Tuesday's Child (Book 1 of Psychic Visions, a paranormal romantic suspense)

by Dale Mayer

  The detective tilted his head back, his arms gestured widely. "Show me a body, either here or somewhere else, and I'll be happy to contact law enforcement for that area. Until then...if you don't have anything else, why don't we call it a day?" He waved in the direction of the door.

  Sam stared at the irate officer, her initial optimism long gone. The problem was, everything he'd said was true. She didn't have anything concrete to tell him. She'd hoped the description of the ring would help validate her story. Frustration fueled her irritation. Both boiled over.

  "It's because of my abilities that I know these murders occurred close-by here." Sam poked her finger toward the floor. "I'm not strong enough to pick up images from so far away. These are your cases – you just need to identify them."

  "How?" he snarled. "You've given me no physical descriptions, no names, and no location markers. How can I identify them?"

  All the fight slipped down her back and drained out her toes. She studied him for a long moment. How could she get through to him? "The first woman will be in your case files and for this morning's victim...chances are it hasn't been called in yet. I'd hoped that knowing there was more than one victim would make you take notice." She paused. "Can't you use the ring to track the killer down?" She leaned closer. "He will kill again, you know. You will remember this conversation later."

  He shrugged, his eyes darting to the open doorway. He was obviously wishing she'd disappear, preferably forever.

  Sam assessed his face and found only disbelief. Her shoulders sagged. It wasn't his fault. He'd reacted as she'd expected. Skeptical and derisive. Sam flipped her braid over her back and rose. She'd tried. There'd be no help here.

  "Fine. I don't have any proof, and I didn't think you'd believe me, but...well, I had to try."

  She straightened her back, thanked the glowering officer, and escaped into the hallway. Ahead, the front glass wall glinted with bouncing sunlight. Freedom beckoned. Her pace quickened. By the time she'd rounded the corner and caught sight of the front entrance, she'd broken into a half run.

  ***

  11:10 am

  Detective Brandt Sutherland smiled at the young rookie. "Thanks, Jennie, I appreciate this."

  Pink bloomed across her features, accenting her age, as did the ponytail high on the back of her head. Did they still wear those in school? As a new recruit, her arrival last week had caused quite a stir, her fresh innocence a joy to the department full of jaded detectives.

  "Sure, any time." She gave him a shy tilt of her lips at first, which then turned into a real grin before she hurried back to her desk. Still in the hallway, Brandt opened the file and glanced at the photos. His stomach dropped. His mood plummeted further as he checked out the other pictures in the stack. Another one. Damn it.

  A commotion down the hall caught his attention. Glancing up, he frowned. What was that? A small bundle of moving clothing and flying hair bolted toward him. Brandt jumped out of the way. His open file smashed against his chest, only to end up in her path anyway as the tiny woman dodged sideways in a last-ditch attempt to miss him.

  "Easy does it. Watch where you're going." He reached out to steady her as she stumbled. His hand never quite connected as she slipped away like thin air.

  Huge chocolate eyes, framed by long velvet lashes, flashed. "Excuse me," muttered the waif before she continued her sprint to the front door, her long braid streaming behind her.

  "Wait," he shouted, but she'd gone, leaving Brandt with an impression of soft doe eyes – evocatively large, yet filled with unfathomable pain. Brandt felt like he'd just been kicked in the stomach – or lower. Mixed impressions from those eyes, flooded his mind. Frustration. Defeat. Pleading for help, but no longer expecting to receive any. Yet, he could have sworn he sensed steel running through her spine. Somewhere along the line, life had knocked her down, but not out. Never out.

  He took several steps after her, only to watch her bolt out the front door.

  Who the hell was she? He shook his head in bemusement. Two seconds and he'd felt enough for a psychological profile. Yeah, right. Still, how could anyone have that much torment going on and still function? Staring after her, he wished she hadn't escaped quite so fast. He didn't know what she needed or why, but surely he could have helped somehow.

  His curiosity aroused, he walked into the office at the end of the hall, and studied the lone occupant. "Kevin, were you just talking to that young lady?"

  "What young lady?" Detective Kevin Bresson looked up from his keyboard, his gray eyes confused and disoriented. Reaching up, he jerked on the knot of his tie.

  "The tiny one that's all eyes."

  Kevin's brows beetled together and then comprehension hit. "Oh, the skinny one." He shook his head and grimaced. "Jesus, I'd stay away from her, if I were you."

  Brandt stared toward the front entrance, unable to forget her haunting image. Or his inclination to follow her. A compulsion he had trouble explaining even to himself. "Why?"

  "The moon must be full or close to it – the wackos are coming out of the woodwork."

  "She's nuts?" Brandt pulled back slightly, jarred by Kevin's comment. "No way."

  "Yup, crazy as a bedbug." Kevin checked his desk calendar, pointed on today's date. "Look at that. I'm right. It is a full moon tonight."

  Brandt readily admitted he didn't know much about the cosmos, still he'd have bet his last dollar there'd been sanity in those eyes. There'd also been a hint of desperation, as if she'd hit the end of her rope maybe, but at least she'd known it.

