DO NOT DISTURB! SESSION IN PROGRESS!
Effie Grandmaison pressed a white button. No sound came back.
“Soundproof?” Murex asked, blowing into his hands.
“And lightproof. A bell would freak him out if it went off in the middle of a session. This simply activates a green light. He’ll be a minute or so coming out of session.”
It was two minutes before Trey Grandmaison emerged, looking upset.
“What the hell, Effie?”
“I’m sorry, Trey. But this is Detective Murex from Boston. He’s here about a man who died while working a target from one of our class binders.”
Trey Grandmaison didn’t look very surprised. If anything he seemed spacey. He was a compact individual with hair so brown it verged on black. His smoke-gray eyes had trouble focusing.
“Let’s take this upstairs,” he said at last.
Trey Grandmaison looked up from the computer screen. “There’s no record of a John Doom ever taking one of my classes.”
They were in the den. It too was Spartan. The only photos showed Grandmaison in civilian clothes.
Murex asked, “How would he have gotten hold of one of your binders then?”
Effie inserted, “They are part of our course package of materials. There’s nothing to stop one of our students from loaning or selling one to anyone they want.”
Grandmaison added, “We put a copyright notice on all practice target packs, but many of our target feedback photos are things you can find in any encylopedia – Seattle’s Space Needle, Mount Rushmore, the Titanic—”
Murex interrupted, “Is there anything about doing this work that might induce someone to have a heart attack?”
“No!” Effie said suddenly.
Trey Grandmaison said, “I teach two types of RV, detective. Coordinate Remote Viewing and Extended RV. If he was lying down with an eye shield, he was doing ERV. It’s pretty safe. Half the time, my students drift off into a Delta state.”
Murex looked up from his notebook. “I don’t follow.”
“We RV in different brainwave states, detective. Alpha for CRV. Theta for ERV. Theta is the gateway to the Delta sleep state. If you go too deep, you simply click off like a light.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” Effie reiterated.
“I did hear about a candidate viewer who died of fright while working a target,” Grandmaison said slowly.
“Is that so?”
“It was back in ’87, just after I joined the unit. In between working operational targets, they would run us against practice coordinates to keep us in our viewing zone. The duty monitor came in one day and claimed he had worked up a really challenging target. The viewer who worked that one was never seen again. Rumor was he’d had a heart attack. But there was talk he’d died of fright.”
“Fright?”
“Whatever he was viewing scared him so badly his heart gave out.”
Effie said, “But, Trey, that was just a rumor.”
“Well, we never saw that viewer again. So I suppose it’s possible whatever your guy was viewing scared him literally to death.”
Murex asked, “Do you recognize this set of coordinates?”
Grandmaison took the offered notebook. “I don’t know these. I use a date system of notation. That way, if another RV instructor steals my targets, I can tell just by looking at the coords.”
“Is that a problem for you – theft?”
“My students don’t pay upwards of two thousand dollars just to remotely experience the summit of Pike’s Peak. My specialty is non-validation targets – UFOS, other planets, historical mysteries. Most were first worked back in Project Stargate. I’ve developed others. Anyone taking my class can teach others using my target packs, so I have to protect my business.”
“Is there any way of determining what these numbers mean?” asked Murex.
“They don’t mean anything.”
Murex looked his question.
“These look like randomly-generated target coordinates,” Grandmaison explained. “That’s how we worked back in the Stargate era. A computer would spit out a set of these and a tasker would assign them to the target. We RV off the coords so we’re not frontloaded as to the nature of the target. Think of the numbers as a metaphysical longitude and latitude.”
“Then how do—?”
“How do they work? Monitor’s intention. Once I assign the number to a target, my intention drives the session.”
Murex tried to keep his face straight.
“Tell you what, detective,” Grandmaison offered. “I have a small ERV class coming in shortly. Why don’t we run the group against this one?”
“I don’t see how that would—”
“Otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said suddenly.
Murex stood up. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
On the way out, Trey Grandmaison handed Murex a business card.
“In case TIRV can help in any way, all my contact numbers are on this card. Call me anytime.”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Murex told him.
The ME’s preliminary report had come in by the time Ray Murex had returned to his desk. He skimmed it, then took it in to his CO.
“According to this, John Doom hadn’t eaten in four days before he was found. No signs of poison or foul play. Cause of death appears to be heart failure. But the ME thinks the pinpoint eyeball hemorrhages strongly indicate he was lying face down when he died, and for a period of up to six hours afterward.”
“But he was found lying face up, right?”
“Right. With a microcassette recorder carefully nestled in his neatly folded hands.”
“You mean, placed there,” Hurley said. “Looks like we have an attempt at a perfect crime with locked-room overtones. Let’s take it from the top, guy checks in about 9 p.m. Monday night. By which time according to the ME, he could have been dead three or four days. Anyone at the hotel ID the body?”
“Desk clerk who checked him in, but he was a little shaky. However, the driver’s license photo fits the deceased.”
“So if John Doom couldn’t have checked in Monday night, who did? And how did Doom’s corpse get there?”
