Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  “That still doesn't explain why you're taking a magic class.”

  “I study books and take classes so that I can spot the phonies. I have to be an expert. How else will I know if they're putting one over on me?”

  Joe stared at her. “That's good. Very good. Did you come up with that just now, or had you thought it all out before, in case someone ever saw you here?”

  “It's the truth.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I probably know as much about phony spirit rigs as you do.”

  “I don't doubt it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Believe what you want. I understand you'll be sitting in on another session of mine tomorrow. Maybe that will convince you.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Am I the reason you came here tonight? Did someone tell you I was in the class?”

  “No, I needed to talk to your teacher about something.”

  “About Dr. Nelson's murder?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  “It's no big secret that you're investigating it. Nate Dillard is a good heavy-lifting guy. Was he any help?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did you consider a Harrison winch?”

  “Almost immediately. It wouldn't have worked.”

  “Center-of-gravity problem?”

  “You got it.”

  A broad smile lit her face. “I guess you haven't considered the possibility that the boy did cause it to happen?”

  “No. Is that what you think?”

  “Not likely. In my experience, pretty much all mediums and psychics are fakes.” She smiled again. “Except me, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She gestured down the street. “I'm going for coffee. Would it compromise your objectivity to join me?”

  He thought for a moment. “It would have to be very good coffee for that to happen.”

  Joe hadn't planned to make an evening of it, but he found himself enjoying Suzanne's company. If this was part of her con, at least it was an interesting variation.

  They bought their coffee and sat at an outdoor table beneath a historical-landmark sign reminding them that hundreds of Confederate soldiers had died horrible deaths on the same spot where affluent young adults now enjoyed cappuccinos and iced mochas.

  “You know, we're really on the same side,” Suzanne said. “We both hate frauds who pretend to have paranormal abilities, and we both have our reasons to expose them.”

  “Who, exactly, have you exposed?”

  “I don't mean ‘expose’ in the sense that I arrest them or put them out of business. I just find out what they do and how they do it, and I move on.”

  “That could fall under the category of occupational research.”

  “It could if I were a fake. But I'm not. I knew about Merrill Hawkins and the broomstick kids long before you did.”

  Joe laughed. Hawkins was an elderly woman in Ac-worth who had convinced Nelson, Kellner, and the rest of the parapsychology program that she was summoning rambunctious spirits to her farmhouse. In reality, the disturbances were caused by the woman's teenage grandchildren, who shimmied in the crawlspace beneath the house and poked broomsticks through removable wood plugs in the floor. They raised tables, knocked over chairs, and caused a general ruckus in the darkened house while their grandmother was in her “trance.”

  “It took me two visits to figure out that one,” Joe said.

  “It took me three sessions. And my fees weren't being reimbursed by the university or the police department.”

  “I'm sure you made up for it with your own sessions. You do charge, don't you?”

  “You know I do. It's how I support myself. I'm a composer, and that doesn't always pay well.”

  “A composer? Have you written anything I might have heard?”

  “I doubt it, unless you've been to chamber music concerts in Dayton or Monterey.”

  “Damn. I knew I shouldn't have let those concert subscriptions lapse.”

  “Yeah, right. Symphony orchestras aren't exactly beating down my door with commissions, so I have to get by on what I make as a spiritualist.”

  “Which, with the reputation you've built for yourself, must be pretty good.”

  “It isn't bad.”

  “So, what exactly do you write on your income tax form? ‘Musician-slash-Conduit to the Afterlife’?”

  “Close. Musician-slash-Spiritual Adviser.”

  “I'm surprised that you'd let me and the parapsychology team observe you. If you're found out, it could ruin a good gig for you.”

  “There's nothing to find out. And even if there were, you and I both know the people who usually believe in this stuff aren't about to listen to a police detective and a bunch of academics. I'll bet over half the mediums you've busted are still working right here in Atlanta, and they're probably making more money than ever.”

  He couldn't argue with that. He'd seen people go back to their favorite spiritualists even after they watched him expose them. Their desire to believe was that strong.

  “You lost your wife a couple of years ago, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever ask spiritualists to contact her?”

  “No. I won't degrade her memory that way.”

  Suzanne nodded.

  How did she know about Angela? Joe wondered. Had she researched him just as she researched all of her marks? “A lot of people think I should throw down the Angela card every time I go into a session. What better way to know if a medium is blowing hot air? There are a million little things only she and I would know, but I just can't do it. Her memory is worth more to me than that.”

  “Good. It shouldbe,” Suzanne said gently.

  Joe downed the rest of his coffee. “I have to go.”

  “I'm sorry. We can talk about something else.”

  “It's okay. I have to get home to my little girl.” Joe stood and tossed a few dollars onto the table. “I enjoyed this. It's too bad I'll have to bust you tomorrow morning.”

  Suzanne laughed. “I enjoyed this, too, Joe. And it's too bad you're about to lose your perfect record.”

  By the time Joe arrived home and released Vince from baby-sitting duty, it was time to put Nikki to bed.

