Serafin pulled out the typewriter from the bottom of the bag. While Dorothy handled the dress and thought about her own favorite doll as a child, Serafin removed the paper from the typewriter and set the toy on the table. He read the contents of Kathy's story.
As he read, he got noticeably excited. "I think I've just found Margaret and your trouble," he announced. "This is what Kathy had typed the day of her murder. It's a story about a girl named Margaret and how she had been sent home for being bad."
Now both men began to take note with avid tenacity of everything Dorothy said. Margaret, it turned out, lived four doors away from Kathy.
"I get another Margaret, as well," Dorothy continued. "Someone named Margaret Fox ..."
"What about Margaret Fox?" Neil Forte interrupted her.
"I don't know. I've got to find something out about Margaret Fox. I don't know why, but I see Margaret Fox."
It was obvious that Forte knew Margaret Fox, but he came forth with nothing more than a question.
"Do you get a middle name on her?" he asked.
Dorothy thought for a moment. "It has double letters in it. Like Ellen."
Forte blanched. "Margaret Ellen Fox is the right name," he told them.
Margaret Ellen Fox had been kidnapped five years before. The case had never been resolved. The Burlington, New Jersey, teen-ager had been baby-sitting one evening, and was never seen again. Elements of the case had never been publicly disclosed; it was a case that had stayed on Forte's mind for these five years.
"It's not really pertinent to this case," Forte finally said.
"Let's go on, and maybe some other time we can work on that one."
Dorothy looked through fifteen mug shots and composites that Serafin handed her. None of the posed, lifeless stares triggered anything.
"I now get an older man as the murderer. I don't know why, but I get a man who is forty or fifty." She paused for a moment. "He wears glasses and I think a wig." Serafin was confused, but he said nothing. "If I wanted to get to this man's house from where Kathy was killed, I would head for where the balloons are." "Balloons?" both men asked.
"I don't mean little balloons. I can't get the word right. Like the Hindenberg," she offered.
"Dirigibles?" Neil Forte asked. Serafin immediately thought of the Lakehurst Naval Air Station where blimps were assembled. That was less than thirty miles north of Pemberton Township.
"This man has been in the navy," Dorothy continued. "Highly decorated, too. He's been involved in cases like this before, doing things with kids like this one."
She went on to say that she saw a brown house, one that was entered not in the front, but through the side, and was to be found on a dead-end street. The house, she added, had a statue ha the backyard. "Not Saint Anthony," she said, smiling.
The man, she said, had spent much time in California. "Is this the man who murdered Kathy Hennessy?" Serafin tried to pin her down.
"I'm not sure. For some reason I'm getting this guy strongly. I've got to go on my feelings."
"Could his name be Harry?" Serafin asked, trying to locate a suspect he knew that might fit Dorothy's description.
"Not his first name. Maybe it's his middle name," Dorothy responded.
Awhile later Dorothy looked at Neil Forte and asked him if he were uncomfortable. The man said he was fine. Dorothy told him she felt he was having trouble with his feet, that they were bothering him. He blushed slightly and assured her that he was fine.
"Well, if they're not fine, they'll be better in a few days," she said and dropped the subject.
It was nearing three in the morning when Serafin and Forte kissed Dorothy and left her quiet neighborhood. As they departed, Dorothy told them they would be getting a major break in the case that day, perhaps within the next several hours.
The exhausted detectives were fascinated by all that had happened at Dorothy's. In the privacy of the car Forte told Serafin that he had been embarrassed by her questions about his feet. He had been to a foot doctor the previous day, he admitted, for a rash that he had picked up in Vietnam and could not cure.
"It's been fine for six months," he said, "and suddenly last weekend it reappeared."
Serafin decided to take the parkway south to Bricktown, which was slightly out of their way, but less confusing for him. Earlier they had gotten lost driving to Nutley. As Serafin drove, topping seventy-five miles an hour on the parkway, he saw the lights of a car parked at a dark gas station along the road. He knew the car belonged to a cop, and since he didn't want the hassle of explaining his way out of a ticket, he slowed down. As they drove past the station, his generator and oil lights suddenly flared. Serafin was shocked because the car had just been tuned up.
At the same time the police car pulled out of the gas station, drove behind Serafin, and then, with a sudden burst, passed him. Serafin flashed him down, blinking his lights off and on. Both cars stopped; Serafin got out and introduced himself to the black patrolman.
The men looked under the hood of the Chevy and discovered a broken fan belt. The patrolman said he would call the local police and have a tow truck sent out. Serafin suggested they bring a fan belt with them and gave the cop the correct size.
While they waited for the tow to arrive, and Neil Forte lay sleeping in the rear of Serafin's car, the helpful cop asked if Serafin was involved in the case concerning the raped girl. Serafin told him that he was in charge of the investigation for the Pemberton police and that they had been working that evening on the case. He said nothing about Dorothy.
