Night Vision Page 12

  “I’m meeting the new forensic pathologist in the morning. Come with me.”

  “To an autopsy?”

  “Autopsy’s already done. She texted me an hour ago.”

  “Okay, Mason. I’ll go with you. Right after we get Gary squared away.”

  “I left him fifty bucks,” he said. “He’s not gonna be there in the morning. He’s gonna go spend it to get high.”

  “If you felt the shit storm inside his head, you’d want to self-medicate, too.”

  “Not judging. Just saying.”

  “He came here because he wanted me to help him. He’s gotta stick around long enough to let me.”

  He hugged me up close. He’d shucked his robe, and mine was open, so I got that warm, silky rub of skin against skin. I wrapped my arms around his waist and laid my cheek on his chest.

  Girl Blue: Chapter 3

  “Happy Labor Day weekend, right?” asked the twelve-year-old pixie, standing over the open chest of a dead guy in the basement of Our Lady of Lourdes Memorial Hospital.

  Mason had told me she looked like a Christmas elf, and he had nailed it.

  “Rachel, meet Billy Carmichael, forensic pathologist.”

  She beamed at me. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. de Luca. I’m excited to work with you.” Her eyes slid to Mason, who stood on my left, then quickly back to me. I got, did I do okay?

  I got it. She was a fan and he’d advised her not to gush, but it was oozing from her pores. She was doing a good job trying to hide it, though.

  “Have you run toxicology?” I needed to get a look at the crease under his left butt cheek without her noticing, or she’d want to know how I knew. My NFP was a closely-guarded secret. Oh, there was gossip. I hated that there was, but there was. I'd been too close to too many gruesome murder investigations for there not to be. And you know, as far as the general public is concerned, woo-woo is woo-woo. If you're a self-help author you must also be a fortune teller, brandishing crystals and reading palms.

  “Toxicology is in process,” she said. “Everything else is done. Just gotta sew him up and release him to the funeral home. Widow’s called three times already.”

  Note to self, widow’s in a hurry. That probably wasn’t so unusual, though.

  “The cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation. Killer used twisted wire. Twice. From behind him, and from in front of him. We got a few shards of metal off the skin. You can see the pattern there in his neck.” She poked the skin on the dead guy’s neck with a gloved-forefinger.

  I grimaced like that bothered me, and I didn't have to fake too hard. The memory of choking the life out of this human being was vivid and sickening. Here he was, dead. A life extinguished. And it felt like I'd been the one to extinguish it. “I have to step out,” I said, holding one palm up. I hurried out of the room, and when Mason tried to follow, I said, “No, stay. I’ll be back, I just need a breath of death-free air.”

  I tried to tell him I was up to something with my eyes, and he probably read it, along with my disgust and remorse for something I hadn't even done. He was way better at reading me than I was at reading him, which is ironic when you think about it.

  I went out of the room into the hallway, and up one level to get a signal. Then I called the main desk. Someone answered, and I said, “Page Dr. Carmichael. It’s urgent.” They put me on hold.

  I ran back down the stairs. By the time I was at the cutting room doors, I was distracted from my guilt trip, and also aware I needed to exercise once in a while. Billie Carmichael was hurrying out the double doors to answer the fake call on the nearest in-house phone. She breezed past me, saying, “Be right back.” Then she hit the stairs with effortless speed. The nearest landline was right at the top.

  I disconnected and rushed back into the room and over to Dwayne Clark on the table, and I slammed the door on my sickening feelings by focusing on the immediate need. “Get over here and help me roll him.”

  Mason grabbed a pair of gloves, struggled his big hands into them, and rolled the guy up onto his side. I grabbed a glove too, snapped it on and reached for his butt cheek. Mason looked horrified.

  I lifted the guy’s cheek, adjusting the overhead light with my free hand. “Look. Right there. That’s where I injected him in the dream or whatever.”

  Elf steps pitter-pattered just outside the door.

  “Put him back, put him back,” I whisper-shouted.

  Mason dropped the guy, yanked off his gloves, and stuffed them into a red bin. I remembered I was still wearing one and put that hand behind my back as Billie Carmichael came into the room.

