen, wondering what was going on. “Let Dr. Desinor do her job, Alex, without interference, please.”
Alex watched in dismay as Landry and Meade guided the psychic to the corpse for a second time like a couple of vultures to pick over found prey. Meade ushered the shaken Jessica Coran aside while Landry whispered some encouragement in Dr. Desinor's ear. Kim looked faint, forehead sweating, hands trembling and nose twitching with the stench of the two-day-old corpse. Even the seasoned, hardened Jessica Coran, who was making for the door, looked seriously rattled by the scene.
Alex took his boss aside. “Don't you think the crime scene's been trampled over enough today, Captain?”
“Alex, we've got to accommodate Dr. Desinor, plain and simple. What part of that don't you understand?”
Landry ordered everyone except the two detectives, Dr. Desinor, Meade, Coran and himself out.
Alex said through grinding teeth, “If she's on the case, I'm off, Cap.”
“You make that move, Alex, and I swear, I'll use the tape those IAD clowns brought to me.”
“Not like you to threaten, Carl.”
“My options aren't many, Alex. Now if you and deYampert had anything for me, maybe things would be different, but so far all you've managed to do is go around in circles trying to find that transvestite snitch of yours. Meanwhile, you don't have the slightest idea of the hounds on my back or how often I've taken shots for you.”
“I'm telling you, Carl, there's something strange about Gil-reath's disappearance right after we got the first call, after the Kenny Stimpson killing, and I'd swear it was his disguised voice on that 9ll. And if he did find Stimpson's body, he either knew him or his killer. And now this victim, Captain, if you haven't heard yet, is a transvestite.”
“You really think Gilreath knows something?”
“I do.”
“Then find the bastard.”
“I've been working on it day and night.”
“
Obviously not good enough, Alex.”
“Ben and I are busting asses on this—” Each man was alerted to a sudden keening cry of anguish and, looking up, they saw Dr. Desinor, her right hand on the body's forehead, her left in the open chest wound, her eyes closed, her cry of pain and terror turning Alex's blood into a thick oatmeal.
“What the hell's she doing?” shouted Sincebaugh. “Get her out of here!”
Landry grabbed Sincebaugh and pushed him against one of the blood-spattered walls. “Shut up, Alex... shut up and let her do her thing.”
“So”—Sincebaugh was fighting for breath—”to hell with protocol.”
“Protocol hasn't gotten us anywhere. You find a door locked, you go round to the back.”
“I don't need this shit, Carl.”
Ben deYampert was now beside Alex, telling him, “Give it a chance, Alex. If it fails, we've cleared the runway, and if it helps, more power to the lady. Got to admit, she's got guts.”
Meade placed a hand over his lips, silently asking for quiet. Frowning, Alex relented.
The three hardened police detectives and the FBI field chief all watched now in silence as the psychic did her work.
“No... no...” she was moaning. “I never hurt you.... Whyyyyy?”
Alex continued to frown at the show of histrionics, but no one else seemed to be bothered by the theatrical demonstration and obvious pretense.
Kim Desinor raised her arms in mock self-defense, and as she went to her knees after a flurry of self-defense moves, her fists clenched and doubled as if wielding a heavy object. She rose and seemed to score a hit with the ghostly weapon in her hand, but suddenly the phantom object was dropped from her grasp, and she stumbled backwards, clutching her chest as if fighting to keep her heart intact while fending off inv
isible blows.
Sincebaugh almost laughed at the display, but when he saw her falling, he reacted instinctively to catch her in his arms, but not before she grazed her head on the bedpost.
“Get her outside, Alex. Get some water, Ben,” the captain was shouting.
Meade reacted nervously. “Good God, is she all right?”
The bruise weltered up in a dark ring over her eye, but this seemed the least of her worries. She'd gone into some sort of seizure, epileptic in nature, and she was shrill and pleading against an invisible attacker.
She lashed out at Alex, who raised an open hand and slapped her hard, bringing a red hue to one side of her face and startling her out of her vision.
Alex felt the reality of her fear, deep and lifting, an ocean of it running current-swift through the woman. Whether she was a fake or not, no one short of Meryl Streep could act this well. Had she locked onto something evil and unimaginable in the room? Alex momentarily and helplessly wondered, feeling the intensity of her struggle in his arms.
