by Arjay Lewis
We were in a storeroom. Everything was covered in black soot and still wet from the downpour of fire hoses. But I recognized a discolored Mr. Coffee in the corner on a desk with a fallen computer monitor. Built into the wall was a large vault.
“Jewelry store?” I asked.
“Psychic impression?” McGee asked.
“Simple deduction. Building doesn’t look like a bank, it’s in a fashionable neighborhood, and there is a safe built into the wall.”
“That’s what it was.”
“Anything stolen?”
McGee nodded and gave a smile. “Fire to cover the theft? I like the way you think. We’re still going over inventory, but it doesn’t look like it. There was a witness, and no robbery attempt was made.”
“So far we have a fire and a death. I will deduce that you believe they were connected?”
“I thought you didn’t want too much information.”
“Very well,” I said and glanced around the room. From the smell of burned wood and dampness, I fought to suppress a sneeze. “The next step is to put myself in a light trance. I am going to tell you things as I see them. Would you mind writing them down?”
He pulled out a thin notebook and extracted a pen from his breast pocket. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”
“Feel free to ask me questions—try to get as much information as you can. That will force me to describe things in more detail.”
He nodded and I finally sneezed. I wiped my nose with a tissue from my pocket and leaned on my cane. Then I closed my eyes and focused on my breath.
I used the techniques Doctor Kohl had drilled me on again and again. Focus on the breath, shift the mind into an alpha state, then open myself up to what comes.
I slowed down my breathing and heartbeat until I began to slip into another level of consciousness. This would allow impressions in, and the residual energy could be interpreted by my mind. I heard my own heartbeat as it thumped slowly in my ears, and my breath rumbled with a roar like a giant set of bellows. In…out, in…out.
I opened my eyes; everything possessed a sepia hue as if I had suddenly awakened inside a black and white movie. At the same time, my every sense was heightened. I could smell the burned wood down into its very fibers. I could even detect the fragrance of a pine cleaner used in a nearby bathroom days earlier. I could hear McGee’s feet make the floor creak as he shifted his weight.
What was more important, I could see the room, not merely the remnants as it was now, but as it had been. No soot, no water—just a clean little back room where a man put away his wares and ran his business.
I looked slowly around the room as I tried to decipher the impressions. Emotional situations leave an energetic imprint, a remnant that I can tap into while in this state. My vision distorted a bit, and I saw a heavy man standing in front of the vault, the door wide open as he placed sparkling baubles onto a tray.
“A man,” I said aloud. “He spends a lot of time here—I think he’s the owner. Average height, balding, heavy. He’s wearing a suit that isn’t cheap.”
I took a step closer to the image, who seemed almost as solid as flesh and blood, but I knew from experience it was simply a projection in my mind. Something he did here had left an emotional impression.
“What’s he doing?” I heard a voice ask.
“Putting away jewelry. He did this every night, at closing,” I said, watching as the figure looked at each piece, and then placed the sparkling objects into their proper spots. I detected another figure out of the corner of my eye and turned to look.
“Someone else came in. A short man, dark hair. He has features like a rodent,” I said, describing the scene playing out in front of me.
The newcomer began to move his lips, but nothing came out. In a vision, I sometimes receive full information, complete with sound as well as sights. However, on other occasions, all I get is the visual, like a movie with the volume off.
“They are talking. The first man doesn’t like him. He’s unhappy this man came by.”
“What are they saying?” McGee asked.
“Their mouths are moving, but I can’t hear words,” I said. “It looks as if they are arguing.”
“Any idea why?” McGee asked.
“No, but the owner is surprised—and he looks frightened.”
The scene began to dim; the burned storeroom returned. Whatever emotional charge created this scene had faded.
I walked over to an area where the burn marks went up the wall.
“Did you find residue from an accelerant?” I asked.
“What do you think?” my cagey companion replied.
“I saw bottles and cans of something on wooden shelves over here. They looked like some kind of cleaner. From the way these burn marks go up the wall, I would say they were highly combustible.”
“There were traces of flammable liquids—probably used to clean the jewelry.”
I faced McGee. “He had a lot of them. Shelves and shelves. It seemed like a lot more than he needed for a small store like this.”
McGee nodded. “Our fire chief came to the same conclusion.”
I nodded. “Explains why the fire was so bad,” I said and looked around the room. “That’s all I get in here.”
I walked through the open doorway and stepped into the remains of the actual store. Walking past overturned glass cases and burned carpeting, I craned my neck to glance at the discolored tin ceiling where paint had burned and flaked off from the heat. The walls had black soot that rose up in patterns resembling waves. In the middle of the rug was an unburned spot, but the sooty marks undulated outwardly all around it. I touched the rug and grimaced as images flashed through my head.
“What?” McGee said.
“Pain, burning,” I said. I stepped back, and my clothes, hands, hair were all on fire. “I’m burning!” I yelled.
