by Arjay Lewis
“I’m a sophomore, but the field really interests me.”
“How so?” I said skeptically.
“Your entire approach,” she said, as she got excited. “The idea of parapsychology and energy reading as the next wave in forensic investigation. It’s really cutting edge.”
I nodded. “It’s not a commonly accepted concept, I should warn you.”
“But think of the long term good it can do,” she gushed. “I mean, a trained psychic investigator working side by side with the police— like you do—“
I held up a hand. “My work with the police is—
“I know, I know, on a volunteer basis, and you can’t discuss it, and blah—blah—blah.”
I smiled. Her mode of self-expression varied from a thirty-year-old adult to an eight-year-old child all in the same sentence.
“Nevertheless, Miss Andrews, I am looking for a junior or senior, not a sophomore. And to be perfectly blunt, you are very bright and it is early in the semester, but so far your work is not at a level I would expect from my TA or someone really interested in pursuing the field.”
This made her pause, to fully absorb what I said.
“I see, but I only really understood what you are doing in the last week or so,” she said. “If I can bring my work up, and maybe do some extra-credit, will you at least consider me for the position?”
I looked her in the eyes, and slipped into her mind, just a peek, really, just to see if she meant it.
She was quite sincere.
I pulled myself free and looked away. No reason to go in any deeper.
“I’ll consider it along with the qualifications of any other candidates,” I said, as I picked up my laptop computer and shoved it into my bag. “Now, I really need to go.”
She grabbed my hand in her excitement. “Thank you, Doctor, you won’t regret this!”
She traipsed her way up the stairs to the door, happiness in every step. I was amazed that anyone could move so effortlessly in shoes as ungainly as hers.
I shook my head. To be honest, there wasn’t a barrage of people who sought to be the TA for the newest Associate Professor, in a department that is probably the only one like it on this coast. To find the most qualified person might not be possible. At least Miss Andrews’ enthusiasm might make it work out.
I grabbed my cane and headed for the stairs, which I would have to take more slowly than the skipping coed had. The car accident that necessitated my walking stick, and caused the loss of my right knee, forced me to live with my right leg fused rigid at all times. It was lucky I didn’t lose it. I tapped my way slowly up the stairs, one at a time and out of the room.
I was soon outside in the clear fall weather. There was a slight chill in the air, but it made the autumn smells of rotted leaves and first fires waft about me. I went on my way to my office, a small room in the administration building.
It was a lovely day to stroll the manicured grounds of GSU. Though not Ivy League, it was still a highly respected school, which offered a remarkable choice in courses and degrees to people from around the country and the world.
When my dearest friend, Jon Baines, invited me here for a lecture last spring, it was planned as a one-time event. Little did I know that I would be offered a full-time position, and get to meet Detective-Sergeant Bill McGee, who had sought out my assistance to solve a baffling murder.
The success of that case, and the fact that I had absolutely no desire for publicity or even recognition, led McGee to use me as a resource again and again. The only downside was that he really only brought me in to cases that were difficult. But so far luck, coincidence, synchronicity, or a combination of them all had, combined with my unique skill set, helped me find answers and Bill McGee to solve cases. He and I had rapidly become a good team, and it looked very possible that he could be considered for Lieutenant down the line.
Bill had a pretty open-mind about what I do, whether it was the knowledge of what people thought, or my visions of recent or future events. However, many of the other officers were wary of me. They were convinced I was a charlatan, a witch-doctor, or just plain crazy. However, as long as Bill closed cases, the brass didn’t complain. Bill took the credit and I stayed in the background.
Just the way I liked it.
I arrived at College Hall, the administration building, which had once been an estate. It stood three stories high, capped with a large domed roof.
Because of renovation several years ago, they had rebuilt the main entrance that faced the quad with glass all the way to the top. It was nice, with the lights on at night, you could see inside to the two huge curved marble staircases as they rose up from the ornate floor. The negative was that the post-modern addition did not really match the stoic interior of the classical construction.
As I approached, I could see a smoky reflection of myself in the glass front wall.
Once inside, I limped my way towards my small office which I am always grateful is on the first floor.
As I walked down the hall with fine wood paneling on both sides, and the glorious marble floor, I passed the Associate Dean’s office and heard my name called out.
“Len, Len,” came a woman’s voice from the half-opened door. In a moment, it opened and Trisha Heywood, Jon Baines’ personal assistant, stepped into the hall.
“Trisha,” I said. She looked distraught, and I was compelled to ask, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I mean, no, I mean, Doctor—“ she said. This was unlike her. Trisha was the woman who ran this university with machine-like precision, even though she was only officially the Associate Dean’s assistant. But we all counted on her. To see her flustered meant whatever happened could not be good.
I gently touched her arm. “What is it?”
She exhaled deeply. “There are some people here— to see you. I hope you don’t mind, they are friends of mine— and it’s a very delicate situation.”
