by Arjay Lewis
“Called you in?”
“As a parapsychologist. He heard my lecture and wanted to know if I could do what I talked about.”
“This is great!” Jenny exclaimed. “We have to tell Jon!”
“No!” I said, my voice firm. “The detective wouldn’t want any publicity about it. That would be the worst thing.”
“Why? I mean, if it helps the university…”
“It’s a murder case! If I can show the police that a psychic can actually be helpful—without drawing attention to himself—it could help to make parapsychological techniques more accepted.”
“Could you tell Jon when you’re done?”
“Afterward, he can post billboards. Right now, well, let’s just say that so far, I haven’t been much help.”
“Are you finding things they didn’t know?”
“I think I may have given them a lead. Can you give me your business card? That way, I can have Detective-Sergeant McGee give you a call.”
“All right,” she said and extracted a card from her wallet. “But he has to have a warrant.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll be here for dinner?”
“Should be.”
“See you later,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek as I kept my robe wrapped tight.
She walked out the door, and I sat with my coffee and breathed a sigh of relief. It’s said that an average man thinks about sex at least once every ten minutes. I’ve been in relationships and had an active sex life when I did. But in the last few years, I just didn’t think about it. Women were around, some interested and available. But I was too wrapped up in trying to master my gifts, meditation, visualization, learning to relax and focus my mind—as well as following the course of study to complete my PhD. It had been grueling.
There was also the drinking, which promoted the desire but took away from the pursuit. My sexuality was sublimated. To have it come back now so strongly and in such an inappropriate circumstance was disquieting. Perhaps being sober and kissing Wendy opened the floodgates.
No, it was Jenny standing in that pose, looking every bit like Cathy.
I decided to meditate for a half-hour and see if I could rearrange my thinking.
Two hours later, I strolled in the front entrance of the Mountainview police station and approached Sergeant Tice at the elevated desk. I’d shaved, showered, dressed, and walked to the station. It felt good to stretch my legs—make that leg.
Sergeant Tice gave me a quick glance. “He ain’t here,” he said and returned to his paperwork.
“Ah,” I said.
“Don’t know when he’ll be back,” he said as he wrote. “So, where are you from, Doc?”
“California. I’ve been working out there for years,” I said.
“Forensic Unit is pissed that you showed up out of nowhere,” Tice said. “I hope you’re not planning on stepping on any toes.”
I stayed centered and didn’t let his attitude bother me.
“I just want to help,” I said.
“Yeah, help McGee, the hotshot,” Tice said. “He doesn’t go by the book. You’d better make sure you do.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” I said, and headed for the door. “Please let Detective McGee know I came by.”
I stepped back out in the sunny day, feeling as if a weight had come off my shoulders. What an unpleasant man, and the only person he hurt with his attitude was himself. Still, in my precarious position, I didn’t want to make an enemy.
I headed for the university, only about two miles away up Valley Road. I hoped I could find Jon there and maybe get access to the school’s Internet and Wi-Fi. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little more knowledge about arson. It might give me a better idea what happened to Mr. Mishan.
The vision I’d seen had been very real and very intense. I didn’t know what he thought except for the perception of the unknown man outside the window. The odd sense of being watched by malevolent eyes when he was about to burn—that pointed to murder. But who watched, and how did he do it?
As I walked onto the grounds of the university, I passed buildings I remembered from my own time there, when I was a premed student who frantically finished a four-year course in two years.
I had a lot to prove back then.
As I walked, the beauty of the day filled me. Roads for vehicles led to concrete paths snaking through the grass that linked the buildings together.
I passed Williams Hall, constructed to be one of the larger buildings, erected on an artificial hill so that it loomed over the open court below. I glanced up at the carved stone steps and the waist-high walls that ran at the level of each flight. With five levels, the stone wall went from ground level all the way up the hill to the front of the building.
I recalled those short stone walls fondly, as at night, they served as a place for romantic encounters, though nothing much beyond necking occurred due to the proximity of university police.
In my time here, I was dating a girl from high school, Julia Tannenbaum, although we never availed ourselves of the amorous locales. By the end of my first year, our relationship had ended. After that, I focused entirely on my studies—until I met my Cathy.
The image of Cathy hanging upside down in the wreckage of our car, blood on her face, flashed into my mind.
I focused on my breath, pushed the memory away, and put my attention on where I was walking. I approached College Hall, the original mansion on this former estate, which stood three stories high and had a large domed roof. Since I’d been a student, they had done a renovation in which the entrance was fronted with glass all the way up. At night, with the lights on inside, you could see the two huge curved marble staircases as they rose up from the marble floor and traveled the rotunda in the gleaming brilliance of the polished white stone. Of course, in daylight, the glass reflected like a dim mirror, and I saw a smoky version of myself as I drew near the glass and brass door.
