by Roy Johansen
It didn't seem so long ago that Joe had aspired to be one of that tiny handful of magic superstars, but he soon came to realize that the style of magic he admired—the smart, edgy illusions of Houdini, Keller, and Thurston—had given way to slick, packaged Vegas-style productions with cheesy music and gar-ish lighting effects. His father had been on the force for forty years, and many of Joe's childhood friends were second- and third-generation cops, so the transition had seemed to be a logical one. Who would have guessed that he'd become known as a paranor-mal investigator, hoping against hope that he'd someday encounter phenomena that he couldn'texplain? It hadn't happened yet.
Well, maybe once.
“We're almost there,” Carla said, peering though the windshield at a dense patch of fog.“Any last questions?”
“I don't think so. You covered it well.” Carla had gone over the files for each of the spotlight murders, showing Joe the crime scene photos and discussing the statements they'd taken. Unlike most serial killings, there was no strong pattern to the murder methods, and there was little similarity among the victims besides their social stature and high visibility. Milton Vinnis, the criminal attorney, had been strangled with the chain from his mountain bike; Thomas Coyle, whose PR firm represented many of the largest corporations in the Southeast, was tied to the rear bumper of his Rolls-Royce and dragged two miles down a gravel road; Derek Hall, the president of Anderson College, had been electrocuted when he touched the booby-trapped door of his garage; jour-nalist Connie Stevenson, author of the widely read“Hotlanta” newspaper column, was drowned in her kitchen sink; former deputy mayor John Danforth had fallen—or been pushed—from the top floor of his four-story office building; and the most recent victim, Atlanta Hawks basketball star Ernest Franklin, had his throat torn out half a mile from his home in Conyers.
The investigators may not have made a connection between the killings had it not been for two bizarre common elements—the voices and the skin markings. Strange voices, described as“threatening,”“unreal,” and“ghostly” to friends and family members were heard by each of the victims in the last days of their lives. None of the individuals had previously ex-hibited psychotic or delusional behavior, but they'd been at a loss to explain the voices that no one else heard. Equally perplexing to the investigators was a symbol they found on the chest of each victim—a hazy, ill-defined circle with two intersecting bars. The symbol appeared with varying degrees of intensity, but it spanned roughly two inches in each in-stance. While the voices were common knowledge in the news media, the symbols were, for the moment, a secret.
Carla turned onto a dark, narrow road and pulled to a stop behind a parked car. She smiled.“When you woke up this morning, did you ever imagine your day would end up here?”
Joe climbed out of the car.“I'm still having trouble imagining it.”
The October night was damp and sticky, and a nearby swamp belched foul-smelling gases. A man and a woman climbed out of the other car and walked toward them. Joe recognized them immedi-ately, Monica Gaines and Detective Mark Howe. Gaines was more attractive in person, Joe thought. Her pronounced cheekbones and curly brown hair were striking, and she walked with confidence and determination.
Howe grinned at Joe.“You look tired, Bailey.”
“Thanks to you. Together again, huh?”
“You know it.”
Eight months earlier he and Howe had partnered on a bizarre homicide case in which a local parapsychology professor appeared to have been killed by the telekinetic dreams of an eight-year-old test subject. It was the only time that Joe's psychic debunk-ing specialty had been applied to a murder case, and he and Howe had formed an uneasy though success-ful alliance.
Howe nodded.”Welcome to my nightmare, Bailey.”
“So I'm a nightmare,” Monica asked dryly.
Howe turned toward her.”I didn't mean—”
“Sure you did.” She extended her hand to Joe.“I'm Monica Gaines.”
“Detective Joe Bailey.”
Monica studied Joe.“I sense disbelief. Skepticism. Doubt. Very strong.”
“Did your psychic abilities tell you that?”
“They didn't have to. It's all over your face and body language. You're pissed, Joe. You think I'm here for a chapter in my next book. You think I'll come here, throw out some lame generalities, and take all the credit when you guys eventually catch the sick son of a bitch who did this.”
