“I’ve been looking for a consultant on this whole cult thing.”
“I recommend Dr. Mason May. He is the foremost authority on cults in Michigan.”
“He is also leaving for a cruise this weekend with his beloved wife, Genevia. He recommends Dr. Amanda Brown.”
“Oh, come on. He’s got scores of colleagues. He could recommend a number of people.”
“I asked him if anyone else was available.”
My defenses went up higher than the price of coffee at Starbucks. “What’s wrong with me?”
“I thought you would have a problem working with me.”
“Because we had a—what did we have, Jazz? A fling and a prayer?”
“A fling? I remember the prayer, but how did I miss the fling?”
I ignored him, and he filled the silence with a bombshell. “I’ve been celibate for three years.” He sounded peeved, as if I had forced him to disclose a dirty little secret.
“Could you kindly watch your tone with me?”
“Could you kindly not torment me with the notion that we had a fling?”
“You’ve been celibate for three years?” That most likely eliminated a wife. A girlfriend. And everyone else. Maybe there was hope for us after all.
“You weren’t supposed to comment on that. I wasn’t even supposed to say that, and don’t even think about asking about it, Bell.”
Shoot.
“That’s Dr. Brown to you.”
“Whateva.”
Something occurred to me. “Did Mason ask you why you wanted to know if someone else was available?”
“You know him well.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him everything.”
“Oh, no!” I’d rather have him tell my mother.
“Chill out. I just said that as payback for the ‘fling and a prayer’ comment.”
“Hmmph.”
“Don’t you hmmph me, young lady. The way you turn a phrase is far more interesting, even when it’s not quite accurate. ‘Fling and a prayer.’ Believe me, if we’d had a fling, there’d be no doubt about it.” He went on and on in his outrage.
If I could die from impatience, I’d have been a corpse by the time I was able to ask him what I wanted to know. When he finally shut up, I went for it. “What, exactly, did you tell him?”
“I said I thought it best if we didn’t work together, to which he promptly replied that he thought it best if we did. Anyway, he’s got that whole ‘God tells me your business’ thing going on.”
“I believe that’s called a ‘word of knowledge.’”
“I believe that’s called creepy. It doesn’t take a spiritual gift to see how I feel about you. I’m talking feelings, not a fling.”
“Spare me the details.”
“Are you going to act as a consultant on this case?”
“Maybe I’m unavailable.”
“Score one for Bell. Look, I need you. Two men are dead. I work homicide in Detroit. It’s not like people are going to stop shooting, stabbing, and bludgeoning one another so I can concentrate. I got two more cases since Wednesday, and my team is working extra hours. I’m losing time. We can keep it professional. I don’t want this thing to go cold.”
“Don’t call me Bell.”
“Did I mention it pays five grand?”
I smiled at his magic words. “I’m so available to work on this case with you.”
He laughed, and I imagined that amazing smile. “I told you I’d see you later. I’ll get back with you on the details. And thank you.”
Five grand. I know the Lord can give you exactly what you need, but the exact amount? Amazing grace. I needed that money. Badly.
I also needed to get off the phone, quick.
Unfortunately, as soon as we ended the call and I hung up, I wondered if I was making a big mistake. The fling comment likely made him forget that I had said I may have some business with him. What are you doing, Bell? You should have told him about Susan. And how on earth are you supposed to work with him? I thought about those prayer beads he had given me. “It helps to feel something” my eye! Just talking to him made me feel plenty. For a moment I wondered if I’d need those beads after all.
A sinking feeling came over me. Ma Brown used to say, “You can’t have too much prayer or love.” I pictured my great-grandma, with her honey-colored skin and high, part-Cherokee cheekbones. In my vision her wise eyes told me all I needed to know.
Chapter
Nine
ISHOULD MAKE “Thou shalt not talk to Jazz if thou must work” a personal commandment. The conversation I had with him left me in a vegetative—albeit warm and fuzzy—state. He was like a big Valium. To the five unfortunate souls who appeared at my office for guidance, I ended up doing a lot of smiling, nodding, and using some variation of the prompt “tell me more.” It’s a good thing it was Friday; my clients are always chatty on Fridays. They didn’t seem to notice that I was as high as a Georgia pine off Detroit’s finest. Pun intended.
I lugged myself to the Rock House house immediately after leaving my office, having strategically chosen to make my appearance during the dinner hour. The timing would ensure maximum avoidance of human contact.
When I arrived, Rocky met me at the door. “Thanks for coming, babe.” He kissed me on the cheek.
“Where is she?”
“Right this way.”
He escorted me through the sprawling Victorian and into a small office reserved for counseling. The staff house has five bedrooms, each the picture of understated elegance. The colors are muted and soothing, and the furniture is minimal and classic. Three of the bedrooms are for staff, and one is used for visitors. The other is the counseling office—used for individual and group sessions.