I beat my hands against the burning clothes. But it wasn’t my body—it was heavier—dressed differently. I stopped, cleared my mind, and slowed my racing heart.
“Sorry, I’m not burning, he was,” I said, regaining control. I looked at McGee who watched me intently. “Interesting experience, very intense. I got pulled right in.”
“Any insights?” McGee questioned.
“Not yet. I need to try to stay disconnected. This was recent…last few days?”
“Yes,” McGee said.
“And the man who burned was Philip Mishan?”
He raised one eyebrow. “So, you got that much?”
“Actually, it’s printed on the glass,” I said and pointed at the front door, where in spite of the soot, I could see “Philip Mishan, Fine Jewelry.” Though backward to us, it could easily be read. The display windows had blown out, but the glass in the door was intact. “This guy burned to death?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re not going to give me any information at all,” I said and rubbed my eyes. “But I believe he burned to death. I also believe that you want me to tell you how.”
Now both of McGee’s eyebrows were up. “Why do you think that?”
I made eye contact. “Because that is the question going through your mind,” I stated.
“Should I pick a number between one and ten?” McGee said, snidely.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, and then broke eye contact to peer around the room again. “Three.”
His mouth dropped open in shock, and I couldn’t help but smile. “Relax, Detective. That’s an old magic trick. Most people pick three.”
He relaxed a bit and smiled. “So, you know magic tricks as well?”
“You did the research on me. You probably already know my brother is a professional magician. We used to do shows together, and that’s how I bought my first car. He’s in Vegas now.”
“Vegas? In one of the shows with
the feathers and the girls?”
“Yes, and more girl than feathers, I believe. You heard of Wizini?”
McGee frowned. “Yeah, he had a TV special, right?”
“Yes, his real name is Thomas Wise. He’s my twin brother.”
“Identical?”
“Except both his legs work,” I said. “It’s helpful to know magic tricks. It makes it easier to discover clever trickery masquerading as psychic ability.”
“You can understand my concerns. There are a lot of frauds in your line of work.”
“Yes, there are also a lot of self-deluded people who believe they’re receiving things that are actually projections of their own minds. That’s the hardest part. I have to interpret what I sense without putting myself into it or getting lost in what I see.”
“Like just now when you were burning.”
“Exactly. Let’s see if I can get more.”
McGee nodded, and I shut my eyes, slipping back into the alpha state as I reminded myself to stay the observer. I wanted to watch what I saw and not plug it, or I would fall into the same panic Mishan did during his last moments.
I opened my eyes, and although in sepia tones, the store was restored to what it looked like before the fire. Clean, clear showcases with gemstones under glass. I gazed around the room.
“There is a woman…twenty-three, twenty-four standing behind that counter,” I said and pointed. “Average height, very pretty, blonde hair, dyed. She looks…bored.”
I turned to see the familiar balding man run into the store. He slammed the door with such strength that it shook on its hinges. He moved very slowly as the silent show played out for me.
“Mishan came in. He’s in a panic about something—agitated.”
I saw the girl reach for the cordless telephone.
“The phone, he wants the phone! Call for help, call the police!” I changed my position, tried to stand where I could look at his face as if he was really there. “He’s sweating, scared—so very scared. He’s taking off his jacket.”
I looked over at the girl to see her eyes widen, and glanced at the coat in Mishan’s hand in time to see it burst into flames that moved in black and white tendrils.
Don’t panic, I told myself, it’s only an image of what happened.
Mishan turned.
“He’s looking out the front window,” I said. “He’s looking for someone out there.” I walked toward the window that was now merely an open space. Glancing at the wraith that was Philip Mishan, I tried to see what he saw, know what he knew.
“‘Coming to finish me off,’ that’s the impression I’m getting. He wants to get to water.”
“Can you see who he is looking at?” McGee’s voice came from out of nowhere.
I stared out the window and saw two eyes that burned with an unbearable hate.
I shook the image from my head, and I was back in the burned-out store. All the images were gone. I felt drained. And hot, so very hot.
“You’re sweating,” McGee remarked.
I nodded, loosening my tie. “Is there any water here?”
McGee led me like a child to a bathroom, where I splashed water on my face and drank several handfuls.
“Need water?”
“These experiences drain moisture from the body,” I said, noticing that my hands were shaking. What did I tap into? What force had killed Philip Mishan?
Instead of answers to McGee’s questions, I now had questions of my own.
five
In the conference room, which also served as a data room at the Mountainview police station, I could hear the sound of computer servers as they whirred and clicked in the background. I sat with my eyes closed, focused on the memory of the rat-faced man I had seen in the back room of Mishan’s shop. Across from me sat a police sketch artist named Chuck. As I described each feature the best I could, Chuck drew it. Then I would open my eyes and look at what he came up with.
“The forehead is a little weaker,” I said, “the nose a bit larger.”