  As he drew the covers up to her chin, she smiled. “You look happy tonight.”

  “Don't I always look happy?”

  “Not when you come home from work. What happened?”

  Suzanne Morrison happened, he thought. Did it show? Okay, so she was a fraud. And maybe she was playing him the way she played the chumps who paid her to speak with their dearly departed. Still, there was something else there. She actually seemed to welcome the challenge he posed. And it wasn't every day that he talked to a spiritualist who debunked other spiritualists. That was a new one.

  “I'd be happier if I didn't have to work so late,” he said. “What did you and Vince do tonight?”

  “We watched more videos of Jesse. Vince wants to figure out his tricks before you do.”

  “I hope he does. It would save me a lot of work.”

  “I told him there was no way he would figure it out before you did.”

  “I guess I'd better get on the stick, huh?”

  She giggled. “Yes. Go do it. Now.”

  He kissed her, walked to the doorway, and looked back at her.

  He missed Angela in a thousand different ways, but never more than when he wanted to show her what a great kid they'd made together. She would have been so happy.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television and popped in another one of Jesse's session tapes. There were still hundreds of hours to look through, and he felt as if he'd only scratched the surface. In this session, Jesse was amazing the members of the parapsychology team with his metal bending. Nothing new here. He'd scan forward and then— what the hell?

  He bent forward.

  A thin, red-haired man whispered in Nelson's ear between each demonstration. Nelson,
in turn, slightly altered the test conditions after each consultation. Was he taking direction from this man?

  The pattern continued throughout the rest of the session. Joe had met most of the parapsychology program members, but he'd never seen this guy before.

  He popped in a few more tapes, and the red-haired man appeared in roughly a third of them. He generally stood in the back of the testing room, where he didn't speak to Nelson or anyone else. Joe had been watching Jesse so closely that he hadn't noticed him before.

  Joe put in a Dallas session tape. The tests were conducted in a surgical auditorium, where the researchers watched through a large observation window.

  After one particularly impressive demonstration, Nelson glanced up at the window.

  Sitting in the observation room's front row, the red-haired man slowly nodded.

  Who was that guy?

  At seven the next morning, Joe met Kellner and his team of parapsychology graduate students in a McDonald's restaurant a few blocks from Suzanne Morrison's house. Only three of the spook squad's nine grad students were accompanying Kellner for that morning's séance, and Joe could almost feel their excitement. Theresa Banks, Barry Lawrence, and Earl Pogue were nice kids, he thought. Smart kids. Too bad their academic careers had taken such a ludicrous turn.

  After Joe briefed them on his ground rules for the session—no volunteering information, no allowing Suzanne to switch seating positions, no last-minute changes to the test conditions—he asked Kellner about the red-haired man in Jesse Randall's session tapes.

  “Sorry. Can't help you.”

  “Can't help me or won't help me?”

  “Can't help you. I know the man you're talking about, but I have no idea who he is.”

  “You expect me to believe that? You were in the same room with him for weeks.”

  “Nelson brought him in. He never introduced him to us, and when I asked who he was, Nelson told me to call him Martin.”

  “First name or last name?”

  “Neither, if you ask me. I called him Martin a couple of times, and he had a kind of delayed reaction. It wasn't reflexive. I'm pretty sure it wasn't his real name.”

  Joe turned to the other team members. “Do you know the man I'm talking about?”

  Theresa nodded. “Seen him. Never talked to him. I never saw him say two words to anybody but Nelson.”

  “And Jesse,” Earl chimed in.

  “You saw him talk to Jesse?” Joe said.

  “A couple of times. Not in front of us, but in hallways and places like that.”

  “Jesse was alone when he talked to him?”

  “Dr. Nelson was there too.”

  “None of you ever found out who he was or why he was there?”

  Kellner shrugged. “We learned not to ask too many questions. Nelson was always trying to drum up financial support for the program. We figured it was some rich bastard he was sucking up to. Maybe someone whose company's stock would take a beating if it came out that he was associating with a bunch of lunatics like us.”

  “It never hurt Roland Ness.”

  “He's got billions. When you've got that much money, people expect you to have some quirks. They're disappointed if you don't.” Kellner checked his watch. “Ms. Morrison is waiting. Shall we see what she has in store for us today?”

  Suzanne Morrison lived in a pleasant two-story home in the Morningside area, only a few blocks from the Woodruff Arts Center. She greeted the team and led them to a small, quaint den upstairs, furnished with a rectangular dining room table, a small sofa, and several bookcases.

  Joe and the team sat down while Suzanne drew the curtains and took her place at the head of the table. “Is everyone comfortable?”

  “Are you?” Joe said.

  “Why wouldn't I be?”

  “We're constantly being told that my skeptical thoughts and feelings interfere with the paranormal forces at work.”

  She smiled. “I'm quite sure the people who say that are frauds. They're afraid of being exposed by you, Mr. Bailey. Your feelings will make no difference to me or our visitors from the other side. That's a lame excuse I will never use.”

