by Anton Strout
“Don’t we always?”
“Yes, my boy, but now more than ever, given our precarious state of affairs with the city. I would hate to give Director Wesker or Dave Davidson any reason to suggest any sort of impropriety when it came to handling this personal case over others. For instance, some might see this as me exploiting Departmental resources.”
“But Davidson brought us this case,” I said.
“True,” the Inspectre said, returning to the pile of papers scattered in front of him. “Nonetheless, exercise extreme prudence in your investigation.”
“Got it,” I said. I stood up and headed for the door.
“And, Simon,” the Inspectre said, lifting his head up out of his paperwork. “Please be careful. Given the supernatural nature of his death, maybe the good college professor wasn’t as out of the arcana business as much as I previously thought.”
8
New York University was big on film and theater, but thankfully not so much on security measures. At least, not for someone who looked like a student still and practiced psychometry. This late at night Connor and I didn’t have to worry about many students in the academic buildings, but every other lock getting to the professor’s office required either a quick psychometric blast to read the electronic ones or my skills with my lock picks for the rest of them. By the time we hit the professor’s office door, the repetition of picking the older locks had become easy. The professor’s door practically opened the second I inserted my torsion wrench and one of my half-diamond picks into the lock, swinging inward and revealing darkness in the office behind it.
“Jesus, kid,” Connor said. “You sure that one wasn’t already open?”
“Yup,” I said, shoving my picks back up my left sleeve. “I’m just that good.”
Connor pushed past me into the dark office, annoyed. “Nice to see you keeping it humble.”
“Hey, I don’t take pride in much, but let me have this, okay?”
I slipped into the office after him and flicked on the light just inside the door, then closed the door behind me. A pile of unopened mail sat underneath a mail slot on the floor to the right of the door. “Looks like no one’s taken notice of the professor’s absence yet.” I turned my attention to the rest of the room.
For a college professor, the office was pretty posh. The furniture was of the old-school drawing room variety, Gothic pieces rich with carved foliage, huge and chunky like they could withstand a hurricane. The walls were lined with academic texts and film memorabilia—books, statues, movie-related knickknacks, and artwork everywhere.
“Wow,” I said. “This guy had really been working his tenure here.”
Connor gave a low whistle. “I think we might have stumbled into the Museum of Television and Radio by mistake.”
I knew Professor Redfield had left the Fraternal Order of Goodness to return to his love of film and teaching, but there was more of an overabundance of film-related memorabilia mixed throughout the academic trappings than I had expected.
“Notice anything strange?” Connor asked.
I looked around the darkened office, trying to look for anything out of place.
“It’s very tidy,” I said.
Connor nodded, leaning over to run his hands along the smooth surface of the professor’s desk. “A little too, wouldn’t you say?” Outside of a few neat piles of paper on it, the desk was relatively clear. Compared to mine back at the Department of Extraordinary Affairs, it was practically empty.
Looking around, I noticed it was true. “For a guy who was murdered so suddenly, this place looks like it was taken care of beforehand. Either he was knew he was going to die, or he was a neat freak, or someone cleaned this place up after killing him.”
“I’ve never known a professor who kept a tidy office,” Connor said. He leaned farther over on the top of the desk, his face practically touching it. He inhaled deeply. “The smell of polish is relatively fresh.”
I stepped to the display case along the wall behind the late professor’s desk and pulled on my gloves. It was covered in an array of figurines that all looked like they were monsters or characters from ancient Greece. I grabbed one of the figures off the shelf behind the desk. The thing looked something like a cross between the classic Godzilla and a Tyrannosaurus rex. “Well, they’re not Zuni fetish dolls or anything, but some of these pug uglies sure look evil enough, not that the professor was supposed to be dabbling in arcana these days. Check this out.” I threw the figurine over to Connor. He caught it and turned it over. His eyes went wide after marveling at it for a moment.
“What is it?”
“Careful,” he said, holding the figurine up gently. “This is an original Harryhausen.”
My blank stare was enough to garner a disappointed look from Connor. He shook his head at me. “You’re in my territory now, kid. Movie paraphernalia.” He held the mechanical beastie up, almost like a ventriloquist dummy. “This little ugly guy here is from The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. Ray Harryhausen was the special-effects wizard who created all the old-school stop-motion monsters. The man did King Kong, for goodness’ sake.”
“I thought Hepburn and Bogie were your thing,” I said, looking over the other figures on the shelf. Now that Connor had pointed it out, some of the creatures looked vaguely familiar from movies I had seen, but I felt a little bit ashamed I hadn’t figured it out for myself. That was what I got for relying so heavily on my psychometry over the years—instant expertise without becoming an expert on anything.
“Sure,” he continued. “I have my favorites, but these are a classic of a different kind. I bet these are worth a mint.”
Connor held the figure out to me, but I didn’t take it, instead moving away from the display.
“You put it away,” I said.
Connor gave me a suspicious look, but did as I said and put the figure back on the shelf. “You okay, kid?”
“It’s probably best not to give the priceless shiny to the ex-thief psychometrist who still needs to make his hefty SoHo maintenance fees this month.”