He held her against his chest, shouting, “It's all right, Kim... you're all right... you're among friends.”
His words sounded so banal to himself, but he could think of nothing more comforting to say; still, the words seemed to be working as she relaxed under his grip. He held her now with her eyes closed. She had shut down as if a control or safety mechanism had taken over.
Alex tore the looped black rosary beads from her twisted fingers, somehow knowing that only when her touch was severed from the strange crystal cross would she relax. This done, he shouted, “I think we'd better get her over to St. Luke's now!”
“You do that, Alex,” said Landry. “Ben and I'll finish up here.”
“That's all right, Sincebaugh. I'll take her to the hospital,” suggested Lew Meade. “Right, right,” Alex replied sarcastically before carrying her off, down the narrow corridor and steps and outside, where a mist shrouded the waiting crowd. He bolted toward his squad car, passing by other cops and reporters held at the ribbon, all of them very curious about the limp woman in Alex's arms, some of them recognizing her as the psychic called in by the NOPD to work the Hearts case.
“First time on a crime scene,” he shouted. “Hey, what can I tell you. Happens to the best of us.” It was both a lie and a weak defense, but he bullied past them all.
He put her into the backseat of his squad car and drove the six blocks to St. Luke's Presbyterian Hospital.
In the rear, she was coming around, mumbling to herself, something about a bloody baseball bat. He paid little heed as he turned the car into the E.R. port.
Less than half an hour later, Kim Desinor was lying comfortably in an E.R. bed, her condition considered fair, and she was opening her eyes to find Alex standing over her, the glint of genuine concern steeling his gaze.
“You okay, Doctor... Kim?” he asked.
“Where...”
“Hospital. You kinda went berserk back there. Went out. We kinda panicked, so here you are. Doctor says you're okay. He patched your forehead and...”
She reached up, touched the wide bandage and said, “Ouch! What happened?”
“Sorry, but you fell against a bedpost. I caught you before you did any more harm to yourself.”
She shook off a cold chill that swept through her. “I saw something, didn't I?”
“Hmmmph, you tell me.”
“I can't... remember.”
“Can't remember what? Being in the room, parading around, acting out the part of the victim, or what you saw while in trance?” How very convenient, he thought. So it was all a show that maybe got out of hand.
She saw the telling look in his eye. “Lieutenant, I'm only human. What I saw, my mind refused to accept. I saw myself—as someone else—being murdered.”
“You saw yourself.”
“As her, as him... as the Dumond woman. His real name... I know it, but it's sealed away with everything else I learned. I was her... him... for the duration.”
“But you can't remember what you saw as Ms. Dumond?”
She detected the ripple of humor in his tone. “Nothing... a total blank, a protective measure. My subconscious has the negatives, though, and after hypnosis, I think I could piece together what I saw as Dumond.”
“You'll have to forgive me, Doctor, but I'm just not convinced of any of this. Tell it to Captain Landry.”
“Alex, what occurred was real.”
“I think it's late. I'd like to get out of this hospital and go home. Can I drop you anywhere?” he asked, ignoring her now.
“God, you're infuriating.”
“Me? What do you think...” He hesitated and lowered his hands. “Look, how do you think I feel about you?”
“You deny your own psychic abilities, repress them even, and you can't stand the thought of anyone else having any either, it would appear.”
“That's the biggest load I've heard from you yet.”
“You forget, I've seen the tape of you at the coffee shop. I've seen you in action.”
“I claim no second sight.”
“Claim it or not, you've got it.”
“Listen, for the duration of this night, can we talk about anything other than this?”
“I'd be happy to discuss any subject with you. Lieutenant— over dinner perhaps?”
“Dinner?”
“I still haven't eaten.”
“Dinner? Okay, you're on.”
“Good, then perhaps we can have a civil conversation?”
“Perhaps.”
“Have you all my things?”
“Your handbag,” he said, lifting it from a nearby table.
“Thank you.”
“Shoes,” he said, handing these to her.
She took them and began placing them on. “Where's my gun?”