  “No one on the phone,” she said. “Probably the widow again. Anyway, back to the victim. There are bruises on his back.” She tapped the tablet that was on a nearby stand, bringing up some photos of the corpse–a far more efficient method than rolling him over like we’d done. “You can clearly see the two round bruises on his back. Made before he died, but I’m damned if I know how.”

  “Looks like someone was kneeling on him,” Mason said.

  Her brows rose, and she looked at him like she’d just realized he was the one true Santa.

  I sent him a death-glare for taking credit for my shit while still trying to peel off the glove behind my back. I was not having any luck.

  “Let us know when you get the tox screen back,” Mason said.

  “I’ll text you,” she promised, looking at the body, then frowning, and looking at us again. He hadn’t landed in precisely the same position, and the light wasn’t pointing where it had been, either.

  The glove I’d been tugging on for a full minute came off my hand suddenly, and made a loud snap.

  “We have to run,” Mason said. “Thanks, Billie.” He grabbed me by the hand, and tugged me behind him out of the room.

  At the top of the stairs, he said, “The garotte. Kneeling on his back. The injection site. You got a lot of detail in that dream, Rache.” We stepped out into the late morning sunshine and fresh air.

  “Too much. It’s creepy.”

  We got into his car. He reached across the space between us, smoothed back my hair, then cradled my head in his big hand. “I wish it wasn’t. But it’s gonna be okay.”

  The tension in me dissolved just because he touched me and told me it was going to be okay. Did I have it bad, or what?

  So when was the idiot going to pop the big question?

  My God, you are gagging me.

  I’m gagging myself, Inner Bitch. Can’t be helped.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m good. I mean, it’s what I do, right? It’s my gift.”

  “And your curse.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Monk.” He got the reference, which made us both smile. “Can we look around for Gary now?”

  “The kids–”

  “Josh was picked up shortly after we left. Today’s was the Hershey Park thing.”

  “Chuckie’s birthday trip. Right.”

  “And Jeremy’s spending his Sunday reconnecting with his high school friends. I told him it was okay. Because we have to share him whether we like it or not. Like grownups.”

  He made a face at me.

  “The dogs will be okay for a couple more hours,” I said. “Let’s check the shelters for Gary.”

  “While I drive,” he said, “Find a psychiatrist named Dr. Guthrie. Maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  “To us,” I corrected.

  “To me,” he said. “You don’t have the equipment.”

  “A dick?” I asked, widening my eyes at him.

  “A badge.” All fake-shocked at my gutter brain. God, I loved him.

  Mason sat in Dr. Melissa Guthrie’s waiting room. The receptionist was behind glass. There were a fish tank and a patient in the waiting room with him. The patient was a brunette about forty with worry lines around her eyes. They’d exchanged a nod. He’d thrown in a smile. She hadn’t reciprocated.

  Once she’d found Guthrie’s office address, Rachel had dropped him off and headed out to check the shelt
ers. Mason didn’t like it, but you couldn’t really argue with her once she’d made up her mind. And she’d made up her mind.

  A closed door opened, a woman leaned out and said, “You can come in Detective Brown. Gloria, I’ll only be ten minutes. Okay?”

  The worried brunette nodded.

  Mason wished Rachel was there to tell him how pissed off she was. “It won’t even take ten minutes,” he told her as he got up, even though it might.

  Dr. Guthrie reminded Mason of his mother. She had the same lean frame, dignified manner, and chic white-silver hair. His mom’s was shorter and not as curly. Mason flashed his badge and said, “I need to talk to you about Gary Conklin.”

  “You can talk to me about anyone you want. I can’t talk back.” She tipped her head to one side. “So? Talk.”

  “My um…significant other is Rachel de Luca.”

  “Oooh.” The sound she made spoke volumes. Mason had no doubt what the psychiatrist thought of self-help gurus like Rachel. "I've read her."

  Non-committal as hell. “Gary is a fan," he said.

  "Several of my clients are fans."