“There’s another problem,” Murex said. “The body showed no outward indications of decomposition.”
“So he couldn’t have died in the hotel room.”
“Not according to the ME. Wherever he was, Doom was on ice over the weekend. But someone had to flip the body over after those post-mortem pinpoint hemorrhages appeared.”
“Hmmm. What did you get in New Hampshire?”
“I found Grandmaison and his wife. They seem to take this Remote Viewing stuff dead serious. If they’re running a scam, I didn’t detect it in their manner. They claim never to have heard of John Doom. Otherwise, they made absolutely no sense to me. According to them, the coordinates the dead man were working when he died were randomly assigned. Common sense says if they’re random, they can’t possibly do what he claims they can.”
“Go at this from the angle of Doom’s last four or five days. I’m going to put you with Knuckles on this.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. He’s already been informed.”
Detective First Grade Robert Knuckles had been on the job a dozen years longer than Ray Murex and acted it.
“Another day, another stiff,” he sighed.
“This one is complicated. Let me bring you up to speed.”
Knuckles listened with head tilted back and his pale blue eyes gazing off into space, his expression bored. When Murex got to the part about Remote Viewing, Knuckles took his feet off his desk and began to look interested.
“This is a new one,” he said. “I could get to like it. Let me see Grandmaison’s card.”
Murex gave it up. Knuckles read it over, then flipped it. “Whoa. What is this?”
Knuckles showed him the obverse side. Two sets of four digits were marked in blue ink: 2006/0075.
&nb
sp; “Look like remote coordinates to you?” Knuckles asked.
“Pretty much,” Murex admitted. “Unless the first one is the year.”
Knuckles frowned deeply. “You say Grandmaison takes this stuff pretty seriously. I wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
“Well, maybe he just happened to give you a card on which he scribbled some stray coordinates. But try this on for size: maybe these coordinates are you.”
“Me?”
“Could be he’s tagged you for remote surveillance.”
Ray Murex exploded into uncontrolled laughter.
“You ever work with psychics?” Knuckles asked.
“Never!”
“You know the unwritten rule.”
“Sure. If you’re stuck, you can consult one, you just can’t use what they tell you in a court of law.”
Bob Knuckles grinned wisely. “I’ve invoked that rule a time or two. Never mind the details. Take it from someone who’s been at this longer than you. Take this stuff seriously, but treat it skeptically.”
“Always.” Murex pocketed the card and asked, “What’s your take on this?”
“Obviously someone sneaked a corpse into the Park Plaza, pretending to be the deceased. I think we had better find out more about dead Mr Doom. I took the liberty of starting that ball rolling. He’s single, 44 and lived waaay out of town. Mission Hill.”
Murex frowned darkly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Knuckles said. “Why would a single guy rent an expensive hotel room less than three miles from home?”
“Maybe he needed a quiet place to do his thing?”
“Let’s see how quiet the home front really is.”
The house was a triple-decker, dark chocolate brown, at the top of Parker Hill. Murex and Knuckles had to climb nearly 100 cracked concrete steps to get to the front door. The black woman who answered was the landlady.
“A few questions about John Doom, ma’am,” Murex said, showing his shield.
“Come on in then.”
They were let into the top-floor apartment.
“Lived here five years,” the landlady was saying. “Quiet man. Kept to himself.”
“What did he do for a living?” Murex asked.
“Had different jobs. Didn’t talk much about it. Traveled a lot. I wouldn’t see him for a week or two at a time, and he was always saying as how he’d been to Baltimore or San Diego, or somesuch place. Never said why.”
There were two bedrooms. One was a standard setup with a twin bed, and the usual furniture. The other was something else.
“What the hell he done with this room!” the landlady burst out.
The second bedroom room was all gray-ceiling, walls, even the inside of the door. The windows were hung with blackout shades. Gray, too. Even the rug was battleship gray. In the middle of the rug was a thin futon, gray as mold.
Murex said, “It’s a gray room.”
“I can see that!” the landlady sputtered. “But what—”
“Could you excuse us, please?”
“Fine. I need to call a painter anyway . . .” She bustled out.
Murex huddled with Knuckles.
“Grandmaison had one in his cellar. I didn’t see the inside. They remote view in gray rooms for some reason.”
“Then why did Doom go to a hotel, if he had this setup handy?”
“Good question.”
They looked around. A bookcase was crammed with books and microcassettes in labeled boxes. Murex selected one, loaded it into a recorder from his pocket.
A male voice began saying:”9746 0458 April 3rd 9746 0458 My perceptions of the target are . . .”
Murex hit stop. He popped in the other cassette. The same voice recited different coordinates and a date.
“Doom was really into this stuff,” Knuckles muttered. “I wonder if it’s any good for police work . . .”
Murex shot him a dark look. They began looking for address books and cancelled checks with the deceased’s signature on it. It didn’t take long.
“This look like the registration signature?” Knuckles asked.
Murex frowned. “No. Not even close.”
A commotion came from down below. Exiting, they found the landlady complaining to a UPS man who was hand-trucking a big burlap-covered box up the 100 steps.
