Jon's Downright Ridiculous Shooting Case

by A J Sherwood

  “Thanks,” I responded with an answering smile. She lit up in relief. Was she unsure of how to respond to me? Aside from the freakout on Friday, I’d had my place shot up, so admittedly my emotions were all over the map. “So, ah, Carol likely mentioned that Donovan is my anchor.”

  “She did. Congratulations to you both.” Marcy beamed up at Donovan, then grabbed a folder from one of her out trays and handed it over. “I took the liberty of gathering up all the forms for you.”

  “Thanks, Marcy.” Donovan took it with a very pleased expression. Then he flipped the folder’s top and got a look at the stack and groaned. “You’re kidding me. I thought I got rid of the forms filled out in triplicate when I left the Army.”

  Tapping the forms with a fingertip, I explained, “Government forms.”

  “Of course they are,” he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Well. I know what I’m going to be doing the rest of the day.”

  “If it’s any consolation, half of those are likely for me.” Not that I had filled them out personally, ever, but I knew something of them. Glancing at the top page, I reached over and thumbed through a few of them, skimming. “Yup, some of this only I’m going to be able to answer. Let’s get to our office, spread this out, and maybe we can have Marcy submit it all for us by closing.”

  Donovan did not look the least bit sold on this idea—likely eight hours wouldn’t be enough time, we both knew that—but amiably went for the office. While we were gone, someone had been kind enough to order a different computer chair meant for big and tall men and put it at Donovan’s desk, along with a laptop in an EMP box to help protect it from yours truly. He sat at his desk, portioned off some of the stack to me, and I sat at mine.

  Name. Birth date. Social security number. License number. Contact information. Employment information. All in triplicate. Sometimes they asked other questions, like type of psychic ability, which state my license was in, emergency contacts, etcetera. I had to have another psychic witness that Donovan was truly my anchor, so I ducked out to Carol’s office for her signature.

  As I tapped on the open door, she looked up from her table, smiling as she saw me. “Well. You look better today.”

  “Sorry for having a meltdown on you the other day,” I apologized contritely, feeling my cheeks warm.

  She threw up a hand to stay me. “I know your history well enough to understand, you don’t need to apologize. You’re good with Donovan? You two talked it out?”

  “Got the basics hashed out, anyway. I still need to run him through everything being an anchor entails. We keep getting sidetracked from that conversation.” Carol was one of the few psychics who didn’t have a boyfriend and/or spouse as an anchor. Her sister Sharon was hers, partially why Sharon worked here at Psy as well. Although I felt grateful Sharon was with us no matter the reason, as the woman cut my paychecks. “Say, you think Sharon would mind if Donovan sits down with her? I honestly feel like she’d do a better job at explaining this than I would.”

  “You have no experience with an anchor, after all,” Carol agreed thoughtfully. “I think she’d be delighted. I know Donovan scared her at first, but he’s always so quick to offer us all a hand, she warmed up to him pretty quickly. Did you know that he waits and walks us out to our cars every night? Assuming he doesn’t leave with you first.”

  I had not known that. “Since when?”

  “Hmm, second day here?” She paused, thought about it, then nodded at her own conclusion. “I believe that’s right. On the days you two don’t make it back to the office, he calls Marcy to make sure there’s nothing broiling here that we need help on. Jim actually did call him in one night. Sharon would dearly love to repay the favor. We both would.”

  Of course Donovan had proactively protected everyone in the office. I wasn’t even surprised. “Then can you sign the forms for me as a witness? And we’ll sit him down with Sharon after this. I think he’ll rest easier knowing what his new job entails.”

  “Sure.” Carol took the forms from me and signed away, all three places I’d marked, but as she handed it all back to me, she gave me a grin, her meridian lines turning slightly green with affection. “I’m happy to finally see your eyes, Jon.”

  With our anchor in place, I hadn’t bothered to wear sunglasses indoors. It was the first time in nearly two decades I’d been able to do so. I grinned back at her in delight. “Yeah. I’m really happy about that too.”

