Death Prophets

by Steve Armstrong

  As they walked, Grace found herself watching the people across the street: An old man wearing a derby hat methodically put one foot in front of the other, looking at the ground the entire time. A middle-aged woman walked her golden lab. A couple walked hand-in-hand, talking and smiling at one another. Then she caught sight of a crowd of people streaming into the funeral home across the street. The men were dressed in suits and ties and the women in black or gray dresses. A black hearse sat outside, the tiny curtains on the side windows drawn shut. Grace stopped moving and watched the scene unfold.

  One moment later, Marilyn realized she’d lost her daughter and turned to find her. “Grace!” Her mom’s tone once again approached exasperation, until she noticed what her daughter was staring at. Marilyn walked back to Grace and took her by the arm.

  “Come on, Grace,” she said, her voice a little softer this time. “It’s hard on all of us. We all miss him. But it’s been almost a year now. We have to move on like your brother is doing.” Grace did her best to match her mother’s pace but still found it difficult to do so.

  “You know, it’s not every day that Jason wants us to meet one of his girlfriends,” Marilyn said, walking even faster. She was right; this didn’t happen every day. But it had happened four times in the past. Though a well-meaning guy, Jason eventually seemed to be spooked by commitment, which had caused him to jettison his previous relationships. There were still other women whose relationships with him hadn’t survived long enough to warrant a Saturday brunch date with his family. “Maybe Amy will be the one. But we need to do our best not to make Jason second-guess himself.”

  That had happened at least once, though it wasn’t Grace who had sparked the fallout. Though Marilyn Murphy professed to respect her children’s decisions, she couldn’t always live out her spoken convictions.

  Soon they arrived at Sage & Thyme’s, a cozy, contemporary joint which served a brunch buffet on weekends. As Marilyn had predicted several times on the walk over, Jason and Amy were waiting for them when they entered. Grace recognized Jason’s girlfriend from social media. The vivacious and curvy blonde seemed larger in real life; her smile in person transcended her image from photos and her voice swelled with vigor.

  The quartet exchanged pleasantries and then made a trip through the buffet line. Grace put a pancake and slice of banana bread french toast on her plate, even though none of the food appealed to her. She sat across from Amy at the table. Grace could feel the young woman watching her as she moved pieces of food around her plate. Occasionally, Amy tried to pull Grace into a conversation.

  “So Grace, Jason tells me you’re a medical illustrator. What does a medical illustrator do?” Amy asked, putting down her fork and giving her full attention to Grace.

  “I draw illustrations for anatomy textbooks and things like that,” Grace replied, struggling to maintain eye contact with Amy as she spoke.

  Jason, in the middle of devouring a large stack of pancakes, glanced at his sister. “You should see her drawings—she’s really good,” he said, his mouth still partially full of food.

  Grace looked down at her plate, saturating a piece of pancake in a puddle of syrup.

  “I’d love to see your work! What kind of stuff do you like to draw?” Amy asked.

  “Landscapes. Animals. Sometimes, people.”

  Amy waited for Grace to expound on her artistic interests, but her expectations went unmet. Grace sensed her mother’s displeased expression without looking to her left. Surely, Marilyn thought her daughter was being stubbornly disengaged once again. But Grace couldn’t help it; the entire exchange taking place around her felt like it was happening on a TV set, and she could do little more than monitor its progress.

  Grace’s mom shook her head while she reached for the newspaper she had set on the empty chair next to her. The rustle of the paper temporarily interrupted Jason’s focus on his food.

  “You brought a newspaper?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s yesterday’s paper. It has the engagement notice from your friend in high school that I told you about.” She rifled through the paper to find the appropriate page, then handed it to Jason. Her son glanced at the aforementioned notice, but his face betrayed a certain fear there was subtext hiding behind his mother’s seemingly innocuous action. Amy leaned across Jason’s chair to get a better look at her boyfriend’s childhood friend.

  “They make a cute couple,” she said.

  As Jason and Amy scanned the details of the notice, the back page of the newspaper section peeled downward, exposing the obituary page. These days, obituaries exerted an irresistible pull on Grace. She looked harder at the page. Most of it was still obscured, but in the top right corner, she saw the photo of a young man smiling. The shape of the eyes and the placement of his cheekbones compelled Grace to lunge forward and grab the paper from her brother.

  “Grace, what on earth are you doing?” Marilyn asked.

  But her daughter ignored her, instead, poring over the details underneath the familiar photo. Thomas Wilson. She would’ve recognized his eyes anywhere. He was the man from her dreams, the one standing across the street. But he wasn’t a dream anymore. Grace dropped the paper and stood up, backing away from it like it was a bomb about to explode. She bumped into her chair, almost falling to the ground before she caught her balance by grabbing hold of the table behind her. Grace’s disturbing dream world had collided with the real world. In a desperate move, she ran toward the bathroom, hoping against hope that she would realize that this, too, was a dream.

  4

  Marilyn Murphy sighed and rolled her eyes as Grace disappeared down the small corridor leading to the restrooms, which drew a myriad of curious stares from the brunch crowd.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Jason asked, so perplexed he set down his knife and fork.

