by Chris Dolley
“So why are we in a cupboard?”
“You’d prefer I beamed us directly into the cold storage locker?”
“No!”
“Then wait here while I clear the building. Last time I looked there was someone working in the cold storage area.”
Brian disappeared. By now Brenda’s eyes had acclimatized to the little light that was seeping in from under the cupboard door. It appeared to be some kind of janitor’s cupboard. A minute later a fire alarm sounded. Half a minute after that, Brenda heard running feet outside and snatches of conversation – two women wondering if it was a drill.
“No one said there was going to be a drill this week.”
The voices faded. No more footsteps. No Brian, either. Was he collecting Kayla’s fingerprints without her? Had he been waylaid? Was she going to have to find her own way out of the morgue?
‘You forgot: Is there a real fire?’ said Brian, beaming the thought into her head before he materialized as a grey shape next to her. And what was that smell? Pipe tobacco?
“Now you know why all the great detectives smoke a pipe,” said Brian. “Maigret, Holmes. They all had to set off a smoke detector or two in their time.”
Brenda was preparing a witty put-down when he suddenly grabbed her. A pinhole of light appeared in the center of the cupboard door. It grew and brightened, then sucked them straight through. Now they were in a corridor, flying at speed, through a wall, through desks and cupboards into another room and...
Stop. They materialized in a cool, stark room. A refrigeration unit was on one wall. A bank of twelve trays, four by three. Brenda shivered, knowing what was inside.
“Do you need me here?” she asked, hoping for a negative.
Brian swapped his pipe for a pair of white latex gloves. “I need you on look-out,” he said, snapping them on. “I think everyone left the building, but you never know.”
Brenda positioned herself to one side of the double door. She nudged the right-hand one open a crack and peered down the corridor. It looked deserted. She couldn’t hear anyone. Which was lucky, since Brian was making enough noise opening locker doors to wake the inmates. She opened the adjoining door a crack and checked the other side of the corridor. No people and no cameras.
‘Found her,’ said Brian, pushing the thought directly into her head. Brenda kept her eyes and ears firmly on the corridor, trying hard to block out the sound of a morgue tray being pulled out and whatever else Brian was about to do back there.
Seconds passed. How long did he need to press a photo against someone’s fingers?
‘I need to do it right,’ he said. ‘It’s got to look natural as though she held the picture and examined it several times. Not dabbed her fingers on the back.’
Now he becomes a perfectionist! Someone could come running along the corridor any second.
There was a sliding, grating sound as the tray was slid back into place, and a thump as the locker door latched firm. Brenda eased the swing door closed and turned.
“Where next?” she asked.
“Kayla’s apartment. But first I have to send my inner eye off to find it.”
“What? You’re leaving me here?”
“It’s quicker this way,” said Brian, his eyes already taking on that unfocused look and his head beginning to slowly track left and right. “I know her address, but don’t have a clue where the street is. So I need to find a street map and get my bearings. Much easier to do that by inner eye than dragging our bodies along in a teleportation bubble.”
“But what if someone sees us?” She checked her watch. How long would the fire truck take to get here? Did the morgue have members of staff designated to check all the floors were clear in the event of a fire?
“If anyone comes in, I’ll shapeshift us into firemen. Or corpses. Whichever you prefer.”
If anyone came through the door, Brenda wouldn’t need shapeshifting into a corpse. She’d already have fainted.
Minutes passed. The really long ones reserved for time spent desperately waiting for events outside of one’s control – the interview that was supposed to start five minutes ago, the phone call from the boy who said he’d call.
And the errant eyeball in search of a crime scene.
Outside, sirens blared louder. A fire truck pulled up. Then another. She could hear shouts and whistles and a thumping noise from downstairs. They were in the building. She could hear running feet. More shouts, doors banging.
“Can you teleport without your inner eye?” she asked, barely managing to keep her enquiry down to a whisper.
“Do you want to find out?”
Since he was blind, her Medusa look was lost on him. She was about to resort to verbal abuse when Brian’s grip on her arm tightened and the door to one of the storage trays began to warp. A funnel formed. They were being pulled towards it. Into, over and through whatever was lying on the slab – euw! – and beyond, barreling through a dizzying array of greys, whites and hints of blue until...
A room crystallized out of the blur and Brenda could breathe again.
“Is this Kayla’s? Have you got your eyes back in?”
“Yes and yes. Now, let’s find a good place to hide the picture.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Brenda looking around and trying to avoid the very large bloodstain on the carpet. “You said yourself the police will have searched the apartment. They’ll know the picture was planted.”
“Which is why we’re looking for a place they won’t have searched.”
“How will we know that?”
He didn’t answer at first. He was too busy flitting from bookshelf to CD stack – bending down, peering, carefully lifting items out and putting them back.
“By making an educated guess. Remember, this isn’t CSI. The police don’t search every inch of a crime scene unless they have to. The paper said that both bodies were found in this room. So maybe they didn’t search the others so thoroughly. Come on, let’s look.”