  “Let me grab Sharon, you go get Donovan,” she instructed, scooting around me and out the door.

  I dutifully went to my office and poked my head around the jamb. “How about a quickie training session with Sharon on anchor duties?”

  Donovan immediately got up. “Sounds great. Now?”

  “Yup. Carol’s fetching her.”

  It didn’t take a psychic to read his relief. In his shoes, I’d certainly feel better knowing what my new job entailed. And I knew that I wasn’t just a job for him, which made it even more important.

  We met back up in Carol’s office, Sharon already in place at the table. With nothing to be worked on, the table was empty for a change. She gave us both a quick smile as we sat down. “I’m glad you asked me, Jon. I’d be happy to help. First thing’s first, I think you should tell Donovan everything you’re capable of doing.”

  That probably was the best way to start.

  Donovan’s head canted in question. “The reading isn’t all that he can do?”

  “Not by a long shot,” I answered dryly. “Normally I only read the surface layer of people’s auras, see only what they readily display in that moment. That limitation makes it tricky to divine everything they mean because I have to ask the right question and pay attention to their lines as they answer. You’ve seen this level, where I never probe further than the surface. It’s light and easy, a comfortable energy expenditure for me, like watching television. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg for my ability. In fact, my ability can delve into three levels: surface, empathic, telepathic.”

  Donovan took out a pad of paper from his side pocket and started taking notes at this point. I paused to allow him to catch up, as it was vital he get every bit of this down. When I was sure he had, I continued, “It requires meditation and extreme focus to go empathic, and it’s not pleasant in my head afterwards. I always feel very raw and achy, like an open wound, with light of any sort being beyond painful. Stab a fork in my eyeballs painful. In going deep, I absorb the energy of the other person fully, not just on the surface, which messes with my own energy badly. It usually takes a full day to straighten myself out again, so I don’t do it unless the situation really calls for it.”

  “And what do I do as aftercare?” he asked, still writing frantically.

  “Aftercare is exactly the word for it,” Sharon approved. “You’ll need to get him into a dark room as quickly as you can, somewhere devoid of people. Four magnesium tablets, two Advils, and a large bottle of water are essential. After that, let him lie down and recoup. You are literally the only person who can be around him during all of this. In fact, he’ll need you there with him.”

  Carol thankfully picked up the explanation from there, as I had no idea how to explain the rest of it without tripping over my own words. “You’re called an ‘anchor’ for a reason, Donovan. When a psychic gets too lost in other energies, we need someone to act as a guidepost. Someone who can help us orient ourselves and sort through those energies until we’re back to rights again. For me, I can get lost in the energies of the world and have spatial disorientation. Jon’s different, he can get tangled up in the emotional lines of other people. He won’t be able to sort his own emotions from the psychic energy of the other people he’s absorbed.”

  “But I will know yours.” I gave my anchor a sweet smile. “And from you to me there is a very strong thread there, binding us. I can look at you, and that bond, and I can use it to trace everything that connects to you. You are my baseline. I can figure everything out from it.”

  He paused
in writing things down and returned my smile, eyes golden and soft in the mellow lighting of the room. “I’m glad for that. But you said three levels? Is the third telepathic?”

  “Yeah.” I blew out a sigh, just remembering the last time I’d been forced to go that deep. “Telepathic is a nightmare. I have to meditate for twenty minutes and take a chemical enhancement to do it, and then I’m wiped out for three days afterward. Never mind reading, I don’t even want to move, just snuggle under a pile of blankets. I’d only done it twice in my entire career, and both times involved tracking a serial killer. Not pleasant stuff.”

  Donovan’s emotions were written plain as day: my anchor did not like the sound of this. “And what’s the aftercare on that?”

  “Do not let anyone near me but you. Take me straight to a quiet, dark room—home if you can manage it—and shove water and food at me for a few days. When I say I’m wiped for three days, I’m not kidding. I’m down for the count and leaving the house isn’t a possibility.”