I entered and walked between the staircases toward the offices on the first floor. I passed a regal office with a fine oak door—that was for Dean Walters. I continued down the hall to a less extravagant doorway that bore a nameplate: Jon Baines – Associate Dean.
I walked in as a woman rose from behind her desk. She was thin, in a fashionable pants suit, and her dark hair had begun to go gray at the temple, which she allowed unashamedly.
“May I help you?” she asked.
I smiled gregariously. “Leonard Wise to see Dean Baines.”
“Oh! You’re Doctor Wise,” she said, a smile on her face. She came up to me and shyly put forth her hand for me to shake. “I’m so glad to meet you!” she gushed as I took her hand. “Dean Baines has said so much about you! And everyone is talking about the lecture you gave.”
“Thank you, and you are?”
“Trisha Heywood,” she said. “I’m Dean Baines’s personal assistant—I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She went to the phone, pushed a button, and announced that I was there. In less than a second, Jon burst through the door and grabbed my hand. “Hey, Len! Come on in!” he said. “Can you hold my calls, Trisha?”
“Of course, Dean Baines,” she said, still smiling.
The office wasn’t opulent, but it was paneled in a good blond wood, and he had a desk that was big enough without being imposing.
“Not bad digs, eh?” he said.
“Not at all.”
“So, did Jenn send you?”
I blushed red as the mental image of Jenny in the pose that inspired my morning lust appeared in my mind unbidden.
“No, I just wanted to maybe get some computer time here at the university.”
“Sure, no problem. Want to check your e-mail?”
“I figured the library would—”
“Not the library, Len. We have a room just dow
n the hall. You can use that.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“C’mon, I’ll set you up.” And like a whirlwind, he took me down the hall and into an office that was empty except for several computer stations. He booted up a machine.
“Jon, I hate to be vulgar, but do you know when my honorarium will be paid for the lecture?” I asked.
“Not a problem, Len. I’ll have a check for you tomorrow.”
“Check?” I said. My heart sank.
“Yes, and I’ll go with you to the bank—you can convert it to cash or a prepaid debit card—or, I dunno, traveler’s checks.”
I relaxed. “Do they still make those? It would be a help. I’m pretty much broke.”
“You won’t be after tomorrow,” he said and slapped me heartily on the back before he strode out of the room.
I sat at the computer, manipulating the chair until I could sit with my paralyzed leg sticking out and still see the screen. I watched the monitor as the machine flashed information in its self-analysis. Finally, the main screen arrived with all its icons. I quickly opened the browser.
I retrieved my e-mail, sorted out and erased the offers of copyright infringement (COPY ANY MOVIE), free pornography (WILD BARNYARD SEX), and get-rich-quick schemes (YOU CAN BE WEALTHY IN THIRTY DAYS!!).
There was something from my sister—and a note from Doctor Kohl, which I opened immediately. It read:
Dear Leonard,
I hope your lecture went well. There is no need to rush back as funding has been held up on Scudder House. Stay in touch. I’m trying another source, but project is put off at least three months—and more likely until next summer.
Enjoy your time in New Jersey. I hope you find what you need there.
Your friend,
Fritz
I felt a twinge of regret that I wasn’t there. Scudder House had been Fritz’s pet project for years. Doctor Kohl parlayed our successes at other sites to secure a chance to visit that house, considered a major source of phenomena.
We’d only been able to do a few days of work when we—well, I—made a discovery of such significance, Scudder House had to be cordoned off until it could all be categorized and photographed. It made celebrities out of both of us, and even Doctor Janis, a thin, studious sort of fellow who had the permission of the estate to run the research there.
Doctor Kohl wanted to do more work at Scudder House. He then planned to write a book—his definitive work on parapsychology with Scudder House as the central theme. After the previous success, it looked like it was finally coming together with a combination grant from three universities.
He wanted to spend the summer to chase whatever ghosties, ghoulies, or things that went bump in the night might reside there. After the last time, I didn’t want to ever go into that house again. But he was my mentor and my friend. If he wanted me there, I would go.
At the same time, I was pleased that there was no rush—there was a lot I wanted to do in New Jersey. There was this case, if McGee wanted to keep me involved.
I now had no possible work until the fall, when I could go back to Doctor Kohl as his assistant. But I’d done that for four years. And right now, I was doing what we’d both talked about for years: acting as part of the investigation team.
So far, my results were pretty paltry.
I closed the e-mail and did a web search for “arson and investigation,” then sat back as the computer gave me a list of possible choices.
I bounced around several sites—they were not very informative. Then I found a site working in conjunction with a university of criminal law, and there I found a complete profile of arsonists.
It was fascinating.
I discovered that very few arson cases are for profit, most fires are set for revenge by young white men under the age of eighteen, who are misfits with below-average intelligence and who had no sense of remorse. The young men usually had an absent or abusive father and a bad relationship with their mother, were poor students, and tended to veer into subservient jobs or positions.