Susan Hines stood in the far corner of the room, looking small and vulnerable. I noted my impressions of her: white female; appeared to be somewhat malnourished; gaunt but childlike face; thin, red hair in loose waves down her back. I was struck by how young she was—not much more than a teen.
She stood still, appearing to be without affect, staring blankly ahead with her head cocked slightly to the left, hands clasped in front of her. Someone’s little girl. Where were her parents?
I approached her tentatively. “Susan?” I said, dragging an upholstered chair near her. I sat. I hoped it would encourage her to do the same.
She said and did nothing, only stared with blank, green eyes.
“Susan, my name is Amanda. I’m a psychologist.”
Nothing.
“I’m here to see if you’d like to talk about what’s bothering you. I’d like to help if I can.”
She remained unresponsive.
“I’m going to touch your hands, okay? Please don’t be frightened. I want to help you.”
I reached out and cradled her hands. She didn’t flinch. I pulled them apart, and she made no effort to stop me. As soon as I sat back in my chair, she folded her hands together. The gesture was subtle—almost defiant. Her message: leave me alone.
Schizophrenics can present as catatonic; however, catatonics are not always schizophrenic. A medical condition or other disorder could be responsible. I’ve worked with catatonics at the jail. Most of them were brought to me with either agitated, purposeless movements, or the appearance of being frozen in a bizarre or inappropriate position. If this had been the case with Susan, when I moved her hands, they would have remained in the position I had moved them to.
I’ve also treated catatonic schizophrenics who present with mutism—the refusal or inability to talk. It always reminds me of the writer Maya Angelou, who stopped speaking after she was molested. However, Maya Angelou was no catatonic schizophrenic. I doubted that Susan Hines was, either.
I thought back to when Rocky said she arrived at the church—the day before my birthday. According to Carly, the men had been dead for about twenty-four hours when they were discovered. She likely arrived at the safe house on the day the men were murdered.
/> I felt a chill run through me along with the shocking realization that if Susan Hines had fled the group on the day the two men were murdered, she may have been running for her life. I feared for the other women in the group. What had happened to them? And where were the children and their leader?
I looked at Susan. I had to gain her trust. “Can you tell me why you came here?”
Silence.
I waited. If she were malingering, it would be difficult to maintain a fake catatonic state. She would get tired or hungry or need to use the bathroom. I would stay until she broke. It’s not like I had anything else to do except watch CSIDVDs. And after my birthday experience, I wasn’t inclined to do that for a while.
Susan Hines never looked at me. She refused to speak and as the hours passed, the only difference I noticed in her was the grim, flat line her mouth had become.
Five hours after I arrived, urine flowed down her legs onto the parquet floor. She stood the whole time. Though she showed no hint of discomfort at being wet, something briefly shadowed her steady gaze. The faintest flicker of…what was it? Shame? A memory?
My guess: She wasn’t catatonic—she was scared to death—a feeling I was all too familiar with.
Even worse: Maybe the memory I imagined I saw in her eyes had nothing to do with her.
Maybe it was my own.
Chapter
Ten
I ARRIVED AT THE PARKING LOT of my apartment building a little after midnight and found a gorgeous detective sitting on the trunk of a now very familiar unmarked, police-issued Crown Vic.
He folded his arms across his chest in the now famous stance of protection, but his smile was characteristically open. His eyes were smiling, too.
“Lieutenant?” I unintentionally gushed.
“You’re up past your bedtime, no?” Jazz drawled. He un-crossed his arms and hopped off the trunk of the car. I enjoyed the view as he swaggered over to me—too close. Ummm. I noticed that same delicious scent—only more so.
Heaven help me.
“You’ve come calling on a lady at midnight?”
“I’ve actually been here for three hours. I didn’t take you for the type that stays out late, party girl.”
“It’s not that late, and, trust me, I’m no party girl—but I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?”
I shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve got skills.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, give me your best shot.”
“About what?”
“Why do you think I’m here, Doctor?”
I looked into his eyes; they were bright with mocking challenge. “Okay. You’ve been here for three hours because you really want to see me.”
“It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure that one out.”
“And after about, say, ten-thirtyish, you got a little salty because I wasn’t home.”
He inched a little closer to me. “That was easy, too.”
“But you got more salty thinking about who I may have been spending my time with.”
“Go on.”
“No denial, Lieutenant?”
“How can I deny anything to a psychologist? You can see right into my brain,” he teased, pointing to his head while easing up to me, closing much-needed space.
I felt a little giddy, but I continued. “You chastised yourself, but you couldn’t stop thinking about it. You should have left, but again, you really needed to see me.”
“I needed my psychologist’s consultation.” He gave me one of those fine grins and grazed my hair with his fingers. “Your haircut brings out your eyes,” he said. “They’re beautiful, you know. Expressive. You wouldn’t last a minute in my interrogation room. Your eyes tell all.”
“It wouldn’t be your interrogation room that I’d be worried about.”
He nodded and regarded me with a gaze that made me want to pray for deliverance. “Do you always say exactly what you think?”
“I’m afraid not. Just ask my mother, sister, and secretary.”