“You got all that from my body language?”
Howe chuckled.“Either that or she's picking up mythought waves loud and clear.”
“The faces change, but the attitudes never will, guys.” She clicked her tongue.“Let's get on with this so you can get home to your wives and girlfriends and tell them how you wasted your night tagging along with a fruitcake.”
Joe motioned toward the large sketch pad she held under her right arm.“Are you going to play some psychic Pictionary tonight?”
“You never know.”
Monica's haunting, expressionist sketches were one of her trademarks. Often, as she quizzed guests about lost loved ones or incidents from their past, she scribbled furiously on a large pad and easel. Al-most invariably, the guests found something in her drawings that connected with their situations.
“So tell me, why is it so important that we be here at the time of death?” Joe asked.
“If I'm to sense the victim's thoughts and impressions, it's best that I attempt it as close to the actual place and time of his death as possible.” She glanced around the eerie surroundings.“I'm already feeling some strong, powerful emotions. There was great fear here.”
“Can you see the killer's face?” Carla asked.
“Perhaps. Take me to the exact place where the victim died.”
Carla motioned toward a cluster of mimosa trees.“This way.”
They silently walked toward the crime scene. Joe tried to reconcile the dark, shadowy setting with the lush, beautifully sunlit area in the police photos he had examined. Ernest Franklin's body had been found here, less than half a mile from his sprawling estate, with his throat split open. It almost appeared as if an animal had attacked him, but there were no footprints, no hair, and no physical evidence to support any such conclusion.
“Horrible …just horrible“Monica whispered.
“What?” Howe asked.
“He knew he was going to die. He knew it, and he was helpless to do anything to stop it.”
“Stop who?” Carla asked.
“I can't tell yet. I don't think he knew the person. He was confused; he didn't know why this was happening to him. He sometimes went by the name Bobo, am I right?”
Joe glanced at Howe and Carla. They each responded with a vague shrug. Joe pulled out his notepad and jotted down the name.
“His last moments were filled with fear …and regret.”
“Regret?”Joe asked.
“Unfinished business. He knew his life was over.”
“Okay, we're going to need a little more than this,” Howe said.”Can you tell us something, anything,that gives us a hint as to who the killer was?”
Monica smiled sardonically.“Something other than lame generalities?” She uncapped a Sharpie pen and drew on her pad.“It's bizarre…. I'm having a tough time sensing another physical presence here.”
“We seriously doubt he tore out his own throat,” Carla murmered.
“No, I'm not saying that. I just feel—” She stiffened. Her eyes sprung open.
Joe cocked an eyebrow.”Get something?”
Monica dropped to her knees and took several sharp breaths. She glanced upward, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.”Two attackers.”
“Two?” Howe repeated.
“Yes. I'm sure of it.”
“Describe them,” Carla said.
“I—I can't.”
“Why not?” Howe asked.
She didn't reply as she drew furiously, although Joe couldn't see how she could sketch anything in the dim light.
&nbs
p; “You drawing us a picture of 'em?” Howe asked.
“It won't be much use to you,” she said, still squinting at her pad.”There are no faces.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Carla asked.
Monica glanced away.“You're going to think I'm crazy, but I believe his attackers were …” Her voice trailed off as she suddenly tensed.
“What?” Carla said.
“We have to get out of here.”
Joe studied Monica's face. Her forehead was pinched, and her lips were trembling.“What's wrong?” he asked.
“No!” Monica ran back toward the car.
They sprinted after her.“Ms. Gaines?” Joe said.
“Oh, God,” she cried out.“Please, God, no.” She slipped on the wet grass and fell to the ground.
Joe crouched next to her.”Are you okay?”
She wiped her perspiring face with the sleeve of her jacket.“The killers weren't…human. At least, one of them wasn't.”
“Then, what were they?”