  "So what did she want?" Brandt worked to keep the interest out of his voice.

  Kevin tossed his pen down on the desk and leaned back. "She tried to tell me this crazy-ass story about waking up inside another woman while she was being murdered." Kevin snorted. "I've heard a lot of stories over the years, but that one topped my list."

  Brandt straightened, stepped closer. "She's a psychic?" He didn't quite know how he felt about that.

  Kevin shot him a disgusted frown. "If she is, she's not a very good one."

  Brandt frowned. "Why? What did she have to say?"

  "Something about a killer murdering two women. Both times, she says she witnessed the murders as they happened, from inside the dead women's bodies." Kevin shrugged as if to say People, what can you do? "Even odder, she says this killer used a different MO each time."

  That was unusual, yet not unheard of. He only had to think of the animal he was hunting. If he was right about him, this guy constantly changed his methods.

  "Did she offer any proof? Some way to identify the killer? Did she know who the women were?" At Kevin's shaking head, Brandt felt pity for the woman. He hadn't been here at this station for long and he didn’t hold a position that invited confidences – only, detectives were the same across the country. Some were good cops with limited imagination, some had too much imagination and had a hard time playing by the rules. Kevin appeared to be squarely on the side of the disbelievers and rule makers.

  Brandt, well, he'd admittedly done more rule breaking than was probably good for him. Old-fashioned detective work did the job most times, but not always. And he didn't give a damn where the help came from, as long as it came. He couldn't resist asking, "Anything concrete?"

  "Nope," Kevin answered with a superior half-smile. "I told you – lots of nothing."

  Brandt stared out the hallway teeming with people. It had to be lunchtime. "Damn." Just before walking through the doorway, he turned back one last time. "Nothing useful?"

  "Nope, nada."

  Disgusted, Brandt walked away. At least that partly explained the panic in her eyes.

  "Except the ring," Kevin called out, snickering.

  Brandt spun around. "Ring? What ring?" He walked over and put his palms on the desk. "You didn't mention a ring."

  Kevin leaned back in surprise, his hand stalled in midair. "Hey, easy. I didn't think anything she said mattered."

  "Fair enough." Grappling for patience, Brandt threw hims
elf down in the chair. "What did she say?"

  "Fine." Kevin shifted to the side and reached for his notebook. He flipped through the pages until he found what he wanted. "She didn't say much," he said, frowning at his notes. "She woke up twice 'inside' different women while they were being murdered. She sees what the women see and when they die, she snaps back into her own body."

  Brandt frowned, puzzled. "Odd ability to have. Where does the ring fit in?"

  "She said that when staring out of the women's eyes..." Kevin rolled his eyes at that. "She couldn't see much of the attacker because he wore a full ski mask, like a balaclava. You know the ones with only eye holes and a mouth hole. She remembers his eyes being black and dead looking. And..." he paused for effect.

  Brandt glared at him in annoyance. "Come on…come on. Stop the melodrama."

  "Jeez, you're a pain in the ass today. What gives?"

  Brandt rolled his eyes. Camaraderie was slowly developing with Kevin. Brandt had joined the East Precinct four weeks ago, but on a temporary basis. His boss had arranged for Brandt to have an office and access to all files, current and cold, as he searched for information on a potential serial killer, before heading up a task force if his findings warranted one.

  He'd come into contact with this killer years ago and had run him to ground in Portland a year ago. Then nothing. A year. He couldn't believe they still didn't have a lead. This killer had become his nemesis. His Waterloo.

  Most of the guys here had accepted him. It would take time to develop more than that. Time he didn't have.

  "Fine then." Quirking one eyebrow, Kevin continued to read. "She mentioned seeing a ring during the one murder, and then she thought she recognized it again during the second one," he said in an exaggerated voice.

  "Did she describe it?"

  Kevin nodded and glanced down at his notes. "Some sort of four-leaf-clover pattern with a diamond in each of the leaves. A snake, or something similar, coils between them. According to her, one of the stones was missing."

  Brandt sharpened his gaze. "Color? Size? Gold? Silver?"

  Kevin searched again through his notes and shook his head. Casting an eye at Brandt, he said, "She didn't say and...honestly, I didn't ask. I thought she was off her rocker." He scrunched his shoulder. "Jesus, her cases aren't even related, yet she says it 'feels' like the same killer. Something about having the same energy signature. Whatever the hell that means." He dropped his gaze, a frown furrowing his brow as he doodled on the corner of his notepad. "I gather you're not dismissing her story?"

  Brandt considered that. He'd used psychics before. In fact, he'd been friends with Stefan Kronos for a long time. The reclusive psychic was a difficult person to get close to. And even more difficult to be close with. The man was painfully honest. Brandt knew what valuable information they could give, but also knew using them could be a crapshoot.

  "I don't know what to think. The changing MO thing is unusual, but it happens. That's why I'm here, after all. Still, if she had concrete information, it would have been easy enough to check out against our cases. But she didn't though, did she?"