  “You know your sister—it’s always something with her,” Marilyn replied. “I’ll go find out.” The older woman stood, smoothed out her skirt, and traced her daughter’s steps toward the bathroom.

  While Grace’s mom exited, Amy stared down at the newspaper. She scanned the photos on the obituary page. “She didn’t see someone she knew, did she?”

  Jason seemed to consider this possibility for the first time. “Not that I’m aware of,” he answered after examining each photo. “Then again, I don’t know all of Grace’s friends.”

  Amy leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. Her brow was furrowed in thought. “Do you think your sister might be depressed?”

  “Depressed? As in really sad?” Jason asked, his expression skeptical. “I guess. She didn’t seem real happy today. But it’s kind of hard to tell, especially when Mom’s around.”

  Amy lowered her voice. “No, I mean like clinically depressed.”

  Jason frowned. “You think Grace needs to be on meds?”

  “I don’t know. But think about it: she barely touched her food, she clearly didn’t sleep well, and she seems kind of distant.”

  “Come one, you’ve met Grace for one day. For all you know, she slept great the rest of the week and ate a big dinner last night. Besides, this is kind of just the way Grace is; she’s an introvert,” Jason said, picking up his knife and fork again.

  Amy stared in the direction of the restrooms. “I’m not trying to play armchair psychiatrist; but you know I struggled with depression for awhile, and I have to say, Grace reminds me a lot of myself during that time.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever acting like Grace,” Jason said, nearly smiling at the wide personality gap between his girlfriend and his sister.

  “You didn’t know me back then,” Amy said, locking eyes with Jason. “Depression is a powerful thing.”

  “Maybe so. But I have known Grace all my life. And what she was like today isn’t that different from what she’s like everyday.”

  Amy raised her hand up to her mouth and chewed on the skin around her thumb. “Do you think it’d be okay if I talked to her?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just try
not to tell her she’s depressed.”

  “I won’t. I just want to ask her some questions.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Jason resumed his consumption of syrup-soaked pancakes. “Just wait until my mom clears out of there.”

  Amy got up from her chair. When she reached the bathroom, she could hear the muffled voice of Marilyn Murphy on the other side, scolding Grace.

  “So compose yourself, and don’t come out of this bathroom until you’re ready to smile and have a conversation like a normal person!”

  Footsteps resounded against the tile on the other side, forcing Amy to retreat further down the hallway and duck into the recess in front of the men’s room. Marilyn strode out of the bathroom, never looking back toward Amy’s hiding spot. Once she was out of the way, Amy pushed open the women’s room door. Grace stood before the mirror, staring at herself. When she saw Amy appear behind her in the mirror, Grace looked down, as if avoiding eye contact would make her invisible.

  Amy smiled. “Is everything okay, Grace?”

  “Yeah.” Grace turned the faucet on and splashed a bit of water against her pale cheeks. “I just…” She trailed off as if completing her thought would have exposed something she’d prefer to remain hidden.

  Amy wanted to probe further but didn’t wish to push too hard. “Just what?” she asked, keeping her voice soft.

  “I thought I saw something. But it was nothing.” Grace shut the water off and leaned her hands against the sink counter.

  “What’d you think you saw?”

  Grace raised her head and eyed Amy through the mirror. A debate was obviously raging inside the young woman, leaving a full minute for Amy to wonder how it would be resolved.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Grace,” Amy said. “But if you’d like to talk, I’d be happy to listen.”

  Grace closed her eyes and inhaled. “I recognized someone from the obituaries.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amy replied. “Who was it? Someone you were close to?”

  The young woman swept her somewhat disheveled hair away from her face. “No, it was someone I never met.”

  Amy frowned. “Then, who?”

  Grace turned around and backed into the sink counter. “Someone I saw in a dream.”

  Amy hadn’t expected that response. A coworker, or friend, or even a long lost high school acquaintance, but not that. “Someone from your dreams?”

  The redhead sighed. “For seven nights in a row, I had a dream about this man standing across the street from me. I dreamed about his death and now he’s really dead and I don’t understand what’s happening to me.” Grace’s voice steadily picked up steam as she revealed this thought to Amy.

  Amy placed a reassuring hand on Grace’s shoulder, even if she didn’t know what to do with this information. Suffice to say, dreaming about someone dying was not a classic symptom of depression. But it could have been a product of some mental stress Grace had recently experienced.

  “Are you sure it’s the same person? I know my dreams are kind of foggy. I don’t think I could recognize anyone from one of my dreams unless it was a person I already knew.”

  “This dream wasn’t like that. I could still see him, even when I was awake.”

  “Maybe the person in the obituary was someone you’d seen somewhere else, and you got him crossed up.”

  Grace shook her head. “No. He was from my dream. His face is so clear to me. I even drew a picture of it.”

  “You drew a picture of it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have it with you?” Amy asked, cocking her head to the side.

  “No, it’s back in my apartment.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Now?” Grace seemed to perk up at the suggestion.

  “Well, after brunch is over. We probably shouldn’t just walk out now.” Amy smiled at Grace.

