by Pamela Crane
She handed me the book to peruse.
“They originally ran these tests on volunteers who donated a kidney or lung, and they maintained contact with the donors and recipients so that they could facilitate further studies to confirm the nature of any changes in preference among the transplant patients. They did this since there was no conclusive way to validate changes from donors whose organs were harvested upon death, except for anecdotal testimony from family and friends.”
“But I haven’t noticed a change in my tastes or anything. Just weird memories.”
“Well, there’s more. In many of those documented cases, studies showed memory recall among several organ recipients who claimed to have memories of events not from their own lives.”
“So other people had memories from their donors, and these memories were confirmed as real?”
“Yes. In one instance an infant who received a heart transplant recognized the mother of the boy whose heart he received years after his transplant. It made news, in fact, since he was a mere baby at the time of the organ donation. How could a child have known who the donor’s mother was if not for organ memory? There are countless other examples, although the topic doesn’t get much positive coverage in the mainstream media. Quack science, they call it. Needless to say, I would agree that it may teeter on a fine line of speculative science, but we can’t discount empirical data, now can we?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This wasn’t science fiction? I had walked in here ready to be psychoanalyzed, but instead I was getting answers. Okay, maybe hippie-dippie, pseudo-scientific answers, but at least it was a start. Perhaps therapy wasn’t so bad after all.
“So you think my heart is revealing the donor’s actual life, maybe a memory of her murder?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
“You’ve given me so much clarity, Dr. Weaver—”
“Avella,” she corrected with a smile. “And I’m happy to have helped you. But be careful in your pursuit of answers, dear. This sounds rather dangerous.”
We both stood, and I reached out my hand, but she stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. “I’m a hugger, dear.”
I thanked her again and pulled out my checkbook.
“How much do I owe you for the session? It was invaluable to me.”
“This one’s on me,” she said. “As long as you promise to stay safe and keep me informed. It’s not every day I encounter a session as enlightening and unusual as this one has been.”
I assured her I’d keep in touch and try my best to stay out of trouble. Though lately trouble seemed to have a way of finding me.
Chapter 7
Movies make detective work seem so easy. But they never tell you how time-consuming it really is. After my appointment with Avella on Sunday, I wrote out a list of what I knew and what I didn’t know—my own real-life version of Clue. It looked something like this:
Know:
The girl’s name was Alexis.
She was roughly twelve years old in 1992.
She was stabbed in the abdomen.
Her mom was possibly an alcoholic.
She died at Duke Hospital on March 7, 1992.
Alexis recognized the murderer’s voice.
Don’t know:
The murderer’s identity.
Alexis’s last name.
How she died.
Where she lived.
Why she was targeted.
Despite its vagueness, the list gave me hope. So far I knew more than what I didn’t know. If I could figure out who Alexis was, how she died, and why she was chosen as the victim, I hoped that would lead me to the killer.
So Monday afternoon, after slogging through editorial meetings that lasted through lunch, I stopped by Jackie O’Toole’s office, my managing editor and only real friend, to ask about an early leave.
Since day one at the publishing house I worked for as an editor, Jackie positioned herself as friend and boss—in that order. Though our social lives intertwined less and less after I met Brad, Jackie never failed to be there when I needed her. And the woman could never tell me no.
“Hey, Jackie, do you mind if I skip out of work early today? I’ve got some errands to run.”
With overdone black liner rimming her gold eyes, and a short bob of black hair wisped with gray, she reminded me of a ring-tailed lemur I had seen at the Museum of Life and Science.
“Sure, sweetie. Is everythin’ okay?” she cooed in her Southern accent.
“Yeah, all’s well. I just have some things to do to get a head start on the week.”
“Mmmkay, but be careful out there, with that murderer on the loose. You know I worry ‘bout you livin’ all alone.”
Was the Triangle Terror the only thing on peoples’ minds these days?
“You know I’m tough as nails, Jackie.”
After stopping by my desk to grab a stack of manuscript proposals that I was overdue to review, I decided to take a detour from my usual route home to do some investigation of my own. I’d start with the easiest stuff and build my foundation on that. Hopefully all the pieces would connect to give me the identity of her killer.
A tall order, I knew.
My first step was to figure out Alexis’s full name. Newspaper archives dating back that far weren’t online, so my best option was to hit the Durham Public Library. Their newspaper archives dated back to 1897, the year before the first public library opened in Durham, and they collected every paper since, though I was only interested in the year 1992. Alexis’s obituary would naturally include her last name.
Twenty minutes after two, I walked through the library’s front door and stopped at the help desk. I knew the date I was looking for, so I hoped my research would go quickly.
“Can I help you?” a bookish, balding man with glasses perched precariously on the tip of his ski-jump nose asked.
I resisted the strong impulse to reach out and push his glasses up on his nose. Most people didn’t appreciate a stranger poking them, I figured.
“I’m looking for the newspaper archives.”
He pointed to a room at the far end of the building. “The archive room is behind that glass door. Do you need help finding something?”
