Fred was not sure he accepted this explanation. “Would you do me a favor and schedule an interview for me with the gentleman that submitted the grievance?”
“Sure, but I’ve already told my division heads and my acting division heads to give you whatever cooperation you need. My secretary, Donna Lang, will coordinate whatever you need.”
“Ok, we’ll make it tomorrow at 10 a.m.. By the way, what is this guy’s name?”
“ It’s Marvin Atwell.”
Chapter 51
Fred arrived an hour early the next morning at the company. The peculiarity of Marvin Atwell’s name had not gone unnoticed by Fred. He thought, either this guy is so egoistic that he enjoys pointing the finger at himself with the belief that he is too smart to be caught; or someone else is continuing to play mind games and using him as the fall guy.
He asked Miss Lang if Mr. Atwell was available, but if not, could she arrange for an interview with someone else. She said, “Miss Moore just came in, I’ll schedule her. She’s from the Reading Division.”
Fred went through his standard interrogation and learned nothing of interest. She didn’t recognize any version of Ford.
Fred asked, “What do you do in the Reading Division?”
“I have the ability to read thoughts; and in all modesty I must admit that I am quite accurate at it.”
Fred said, “Wait a minute. I’m familiar with cold reading where a supposed psychic asks some general questions, and from there works down to greater specificity based on reading the emotional reactions of the subject. Is that the way you do it?”
She seemed quite upset at Fred’s suggestion. “Sir, would you like me to read you?” she responded curtly.
Fred started to turn her down, since an alleged psychic reading his mind would go nowhere as far as the murder investigation was concerned.
But his curiosity overwhelmed his objectivity, so he said, “Go ahead and try.”
“OK, try to focus on just one thing,”
Already starting to regret that he agreed to cooperate, and wanting it over with, he said, “I’ve got it; now please proceed.”
She took a second to concentrate. “You are thinking of a police officer… wait a minute… he committed some type of crime and he is in jail.” She paused. “He’s a police officer who has been arrested for shooting at you.”
Fred was stunned. This was no phony cold reading; he had been careful to insure that he hadn’t aided in the prompting of correct or incorrect guesses by any subtle reactions. His extensive poker playing days helped him with that. In fact, she had asked him no question at all, she just told him directly what he was thinking and pulled out his precise thoughts.
Her next comment sent chills down his spine. “‘Oh, yes, you’re right. I have penetrated your mind!”
Not knowing where to go with the interview, Fred said, “I need to take a break.” She got up from her chair, smiled and left the conference room.
Miss Lang had already placed a pot of hot water and an assortment of tea flavors on a table just outside of the conference room. As Fred prepared his tea, he noticed that on the other side of the conference room door, Miss Lang had placed three chairs. A small man was sitting in one of them.
Fred still hadn’t fully recovered from his interrogation of Miss Moore when the man walked up to him and introduced himself as Mr. Atwell. He said, “Donna asked me to wait outside for you. Make this quick; I have a lot of work to do.”
Fred’s impulse was to say, I will determine how long it take, shut up and take your seat. Instead he said, “Miss Moore left for a break. I’m Lieutenant Harris, and I want to ask you a few questions. Let’s both hope it doesn’t take long.”
As Fred shook Atwell’s hand, he noticed that he stood almost a full two inches above Atwell. Fred thought it was rare when he could look down on any other male beyond a young teenager. Fred told him, “I am investigating the theater and bank murders, and I need some information.”
Atwell said, “Of course you are, why else would you be here?”
“Mr. Atwell, I was told you had some problem with your division head; what was that all about?”
“Nothing, really. I deserved more money, management said I didn’t. Power won, I lost.”
“Why did you think you deserved more money?”
“Simple, because I am superior to all of those around me. I bring in the contractual deliverables that this firm seeks. They are just too uninformed to realize that. But they will.”
“So did you continue to hold a resentment of your division head until the time he was gunned down in the theater?”
“If I held any resentment, sir, that would reveal a lack of emotional control. I do not regress to emotional levels; that’s simply a waste of time and energy. Emotion is a weakness that I am not capable of.”
Fred thought, this guy really has a chip on his shoulder; he was surprised that Schultz hadn’t fired him long ago.
Again observing that Atwell was quite small, Fred estimated his weight at no more than 140 pounds. But his strong, deep voice resonated with a force which transcended his physical limitations. Fred wished he could borrow that voice.
“What is your specific role in this company, Mr. Atwell?”
“Lieutenant Harris, I’m sure you have already obtained background information on me. But to placate you, I will tell you I have taken all of the basic remote viewing tests, and in each case I received the highest score ever recorded.”
“What are the basic tests?”
“Simple. We are asked to describe a picture whose identity and detail are hidden from us; the more details about the picture that we can describe, the higher the score we receive. Many people have this capacity but they can’t control conflicting images that are continuously being emitted from different parts of the brain. In addition, emotion tends to distort or destroy the image that subjects attempt to focus on. I have none of those problems. My score is consistently between 97 and 100%.”
