Deja Blue

by Walker, Robert W.

  “Ahhh…out of the sky, heh? That’s be convenient.”

  “I’d hate to think one of our citizens capable of coming up with this monstrous method of killing innocent women.”

  “Wouldn’t that go a long way to please everyone here, to learn it’s some creep passing through on his way to Baltimore or Cleveland.”

  “We got a right to hope so,” he muttered in reply.

  “Seems to have set up shop here…or stalled out in Charleston. Say, is that what Kunati is working toward? To pin it on the nearest outsider?”

  “I wouldn’t say pin it on anyone. We want the right guy for this; all of us here.”

  “Sure…I realize but—”

  “What’re you getting at? Hey, Doctor, no matter our personal histories and problems…no matter the image problem we West Virginians have—or think we have— we’re still professionals here.”

  “I know that, Carl.”

  “We’re not molding the evidence to fit some wishfulfillment here.”

  “All the same, prejudices play a part in any police force and can in any investigation.”

  He said nothing, gritted his teeth, stood and wandered to the window, staring out at the evening rush hour crowd trying to get out of the downtown area for their more rural homes.

  She swallowed hard and pressed her point. “There’s always a natural human desire to hope that one’s hometown could not nurture a killer of this magnitude, when we all know that’s not so. And from my casual observation, there’s a need in Kunati to prove this guy is not home grown, which may be blinding you, I mean him, to the truth.”

  He turned on her, eyes glaring. “You’ve got no more proof he’s born and raised here than I have he’s not,” countered Carl, his face reddening in the half-light of his office.

  “Come on, your own newspaper op ed pieces have been hinting that serial killers are not manufactured here with the coal? Except maybe in the deepest hills and hollows.”

  “We’re as capable as any police force in the nation and better than most,” he replied, stepping closer to her, too close for comfort. “Better in fact than some, say Denver where they still can’t find Jon Benet Ramsey’s killer.”

  She knew this was Carl’s biggest fear—his department appearing incompetent.

  Carl lowered his eyes and returned to his desk, sitting. His weight caused the chair to scream when he’d dropped in it. “As for this department, we’re a fine organization. This thing…it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before, and then people like you pass judgment on us.”

  “How? How have I contributed to that?” She felt genuinely hurt at this accusation. “And don’t forget, you asked me here. Fetched me even!”

  His eyes had become dagger-like as if the weight of the job and his frustration with this case made him want to shout at her. “I hope Kunati and me aren’t in your way.”

  God, how she wanted to correct his grammar—me aren’t—but this was hardly the moment. “I’m just trying to do my job, Chief. If I happen to be brusque and to the point, that’s just me.”

  “You could tone things down a bit.”

  “Hmmmph! If I were a man, you’d call me confident and efficient.”

  “Perhaps we should both do that, stick to the job, and leave this subject off bounds. You and me, we’ve got to hold onto some common ground, but you should know one thing.”

  “I agree completely,” she began but stopped. “What one thing should I know?”

  “It was never my idea to call you in on this case.”

  “What?” This came as a complete surprise. “Really?”

  “I have tried to keep an open mind about it, of course, but no…it wasn’t my idea, and had it been left up to me—”

  “Little wonder Amos Kunati has been so against me if his Chief is against me.”

  “He and I don’t always agree, and as far as he knows, it was my call.”

  “I see, I think. But then whose call was it? The mayor?”

  “And others I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “The governor?”

  “I’ve already said too much.”

  She grimaced, feeling foolish. Why hadn’t she been able to read this in him, in his body language, in his words or unspoken words. Instead, she’d believed him entirely on her wavelength. Was Orvison that good an actor? Am I losing it, losing some of my powers, she wondered. Finally, she picked her jaw off the floor and said, “And here I am…working under a false notion you were with me all along.”

  “I don’t want anything happening to you while you’re in Charleston,” he assured her.

  “So your insistence on filming me while at work.”

  “Protocol.”

  “And that’s why you came back to the trailer the other night?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No premonitions, nothing like that?”

  He shook his head. Said nothing more. They stared at one another for a long moment.

  She finally said, “Look, I’m sorry if anything I’ve said or done has made you feel out in left field, or at all uncomfortable.” As she said this, he waved it off. “I certainly had hoped we were working as a team, Chief.”

  She realized they’d gone back to calling one another doctor and chief respectively.

  “Forget it,” he said now. “Sorry I said anything. Look, it’s growing late. Let me buy you dinner at the Quarrier Street steak house. “Best place in town to eat. Lobster toes are unbeatable.”

  “I-I-I dunno.”