Chuck nodded. With his close-cut hair and boyish looks, he obviously wasn’t a cop. But he was good with a sketchpad, and obviously, a small town like Mountainview didn’t have the computerized face-matching programs that larger forces use.
McGee looked at the face and fumbled with the file on his lap. He’d left the room several times and come back with a different sheaf of papers each time, which he’d put into a folder. Then he’d review the whole thing again.
That’s what police work consists of, you get as many facts as you can, then go over and over them as you try it this way, then that, theorizing, deducing, then eliminating what doesn’t work.
I could identify. A lot of the work I’d done in parapsychology investigations used the same techniques. Then sometimes you got lucky. I did, and it got me a lot of attention. But you can’t depend on a fluke. You have to put in the work, and that gives the luck a chance to make a spectacular appearance.
Chuck showed me the finished sketch, and I nodded. It was the man I had seen with Mishan in my vision of the storeroom. He showed it to McGee, whose eyes grew hard.
“Two copies and bring me the original,” he said. “Thanks, Chuck.”
As Chuck left the room, McGee took his place across from me.
“So, Doc, you know this guy?”
“Not at all,” I said. “But you do.”
“Reading my mind again?”
“Just your face. Can you tell me who it is?”
He gazed at me, his steel blue eyes flashing as he carefully considered how involved he would make me. He sat in front of a nearby computer display, tapped a few keys on the keyboard, then turned the screen to me.
There on the screen was the mug shot of the man who matched my sketch. It was a full-front with a number under him and then a profile.
“Lonny Briback, aka Lonny the Match.” McGee said. “When I saw where the sketch was going, I looked up his info.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Arsonist?”
“Yeah, and a damn hard one to catch. FBI finally nailed him a few years back. I’m checking on his current whereabouts.”
“FBI?” I said. “How does a local cop know what they’re up to?”
He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I wasn’t always a local cop, Doctor.”
“Tell you what, can you just call me Len or Leonard? I’m really not used to the whole ‘Doctor’ thing.”
“Fair enough. Call me Bill,” he said, then added with a warning finger. “In private…in front of anyone else, make it Detective or Detective-Sergeant.”
“So, Bill, you were with the Bureau?”
“Twelve years,” he said as his eyes focused on the tabletop. “And I was good at it.”
“What happened?”
“I got married about eight years back. We had kids—two boys. I was away too much, working too hard. It was rough on Laura.”
“Your wife?”
McGee nodded. “About two years ago, we had a bust—terrorist cell in Michigan—it went bad. Booby trapped, improvised explosives set to take us out. A couple guys I worked with ended up dead. Laura gave me a choice—change jobs or change wives. I decided to stick with the wife.”
“So, you took a job here in Mountainview?”
“There was an opening for a detective. I go home to my family every night. It’s better all around.”
“So, what about this Lonny guy?”
“Lonny the Match,” Bill said and turned the screen back so he could read it. “He’s good. Studied with one of the old pros who never got caught. But he’s hung up on electronics—builds ignition systems that can go off when he’s a hundred miles away.”
“Nice,” I said sarcastically.
“Yeah, he was finally nailed for a little gizmo that was a stroke of genius. The whole thin
g was plastic. He sprayed a warehouse with a mixture of lighter fluid and grain alcohol—then this little plastic device used water to start a fire with sodium metal—ignited the accelerant and melted the gizmo.”
“Leaving no evidence.”
“Almost. But he screwed up. He had to use one small metal valve. It didn’t melt.”
“And that was enough to track him down?”
“It was a very special valve made by this one company and sold to three different stores in the whole country. From that one clue, the FBI found him and convicted him.”
“Impressive,” I said. “And considering how Mishan died…”
“Right. It certainly points to someone with the Match’s skills.”
“But how is he connected with Mishan?”
McGee looked at the screen again, then he grabbed a folder off the table and opened it. “Since this case came across my desk several days ago, I’ve done some digging into the life of Mr. Mishan.” He glanced at the open pages. “It turns out that before coming to Mountainview, he had two previous stores.”
I met his eyes. “Which closed due to arson?”
“Fires…yes. Arson couldn’t be proven. But each time, Mishan came out ahead financially. His last place before Mountainview was in an amusement park on a pier on the Jersey Shore—mostly selling trinkets.”
“So, you think Mishan hired the Match to burn his businesses?”
“I suspect an angry firebug might get involved in a murder if he felt he was cheated. You’ve pointed me toward a suspect.”
“You’ll need more hard evidence. My visions won’t stand up well in court.”
“If the Match did it, he left a trail. But to be honest, I didn’t know he was out of prison.”
“Any forensic evidence to point to a device?”
“Like you said, there was a lot of what could be considered accelerants on the premises of the building: High alcohol cleaners, acetone, and the like. Also, there was far more of them than there should be for a normal operation.”
“Which I also pointed out.”
“And forensics also found. Those are what really burned the place down, but the question is what set them off? There was no trace of fuses or timers.”