  Kevin shook his head. "Not really. The last murder happened this morning, which could mean that we haven't found the victim yet, or it happened in a different country and we'll never hear anything about her. Oh yeah, this morning's victim had a tiled ceiling with deep crown moldings and frilly pink bedding. That is, if any of this can be counted on." He waited a heartbeat. "Here. Go for it. I'll log it in, but you can have this." He ripped off several pages from his notebook. "Personally, I think it's all bullshit."

  Brandt half nodded and walked back to his office. Bullshit or not, he'd still check it out.

  An hour later, Brandt slumped back in his computer chair, stumped. Killers were normally predictable in their methods. They stayed with what worked and few killers changed that. Those that did had been in business for a long time. They'd evolved. This made them incredibly difficult to hunt – as he well knew.

  He checked Kevin's notes again. With only a comment or two on the women's hair and the way they'd died – it would be hard to identify the victims. He had too many possibles to sort through. In a busy metropolis like Portland, murder was an everyday affair.

  Speaking into empty air, he said, "This is ridiculous. I need details, damn it."

  He needed a time frame or details of the victims themselves. How could Kevin not have asked for more? Not that he could blame Kevin. The city was overrun with nutcases. Who could tell them from the normal people these days?

  He scratched down a couple more questions before returning to his screen. This particular nut had a name – Samantha Blair. He tried to fit the name to the image of the skinny, panicked woman from the hallway.

  Back at his screen, he brought up all the information the database had to offer, which was scant at best. She was twenty-eight years old with no priors, no outstanding warrants, and no tickets or parking violations.

  The phone rang, interrupting his search.

  "Hello."

  "Hi, sweetie. How are you today?"

  Brandt leaned back with a grimace. "Mom, I'm fine. I told you yesterday, the headache was gone when I got home. Nothing to worry about."

  "Yes, dear. I just wanted to call and make sure you're feeling better."

  "I am. How are you? Are you ready to leave that place yet?" Brandt pivoted in his chair to stare out the window. The sun had managed to streak through a few of the gray rain clouds, lighting the sky with colored swaths.

  His mom should be sitting out on her little deck in the assisted living center a few miles out of town. She'd been happy there – too happy. This was supposed to be a temporary situation. Somehow, every time he mentioned her leaving, her lung condition or diabetes acted up or she came up with some other excuse to stay a little longer. The center didn't mind. They were in the process of adding a new wing to accommodate more seniors. His mom had money and paid her way. It was to be closer to her that he'd requested the switch in location to this particular station.

  "I'm not that good. My hip has mostly healed, but it still feels weak." She sniffled slightly.

  Brandt grinned. What her hip had to do with a fake cold was anyone's guess, still she pulled out a sniffle every time.

  Her voice almost back to normal, she asked, "Do you have time for lunch today?"

  "No. Today's not good."

  "Oh dear. Well, how about tomorrow then?"

  "Mom, I'd love to if it's just the two of us. No more prospective girlfriends, okay?"

  "Now honey, I wouldn't do that. You explained how you felt about my 'interfering,' as you called it. But, still," the raspy voice dropped to a sad whisper, "I do want to see you settled before I die."

  "Oh, hell," Brandt muttered. The sweet long-suffering tones somehow managed to convey lost hopes and dire endings soon to come. "Mom, you aren't dying. And I am in the hands of a good woman. Many good women in fact." Her shocked gasp made him grin.

  "Don't say that. You need a wife, not those...those," she spluttered.

  He couldn't help but chuckle at her outrage. She deserved it for her constant interfering in his private life. Her persistence came closer to smothering than loving.

  Brandt groaned under his breath. He straightened, stretching his back. "Enough about my girlfriends. Mom is there anything else you need to say, because I've got work to do."

  "No, I'll save it for lunch tomorrow at the Rock Cafe. Be there at one o'clock like you promised."

  Brandt's chair snapped forward, his feet hitting the floor hard. "What? What's this?" She'd hung up on him. "Damn it."

  Irritated, he stared at the phone in his hand. His mother's machinations were legendary, and though he hated being outmaneuvered, he shook his head as he replaced the phone in its cradle. It was his fault. He'd been letting her get away with this for thirty-four years, so there'd be no changing the status quo now.

  Good humor restored, he turned back to his computer screen. According to Kevin, Samantha liv
ed in the nearby community of Parksville where she worked at a local vet's office part-time. The sparse facts didn't begin to explain the haunted weariness that had so touched him. He'd seen a similar look in the families of victims and those at the bottom of their world.

  He forced his attention back to Kevin's notes. It appeared Samantha had said something about both women having long hair. The one from several months ago had been a blonde who'd been strangled. So, how many unsolved cases could he find with long-haired murdered victims?

  His fingers flew across the keyboard. Three cases listed for the last year. One of them flagged as possible prey of the Bastard, the serial killer he'd followed to Portland. A killer that had been active for decades, possibly all over the States, with no one connecting the dots – until Brandt.