by Perry Prete
Paul spoke first, "First of all, Ms. Blake, you aren't a suspect, a person of interest or anything. We are interviewing everyone who had any contact with the deceased the night she was," Paul paused, attempted to come up with a less aggressive term, failing to find any, he took a deep breath, "murdered." He tapped the recorder, "We want to record this conversation if that's OK?" Nicole and her supervisor nodded, Paul jotted some notes in his pad then began, "Today is April 24. My name is Detective Paul Hammond, here with me are Detectives Dan Levy and Ken Simmons." He pushed the recorder closer to the far end of the table toward Nicole and motioned for her to give her name.
"Nicole Blake." She looked directly at Paul. His face was now flush, and his forehead began to glow with perspiration.
Her supervisor spoke next, "Theresa Templeton."
Nicole touched Theresa's hand, "It's OK. I know you're busy and I'm fine. Really." She stressed the "really".
"I'll be in the next office if you need me." Theresa stood, the metal chair scraped across the tile floor echoing a grating sound in the small room.
Nicole watched the door close, then turned to face Paul, "I know why you're here. Can you shut down the recorder please?" A sense of calm passed over her. Nicole not only felt at ease but also instinctively trusted the man sitting across from her. She watched as tiny beads of sweat rolled down the officer's forehead, one drop made its way into Paul's eye, causing him blink uncontrollably. He rubbed his eye, held it shut for a few moments, attempting to rinse the salty solution from his eye but it only made things worse. Nicole pulled a fresh Kleenex from her purse and handed it to him.
"Thanks." Paul padded the tear duct and pocketed the tissue. He turned off the recorder.
"Do you have something personal, a picture?" she asked. "I'll show you."
Paul touched his chest, "Me?" he questioned.
Nicole held out a hand, palm up on the table, curling her fingers, waiting for Paul for oblige. Ken and Dan remained silent, watching the two.
While Paul fumbled with his wallet, Nicole turned her attention to Dan and Ken, "No notes either." They turned to Paul who agreed to Nicole's terms. Paul pulled a picture from his wallet, looked at it then slide it across the table, face side down.
"This one?" she asked before touching. Paul nodded.
Nicole turned the picture over, closed her eyes allowing the still photos to appear slowly in some region of her brain then it turned into a flood of moving images, sweeping through her. She jerked softly to one side, then back the other way. The three detectives instinctively wanted to go to her aid when they saw Nicole's movements anticipating she would have another seizure, but held back. The jerking movements began to subside; her head dropped then Nicole ceased her involuntary movements, took in a deep breath, opened her eyes and placed the photo back down on the table face down, "Why haven't you called her?" her voice was subdued, calm.
Paul sat back in his chair, amazed at the events that just transpired before him. He wanted to say something, anything that related to what just happened, but was lost for words. He pulled his hair back, feeling the dampness across his forehead. Nicole sat across from him, unmoving, her hand still covering the photo but no longer looking at it then pushed it across the table to Paul. He reached for his picture, flipped it over, looked at her face then carefully placed it back in his wallet.
"How do you... What can... There must be some sort of..." Paul squinted, refocused his gaze upon Nicole, "How?"
She shrugged her shoulders, smiled at the three men sitting across from her. "A cool parlour trick."
A knock at the door interrupted Nicole from continuing. The door squeaked open slowly, a head appeared, "You OK honey?"
"Can Simone come in?" Nicole asked of the three men.
Before they could respond, Simone took the seat vacated by Theresa.
She reached for Nicole's hand, "They treating you alright?" Nicole smiled back and nodded.
Paul flipped open his notebook and clicked his pen, "You OK to talk now?"
"I'm all right."
Simone held up her hand and burned her gaze into Paul, "Before we go any further, my brother is a lawyer, and I told him about Nicole's gift. If anything happens to her, he'll have a lawsuit rammed so far up your ass that you'll need a surgeon to remove it."
