by Dalya Moon
“That's your psychic? Heidi? But she's so old, and so evil, and so mean.”
“Ah, do you all know each other?”
“No. But I know her, and she's mean.”
“Mean, yes, but she's got those crows trained to do her bidding, and as you may imagine, crows don't fall under the same regulations as police.”
On all sides of me, the station's noise of voices and tapping and buzzing seems to rise up in a wave as I come to a conclusion. I've been fooled. The truth was in front of me, but I believed what I wanted to believe and not the more obvious explanation.
“Heidi's been sending me notes,” I say. “Telling me to solve her brother Newt's murder. She used the crows and signed the notes from Newt, to trick me. I can't believe I'm so stupid. I mean, I can believe I'm really that stupid, but I don't want to.”
Detective Wrong goes into her big-voice mode. “She's been SUBCONTRACTING? Oh no, that is SO NOT ON. Not without my permission. What are we paying the woman for?”
“I don't know.” I shake my head and stare at the floor like the world's biggest idiot. I actually thought Newt's ghost was communicating with me from beyond the grave.
“How does your power work? Can you be a human lie detector?” Detective Wrong asks. “We could use that. Your neighbor, Crystal, she says she can't remember what she saw that afternoon. She passed the polygraph, but I still don't believe her.”
“I guess I'm a bit like a lie detector. But my power doesn't work all the time. Sometimes it's all black and murky and I don't see anything.”
“Well is it WORKING TODAY?”
I scan the office, worried other people can hear us, but they're all going about their business. If The Bridge has people within the police department, they probably already know everything about me, and there'd be no real point in whispering now.
Still, I keep my voice down and lean in. “Yes, it does seem to be working as of today.”
She stands and grabs her black leather jacket from the back of her chair. “Excellent, come with me.”
“Where?”
“Consulting gig.”
“Does this gig pay?” I ask.
“You said you wanted to volunteer. You walked in here and volunteered yourself. ARE YOU UNVOLUNTEERING?”
“I guess not,” I say as I follow her away from the desks, past an enormous plate of delicious-looking doughnuts.
“Go ahead and take one for the road,” she says. “Get me a jelly-filled. USE A NAPKIN!”
* * *
Detective Wrong lets me ride in the front seat after I promise not to touch anything. I swear people are staring, wondering what I'm doing up there, and I couldn't be more proud. I'm working on official police business.
When we get to Crystal's place, across the street from my own house, Detective Wrong takes a moment to apply a brownish-pink lipstick to her full lips.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.”
“Cops can look nice,” she says.
“I didn't say anything.”
We get out of the vehicle, and she has me knock on Crystal's door.
“Is there a special knock for detective work?” I ask.
“Yes, but it's secret.” She blinks. “Of course not. Knock like you mean it.”
I knock exactly as I would if I were coming over to borrow a couple of eggs.
Crystal opens the door, and nearly shuts it when she sees I'm with a policewoman.
As calmly and reassuringly as I can, I tell her I'm here to help. Crystal's hair is even more matted than before, and her eyes dart nervously left and right. After a few minutes of me pleading and promising, she concedes and lets us in.
We sit at the table in her kitchen, which reeks of garbage that hasn't been taken out.
“You can do a hypnosis?” Crystal asks me. “So I can remember?”
Detective Wrong takes off her leather jacket and folds it across the back of her chair. Her lipstick is the same color as her shirt. “You can trust me,” she says to Crystal. “Anything said under Zan's hypnosis will not be used against you. Actually, officially, I'm not even here. Zan's not here either. None of this is happening.”
Crystal blinks and chews her lip, looking confused. “None of this is happening?”
I get a bad churning in my stomach, and it's not just from the overpowering stench of the garbage in the room. Delving into this woman's paranoid mind is not something I want to do, definitely not something I would volunteer for. Because my visions are becoming less about seeing, I'm afraid I'm going to feel what Crystal feels, and that's not a pleasant thought.
Still, I have to be strong and do what needs to be done.
Taking Crystal by the hand, I say, “Let me help you. Once you've got your memories back, you'll probably feel a lot better.”
She nods her head in agreement.
“This may seem strange, but I don't read palms so much as I read fingertips.” I lift my shirt a few inches. “I'm just going to put your finger against my skin here.” I point to my stomach.
Detective Wrong raises her eyebrows but doesn't say anything or indicate I should stop.
“I always knew you were odd,” Crystal says.
“This isn't what I would choose for myself,” I say.
She reaches forward with her hand. “And this will help me remember?”
Lying just a bit, I say, “Yes. I'll go into your memory with you and then after, we can talk about everything.”
Detective Wrong, her voice soft and gentle, says, “This may seem unorthodox, but we've got no leads on the case and you're our only hope.”
Crystal bites her lower lip as she pokes her finger straight into my belly button.
* * *
Vision time.
Once the outside world gels and I find my feet—in a manner of speaking—inside Crystal's Secret Town, I'm surprised to find actual weather in here. Snowflakes come down in fluffy bunches. Snow covers lawns and hedges, and everything's gleaming white and fresh-looking.