“So your claim to fame is that you can identify the contents of a picture from a different location?”
Atwell smiled, not a warm, friendly type of smile but rather one that exuded superiority.
“Let me tell you something about yourself and I will use none of my special talents in the process. First of all, you are either married or living with someone, and that person has been gone for a period. I know you are a lieutenant but you haven’t been one for long. You own a dog, I would guess a Yorkie; and every morning before you leave for work you pick her up and cuddle her. Should I go on?”
“No,” Fred said, “but how did you know that?”
“Yorkshire terriers are one of the few small breeds that have multi-color hairs consisting of various shades of brown as well as silver and black. You have no hair on your pants but you have residual multi-colored dog hair strands on your jacket and it’s concentrated in your chest area. So that also means the dog you own must be small enough to be picked up. Therefore, I discounted any large dog that might possess various hair colors. Your tailored suit, your highly shined shoes and your cuff-linked shirt indicate that you attempt to dress meticulously. That reveals to me that you have not had the luxury of time to comb off the dog hair, therefore your encounter with your dog would most likely have been at the time you left for work. Both your tie and the handkerchief in your jacket pocket are askew which reveals an inconsistency with the rest of your attire and your obvious concern to be neat and tidy. I therefore assume from that, your female partner helped you on a daily basis with those objects and since they are so askew, she must be missing in your life at least for the moment. Most of your clothes are virtually brand new. Your shoes, however, are standard for a cop on a beat, and although they have been shined to a mirror finish, I can detect even from this position that their heels reveal significant wear. Their color is also incompatible with the rest of your clothes. So, I assume that until recently you dressed in a traditional police uniform, but now you wear civilian attire and you
bought the new clothes when you got your promotion.
Atwell continued, “Cops are like military officers, they become conditioned and comfortable in wearing those highly shined black shoes even when they depart from the military and become civilians. So, you see nothing that I told you links to my remote viewing specialty, it’s just the simple power of observation.”
Fred said, “OK, let me tell you something. You are not married and you have an extreme difficulty keeping a relationship; you used to have a mustache; you removed it less than five days ago. You have a complex about your height. You play tennis frequently. Wait a minute—no, not tennis—it’s racquetball! You claim you can control your emotions; but you have a hot temper and at times you have to let it out to the extent you actually physically hurt yourself. Oh, and you are left handed. Shall I go on?”
“Very good, Lieutenant; and how did you determine all of that?”
“Well, you have a slight tan on your face but the area above your lip is disproportionately lighter. You have a slight scab in that area which has not yet healed. You cut it while you were shaving off your mustache. Small shaving cuts heal within less than a week; therefore, you removed your mustache less than a week ago and the sun has not had time to even out the tan around your face. In our semi-tropical climate the tanning process doesn’t take long.”
Fred went on, “I noted that you were somewhat unsteady on your feet when you walked in to the conference room. For a moment I thought you had a slight physical disability, but when I revisited in my mind how you had walked, I realized that your feet were wobbling on some type of soft material you had placed in your shoes. The cloth backing on the heel of your socks is much too high for a foot that sits directly on its insoles. So you must be using some type of artificial height extender. The knuckles on your left hand are red and those on your right hand are normal. You have obviously banged them against an object, likely the wall, most likely out of frustration of some type. Beyond that your lower arm muscles on your left arm are extremely well developed but those on your right are normal. That means you are left handed.”
“Wait a minute; my muscle development could be caused by anything. Perhaps it was weight training.”
“No, it’s not a function of weight training because if it was, both arms would be developed proportionately. The specific part of your arm where your muscle has developed, points to a specific sport.”
“Ok, but why do you choose racquetball and not tennis?”
“Simple. Your facial tan is very slight and more consistent with a person who spends most of his time inside rather than outside. If your sport of choice were tennis, you would most likely be playing it outside since Sarasota has no indoor courts, in which case the relentless rays of the Florida sun would have insured that your tan would be much deeper. The extreme level of development of your left arm indicates you play your sport frequently. Sarasota does have indoor racquetball courts—ergo, that’s what you play—and you are also quite good at it.”
The last one was a total guess on Fred’s part but he felt sure that Atwell’s massive ego would not allow him to continue the sport if he could not win consistently.
Atwell had not asked him how Fred knew he was not married. It was simply an educated guess on Fred’s part. Fred guessed, with Atwell’s ego, no one could possibly stand him for an extended period. Atwell’s silence on the subject confirmed that Fred had guessed right. Atwell’s reluctance to ask Fred how he had determined his matrimonial status revealed that it was an area which Atwell was uncomfortable with and didn’t want to discuss further.
Atwell was impressed, but only in comparison with most people he had associated with during his lifetime. Atwell had superior forces well beyond what this lieutenant could imagine, and he had not even begun to display them. He decided he would give this inferior a taste of what he was really capable of.
“Let me show you something, Lieutenant. Just give me a second.”
Atwell left the room and returned almost immediately with Miss Moore following behind him.