Only five percent of the national total for arson cases were for profit, and those were where the profile changed—dramatically. It went to a select group who bordered on the genius level.
I printed the profile on the nearby laser printer, went back to the main site, and found another article on explosives. It not only listed the different terms used in arson cases but also the different types of explosives and accelerants.
I hit print.
In my pocket, my phone began to ring its odd musical tone. I quickly retrieved it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Leonard, it’s Bill McGee,” his deep voice intoned. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes, I was out last night with that young lady we spoke to yesterday. I may have some information that you’d be interested in.”
He chuckled. “On the case one day and you’re already interrogating people.”
“I thought it might help.”
“I’ll take what I can get. Come on over and we’ll talk.”
I grabbed the sheaf of pages fresh from the printer and headed back toward the Mountainview police station.
. . .
On the way, I must have looked the classic image of a professor in my tweed jacket and long hair, reading a sheaf of papers as I went. I tucked my cane under my arm and limped along as I studied the downloaded information.
It was very helpful, as it gave the principles of combustion, different explosives, and burn patterns that could be observed in arson cases. I whittled my way through the five or so pages and finished just as I arrived at the station.
Tice was behind the elevated desk in the police lobby.
I exhaled deeply and put my best face on, trying in my mind to send him love and hell—and maybe a couple dozen roses while I was at it.
He raised his head and said, “He’s waiting,” jerking his thumb in the general area of the interrogation rooms.
I took advantage of his good mood and walked past Tice’s desk down the short hall and through the door as he hit a buzzer that opened it. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was since McGee had brought me in through a different door the previous day. But I made a right and followed the sign for processing. I knew the detectives were across from the holding cells, so that seemed the right choice. I found McGee in the same room as yesterday, going over papers of his own.
He rose to shake my hand. “So, what have you got?”
I sat as I folded the papers and put them in my breast pocket. “Our Miss Wallace is not quite what we thought she was.”
“How so?”
“I assumed she was just an employee at the jewelry store, but it appears she was an investor in Mishan’s business—and I believe a few other places here in town.”
“She told you this?” McGee said.
“It was observation, mostly. I do know she’s listed on the insurance—she’s been trying to get a payout for the Nova Corporation.”
McGee shuffled the papers to the laundry list I had seen the day before and nodded. “Yeah, that rings a bell. Here it is, Nova Corporation.” He raised his head to meet my eye. “How did you know that? You read her mind or something?”
I smiled. “No, the people I’m staying with—the Baines’s. Jenny is an insurance adjuster. She also happens to be the investigator on the policy.”
McGee sat back and exhaled heavily. “She’s not supposed to say anything about a case.”
“I just wanted to let you know so you could look into it.”
“Tracking down the names listed on any policy is standard procedure,” he said. I could tell he was getting annoyed. “And I put a warrant in for the insurance records two days ago—Damn it, I should have it by now.”
“Bill, I’m only trying to help.”
“I know, Len,” he
said and calmed a bit. “It’s just always difficult when an amateur starts nosing around. I’m not a big fan of people who’ve read too much Agatha Christie.”
I smiled and put on my worse Belgian accent. “Wood you like the eminent ’Ercule Pierrot to explain le murder?”
This made him break into a series of guffaws. But he quickly got over it and became serious. “I just want you to know, your involvement is on a limited basis.”
“Bill, I’m here to act in any capacity you want, as little or as much as you decide. I just got this information by accident, and I thought it might help.”
“Just don’t start thinking you can play detective…”
“I have enough trouble playing parapsychologist,” I assured him. “But what comes is what comes. Sometimes through visions or flashes and sometimes through meeting the right person—what one might call coincidence.”
“That is what this is, right? A coincidence?”
“Carl Jung would call it synchronicity. I mean, look at all the situations. I arrive here to give a lecture, and all around me, people are involved in your case. It’s more than luck.”
Bill nodded. “Just don’t think you’re Sherlock Holmes. Last thing I need is you getting hurt.”
“I’m not even Doctor Watson, and I’ve been hurt enough for one lifetime,” I said, tapping my stiff leg with my forefinger. “Now, about Miss Wallace…”
“So you went out with her. Was it a date?”
“A casual one, and I didn’t do it for information. In fact, she’s very closed-mouth about her finances.” I retrieved Jenny’s card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Jennifer Baines is in charge of the insurance investigation. If you call her, maybe it would speed up your warrant.”
McGee took the card and looked it over. “It would. If Wendy is on the insurance, I could push for a warrant of her financial records. She is the only witness. Perhaps she knows more than she’s saying. If there was monetary motive…”
“I don’t think she’s a murderer—if that’s where you’re going.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Just my impression—but she knows more than she’s telling.”