by Deborah Camp
“Are you Alaskan?”
Lt. Moore nodded, slowly. “I am. You’ve read up on me?”
“No.” Trudy motioned for her to sit in the living room. “I went to college with a girl from Bethel.”
“Oh? I’m from Sitka.”
“I hear it’s beautiful there.”
“Most of Alaska is,” she said, settling in one of the chairs. She removed a recorder no bigger than a fountain pen from her jacket pocket. “Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.” Trudy sat on the sectional couch.
“Good.” She pushed a button on the side and placed the device on the coffee table between them. She slipped a small notebook and pen from her pocket as she scanned the expansive room and impressive view outside the windows. “You have a nice place here. It’s convenient being right next to the Wolfe offices.”
“Yes. It makes for an easy commute.”
“I’m here, as I told you before, to discuss what you might know concerning the deaths of Glenn O’Connell, Kathryn Rubyott, and Eudora Martin. You are known to be psychic in that you are allegedly able to read the thoughts of perpetrators of murder and other crimes.”
“I don’t read thoughts,” Trudy corrected. “I somehow slip into their minds or they slip into mine. For a brief span of time, I see what that person sees, what he hears, what he smells, what he’s doing and thinking.” She was relieved when the officer seemed interested, instead of amused or contemptuous.
“Do you believe that you’ve been in contact with anyone who has expressed or shown harmful intent toward O’Connell, Rubyott, or Martin?”
Trudy drew in a breath to steady her nerves. This is where it would get sticky and uncomfortable. “Yes. I saw Glenn’s car wreck and Kathryn falling into the trash bin. I don’t know anything about Eudora, but Levi does.”
The lieutenant nodded and made a notation on the pad. “He told me about that. About the staircase in Eureka Springs and what he felt there concerning Mrs. Martin’s death. So, in your own words, tell me about the night Mr. O’Connell’s car went off the road and down the side of the mountain.”
As meticulously as possible, Trudy related what she’d heard and felt when she’d been connected to the person who had run Glenn’s car off the road. The lieutenant listened intently, jotting down things, and never interrupted her.
“And that’s about it.” Trudy glanced toward the kitchen, spotting Wes. “Yes, Wes?”
“Could I offer you tea, coffee, water?”
“I’d like a cup of tea. What about you, Lt. Moore?”
“Yes, thank-you.” She glanced over her shoulder at Wes and waited for him to leave before she faced Trudy again. “Now tell me what you know about Kathryn Rubyott’s death.”
“I didn’t realize that I’d seen her die until months later when I was in Eureka Springs and was told about it. That’s when I recalled a dream – but now I know I was in contact with the killer – about an older lady. She came outside carrying a big plastic bag full of garbage. She was frail. Had on a quilted robe and house shoes. It was cold and snowing. She lifted the bag to place it in the bin and someone ran up behind her and shoved her, so that she lost her balance and fell, head first, into the bin. The person stepped away, but could still see the poor woman trying to get out of the bin, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength.”
“And the person who did this . . . he watched for a long time?”
“I’m not sure because I woke up shortly after that. I know that the person was pleased. He wanted Kathryn dead. As I told you when we were discussing Glenn’s death, the man keeps referring to karma. You know, what you put out, comes back to you.”
“So, he feels that these people did him wrong somehow and now they’re getting what they deserve?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m not certain that he feels they did him wrong, but that they’ve done other people wrong by being psychic or taking money for psychic readings and consultations.”
Wes returned with the tea tray. He poured for them and pointed out the lemon slices, sugar cubes, pitcher of half-and-half, and shortbread and ginger cookies. Then he left them to it.
“So, he’s the butler?” Gloria Moore asked.
“He’s everything.” Trudy added half-and-half to her tea and stirred it. “He’s a chef, housekeeper, chauffeur, dog walker, best pal.” She shrugged. “He’s the whole package.”
“You have a dog?”
“Yes, a fierce guard dog.” Trudy grinned. “A four-pound Chihuahua.”
Lt. Moore chuckled and settled back in the chair with her cup of tea and shortbread cookie. “I have two blood hounds and a Siamese cat.”
“Blood hounds! Do they hunt?”
“They sure do. They’re trained in search and rescue.”
“That’s so cool.”
Lt. Moore smiled proudly. “They’re terrific. They’ve found lost children and tracked down fugitives.”
“It’s really amazing what animals can do. And we don’t even know the half of it.”
“Oh, I agree. Just this morning I read about a cow that sniffed out a malignant melanoma on a farmer.”
“No! Really?”
“It kept licking this spot on the farmer’s neck every time he came near it. Finally, he said something to his wife about it, and it turned out to be skin cancer.”
Trudy shook her head, dumbfounded. They drank their tea and munched on cookies, letting that bit of believe-it-or-not information sink in. It wasn’t lost on Trudy that the officer had eased her flight of nerves. She’s good at her job, Trudy thought. Levi was right.
“You keep referring to this UNSUB as ‘he’. You’re sure it’s a man?”