He said, “I share of the same talents that Miss Moore possesses, but mine are still under development. Within three months I will surpass her in her own field. However, when we act synergistically in the experiment you are about to see, the composite results, I assure you, will be amazing to a layman such as yourself.”
Fred listened, increasingly irritated by the massive ego this little man possessed.
Atwell continued, “Now, Lieutenant, I would like you to think of some person in a location somewhat distant from here. Miss Moore, please start to read his mind.”
Fred didn’t really want to play any more mind games; but some strong force seemed to be pulling him into it, and he was much too tired to resist.
“Okay,” he conceded. This time he thought of Maureen. Miss Moore studied him intently; Atwell was looking down and seemed to be focusing on the conference table. He seemed to be no longer aware of his environment; he no longer even seemed to realize that Fred was in the room. Fred expected the first words to come from Miss Moore; but all of a sudden Atwell started speaking.
“I see a woman, Maureen is her name, she is your wife, she sits in some strange sort of small room with a cloth all around the interior—no, it appears to be a padding of some type. She is sitting in an oak chair next to what appears to be a painted plywood desk. She is crying and wondering why you have placed her here.”
For the second time in less than ten minutes Fred was thunderstruck at what he was hearing. He wanted to believe that it was some sort of cheap carnival trick, but he knew better. He found it strange that Atwell used the word “here” instead of “there.” Fred assumed it was because, as Atwell was submerged in remote viewing, he mentally became part of the environment he was now viewing.
“Now,” Atwell continued,” I am looking outside the room and I see a uniformed man stationed next to a metal door. He has a small black beard and his hair is thinning; he is about forty years of age. I can hear noise, unrelenting screams almost sounding like torture. Now I am moving past the guard into a corridor painted a bright white. I am now leaving the building and moving down the stone steps. To my left is a large hemlock tree. In front of me is a long cement driveway which leads to an iron gate.”
Fred said, “That’s enough! I get the idea.”
Atwell seemed very content with himself. Miss Moore was obviously upset. “I have to leave,” she said, and bolted out of the conference room.
Fred was torn between continuing the interrogation of Atwell, or leaving the room and driving directly to the hospital where Maureen was being held.
It was obvious that Atwell had enjoyed exposing the vulnerability in Fred’s life; it was simply another form of his ego and cruelty at work, as well as a crystal clear demonstration of a superior talent.
Fred decided Atwell could wait. At any rate he suddenly was experiencing another penetrating headache. The pain seemed to have developed at the exact time that Atwell had entered the conference room, and it was growing worse by the minute. He took off for the sanitarium to see Maureen. Atwell had won this battle.
As Fred quickly departed, Atwell smiled maliciously, and thought, I knew I would force him to leave. I was tired of the boring interview anyway. As he returned to his desk, he thought, another inferior conquered.
Chapter 52
Maureen’s face lit up as Fred entered her room. She rushed to his side, embracing him tightly.
“Hard day?” he asked.
“Yes, but it was okay,” she lied.
“Maureen, I know you don’t like to be here. But are you thinking I’ve deserted you?”
“No, not really.”
“Maureen, don’t lie to me.”
“Well, I guess a little bit. I’m getting stir crazy, and each day I hope you’ll capture the damn killer soon so that I can go home with you.”
“Have you been crying?”
“Yes, does it show?”
“No, I just guessed as m
uch.” Damn, he thought, Atwell is for real!
“I’m sorry Fred, but I can’t take this place much longer.”
“Three more days, I promise, and then you’ll be home again.”
“You will have caught Ford by then?”
“I hope so, I really do.”
Maureen spent the next few minutes in Fred’s arms. For an instant in suspended time she blissfully did not hear the constant cries from those patients caged near her. Nor did she smell the ugly aroma from years of bowel and bladder accidents that permeated the floors and walls, or the heavy chlorine scent attendants used ineffectively to cover them up. She was temporarily in a safe place next to Fred, and she never wanted to leave it.
Fred, however, could not mentally escape from the horror of the institution. And with each new horrid sound emanating around him he felt more and more sympathy for Maureen. He had no idea if he would catch Ford in the next three days; but regardless he could not keep her here, no matter how much safer her life would be in this heavily guarded institution. Sometimes, he thought, quality of life supersedes safety; and this is one of those times.
After what seemed only moments holding Maureen, he left her “room.” He gazed at the clock in the sanitarium’s foyer. Two hours had passed since he first entered this dreadful place. Fred started back to the station with a steady stream of tears blurring his vision as he drove.
*
Jim was going over some papers on his desk when he noticed Fred enter the station. He walked into Fred’s office, eagerly asking, “Well, how did your interviews at Schultz’s company go?”
“I didn’t get too far; I was diverted with some mental games played on me.”
“Really; are they for real over there?”
“You better believe it. I have never seen anything so spooky in my entire life. I’m not at all convinced that they are doing anything at all to further national security; but that’s not my purpose in being there.
Mind Switch Page 22
