The Mind’s Eye

by Perry Prete

"It's nothing serious. It seems she was at a party last night, one of the guests was killed after she left the party and we are interviewing all the people who attended. Trying to get as much information as we can. That's all."

  Simone thought about all the people she knew at the party and wondered who the person was that died. She mentally ran through all her friends she knew at the party, those who had posted messages on social media, couldn't recall anyone mentioning anyone missing or being hurt and felt a sense of relief that it wasn't any of her friends. Then, she had a wave of guilt sweep over her as she realized she was glad a stranger had died. She cleared her mind, "Sorry, please come in." She stepped aside and let the two men enter, "I was at the party too, Simone James," she introduced herself.

  As they walked past, one of the detectives acknowledged her, "Yes, thank you. We know who you are."

  Simone closed the door, offered the two men a seat, and called out for Nicole. From the kitchen, Nicole walked out and stopped short when she saw the guests. Simone was shocked at the transformation in her friend. Nicole looked as if she had just returned from a day at the spa, her skin looked refreshed, her color had returned, and the dark circles under her eyes had completely disappeared. She smiled at the two seated men, extended her hand, one of the men stood to shake her hand, "Hi." Nicole's voice was pleasant, showing no sign of stress. She sat down facing the two men, crossed her legs, "So, how can I help you two?"

  Her casual demeanor didn't affect the two officers who, at this point in their respective careers, knew that a pretty woman with a good attitude usually had something to hide. Only vain or rookie cops would overlook a woman because of her looks. Nicole sat back and waited for their response. Dan flipped his notebook to the elastic band that separated the pages.

  He scanned his notes, "Last night Mrs. Blake..." He was cut short. "Ms. Blake. I'm not married."

  "My mistake." Dan cleared his throat, "Last night, I understand you were at a house party." He looked up to see her reaction. Nicole remained silent. "And you were there with?"

  Nicole motioned to her friend, "Simone. And her boyfriend."

  Dan continued, "I heard you're pretty good at some party trick. You read cards or something and tell people's fortunes." He was purposely providing false information.

  Nicole laughed, "No. I don't read Tarot Cards or tea leaves, I look at photos and make up stories about them. It's more of an observational skill." She remembered what Simone had told her to say.

  Dan scribbled some notes, nodded his head, "And how do you make those observations? Can you show me?"

  "It's just a parlour trick."

  "A party trick huh?" Dan's voice became sterner, "Some of the people we spoke with told us that you were pretty spot on. I think the term they used was," he pretended again to refer to his notes, "spooky. Spooky is the exact term they used." Nicole remained silent, unmoving. Dan decided to try a different approach. He pulled a photo from his notepad of the dead girl, Abigail Schneider, looked at it then handed it to Nicole, "Do you recognize this person?"

  Nicole hesitantly took the photo and gasped when she saw the image she held. She jerked backwards, her mind filled with images of the dead girl. Events before and after the image were taken spun inside her mind like a whirlwind and made Nicole dizzy. She blinked trying to stop the images from passing before her. Pain flooded her body like a lightning strike. The photo of Abigail slipped through her fingers to the floor, and Nicole slumped backwards in the chair.

  "Out!" Simone screamed at the two detectives. "Get out of my house." She rushed to Nicole's side and held her up. "She's having a seizure."

  "Can we help?"

  "Yeah. Get the fuck outta my house." Simone pointed at the door and didn't take her eyes off them until Dan and Ken closed the door. Simone turned her attention back to Nicole who was already starting to come around. Nicole's eyes were already red, tears rolling down her cheeks. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  "I know why," pause, deep breath, "I was in pain last night," she said between sobs.

  Simone sat down beside Nicole and held her hand tightly. "You saw what happened?" she asked.

  Nicole was crying uncontrollably, panting, barely able to catch her breath. She rubbed her chest and knees then straightened herself up in the chair. "I saw the girl last night at the party. Remember the girl who was having an affair? She was the one. The connection must have stuck with me after she left. I felt her last night when she was murdered." She cleared her throat, "You wanna know what happened?"