Crystal catches some snowflakes on her tongue as she loads some boxes in a car. I don't see or hear anything about Spiritdell, but I sense the information, as though I've always known: this is the day she's beginning her long drive to her new home, where a job in a vet clinic awaits. I push for the vision to move forward in time, and at my command, time spirals by in a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions.
I see a boy, me, at her door with my cat Mibs, when he first got sick. I feel a heart breaking, Crystal's. She cares about helping us, and when the boy cries over the idea of losing his cat, she sits with him—me—for hours, going over and over the technique for checking his blood sugar and administering his insulin. I've forgotten all about that long, dark night, but Crystal hasn't. I knew she was compassionate, but now I feel that love from the inside. She understands how Mibs is as important to our family as any human. She looks into his little feline eyes and repeats a silent prayer for him, visualizing him enveloped in healing love.
I never knew.
We can't linger here, though, so I push forward, concentrating on the word Halloween and the blue Cinderella dress Crystal wore. The vision shifts and I worry my time is getting short and I'm about to get bumped out. If the vision ends now, I'll have to wait a day or two before I can get a reading again, or at least that's how it's worked before when I've experimented. I wish I knew more.
I have to complete my mission. Hurry, show me what happened on Halloween.
Crystal, in her elbow-length white satin gloves, raises a black handgun, a Glock maybe, and shoots a man in the chest, three times. I pull back and try to rewind, focusing on sounds. Someone else is here, but I can't see him. Where is he hiding? The other person is definitely a man. I can sense him in my mind, not just Crystal's mind at the time of the event, but right now.
In the vision, Crystal's eyes are closed, not only after she shoots the gun, but during, and before. She's sleepwalking, or under a spell.
She shot the man, and yet, she didn't.
Crystal would never hurt anyone. It had to be the man giving her a command.
A bee flies in and stings her on the hand, right through the glove. She opens her eyes and drops the gun, then shakes her hands and wipes them against each other roughly.
She was under someone's command until my bee stung her. Her emotions were numb before, sleeping, but now the terror and horror rise up, filling me with despair—Crystal's despair.
* * *
When I come out of the vision, both Crystal and Detective Wrong are quiet. To stall, I ask for some water. Neither of them move, so I get up and pour a glass myself from the tap.
How can I help the investigation without hurting my friend? The law probably doesn't make much allowance for magical sleepwalking.
“Crystal didn't see the killer,” I say. Even though I'm hiding something, I hear genuine relief in my voice. I guess since that flash I saw of Austin with a gun, I'm relieved my girlfriend wasn't the one shooting the old guy.
Detective Wrong asks, “What did Crystal see? Why's her memory gone?”
“I'm not sure. I only get bits and pieces, and it doesn't always make sense,” I say, which is not entirely untrue.
“Was she in the store when the shooting occurred?”
“Yes, but her eyes were closed when the shooting happened. She's innocent.” I drink all of the water and pour another glass from the kitchen tap. “I heard a man's voice, but I couldn't see him. Newt was shot ...” I point to three spots on my chest. “Here, then here, then here.”
“That is accurate,” Detective Wrong says.
“Why can't I remember where I was?” Crystal asks. “I was at work, in the morning, and then it was the end of the day, and I was putting my costume in the incinerator at the clinic, then I was home. None of it feels real.”
“Hmm,” Detective Wrong says, probably because incinerating clothes has a distinctly suspicious feel. I wish Crystal had not mentioned that particular detail.
“Have you ever been diagnosed with narcolepsy?” I ask. “Or any type of sleep disorder? From what I could tell, you were completely asleep during the attack.”
“I've been having trouble sleeping,” she says.
I rub my hands together. “There you go. Case solved. Well, your part of it.”
“Thank you,” Crystal says to me. “I have to go to bed and get some rest.”
She stands and disappears down the hallway without even saying goodbye.
To avoid eye contact with Detective Wrong, I clear some of the dirty dishes from the counter into the dishwasher, then pull out the garbage fermenting under the sink. Is that rice on the top or maggots? I think the rice is moving—please let it be rice.
“She shot him, didn't she?” Detective Wrong asks me.
After tying off the garbage bag, I run some water in the sink to wash up the counter. “Gran says every morning's more manageable when the kitchen's tidy.”
“If she shot him, but she was under a spell, she wasn't responsible. You know that, right, Zan?”
“I don't know how magic works in relation to crime and the law and whatnot.”
“It doesn't work at all, and that's a problem in this town. Though we do have fewer murders here than at my previous job.” She clears off the table and hunts around for the dishwasher soap. “If you were to receive some confidential files, would you look them over and see if anything comes to mind?”
“Is this another volunteer job?”
“Officially, it's not a job at all, but something tells me you're a good boy and you want to see things set right, and your friend Crystal's mind put to ease. Something tells me you might be able to help.”
“Something tells you, huh? Was it a crow? Did a crow tell you that? Those crows are assholes. One of them scratched me, right on the back of my head. I'll punch him if I see him again.”
“I'll get you those files as soon as I can,” she says as she clicks on Crystal's dishwasher. “Can I count on you?”
“Will you call me partner?”
“No.”