Nicole chuckled, "It's OK, I think we have an understanding here. Don't we?" She scanned the three men sitting across from her. They looked at each other; Paul replied, "I believe we do." Simone settled back in her chair.
"Now, can you tell us about what happened to our vic?"
Nicole looked at the notebook still on the table; Paul stuffed it in his suit jacket pocket, then she told the detectives what she saw through Abigail's eyes. Paul, Ken and Dan sat across the table, fixated on what Nicole was saying. When she finished, the three men sat back in their chairs, stunned by what they had just heard. Was it truth, some tale of fantasy made up by the mind of a woman seeking attention or the vivid imagination of a sick mind? Whatever it was, details about the case that was never made public was just revealed in detail and new clues provided.
Paul looked across the table at Nicole, admiring this woman he just met, not only because of her ability but he was inexplicably drawn to her. With her right index finger, Nicole pulled her thick, short black hair around her ear revealing her smooth skin. Her bangs swept across her forehead in a gentle wave from left to right. Paul hadn't noticed a light hint of color streaks in her hair until now. Nicole looked back at Paul who had to force himself to pull away from staring at her. He retrieved his cell phone pretending to check his email. When Paul looked back up from his cell, she was grinning.
Sensing the tension, Dan broke the silence, "Is there anything else you can tell us?"
Nicole shook her head side to side, her bangs falling across her eyes, "This isn't something I can control. I'm just learning what is it and what it does? I'm not even sure why I was given this," she paused, "talent, gift, whatever. I just know it's scary."
Paul pulled himself together, "When did this talent of yours start?" He laced his fingers together and placed his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned in closer.
"Not long ago. It was something that just sorta turned on, like a switch. As time goes on, I'm getting a little more control over it. Just a little." She held her index and thumb close together to emphasize the amount of control she had. "Right now, it's more scary than anything else. Things pop into my head, images, scenes, people, colors I don't even know, somehow they get in here," she tapped the side of her head. "If this thing I have left tomorrow, it wouldn't bother me in the least."
"You're sure. No bump on the head, no tumor, no evil spell cast upon you, this thing just turned on one day?" Dan asked.
Nicole nodded in agreement, remaining silent, sensing some sarcasm in the way the question was posed.
There was an uncomfortable pause as everyone around the table remained silent. Simone looked at the three men on the other side of the conference table. "Well, if that's all gentlemen, I suggest we all get back to work." She pushed her chair back and stood.
"If we have any more questions Ms. Blake, can I, we, contact you?" Paul smiled coyly.
"Leave me your card, and if you have any more photos for me to look at, I'll see if I can help." Nicole stood, "I assume that this conversation is confidential. Nothing about my ability will somehow leak out to the press or the freak show?"
Dan spoke first, "I can speak for the all of us," he gestured to Paul and Ken, "anything regarding this investigation will remain, and must be kept confidential."
"If anything does get out, it could compromise our investigation. Nothing gets out," Ken offered.
The five of them gathered at the office door, hands extended and shook, smiles exchanged, confidentially re-assured. Paul and Nicole were the last two in the room; he offered his hand, she held it firmly and didn't let go. What should've been an uncomfortably long stare was anything but.
Nicole broke the silenc
e, "You really should call her."
"Who? Oh, the picture. Right. Yeah. I'll get right on that." Paul slowly loosened his grip but didn't take his eyes off her. "Again, this stays in this room."
Nicole lowered her head, embarrassed. Her fingers slowly slipped away from Paul's.
As the three police officers walked out of the building, into the sunshine and down the front steps, Ken squinted his eyes, pulled out his sunglasses and asked Paul, "Call who?"
"No one. Forget about it." Paul stopped at the bottom of the stairs, as Ken and Dan walked to the SUV, turned, looked back into the building. He too pulled out his sunglasses and caught up to the other two in the parking lot. Paul climbed into the back seat, pulled the seatbelt over his shoulder and fastened it.