  "Every last detail."

  Nicole asked if the detectives left the picture of Abigail. Simone retrieved it from the floor beside the chair and handed it to her. This time Nicole was ready for the gruesome images and the pain that cascaded before her. She closed her eyes and let the event flow in her mind's eye and recounted them to her friend. Nicole even saw the autopsy being performed and then Abigail lying on her back, being pushed into the refrigerated chamber and the cold, stainless steel door slam shut behind her. Then everything went black.

  "You saw the guy who killed Abigail?"

  "I saw what Abigail saw which wasn't much. But, I felt everything. And, that's something I wouldn't wish on anyone. It was torture. She saw a figure, male, in the bedroom. It all happened in the bedroom. I know why she was killed. She was dying of cancer. I felt the cancer inside me, burning my chest and the guy killed her because he didn't know she was sick until he was in the house. I missed the cancer last night. Not sure why but I did."

  "Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the image you saw last night." Nicole nodded in agreement. "But the autopsy was painful. For both of us."

  "How the fuck did you see the autopsy?"

  "I don't know. This "power" I've got didn't exactly come with an operator's manual. I even felt the pain she went through during the autopsy.

  I felt the scalpel cut her skin and the rib bones being broken. That's why I was feeling like shit. I was feeling her pain."

  Confused, Simone asked, "But she was dead."

  "I don't know. I mean do we know what happens when someone dies?

  Maybe there is truth to what people say about another plane of existence. The body may be dead but the essence of who we are remains behind. I hope the pain was imagined; I can't fathom for the life of me going through that pain again after I die." Nicole placed the photo of Abigail on the coffee table. "You think we should call them and tell them what happened?"

  "And tell them what? You see things that no one else can?" Simone argued. "What if they do test on you and feel more pain like you did with Abigail?"

  "I'm not a freak," Nicole yelled back, "I'm not an animal to be studied and dissected."

  "I'm not saying you're a freak. You're unique, and my friend and I love you and I don't want you getting hurt."

  "I never should've started showing off. Maybe it's time I stop. What do ya think?"

  Simone had a change of heart, "I agree you should stop, but I have one question for you. You had a connection to this Abigail girl, can you not get involved now? I mean, you felt what she felt, experienced what she went through. No one else can say that. Don't you wanna help?" Simone grabbed the coffee table, sat on the edge and looking into her friend's eyes, "Do you want the son of a bitch to get away with this?"

  "I never thought of that. But I'm scared."

  Simone reached forward and gave her friend a hug. "I'm not going anywhere, in fact, maybe we should take a few precautions before we go to the cops. What do you think?"

  "What've you got in mind?"

  "Just a few things to make sure you're OK."

  *****

  "Was she faking it?" Paul Hammond asked the two detectives when they briefed him on the interview they had with Nicole and Simone. The three of them stood, leaning against the office partitions, their usual way to talk over a case. Paul sipped a cold cup of coffee that he poured hours earlier. The sounds of the office went about behind them. They had become adept at filt
ering out noise when they worked.

  "Honestly," Ken looked at Dan, "it's kinda hard to say, but I think this thing she has is not a party trick or voodoo or anything like that. I think it's legit." Dan nodded in agreement.

  "We spoke to over a dozen people who told us that this Nicole girl was hitting all the guess' outta the ballpark. They didn't think anything of it until we asked if there was any way she could've known some of the stuff she spoke of. I mean even if you're observant, you can pick up some random stuff from the pictures and the people in 'em, but not like this."

  "And that stroke thing?" Paul inquired.

  "Seizure," Ken corrected him, "it looked real. If it was fake, she deserves a fucking Oscar. We weren't there long, but I got the impression that she knows more than she's willing to tell. I think she's scared about something."

  "Any idea what she could be scared of?"

  "She knows the guy who did it. Or why he did it. Or why the vic was singled out. Something we don't know yet, of that I'm certain."

  Dan cut in and changed the topic, "Anything from the autopsy?"