“Right here. I suppose you have a permit for that .38?”
“I do.”
“And what about these?” he asked, handing the rosary beads to her. “Got a permit for these?”
She gave him a mock look of disgust. “Where'd you get this?”
“I've noticed you use 'em whenever you go into trance. What? Do the beads hold some special power or meaning for
you?”
“Haven't you seen these beads, this amulet before?” she asked, puzzled. “I mean, they must look familiar to you.”
“No, Doctor, they don't.”
“Stephens brought the rosary with him... I mean, sent it ahead for me to examine. Said he...said it was from one of the victims, Surette.”
“Oh, yeah, I recall now. We found it where it'd fallen between his legs.”
“I'll tell you what I told Stephens.”
“Which is?”
“The rosary beads belonged to the killer, not the victim.”
Alex measured this information carefully in his mind, testing it for meaning. “That's a remarkable leap.”
“Are you willing to consider the possibility I'm right about the beads?”
“Maybe. Like your gun, I didn't notice them until I picked you up and carried you down to my car. Told the people here you were a fellow cop, flashed my credentials.”
“God, you didn't have to lie for me. The gun is registered.”
“Guess I don't need to ask you why you carry one.”
“Nowadays? With one fourth of the homes in this country touched by crime each year? No, no need to ask.”
“I'll just let 'em know you're up and running; meanwhile, if you'd like a mirror and a sink, it's that way.”
She thanked him again and went to freshen up, the throbbing pain in her head reminding her to go slow.
In the mirror, she studied her image and tried to recapture what had been so shocking to her system; there'd been something unusual this time, something that didn't fit with the other attempts to see the killer. Something had changed and drastically, but she wasn't sure what it was, not yet, and the more she tried to revive the images, the more her head hurt.
She decid
ed to sleep on it after a decent meal. Maybe it would return to her in time; maybe she'd need the help of a professional hypnotist. She'd never had to use a hypnotist before, but there was plenty of precedent for it in the literature when a vision was blocked by one's own mind, whether it was a simple memory or a psychic insight.
She would just have to be careful to instruct the hypnotist not to lead her in any way, but merely facilitate the process. She wondered if anyone on the case might suggest a competent person for the job, but she knew better than to ask Alex.
She did what she could with her hair and her face, fearing she could not do much. What little makeup she used about the eyes had run, giving her an Alice Cooper look that might easily scare Alex off. She rinsed her face of all makeup, opting for the natural look that shone through. She finished up just as he returned to the room for her.
23
Those sweetly smiling angels with pensive looks, innocent faces, and cash-boxes for hearts.
—Balzac
On the drive from the hospital Alex talked about how much he loved and hated New Orleans. “Food and jazz drives the urban soul here,” he told her with a short laugh that withheld any true humor.”The chefs here are like gods, feeding the soul-satisfying food of the earth and sea, and the musicians walk on water, and you can go down some streets here in full daylight and you'll find less-than-half-dressed whores in the doorways and windows, waving you up, many of them men. There's no place like New Orleans for a cop, no. All the chefs, the jazz musicians and the whores all have one commonalty: They all whip up their unique brand of appetite-suppressant by using their inbred intuition to improvise. The transvestite community's no different. You'll find more outrageous clothing per capita here than on any block in San Francisco, I assure you.”
“I've seen quite enough between my hotel room and your precinct, thank you.”
They were traversing the large, long bridge spanning huge Lake Ponchartrain, heading for a favorite restaurant that seemed miles off the tourist routes, a place Alex called Leopold's.
The city of 1.2 million was wide awake, bustling, threatening to never sleep. The city had maintained, after all these years, its heavy European, eighteenth-century air—as if the same air breathed in by the pirate Jean Lafitte were still available for the modern visitor to inhale. It was a place for the rich to party, to bask in their wealth, as it had always been a haven for the sophisticated and worldly; but for the poor, many of whom were black, Spanish, Creole and Cajun, the city's lack of a manufacturing and industrial base extended very little hope of improvement, elevation or advancement over the years. Alex talked of these matters in a grim tone.
Pure Instinct (Instinct thriller series) Page 29