Paul remained silent during the ride back to the station, his mind shifting between Nicole, the case and the photo in his wallet. He rested his elbow on the armrest, cupped his chin in his hand and gazed out the window as the cityscape blurred past without Paul seeing any of it. Paul heard Ken and Dan talking, about what, he didn't care, his thoughts were off in the stratosphere, unable to plant his feet on the ground and come back to reality. None of his thoughts seemed to last much more than a few seconds then he would jump to another subject. His shifted in the back seat, looked at Ken and Dan chatting then let his mind drift again. Paul realized he had been doing a lot of daydreaming lately. Was it daydreaming or just getting old and unable to focus? He chuckled at himself. Ken turned to see what Paul was laughing at. Failing to notice Ken watching him, Paul continued to look out the window. "Hey," Ken spoke softly to Dan and motioned for him to look at Paul.
Dan turned to look at Paul then his attention went back to the road, "He's under a lot of stress. Let him be."
*****
Nicole went back to her desk, fell hard into her chair and wondered about the three men who just left the building. She wondered if showing them her new skill was a mistake. Had she inadvertently put herself in danger? She shook the idea from her head and decided to do a little investigating of her own.
She looked at the blank laptop screen, wondered if there were any other people in the world with this ability she had. After powering up the computer, she Googled "Psychic Abilities", over two million hits. Nicole typed "Moving Images Psychic Abilities", again, more than two million hits.
"One more try," she thought. "Type of Psychic Abilities" was typed in the search bar, almost three million hits.
Nicole spent the next thirty minutes reviewing the websites that were listed on the search. Regardless of which site she visited, none of them listed her unique abilities. She thought for certain; someone else would have the same talent to see the events unfold in a still picture. "Talent. Or curse," she thought. Nicole continued to search but failed to find any mention of anyone in the past who make any mention of the same skill set. Many of the sites described charlatans and fakes who charged for their act or conned people out of money with some slight of hand trick or mind game. Nicole didn't play mind games and wasn't good at magic or deceiving people. She wondered how people could take advantage of others.
Nicole continued her search, occasionally looking over the top of the screen to see if her supervisor would stop by and catch her. Her search still failed to locate anyone with her unique abilities. It didn't mean there wasn't anyone, just no one listed on the internet. "No one on the internet," she said aloud, "Really. How is that possible?" She pushed the chair away from her desk, letting out a deep sigh of frustration.
As Nicole sat there, her thoughts went back to the three men, the one in particular. She could still see his picture she held briefly, moving about as if it would be a video on a cell phone. She wondered about the man who handed her the picture. She knew the history behind the image. Nicole saw what happened between them. It was emotional, intense and very private. Why he chose that picture, she wasn't sure. Maybe Paul thought her skills were nothing more than a party trick, exactly as she was trying to impress upon others.
Nicole adjusted herself in the chair as she scrolled down the list of hits. She wasn't paying attention to the information on her screen as it rolled by, too fast to even read. Her mind continually drifted back to Detective Hammond.
April 29
It was just after midnight and Paul sat on the sofa, wearing mismatched socks, oversized boxer shorts and an old band T-shirt from his college days that barely fit. The photo that Paul always kept with him sat on the corner of his glass top coffee table. Not far from the picture, an open bottle of beer dripped with condensation, forming a thick water ring around the base. He had full intentions of the drinking the beer, but in the past few days, the taste and smell of beer disagreed with him. Instead, he stared at the photo, letting the beer get warm. With eyes closed, his head fell back over the top of the couch. Paul ran his hands through his thinning hair. He looked at his hand and found a few strands stuck between his fingers. He laughed at himself. In his younger days, Paul had a full head of thick dark wavy hair that he felt was his best asset. Paul's father kept his hair until the day he passed away. Paul had hoped he would be just as lucky as his father but in his thirties, his hair began to thin on top. Paul felt embarrassed that he started using Rogaine to keep what hair he had left.