  “It’s very important you stay nearby during this,” Sharon counselled him with a commiserating look at me, because she’d worked that last serial case with me and knew exactly how bad it had gotten. “As much as the empathic level of reading messes with his energies, it’s ten times worse for the telepathic level. It will take him considerable time to straighten himself out. He’s also at risk for panic attacks during this; although he’s not had one, it got…scary last time.”

  I shook my head grimly. “Scary’s an understatement. I think I actually did have a panic attack before I called you. She had to talk me through things over the phone until I settled again.”

  “I was on the phone with him for three hours, and if it would have helped? I’d have gone over there.” Sharon gave Donovan a look of gratitude. “Which is why we’re all relieved you two have bonded. Just in case he ever has to do it again.”

  “Babe.” Donovan flipped his notebook shut and gave me the sternest look I’ve ever seen him wear. “You understand that I don’t want you to ever consider that option, right?”

  And this was how he reacted just from the description. I made a note to make sure he never actually saw the footage of me doing it from that last case I’d worked. “You think I like the idea? Of course I avoid it like the plague.”

  “Good.” Relieved, he flipped the notebook open again. “So what else do I need to know?”

  “Oh, we’re just getting started,” Sharon promised him with a glint in her eyes.

  Yeah, we really were. I settled back and got comfortable, because this would take a while.

  18

  Donovan had this thing, a leftover habit from the military, where he took his first two fingers and whirled them once in the air before pointing sharply in the direction he wanted me to go. He only used it in emergency situations or when he was on the phone and couldn’t readily explain to me why.

  I did not expect to get that behavior on a Wednesday morning before I even stepped foot in the office. He met me at the door, cellphone to his right ear, left hand signaling me back to the Humvee. I could see the urgency and alarm in his aura and promptly did an about-face, nearly jogging back to the driver’s seat, starting the engine as soon as I settled.

  He climbed into the passenger side and I finally caught more than the random word as he responded, “Yeah, she’s a real piece of work. Don’t you worry, Chen, we’re on our way. You sit tight at the station, call a lawyer if it’ll make you feel better, but Jon’ll straighten this out. I guarantee it. You just sit tight and don’t answer any questions until we get there. Okay? Okay.”

  As soon as he hung up, I demanded, “What happened? Chen’s in the clear for this!”

  “Was,” he corrected, eyes automatically looking as I did for traffic before I pulled us out onto the main street. “Our crazy bitch has been at it again. This time, she’s gone for some self-harm. I don’t have the details, but apparently she went caterwauling into the station this morning covered in bruises, claiming Chen put ’em there.”

  I felt a migraine descend like a dark cloud over my head. “Wait. Wait, the boy who’s still recovering from two gunshot wounds somehow has the physical strength to beat a perfectly healthy woman? Who’s an athlete?”

  “Yeah.” Donovan rolled his eyes. “Chen obviously missed his calling as Rambo.”

  “Babe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hate people some days.”

  “Right there with you,” Donovan assured me darkly. “Seriously. Hasn’t she caused this kid enough grief?”

  “I wonder if she has Ripley Syndrome,” I mused aloud. It might explain that interesting mess I saw in her head.

  “What, now?”

  “Ripley Syndrome,” I repeated, then realized that was something of a misnomer. “It’s something I saw once in a Korean drama. Ripley Syndrome is when a person makes up a story to explain something, or imagines a different reality, but they believe their own lie. They can’t differentiate between fact and their own make-believe.”

  Donovan gave me a disturbed look. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Do I look like a doctor to you? I have no clue. It just popped into my head when I thought about her behavioral patterns. And it would explain why I don’t sense a lie with her when she’s being interviewed. Of course, other things would explain it too. I guess we’ll have to see.”

  Traffic gods smiled on us and we made it to the station in fifteen minutes, despite the busy hour of the day. I parked in the back, as usual, and we rushed in through the back door, Donovan signing us both in. I popped up on my tiptoes, trying to see over the desks to spot our client. The place had enough traffic going around that it made spotting someone difficult. For all I knew, he could be up in an interrogation room right now.