“Can’t understand why you went for a fringe government job,” he said. “No way you’re going to be able to finance that apartment forever.”
“Either way,” I said, “no need to tempt me. I’ll find a way.”
“You could sell the place,” Connor said, turning to look over the professor’s desk.
A small ball of panic bunched up in my chest. “No way,” I said, defensive. “It was my last hurrah when I gave up my old life. My past crimes paid the way for my future, for my freedom.”
“Still,” he said. “Ill-gotten goods funded it. Maybe it’s time to give the place up. Unless you’re expecting some kind of year-end bonus that I’m not aware of … ?”
I stopped looking around the room and turned to Connor, a hint of anger in my voice. “I’m not giving the place up. It’s just a lot harder trying to live honestly than I thought, okay?”
Connor flipped open a teacher’s planner on the desk and looked through it. “There’s one way you could make your life easier financially, kid.”
“Oh?” I said.
“You could have Jane move in,” Connor suggested. “That halves all your bills instantly.”
The residual emotions of the tattooist pressed their way to the surface and I snapped in anger. “Has Jane talked to you about this, too?” I asked. I stared into his eyes, searching them.
“Nope,” he said, “but would her moving in be such a bad idea?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head to clear it and get rid of the growing sensation. “I don’t want to jinx it. Things are good as they stand.”
“What’s to jinx, kid?”
“I don’t think I do relationships well,” I said, the anger turning to rampant insecurity. “Let’s look at my track record. My last girlfriend was a high-priced art thief.”
Connor laughed. “I take it The Scream is still missing?”
I nodded. “I bet she’s got i
t hanging on the wall in her lair somewhere. Mina was messed up—abusive, demeaning, everything a wannabe badass thief should want in a girl. When I smartened up, we went our separate ways, which left her vacillating between stalking me, killing me, or handing me over to cultists. I can’t help but wonder… what did I really do to bring that out in someone? I mean, yeah, I used to be a dick when I was dating her, but I’d like to think I grew past that.”
Connor scrunched his face and held his hand up, rolling it back and forth in the air. “More or less.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I guess I just don’t trust myself after that and now I keep getting these flare-ups of anger and jealousy from the tattooist.”
“I thought so,” he said. “You don’t snap on me all that often.”
“Sorry,” I said, concentrating on relaxing. I felt almost normal again.
“Kid, you’ve got a good woman now. Don’t drive yourself crazy overthinking it. If you’re happy, you’re happy, but don’t let your past control you on this. Sure, be mindful of it, but don’t live in it.”
“It’s just hard to change my thinking. I need to rewire my brain or something.”
“At the very least, you should limber it up,” Connor said, crossing back to the professor’s desk. He grabbed a Lucite block from the corner of it and handed it to me. “Try this for a little psychometric gymnastics.”
The clear, heavy piece was an award of some kind. Etched into it was a film reel that ran around the entire base of the piece. “I’d like to thank the Academy,” I said. “Looks like the professor had a little bit of vanity in displaying his accolades.”
“Just check it out,” Connor said. “I’m going to Knock and see if there’s any way to draw the late professor’s spirit out if it’s lingering.”
“Careful,” I said, shuddering. “Last time I saw you Knocking, you were half out of your mind and raising most of the graveyard at Trinity Church.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I still feel the Spirit of Concussions Past when I think of that night.”
Connor went around the desk and sat down in the professor’s chair, taking a moment to focus himself before getting down to business. I sat myself down in one of the chairs opposite him, cradling the Lucite award in my arms like a newborn. Without another thought, I pressed my powers into it.
As my psychometric vision kicked in, the image of Connor sitting at the desk morphed into one of Professor Redfield. At the moment he was old but quite alive and doing the exciting task of grading papers while drinking what amounted to a small fishbowl of scotch.
It was strange seeing the professor alive again in one of my visions, this time old. Before, he had been young and lively, nervous in the face of battle; now he was simply an old man in professor mode.
I rewound through images of the events that had taken place in his office like searching through old newspaper records in a library. A variety of people came and went, and I ignored most of them. The bulk looked like the odd student here or there simply coming to their professor during office hours. I kept going through them until I caught sight of a group of lingering students in one long section of the vision. I drew my focus in on them and pulled my mind into those specific moments. The old man sat at his desk, holding court. Five students sat around his office, intent on every word he was saying. The last and most attentive was an eager young blond girl named Elyse who hung on his every word. A tall, black muscular guy with ear gauging, Darryl, took notes on a laptop while a chunky kid with a video camera and the unfortunate nickname Heavy Mike listened intently with a couple of other film school hopefuls—a punked-out blond Hispanic kid name George and a skinny brown-haired kid, Trent. Professor Redfield was busy regaling them with stories of the glory days or horror cinema, hearkening back to the extreme makeup that Lon Chaney used to wear.
The sway he held these students under was a bit creepy, but I watched as long as I could before I felt my blood sugar depleting itself.