  “Come on. I’ve been watching you. You haven’t eaten more than a Snickers bar and a coke all day.” “I just feel uneasy, Carl…Chief…after all the delusion I’ve been under, and me a psychic.”

  “You never said you could read people’s minds.”

  “True enough.”

  “Come on.” He ushered her toward the door. “Only if we can have a clean, fresh start.”

  “Absolutely, a fresh start.”

  As they made their way out of the stationhouse and into a balmy but cool evening, she recalled one of the definitions for green was fresh like young shoots sprouting from the Earth, a new beginning. Spring was in the air. And so many positive things hovering about the here and now, including Rae’s getting straight with Carl Orvison. It just floored her to realize that when both men had stood in Raule Apreostini’s office that both men, and not just Kunati, were there under duress, asking for her by name and reputation under duress—that she was pushed on this West Virginia law enforcement department by their superiors.

  She tried to put the image of her ranting at Raule about not wishing to go to Charleston out of her mind. The two Charleston men had come to fetch her, and yet neither man had wanted her on the single largest, most important manhunt in the history of their city. Of course, they wanted to solve the case themselves. Meanwhile, Raule was busy filling an order, so to speak—doing a favor or repaying a debt. Rae’s Psi powers being the currency.

  Where was the justice in this poisonous twist in the relationship between Orvison and her? She might’ve stayed home and seen to her daughter; she’d’ve been there to keep Nia out of the conniving clutches of her father, Tomi Yoshikani.

  “You OK, Doc?” he asked. “Sure,” she lied. “Let’s ahhh…get that bite, huh? Where’s this restaurant you’re talking about?” She stood to go, and Orvison followed suit.

  By the time they arrived at the restaurant selected by Orvison, Rae had become even more worried about Nia; about what kind of damage Tomi had most certainly exacted of Rae’s and Nia’s relationship. Damage control was needed, and she so wanted to get back home to Nia. She feared that Nia will have decided to move in with her father to live his lavish lifestyle by time she got home. The concern over this welled up like a ball in Rae’s stomach, and she was quite sure she’d likely just order a martini…maybe sample those lobster toes since the state was paying.

  TWENTY ONE

  His workplace was filled with tools—the tools of his trade, not like the crass h
ammer and nails he used to kill women with. No, these were finely crafted, precision tools in order to do the job. He’d worked his entire life to become somebody, someone of importance in the community. It’d been what Mother had wanted of him, what she and Her Lord preached on a daily basis, and part of the promise she’d forced him to make on her deathbed—to become someone who worked in a skilled profession and to gain the notoriety of doing good in the world, of helping the community, of caring for people and making money—lots of money.

  He went about his work with the passion of a man who cared, but often it was a pretense—especially of late— as he’d grown dull and bored and impatient; all concerns that could lead to others noticing, and if others began to notice his slipshod work of late, he’d be exposed for the fakery of years that had accumulated in a spotless reputation among his colleagues and law enforcement here in Charleston.

  He’d lied, cheated, and stolen to gain his objective; had done so since childhood to please Mother and to live up to her innermost dreams for his future. She’d failed in medical school, and she’d died in poverty and misery, but not before he vowed to reach the pinnacle she’d toppled from. Now here he was, at the top of the food chain in his profession in the state—honored for his professional papers, his handling of difficult and sometimes bizarre criminal cases—and the use of his precision tools.

  He had done his best to become the best at what he did, and Mother—wherever she was—must surely be proud of him.

  He’d done it all, all that she’d asked of him and more…far more.

  The fact it took him to far-flung places, both literally and on the internet, to locate and use sources that allowed him to get the grades and shine on his tests didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had arrived, that he’d gotten the degrees that said he was an expert in his field, that people now looked to him for answers, that he was the man with the answers!

  It placed a great deal of pressure on a man, for certain. His final act to please Mother had been put off for years and years; he’d always find an excuse to not drive a nail through the head of a sleeping Marci Cottrill, but Mother never let him forget that deathbed promise he’d made to her that he would end Marci’s miserable life and put her to rest. No one on the planet had hurt Mother more than did Marci Cottrill.

  “She got what she deserved. She asked for it. She brought it about. Brought it on herself.” He’d massaged his conscious with every justification and rationale, all echoed in Mother’s voice inside his head where she agreed. Where she told him that Her Lord agreed as well. Still, the act had taken a great deal out of him.

  He had the problem of looking himself in the eye nowadays—since the first murder, actually. He had a conscious, after all. Reflecting surfaces disturbed him to his core. And the mounting pressures of the job, and keeping up appearances, and now this psychic had come to Charleston in search of answers—in search of him. Dr. Aurelia Hiyakawa was just adding to his anxiety level.