The cop had read about the case and had wondered if any men in Lakehurst had been interrogated, as it was certainly within the radius of suspicion. Serafin said he didn't think so. Then the tall, slow-moving patrolman said he had a man in mind, that even though he himself was not a detective, he felt this man should be considered.
Serafin thought for a moment. "His name wouldn't be Harry, would it?" he asked.
"Not his first name. It is his middle name, though," the policeman replied.
With that, Serafin ran to his car and woke up his slumbering colleague, telling him about the conversation he was having.
The two men returned to the waiting cop, as the tow appeared out of the darkness. As they repaired the fan belt, they talked about the case.
"I've known this guy for years," the cop said. "Ever since he moved here from California. In fact, we just indicted him for fooling around with kids."
"A big case?" Forte asked.
"No. Small shit. Started out with parents coming in and complaining. This guy hangs around the tennis courts a lot, bothers the kids."
"Describe this man," Serafin said.
"Oh, he's weird. He's one of those clean nuts, Emaculate," he said, adding extra emphasis to the beginning of the word. "Always well dressed. Wears one of them hair pieces ..."
"How old is this man?" Serafin pressed.
"I think in his late forties. He works at one of the bases. Retired. He's got one of those cushy jobs saved for guys who retire with a lot of medals."
Serafin and Forte stood in the early morning light, goosebumps crawling over their bodies.
"What color house does this guy live in?" Serafin went on. The cop was beginning to think Serafin's questions were slightly crazy, but he continued, anyway.
"If I'm not wrong, his house is brown," the cop said, starting to edge away toward his own car.
"How do you get into his house?" Serafin followed Mm.
"What do you mean, how do you get into his house? Aren't these questions kind of funny for someone you know nothing about?" he finally retorted.
"I know it sounds weird, but if you'd just answer, I'll explain some other time. How do you get into the house?" he asked again.
The man stood and thought alongside the road. "Well," he finally said, "you go through this side porch. The front part is blocked off."
"Holy Christ," Serafin exclaimed.
Both Serafin and Forte shook the man's hand, asking him
to leave word with a detective to call Serafin at his office in Pemberton the next morning. Both cars drove into the misty light, as the new day began to brighten the skies.
When Pat Serafin awakened to the cries of her one-year-old daughter early that morning, she was surprised to find her husband awake and sitting on the den couch, smoking a cigarette. He had not slept, he told her, because his mind was full of wonder at the evening's happenings. Pat was looking forward to meeting the Nutley phenomenon. "Soon," her weary husband told her, "she'll come here."
The lieutenant detective who phoned at Serafin's request was equally intrigued by the story Serafin unfolded that morning. Asking the detective to listen and see if he could discern anyone he knew, Serafin described the man in question according to Dorothy's vision.
"How do you know this guy?" the detective asked Serafin.
"Everything is from the psychic. She even mentioned that the guy has some sort of statue in his backyard. Does that fit any of your descriptions?"
The man was silent for a moment, taking in a long, thoughtful haul of his cigarette. "Serafin, this is amazing. The guy my cop was telling you about has some kind of Buddha in his backyard. How in hell did she know that?" he wondered.
Serafin went on to say that Dorothy said the man in question had been arrested before. The other detective confirmed that their suspect had been arrested, but not on anything big.
"How come I've never read anything about this man?" Serafin inquired.
"There's a reason for that," Snoopy declared. "This guy has some real good connections."
Serafin was convinced that Dorothy could not have read about the man whose middle name was "Harry" in the newspapers.
It was that afternoon that a weary Serafin drove to the FBI office at Fort Dix to inform Fitzwilliam, the agent in charge of the investigation, of all that had transpired with Dorothy. Serafin was not expecting the reaction he received.
Fitzwilliam, a middle-aged, handsome, graying man in a business suit, greeted the police officer warmly. The two men had spent enough moments at loggerheads on investigative issues to know where the other man stood. Fitzwilliam listened with interest to all that Serafin reported, especially that the woman had worked on the Hearst case under the aegis of the FBI. He intended to check that out with Washington.
He made clear to Serafin that the Bureau's official stance on using psychics was negative. As far as he was concerned, they weren't viable investigative sources. However, in light of present facts, he would personally see to it that any expenses incurred would be handled by him, under other names, of course. He could hardly request funds for "psychic use."
Serafin thanked him and told him about Dorothy's attitude toward payment. "All she wants is a badge and a letter of commendation if the things she sees turn out to be true," Serafin proudly said in her defense.
Before Serafin left Fitzwilliam, the stern-looking agent said that he would put the man Serafin was suspicious of under surveillance. Serafin was amazed and thankful for the man's support
Dorothy agreed to visit Pemberton Township on the following Saturday morning. Fitzwilliam said he would like to follow Serafin around.