  "Well this one showed up at our home yesterday, in Whitney Point. Said he walked there from Binghamton.”

  “Oh, my.” She lifted her silver brows. “Well, I’m concerned too, then. But Detective, let me ease your mind. I don’t think Gary’s dangerous. I really don’t. He’s a sweet young man.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “I’m fond of him.”

  “We got him a room for the night, but he was gone this morning. Do you think you could check in on him?”

  “If you know where he is, of course I will.”

  “We're working on that right now. I got the feeling he was off his meds. Can you tell me when you last saw him?"

  "I'm afraid not." She took a card off her desk and handed it to him. “Let me know when you find him.”

  He took the card and headed out, texting Rachel on his way to the elevator. “Any luck?”

  “None. You?”

  “Pick me up," he tapped. "I’ll fill you in.”

  Jeremy and Mason took the pontoon boat out on the lake for some Sunday afternoon fishing. After catching up with his friends all morning, Jere had come home and actually asked Mason to hang out with him. If I was sappier, I’d have teared up. I didn’t mind being left out. They needed the one-on-one time, and besides, I wanted the house to myself. I wanted to delve into every detail I could remember about that dream, disturbing as it was. And everything since. I was missing something, I knew I was.

  I took a long, steamy shower, put on my most comfy cuddly fleece, and brewed a cup of herbal tea. Chamomile. It had been a Christmas present from a new editor, and still hadn’t been opened. I silenced all the ringers in the house, and put a big silk pillow on the floor of my office. I was going to meditate. Woo-woo is woo-woo, right? Might as well play the part.

  Not long ago a phony psychic had taught me her method for "opening the channels," as she called it. And even though I'd pegged her for a fraud, I'd given it a try, cause my shit was on the fritz, and she hadn't tried to kill me yet. That came later. To my utter shock, it had actually worked.

  So, I assumed the position, or what I thought was the position. Sitting on a soft pillow with my legs crossed, guru-style. I took a few deep, calming breaths, followed by a blissful sip of my herbal tea, and than I spat it all over the place.

  “Ohmygawd, that stuff is awful!”

  I was on my feet and back in the kitchen in three point five seconds. I rinsed the cup and poured it full of coffee from the pot, added abundant quantities of French Vanilla creamer that was neither fat-free nor sugar-free. I am nothing if not a rebel. Then I headed back to my office.

  Tea had seemed to go with the whole Natalia DaVine open the channels thing, until I remembered–I detest tea.

  So I sipped my coffee–nectar of the gods–and got all comfortable. Closing my eyes, I imagined a spiral staircase descending into the ground. I tried to remember which color the first step was supposed to be. Red, that was it. So I stepped onto the red step, and–

  He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.

  The words echoed up at me from the bottom of my imaginary staircase, and my eyes popped open. I said it again, out loud, so I’d remember, word for word. “He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.” Aiming my gaze ceilingward, I said, “Damn, Natalia. That shit really works. I guess even a murderous bitch like you isn't an entire waste of oxygen. Or wasn't. May you rest in peace. Sorry I shot you, by the way.”

  Meditation, complete.

  I pulled my laptop over and typed the phrase into the search bar.

  It was a line from an old movie starring Reginald D’Voe, arguably the greatest horror movie actor of all time. That voice. Those eyes. He’d died just a couple weeks ago, too. Was that coincidence?

  There's no such thing as coincidence.

  You’re right, IB, there’ s not.

  I Googled Reginald D’Voe and found about a dozen obituaries, all of which agreed that he had lived and died in the place he loved most, his gothic mansion in the small Fingerlakes town of Dilmun, NY.

  The same town the late Dwayne Clark, recently strangled in the back of his Jag while I knelt on his back, was from.

  Inner bitch and I had the identical reaction. What the actual fuck?

  I could barely wait to tell Mason my news. But Josh returned from his fun-park trip, juggling carnival prizes and a three-foot-tall alien with a straw in its head. I estimated it had a soda capacity of approximately three gallons.

  Okay, one.

  "You are sunburned," I said. "You didn't even take the sunblock out of your backpack, did you?"