“That sucks. Fine. I'll look at the files.”
“There's something else,” she says. “I prefer to run on a nice treadmill, watching my soap operas. Not across people's back lawns.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say.
The corner of her mouth twitches up.
* * *
On Thursday, I can't believe I'm in school again. This place gets less and less real by the day. People are talking about GPAs and college applications and whether or not the clear liquid in someone's water bottle is moonshine or vodka.
None of this is my concern, as I'm trying to take my mind off my girlfriend giving me the silent treatment by focusing on the case I'm helping a genuine police detective solve.
While Ms. Mikado plays her ukelele and sings another of her made-up poems as a song, I write out all the details I know about Case #001, The Murder of Newt Steadfast.
No actual details are coming to me, so I write down the silly lyrics of Ms. Mikado's song:
You are my darling,
my star-faced bunny.
I send you flowers,
you bring me honey.
My chain is broken,
you buy a new one.
It doesn't suit me,
I am a dragon.
I eat your family,
they are all yummy.
Now I need Pepto,
to soothe my tummy.
Everybody giggles at the twist ending, and Ms. Mikado goes, “Rawr!”
I start a fresh, new sheet of paper and write LEADS across the top, followed by three underlines.
We're not allowed to text during class, but I take a risk and send messages to James and Julie, asking them for the photos they took of the former herbalist site and the former pawn shop. Visuals might jog something in my brain.
I stare at my page, writing down nothing helpful or useful. When the bell rings, I assume it's the fire alarm, since class can't possibly be over, but it's already the end of the day. Dazed, I get up and gather my books.
Out in the hall, I see Liam, the dirtbag who had sex with Julie and then ignored her.
He ducks his head down, avoiding eye contact, and in turn I resist the urge to clobber him. I haven't heard anything from him or his friends about Julie-related exploits, so at least he has the good sense to stay quiet about it. Little does he know his propriety is saving him from becoming a smear on the school's freshly-waxed floor.
What did I just think to myself? A smear?
I'm a little surprised at how violent my imaginary smack-talk is becoming.
A voice in my head cries nobody believed me. The gnawing doubt returns to the pit of my stomach. Last night and throughout the day today, I've been remembering and feeling things from past visions—things I don't want to experience again. I feel Crystal's fear as she drops the gun and stares in horror as an old man clutches his chest and falls to the ground. I taste the dirt in Heidi's decaying mouth. For a breathless second, I am small, weak, fourteen-year-old Moira, and the stepbrother is alone with me, and I am flooded with shame and rage.
Out in the hall, my locker door comes off its hinges as easily as if it were made of balsa wood. Dude, you're losing it.
As I'm staring stupidly at the metal locker door, now in my hands, Shad Miller comes up to me.
“Are you on steroids?” he asks. “And can you get me some?”
“This door must have been loose.”
He points his finger at me as he walks away backward. “You know where to find me. The juice. I want some.”
“Shad! Vitamins and exercise,” I call after him.
Now my locker has no door. I look around to see if anyone has any ideas, but all the other students avoid eye contact. Are they scared of me?
I prop the locker door on the floor and walk away. If people are afraid of me, that's good. They won't mess with my stuff.
* * *
When I get home, I do a quick sear
ch of the house, checking all the doors and windows, then I make sure there's nobody hiding in closets or under beds. Sure, that old book about bees may have magically walked out of here on its own, but mild paranoia is a reminder to be smart.
I shut the door to my room, only to have to open it a minute later when Mibs begins wailing and throwing his body against the door in protest.
With him happily on my lap, licking his paws, I reach around his body to use my computer keyboard.
I delete some spam from my inbox. Where are those files from Detective Wrong? I check the deleted folder and find she actually has emailed me, from an account named Aphrodite239. Funny, I would have expected her to use a code name that was a little more detective-like.
I look through the attachments she emailed, my computer taking its sweet time to get them all open. Mibs becomes dissatisfied with my lap and moves himself to the keyboard tray, with his butt to the left, on top of my mouse hand.
These files are pretty dry, just text descriptions of things I already knew: the manager of the shoe store called in the gunshots, Detective Wrong was in the neighborhood so she responded first and discovered two hapless teenagers trampling through the crime scene.
Hapless? Trampling? I cross the line out and post a correction: Two innocent, attractive young people were found selflessly tending to the bleeding victim.
My cackling laughter scares Mibs away. Okay, Zan, enough goofing off, now use your brain and solve this bad boy.
I click through the documents, resizing and rearranging them on my computer's desktop, across both of my monitors. When I agreed to helping, I imagined getting everything in hard copy and creating an awesome serial-killer-style wall inside my bedroom closet, with thumbtacks and bits of string connecting things. It makes sense that the police department is paperless, but I wish I had even bigger monitors, or more than two of them, so I could look at all the reports and photos at the same time.
If television crime shows have taught me anything, it's that solving a crime is about making connections, and if I could look at two or three of the right things at once, the subconscious part of my mind might pick out a detail the conscious part is missing.
I pull out the notes Heidi sent me by crow. The first one still gives me the creepy-crawlies when I read it, even though I now know it wasn't actually sent by a ghost.