"We'll stay behind you in another car," he said cautiously. "There's no reason for us to work directly with her."
Serafin was miffed by the man's attitude, but he knew he had no choice. He knew that he, too, would be watched by his superiors. His belief in Dorothy was still tenuous when challenged, and that didn't please him.
Pemberton Township is sixty-five square miles of mostly rural land, full of nineteenth-century wooden houses interspersed with neighborhoods of geometric military architecture. When Dorothy and Bob Allison drove through the community on that Saturday morning in March, they felt it had more greenery and more charm than the area's crime rate had led them to imagine.
Serafin met them at an appointed spot and left their car at the police station, asking Dorothy whether she could direct them to the Hennessys' home, where the FBI was awaiting them. Unfortunately the Hennessys themselves were not around, having been called to Delaware where Carol's sister lived.
Dorothy told the police that she would like to direct them to the house, but that they should not expect a direct hit; a margin of a block should be allowed. Within thirty minutes Dorothy pointed to a small, red brick house with a carport, announcing that it was Kathy's home. She was correct.
When they got underway, Serafin was quieter and more skeptical than Dorothy had expected. The reason, she knew, was the car that was following them without introduction, waiting in judgment. She was being tested.
First Dorothy said she would lead them to where Kathy's body had been found. Not wanting to waste time, she described to Serafin the route she would take.
"From the street we're on, you go to a street that looks like a dead end, but it's not," she said. "Go off the end of that street and you'll be on a dirt road that should lead to water. The lake, I guess."
Serafin understood her perfectly.
"When you get to the dirt road, you go to the right. There should be a dirt path with a log across it. I saw that log when I saw Kathy the first time. Her body was right near there," she concluded.
Dorothy's intuition was easing Serafin's insecurity. As he worked with her, he began to resent the FBI's attitude.
After they had all driven around the area in which the girl's body was found, Dorothy said she wanted to describe an event that had occurred some years before. She wanted to go to a spot where a little boy had drowned and a pair of eyeglasses had been found. The water had been too shallow for drowning, she said, but the case had never been solved.
Serafin thought he knew which case she was seeing, and trusting her sight, he took her to the spot. The large green Ford LTD followed close behind.
Next Dorothy described a road that would fork. By taking the turn to the right, one would pass two pillars. Serafin knew this to be the entrance to Fort Dix, which bordered on the area in which the body was discovered.
Dorothy didn't know whether she was looking for the murderer, or sensing something about someone else who might be involved with the case. She then described a cemetery.
"There are two cemeteries in the area," Serafin told her.
"This one is very old, as old as the oldest houses here," Dorothy said. "I don't think it's still used. Anyway, this one would be near or next to a runway for airplanes."
The description could not have been more exact. Serafin knew it to be the old Pointville Cemetery that predated the military installation, and that couldn't be moved when the runways were constructed at McGuire.
From the cemetery Dorothy got a strong sense of someone standing on a ladder to paint. The cops told her that painting was being done by dozens of men daily on the installation.
"No, that's not it," she warned. "We're going to run into a painter soon."
Next she told the detectives she wished to find a church in the area where drugs once had been found in the bushes. The incident, if it had occurred, meant nothing to Serafin or any of his men. He decided to chance it and ask the FBI if they knew of anything similar that might have occurred on the base.
Serafin had to explain to Fitzwilliam, who wondered at all the circuitous ambling that had been done, what reasons had been behind all the previous stops. Leading up to the church story, he said that he was presently stumped and had come to them for help. He told them what Dorothy had described.
"How in the hell did she know about that?" one of the agents said.
Serafin smiled, pleased at the reaction. "She's been doing this all day. You might enjoy talking to her sometime."
Fitzwilliam ignored the policeman's gibe and requested that Dorothy be asked, first, if she saw who had been involved with the drugs.
Moments later Serafin bounced back to the official green car and announced that Dorothy felt someone working for the church had been responsible.
"She's right on that one. It was the assistant chaplain," Fitzwilliam conceded
. "We locked him up for possession of heroin that was found in a bag in the bushes."
From the church, which they drove to, Dorothy asked to be taken to the tower on the airstrip. As they walked on the asphalt surface around the air tower, Dorothy pointed to a large building not far away.
"The guy I'm describing works in that building," Dorothy said.
Once again Dorothy had correctly led the investigation to the man whose middle name was "Harry" and whose life and home she had so accurately depicted. Serafin went back to the FBI annex-on-wheels and informed the men that Dorothy had correctly pointed them to the building in which their suspect worked. He did not, however, inform Dorothy that she was correct.
Driving back toward Browns Mills, the sergeant riding in the back seat pointed to an empty lot and asked Dorothy if she knew what had once been there. Slightly agitated by the games she was being put through, she directed herself into the past and smiled.
Dorothy Allison - A Psychic Story Page 17