“Anything you need, I’ll do my best,” I said. After all, she was the one who suggested GSU create a Parapsychology Department as well as hire me.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She smiled. “Thank you, Len.”
“That’s better,” I said. “My office is kind of small, can I talk to them in a meeting room?”
“I have them waiting in Conference Room A,” she said. “There’s coffee.”
I smiled again. She knew I always took a cup after Friday class, usually with her.
“Thanks, that’s fine,” I said. “What is this about?”
“I’d rather they tell you, if you don’t mind,” Trisha said as she walked with me towards the conference room.
I gave a nod and opened the door. Two people sat in overstuffed leather chairs at the far end of the room, away from the large center table. The older gentleman rose, a bit bent from the years that had worn him down. Even so, he possessed an air of elegance. He wore a suit, which although expensive, the cut and style suggested a different age.
“Doctor Wise?” he said and took my hand to shake it. “I’m Charles Stoller.”
He indicated his wife who sat neatly coiffed with salt and pepper hair. She wore what looked to be a Chanel suit, with a lovely pearl necklace and matching earrings.
“My wife, Abigail.”
She remained seated so I approached her and took her hand.
“Mrs. Stoller,” I said, and she gave a slight nod of her head. I walked over to a regular straight-back chair, and pulled it over so I could face both of them. I sat down as Charles returned to his padded chair. “Trisha said you needed to talk to me. How can I help?”
Mr. Stoller looked at his wife, who cleared her throat delicately.
“Doctor,” Abigail began, “we have a matter that needs to be looked into— delicately—“
“Due to our standi
ng in the community,” Charles added.
I looked at each of them. “I can assure you, I any situations I am involved in is handled with the utmost discretion.”
“That is what Trisha— um— Ms. Heywood said,” Abigail said. “I also understand you have assisted the police in matters—”
“I have. You’ll understand that I’m not a liberty to discuss any details.”
“That’s good!” Charles said.
“Ours is a private family matter,” Abigail said.
“Of course,” I replied.
“It’s about our second son, Harold,” Charles said.
“Is he in some kind of trouble?” I asked.
“I should say so,” Abigail said, her chin up. “He’s dead.”
My mouth dropped open in shock that such a genteel woman said this so casually.
“Recently?”
“As a matter of fact,” Charles said. “Just last week. The funeral was yesterday.”
Abigail sighed. “I cannot tell you the grief that this has caused us, Doctor.”
She took a lace handkerchief out of her small purse, and daubed her nose delicately.
“How can I be of assistance?”
“It’s the damn police,” Charles griped. “They ruled his death a suicide.”
“I’m not familiar with the situation,” I said.
“Our son fell off the third floor balcony of his home,” Abigail stated.
“Or was pushed,” Charles added.
Abigail went on. “The detective who investigated said that it was suicide, as the door to the library— that’s the room with access to the balcony— was locked from the inside. And the position of the body on the stone patio below suggested that he dove off the balcony.”
“Who was the detective?”
“Some sergeant named Tice,“ Charles said.
“He was very dismissive of our concerns,” Abigail said.
I nodded. I was very familiar with Tice. He was dismissive of everyone, and was one of my biggest detractors at MPD.
“You see,” Charles went on, “it’s the fact that Harry went to a lot of therapists over the last few years.”
“He was quite broken up when his most recent marriage fell apart, about two years ago,” Abigail pointed out. “But he had made a lot of progress, started getting into shape—“
“He got too damn thin, if you want my opinion,” Charles said with a look to his wife.
“He told me he’d been having bad dreams lately,” Abigail said. “So the police decided it was suicide.”
“And you are not sure you agree,” I said.
“No, Doctor,” Abigail said. “I am convinced my son was murdered.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN... SEDUCTION IN THE MIND
about the author
Arjay Lewis (aka R.J. Lewis) is an award-winning magician, entertainer and author. He has experienced every level of show business from street-performing to Broadway.
Arjay’s published stories have appeared in H.P. Lovecraft Magazine Of Horror, Weird Tales and Sherlock Holmes Magazine. He also has been published in the Anthology The Ultimate Halloween. His Novel THE MUSE, is a finalist in the 2016 Paranormal Novel Competition for Chanticleer Book Reviews.
He has collaborated on several films including: DOWN IN FLAMES, The True Story Of Tony ‘Volcano’ Valenci- which has won seven Film Festival awards. His screenplay for DUMMY (co-written with Pamela Wess) is the winning screenplay for the 2017 Garden State Film Festival. It also won 4th place in the 2016 Writer’s Digest Screenplay Competition and was a Finalist in the 2016 Filmfest Screenplay Competition.
Arjay is married to his wife, Debra, and has one daughter Rayna. He is currently performing with Princess Cruises as the ‘Magic Maker’ in the hit show, MAGIC TO DO.
www.arjaylewis.com