Monica glanced back toward the murder scene.“You're going to think I'm out of my mind.”
“Try us,”Carla said.
“They …were spirits.”
The three detectives stared at her in silence.
“I know. Sounds weird as hell to me too.” She tried to smile.“If you want to have me fitted for a strait-jacket, a size six should do the job.”
“Spirits,”Joe repeated.
She nodded.”Ghosts, maybe, although I'm not sure they ever really lived. Their souls are many thousands of years old.”
Howe chuckled.“Okay And in what language do we read them their Miranda rights?”
“Lay off, Howe.” Joe could see the woman was absolutely terrified. Her hands shook, her breathing was ragged, and tears ran down her face.
“I can't tell you any more,” she whispered.”Can we leave now?”
“That's it?” Howe said.”You drag us out here in the dead of night and tell us that a pair of ghostsdid this? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“No joke.” She nervously glanced around the site.“Can we please leave?”
Joe took her hands and gently pulled her to her feet.“How many other times have you sensed anything like this?”
“Never. Check my record. I wasn't even sure that I believed in ghosts.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes,” she whispered.”Oh God, yes. I do.”
Joe picked up the sketch pad. There, in Monica's distinctive style, was a drawing of a man being attacked by wispy, cloaked figures floating over him.
“Shit,” Howe whispered.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Carla asked.“Anything that might help us to—”
“A circle with two intersecting lines,” she said.
Joe tensed.
Monica caught their shocked looks.”It was on him someplace, wasn't it?”
“Can you tell us what it means?” Carla asked.
“I don't know. It may have been a signature …or a warning.”
“A warning about what?” Joe said.
“I can't be sure.” She looked down at her sketch pad.”But I have a feeling we're about to find out.”
After dropping Monica off at her hotel, Joe, Carla, and Howe stood on the sidewalk along Courtland Street to compare notes. For a long while they didn't say anything. Joe watched a homeless man gathering cans nearby, trying to stay ahead of the approaching street-sweeper.
“Ghosts,” Howe finally said with disgust.“If we didn't already look like asses for listening to a psychic, we sure will now.”
“She had the symbol pegged though,” Carla said. She turned to Joe.”Any idea how she did that?”
Joe shrugged.”The same way most psychics do it. There are dozens of people in our department and the coroner's office who knew about that symbol on his chest. She or an advance person could have posed as a reporter and bribed someone for the in-formation. She may have even approached an employee at the funeral home.”
Howe grimaced.”Really?”
“It's been known to happen. If you wave a hundred-dollar bill in an embalmer's face, chances are good that he'll talk to you.”
“Good to know,” Howe said.“When I go, I'll make sure my kids just put me out with the garbage.”
Carla chuckled.”So what's next?”
“Now she wants to visit the other crime scenes.” Howe sighed.“She thinks it might help give her a stronger impression as to what happened. Are you up for it, Spirit Basher?”
“Only if you promise to stop calling me that.”
The soft rays of dawn began to appear as Joe parked in front of the three-story apartment building that had once been the Robert E. Lee Elementary School. Joe had attended fourth and fifth grades there, but the reconfigured corridors and converted lofts bore little resemblance to the place where he had once been so mesmerized by Ms. Eversole's fluorescent eye shadows and terrified by Mrs. Lydecker's cruel taunts. He'd moved there with his wife, Angela, during his days as a professional magician, and the large, high-ceilinged loft had allowed him the space to construct and rehearse his stage illusions. Now, al-most eight years after he'd abandoned his performing career, he couldn't imagine living anywhere else. He hadn't particularly enjoyed his elementary-school days, but he did love the life that he and Angela had made for themselves there.