The question caught Trudy completely off-guard. She started to say that, of course, it was a man, but a little bomb exploded deep in her mind, setting off reverberations that rearranged her thinking process. She stared at the officer as scenes flitted behind her eyes and as a voice, not her own, played in her ears.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, lost in the whirl of sights and sounds.
“Mass murderers and serial killers are almost always male, but there are exceptions. Aileen Wuornos, Nannie Doss, Carol Bundy. Women do tend to kill their children, parents, partners.” The lieutenant shrugged and added, “People they know and supposedly love. But some have killed strangers, patients, nursing home residents, boarders, and johns. Men kill people they love, too, but they are just as likely to select random people or someone they’ve just met or have known for only a few days. For women, it’s usually more personal.”
“What makes you think this could be a woman?”
“I don’t. I’m just throwing it out there. The deaths have been more passive aggressive. No messy knifings, shootings, beheadings, or sexual mutilations.”
“Bloodless,” Trudy said, recalling something similar that Levi had said. “You’re right.”
“When you’re in their heads, can you tell if they sound masculine or feminine?”
“No. I hear my voice, just a little different. They might use words I’d never use or phrases I’ve never heard. Things like that.” She recalled snippets of thoughts she’d shared with the perpetrator, looking for gender triggers. “Now that I think about it, this person sounds vindictive and doesn’t use the foul language I often associate with murderers.” She focused back on the investigator. “You know how they talk.”
Lt. Moore nodded. “Oh, yeah. Cunt, bitch, snatch, semen swallower, fuck hole.”
“Yes, and this person hasn’t resorted to that kind of language. Yet.” She tapped her finger against her chin, considering. “You might be on to something there, Lt. Moore.”
“If you connect with him again, bear it in mind,” she suggested, picking up her notepad again and writing something in it. “Don’t force it. You don’t want to make it fit, you know?”
“Yes. No, I’ll simply pay more attention to the words and the feelings surrounding them.”
“Shame you can’t see who it is. But
that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?”
“I often do see them.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Eventually, they walk by a mirror or some reflective surface and I get a look at who it is. Not always, but most of the time that’s how it happens. You’re right, though. The toughest cases I’ve had are those when I never could get a look at the perpetrator. However, my remarkable husband can usually solve that problem because the victims can identify the killer.”
“But he can’t help with this one.”
“No, as long as the victims are psychics or spiritualists, he can’t connect with them on the other side.” She held up her hands. “And before you ask, I don’t know why.”
“Neither does he,” Lt. Moore added. “I already asked him.” She set her empty cup on the tray. “You two make a dynamic duo.”
“Yeah, like Batman and Robin. Just no tights or capes.”
“Or Batmobile.”
She laughed with her. “It’d be nice to have those kinds of perks.”
Gloria Moore glanced around at the opulent penthouse. “Looks to me like you do have some nice perks.”
“Oh, well, yeah.” Trudy felt her face redden. “Levi’s done well for himself.”
She gave Trudy a speculative look before glancing through a notebook she’d extracted from her sleek, leather shoulder bag. “Do you think that everyone who says they’re psychic is telling the truth?”
She hesitated, hating that type of question because it called on her to rat out some of her colleagues. “I suppose they might be telling their truth. I’m sure some people feel they have a keen sixth sense.”
“And what’s the difference between that and you?”
Trudy finished drinking her tea and set the cup and saucer on the tray, stalling for time to decide how she’d answer that knotty question. “The difference. Well, from that I’ve learned, what I can do is rare. Most psychics deal with spirits, the departed. They can commune with the deceased, as evidenced by my husband, or they have the ability to receive intuitive information through feelings, emotions, or physical contact with something associated with a person or event. I can do some of that, too. For example, I’ve been able to intuit, through mug shots, the crimes that the people committed or didn’t commit. My accuracy in these instances has been impressive.” She paused, finding it difficult to talk about herself. It sounded like bragging. “My gift deals with the living, not the deceased. I become them in real time. I see them stalking. I share their fantasies of murder. I experience the rapes and murders with them.” She saw the Lt. Moore’s eyes go wide. “I don’t think of it as a ‘gift’ when that happens, believe me. That’s why I’m still learning about what I can do and how I can make it work to aid in catching these disturbed and violent human beings. I spent years trying not to let them take over my mind. It’s only in the past two years that I’ve worked with law enforcement on active cases.”
“Do you think the murderer, if these turn out to be murders, is in Eureka Springs?”
“You haven’t determined yet if these are murders?”
“Not officially.” Lt. Moore glanced down at her notebook again before her unemotional gaze swept up to find Trudy’s. “I believe that Glenn O’Connell was forced off the road. As for Kathryn Rubyott and Eudora Martin, they could have been accidental deaths or not. We’re collecting evidence now to make that determination.”
Trudy held her tongue. There was no use in arguing with the officer. She dealt entirely in facts, not psychic experience and feelings.
“Do you think the person who ran O’Connell off the road lives in or around Eureka Springs?” Lt. Moore asked.
“I don’t know.” Trudy hunched one shoulder. “But whoever it is, either lives there or is there often because he or she killed three people there.”
“Do you get the sense that the person is young, middle-aged, older?”