  Paul shook his head side to side. "It's gonna be some time before we get toxicology and lab results back. So, you guys think we should bring this girl in for a second talk?"

  Ken looked at Dan, "I say we should. It can't hurt."

  Paul flipped back his shirt cuff, looked at his watch, it was after nine, and he still hadn't had dinner. "You know what guys, it's been a long day. Let's see about bringing her in tomorrow." Ken and Dan agreed, turned and went back to their desks.

  Paul fell into his chair, exhausted, ran his fingers through his hair, and took in a deep breath. He picked up his phone from the desk, dialed her number and as his thumb hovered over the button to connect the call, hesitated then discarded the call. Frustrated, he tossed the phone to the end of his desk, knocking over his coffee cup. The contents spilt over a few pages from a file he didn't care about or even worry about. He watched as the dark liquid flowed across his desk to the edge and onto the carpet below.

  "You not cleaning that up?" a familiar voice from behind.

  "Hadn't planned on it," Paul righted the cup, "until I got caught." He chuckled.

  The man behind Paul pulled a chair from the adjoining desk and sat down facing him. He sat backwards on the chair, straddling it and rested his crossed arms on the top of the back section. It was the Captain's preferred way to sit when having a one-on-one with another detective. "Your progress reports don't offer much. Stuck?"

  "Do you believe in weird shit?" Paul wiped the coffee from his phone and pocketed it. "I mean shit like Mulder and Scully, weird shit."

  The Captain didn't laugh or smile but rather kept a stern look, "How long you been here?"

  "Going on twelve years."

  "I've been here thirty-two years, twenty-three as a detective, the last seven, no eight, as head of detectives. I've seen things that people do, to themselves, to others, things that defy logic or reason. I once investigated a scene where a car barreled through a crowd on a sidewalk, hit and killed a couple of people and in the middle of it all, leave a table untouched with the coffee cups and scones left unscathed on it. It was like the people paid their bill and just left. Except that couple sitting at that table were killed. If they had been on one side of the table instead of the other, they would've lived. Instead, they died, and their coffee cups didn't spill a drop.

  I was on the force less than a year when that happened. It weirds me out to think of stuff like that, but whether it's religion or shit luck, it happens." "Mine's not a physics lesson, I've got a girl who can see things. Like crystal ball things."

  The Captain remained silent, "And? You want my advice?"

  Paul didn't answer but waited for his Captain to continue. "Who gives a shit? If she helps your investigation, use her, find out what she knows. Take the information and use it to build your case. Think of it as an anonymous tip. Who gives a flying rats ass where the leads come from as long as you use the evidence and put the bad guy away. In all my years, I've found that investigative work is ten percent hard luck, ten percent bullshit and eighty percent dumb luck. Use your skill, follow up on the bullshit and don't discount the luck when it stares you in the face. You know what I mean?"

  "I do. It helps."

  "Clean up that mess. And call her." "Excuse me?"

  "A rational man only acts like an idiot when a woman is involved. And I've watched you act like a fool for months. Do me a favour before you destroy my squad room, call her."

  The Captain stood as if dismounting a horse, replaced the chair and walked away without saying another word.

  Paul picked up his cell phone, wiped the coffee from the screen then patted the carpet dry. It left a slightly darker stain that Paul thought added a bit to the room.

  It was late when Paul found himself back home. He put the two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. The milk, vegetables and cheese went into the fridge; the frozen dinners went into the freezer. He dropped the grease-stained box that held the fresh Hawaiian pizza with extra pineapple and ham onto the top of the stove and went to the bedroom to change. His tie was tossed over the back of the chair, the shirt, khakis and socks went into the wash. He donned his college T-shirt and grey sweats, cracked open a beer and pulled a slice of pizza from the box and sat in front the television. His cell phone sat on the coffee table in front of him, and every few moments, he would glance down at it, unsure if he should make that call his Captain tried to persuade him to do.