Angela. It had been almost three years since she'd died of ovarian cancer. Three years since she had let out that long last breath that he could still hear sometimes in the dark dreams that crept into his head every week or so. Throughout the twenty-two months of doctors, hospitals, and lab tests, he'd tried to prepare himself and his eight-year-old daughter, Nikki, for that moment, but it was impossible. Hell, he stilldidn't know how to deal with it. It had been too easy to worry about his daughter and not dwell on the fact that he had just lost the love of his life. But now, with Nikki growing older and maturing into an intelligent, well-adjusted adolescent, it was harder than ever to escape the feelings of loss.
He unlocked the door to his apartment and walked into the spacious living area. The streetlights cast a pale glow over the wood floor, broken by criss-crossing grids of shadows from the wire-reinforced windows.
Sam Tyson sat upright on the sofa, sound asleep, as an infomercial for teeth-whitening strips flickered on the television in front of him.
“Hi, Daddy,” Nikki whispered. She stood in the doorway on the other side of the room, wearing her glasses and the oversized Stars on Ice T-shirt that she slept in.
“What are you doing up?”
“I heard you come in. I wanted to make sure you weren't some thief who was going to hurt Sam.”
“Yeah, good thing he came over for you to baby-sit him, huh?”
Nikki picked up a cotton throw blanket and gently pulled it over Sam.“That's okay. He told me stories about what a good magician you were.”
“Again? Sorry about that.”
“He thinks you should quit being a cop and go back to doing that.”
“Is that what you think too?”
“Nah. Mommy told me that you were hardly ever home back then.”
He smiled.“That's right. And I gotta tell you, these days a magician is even lower than a mime on the show-business food chain.”
Nikki made a face.“Nothing'slower than a mime on the show-business food chain.”
“You may have a point.”
“So what's Monica Gaines like?”
Joe glanced at Sam, but he was still sound asleep.“She's interesting. A little more intense than she is on the 1-900 commercials.”
“Does she know who did it?”
Joe thought about telling Nikki about Monica's reading of the crime scene. Probably not a good idea.“I'm afraid she doesn't. I think she's going to check out some of the other ones though.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
Nikki sat on a chair arm.“After you told me you were going to meet her, I checked out her
website. She's helped solve over a hundred cases.”
“Don't believe everything you read, okay? The way these people work, they throw out dozens of impressions in every investigation, and if one or two of them happen to hit, they claim that as a success.”“But she has quotes from police detectives.”“Often even the officers involved in the cases tend to forget about all the false clues and focus just on the hits. Almost anytime that anyone has recorded the psychics and logged all of their impressions and compared those with things that turn out to be really worthwhile, they end up looking a lot less miraculous.”“Did you record Monica Gaines tonight?” Joe smiled and pulled a micro cassette recorder from his jacket pocket.”You bet.”
Monica Gaines knelt before the hotel minibar, trying to decide whether or not to grab a second bottle of rum.
What the hell.
She twisted off the cap and poured it into her half-empty can of diet Coke. If only she could maintain her buzz for the rest of time she was there. She'd flown in the previous afternoon, and she already wished she were back home, asleep in her own bed or curled up on her sofa and reading prep notes for the next batch of shows.
After hundreds of investigations, it was easy to size up the cops she encountered. That night, Carla was the only faintly open-minded one. Howe was too busy playing the part of a smart-ass, and Joe Bailey would probably never believe in her. She'd heard of the Spirit Basher, but Bailey was younger and more personable than she'd imagined. She was relieved he hadn't displayed the cynical, nasty streak that most die-hard skeptics had. Despite his obvious disbelief in her abilities, he seemed to be a reasonable man.
A knock at the door.
Before Monica could answer it, she heard a sharp click, and the door swung open.
A pale, plump man in his mid-forties stepped into the room. Derek Haddenfield.”Hello, Monica.”
“I knew I shouldn't have given you a key.”
Haddenfield chuckled.”Did you have a productive evening?”
“I don't know yet.”
“When willyou know?”
“When I can tell them who the killer is. You know how this works.”
Haddenfield nodded.“My team gets into town early tomorrow. I thought it would be a good idea for you and me to get together and coordinate.”