Was it safe to tell him? I couldn’t imagine why not.
“I’m looking for The News and Observer records from 1992.”
“Sure thing. The newspapers are collected in bound volumes according to year. The ’90s will be on your immediate right as you enter the archives. Good luck!” He smiled and greeted the person behind me.
I walked past stacked rows of books and movies organized by genre, and computers huddled in tiny cubicles. The click of fingers typing away mingled with the whispered conversations around me. At the end of the building was a glass door with the word “Archives” on it. I went in and closed the door behind me. I followed my gaze along the spines of vertically arranged bound volumes until I came to one reading The News and Observer—January-June 1992. With a grunt I pulled the heavy volume off of the shelf, plunked it down on one of the tables, and flipped to the March 5, 1992, edition.
I pulled it out. The once crisp white newsprint was yellowed now and appeared so ancient and worn, though it was printed during my lifetime. It was a strange feeling realizing how much time had passed … and suddenly I felt old at thirty-four.
It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. The front-page headline read:
Twelve-year-old Durham Girl Found Dead, Victim of Brutal Murder
Durham, NC
Alexis Worthington, age 12, died Wednesday from a brutal stabbing. Her mother, Jennifer Worthington, came home to find her daughter lying in a pool of blood with a puncture wound in her side at their Willoughby Way residence Wednesday evening. Paramedics responding to a 9-1-1 call transported the youth to Duke Hospital where she was pronounced dead later that evening due to extreme blood loss.
There were no signs of forced entry, and police investigators are currently sear
ching for evidence that might lead to the apprehension of her killer.
Worthington was a student at Lowe’s Grove Middle School and enjoyed playing soccer. A memorial will be held March 9th at 10:00 a.m. at Christian Assembly of God on Pebble Road.
My eyes stung with fresh tears as I read the summary of a girl’s life—all her hopes and vitality summed up in three short paragraphs. My heartbreak over the loss fueled my anger and desire for justice for this little girl. Her killer had to pay, and I was collecting.
I pulled a notebook out of my purse and jotted down:
Alexis Worthington, Willoughby Way
Below that I scribbled:
Jennifer Worthington, mother
I wondered if Alexis’s mother still lived at the Willoughby Way house. I doubted it, considering the nightmares that probably had haunted her there, the ghost of her daughter lingering in every room. Returning the volume to the shelf, I headed to the central part of the library.
A moment later I found a vacant seat and sat down. Retrieving my iPhone from my purse, I pulled up the White Pages and typed “Jennifer Worthington, NC.” Half a dozen records popped up, so I screened the ages of each listing to gauge a likely fit. I guessed her to be around my mother’s age, mid to late fifties. Two women met the profile, and sure enough, one still lived on Willoughby Way. I couldn’t imagine why. Maybe the memories held her hostage.
No phone number was listed, so I’d have to make a personal appearance. I checked the time. Three fifty. By the time I got there it’d be after four, so I probably wouldn’t have to wait long for her to get home from work, assuming she had a day job.
I MapQuested the directions to her house, set my navigation to guide me, then left to meet a mother who had lost her daughter to a killer.
I had no idea what I was going to say.
**
It was 4:38 when I finally pulled into the driveway of 721 Willoughby Way and parked next to the walkway. I had already wasted fifteen minutes circling the block, rehearsing what I would say, and still, as I stepped out of my car, I drew a mental blank. How should I introduce myself? I couldn’t come right out and tell her I’d been having dreams of her daughter’s murder from twenty years ago—unless I wanted to get outfitted in a straightjacket.
My nerves were fatigued from the anxiety of meeting Alexis’s mother. What should I say? What shouldn’t I say? I had no idea how to approach a mother who had lost her child two decades ago with the brazen announcement that I planned to find her killer.
Forcing unsteady steps, I made it to the front porch. I stood there staring at a lion’s head knocker, his bronze mouth open and fangs jutting out like he’d snap his jaw shut at any moment. Before I lifted my hand to knock, the outer screen door trembled as the wooden front door swept open. I jumped, startled by the movement.
“Stalk much?” a man asked me behind the screen.
For a moment I was shocked silent, but when he smiled, the fear switched to immediate attraction. Although I didn’t usually like clean-shaven men, it worked for him. And even through the haze of screen, his eyes were a striking green that seemed to penetrate me. I suddenly felt exposed.
“Um, what?” I blustered.
“I saw your car pass by the house, like, eight times. Care to explain?” the man said without emotion.
“I’m looking for a Jennifer Worthington,” I replied meekly.
“And who might you be?”
“Mia Germaine. Do you know Mrs. Worthington? Does she still live here?” I caught him looking me over, examining me. Heat flushed my cheeks as my nerve wavered. For a fleeting second I prayed he’d say I had the wrong house so that I could retreat to my car.
“Yeah,” he said, propping the screen door open with his arm, “she lives here. Do you want to come in and wait for her to get home? It won’t be long. She’s usually home by five.”