“And yet you do with me.”
“There’s something about you, Lieutenant.”
“Why don’t you call me Jazz, Bell?”
“Why don’t you call me Dr. Brown, and see me during business hours?” I returned his teasing grin, and stepped away from him and the car, letting him know that I could resist his charms.
He allowed the room I created and continued the conversation. “I spend a great deal of time in interrogation rooms with nut-jobs, some of whom are very talkative. Others are not so much. Tonight, I got a talkative one. Kept me at the station house longer than usual. I would have tried to call you, but Carly wouldn’t give me your home phone number.”
“She wouldn’t?”
“Said something about you being unavailable. Put a strong emphasis on the word.”
I shook my head. She didn’t hear the “U” word from me, but the grapevine pretty much consisted of Maggie, my mother, and Carly. It was only a matter of time before my sister knew all the details in Technicolor. I’m surprised she hadn’t found me already and given me “the talk”—and she’s the one who got me into this mess. “I’m sure you could get my home phone number if you really wanted it, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe I’d like to get it from you.”
“So you came here and waited three hours to get my phone number?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m dedicated.”
“Dedicated yet unavailable. A bit of a paradox.”
“As a psychologist you should know that women understand paradoxes so much better than us concrete men.”
“Is that what you’re here for? A woman’s understanding?”
He laughed. “You sure are a tough interrogator, Bell.”
“Dr. Brown,” I said. I tried to change the subject. “You said some ‘nutjob’ detained you at work. Could this ‘nutjob’ have been talkative about the Vogel and Crawford case?”
“I wish. Which is why I’m here.”
“Among other reasons,” I supplied. The night possessed a sultry kind of heat that made me feel as bold and wild-hearted as the man in front of me.
“I’m here to talk about the case.” He smiled like he knew I knew he was lying. “You gonna invite me inside? Or would you like for me to take you somewhere?”
“What makes you think I would go somewhere with you at this time of night?”
“The same thing that makes you think I sat here for hours being jealous of who I imagined you were spending your Friday night with.”
“You can’t come upstairs. Absolutely not.”
“But it’s for the case.”
I wondered what harm there could be in us having a little chat about the case in my apartment.
Okay, so the alarms in my head went off so loud they left my ears ringing. My great-grandmother used to say, “Don’t let the devil ride. If you let him ride, he’s gonna want to drive, so don’t let him ride.” If I let that man inside my apartment, I’d be letting the devil ride in a red Mustang with a drop-top.
C’mon, Ma Brown. No fair. Can’t you see he’s way out of my league? I’ll never get the attention of anyone like him again.
It was still awfully close to my birthday. Didn’t I deserve just a little bit of kissing and hugging? Nothing more.
Really! Nothing more.
It had a harsh finality to it, this troubling “nothing more.” No, what I really deserved was a good relationship, one that could lead to marriage—not a make-out session. I didn’t care how good-looking the man was. Wasn’t I too old to be stupid?
“I’m sorry, Jazz. It’s just not a good idea.”
“But I’ve waited hours to see you.”
“Why is that?”
“You already know why.”
I suddenly felt like I was boiling with frustration. “You seem to be interested in me, and then it seems like you’re playing games with me.”
“I am interested in you.”
“But
you’re unavailable. No wife. No girlfriend. Maybe you aspire to be a monk. Your reasons for being alone are your business, but I have to ask: Why did you park the Garden of Eden in my office? Why did you park yourself in front of my apartment for three hours? Why are you here, Lieutenant?”
We stood there glaring at each other, the light from the streetlamp shining overhead, until he looked away.
Jazz chuckled. “It’s funny that you should mention a monk. If I were trying to be one, I wouldn’t be doing such a great job, would I? Sitting outside your apartment all night trying to pretend I want to work on the case.” He crossed his arms over his heart again. That man might as well have been wearing a suit of armor. “I don’t make myself vulnerable to women. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be spending the little bit of free time I have in your parking lot. And stay away from your neighbor.”
“What neighbor?”
“Henry. From the apartment next door.”
“Okay.” I was too interested in what he had to say next to ask him about Henry.
He looked surprised. “You’re just going to say ‘Okay’? You’re not even going to ask me why I said that?”
“Right now, I don’t care why you don’t want me around Henry, but I am going to ask you why you’re here if you don’t want to be.” I moved closer to him. I expected him to back away, but he didn’t move.
He also didn’t answer me.
“Tell me why you’re here. I want to hear you say it.”
“We should be discussing the case,” he said, fidgeting.
“Why are you here, Jazz?”
“Oh, now I’m Jazz. Not ‘Lieutenant.’”
I touched his shoulder. “Jazz.” My voice became a whisper, and it was a bad idea to touch him. I didn’t want to stop. “Tell me.”
His hand caught mine, and he rubbed circles on the back of it with his thumb, pulling me close until there was no space between us. “You know, I hate it that you’re a psychologist. It’s torture.”
Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man Page 7