DARK KILLS a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by BREARTON, T. J.

  “Bad judgment, Cap,” Dana admitted, wanting to add, and partly your fault for putting me on the bench. “But, I needed to know more before I came to you. Lata has actually had some courtroom scuffles. Had a lawsuit filed against him six years ago, for fraud. Found not guilty. Again found not guilty in a civil suit over what the plaintiff claimed was a ‘false imbuing of psychic potential,’ or something like that. He won again.”

  “Okay, so what? Where was he for TODs?”

  “All over the place. He’s on tour right now. He speaks at conferences and—”

  “Then please tell me why I care.”

  Dana was quiet for a moment.

  Then the captain shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “Okay . . . So, this doctor performs some kind of mind trick on these girls? Gets them to kill themselves with some sort of untraceable plant poison? What are we talking about?”

  “What we’re talking about is, he’s rich,” said Dana quietly. “He’s loaded. He’s written three books. He travels all over the world. Gets ten thousand dollars a pop for keynote speeches. He’s a prominent member of several groups. Some concerned with alien beings, some about the deep psychic energy within us all, the ability to heal ourselves, that sort of thing. That’s why he gets these people bringing claims against him; they’re after his money.”

  The two men considered her remarks. “And I think some people just don’t like what he’s doing. What he’s selling. He mentioned that great people have enemies. His beliefs are almost a New Age religion, a way of thinking that might scare people. Make someone dangerous.”

  “So what are we saying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I want to take a look at a couple of things.”

  She glanced at Hamill. Her partner looked uneasy. No doubt Hamill felt she’d been keeping things from him. And she had.

  “We need to find Maggie Lange,” Bouchard barked from his desk. “That’s what we need to be doing. We need to prevent a third girl from being murdered. Okay? Hoping to God it hasn’t already happened. Finding — if it has happened — the killer behind it. Because, while this Lata guy is interesting, unless he’s mind-controlling people or beaming in from the mother ship . . .” Bouchard paused, stared hard at Dana for a moment. “Does he have followers?”

  “I don’t know if I would call them that. There’s no central institution for anyone to join. He has a lot of fans on social media and fellow group members. Too many to go through them — over twenty thousand.”

  Bouchard shook his head, and looked down. “We had four girls on a list. Two already dead. Two others that we were supposed to protect. And we didn’t. And if that girl shows up like the others, this is really going to be out of my hands. We’re going to let Yarrow and the U.S. Attorney call the shots. Completely, this time. If they want to pick up this guy, Lata, fly out wherever he is now, or fly him here on some idea that he hypnotized the girls into killing themselves, or maybe he inspired someone to do it, then fine, they can.”

  Dana’s mouth was open to protest. But she snapped her jaw shut and looked down at her hands. The sense of defeat was palpable in the room.

  “We’re all about minimizing damage, Gates. We’re realists. Hamill, you’re out there with the rest of them searching for Lange, like I asked you to do last time. And you, Gates . . .” He glared at her, his chest rising and falling, and for a second she was afraid the captain was going to have a heart attack right there in front of her. But he calmed down and continued in a more measured tone, “You’re back on duty,” he said.

  “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

  “We’re on Lori Stender day and night, you understand? We’re auditing her classes, we’re outside the door when she pees.”

  “No more classes after today, sir.”

  “Fine. All the fucking better. But even if between us and Plattsburgh PD there’s ten cars outside of her house, I want you checking in. Does she have a job?”

  He looked from Dana to Hamill. Neither detective knew — when Dana had last been with Lori, the call had come in that Holly Arbruster was down by the train tracks, floating in the marsh.

  “I’m holding you personally responsible,” Bouchard said, looking at the partners. “Got it? And keep the media off her. We have two uniforms with her, but I want you keeping tabs, Gates. You got anything better to do?”

  Dana swallowed, feeling a wave of nausea pass. She got her bearings. “I’d like to talk to Wayland Kimball again. Then I’ll go straight to the girl’s house.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE / A Protégé

  Wayland Kimball said he’d be most comfortable meeting on campus. They went to the cafeteria in Union Hall. Breakfast Served All Open Hours, it boasted. Dana wasn’t hungry, but she smeared some cream cheese on a bagel. Wayland drank coffee and had a croissant. His eyes kept darting to her face, to look at the damage. She was healing nicely but various small cuts and abrasions were still visible.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Let’s just start over, okay? Let’s have the conversation we should’ve had last week.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” He looked away from her and picked at his croissant, the pastry reminded her of flaky skin.

  Dana went on, “I’ve had a bit of time on my hands. Between the doctors and my captain, no one has let me go anywhere. So I read up on your study: the full text, not just the abstract, the authors and information section. You’re a co-author.”

  Wayland looked over his shoulder. “Then why do you need to talk? It was accepted by the editorial board and published on October thirteenth. It’s all there.”

  “Because I’m a cop, not a psychology teacher like you.” She spread her hands in front of her. “My job is to figure out why two girls are dead, and find a third girl before she winds up dead, too.”