“Uh, sure,” I said, though I wasn’t so sure. Being alone in a strange house with a strange man … it wasn’t my most street-smart moment.
I walked past him as he held the door open for me. Our chests bumped as I slid by, and I whiffed the subtle fragrance of cologne—a manly musk. He was hotter up close, even wearing pajama pants and a rumpled T-shirt.
Not sure how to proceed, I waited in a cozy foyer while he shut the door behind him. “And you are?” I asked as he turned and led me into the nucleus of the house—a modest-sized living room adorned in burgundy and beige hues.
“Landon. Landon Worthington. I’m Jennifer’s son.” Instead of shaking my hand, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his feet. The pose showed off his muscled arms and toned shoulders, two of my favorite body parts on Brad. Landon’s dark brown hair reminded me of Brad, and I instantly felt a stab of guilt. I never got around to calling him back.
“Oh, I didn’t know she had a son.”
“Do you even know her? I don’t recognize your name … Mia, was it?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story. I’ll have to explain when she gets here.”
“Why don’t you explain now?” Landon said matter-of-factly, waving me to sit down on a trendy microfiber sofa. “I was just sleeping, but I’m wide awake now. Thanks to you.”
“Oh, sorry for waking you.” I wondered who slept at 4:30 in the afternoon, other than jobless people. Then I realized this guy lived with his mom. There was definitely a story there.
“No worries. I had to get up anyways. So, what do you want with my mom?”
I sat and inspected the room. Despite significant remodeling, I could detect the similarities to the room in my dream. Where the recliner had sat was now a love seat. The floors were no longer dirt-stained but polished to a mirror shine. A potted snake plant had replaced the floor model TV, which had undergone a major upgrade to a wall-mounted 52-inch LCD TV. Artsy pictures of flowers adorned the walls. It was quite a modern and clean transformation.
Landon plopped down next to me. His expression said he was still waiting for an answer to his question.
“Was Alexis your sister?” I boldly asked.
Landon’s emerald eyes narrowed into slits. “What do you know about Alexis?”
I took a deep breath and released it slowly. “When Alexis … passed away, I received her heart. I mean, her heart was donated to me. Anyways, her heart saved my life, and I never really had any side effects from the transplant … until now. It’s those side effects that I wanted to talk about with your mother.”
“How did you get our information? I thought that was confidential.”
“It is … but I kind of pieced it together.”
He pursed his lips in thought. “So, what kind of, uh, side effects do you need to talk to my mom about?”
“I’m sorry, but I’d prefer to keep that between me and your mom.”
Landon leaned back into the sofa and folded his hands on his lap. “Let me level with you, Mia. I’m not trying to be a jerk. It’s just that it was really hard on us to lose my sister, and you coming here dredging up the past … well, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. My mom’s been through enough already. I don’t think she’ll be too happy to hear about your ‘side effects,’ whatever they are.”
“I understand,” I said. But I couldn’t give up so easily. Not yet. “So Alexis was your sister,” I repeated. “I’m sorry for your loss. Did the police ever find out who killed her?”
Landon shrugged weakly. Although it was well hidden, I noticed the sadness creeping into his eyes. “No, there weren’t enough leads. That always bothered me—not knowing. But it was twenty-two years ago. Sure, I miss Alexis and wonder what she’d be like now, if she’d be married with kids, things like that … but there comes a point when you have to move forward, y’know?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I lost my dad shortly after you lost Alexis, so I know what you mean.” I stood up and started walking toward the entryway. “I’m sorry to bother you. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I’ll get going now—”
“Wait,” Landon said. �
�Would you mind sharing with me what you came to tell my mom? I mean, maybe it will help.”
“You sure?” I asked hesitantly.
“Humor me,” he said with a weak grin.
“Okay,” I agreed with a warning tone. “But promise not to whip out the straightjacket once I tell you.”
“Now I’m really curious.”
“This might be painful to hear, Landon.”
“I can handle it.”
I headed back to the sofa and sat at the far end, pressed against the arm. Overlooking my desire for distance, Landon shifted himself close enough so that our knees touched. I felt pink embarrassment color my cheeks. I couldn’t help myself. The guy was gorgeous. But I didn’t want Landon. He only reminded me of how much I missed Brad.
Dismissing those thoughts, I took a cleansing breath and began my story. I opened with an explanation of organ memory, giving the disclaimer that this information came from a doctor, not a sci-fi movie. After a few jokes at my own expense, I went on to describe how I started having nightmares about Alexis’s murder shortly after Gina Martinez’s death, and they were growing more detailed and clearer with each dream.
“I’m hoping that somehow these dreams will lead me to her killer. And before you tell me to drop it, sorry, no can do. Whoever did this to her needs to be brought down, even twenty-two years later.”
Landon looked offended. “Why would you think I’d tell you to back off? I want to find out who did this to my sister more than anyone. If you think you can find him, let me help you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. But for now let’s leave my mom out of it. I don’t want to get her emotionally involved yet, not until we have something more concrete.”
“Totally,” I agreed.