Paul picked up the bottle and rolled it across his forehead. The condensation on the bottle dripped freely from his hand and left dark spots on his faded black T-shirt. He brushed off some of the water from his chest and specks of ink from the decades-old "Cheap Trick" logo broke free. "Damn." Yet another thing from his past that would soon disappear as well. He took a deep breath and blew the specks of ink and hairs from his hand. He placed the bottle back on the table and sat and watched the condensation form on the sides of the bottle again and painstakingly slow, roll down the glass to the table. As the water ring grew larger, Paul watched as it crept slowly towards the photo less than an inch away. Paul reached forward and with his index finger, pulled his treasured photo further away from the bottle of beer.
"I'm a dinosaur," he thought to himself, as he wore a decade's old T-shirt, had thinning hair, still watched a twenty-year-old CRT TV that sat in the corner of his living room and failed to embrace technology. The "It still works" justification prevented him from a purchasing a new LED TV. His most treasured possession was an old photograph taken with a camera that used film and developed the old fashion way. The corners had repeatedly been bent and broke off, the emulsion was cracked, and the image had begun to fade. He would be lost without it, and yet almost every day, he considered taking the photo down to the IT people at the police station and have them scan it, but he kept forgetting. Forgetting or too embarrassed?
From where he sat, he stared at the photo, letting his mind wander about the person smiling back at him. Feelings of guilt, despair ran through him as he tried to convince himself that she still wanted to speak with him.
He hadn't returned her call. Paul knew he should call. He retrieved his cell phone, dialed her number then his thumb hovered over the green "Call" button. He had second thoughts about calling this late at night, put the phone back on the coffee table beside the photo and stared at the two items side by side. For the first time, Paul noticed that the profile on his phone had the blue outline of a person's head on the phone. Maybe if he had the photo scanned he could add her face on his phone.
Paul placed the heel of both hands over his eyes, rubbed hard to prevent the tears from forming then the recurring thought entered his mind again. He wanted all of this to be over. He hated the feelings that kept creeping into his mind whenever he thought about the photograph or the person in it. Rage built up deep inside, and he needed a way to let it all out.
"Fuck," he screamed. Paul left his handgun secured in his locker at the station.
*****
Carl Kadner liked working nights. The offices were almost always deserted, save for the cleaning staff, and after the night cleaner left, the silence was deafening, precisely the way he liked it. His desk was illumina
ted by a single swing arm light he bought himself and attached to the side of his desk. To save money, all the office lights were on a timer and went out at exactly six every night. Besides, he hated the buzz generated by the fluorescent lights during the day. He used an LED bulb to keep his boss happy, so she wouldn't bitch about the cost of keeping his light on after hours. The paper was barely able to keep its doors open and print an edition every day. Cost savings were a huge priority for the paper. Carl knew the next step was to have the staff work nights and put out a morning edition as they transitioned to digital. The rationale was that the electricity savings alone of having the office and printing press run at night would go into substantial savings. It was fine by Carl; he loved the night.
Carl walked through the office, stopped at the coffee maker, poured a cup from the pot left over from the day shift. He sipped his coffee as he walked back to his desk, took his chair then held the color photocopies sent to him anonymously. They arrived a few days earlier, and he wasn't sure if they were a hoax or not. If they were fake, they were well done. If they were fake, why go through all the trouble of sending them without a note. He knew of the arm found in the snowbank last winter and the girl killed in the bedroom, but why was he sent these pictures? He hadn't reported on either one of those stories. With the eye of a skeptical journalist, he sat back in his chair, coffee cup in one hand, photocopy in the other. His elbows rested on duct-taped repaired armrests. The chair gently rocked, squeaking in each direction under his slight frame. As the newest journalist on staff, he had received the hand-me-down chair that was destined for the dumpster. He rubbed the tie that hung loosely around this neck. He hated ties, none of the other reporters wore suits and ties, but he wanted to stand out from the others. The only suit Carl could afford was second-hand seersucker from the thrift shop. It was an off-white with thin lapels, and the legs could've been an inch or two longer and was most certainly older than he was. He knew the other reporters most certainly made fun of him but that was fine, he enjoyed his new look. It made him feel the part.