When I came out of the vision, Connor was still seated at the professor’s desk. “Well?” he asked. “No luck on my end. If the professor’s spirit is lingering around here, there isn’t anything earthly that he’s attached to. What about you? Anything, kid?”
“Maybe,” I said. “From what I saw, it looked like Mason had a little posse. Film geeks doting on his every word, laughing at his every story. Whether it was grade grubbing or not, I’m not quite sure. The adoration bordered on cultish.”
“We should check it out,” Connor said. “Someone has to know something more about the professor. Who he hung with, who might have had it out for him. Did you catch names?”
“Only a couple of them,” I said. “There was an Elyse, Darryl, Trent… a big guy they called Heavy Mike. Subtle, right?”
“Anything more than first names, kid?” Connor asked. “It’s going to take a lot of wandering Manhattan going on just that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s the problem with reading Professor Redfield’s belongings. They’re his stuff. It shows me some stuff about him, but I can’t really dive into the past of the others unless they’ve handled his objects, too. Even then, it’s not a sure thing.”
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, then,” Connor said, getting up from the desk, “but not tonight. Despite this being the city that never sleeps, I doubt we’re going to get anything but drunken stragglers to question this time of night.”
“I can start asking around tomorrow,” I said, heading for the door. “Maybe I should hit that solo.”
Connor gave me a look. “You sure? Why?”
We stepped out of the professor’s office and headed through the deserted halls of the university. “If I bring you along all old looking with that white stripe in your hair, everyone’s going to think I brought a cop with me. No one’s going to talk.”
“Jesus, kid,” Connor said, stopping in the hall. “You make me sound like I’m a hundred.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean that. It’s just… look at you in your Bogie trench coat. You aren’t exactly college-age looking. I’d peg you for a cop.”
“Fine,” Connor said, heading for the doors to the outside world coming up ahead of us. “Have it your way. I can sleep in, then.”
“Now, Grandpa…” I said, starting after him.
Connor looked over his shoulder at me, shooting me with a look of pure hatred as he pushed out onto the streets of New York City once more. “I’m meeting up with Aidan over at Eccentric Circles,” he continued. “Having a day job and spending time with my brother on a vampiric schedule is leaving me sorely lacking in the sleep department. You’re welcome to come with.”
Part of me was instantly jonesing for the decadent disco fries they served at our Departmental hang out, but I shook my head.
“I should probably head home,” I said. “I think there’s a few things I need to iron out with Jane still.”
Connor shrugged. “Your funeral. Suit yourself.”
“You know,” I said, turning to head off toward my apartment, “you used to be a lot less sassy about things when you thought Aidan was dead.”
Connor smiled. “Sorry, kid.”
9
Jane was out cold when I got home, and rather than risk waking her by trying to slip silently into bed, I crashed out on my couch in the living room. I had fallen asleep there plenty of times when I was single and I convinced myself it would just be easier, but when I woke in the morning, I just felt lame for doing it. I scribbled a quick note telling Jane that I loved her, left it on the pillow next to her in my bedroom, and hurried out of my apartment as I slipped my satchel over my shoulder before she could wake. If I was lucky, I could catch the early-morning rush of students bustling around New York University.
I hit up Bagels on the Square for one with everything and enough coffee to wake the dead before skulking around the empty fountain in the center of Washington Square Park. I hoped to find someone who could tell me more about Professor Redfield, but other
than a few students calling him a whack job or a lovable eccentric, I spent more time fending off the weed dealers than getting anything accomplished. Frustrated, I moved out of the park and made my way up University Place a few blocks in search of a more productive venue.
Stuck somewhere between my guilt from avoiding Jane this morning and still asking around campus about the professor, I found that I had wandered into one of the antiques stores around Tenth Street. The store was long and narrow, but packed with an eclectic mix of furniture, none of it looking more than sixty or seventy years old. Just seeing the type of stuff I was used to picking through as a psychometrist helped take away some of my stress, and as I worked my way back through the mostly deserted store, I thought maybe I could unstress myself a little more by contending with some of my Jane issues, too. The recent developments with my powers left me unsure about the whole Jane situation, but I was willing to try to push myself past all the angry flare-ups that had been happening. Maybe if I baby-stepped my way into pricing out some dressers with her in mind, it would at least be a step in the right direction.
Near the back of the store was a mixed collection of bedroom pieces, almost all of it having seen better days. Still, a few bits of furniture showed some promise. One was a dark brown art deco–looking unit with brushed brass pulls on the front of it. I went over to it, stripping off my gloves. If I was going to find something special enough for Jane to have after all my ridiculousness, it had to be the right piece but also one that wasn’t too psychometrically charged that I might trigger off it once it was in my home. I lay my hands down on top of the polished-smooth top of it and pressed my power into it.
My mind’s eye pushed back through the history of the object, searching its past. The image forming in my mind resolved into that of an empty and unfamiliar bedroom. The whole place was tastefully done up in the same mid-Century style of the dresser with the focus of the room being a king-sized bed, which I sat upon, that took up a large portion of the space. I pressed myself into the mind of whoever I was, trying to gather what information I could about the dresser’s previous owners.