  He grinned at me, white rings around his eyes. "Nope."

  "I didn't think so. Did you have fun, though?"

  "We rode the Skyrush like six times! It's awesome." Then he looked around, "Did Jeremy go back?"

  "He's outside with your Uncle. They caught enough fish for supper. They're cleaning and cooking tonight."

  "I'll help!" Backpack, stuffed animals, and a four-foot alien dropped fell like autumn leaves as he raced through the house and out the back door. The dogs raced after him, and I had to lunge to catch the door before they went out.

  "Uh-uh, no way. No fishy dog breath. Not today, my friends." Myrtle sighed and plodded back to her favorite sleeping spot, a plush doggy bed I had to replace every few months because no one had the brains to make one with a waterproof inside, and a removable, washable outside. Yet. The results of their froggy hunting expeditions were constantly soaking their beds.

  I worked on my newest self-help book while they made dinner, and actually got quite a bit done. Natalia, the late murderous fraud from hell, had inspired a section about every life having value, no matter how poorly it was lived. Good stuff.

  By the time Josh yelled, "It's ready Aunt Rache!" so loud I could hear him on the third floor, I had the new section hammered out, and emailed it to Amy with a "tell me what you think of this" note.

  We ate together at the actual dining room table. Everyone had enjoyed their day. I got to hear Jeremy and Mason’s moment-by-moment recap of their fishing trip, and Joshua’s excited retelling of his day at Hershey Park. There were thirteen roller coasters, but only three worthy of Josh and his pals' time waiting in line.

  We’d gone there once, the four of us. It had been a crushing disappointment for me. It was hot. It was crowded–mostly with idiots. And it turned out that the park was not, in fact, made of chocolate. That name is false advertising.

  The fish was so good we cleaned the platter. I convinced the kids to take the dogs for a walk, waved them off, closed the door, turned to Mason and said, “I got something!”

  “So did I,” he replied, and he looked like he’d been waiting as impatiently as I had.

  I said, “You first,” as we headed into the kitchen to stack dishes in the dishwasher. Then I looked around
in surprise. "There's not oil and flour everywhere. What gives?"

  "The guys and I tag teamed it. I cooked, they cleaned up as I went along."

  "That is a good system!"

  "Hey. I'll have you know sloppy cooks are the best cooks."

  "I'm going to embroider that on an apron for you someday. Coffee?"

  "Yes."

  I put on a cup of decaf.

  “Rosie texted me the background on the victim,” Mason said.

  “Dwayne Clark of Dilmun, New York."

  He picked up on my excitement and paused. "Yes. Why'd you say it like that?"

  “You, first. Tell me the rest.”

  His eyebrows did that bendy thing they do when he’s trying to figure out some odd thing I’ve said. I loved that bendy thing.

  “Dwayne Clark,” he said at length, “Was recently of Dilmun, New York. He moved to an apartment in Binghamton a few weeks ago. He and his wife Juanita were in the middle of a divorce. And there was a nasty a custody battle over their six-year-old son, Juan.”

  “Wait, Juanita named her kid Juan?" I asked. "Isn’t that a little Norma and Norman Bates-ish?”

  “Aha! Sexist!” He said, pointing at me.

  “You’re right. It is.”

  Oh, he looked so smug. “We’ll meet them tomorrow. We’re going to the funeral.”

  “Tomorrow’s Labor Day, babe,” I moved his coffee out of the way, stuck my mug in its place on the one-cup brewer, and deftly switched out the coffee pods. Reusable ones. They were a gift from Misty, who said if we didn’t use them, we hated the planet, so you know, we caved. “It’s Josh’s last day before starting seventh grade.”

  “I haven't forgotten that for a minute,” he said. “Fortunately, the service isn’t until seven. We’ll have the whole day with the boys. And you don’t have to go if you don’t–”

  “The hell I don’t. You need me.”

  “That, I do.” He sipped his coffee. I was jealous that mine wasn’t done yet. “What did you get today?” he asked.

  “I decided to do the Natalia meditation.”

  “With the spiral staircase?”