  “Oh, right.” Grace returned a partial smile of her own. “You don’t have to pretend that you believe me just because you’re dating my brother.” She looked down at the ground. “I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

  Amy sucked in her cheek. “I don’t know if I believe it, either. But I know something has you upset. And I’d like to help you if I can.”

  Grace met Amy’s gaze again and nodded.

  “Now, we better get back out there before your mom gets suspicious,” Amy said, rubbing Grace’s shoulder.

  Grace took the lead and exited the bathroom as Amy watched her leave. While Amy still didn’t understand what was going on with Grace, she was curious to see the sketch of the man from her dreams. But Amy wasn’t sure what she should root for: that the man from Grace’s dreams looked exactly like the man in the obituaries or that the entire incident was some sort of optical illusion perpetrated by a troubled mind.

  5

  Matt Harrison sat in his car outside of the Woodside Police station. Though it was Saturday, he hoped the person he wanted to see would show up at the precinct. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, a tall, lanky young man got out of a late model Toyota Corolla and made his way to the station’s front entrance. Harrison unbuckled his seat belt, opened his door, and moved to intercept the young man.

  “Justin Lansky?” he called across the lot.

  The young man turned to him. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I’m Matt Harrison, John’s brother,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh, right. John’s mentioned you before. You’re a Private Investigator, right?”

  Matt nodded in response and stepped close enough to shake Lansky’s hand. Justin Lansky was the officer who dealt with internet crimes and provided technological support, and was one of the few other cops John had mentioned before.

  “Yeah, John’s talked about you, too. You guys are friends, right?”

  Lansky shrugged. “I don’t know about ‘friends’. Work friends, I guess. But we don’t exactly hang out, or play video games together online, or join each other’s fantasy football leagues.”

  Matt chuckled. “Well, becoming John’s friend isn’t the easiest task in the world. I doubt he ever plays video games or joins anyone’s fantasy football leagues. In fact, I’m not sure the man ever has any fun.”

  Lansky nodded. “He can be kind of intense. But in a good way. John’s someone you can depend on.”

  Matt looked away across the parking lot for a moment, recalling times when John’s dependability was an unwelcome thing.

  “How is John? The chief said he went home yesterday.”

  “Yeah, he did. John seems to be doing well.”

  “Good. Any idea when he’ll be back at work?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that when he thinks he’s ready—even if everyone else tells him he should wait—he’ll be back.”

  Lansky smiled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation halted for the moment, giving the officer a chance to ponder Matt Harrison’s intentions. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Yeah; actually, I was trying to figure out what happened the night John was shot.”

  Lansky crinkled his brow. “Did you ask John?”

  “I did, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, yet.”

  “I’m sure it was pretty traumatic.”

  “So what did happen that night?”

  The young man curled his lip. “I don’t know exactly. I didn’t really help in the investigation.”

  “Who led the investigation? Last I knew, you guys didn’t have another detective, and John obviously was in no position to do it.”

  “The chief spearheaded things.”

  “Do you know if the investigation is still ongoing?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. What else would there be to investigate? Seems pretty open and shut to me. Domestic abuse call goes wrong, perp shoots Harrison, kills his brother, then kills himself.” Lansky glossed over the words he just said as though their reality was a given and all the details meshed perfectly.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, I know. I read that in the papers. But the murder-suicide angle doesn’t make sense to me. Think about it: if this guy, Mike Sullivan, was so enraged he wanted to kill his girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, why didn’t he? Why would he kill his brother, instead?”

  The question caused Lansky visible consternation. “Maybe his brother was trying to stop him, so Sullivan shot him. When he did that, he was overcome with guilt and shot himself.”

  Harrison shook his head slightly. “That still doesn’t quite work for me. I can’t imagine Sullivan would off himself before he took out the girl. She was in the house too, right?”

  “Yeah, she was.” Lansky frowned at this now incongruous detail. “Maybe it just got crazy in there. Maybe you’re trying to apply logic where logic doesn’t apply.”

  “Maybe.” Harrison glanced down at his feet. The official account of his brother’s shooting lacked coherence. Something was missing.

  “From what I heard, the forensic evidence supported the murder-suicide theory. What else do you think could have happened?” Lansky asked.

  “Haven’t figured that out, yet. I just know the story doesn’t satisfy me.” Harrison eyed Lansky. “I don’t suppose I could take a peek at the police report?”

  “I can’t do that. Sorry.” Lansky appeared apologetic, though Harrison wasn’t interested in his sympathy.

  “That’s okay, I get it. So there’s nothing else about John’s shooting that you can tell me?”

  Lansky bit his bottom lip. After a moment of internal debate, he said, “There was someone else in the house besides John, the girl, the perp, and the perp’s brother. A reporter—Felicia Monroe—was there, too. She and John have worked together before. Maybe she’ll tell you more.”

  “Worked together?” Matt raised an eyebrow.

  “Working together is probably the wrong word. She covers some of the bigger crime stories around here, like when that Pastor got shot a while back, and obviously when Dan—John’s old partner—was killed.”

  “Were Felicia and John working together when this happened?”