  Instead, he caught Die Hard with Bruce Willis about halfway in, waiting for Hans Gruber to fall from the building. Throughout the entire movie, he hoped that she would make the call. It was the same wish he had for months. Paul wasn't sure why he couldn't do it, was he scared of what she might say, or what he would say.

  Hans Gruber fell from the building. Still no call. Half the pizza was gone, two beer bottles emptied. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would call. Paul fell asleep on the couch.

  *****

  He cut the meat into large chunks from the long bones with the skill of a butcher and tossed everything into an old blue recycling box. All the bones were bagged and frozen for future use. A few large ones were thrown in the backyard for the dogs to chew on between meals. The raw bones would be broken down and eaten by the powerful shepherd jaws.

  As he cut the meat from the host, the blade scraped against the bone, tendon, ligament and flesh were sliced away. He inhaled deeply, smelling the raw meat. As the red meat was separated from bone, it emitted colored waves like steam coming off a pot of boiling water. He knew what the vapor colors meant, the brighter the colored waves, the better the meat. If the color of the waves were dark, he was certain the meat was tainted or diseased and needed to be disposed of. He would never feed his dogs meat that gave off dark colored vapors. He separated the various colored meat parts from one another and would blend the red colored meat cuttings in the garage with an antique silver grinder he bought at a thrift store. He was drawn to the ornate metalwork of the grinder when he first saw it, the large opening that would accept large chunks of meat and the oversized handle that he would need to crank and mince up the meat for the raw diet to keep the dogs healthy. His electric grinder would bind if he placed too much into it at once. The electric motor was too weak to handle the workload and was more difficult to clean. He clamped his new thrift store purchase to the work bench to keep it from shifting as he struggled with the handle to grind the fat, eggs, meat and skin to feed his two German Shepherds. Both dogs jostled for position in the garage as he worked to prepare their food, playfully turning around against each other trying to push the other further away.

  Blood and tiny particles of raw meat would often spray from the grinder as the blades cut through the fresh meat and drop the blended mixture into the white bucket below. The two dogs would lick the blood from the concrete floor and any stray particle of food that didn't find its way into the bucket. The contents of the bucket would then be separated in
to smaller plastic containers that each held about one pound of the food, then frozen until needed. He fed each to his two dogs, a one-pound block twice a day. He counted fifteen one-pound cubes when he was done.

  He looked at the two dogs who brought so much joy to his life. The look in their eyes showed their devotion to him. Instead of freezing the two human hands that were cut from the arm at the wrist, he walked to the backyard and ordered the two dogs to sit. He tossed the appendages into the darkness, and they sat silently until he gave the command for his dogs to leave his side and find their chew toy for the night.

  The dark colored portions of flesh or limbs were discarded before they contaminated the rest of the meat he carved from the cadaver.

  He knew he didn't have much raw meat left for the dogs and knew he would need more raw food within a week.

  April 24

  Before her first coffee break, Nicole was pulled into a private office at work. She had been told little except that a few men wanted to speak with her. After the visit, she had the previous day, Nicole suspected she knew whom they were and why they wanted to talk to her. She texted Simone before leaving her desk letting her know what was happening, "called to the "bored" room??" She walked slowly to the boardroom, head down, she shuffled her feet as she walked. As Nicole sat in the office alone, worried, waiting to know for certain who wanted to see her, she fumbled with her phone, anticipating Simone's reply.

  The office door opened, three men walked in, detectives, two she recognized, one she didn't. The one she hadn't met the day before wore running shoes with a suit. Her eyes locked onto his as she watched him sit directly across from her. Paul focused on the girl sitting across the table and felt something rumble in his stomach, nausea, hunger; he wasn't sure. Paul suddenly felt flush, pulled his gaze away from her and pulled out a notepad and digital voice recorder then casually stole another peek again.

  Running shoes with a suit. "A rebel," she thought, inside she smiled and put her phone away. She wasn't worried anymore.

  A fourth person walked in, Nicole's supervisor, pulled out a chair and sat beside her employee. "I hope you understand we are doing this as a favour. If at any point, I feel this is going too far, I'll pull the plug and ask you to leave."