  Olivia spied us from the stairs and hailed, “Jon! Up here, now.”

  Glad for a direction, I immediately obeyed, hauling my butt up to the second floor, Donovan right at my heels. The door to the viewing room stood wide open, Solomon standing just inside it, smirking. I didn’t like that smirk. I mean, I didn’t like Solomon smirking on just general principle, but him smirking now gave me the impression that he felt he had a leg up on me. And that was never a good thing.

  Olivia shooed us into the viewing room. From there, we could see into the interrogation room and found Chen and his mother sitting inside. Chen looked miserable, painfully erect in his chair, lines of pain around his mouth, his mother worried and angled toward her son in a blatantly protective stance. He clearly did not need to be down here, as he still looked pale and thin after being shot. I could see the wounds on him throbbing with visible pain. Whoever had dragged him in here had not been gentle.

  I had a good idea who and glared at Solomon. He’d be written up for this. I’d make sure of it.

  “Your boy’s not so innocent now,” Solomon informed me, grinning wide enough to show coffee-stained teeth.

  Somedays, I had to remind myself orange was not my color and punching him would not be worth the jail time. Ignoring him, I asked, “What’s the story?”

  “Alice Thompson claims that she went to Chen’s dorm room to have it out with him,” Olivia’s flat expression made it very clear what she thought of this, especially since Alice was suspended and not allowed on campus, “and he became enraged and beat her. She escaped and ran straight here to report him.”

  “Beat her with what?” Donovan surprised me by asking.

  “His bare hands, according to her,” Olivia answered with a significant weight to the words.

  Donovan’s eyebrows screwed up into a skeptical slant. “Really. Because that boy’s hands are clean, no scrapes or bruises I can see. You can’t hit another person with your fists without leaving a mark.”

  Solomon made an audible sound behind me, reminiscent of a deflating balloon. He hadn’t caught that, apparently.

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed wryly, “I found that very strange myself. Equally strange is the complete lack of defensive wounds on
Alice Thompson’s arms. Her only injuries are on her face, chest, and one along her ribs.”

  “She wearing a midriff, by any chance?” I asked dryly.

  “Why, Jon, your psychic ability is growing.”

  Solomon took issue with my tone, I knew he did, but he didn’t dare lay into me, not when his captain matched it. He bristled in the corner like a wet, stepped-on cat, but kept it behind clenched teeth. I enjoyed ignoring him.

  “I think,” Olivia continued thoughtfully, her eyes regarding Chen through the window, “that questioning him will be utterly useless. I’ll get a statement of his whereabouts and any corroborating witness—doubtless the mother will give us that—just for the record. Jon, you come with me. Time to ask Alice Thompson some questions. Solomon, you play good cop for me. You’re inclined to do it anyway in this case.”

  We tromped out of that viewing room and into another one directly next door, Olivia and Solomon entering the interrogation room. Alice sat at the table with big liquid eyes, leaking tears on cue, her blonde hair a straggled mess, as if someone had grabbed her by it.

  Before she could get a word out, Olivia threw up a staying hand. “No tears, Ms. Thompson, if you please. Tears won’t help you. I need facts right now. You went to Chen Li’s dorm?”

  “Y-yes,” she answered, biting at her bottom lip, pleading eyes fixed on Solomon.

  I frowned at this answer. Wait…what? The lines around her head flared red for a moment, then quieted, but I didn’t see any emotions.

  “Babe?” Donovan prompted, the walkie-talkie held near my mouth.

  Shaking my head slowly back and forth, I tried to explain what I was seeing. “It’s not a lie. But it’s not truth. It’s like…it’s like she has no memory of it. She’s not emotionally responding to what she’s saying.”

  “Crocodile tears aside, you mean?” Donovan stared at her hard through the window. “I think I understand now what you meant about that Ripley Syndrome.”

  Really, it almost fit, but something was off. With Ripley, she’d believe what she was saying. But she didn’t, not quite. I gestured for the walkie-talkie and told Olivia, “She’s hiding something. Keep pushing.”