Brenda followed him out of the lounge along a small hallway and into the rooms at the back. From what Brenda could see, it was a small two-bedroom apartment – one large bedroom, one small bedroom, a living room, kitchen and bath. And it looked so normal. Not at all like a crime scene. Nothing was broken. Drawers were closed, and although some clothes were lying on the beds or on the floor, the scene looked natural – a snapshot of a lived-in home. Toys on the floor, magazines spread out on table tops, dishes waiting to be stacked.
“This looks promising,” said Brian.
He was standing in the doorway to the daughter’s bedroom. Pink floral wallpaper, pink curtains, dolls and furry animals. It looked like a room fit for a Disney princess. It even smelled of flowers. One of those artificial perfume dispensers was plugged into a socket in the baseboard.
Would the police have performed more than a cursory search of this room? Brenda didn’t think so. They’d have no need.
“This’ll do,” said Brian. He was standing by a shelf with a book in his hand. Chicken Little. “I’ll slip the picture inside and put it back.”
“What if someone remembers flipping through the pages?” asked Brenda.
“Then someone else’ll think they did a shoddy job of it. And photographs can stick. Plus do you really think someone stopped to flick through every page of every book in the apartment? They’d only do that if they knew there was something to find.”
Which begged the obvious question. “How are you going to ensure they search the book this time?”
“Because we’re going to convince them there’s something here they have to find. Now, do you want the crow bar or the knife?”
“You don’t do subtle, do you?” said Brenda, knife in hand, sawing at the fabric of the sofa. Her job was to slash her way into every mattress, cushion and piece of upholstery to make it look as though someone had conducted an exhaustive, and violent, search of the apartment. Not that she was going to slash any cuddly toys – there were some lines that coul
d never be crossed. And she wasn’t going to smash any framed family photos, either.
Brian had no such qualms. He was in charge of demolition – pulling back the carpet and looking for hiding places under the floorboards. Not to mention the walls and ceiling.
“It’s got to look convincing,” he said. “And we’ve got to make sufficient noise to make sure a neighbor calls the police. We want them here re-searching the apartment within the hour.”
However logical the plan, it still didn’t feel right to Brenda. They were trashing the apartment. Kayla’s husband had lost his wife and child, now he was going to come home to this!
“When you lose your wife and child, the last thing you care about is property.”
Brenda stopped what she was doing. She’d rarely heard Brian snap like that. There’d been a real edge to his voice. Was he remembering the murder of his own wife and child in Florida?
“If you must know, I was remembering a thousand years of wives and husbands having their families ripped from their sides. Even us bachelor demons can empathize. Now get slashing and make more noise. Thump about a bit.”
Brenda stomped to the next room, filling her head with plenty of la la las. That was the trouble with speculating about the true identity of a telepath. They had big ears.
Ten minutes later, Brenda heard the first siren. She wiped her kitchen knife carefully and replaced it in the kitchen drawer. Then waited an agonizing extra minute in Chelsea’s bedroom because Brian insisted they wait until the police were at the apartment door.
Next second, she was sucked through the pink floral wallpaper and blurring back to her home in Ohio.
“What now?” she asked as her living room took shape around her.
“You wait here and I’ll go back and make sure they find the picture. If all goes well, I’ll come back for you in a day or two when someone IDs Daddy.”
“And if it doesn’t go well?”
“Then we’ll think of something else. After all, we’re the psychic Mounties – we always get our man.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Brian delayed his materialization, holding the bubble of potential hanging a few feet above the carpet in Chelsea’s room while he worked out what to do next. He had to materialize. If he didn’t, he’d be powerless to do anything except watch. He wouldn’t be able to hear or pick up thoughts or transmit any of his own. And without his intervention, the picture might never be found.
But if he materialized, he’d be visible.
Could he be a cop, a crime scene technician? Could he carry that off without someone asking who he was? He had no idea how large the Syracuse police department was, or how well they knew each other. If they discovered he was an impostor, it might cast doubt on the picture.
So he made the only logical choice. He took one more spin around the room to make sure no one was about, then headed straight for the toy shelf.
And became a bear.
It was a tight fit. He’d never shapeshifted into a cuddly toy before, and wasn’t sure how small he could make himself, but he managed to get down to two feet. Which was a little larger than he’d hoped, and it meant the panda he was squiggling next to had to perform – with a little help – a forward dive off the shelf, without tuck and not too high on artistic interpretation either.
But, looking on the bright side, Brian was now within furry arm’s reach of the Chicken Little book.
All he had to do now was wait.
And wait.
The two uniformed cops who’d first responded to the call had taken one brief look around Chelsea’s room, then left. They were only interested in making sure the flat was empty. As soon as they’d satisfied themselves that the intruders had left, they called in what they’d found, secured the apartment, and left to interview the neighbors.
It was another ten minutes before the detectives arrived.
Now came the difficult part: how to insert a thought inside the head of a detective without them throwing a Joan of Arc. He wanted the Chicken Little book lifted from the shelf, not the siege of Orleans.