“My age? I’m not sure.”
“He or she was playing heavy metal on the radio, you said.”
“I’m not sure if it was heavy metal. It was loud. The singer was kind of screaming the lyrics. I’d characterize it more as angry music instead of heavy metal.”
“Rap?”
“Rap with screaming guitars, yes.”
“Would you know the song if you heard it again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So, if he or she was listening to that kind of music, the odds are that the UNSUB is younger than, say, forty.”
Trudy smirked. “I’m not going there. I just saw a video online of a woman, who is someone’s grandma, rocking out on down-and-dirty rap music. She knew all the lyrics, even the filthy parts, and was dancing and twerking up a storm.”
Lt. Moore scrunched up her face. “Oh, God, help us.” She closed the notebook and shoved it and the pen back into her pocket. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us track down the UNSUB?”
“Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll contact you the next time I receive any information.”
“You have my number.” She picked up the recorder, switched if off, and slid it back into her jacket pocket.
“Yes.”
“Call anytime.” She stood and held out her hand when Trudy rose from the sectional. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Wolfe.”
Trudy shook her hand. “You’re welcome.” She walked her to the door and saw her out.
“Oh, Mrs. Wolfe?” the officer said just as the elevator doors opened to whisk her down to the lobby.
“Yes?”
“If you go to Eureka Springs or anywhere outside of Atlanta, please let me know beforehand.”
“Why?”
“I like to be aware of where all the pieces are to my puzzles.” She stepped inside the elevator and smiled coolly at Trudy before the doors closed.
“Huh.” Trudy glanced at the round-faced security guard standing nearby. “Ooookay. How’s it going out here, Dixie?”
“Everything is A-OK, ma’am.”
“That’s good.” She closed the door and turned to see Wes standing just inside the living room. “I’m glad that’s over. For now.”
“Levi wanted me to remind you to call him when you were finished.”
“Oh, right. I’ll do that.” Her cellphone hummed on the side table. “That’s probably him now.” She picked up the phone, glanced at the read-out, and blinked in surprise. Perchance Dragonmoon. “Hi, Percy! How’s it going?”
“Have you been interviewed yet by that state police officer? Gloria Moore?”
“Yes. In fact, she just left.”
“God, what a nosy, sour-faced bitch! I hate her.”
Chapter 14
“Perchance gave me an earful, all right,” Trudy said as she and Levi left the movie theater and strolled, hand-in-hand, toward an ice cream shop two blocks down the street. Two security personnel walked behind them and one was ahead of them. They’d had dinner before the show at a Tex-Mex restaurant, but had skipped dessert because they needed to get to the theater. The film they’d agreed on was a political thriller with a red-headed actress Levi liked and a male stud in the leading role who Trudy appreciated. It was a win-win.
They’d managed to talk over dinner about everything but their work and anything having to do with Eureka Springs. But as the evening waned, Trudy had given in to the urge to discuss the police’s interrogation and Perchance’s odd phone call.
“Lt. Moore wouldn’t grill her so hard if she didn’t keep changing her story,” Levi said.
“What do you mean?”
“At first, Percy said that she’d been at Sunny’s house the night Glenn died, but Sunshine had said that she hadn’t been with Percy. She’d been with a band of ghost hunters that evening in Hot Springs. So then, Perchance said that she’d been mistaken and that she’d gone to a movie in Berryville. Alone. Even her sister didn’t believe her. Perchance doesn’t go places alone. She says she was supposed to meet a couple of friends there, but they cancelled at the last minute a
nd she went ahead and watched the movie. She didn’t remember which movie until later, after she’d had time to look it up on the Internet, probably.”
“Oh. That’s not good,” Trudy understated. “Why is she lying?”
“Because she feels guilty about something.”
“You don’t think she ran Glenn off the road, do you?”
They’d reached the ice cream shop and the security guard, held the door open for them.
“Thank you, Thompson,” Levi said, letting Trudy go in first.
They ordered a hot fudge sundae to share and sat in a corner booth, side-by-side, with Levi’s arm around her.
“This is romantic.” Trudy spooned some ice cream and fudgy sauce into his mouth, then kissed him so that she could run the tip of her tongue over his lips and taste the sweetness on him. “Delicious,” she murmured. His lop-sided grin squeezed her heart. “And dangerous. You have that dangerous glint in your eyes.”
“You put it there.”
She edged away from him. Tempting and teasing Levi Wolfe too much in a public place wasn’t advisable. He was a notorious rule-breaker and not above feeling her up under the table. “Back to what we were discussing, namely Perchance Dragonmoon. You actually think she would run Glenn off the road and not tell anyone about it? She liked Glenn.”
He held up a spoon of ice cream and waited for her to open wide before he answered. “She could have been drunk or maybe fooling around and it got out of hand. The paint on Glenn’s car’s bumper was dark blue. Perchance has a dark blue car with a lot of scratches and dents on the bumpers. Evidently, she is a shitty driver.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I asked Lt. Moore.”
“And she told you about the paint transfer?”
“She didn’t deny it, so that told me what I needed to know.”