  “You think I lied to you? I’m the one who called to say Maggie Lange wasn’t in cla—”

  “I know. I’d just like to hear it again. In your words. About the study.”

  He pushed his plate away, sighing. “It was meant to observe the ways in which people react when given the chance to exert their ‘psychic energies.’ Each subject agreed to an MRI screening, before and after. They were presented with a series of tests, ostensibly to determine psychic potential.”

  “I’ve heard all that. What were the tests? Cards with shapes on them, that sort of thing? Where’s the video? Why no video posted online?”

  “Basic run-of-the-mill ESP checkers: guess the shape on the back of the card, see if you can move the ball bearing on the table, etcetera. But what you’re really looking to find out is what’s going on in their brains and their physiology when they’re under intense evaluation. The video is at my house.”

  “I want it.”

  Wayland seemed to dig in his heels. “Why? You read the study, saw the results. We were looking for performance anxiety. Things that can prevent people from achieving their highest potential.”

  “I’d still like to see it.”

  “Okay. Talk to my lawyer. Obtain a warrant.”

  “Mr Kimball, if you have nothing to hide, you’re sure acting like you do.”

  “I’m acting like someone who understands his rights.”

  Dana opened her arms. “Okay, why psychic phenomena? You could have chosen anything for people to be under evaluation for.”

  “We’ve done studies where we’ve put people into situations designed to be socially uncomfortable, but the results aren’t pure, because typically, they know that this is the study, and they’re relaxed about whatever situation we place them in. It’s called demand characteristics. But if you try to design a situation meant to be even more uncomfortable, you don’t get a lot of people to sign up. So we came at it in an indirect way. We chose something a lot of people are interested in, even if they think it’s bunk, they’re curious — who isn’t curious about psychic powers? And it met the criteria for a scenario where they know they are being watched, evaluated, on the spot.”

  “The psychic p
art wasn’t suggested by Professor Sanders?”

  Wayland looked uncomfortable. He had that air about him which Dana remembered from their previous encounter.

  “I shouldn’t talk about Doctor Sanders.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s not here to speak for herself. It’s inappropriate.”

  “Well, I can’t talk to her,” Dana said. “I tried all week. She left the country two days after the study and seems to be constantly on the move. If she’s in Namibia, if she’s on the moon, she’s not on Twitter or Facebook, no blogging, nothing.”

  “This might be a discussion to have with Dean Arturo.”

  “Why?” Dana pushed her plate aside and leaned in. “Come on. Out with it. I already know, anyway.”

  He was trapped; she had him in her sights, frozen.

  She pulled the book out of her jacket pocket. She plopped it on the table between them. “You had this author, this renowned psychic, conduct your fake experiments. Why use him?”

  Wayland looked at the book. Dana watched his Adam’s apple bob in his neck. For a moment, he was speechless. “Look, it was for show. No one would believe it was a real psychic study if Professor Sanders or I were administering the tests. So we brought in Dr Lata.”

  “It wasn’t ‘show’ for him. Maybe he was interested in unearthing some psychic potential, you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He must’ve been expensive.”

  Wayland looked down. He gripped the edges of the table, his knuckles white. “Dr Lata is highly trained,” he said. “Credentials are impeccable.”

  “So that means he’s free?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then what? You tell me — why did he do this? Let me tell you why. Because he loves this sort of stuff. He wants to see if he can find the next Joan of Arc. And he and Professor Sanders are old friends. They got to talking. They agreed on the study. But they needed someone to take care of the details. They’re too busy, what with book signings, trips abroad. Give it to someone with something to prove.”

  Wayland Kimball glared at her angrily.

  “I want Sanders’ contact information. Email, however you keep in touch. I can arrest you, or you can pull a pen and paper out of your handsome valise there, and write it down.”

  He unzipped his bag and pulled out the items.

  “The students, what did they get out of it? In your professional opinion.”

  He dropped the pad on the table and scribbled the details on a page.

  “They liked it.”

  “Are they all friends?”

  He clicked off the pen and looked up. “Sounds like there’s another sneaky question in there somewhere, Detective.”

  “Do they hang out?”

  His eyes wandered to a trio of young men sitting and laughing at a table on the other side of the cafeteria. Dana observed the way he watched them. She was suddenly sure her that her idiotic partner was right about Wayland Kimball’s sexual orientation. He said, “I’d like to go now.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “I don’t know. I saw the girls in pairs — Lori Stender and Sonia Taylor. I think I saw Maggie Lange and Sonia Taylor at the library once.”

  “Are you religious?”

  He returned his attention and gaped. “What?”

  “Do you practice a religion?”

  “No. Well, I’m Buddhist.”

  “Uh-huh. What if I said to you, someone who knew what these girls were doing, heard them talk about it, maybe even . . . thought they saw something, some ability . . . something — what if someone didn’t like that? Thought it made them, I don’t know, witches? Scared them?”

  “I don’t know. There are some pretty idiotic people in the world,” he said without emotion.

  “Who might have seen the girls together? Or seen . . . or felt something they didn’t like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Perry Brady?” She held up the book between them. “You give this to him?”