Knuckles demanded, “What’s this thing?”
The landlady huffed, “A damned steamer trunk. Belonged to John. Fool hotel sent it over. What am I supposed to do with it?”
They examined the trunk. It was empty.
“We’ll take this off your hands, ma’am,” Murex said.
Back at the Park Plaza, the hotel manager was saying, “Yes, we did ship the trunk back.”
Knuckles demanded, “Didn’t you understand that it could be evidence?”
“But it was stored outside the room. I was told not to remove anything from the room proper. We have a basement storage facility for large items.”
“Did John Doom arrive with this trunk?” asked Murex.
“The desk clerk will know.”
The clerk didn’t look happy to see Ray Murex.
“Did John Doom check in with a steamer trunk?”
“No, it was delivered later. I don’t remember the company. He requested that it be sent up to his room, and then a few hours later, asked that it be placed in storage.”
“What do you remember about this trunk?”
“Well, the bellman complained that it was pretty heavy.”
“I want to talk with that bellman.”
The bell captain had a poor memory. He couldn’t describe John Doom, but he recalled one thing clearly: “That trunk was very heavy going up, and a lot lighter coming down.”
Murex asked, “What color were Doom’s eyes?”
“Grayish.”
“Not greenish?”
“No, grayish.”
“Thank you.”
Murex and Knuckles conferred. Murex growled, “Doom’s eyes were green as seawater.”
“If it was Doom who checked in,” countered Knuckles.
“My money says that it wasn’t.”
“Your money’s no good in court, Ray.”
“Here’s how I see it. The victim was delivered to the hotel in that steamer trunk. Bellman takes the trunk up to the hotel room, after which the unknown person who checked in under Doom’s name removes the victim from the trunk, lays him out on the bed, calls for the trunk to be removed, then exits quietly.”
“You think he was dead going in?”
“Exact time of death will establish that. But where was he for four days that he didn’t eat, and didn’t decompose if he was already dead?”
“And what really killed him, and how?” said Knuckles.
“I don’t buy death by remote viewing,” Murex muttered.
“Let’s talk to the ME then.”
The Medical Examiner was busy trisecting a human liver. He didn’t even look up from his work. “Heart failure. Your DOA expired of natural causes on or about last Friday, the 21st.”
“Are you sure?” Murex pressed.
“I’m never sure. But I am positive. A contributing factor appears to be malnourishment and dehydration.”
“Could he have been scared to death?” asked Knuckles.
“There’s no known medical test for that. But yes. Could have. It’s within the realm of possibility. But heart failure is what I will certify.”
“Anything else?”
“Under three fingernails I found gray deposits. Paint chips.”
Murex and Knuckles examined these under a microscope.
“Looks like scrapings,” decided Murex.
Knuckles nodded. “Yeah. Probably from his gray room.”
“Except for one thing. These scrapings are slate gray. Doom’s gray room was battleship gray. A lighter shade.”
“Good catch.”
On the drive up to New Hampshire the next morning, Bob Knuckles was saying, “The gu
y dies of a heart attack while doing his thing in a gray room. Whoever has charge of the gray room in question needed to cover it up for some reason. So he transports DOA Doom to the Plaza and stages it to look like the death happened there.”
Behind the wheel, Murex growled. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Sure it fits. What do you mean, it doesn’t fit?”
“What are you covering up? Heart attacks happen.”
“So do lawsuits. Guy doesn’t want to be sued for negligence by the fatality’s relatives.”
“Trade a lawsuit for criminal mischief and felony transport of a body across state lines? I’ll take the lawsuit any day. It was staged. The date of the tape was Monday, not last Friday.”
“If you’re going to stage a death by remote viewing, why use a TIRV folder?” Knuckles countered.
“Because you’re not TIRV. You’re a rival RV school. Kill two birds with one stone. Dispose of inconvenient body and screw competition.”
“Makes more sense to just dispose of the body, and hope for no traceback.”
“I don’t see it,” Murex insisted.
They were silent for a while. Fresh snowflakes were blowing in the backwash of vehicles ahead. Winter was settling in. After a time, Knuckles spoke. “Try this: it’s a murder.”
“Murder how?”
“Let’s say RV works like they say. No, follow me on this. Victim Doom wants to RV a really hot target. Perpetrator has a reason to want him off the planet. Maybe he knows Doom has a weak ticker. Figures one good scare might – just might – flatline him.”
“Okay. It’s plausible so far as to motivation.”
“Good. So he drops him into the scariest place possible.”
“Which is?”
“Hell.”
“Hell!”
“Hear me out now,” Knuckles said. “What did Doom describe on that first tape? Going down into the Earth and finding himself in a giant barbecue pit with blazing eyes looking up at him. What would that be except Hell?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Listen to it again.” Knuckles replayed the tape.
“5688 7854 January 23.5688 7854. My perceptions of the target are . . .”
Murex suddenly pulled over. “Wait a minute. Stop! Give me that.”
Ray Murex popped out the cassette and inserted one taken from John Doom’s apartment. He let it play for two full minutes.
The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries Page 34