It didn’t help that all the initial police activity seemed centered on the living room. All Brian could hear was muted conversation and assorted noises as furniture was moved and drawers unpacked. One detective made a cursory inspection of Chelsea’s bedroom, but soon moved onto the next room. He’d been sent to do a brief assessment of the state of the apartment and report back. It was another twenty minutes before anyone else arrived.
Now there were two of them – one in his twenties, one in his forties, both male and both looking tired. It was in their faces and in their clothes. The bleary-eyed, disheveled look of people who’d been working long hours – maybe most of the night. Brian listened to their thoughts. They were confused. Yesterday, they’d had Kayla and her husband pegged as ordinary upright citizens. But now, the way the apartment had been pulled apart, it looked like someone had been searching for a stash of drugs or money. It didn’t make any sense.
Brian watched them, trying to work out which one to target. Who’d be the most susceptible? Who the least likely to freak out?
Then the younger detective stopped dead and stared at Brian.
“Bob, does that bear look funny to you?”
Bob, who was on his hands and knees peering under the bed, looked up.
“In what way?”
“His eyes seem to follow you around the room.”
Shit. Brian fought the desire to stare dead ahead and kept his eyes fixed on the younger detective. That is until the detective began to move, taking two very deliberate steps to the left. Brian made sure both eyes kept staring at the space he’d vacated.
“You’re seeing things, Matt,” said Bob, dismissing his partner’s concerns with a wave of a hand.
The young detective wasn’t giving up.
“How come the perp slashed all the mattresses and cushions, but left the bears?”
Don’t focus on the bears. Focus on the book. What you’re after’s in the book! Brian tried to nudge his suggestions into the young detective’s head, aiming at a volume just below a soft whisper. Nothing schizophrenic, no commands from God, just a friendly suggestion. This bear is not the bear you are looking for.
It didn’t work. Matt’s interest was well and truly piqued and fixed on Brian.
“Have you got a knife?” he asked his partner.
Double Shit! Matt stepped closer. Brian increased the volume of his suggestions. Forget the bear! Look at the book!
“You really want to rip open the kid’s toys?” asked Bob.
“There might be something inside.”
No, there won’t! Look at the book!
Matt didn’t look at the book. Matt showed no interest or inclination to look at the book. He was only interested in the bear. He leaned forward, mere inches away now, and stared into Brian’s eyes, stared at his nose, his stomach. Brian could hear his thoughts. He wanted to cut the bear open. He was becoming convinced there was something inside. A theory was forming in his head. Drugs. A gang had stashed a kilo of smack inside the bear. Somehow the bear had come into Chelsea’s possession. A terrible mistake. The gang had to get it back. They sent someone to fetch it, but Kayla surprised them. She had to be killed. Now the gang was back, looking for the drugs.
“Get a knife,” said Matt. “There’s something in there, I’m sure.”
No, no, no! Your logic’s all wrong. If the gang hid the smack, they’d know where it was. Check the book!
What was wrong with this detective? Brian was pushing suggestions into his head, but he wasn’t reacting. Why? He had to hear them. Okay, they weren’t pitched above a whisper. But a whisper was still a whisper. Schizophrenics had been known to kill people with less encouragement.
“You’re the boss,” said a reluctant Bob, taking his time to get up from the floor. Brian could hear the ow, ow, ow in his head as he struggled to straighten his complaining back.
Then Matt grabbed Brian by the arms and lifted him fro
m the shelf.
“He feels kinda heavy, too. I’m sure something’s inside.”
He gave Brian a shake. And a squeeze. Neither was pleasant. It was difficult enough trying to contain a five foot nine shape in a two foot tall bear without being shaken and prodded. But Brian did take the opportunity to bring his eyes back facing front. After all, some cuddly toys had eyes that could move. Why not this bear?
And on the subject of things that cuddly toys could do...
“Read me a story,” said Brian, attempting a Disneyesque bear’s voice.
Matt almost dropped the bear.
“It can talk.”
“Read me a story,” Brian repeated, wondering if he could get away with pointing a stubby paw at the Chicken Little book.
The detective examined the bear closer, turning him over and around, looking for a seam or a zip – somewhere a battery might fit. He was thinking he might not need the knife – that maybe there was a flap, or an opening he could pry apart with his hands.
Brian smoothed out his seams. He couldn’t give the detective any encouragement. And he had to divert him.
“Read me a story,” he repeated, reinforcing the words with a mental shout – forgetting about whispers – trying to implant the thought directly into Matt’s brain. Read me a story. There’s a book on the shelf.
No reaction. Not even a puzzled thought. Was Brian losing his touch? Was the detective immune, unsusceptible?
Bob returned. He had the knife. “Here,” he said, handing it over.
The situation was verging toward disaster. Brian had to do something, but what? If he knife-proofed his skin the detective would only get more suspicious. He’d call for help. Brian would become the center of attention and probably sent away for forensic analysis.
But if Brian allowed the knife to penetrate, God knows what would happen. He was having enough trouble maintaining the bear shape. It was too constricting. He was a five foot nine man stuffed inside a two-foot bearskin. If he tried to simulate a rip in the bear’s fabric he might spill out. And that would – literally – open up an entirely different can of worms.