  “No.”

  She looked at Wayland again.

  “I’m not exactly in touch with my students’ lives outside of class,” he said.

  “Well, maybe not. But Rakesh Lata is.”

  “That’s none of my business.”

  And maybe Rakesh Lata has some protégé who’s killing these girls. Maybe. Is it you? Who else is left alive? Who is not missing? Lori Stender. And I bet she’s the one who ‘saw my sadness.’

  “You go to a bar where students hang out. Any other professors go there?”

  “Sure. I guess. Occasionally.”

  “What about a place called Charlie’s? You know what that is? Or who Charlie is?”

  He shook his head, No. His anger had passed. He regarded Dana coolly now, as if she were no longer worth getting riled. He placed his hands on the table, sparing the book — Unraveling the Ancient Wisdom — one last glance, and then pushed back in his chair.

  “Detective, I’ve got a busy weekend ahead. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He grabbed his valise and stood up.

  “I understand,” she said, also rising. “Thank you, Mr Kimball.”

  He walked off without looking back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO / The Drawing

  There were two Plattsburgh cruisers and a state police car on the street, cops inside the house, checking crawlspaces and closets. Two more uniformed cops were gesturing with a reporter and camera crew, easing them back to the news van. K9 Units were circling the grounds and nosing through the rooms inside. An unmarked car sat further down the block: FBI surveillance. She stood on the porch with Lori Stender, the white smoke of their breath rising into the air.

  “It’s freezing out,” Lori said.

  “You don’t like life in the North Country?” Dana asked, keeping her eye on the Feds.

  “I do and I don’t.” Lori blew on her hands, rubbed them together. “It’s too cold to sit, for God’s sake.”

  “We’ll head back inside once they’re done checking everything.” She glanced over at the young woman. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why’d you sign up for that study? You go in for that sort of thing?”

  “Go in for what?”

  “That whole thing. Or are you more one of those, ‘If psychics were real, they’d all win the lottery’?”

  Lori laughed, a bright burst of it, her breath puffing out. “Yeah, no, I don’t think it works that way.”

  “How do you think it works?”

  The student grew thoughtful. The two of them watched as the reporter reluctantly backed away and stood on the sidewalk while the cameraman set up the shot. The cops emerged from the house a moment later, a German shepherd panting and straining against the leash. Dana watched them head down the walkway.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  They made their way to the kitchen. The house was quiet. Teisha, the athletic girl who had opened the door that first time, was away for the holiday.

  Dana looked around at the empty house. She recalled when it had teemed with student partygoers. “You feel like your friends abandoned you?”

  Lori leaned against the counter. “Abandoned me? You mean Teisha? Yeah, well, she doesn’t like anything that’s not fun and games, you know?”

  “Not one for the serious stuff.”

  “Says it brings her down.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “I don’t want them here.”

  Dana watched her closely. “Not getting along?”

  “You don’t know my dad. What we’ve been through. This type of thing . . . he would just turn it on its head.”

  Interesting. “How do you mean?”

  “He’s just very controlling. My stepmom, too. They’re a good match, I guess. I don’t know. Well, sometimes. It’s like two magnets with the same charge.”

  “They must be worried.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not going anywhere. I�
�m not going to let some psycho upend my life, make me live in fear. You want something to drink? Soda or something? You probably can’t have a beer.”

  Dana was impressed by the young woman’s candor. But she wasn’t just talking tough, it seemed genuine.

  “I’ll take a soda, sure.” Dana looked at the police lights strobing the windows. She watched them slip away, the house considered secure. Other units remained, less conspicuous. But still, seeing the lights disappear made her anxious. She turned her attention back to the girl. “So, you’re not going to let a psycho run you out of town . . . you think whoever is responsible for this is psychotic?”

  Lori twisted the plastic cap off a coke and handed it to Dana. “Well, obviously, right?”

  “You think Perry Brady is psychotic?”

  “It’s not Perry Brady.”

  Dana held the bottle to her lips. She’d never been much of a soda drinker, but it tasted good now. Normal.

  “No?”

  “I don’t think so. But, you’re thinking it. Right?”

  It sounded like a comment Hamill would make. One thing was for sure, Lori wasn’t exhibiting any sort of extrasensory power at the moment. Whatever Dana had been feeling when she and Lori had first met, it wasn’t there now. Dana decided she’d been imagining it. What remained to be seen was whether she was under the influence of Rakesh Lata, his minion, killing for him.

  “I spoke to Doctor Lata,” Dana said.

  “Oh yeah? You went to see him?”

  “We Skyped.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. He said you two are in touch.”

  She nodded. “A little, yeah. He’s very nice.”

  Dana dabbed at her eye. “What do you talk about?”

  “You know, life. Energy, history, politics. Art.” She suddenly perked up. “Hey, want to see something?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Lori led Dana upstairs to her tidy room overlooking the street. Dana peered through the blinds, down at the cops and the news van, still double-parked, the reporter getting shit again from the local PD. It was comforting.