  Kellner, who had accepted that excuse on countless occasions, cleared his throat.

  “Why is it necessary to have the blinds drawn?” Joe asked. “Do the spirits have some kind of aversion to light?”

  “I'll be able to establish contact under almost any circumstances. But for some reason they're less likely to cause objects to move in bright light.”

  “You have no idea why?”

  “I'm afraid I don't.”

  “Have you asked your deceased friend?”

  “Yes, but she doesn't know. She's not even aware that objects are moving unless I tell her. She's not causing it.”

  Kellner cut in. “If you have any more questions, they can wait until after the session.”

  Joe shrugged. “Any time you're ready.”

  She faced Earl. “I understand we're going to contact someone close to you.”

  “My brother.”

  “Good. I want you to think about your brother and just feel. Your emotions will draw him here. What was his name?”

  “Freddy.”

  “We'll try to contact him through my friend.” Suzanne closed her eyes. “Are you there, Daphne?”

  Silence.

  “Daphne?” Silence. “I'm having trouble—” Suzanne shook her head. “I'm not hearing her.”

  “How often does this happen?” Kellner asked.

  Her eyes were still closed. “Not often. Give me a little time.” She called out: “Daphne?”

  Joe glanced around the room, knowing that spiritualists often put tricks into motion while they distracted their marks with preliminary theatrics. No sign of any funny business. Yet.

  “I need you, Daphne. There's a man here who needs you too.” She stiffened. “I hear you.”

  Earl leaned forward hopefully.

  Suzanne smiled. “Thank you, Daphne. Earl wants very badly to speak to his brother. Can you help him?”

  Her right hand went to a small remote control, which she used to turn off the lights. The room was dim, although some sunlight still seeped in around the drawn curtains.

  Joe watched Suzanne closely. She was relaxed and casual, as if she were speaking to an old friend on the telephone.

  Her eyes still closed, Suzanne turned toward Earl. “You must think about your brother now. Remember the times you had with him, feel how you felt when you were with him. It's the only way to bring him here.”

  Earl nodded.

  “It's not working,” Suzanne said after a long pause. “Too many other things are probably clouding your thoughts. Don't try to study me. That's what your colleagues are here for. Put yourself in the moment with Freddy.”

  Earl closed his eyes and concentrated.

  Suzanne gasped. “Your brother is with us now. But you never called him Freddy, did you?”

  Earl shook his head. “I called him—”

  “Shark,” she finished for him.

  “Yes.”

  “When did he pass on? He has no concept of time, at least in our terms. He has no idea how long it's been.”

  “Four and a half years.”

  Suzanne paused. “He feels your love, Earl.”

  “And my mother's?”

  Suzanne smiled. “Daphne says he's laughing. Your mother made him leave the house when she found out he had AIDS. He doesn't want to feel anything from your mother.”

  “Jesus, she's right,” Earl murmured.

  Of course she's right, Joe thought. She'd probably compiled a dossier on every single member of the team.

  “Stay with me,” Suzanne said. “There is still anger and resentment in your brother. He took it with him.”

  The bookshelves shook. Showtime. Joe kept his eyes on Suzanne while everyone else turned toward the shelves.

  “But he misses you and your sister,” she said.

  The sofa's legs pounded on the floor.r />
  Joe leaned forward. Although the sofa was several feet behind Suzanne, it was possible that by applying pressure to a few loosened slats of the hardwood floor she could actually be levering the underside of the couch. He squinted at the floor, but it was too dark to see anything.

  The team backed away from the table, staring at the moving couch. It was now rocking violently.

  “He still feels the pain. He wonders if it will ever go away.”

  The pounding stopped. Not because the couch had stopped moving, Joe realized, but because it had levitated off the floor. So much for the floorboard theory.

  The couch lifted higher, higher, higher …

  Now.

  Joe leapt from his chair and extended a collapsible magician's cane he'd been nestling in his palm. He switched on a high-powered flashlight and quickly swept it under the couch.

  Nothing.

  Over the couch.

  Nothing.

  The sofa levitated even higher, approximately four feet in the air, then plummeted back to the floor. Joe jumped back just in time to avoid being hit.

  The couch was still.

  “That's all,” Suzanne said. “Your brother has no more to say right now.”

  Theresa switched on the room lights.

  Joe stood over the couch, sweeping the cane over the sides. He pulled it from the wall and passed the cane over the sofa's back side. Still nothing.

  “Please, everyone leave the room.” Joe picked up his spirit kit and placed it on the table.

  “It's my research project,” Kellner said.

  “Not this part. Everybody leave, and don't touch anything on the way out.”

  Suzanne slid back her chair and stood up. “You won't find anything.”

  “We'll see.”

  “Suit yourself.” She walked toward the doorway. “While Mr. Bailey does his job, I'll make coffee downstairs. Anyone care to join me?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Joe strode into Suzanne's living room, carrying his spirit kit under his left arm. Kellner and the team gave him anxious stares.

  “Well?” Kellner said.

  “Nothing yet,” Joe said.