  Constant worry now…increased apprehension. It could cause a mistake, a mistake that could cost him everything. And one small part of his brain wondered if that was a bad thing.

  He’d worked late tonight and now he found himself stripping away the green garb of his profession, dumping it into the laundry hamper atop that of others working in the building. Tomorrow he’d find a fresh, laundered replacement to slip into, to again become the shapeless, formless green man with the precision equipment and precision tools, knives, and saws an extension of his robotic hands. Again, again, and again. It’d become so much dull routine, and him now, this profession. What else was he but what he did?

  In all this spiritual turmoil, he had ultimately become what he did in life; no identity beyond his work existed anymore or ever again. He was a walking, talking automaton of his job. To drive home the point, his eyes had turned to grapes without seeds showing in them. Without light emiting from them or entering through them. Little wonder he wanted to see his own reflection.

  Meanwhile, his nostrils, like sticky tubes, carried only the stench of blood. No amount of cigarettes could touch the odor clinging there. His ears had become conduits for screams and pleadings. Meanwhile, his hamsized thumbs, which had always been a problem, were now iron skillets, his fingers awkwardly constructed probes, his feet buttressing supports, legs preset instruments, his mind that of the butcher in search of a good cut of meat— something not yet desiccated or fly-ridden.

  The hammer and nail had become the tools of choice, striking down all the years of precision work. The ugly hammer and the cleanly greased nails he used to strike down one person had become his sword and power. All to get Marci, to remove her from this life.

  But then came the urge to do it again. A strange and overpowering itch he could not account for until Mother’s voice in his head explained that it was all right to scratch it—that it was God’s will, that her son didn’t have to understand God’s inscrutable plan—only to carry it out.

  And so Marci became only the first, and after her, he did it again, and the urge remained like an ugly stain that nothing could wash away, try as he might.

  He had showered now, dressed in Brookes brothers suit and tie, Armani shoes, and now he found his Lexus in his reserved garage parking space. He pulled out into the night to drive home to his house in the hills, a small mansion, and to his three children and his doting wife, who in essence would do anything for him within reason, so long as he kept her in comfort.

  He had decided that his wife could not share his darkest secret, that he was the Hammerhead killer, the Sleepwalking killer.

  Stress . He felt stress closing in on him. Four walls encroaching, a floor tightening at his feet, and a ceiling coming down on his head. It were as if someone had found him out—or soon would. It were as if soon, very soon, he’d be in a cube imprisoned within. A cube located somewhere in the mind, somewhere where neither Mother nor God, nor his job, nor his life could touch him or threaten him. Where he’d exist independent, unreachable, free.

  While he feared the change he sensed coming, he almost welcomed it. These thoughts flit through his mind as he pulled into the driveway and stared at the lights of home and another night’s pretense in this world.

  # # #

  Over dinner, they got into the subject of the brooding Amos Kunati, as after a second martini and an order of lobster bites—or toes—from the appetizer menu, Rae had launched into the detectives “bad ass attitude.” Orvison had by then further filled her in on Kunati’s background, so far as he knew it.

  “Then Amos was born and raised here, like you?” she asked after learning that Kunati had indeed been a major basketball star at Capitol High and had gone on to study Criminal Justice at Marshall University—dominant school color: green.

  “Adopted by a local couple. Brought here when he was maybe four, five.”

  “From where?” She was curious to see if he’d back Kunati’s story.

  “Nigeria, some place called Ibo City. But don’t let that fool you. He’s West Virginia, through and through.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Loves to hunt, fish, camp, bring down white tail deer and ride our white-water canyons either on an ATV or a raft.”

  “Rafting’s a hobby?”

  “Among others.”

  “Others?”

  “Scuba dives…fences…plays tennis—quite well rounded.”

  “Lots of interests. Sounds like a good catch for a girl. Why’s he single?”

  “Told you, he’s a typical West Virginian.”

  “Fears the ball and chain, you mean?”

  “Doesn’t want to be tied down, not for any reason or anything. And he’s self-reliant, and can be as resourceful as can be.”

  “And he doesn’t care for government interference?”

  “Not really.” “Of any sort, including me.”

  Orvison grinned. “No matter how pretty the package, no.”

  She smiled back, a twinkle in her eye. “Doesn’t want anyone telling him
what to do, especially a woman?”

  Orvison nodded. “Especially.” “And you’re not too keen on it either, being a dyedin-the-wool West Virginia boy?

  “Let’s just say that I’m dealing with it a bit better than Amos.”

  She nodded appreciatively. “Must be hard on Amos being in a command structure then. What’s he going to do when we elect a woman president?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Eat his gun?”

  “Got that right,” Orvison replied solemnly but then burst out laughing. “I know…not funny.”